The Last Kashmiri Rose

by Barbara Cleverly

  ‘I led my first barrampta – a green young officer fresh from Sandhurst, though not new to the country – against a village called Lashtar. It was occupied by a small though extremely warlike tribe, always at odds with their neighbours, always at odds with the government. Never, it seemed, able to learn. The chief man – the Malik – was a ferocious old devil with a very bad reputation. He decided to defend the village and there was quite a scrap. He was killed. His two sons were killed and some of his neighbours and the village was set on fire. By mistake. We were not fire-raisers.

  ‘I rode up to supervise the conclusion of this operation and was sitting looking on when out of the smoke there blundered a slight figure. A Pathan boy aged about thirteen. Under his arm he had a brass-bound jezail.’

  ‘Jezail?’

  ‘Yes, an old musket. It could have been a hundred years old. Loaded with God knows what – nails, bits of glass, shot even. As soon as he saw me he dropped on one knee and was about to blow me to perdition. One of my troopers galloped up, sword in hand, and knocked it out of his arms. He was about to lop the boy’s head off with his talwar …’ Prentice pointed to a trophy of arms on the wall of the adjoining room. ‘There’s a talwar.’

  Joe glanced at the curved blade as long as a man’s arm with its single slicing edge.

  ‘I yelled at the trooper to stop and put his talwar away and then I shouted in Pushtu to the boy. I told him to stay still where he was and no harm would come to him. I got off my horse and went over to talk to him. Sad tale – he was an orphan but distantly related to and living in the household of the old devil we’d just killed. As the man’s sons had been killed this boy, who told me his name was Chedi Khan, had taken it upon himself to kill as many English soldiers as he could, starting with the commanding officer – me. Honour of the tribe. I think he was very surprised to see that I wasn’t more than a few years older than he was.

  ‘Difficult to know what to do with him. He had no remaining ties with that village and it was quite plain that if he stayed on there – one day sooner rather than later probably – he was going to take a successful pot shot at an English officer and get himself killed into the bargain. We discussed his options. Man to man, sitting side by side on a rock. I gave him a cigarette. He seemed very intelligent. I pointed out that his future looked bleak if he stayed on and that I could order him to be taken away with us and kept as a hostage for the good behaviour of the tribe which was a usual procedure or, and I offered him a third and pretty unusual choice, he could come with us voluntarily, giving his word of honour for his good behaviour, and when he reached the appropriate age he could train as a Scout.

  ‘I saw by the gleam in his eye when I mentioned this third option that the soldier’s life was the one that appealed to him and decided to take a chance. There was no way this boy was going to agree meekly to ride away with us in full view of his village. The Pathan are impressed by the grand gesture so I staged one. I kicked his musket far out of reach with a derogatory comment and handed him a Lee-Metford rifle. “This is yours,” I said. Then I got up, turned my back on him and walked away towards my troop.’

  ‘Good Lord! Was it loaded?’

  ‘Oh, yes, no use being caught with an unloaded rifle in a place like that. Subadur Amir Shah was covering him, I’d already taken that in so perhaps I wasn’t risking much. All the same, I don’t think I’d have the nerve nowadays.’

  ‘What did the boy do?’

  ‘He got to his feet, aimed the rifle straight between my shoulder blades and tracked me for several yards. He never attempted to shoot the bolt. Enjoying his power, I think. Then, when he was sure the whole tribe had witnessed this, he slung the rifle over his shoulder and marched up to the company. They unloaded his rifle, mounted him behind someone and off we went.’

  ‘And did he join the army?’

  ‘Not then and there. He was too young to start with. Badly nourished as well. Scrawny little thing with conjunctivitis. And there were signs that he’d been ill-treated for some time. We had to feed him up and doctor his wounds – cuts and burns mainly – when we got him back to camp. One of my men said, “You’ll never get rid of him. He’ll follow you to the ends of the earth and one day, watch out, he’ll decide to be revenged. That boy’s just biding his time.”’

  ‘And did he try?’

  ‘In no way. It didn’t work out like that at all. I’ve told you he was clever, he was ingenious and extremely amusing. I saw a great future for him. There was a movement – has been for many years and still is – towards the foundation of an independent Pathan state – Pukhtunistan – and in my romantic way I saw this child perhaps one day as the first president of such an independent state. Just a dream really but I played with it in my mind. Then the question arose of what on earth to do with this boy.’

  ‘What did you do with him?’

  Prentice grinned. ‘What any Englishman would do – I sent him to school. There’s a little community of Anglican Fathers who run a mission school in the hills. In addition to other things they were medical missionaries. Good people. I knew them well. They said they’d look after him. He didn’t want to go but I insisted. I delivered him there and left him in tears. Six months later he ran away and came back to me. I ticked him off properly, even beat him and sent him back again. Three months later he was back! It wasn’t what I’d planned but it seemed I’d got him for life. I recruited him into the Scouts and appointed him my bearer and so he remained. Till the day of his death.’

  ‘And the manner of his death? Was that surprising to you?’

  ‘Not in the least. He died trying to save Dorothy. It’s exactly what he would do. I’d left him in charge, you see.’

  ‘That’s a fine story,’ said Joe.

  ‘He was a fine man,’ said Prentice. ‘It was sad. Tragic even, but there’s no mystery about it. None whatever.’

  Joe had been carried away by the man’s story. Once the icebergs of military brevity and understatement had melted and the narrative began to flow, time had passed unnoticed. He collected himself, recognising the ploy for what it was. By talking at length on a subject peripheral to the main investigation, Prentice was presenting himself as a co-operative and genial interviewee, a charming man with nothing to hide. Joe admired his skilful piece of deception and went along with it, writing notes at intervals and posing interested questions. But, at the mention of Chedi Khan’s death, he decided that the time had come to perform his own bluff.

  It was his successful technique when conducting an interview to make notes assiduously on topics he was aware were not very relevant to the case. This appeared always to reassure the person he was questioning. People, even villains, he found, enjoyed telling the truth to a copper especially when they thought they were leading him by the nose. He made a point of asking a series of questions to which he knew accurate if misleading answers could freely be given. Then, at a juncture, he would smile agreeably, snap shut his notebook and put away his fountain pen. Sometimes he would let his victim get half-way to the door before, with no change in his tone, he put a further question, almost as an afterthought. In a surprisingly large number of cases he got better information from that one last question than from a previous hour’s interrogation.

  He tried a variation on this technique now, never forgetting that he was dealing with a highly intelligent and ruthless man. He scribbled one last note, stretched his legs and closed his notebook. Leaning forward and lowering his voice he managed to give the impression that his next question or comment was not being recorded and was a simple exchange between two gentlemen.

  ‘Tell me, Prentice, did you know your wife was drinking heavily?’

  ‘Of course,’ Prentice replied without hesitating. ‘Though I would say moderately. By station standards. That is why I usually took her with me whenever I had to be away from the station. She got lonely, as most of the wives do, when she was left alone. I accept that it may well have been a contributory factor in her death.’

  �
�Speaking of the deaths, Prentice, and you understand how much I dislike having to bring up the subject at all, I must ask you – because I have already asked or intend to ask in due course the other bereaved Greys husbands – do you know of anyone who had reason to kill your wife?’

  ‘Of course not! Everybody loved Dorothy. She was an easy woman to like.’

  ‘She would have made a good colonel’s wife?’

  ‘Excellent. She’d listen to anybody’s problems, enjoyed solving them however tedious. People like that. She was used to life in India – it was the life she’d chosen. She was very sociable. She may have had the occasional glass of gin too many but she was no Emma Bovary. I’m luckily not dependent on my army pay and she had good clothes and fine jewellery, better looks than any of the other women and her prospects – which is to say my prospects – were all that she wished. Dorothy was a contented woman. I used to think of her as a mountain pool, clear, inviting and always reflecting the sunshine.’

  ‘And shallow, perhaps?’ Joe wondered silently.

  Aloud he said, ‘You must have found your daughter a great consolation …?’

  Prentice’s face became a degree less stiff. ‘Yes. Certainly. No children of your own, Sandilands?’

  ‘No. But I can imagine the joy. And the pain,’ said Joe seriously.

  A bearer appeared discreetly in the doorway, trying to catch Prentice’s attention.

  ‘Have to cut this short now, Sandilands. I’m expected at the stables in twenty minutes and my bearer will insist I take a bath before I set foot outside again. Not that the horses will notice.’ He rose to his feet and Joe walked with him from the room. ‘How are you getting along with Bamboo? Good. I thought he’d suit you. Used to ride him myself. Now look – if there’s anything I can do, anyone’s arm I can twist, that sort of thing, let me know.’

  They shook hands and Joe emerged into the blinding sunlight with a hundred other questions buzzing in his head and the strong feeling that Colonel Prentice had just given the professional policeman a sharp lesson in how to conduct an interview.

  Chapter Eleven

  JOE’S BREAKFAST ON Tuesday morning was interrupted by a squawk from the bulb horn of the Collector’s 1910 Packard and, hurriedly assembling maps, notebooks, cigarette case and camera, he went out to find Naurung standing to attention and Nancy sitting in the back seat.

  They greeted each other as old friends. She reached out to shake his hand and as he sank into the grey corduroy upholstery it was a moment or two before he remembered to release it.

  ‘This is a very luxurious vehicle,’ said Joe, taking in the appointments with a good deal of pleasure and satisfaction. ‘Sliding plate glass window between us and the driver, comfortable seats …’

  ‘Yes,’ said Nancy, ‘and there’s even a little silver trumpet to put a flower in. Remind me to pick one if we see one. It’s as well to arrive in style when you’re visiting the Acting Governor.’

  ‘Uncle Jardine? We are to see him again? The man who shot me into this vipers’ nest!’

  ‘See him? We’re to stay with him! I’ve been busy on the telephone and I’ve fixed up everything. You don’t need to worry.’

  ‘That’s exactly when I need to worry! Tell me our programme.’

  ‘Well, to save time I’ve arranged for you to interview old Carmichael while I go to see Dr Forbes this afternoon. Then we meet up again at the Great Eastern Hotel for tea and then on to the Residence to spend the night with my uncle.’

  ‘More impeccable chaperonage,’ Joe muttered.

  He opened the dividing window. ‘Good morning, Naurung,’ he said.

  ‘Good morning, sahib.’

  ‘You know where we’re going?’

  ‘Indeed,’ said Naurung, ‘but I thought it would be sensible if I took the same route as the Memsahib Carmichael in 1911. So we start from the Carmichael bungalow which is just down there,’ he pointed, ‘go to the end of the maidan and turn right.’

  ‘What is this?’ said Joe, surprised, as they followed a rough road some minutes out of the station. ‘New road?’

  ‘No, it is a fire break that the Forestry officer has cut through the jungle. It is a popular way for ladies to ride. It takes you up to the high ground where there is a fine view and the Memsahib Carmichael was a nervous lady, I have heard people say. She would have liked this open ride; forty yards wide, quite straight and no surprises.’

  He pulled off the road and followed the bumpy ride onwards until he said, ‘It was here that the memsahib was killed.’

  He stopped the car and they all stepped out.

  ‘Nothing whatever to see,’ said Nancy.

  ‘She was found just here,’ said Naurung. ‘There was a pile of brushwood here then and there is a pile of brushwood here now.’

  Joe took a seat on the running board of the car and stared around, trying to recreate the scene of eleven years ago. ‘Horrible story!’ he said. ‘It really haunts me … What’s the matter, Naurung?’

  Naurung was staring at the ground.

  ‘What have you seen?’

  ‘It’s not what I’ve seen, sahib, it is what I’ve always thought. But I’ll tell you. This is a very strange place to find a cobra.’

  ‘Strange? How strange?’

  ‘This was not a King Cobra, this was not a Hamadryad. They are sometimes found in jungle places like this but this was the common Indian cobra – Naja naja. They are not found in the open jungle. They are found where they can find what they like to eat which is rats and mice. And rats and mice live near human habitation in grain stores and gardens. Anywhere rats and mice can be found you may find a cobra – but not out here. You can find a cobra in every village. To some they are sacred. You will find a cobra in the village temple – the village priests put milk out for them …’

  ‘So what are you saying, Naurung?’

  ‘I am saying I have a different picture. I see this lady who is not well and she comes up here and she squats out of sight of everybody behind this brushwood pile because I’m sure there was always a brushwood pile here. Somebody comes out of the jungle with a cobra in his hand …’

  ‘In his hand?’ said Joe, horrified.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Naurung. ‘I could not do it but there are many who can catch a cobra. If you catch it just behind its head it may writhe and wriggle but the catcher is quite safe if he keeps hold of its head and puts it in a sack. I know six, perhaps more, Indians who could do this. He approaches the memsahib. She is shocked, she is horrified, she is terrified. He holds the snake in his hand and he throws it at her. She was bitten here, sahib,’ he said, pointing to his left buttock. ‘From here to the heart is not far for the venom to travel. She would have died very quickly. It is terrible but I think that is what happened. And then, because he is a very bad man, he stands and watches her die and when the poor lady is dead he cuts the snake’s head off and disappears into the jungle. I have seen it in my imagination so many times. Now I stand here I believe it is the truth.’

  ‘Christ!’ said Joe. ‘I believe you’re right! It sounds terribly true. I didn’t know about cobras.’

  ‘I did,’ said Nancy, ‘but I never connected it. Naurung, we must catch this man.’

  ‘He is clever,’ said Naurung. ‘He is very clever. Now that we know he exists, we will find him.’

  ‘One last thing, Naurung,’ said Joe. ‘Have you ever heard of a white man, a sahib, who would know how to catch and handle a cobra?’

  Naurung dropped his eyes to his boots and replied slowly, ‘No, I have never heard of such a man.’

  Chastened, they climbed back into the car and made their way back on to the main trunk road through to Calcutta. Progress along the potholed road crowded with people and animals kicking up clouds of dust was slow in spite of Naurung’s enthusiastic use of the horn and Joe discovered that on Indian highways even the Collector’s Packard gives way to cows and elephants. Shaken and stiff in spite of the luxurious springing, it was well into the afternoon when th
ey caught sight of the welcome green expanse of the maidan, the reassuring octagonal bulk of Fort William and the crowded masts and funnels on the river beyond. They drove north up the Chowringhee Road, their eyes dazzled by the glare of the whitened palaces along its route, and Joe was surprised, after his four days’ absence in the country, that he was finding the familiarity of the city reassuring. Naurung stopped the car.

  ‘Well, here you are,’ said Nancy. ‘This is where you get off. I think you know your way about? Carmichael’s establishment is somewhere along this street – here, I’ve written out the address for you. Naurung is going to drop me off at the hospital where I’m to meet Forbes and we’ll meet up again for tea. Just take a rickshaw to the Great Eastern when you’ve finished with Carmichael.’

  Naurung seemed anxious to go off on his own business and asked if he might be excused when he had finally dropped them off at the Residence, announcing that he was staying the night with a member of his family. Joe waved them off as they set off back towards the hospital and fixed his mind on Harold Carmichael, formerly second-in-command of the Bengal Greys, formerly the husband of Joan.

  British India does not walk very often, but distressed by the anguished face in his imagination of Joan Carmichael, Joe resolved to walk the length of Chowringhee to Carmichael’s office. As he made his way past the once opulent villas of bygone nabobs – many of which ranked as palaces rather than villas – he noted that the further he walked from the centre, the more multiplex the subdivision of these great houses became.