The Last Kashmiri Rose

by Barbara Cleverly

  ‘I think the Commander is trying to tell us,’ drawled Phoebe Carter, ‘that we should give up and go home to England next March. Can you guarantee that the streets of London are any safer, Mr Sandilands? Have you caught Jack the Ripper yet?’

  Her jibe earned a ripple of laughter.

  ‘Mrs Carter,’ said Joe seriously, ‘you would, I can tell you, be at far less risk of your life in Whitechapel where the murder rate is less than one per year among a population of many thousands, than here in Panikhat where one out of six of you could well die next March. And the drawing-rooms of the home counties, I believe, are still reckoned to be entirely safe … though there is the ever present danger of an attack of terminal boredom … and, seriously, this is an option, should our man still be at large next year.

  ‘But I wanted to say, in conclusion, this: I believe no one here is in danger before next March. The man I’m looking for is not a deranged killer. He is following a plan – I am tempted to say, a sacrificial ritual. I’m going to work out what scheme or compulsion lies behind the killings and bring the man to justice. It’s my opinion that there is some religious or quasireligious motive at the bottom of all this, a motive which as Westerners we may be hard pushed to understand. We have all heard of the religion and despicable (to us) habits of the Thugs who infested this part of India until quite recent times …’

  Again the girls nodded in understanding. Thuggee. The word still had the power to terrify. The thousands of innocent travellers, garotted and buried in mass graves in the last century and all in the name of sacrifice to the blood-thirsty goddess Kali, were not forgotten.

  ‘… it is quite possible that our man is acting under the same kind of compulsion.’

  ‘So what can you do, Commander, to get hold of this man before he strikes at another one of us? You’re only here for a short while and you say Bulstrode’s let him go!’ said Jane indignantly. ‘How can you get him back? He could be anywhere in India by now!’

  With a confidence he didn’t feel, Joe set out to reassure them. ‘These are the days of the telegraph and the telephone and the train. If he can move about the country easily, how much more easily can the forces of Law and Order! I am going to Calcutta to check on this man’s story and I’ll inform the Governor. Wherever he’s fled, we’ll follow and we’ll stay on his trail until we’ve caught him.’

  He looked around his audience, catching each woman’s eye and said quietly, as though making a promise to each individually, ‘And I’m going to get him. If it takes another week, another month or another year!’

  Chapter Ten

  AFTER BREAKFAST ON Monday Joe put on his topee and set off to catch Bulstrode before he started out on his rounds. Presenting himself at his office building he was politely asked by a young Sikh officer to wait for a few moments. The few moments turned into several minutes of waiting time, carefully calculated to annoy, Joe guessed. He sighed and set himself to wait patiently, using the time to leaf though his notes. Eventually the door to Bulstrode’s office opened.

  ‘Sandilands!’ said Bulstrode with bonhomie. ‘Glad you could spare the time. Come in. Take a seat? Had coffee, have you? You’ve been turning the Somersham bungalow over, I hear. Up-to-date forensic methods hot from the press in Scotland Yard. Manage to turn up anything?’

  The tone was friendly in the extreme but the eyes were suspicious.

  Joe felt his professional detachment slipping. He desperately wanted to punch Bulstrode on his arrogant nose. Instead he said easily, ‘Nothing of any great consequence … Only perhaps two facts you might like to consider. One, that Peggy Somersham was certainly murdered and secondly that she was expecting a baby.’

  Bulstrode stopped dead and turned to face him.

  ‘Good Lord! You don’t say! But that is certainly of consequence. That could well supply a motive!’

  ‘A motive?’

  ‘Yes. Certainly. A motive for suicide. I mean if the poor girl was preggers, maybe perhaps not Somersham’s – he was after all much older than she was … not exactly love’s young dream, you know, and the station’s not short of good-looking young fellers. It happens. The women are at it all the time. Can’t turn your back! In some marriages there’s a pregnancy not easily explained. Think about it. Don’t judge India by the standards of – well, what shall I say? – Wimbledon!’

  ‘Peggy Somersham did not kill herself,’ said Joe mildly.

  ‘Then Somersham killed her,’ went on Bulstrode unabashed. ‘Stands to reason. He found out she was playing away from home, doesn’t want to bring up a child that’s not his and takes the quick way out. Snip, snip!’

  ‘I will bear what you say in mind,’ said Joe without emphasis.

  Bulstrode fell silent for a moment, confounded perhaps by Joe’s calm replies. He began to arrange and rearrange the piles of papers on his desk.

  ‘So where are you now, Sandilands? You demolish the suicide theory and overset the conclusion of the coroner. You declare that this is a murder investigation and yet as far as I can see you dismiss the prime and obvious suspect – Somersham – without any examination. So where are you left? Murder by person or persons unknown? A person who insinuated himself – or, if we are exploring all avenues, herself – through a high window about seven feet above street level. Doesn’t look too good to me! Who could have got in that way? An acrobat?’

  After a moment’s hesitation Joe decided to go all the way and treat him as a colleague and without hostility.

  ‘I’m not,’ he said carefully, ‘looking for someone who came in through that window. I’m looking for someone who went out through that window. From inside the bungalow the sill level is only five feet above the floor and there was a stool to hand …’

  ‘But really, Sandilands, your murderer – what does he do? Ring the front doorbell and say, “Is Mrs Somersham at home?”’

  ‘We’re dealing with a clever man, Bulstrode. As clever as you, as clever as me. Someone, I suspect, familiar with the habits of the house. Someone, it would seem, who knew that the Somershams were going out for the evening: it wouldn’t take a tour de force of deduction to assume that Peggy Somersham would have preceded such an occasion by having a bath. The man I’m looking for entered the house perhaps hours before the murder was committed and concealed himself in the bathroom cupboard. It wouldn’t be difficult and there is evidence that someone was lurking in there.’

  There was a snort of derision from Bulstrode but Joe resumed, ‘This would not be difficult. There are always people coming and going – in the kitchen, buying and selling at the door, delivering and collecting. You know this better than I do. And such a one, I say, entered the house, concealed himself, perpetrated the murder and escaped through the window, choosing a moment when no one was passing in the alley. It would need a level head and it would need a measure of calculation that really freezes the blood. But you know that such things happen.’

  ‘Sometimes. Not often. Hardly ever. And your attacker would need a surprisingly intimate knowledge of European habits.’

  ‘If he were a European himself he would have that knowledge,’ said Joe.

  ‘Oh, come on, Sandilands, for God’s sake! You’re not suggesting …’

  ‘Yes I am suggesting,’ said Joe, ‘and perhaps while we’re on the subject you can tell me where you were at the relevant time on that evening? Let’s say between four o’clock and seven?’

  Bulstrode leapt to his feet and stood glowering down at Joe. ‘I really resent that! Who the hell do you think you are? Not in bloody Scotland Yard now, you know! This is my bloody district! I’ve a good mind to ask the Collector to have you taken off the case. Know what a quagga-quagga bird is? If you don’t – I’ll tell you. It’s a bird that flies round in everdecreasing circles until it finally disappears up its own arse! And that, I suspect, is what you’re busy doing.’

  ‘Well,’ said Joe, ‘perhaps you could tell me what you were doing at the relevant time?’

  ‘I was in the lower town,’
said Bulstrode, ‘as I think I’ve already told you.’

  ‘Dealing with petty theft in the bazaar, you said. I remember well. And if I asked to see your report on the incident …?’

  Bulstrode’s face flushed with rage. ‘I’d tell you to mind your own bloody business!’

  In the face of Joe’s expression of continued polite enquiry, after a moment, spluttering in disgust, he flung himself over to a shelf piled high with papers. He snatched up a battered file with ‘Shala-mar Bagh’ written across the spine.

  ‘I repeat, I was in the lower town, though not in the bazaar exactly. To be precise, I was here.’

  ‘And what is Shala-mar Bagh?’

  ‘It’s a tea house. It’s a sort of dance hall, I suppose you’d say.’

  ‘What does it mean – Shala-mar Bagh?’ Jo persisted.

  Bulstrode looked uncomfortable. ‘It means, The Garden of Cupid. Had some trouble. Put it out of bounds to BOR’s. There was a fight and two stupid privates from the Shropshires got themselves cut up. I went down to see that the rules were being obeyed.’

  ‘And is this documented? Did you bring a case against the management?’

  ‘I didn’t need to. I cautioned them. Very easy-going sort of establishment. Get anything you want there. Perhaps you’re interested?’ he concluded venomously.

  ‘The alarm was given when, according to medical evidence, Peggy Somersham had been dead for an hour. It was some time before you could be located, er, digging in Cupid’s Garden, and you arrived at the crime scene three hours after the body was discovered. Presumably there are people in this dance hall who would vouch for your presence there over the period in question?’

  ‘Of course there bloody well are!’ said Bulstrode.

  Joe’s mind was racing ahead. What was it Naurung had said? ‘An exchange.’ Drop charges against the establishment in exchange for an alibi? But could Bulstrode have entered the house unobserved? In disguise? Joe resolved to take Naurung into his confidence: to find out when – and truly when – Bulstrode had entered Shala-mar Bagh and when he had left.

  ‘We’ll leave it there for the moment,’ he said.

  ‘Leave it there for ever, you bloody fool!’ and the Superintendent strode from the room.

  Hardly had he left when Naurung entered.

  ‘Ah, good morning, Naurung,’ Joe said cheerfully. ‘You’ve just missed Bulstrode Sahib but you arrive in time to escort me to my next interview. Colonel Prentice’s bungalow? Can you take me there?’

  On the way to the bungalow Joe briefed Naurung on his superior officer’s alibi and asked him to discreetly check on his movements on the day of the murder. Naurung listened with expressionless discretion but there was a gleam in his eye which said, ‘Give me a bit of routine policework and I’ll know just where I am.’ In front of Prentice’s bungalow Joe dismissed him and began to walk down the drive unaccompanied.

  He was hailed by a voice behind him and turned to see Prentice handing his horse over to a syce.

  ‘Looking for me?’ Prentice asked.

  ‘Yes, I am. I was hoping I might be able to talk to you. Away from sharp ears and wagging tongues.’

  ‘When would you like to do that?’ said Prentice without much interest.

  ‘Well, I rather thought now … the sooner the better … no time like the present …’

  Prentice laughed. ‘That alone would mark you out as a European,’ he said. ‘No Indian would say, “No time like the present.” For them any time would be better than the present. But there we are, you’ve said it. Come in and I’ll give you a cup of tea.’

  ‘An early ride?’ asked Joe as he walked down the gravelled drive alongside Prentice.

  ‘Regimental exercise. Try to get in one a month and this month’s was today. I like to start them early at this time of year – get them over before the heat.’

  He led the way on to a verandah, called out ‘Koi hai!’ and sat down on a stool. A servant appeared and took his hat and whip, a second performed the same service for Joe. A third hurried forward to pull off Prentice’s boots. He stood up again and padded forward in his socks. ‘Shall we go through to the north verandah? It’s much cooler on that side at this time of day.’

  They passed through the house and looked down at the garden, neat, tidy and totally unimaginative. The adjoining garden, however, was almost theatrically overgrown. Mar´echal Niel roses had run rampant and there were rose bushes as big as cottages. Seeing Joe’s attention taken by this wilderness, Prentice stopped, smiled and said, ‘That is the garden of what used to be my house. Destroyed in a fire, as you may have heard. Big garden. It goes all the way down to the river.’

  ‘And the pretty little building down there at the end?’ Joe asked.

  ‘Garden pavilion. Terribly overgrown now. It’s older than the British Raj – it’s older than John Company. It’s a Mogul building. I’ve often thought of selling the site but to do so would mean selling the pavilion and that I really can’t do. It’s been such a refuge to me. There are times when you want to get away from the demands of matrimony; there are times when you want to get away from the cares of parenthood, to say nothing of the demands of the regiment. When I go and work there it’s understood that I’m not to be disturbed. I don’t think I could run my life without it! But, come on now, let’s see if I can find you a drink or a cup of tea.’

  To all outward appearance, Prentice’s bungalow was a fair example of the Raj public works department as they developed such things in Edwardian times. Four rooms of identical size surrounded an open sitting area and the whole within a wide verandah. There the resemblance to a typical Anglo-Indian house finished because Prentice had furnished exclusively with Indian furniture. No nostalgic glance towards the English home counties here. No framed hunting scenes by G.D. Armour or Lionel Edwards, not even a copy of the ubiquitous ‘Midnight Steeplechase’. In their place Indian illuminated paintings, many on silk, many on rollers, small jade, ivory and soapstone figures, Kashmir embroidered hangings on the walls, Bokhara and Afghani rugs on the floor.

  Joe paused beside a large painting of an elephant bearing a small jewelled figure.

  ‘The Emperor Akhbar, riding an elephant,’ Prentice explained. ‘I oughtn’t to keep it hanging like this. It ought to be kept on a roll but I really enjoy it so much, this room would seem unfurnished without it. Now, come with me.’

  They walked through the house together and Prentice opened a door leading off from the central hall, pointing as he did. ‘Getting this room ready for my daughter. She’ll be home soon. Haven’t seen her for four years.’

  Joe was amused to see the array of spindly bamboo furniture, the paintings and the fabrics that the surprising Prentice had thought suitable for an eighteen-year-old fresh from the sophistications of Europe. The centrepiece of the room was a light wood-framed Indian charpoy bed whose simplicity had been relieved by silver decorations which twined their way up the legs. Above it, at the head, had been tacked a delicate embroidered hanging depicting the goddess of the night. Against a background of midnight blue, she threw a protective fold of her silver-starred sari around the dimly seen shape of a child, naked but for the two silver bangles around its ankles. Joe compared this with the iron bedstead, the neatly folded rug, striped in the school colours, the steel engraving of the ‘Light of the World’ that Midge would have grown accustomed to in Europe and thought that Prentice probably had it right.

  Prentice led the way out on to a cool verandah and tea appeared.

  ‘One concession to the home counties,’ said Joe appreciatively, viewing an English teaset.

  ‘Darjeeling,’ said Prentice. ‘I hope you can drink it. But now – what can I do? What can I tell you? I told you my theory at the dance but I don’t suppose you would accept that unscientific idea of a malign spirit?’

  Joe smiled. ‘I’d love to,’ he said. ‘It would really appeal to me. But if I was caught dismissing the matter in that way it might be held that I was not really doing my job. B
ut if you could clear up one or two small things for me … We’ll go back to the beginning.’

  ‘To Joan Carmichael.’

  ‘Well no,’ said Joe, surprised. ‘Back beyond that. Back – if you’ll forgive me – to the death of your wife.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Prentice hurriedly. ‘Of course. But I don’t think of them as being the same. After all, in that case the perpetrators were identified and executed.’

  ‘Perhaps we can start there? “Executed” you say. Can you tell me about that?’ ‘Very little to tell. I knew who they were. I knew where they came from. I knew most of them by name.

  They were vengeful – they were courageous with hash. They were not men of much judgement. It took me a day or two to recover from the shock and then I collected a troop of Sowars from the regiment, boys I’d had my eye on for some time and who were delighted to be involved in this foray. Not short of volunteers, I might say. I went after them. Executed them. Of course I should have done nothing of the sort and they should have been brought to trial in the proper way. I even had to face a court of enquiry. But by then the deed was done and everybody, Indian and English, was on my side. All saw it as a very proper act of retribution and, if you’ll allow me to say, Sandilands – so it was!’

  ‘You have no doubt in your mind,’ said Joe carefully, ‘that they had come to kill you and only incidentally your wife?’

  ‘And Chedi Khan.’

  ‘Yes, Chedi Khan. Does he come into the equation?’

  Prentice paused a long time before replying. ‘He was a very fine man,’ he said at last. ‘The finest the Pathan nation has to offer. Loyal, courageous, persevering and, like many Pathans, artistic, poetic and ingenious but the whole salted with a cynical and ribald sense of humour.’

  ‘How did he come to be in your service?’ Joe enquired.

  Prentice poured them both out a cup of tea and lay back for a moment in his chair saying at last, ‘Long story. Know what I mean by proscription? No? It’s a system on the frontier. Tribes will raid their neighbours, they will pursue blood feuds, come raiding down into India and steal things. Anything they can lay their hands on, particularly rifles. Girls too. It’s their way of life. Of course we criticise but any nation that sells girls into prostitution is in no position to criticise those who merely steal girls for themselves. But a time comes when it has to be stopped and offending villages are proscribed. A punitive raid is mounted, fortifications are dismantled, watch towers demolished, crops burned, hostages taken. They’re called barramptas, these raids. It was – and still is – an accepted part of life. They know the rules. I conducted many such raids when I was serving with the Scouts on the frontier.