‘Well, I’ll tell you something,’ said Joe. ‘He never does or says anything without a motive. Although I was very pleased and grateful for the offer of his guest bungalow, I rather wondered why it had been offered to me…’
‘And what conclusion did you come to?’
‘He’s done this to me once before. He hauled me into an investigation down in Panikhat and it just crosses my mind that he may have hauled me into this. Watch developments and you’ll see that I’m right. And now I apologize because I’m quite sure the last thing you want in the world is me!’
‘You’re quite wrong about that, Sandilands,’ said Carter. ‘I’d be damned glad of somebody to talk to.’
‘Well, never forget,’ said Joe, ‘before we both sink over our heads in this, that Sir George is a devious old bastard!’
And with these words they went their separate ways, Carter – as he put it – to set the creaking apparatus of police procedure in motion and Joe in the company of a police sowar detailed to guide him to the Governor’s Residence through the intricacies of the summer capital of the Indian Empire.
Here, Joe found, was no oriental magnificence. There was no concession as far as he could see to India at all. Houses, growing in size as he rode onwards and upwards, might have strayed from Bournemouth or Guildford. The Moghul Empire might never have existed, nor yet the Honourable East India Company. Houses were tile-hung, some even had leaded windows. Balconies and french doors abounded, peaked and decorated gables and, on all sides, bogus half-timbering. House names too, smacked of the English Home Counties: Bryony, Rose Cottage, Valley View, Berkhamsted. Gardens, where they could be poked in on an available flat piece of ground, were abundant with spring flowers and, against a background pine wood smell, they breathed nostalgically of English country rectories.
The sun had sunk now behind the hills and a chill breeze knifing in from the snow fields reminded Joe that he was not in familiar Surrey but in wild country on a remote spur of the Himalayas at a height of seven thousand feet. He shivered and began to think about a hot bath and perhaps a log fire. He urged his horse along, keeping up with the cracking pace being set by the sowar, and noting the landmarks he might need to find his own way to the Governor’s Residence. At last he saw a discreet sign for ‘Kingswood’ and they swung off the main road down a steep lane between crowding rhododendron bushes.
The Governor’s house, though undeniably cosy in intent, was large and, within the limits of the architectural manner, impressive. Joe wound his way through the gardens, marking no fewer than ten gardeners at work and noting the servants in their dark green livery by the door. He handed his horse to his escort to return to the police station.
Sir George’s greeting when he finally made his way to him was characteristic.
‘Where the hell have you been? I’ve been looking out for you all afternoon! Been doing a bit of sightseeing, have you? Tasting the social charms of Simla?’
‘Not exactly,’ said Joe. ‘Not exactly.’
‘It’s all right,’ said Sir George. ’I’m not deaf! I am, as you may well remember, reasonably well connected. Chaprassis have been hot-footing it between here and the town hall for the last three hours. I understand there’s been another shooting at Devil’s Elbow. Pick it up from there. But, before you do so, tell me – what did you make of Carter?’
‘Not my place to make anything of Carter,’ said Joe repressively. ‘But, for what it’s worth, I thought – good man.’
‘Somebody you could work with?’ asked George innocently.
‘Certainly. But, before we go any further – why do you ask? In fact, you can answer another question if you will – I was very grateful to you for the offer of your guest bungalow but I couldn’t help wondering why you had offered it to me.’
‘Why? Does there have to be a reason why? Thought you might be glad of it.’
‘It didn’t, I suppose, cross your mind that you had an unsolved shooting practically in your back garden and that a little input from the Met might not be out of the way?’
Sir George broke into a roar of laughter. ‘Well, well, well,’ he said. ‘There’s no fooling Sandilands, as they say at Scotland Yard! You’ve guessed my secret! Yes, Joe. It did just cross my mind that this affair might be right up your street and in my devious old mind I went one further and thought, He won’t be able to resist, and, dammit, from the eager look in your eye, I believe I was right! But, Joe, I say, be tactful. I’m sure I don’t need to say this – I’m hoping you’ll work with Carter. He’s no fool and I don’t think his amour-propre will suffer but some might resent the suggestion from me that he could do with some help.’
Joe eyed him with exasperation but with amusement too. ‘I’ve been manipulated, I know that. And, of course, Carter has been manipulated as well. His last words on this subject to me were, “I’d be glad to have somebody to talk to.” ’
‘And you don’t mind?’
‘I don’t mind,’ said Joe slowly, ‘because of Korsovsky. I saw him killed, don’t forget. I was the last person to see him alive and, it would seem, the only person in Simla to remember him. And I will remember him. He was an impressive man. Some bastard gunned him down before my very eyes.’
‘And you don’t hang that on Sandilands and get away with it.’
‘I suppose so,’ said Joe. ‘I suppose so.’
‘Know just how you feel,’ said Sir George. ‘When I was a young man in Persia I got very interested in cock fighting. I had some very good birds. Gave it all up years ago of course but now, if I see a cock fight by the side of the road, I can’t just pass by. I have to see what’s happening. It’s the same for you. Once a copper… But now, tell me what happened.’
And Joe gave him an account of the events at the Devil’s Elbow concluding by asking, ‘Anything in particular strike you about this?’
‘Beyond the obvious fact – only this: both men were on their way to Simla. Neither man got there. Someone or some people had an interest in preventing them reaching Simla. Isn’t that the fact? Now who could that have been?’
‘Or, as Carter believes, a mad sportsman. He said, “Someone trying out a new rifle.” I can’t accept that very easily. But then it’s almost impossible that there should be a link between a Russian baritone and a British officer. No connection between the two.’
‘Well, we shall see. And, by the way, I said in my note that we were due at the theatre at nine. It’s not yet officially known that Korsovsky’s dead and he wasn’t due to perform until the day after tomorrow so I would guess that all goes ahead as planned. Won’t be much of an evening, I’m afraid; it’s very early in the season and they won’t have had much time to rehearse. The Operatic Society are doing a turn or two. Bits and bobs, you know, a sort of review to open the new season – “The First Cuckoo” or “Ragtime in Simla”, something of that sort. Look, there’s no reason why you should go, Joe. Why don’t you recover from the rigours of the journey?’
And to an aide-de-camp entering at that moment, ‘This thing at the theatre tonight, James – don’t have to go in uniform, do I? Black tie be all right? Well, there you are, Joe. If you want to come – black tie.’
Bathed and changed (black tie, white mess jacket) and after an outstandingly good dinner washed down by two bottles of claret, Sir George and Joe set off together in the carriage, two attendant aides-de-camp on horseback, two syce on the box and one man running in front with a lantern. Joe lay back enjoying the busy glamour of Simla. The whole town seemed to be on the move. Rickshaws, one or two carriages, men in dinner jackets – a few in uniform – women in evening dress and long white gloves making way for Sir George who bowed and smiled absently as they went by, Sir George pointing out the sights.
Joe was enchanted by the strings of electric lights which marked out the narrow and winding road ahead. Dipping and climbing and skirting the pine-clad slopes they looked like garlands on a Christmas tree. A full April moon added a natural illumination to the scene and Joe fel
t his spirits reviving. He made a polite remark to Sir George on the quirkiness of the architecture of Simla, pointing ahead to the slopes of the Lower Bazaar, clinging like a swallow’s nest to the hill. It rose in uneven layers, topped by corrugated iron roofs and dissected by flights of stairs climbing to the Mall above.
‘It’s a really terrible place, Simla!’ said Sir George confidentially. ‘Edwin Lutyens – architect chap – New Delhi – had it absolutely right. Took one look at Simla and said, “If one were told that the monkeys had built it, one could only say – What clever monkeys! They must be shot in case they do it again!” ’
He burst out laughing. ‘That really says everything that needs to be said but, all the same, everybody will tell you – when you come up from the plains you feel twenty years younger in Simla. It’s not only the fresh air. It’s the atmosphere. Irresponsible, you know. An adventurous spirit. Even at my age I feel it. No wonder people go off the rails from time to time when they get here. Most of them come up to Simla with the firm intention of going off the rails! So, my boy, mind what you’re about!’
Through the thickening crowd and threading their way though the parade of timber-framed and Anglicized villas, they clattered across the Combermere Bridge and the pale bulk of Christ Church came in sight.
‘There’s the cathedral for you,’ said Sir George unnecessarily. ‘People talk about the Anglican compromise – not much compromise about that! It’s as unashamedly Home Counties Gothick as you could find. You must go and look inside sometime. Frescoes were designed by Kipling’s father. And if you’re here on Sunday you must come and saunter about on the terrace amongst the rank and fashion.’
‘I’m not expecting to have much sauntering time,’ said Joe drily.
Turning a corner they came on the theatre, brilliantly lit.
‘Might be a Victorian music hall,’ said Sir George. ‘Hindu Baroque I always say.’
With a certain amount of flourish the carriage came to rest. A syce went to the horses’ heads, ADCs dismounted, carriage doors were opened and Joe and Sir George stepped down into the throng that opened up for them. As they entered the foyer an ADC leaned forward and murmured, ‘His Excellency isn’t here tonight, Sir George, nor the Governor of the Punjab. You’re the most prominent European, I’m afraid, sir.’
‘Do I have to do anything?’
‘I don’t think so, sir. Just bow and smile.’
‘I spend my whole life bowing and smiling,’ grumbled Sir George. ’Still, I suppose I’m paid for it! Ah, good evening Mrs Gallagher. And is this Margaret? Margaret! I would never have recognized you! So grown up, if you’ll forgive my saying it. First season?’
Others pressed round him.
‘May I present my sister, Sir George? Joyce, this is Sir George Jardine, Acting Lieutenant-Governor of Bengal.’
‘Delightful! Delightful!’ said George. ‘First visit?’
‘This,’ said an ADC in a discreet murmur, ‘is Colonel Chichester’s widow who was here last year.’
‘Ah,’ said Sir George, ‘Mrs Chichester! How delightful to see you again! Second visit, I believe? Third, is it? How time passes! And may I present Commander Sandilands who is staying with me – for a few weeks, I hope. Eh, Joe?’
Somewhere in the background a not very skilled orchestra was tuning and in groups of twos and fours the crowd dispersed by degrees to take their seats in the gilded boxes which surrounded the auditorium.
‘Doesn’t look as though they’ve heard about Korsovsky yet,’ said Sir George as they took their seats. ‘Wonder if they’ll make an announcement? Well, just as long as they don’t expect me to.’
Joe looked about him. Bright eyes, what his mother would have called ‘bold glances’, piled hair and silk dresses, white shirt fronts, moustached faces. Every now and then the light was reflected from a monocle amongst the audience. Joe felt himself transported back to a disappearing age. He was aware that, as Sir George’s guest, he was the focus of curiosity. ‘If I had a moustache, this would be the moment to twirl it!’ His eye was caught by Mrs Graham, the companion of his journey up to Kalka, and he greeted her, to her satisfaction, with a conspiratorial wink.
With a few bars of what Joe believed to be the overture to Aida, from the six-piece orchestra, the show began. The house lights were turned out and the curtain rose on a one-act comedy played with considerable skill and to much applause by a cast of four.
‘Angela,’ he overheard from a near neighbour, ‘really doesn’t look a day over thirty.’
And the acid reply, ‘I can sit in the sun and look twenty-one, while she’s forty-two in the shade!’
The drawing-room comedy gave way to the Choral Society – ‘List and Learn, Ye Dainty Roses’ – and to a male voice choir which boomed out the ‘Soldiers’ Chorus’ followed by a floundering Cakewalk danced to a jazz record by a coltish group of only slightly embarrassed girls.
‘If this was truly music hall fifty years ago, you could have one of them sent to you in the interval,’ said Sir George. ‘Just mention it to James!’
‘Oh, sir! For goodness sake don’t!’ said James nervously.
‘Come, come, James! We must look after our guests, you know!’
The dancing brought the first part of the entertainment to a close. Gossiping and chattering, the crowd proceeded to the foyer. Cigars were lit and, considerably daring, one or two women accepted cigarettes from their escorts. Genial and expansive, Sir George let the crowd wash about him.
The second and main part of the programme was a melodrama with a cast of eight in three acts. It had been a long day and Joe began to nod, losing the thread from time to time of the unnecessarily complicated plot. The applause, however, was warm and people were beginning to stir in their seats and gather up their wraps when a girl came on to the stage and held up her hand. The audience at once fell silent and looked at her with pleasurable anticipation. She was wearing a long, simply cut white satin evening dress with a red rose at her breast. Her hair, caught in the stage lights, was the colour of a freshly minted King George the Fifth penny and hung, shining and loose on her shoulders.
Pretty girl, thought Joe automatically. He glanced at his programme to see who this might be but there was nothing listed after the melodrama. He was turning to Sir George for some explanation when she began to speak.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, on behalf of the theatre management committee I have to make an announcement.’ Her voice was low and musical and carried well to all parts of the auditorium. This was a girl who was used to appearing on stage, Joe thought. Taking her time, she swept the gilded boxes with a confident gaze, gathering attention.
The audience settled into a rustling, whispering expectancy.
‘A tragic announcement, I’m afraid. We’ve had many distinguished performers in the Gaiety Theatre and all had been looking forward to hearing perhaps the most distinguished of all – Feodor Korsovsky, booked to perform here for four nights this week.’ There was a long pause. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, I have to tell you that Monsieur Korsovsky was shot earlier today on his way to Simla. He was killed on the Kalka road.’
The gasp and the roar of astonishment that greeted her words drowned for a moment what she had further to say and once again she held up her hand for silence.
‘At the moment,’ she continued, ‘there is little more to say but, in his honour and in his memory, I am going to sing a Russian song.’
The murmur of expectancy and surprise broke out again. An Indian with a stringed instrument in his hand slipped quietly into the orchestra pit below her.
‘This song,’ she went on, ‘should properly be accompanied by a balalaika but Chandra Lai will do the best he can.’ She nodded to the Indian who plucked a chord on his instrument. They nodded to each other again in an unbroken silence and she began to sing.
Her voice was untrained and soft but sweet and true. Joe knew enough Russian to make out that this was a lament. A song of sadness at a parting. A song sung, as far as he coul
d guess, in perfect Russian. And perhaps here in the foothills of the Himalayas this haunting farewell was not out of place. It was a song of the mountains, the distant Russian mountains, beyond which a girl’s lover had strayed never to return.
The song wound its way through three verses to the soft accompaniment of the strings. Joe was spellbound. Who, he wondered, could this be? Who was this girl, herself overcome by the pathos of her song and with tears, he noticed, running unheeded down her cheeks?
So, after all, someone had been waiting for Feodor. Someone in Simla was mourning him.
* * *
Chapter Five
« ^ »
As the last note died away the singer smiled sadly and instantly left the stage. It was clear that any applause would have been out of place and Joe noticed that, so moved was the audience, everyone stayed silently in their seats for a full minute, eyes downcast.
‘For God’s sake, George,’ said Joe urgently, ‘who was that? I want to meet that young woman.’
George rolled his eyes. ‘I don’t think even James could fix that for you. You’ll have to join the queue, I’m afraid. No use going backstage when Mrs Sharpe has just performed! I know, I’ve tried it myself. You can’t move for the bouquets and the strings of eager young mashers waiting to throw themselves at her feet.’
‘Mrs Sharpe?’
‘Wife of Reginald Sharpe. They’re both on the board of the Dramatic Society. And he’s another obstacle to intimacy with your little songbird – you’ll generally find him backstage like a lurking Cerberus!’
‘Look, George, my interest is purely professional,’ said Joe firmly. ‘I want to know how well that girl knew Feodor and why she was weeping at his memory.’
‘Oh, come on, Joe! Don’t let your romantic imagination run away with you – there wasn’t a dry eye in the house, including your own, including mine… but I see what you mean. James! Our guest has made his choice. Help us to hack our way through to Mrs Sharpe’s dressing room, would you?’
Ragtime in Simla Page 5