The Last Kashmiri Rose

by Barbara Cleverly

  He had searched; Nancy had searched. The Naurungs, father and son, were searching their minds and searching physically to find a link – anything, anything in the world that would bind these victims together and to the bloody series of crimes. And could this be the link? A link which was not through the women at all but through their husbands? Could the fact that they had dined together on the night of the first tragedy seriously be held to be their common cause? Was their meeting casual? Was there some deeper, more sinister meaning behind their drunken dinner?

  Joe recited the names to himself again, Suman looking on in puzzlement, acknowledging by his silence that he understood the entertaining enquiry had taken on a new and serious dimension.

  ‘Carmichael, Forbes, Simms-Warburton, Somersham and young Templar,’ he muttered. Nothing obviously in common; completely different in character and ages. Not at all an outwardly congenial grouping.

  A devastating thought came to mind. Suppose all these men had been Dolly’s lovers and Prentice was following some hideous Pathan custom by killing off their wives? No sooner had the idea formed than he dismissed it. Why would they all be dining together and on the very night Dolly died? And even his vivid imagination could not couple Dolly with the deeply unattractive Carmichael or the ‘nice young gentleman’ Templar.

  And then there was the question of Prentice. The first to be bereaved, the rogue of the group, the one unaccounted for. Where did he fit in with these other fellows? If at all? He too was a March widower. Of the listed men, Somersham was on the station somewhere. He would interview him again in the morning. But, meanwhile, there was another witness, immediately available.

  ‘Were you here on this night, Babu-ji?’ Joe asked.

  ‘Oh, yes. In humble capacity then. Assistant clerk only on the strength because of the muddle. But I was there and I remember the fire. The fire at Colonel Prentice’s bungalow. It was very dreadful. I remember many things …’ His voice trailed away.

  ‘What do you principally remember?’ Joe asked. ‘In a sentence, if you can, what was important about that evening?’

  ‘Sheer chaos, sir! Sheer bloody chaos! Templar Sahib and the RMO saying, “Come on you chaps!” Carmichael Sahib shouting, “Mind your business! Stay put!” Bugles calling, shouts and even shots if you can believe. And all the time the Greys were too tiddly to think. They were watching the fire from the verandah as though fireworks, sir. Simms-Warburton Sahib called for a cherry brandy to be served to him on the verandah while he watched. In the end the doctor Forbes Sahib broke ranks and called for his horse. They all went down to the bungalow but – too late. And Memsahib Prentice dead. A fairly disgraceful affair. But we do not say that because we are shoulder to shoulder, knee to knee as good comrades should be. I can say this to you because it was a long time ago and you are one of us, after all. But Carmichael came back and – I thought at the time – looking like a dead man and said not a word but went straight to his bungalow. And Templar Sahib (he was only a boy; shaving every third day his bearer told me) was crying in the night.’

  More than anything, Joe wanted a quiet moment or, not so much a quiet moment, a quiet half-hour to digest what Suman had just told him. He wanted to talk to Nancy. He looked into Suman’s face, smiling but concerned, and he wanted to go through the whole of the evening – March the 17th 1910 – in detail, but a glance at his watch told him that he was due – almost overdue – at Nancy’s dinner party and with profuse and repeated expressions of mutual regard, they parted.

  Deeply puzzled by all that he had heard, Joe turned away to walk to Nancy’s bungalow but as he stepped across the maidan he was arrested by a thought. A disturbing thought, a terrifying thought. Templar! What about Templar? Where was he? Was he still alive? Above all, was he married? The only member of the fatal dinner party unaccounted for, the only member of that fatal dinner party who might have a wife and, if he had a wife, would she not now – to complete the pattern – be in danger? How the hell would you find out whether an obscure army officer was married or not at eight o’clock on a Saturday evening?

  A happy thought came to him – Uncle George! The omniscient Uncle George with access to information of all sorts. Telephone? Where was the nearest telephone? There was a telephone in the dim little cubicle off the vestibule to the officers’ mess. Did it work? Joe realised that he had never made a telephone call in India before.

  He made his way to the cubicle and in the dimness located a small wooden box with a handle. Without much confidence he picked up the telephone and wound the handle. To his surprise and delight almost at once a clipped and efficient Eurasian voice said, ‘Number please?’

  ‘I don’t know the number,’ Joe began. ‘I want to contact the Acting Governor of Bengal in Calcutta. Sir George Jardine.’

  The reply came back at once, ‘I have the number here, sir.’

  Scotland Yard could not have been more efficient. After an interval a smooth English voice picked up. ‘Calcutta Residence.’

  ‘I want,’ said Joe, ‘to speak to the Governor. Commander Sandilands here. It could be urgent.’

  ‘Sir George is just going into dinner,’ said the voice coldly.

  ‘Then,’ said Joe firmly, ‘you’ll have to see what you can do. As quickly as possible, please.’

  Joe overheard the ensuing conversation.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘A Commander Sandilands.’

  ‘Oh! Oh? Put me through.’

  And after a further series of clicks and purrings, the crackling voice of Uncle George. ‘Sandilands! Is this important? Make it as quick as you can, will you? I’m just going in to dinner.’

  ‘It might be important,’ said Joe, ‘and I will explain later why I want to know but – a subaltern, Richard Templar, was stationed in Panikhat in 1910. On attachment. He joined his regiment on the north-west frontier. I urgently need to know whether he is married.’

  Uncle George laughed comfortably. ‘This is your lucky evening, Sandilands! Hold on, will you?’ And, in an aside, ‘Freddy! Just a moment, Freddy! Tell me – an officer – Templar. Serving on the frontier. Do you know him? You do? Good. Serving with 10GR. You were brigaded with them? Tell me then – is he married? No. You’re sure?’

  Uncle George turned back to Joe. ‘No, he’s not married. I just managed to catch hold of a friend who’s dining tonight and he seems to know him quite well. Evidently not married. He’s not in the country at all at the moment – he’s on home leave and not due back with his regiment until next month. Is this good news or bad?’

  ‘Good news,’ said Joe. ‘It certainly takes the immediate pressure off.’

  ‘Are you going to tell me what this is all about?’ asked Uncle George.

  ‘I could but it might take a bit of time. I’m dining with Nancy tonight and I’m late, you’ve got a dinner party forming up – perhaps we could talk about this tomorrow?’

  ‘By all means,’ said Uncle George, his gargling voice only just audible.

  Nancy’s bungalow was clearly en fête and Joe, wan with relief, made his way there. All the house rooms seemed to be lighted and there was a procession of night lights in glass jars lining the drive. There seemed to be an unaccustomed number of servants, many of whom, Joe realised, had been borrowed from other households for the evening. The same was true eventually when dinner was served. China, glass and plate had been assembled from other establishments in the sensible Indian fashion.

  Leaning on a stick and arm in arm with Nancy, Andrew Drummond stood on the verandah, hospitable and expansive. No chance for a while of speaking privately to Nancy but it seemed the heat was off for the moment and he could surprise her with his news later in the evening.

  ‘Sandilands, my dear fellow,’ Andrew said with a wide gesture, ‘very good to see you! We had begun to fear that you had got lost. But there you are! Who do you know and who don’t you know? Let’s get the order of precedence right. I must make the presentations. Kitty! I think you’ve met Commander Sandilands. And Prentice y
ou know, of course, and I hardly need draw your attention to the belle of the ball …’

  He had no need to draw Joe’s attention to Midge Prentice. From the moment of his arrival, like all the men present, he could look at no other. Laughing and lively, her slim boyish figure set off by a flame-coloured crepe de chine dress, she seemed aflame herself. She came instantly to his side, taking both his hands in hers. ‘Good evening, Commander or, since our jolly drive down from Calcutta, perhaps I could say, hello Joe! How’s the investigation going? Perhaps we ought to drink a toast to you? Andrew …’ and she waved a hand towards the Collector, ‘Andrew says, “Here’s to the hound with his nose upon the ground” so here’s to you!’

  She took a glass from a passing servant and, handing it to Joe, clinked glasses with him and favoured him with a look which seemed in the most natural way possible briefly to set them apart together as two old friends and fellow conspirators.

  ‘What did you think of your present?’ said Joe, turning to Prentice. ‘Your little ivory figure?’

  Prentice withdrew a slender cigar from between his lips and said, ‘Beautiful! Really good and of a good period. Worth twice what she gave for it.’

  ‘Do you think,’ said Midge, gratified, ‘that I could make a living as an expert on Indian egotica …’ She stumbled over the word and tried again, ‘erotica, I mean.’

  ‘Just let me see you try!’ said Prentice and there was a general laugh.

  Two Greys subalterns closed in on Midge and Joe found himself in the company of Kitty.

  ‘That wretched child gets more like her mother every minute,’ she said. ‘Dolly had an eye for all things Indian and, of course, people gave her things! Quite a collection she had. Destroyed in the fire, I suppose.’ She looked critically once more at Midge. ‘The looks, the taste, the animation and, unless I make a mistake, the same capacity for champagne! Dry-as-dust-Prentice is going to have his work cut out! All the unattached men on the station and probably quite a few of the attached will be at her feet! Damn it all, Commander, I’ve seen it all before. This takes me back twenty years and the charm and the fascination is still there. Heredity! Where does it come from? Now – tell me something about yourself. What have you been doing since our tea party – at which you fluttered a few hearts, I can tell you.’

  ‘My heart was a bit fluttered, to tell you the truth, surrounded by so much allure,’ said Joe.

  ‘Oh, you! I was expecting you to say, “All my fancy dwells on Nancy, so I’ll cry tally-ho.”’

  ‘Kitty!’ said Joe boldly. ‘You’ve got a tongue that would clip a hedge! Spare me your amatory speculation and remember – I’m a policeman on duty!’

  ‘All work,’ said Kitty, ‘and no play make Joe a dull boy!’

  And dinner was served.

  Considering the short time that had been available to Nancy to arrange her dinner party, the dinner was surprisingly good. It opened with a flight of snipe on toast, followed by a curry that nearly took the roof off Joe’s mouth, followed by a bombe surprise (it must have been a logistic miracle to bring that to the table!) and terminated with an unidentifiable fish on toast by way of a savoury. Claret with the entr´ee, champagne once more with the dessert and the ladies, gathered together by a look from Nancy, disappeared.

  The gentlemen made their way into the garden, glowing cigars like a flight of fireflies in the darkness. They unbuttoned themselves as though by drill and stood in a row on the lawn’s edge. Joe found himself next to Prentice.

  ‘This,’ said Prentice, ‘is an Anglo-Indian custom. I suppose it’s an English custom too but I can’t get used to it. I’m too much of a Pathan. On the frontier this would be considered a very shocking display.’

  Joe was damned if he was going to be patronised by Prentice. ‘We all have our rituals,’ he said pacifically. ‘On the frontier too, I expect.’

  Prentice looked sharply up. ‘Yes, we all have our rituals, don’t we?’

  They rejoined the ladies and the solid figure of Kitty came to his side and took his arm. ‘You can escort me to the Club,’ she said. ‘When I was a girl, no one would have dreamed of walking a hundred yards. Times change.’

  They set off to walk, Midge arm in arm with Easton and Smythe, Joe arm in arm with Kitty, Nancy between Prentice and Andrew Drummond.

  The Club when they reached it was likewise en fête. The Shropshire Light Infantry dance band was beating out a polka and to Joe’s astonishment, the Greys officers were all wearing night-shirts over their mess dress.

  ‘Manoli Night, you see,’ said Prentice. ‘You must excuse me for a moment while I garb myself like Wee Willie Winkie.’

  He walked to a table where were laid out various items of night attire and selected a voluminous starched white shirt. With the twittering help of Midge he struggled into it and arranged it in folds over his mess jacket. The other officers had set out to look absurd but not Prentice. He wore his white shirt with the air of one deliberately robed for some priestly ceremony.

  Joe danced a stately waltz with Kitty, paused to have a drink with Andrew and, hoping he was not being too obvious, seized the first opportunity to gather Midge into his arms for a second polka. ‘One, two, three, hop,’ said Midge cheerfully. ‘You’re pretty good, Joe!’ And, as they circled the room, smiling, ‘I like to be noticed!’

  ‘Don’t we all?’ said Joe. ‘I certainly do!’

  As the dance drew to a close, Midge seized his arm. ‘I’ve got something I want to tell you,’ she said. ‘And I want to tell Nancy too! Nancy! I want to tell you a secret! Come where I can talk to you!’

  ‘Well,’ said Nancy, ‘nothing like the Manoli Dance for releasing inhibitions. But even this early in the evening the kala juggah appears to be occupied. If you really want to tell secrets we’d better step out on to the verandah.’

  ‘Listen,’ said Midge, looking around to make sure they were not overheard and linking her arms with theirs, ‘I said – didn’t I – there was somebody?’

  ‘There was somebody in your life?’ asked Nancy.

  ‘Yes. Somebody in my life. If he can get here in time, you’re going to meet him! He’s driving down from Calcutta! All this way just to see me!’

  ‘Tell us some more,’ said Joe. ‘Tell us about this lucky chap. All we know so far is that he plays piquet and he’s your knight in shining armour!’

  ‘Well, for a start,’ said Midge, ‘he’s a Ghurka officer – I think I told you that – and to go on with, I met him on the boat. We both got on in Marseilles. You’ll love him! I do! But that’s not all. I’ll tell you something very odd. He didn’t tell me until we had got to know each other very well and then he did and I think you’ll agree that this is the most romantic thing you’ve ever heard! On the night of the fire – you know what I mean by the night of the fire?’

  They both nodded. ‘We know what you mean by the fire.’

  ‘Well, on the night of the fire he was there! Not only was he there but they’d hidden me among some flower pots …’ She gave a deprecating laugh indicating how odd it was that anyone of her charm and sophistication should have been found in amongst a stack of flower pots. ‘… and he found me! He dug me out and looked after me. And he said on the boat – when we’d got to be very good friends of course – “That isn’t the first time I’ve kissed you.” Because when he dug me out he gave me a kiss and he’d never forgotten. “I knew I’d find you again one day,” he said. Wasn’t that a romantic thing to say? Oh, I do hope he gets here this evening! I know you’ll like him. I hope Dad likes him too.’

  ‘Are you saying,’ Joe began carefully, ‘that we’re talking about Richard Templar, at present an officer with the Tenth Gurkhas? And that Richard Templar is coming here this evening perhaps?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Midge happily, ‘that’s just exactly what I’m saying. Fancy your having heard of Dickie! And you must call him Dickie – everybody does.’ She smiled at Nancy. ‘It’s a surprise for Dad but I really wanted you to know first, Nancy, then you ca
n help me to make him feel welcome.’

  ‘Oil the social wheels perhaps?’ said Nancy drily.

  ‘Exactly! Don’t you think it’s exciting? I do! I wonder what everybody will say? There! Now you know! I’m glad I’ve told somebody. I’m a bit of a flirt, I know. Everybody says so, I know they do. But there’s something a bit different about Dickie. He’s serious.’

  ‘There you are!’ came the cheerful voices of Easton and Smythe. ‘Found you both!’

  ‘Next dance is mine, Midge,’ said Smythe.

  ‘And the next dance is mine,’ said Easton to Nancy. ‘You’ll have to excuse us, sir.’

  ‘I’ll excuse you,’ said Joe, only too thankful to have a moment to digest the information he had just received and to calculate its possible consequences. He turned to stare through the window into the lighted room. In accordance, it would seem, with the traditions of the Manoli Dance, the band kept up both tempo and sound, in this case, ‘The Blue Danube’ played fortissimo.

  Chapter Nineteen

  JOE SET HIMSELF somewhat apart. ‘What would you say if you just came into this room now? You’d say, “An animated scene!” “On with the dance!” You’d say, “Hearts at peace under an Indian heaven.”

  ‘How wrong you would be.’

  The dance band gave way to a not very well rehearsed jazz group led by an unpractised tenor saxophone and under the influence of this the pace warmed up. Joe saw Midge, flushed and excited, being passed from hand to hand, he saw Nancy dancing with considerable skill in the arms of an unknown officer of the Artillery. Over the heads of the dancers his eye took in Prentice, alone, observing, austere and in every particular correct.