by Alec Waugh
Her voice glowed with anticipation. Shelagh made no comment. She had felt envious of Lila after the dance. She did not feel envious now. She prayed that it would not turn out this way for her, that when she came eventually to love a man it would be for a long, long time. Surely the man she loved that way would not suddenly lose interest in her, in the way that Lila and Angus had lost interest in each other. She felt very lonely. When she had first met Lila, she had believed that she had found a friend at last, but from the evening after the cricket match, when she had sat in that small guest bedroom reading a detective story, it had become a one-sided friendship. Lila had gone beyond her. She had been useful to Lila as an accomplice; but that was all and that was over. She felt lost. If only this visit of Gerald Fyreman’s could work out the way she hoped.
6
Colonel Forrester drove out that afternoon with a search warrant to the Macartney house. The letters that Angus had stuffed into his trousers’ pockets had told him practically nothing. They were bills and personal letters for the most part, but studied in connexion with the papers that Angus had put into his jacket pockets they might have some significance. There were one or two, names that had quickened his curiosity. Very likely Macartney would have destroyed those papers; but there was a chance that something might have been overlooked. He kept the search warrant as a last resort. He intended to give his visit the appearance of a friendly call.
He rehearsed his opening gambit.
‘I’m sorry to trouble you,’ he would say. ‘You’ve got enough on your mind without my butting in. And you’ve had enough bother from the police. Thank heavens Angus is no worse. What strides medicine has made since our young days; blood transfusion and all that. If this had happened forty years ago, Angus wouldn’t be alive now. I saw him this morning. He was tired, naturally; he’s in discomfort rather than in pain. There was no real need for me to come out here, but you know how they are in Kuala Prang; all these jacks-in-the-office, windy blighters. There are bound to be a lot of questions asked. And there’s his nibs having to send a report back to Whitehall; so it will make things easier all round if I can say that I’ve been out to see you and that you explained exactly how it had happened. I know, of course. Let me run over it to make sure I’ve got it right. You were suddenly woken up; you heard someone in the next room; you thought it must be a thief. Who else could it be? You have a revolver and a torch beside your bed. You flashed your torch into the room. You saw a man kneeling beside your desk. You couldn’t see his face, only his body. You didn’t challenge him. Why should you? You are old and sick. He might have charged you. Safest to fire first. Now could you show me where it happened?’
He would put the old man off his guard; talking about the accident; measuring the distance between the desk and the door into the bedroom; making a pretence of being busy over trivialities; then without warning he would say, ‘There’s one thing that does puzzle me. Why should Angus have been interfering with your papers? I did not want to question him. He did not seem strong enough to take that kind of treatment; he stuffed a lot of papers into his trousers’ pockets. I had a look at them; they don’t have any particular interest to anyone except you as far as I can see. Have you any idea what he was about? The old man is bound to be inquisitive on that point. He has a great regard for Angus. Angus told me that there were some other papers in his jacket. I suppose they are here. I wonder if I could look at them.’
From that point he would rely on the inspiration of the moment. Very likely Macartney had kept the papers, because their destruction would seem more incriminating than their existence.
So he rehearsed his tactics as he drove out past the rice-fields. He had room in plenty to manoeuvre in.
He arrived to discover a mingled atmosphere, of commotion and unnatural silence. There was no sound of voices, but there were sounds of movement, of hurryings from room to room. No one came out to greet him. He got out of his car and walked into the house. He could see into the dining-room; no place was laid at the long table. He looked round him. It all looked very tidy, over tidy. He raised his voice, ‘Hi there, Macartney.’ The movements back and forth ceased instantly. He heard a whispering; then a patter of bare feet. A servant bowed before him. ‘Master not here, sir. Master dead.’
‘What?’
‘Master sleep all day yesterday. Master ask for nothing. This morning master still asleep. No sound master breathing. Me think funny. Me fetch doctor. Doctor say, “Master dead.”’
‘Which doctor?’
‘Doctor Blunden.’
‘Is he here now?’
‘No sir. Doctor go arrange funeral. Doctor say Master dead since yesterday. Must bury Master quick.’
‘Is Master upstairs now?’
‘Yes, upstairs now.’
Forrester went upstairs. The windows of the room were open, but already the odour of corruption was upon the air. He walked over to the bed; the sheet had been pulled down over Macartney’s shoulders. His features had resumed the clear texture of middle age. He looked a man of forty; dignified, serene. An emotion so complicated, compounded of so many ingredients that he did not attempt to analyse them, made Forrester half-close his eyes. It was all over for Macartney now. Whatever he might have done during these last months, the account was closed. He was beyond reach of censure. What had he done? Forrester shrugged. He would never see the equation solved, but he knew its factors. Macartney was a symbol of his day. A corollary to the European Raj in the Far East. He had led, not perhaps an unhappy life, but an insecure, uncertain life because of this conflict between East and West. With his mixed blood he had not known to which camp he belonged. He had always felt himself ‘outside’ and the woman who had for a few years resolved that conflict for him had lost her life in a prison camp because of those warring interests between East and West.
This might so easily have happened to me, thought Forrester. His own father might so easily have sought his fortune East of Suez and if he had, he would inevitably, in terms of the conditions of those days, have taken a Karaki consort. Macartney though younger than himself was a near contemporary, and a man of his age had not after two wars many contemporaries to exchange notes with. He had only met Macartney on close terms during these last weeks when this case had brought him out here, but during those talks, although he had been all the time pursuing his own ends, he had been conscious of a kinship with his intended victim. He had had no feeling of guilt in exploiting that sense of kinship—that was one of the penalties of his profession—but he had registered subconsciously a resolve to make things as easy as he could for Macartney. Now looking down at the still corpse, irritated though he was at the loss of an essential witness, of a most valuable source of information, he could not resist relief that the old man had been spared humiliation.
He looked for a last time at the corpse, then turned away. He had a great deal to do. There was the search warrant in his pocket but he must see the doctor first. How had Macartney died; of shock? had his heart failed to support the strain of his incessant asthma? or had he hastened his own end?
He called Doctor Blunden. The doctor was back from his afternoon round.
‘Can you spare me five minutes? It’s about Macartney.’
‘Of course.’
Blunden was a Karaki, of mixed blood. He had been trained in Edinburgh. He was a short, breezy, punctilious man.
‘It was the heart,’ he told Forrester. ‘I warned his son that he might go at any moment. Those incessant coughing fits.’
‘What about sleeping pills? Did you prescribe those for him?’
‘From time to time.’
‘When a man dies from an overdose of barbituric, he actually dies of pneumonia doesn’t he?’
‘That’s so.’
‘Wouldn’t superficially the appearance of death from heart failure in this case resemble the appearance of death from an overdose of barbituric?’
‘Superficially.’
‘Macartney might have died that way?�
�
‘He might.’
‘A post-mortem would show if he had, wouldn’t it?’
‘Do you want to have one?’
Forrester reflected. Would it do any good to know that Macartney had committed suicide? If it came out at the coroner’s inquest, suspected persons would be on their guard, and he did not see how he himself would be any the better placed in his search for those suspected persons if he knew the exact truth about Macartney. If he did know the exact truth he would be giving the chief an opportunity to interfere. Better let sleeping dogs lie. He shook his head.
‘There’s not much point, if you can conscientiously sign a certificate for heart failure. He couldn’t have lasted long. We don’t want to rake up any scandal.’
He returned to Macartney’s bungalow, where he had left a policeman in control. He had his search warrant, but he expected to find nothing now that Macartney was dead. The absence of any papers would be in fact all the proof he needed that Macartney had committed suicide. It was not proof that would satisfy a court but it would satisfy his own curiosity.
Twenty-four hours later his curiosity was at rest. He had found nothing of interest among the old man’s papers; the papers that Angus had put into his jacket pockets had been destroyed. He had questioned the house-boy about the jacket. It had been thrown away, along with the shirt; both had been torn and bloodstained; they could not have been repaired.
‘Weren’t there any papers in the pockets?’
‘Yes, Master, I put them on dressing-table.’
‘Where are they now?’
‘I don’t know, Master.’
It was all he needed to know.
Next day he presented his report. Studholme listened thoughtfully. There was something here he did not like; he suspected that Forrester was keeping something back. He had had the same feeling with several Britons recently; not only with Francis Reynolds, but Charles Keable. They were not any longer pulling in the same direction. In Cairo in the war he had felt that every Briton, whatever his job, whether he was in the armed forces, in the foreign service or in business, was working for whatever the Government of Britain held to be the country’s interest. It was a joint effort; but now with several of his countrymen he had the same feeling that during the war he had had with regard to Frenchmen and Americans. Britons, Americans and Frenchmen had been united to the extent that they were planning the defeat of Germany and Japan, but their ultimate objectives were not identical. Today Keable’s first duty was to Pearl, an international oil company, rather than to Britain; Francis Reynolds’ duty was to heaven knew whom, and Forrester, though he had been appointed on the recommendation of Whitehall, was in fact a Karaki civil servant; paid by Karak, owing his first duty to Karak. Studholme could not in his case, any more than he could in Keable’s, make an appeal to patriotism. He had only the right to know what Forrester chose to tell him.
‘You work in your way, I work in mine,’ he said, ‘but I do rely on you to give me warning about anything that is likely to damage British interests and the safety of British nationals in this country.’
‘You can rely on me to do that, sir.’
‘Do you feel that there is any immediate danger?’
‘I can only give you the same answer that I have always done. I do not believe that anything will happen during the old King’s lifetime. I know that underground plans are being laid for taking over control should an emergency arise, but I do not know who is responsible for those plans or what those plans are. I remind myself that no matter what government is in control in no matter what country, there is always an opposition, and when the government is a dictatorship that opposition goes underground. We should not be too worried by the fact that there is an underground. It is not, in my opinion, a cause for alarm. My own opinion is that we should not disturb it. Let sleeping dogs lie.’
A typical policeman’s answer, Studholme thought. Forrester played with his cards held close against his chest. He enjoyed his little secrets. Studholme remembered his conduct of a case in Alexandria which had led at the last moment to the arrest of a revolutionary. Forrester had allowed the man to continue his activities until the final moment. By waiting, he had swept the entire conspiracy into his net. His chief had asked him, ‘Weren’t you running a risk? You might have held your hand too long.’ Forrester had smiled. ‘I’ve a sixth sense which tells me when to act.’
But that was ten years ago. Forrester had then been in his prime. Now he was elderly. He might be losing that sixth sense. Napoleon had said that a general had so many years of power. He had prophesied another ten good ones for himself. Hitler hurried on the European war so that he might be young enough to lead it. Might not Forrester have passed the turning point? Studholme felt apprehensive. He wished he had a younger man out here.
7
As soon as she got back to Kassaya, Shelagh wrote to Annetta.
It is hateful for me to bother you at such a time, but I’ve made a promise and here is the fulfilment of it. You have heard about Angus Macartney’s accident. He is really very ill. I visited him this morning. He will be in hospital for a long time, and it is unlikely that he will ever be completely fit. I asked him if there was anything he needed.
He said there was one thing. Could the Crown Prince see him? He said it was important. It is a great, great deal to ask at such a time, but he did set high store by it. He said he had something important to tell His Highness.
Annetta handed the letter to Rhya. ‘But I scarcely know him,’ Rhya said.
‘You are an important person to a great many people whom you scarcely know.’
‘But I can’t go and see them all in hospital.’
‘I don’t think Shelagh would ask me unless she thought it was important.’
‘Does she matter much to you?’
Annetta remembered her vow that night in Raffles. ‘Yes, quite a lot.’
‘You’d like me to go, in fact.’
‘I would.’
‘O.K., but there’s no hurry surely?’
‘I’d rather you didn’t leave it too late.’
‘All right. I’ll go next week. That should be early enough, shouldn’t it?’
‘I’d say so.’
Chapter Twenty-four
The first night of The Rose Without a Thorn was only two days distant. Blanche Pawling was in a fever of impatience. Her thoughts at every minute of the day were in Kuala Prang with Angus. Yet she could not leave the camp until after the play. Harry needed her every other second. He needed her advice and her encouragement. He wanted her to hear his part. There was constantly something in connexion with his costume and with the scenery that required attention. Shelagh had been back three days before Blanche met her. Shelagh had nothing to do with the play and their occupations did not coincide. Blanche was resolved not to go out of her way to see her. She had made a sufficient exhibition of herself when Iris had broken the news to her. It was lucky that no one else had been around; nobody who knew her, nobody who would have noticed. Iris was too self-absorbed to notice anything that did not concern herself. It was by chance, as she had intended that it should be, that she eventually met Shelagh in the locker-room of the golf club. She simulated surprise.
‘I didn’t know you were back. I thought you were staying in Kuala Prang.’
‘There was nothing for me to stay for.’ ‘Has he recovered so quickly then?’
‘Oh no, it’ll be a long convalescence. He is very weak. But he does not want to do anything. He plays the radio. That’s what he likes; being occupied with something that makes no demands on him. As it is he has too many visitors. He has so many friends.’ She paused, she remembered that she had still a part to play.
‘In a month’s time he’ll be in need of visitors,’ she said. ‘You know how it is when somebody is ill. Everyone rushes round during the first two weeks; then the list tapers off. Nobody can be bothered to go more than twice. In a month’s time I’ll go in again.’
Blanche watched he
r closely, listening for inflexions in her voice. She’s not in love with him, she thought. She may have been but she’s lost interest.
‘I heard that Gerald Fyreman’s coming down. Do you know yet when that’ll be?’ she asked.
‘On Friday week, in time to see the play.’
Did Shelagh’s expression change at the mention of Gerald’s name? Blanche almost thought it had; there was surely a changed inflexion in her voice; a difference anyhow from the voice in which she had talked of Angus. It’s over, she thought; whatever it was, and there must have been something otherwise he would not have behaved the way he did; whatever it had been, it was over now. If she played her cards right she could get him back.
That evening on his return from the rehearsal Harry bemoaned the lack of greasepaint. ‘And the trouble is that we can’t get it here.’
‘Where can you get it?’
‘Only in Kuala Prang.’
‘I could get you some.’
‘What a bother for you.’
‘I wouldn’t find it that.’
‘Well, if you could …’ He paused; his frown left his face. ‘It would be wonderful if you could. It’s not the kind of thing I can trust anyone to get.’
‘Don’t bother. I can do it easily. Is a plane going in?’
‘If there isn’t, I’ll soon lay one on. Can you go in tomorrow?’
‘Of course I can.’
2
Harry fixed the plane. The day’s work had barely started when Blanche left. Only a few nurses were pushing prams round the broad savannah. She was due to return shortly after lunch. She would get her chores finished first, then she would go to the hospital. Her heart was hopeful.