Ragtime in Simla

by Barbara Cleverly

  Joe took the letters one by one from their envelopes. These seemed to be letters from his agent bafflingly written in a careless mixture of Russian and French and signed with the flourishing G.M. But there was one letter with a Simla postmark. On headed Gaiety Theatre writing paper an official and impersonal typed message confirmed the arrangements for the recital. It referred to terms agreed in previous correspondence, politely said how much they were looking forward to his visit and how honoured they would be by this. It concluded with the words: ‘… you should leave the train at Kalka and come on by tonga. The Toy Train (!) is really not to be recommended at this time of year and is likely to be very crowded. Yours sincerely…’ A signature he couldn’t read followed.

  What had been Korsovsky’s words? ‘I was instructed to proceed by tonga.’ This, presumably, was the instruction. The instruction which had led him to his death.

  ‘I wonder who the devil signed this?’ thought Joe.

  The old programme with its wine-stained front looked so ordinary Joe nearly thrust it back into the leather case unexamined. Professional procedure stayed his hand and he looked at it more closely. A performance of Rossini’s The Barber of Seville staged in the Opera House in Nice in March 1914. With a flicker of interest Joe wondered why Korsovsky would have carried around with him just one of what must be dozens of programmes bearing his name in a starring role, a dog-eared eight-year-old programme.

  He opened it, noting that the part of Figaro had, as he had guessed, been played by Korsovsky. The part of Rosina was taken by a soprano, unheard of all those years ago but now one of the glittering names on the London and international stage. But it was not the printed programme which held his attention. It was the handwritten message scrawled across the top. A message in an exuberant girlish hand. It was a quotation from the opera. The first six lines of Rosina’s most famous aria ‘Una voce poco fa’ were copied out in the Italian but one slight alteration had been made to the text. Joe translated:

  The voice I heard just now

  Has thrilled my very heart.

  My heart already is pierced

  And it was Lindoro who hurled the dart!

  Yes, Lindoro shall be mine,

  I’ve sworn it! I’ll succeed!

  The original name ‘Lindoro’ had been crossed out and ‘Feodoro’ substituted.

  ‘Feodoro shall be mine!’ Joe mused, much intrigued.

  He sat back on his heels and reflected. The message was unsigned. And surely that was unusual? In his experience girls finished off a note of such intimacy with an initial at least. Or a jokey nickname. The exuberance and youthful confidence chimed badly with this note of discretion. What had been going on? A clandestine liaison? Very likely. But an important one to the man who had carried it around with him in his trunk for eight years. He wondered who she could have been. Eight years ago in her prime or young – the writing gave the impression of youth – the lady would be in her late twenties now, possibly early thirties. Korsovsky himself, he guessed, must have been in his forties when he died. Perhaps his passport would tell him more and that would be in his notecase which undoubtedly Carter had taken from the body and kept.

  Aware of the weight of material the case was now beginning to engender, Joe got to his feet. He put the programme, the photographs and the letter from the Gaiety Theatre back into the leather case and pushed it into the inside pocket of his khaki drill jacket. Deciding that the theatre would be his first call and that his approach should be a bit anonymous, he waved aside the Governor’s rickshaw and set off to the town on foot.

  He paused outside the Gaiety and thought how raffish and down-at-heel it seemed, like all theatres, in the daytime. The play bills announcing Korsovsky’s recital had been torn down already, dustbins full of waste paper were being hauled away by teams of Indian sweepers, and others were clearing the pavings of cigarette ends and cigar stubs. With a general hangover air the doors stood open on a dimly lit interior. Finding no bell and no knocker, Joe walked in and called, ‘Anybody there? Hello!’

  Impatiently a figure in shirt-sleeves emerged from the booking office and Joe recognized Reggie Sharpe.

  ‘Morning!’ he said affably.

  Reggie Sharpe looked him up and down. ‘Yes?’ And then, ‘Oh, it’s you, is it? Sanderson? Can I help you?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Joe. ‘I think you probably can. We met last night. Commander Joseph Sandilands of Scotland Yard…’

  Reggie Sharpe looked at him with considerable distaste. ‘Can’t give you long,’ he said. ‘So make it as short as you can. What can I do for you?’

  ‘Well,’ said Joe, not prepared to be patronized, ‘what I have to ask might be confidential. I don’t really choose to discuss murder in the foyer and in the presence of,’ he waved an explanatory hand, ‘half a dozen sweepers.’

  ‘You’d better come in,’ said Reggie Sharpe reluctantly. With ill grace he opened the door of the booking office and with an ostentatious glance at his watch he took the only chair, offering Joe a small stool. ‘Now what’s all this about?’

  ‘You may know — ’ Joe began.

  ‘Well,’ said the other, ‘I’ll save you a bit of time and tell you what I do know. You’re a policeman, though God knows what you’re doing in Simla! I understand that you’re acting with the approval of Sir George though again I can’t imagine why and I imagine you are in concert with Carter investigating the death of the unfortunate Korsovsky. And I’ve yet to discover what on earth you think I will be able to tell you.’

  ‘Perhaps I can help you. Korsovsky didn’t just happen to be in Simla. His visit must have been arranged a long time ahead. There must be some correspondence between the theatre and him or between the theatre and his agent. There are two theories as to the cause of his death – firstly that it was a random shooting and has no connection with the former assassination of Conyers, and the second theory is that he was expected; someone was lying in wait for him, someone who knew his movements well enough to mount an ambush, and the information I need might conceivably emerge – to some extent at least – from any correspondence you or the theatre might have had with him. Perhaps you could enlighten me?’

  Sharpe extended an angry hand and picked up a slender file of papers. ‘You’re welcome to look through this. It is – such as it is – the letters we exchanged with Korsovsky.’

  ‘May I take this away?’ Joe asked.

  ‘I’d very much rather you didn’t.’

  ‘I don’t need to but I wanted to spare you the boredom of sitting in silence while I read through them. Just as you like, of course.’

  He began to thumb through the letters of which there were half a dozen going back about a year and opening with a letter from Korsovsky himself saying that he had always wanted to visit Simla and with due notice this might be arranged. Across the bottom of this was written ‘Acknowledged’ and a date. The next letter was from Korsovsky’s agent naming dates and making tentative reference to terms.

  ‘Considering his eminence, this is a very mild offer he was making you, isn’t it?’ Joe asked.

  ‘Well, we certainly thought so. The Gaiety can’t in the ordinary way begin to afford a man of his stature but I think it was true that for some reason unknown he wanted to come to Simla and was prepared to do it for a very modest fee.’

  ‘I think I can explain that,’ said Joe. ’He was passionately interested in Kim and carried the book about with him. He wanted to see where it all happened and that may have been reason enough.’

  ‘Huh! Another one of those,’ said Sharpe disparagingly. ‘Kipling fans are as thick as sparrows on the ground in the season.’

  ‘Can you suggest another reason?’

  ‘Certainly not,’ said Sharpe. ‘It’s no part of my job to interpret the vagaries of spoilt operatic stars.’

  ‘No part of your job? Do you have a job? I mean – what is your concern with the management of the Gaiety?’

  ‘I’m vice chairman. The chap who does all the work. Exc
ept that I don’t in fact. My wife Alice. She’s the one with the real interest in the theatre – handles the bookings, dictates the letters, checks the finance is in order. That sort of thing. You should be talking to her – I just come in one day a week, sign the letters and the cheques. You’re lucky to have caught me.’

  Joe was listening for any nuance of resentment or even of pride in his wife’s achievements but there was none. His tone was straightforward and matter of fact.

  ‘Your wife seems to be a busy lady…’

  ‘This is just a small part of what she does. She has many irons in the fire. Talented woman, my wife, as all will tell you.’

  ‘Do you type your letters or do you write them in longhand?’

  ‘Sometimes one, sometimes the other. If it’s important – type. If unimportant – write.’

  ‘You, or someone,’ said Joe, ‘would have written to Korsovsky clinching the arrangement. Do you have a copy of that letter here or would that not have been a typed letter?’

  ‘Certainly. Yes, it would have been typed. I think I can almost say I remember typing it myself. It’ll be here somewhere.’

  He took the file from Joe’s hand and riffled through the papers. ‘Yes, here it is.’

  Joe read a carbon copy of a letter confirming arrangements for train and hotel bookings that had been made on Korsovsky’s behalf, the letter concluding with the words: ‘… and again we would like to express our gratitude that you should be undertaking this trip to Simla. We are looking forward so much to hearing you perform.’ It was followed by a clearly readable signature ‘R. Sharpe’.

  Joe produced the letter from the leather case and showed it to Sharpe.

  ‘Good Lord!’ he exclaimed and pointed to the ending of the second letter.

  ‘You see that the two letters are in a vital particular not identical. If you typed this letter why did you advise Korsovsky to come by tonga and not by the train?’

  Sharpe seemed genuinely astonished and genuinely at a loss for a word. ‘Just a moment,’ he said in tones of excitement. He took up a fountain pen from his desk and a sheet of paper, signed his name and held it out to Joe. The signature was exactly like the one on the carbon copy and in no way resembled the letter from Korsovsky’s writing case. ’Compare the two. Identical typewriters, identical text until you come to this last bit about the tonga. It’s clear somebody wanted him to come up the cart road in a tonga but that somebody wasn’t me! Somebody who had access to the Gaiety writing paper… That wouldn’t be difficult – we’re not very careful about such things. Why should we be? Who would expect something like this to happen?’

  ‘Look at this signature,’ said Joe. ‘Anything familiar about it?’

  ‘Indecipherable, wouldn’t you say?’ Sharpe held it to the light. ‘Obviously meant to be indecipherable, for Korsovsky’s eye only.’ He was silent for a moment then, ‘Blue-black ink, broad-nibbed fountain pen,’ he said. ‘Could well be my own. I leave it here on the desk. Look, Sandilands, someone could have got in here… when?… last November the letter’s dated – before we all went back down to Bombay… typed this second letter and suppressed the first which would have been left out for posting. Perhaps they didn’t even bother but just added a note to say this second supersedes the first and then they took it along to the post office. But from last November – is anyone going to remember who was in and out? It’s a busy time – packing up and tying up loose ends. Lots of people in and out all day, every day.’

  ‘Good Lord,’ said Sharpe in surprise after a pause. ‘Doing your job for you! Do you want me to put my own handcuffs on too?’

  ‘That won’t be necessary,’ Joe smiled. ’For the moment at least. You’re being very helpful, Mr Sharpe. And now, before I leave, just one more question. Can you tell me where you were yesterday between noon and five o’clock?’

  ‘Let’s see.’ Reggie sighed and flipped a page in a diary lying on his desk. ‘Tiffin with friends over at Mount Pleasant – Johnny Bristow’s place. I keep a horse or two over there – they’ve got good stabling. And then they gave me a lift over to Annandale to look at a horse I was thinking of buying off Brigadier Calhoun. Thought I could sell it on to Effie Carstairs and make a few bob on the deal. Didn’t buy it. It was tubed. Made a noise like a fire engine! Took a tonga back to the theatre and got back here in time for the four o’clock run-through.’

  Joe made a note of the names he mentioned and the times and closed his notebook. Leaning forward, he tweaked the Korsovsky letter from Sharpe’s fingers and replaced it, along with the carbon copy, in the leather case. ‘I’ll keep this to show to Carter but I don’t believe we need to take away the rest. Keep them available, won’t you? Good morning Sharpe.’

  He paused at the door and looked back to see Sharpe riffling thoughtfully through the file.

  ‘Oh, by the way,’ he said with an apologetic smile to excuse an unimportant afterthought, ‘did you have any pictures, any photographs of Korsovsky? Did he or his agent send you any material in advance of the concert? To be used in posters, perhaps?’

  ‘No. None that I am aware of. We wouldn’t have the resources for that sort of publicity anyway. This isn’t Paris, you know, with a Toulouse Lautrec and a printing press round every corner.’

  ‘Well, as far as you’re aware, is there anyone in Simla who would recognize him – perhaps, er, lend a hand with identifying the body? Anyone familiar with his features?’

  ‘Not that I know of. Everybody knows his name, of course, and is aware of his reputation… People do go on leave, you know. Someone may have seen him on stage in London or Paris if he was performing there but no one’s mentioned it. You’ll just have to ask about, won’t you? But then,’ he added thoughtfully, ‘he’d be in costume and make-up, wouldn’t he? No, shouldn’t think anyone would know him from Adam.’

  The smirk faded from his face as he saw the implication of his words. His eye brightened, the scorn replaced by calculation as he drawled, ‘Well, well, well! No one had any cause apparently to shoot down a visiting singer and no one had any means of identifying the said singer… but what about a visiting detective, a detective whose features are, it would seem, known to the highest in the land? As I understand it, Sandilands, you were sitting right next to the poor chap when someone popped him. Now if I were you, I’d be going around grilling people to find out who knew you were coming up that hill! You could start with Sir George, couldn’t you?’

  Joe smiled and withdrew. Sharpe had told him all he wanted to know.

  * * *

  Chapter Six

  « ^ »

  Stepping out into the road, Joe hailed a rickshaw and gave instruction to go to ‘Carter Sahib’s house’. As Carter had predicted, no further instruction was required and the rickshaw proceeded to wind its way into the complicated heart of residential Simla. Houses clung to the steep side of the rising hill to the north of the town and, consulting the map Sir George had provided, he guessed this hill to be Elysium. Some houses were supported on posts, some relied on what seemed to Joe to be alarmingly ambitious cantilevers. All were surrounded by dense and prolific gardens and all, he supposed, enjoyed the superb view which opened up behind him as he progressed.

  The lanes approaching these houses were narrow and several times his rickshaw had to stop and edge into the hillside as they met another coming in the opposite direction. Joe was not small, the rickshaw men were. Embarrassed to be conveyed in this way, Joe marked this with what he knew to be an over-lavish tip, greeted to his further embarrassment by a pantomime of subservient gratitude.

  Carter’s house when he stood before it was the epitome of Simla domestic architecture. Corrugated iron roof, painted red, two – or was it three? – verandah terraces, a profusion of climbing plants and two small, sandy-haired children digging in a sand pit under the eye of the mali. They acknowledged Joe’s greeting with shy smiles and Carter’s wife emerged to welcome him.

  So English did she look, Joe could not suppress a smile. San
dy hair, blonde eyebrows, small bright blue eyes, freckled face and a cheerful and very English voice. Pausing only to shout an instruction over her shoulder in Hindustani, she held out a welcoming hand. ‘Very pleased to meet you, Commander! Heard such a lot about you from Charlie and I can’t tell you how pleased he is to have you on board! I suppose he’s in charge of the investigation but it isn’t often that he has a New Scotland Yard Metropolitan Police Commander under him! I say – make the most of it – it’ll never happen again! All the same, you must be hot. Let me give you a drink. We’ll be eating in about half an hour. Will that be long enough for you? I’ll try not to be indiscreet but there’s lots of things I want to ask and sometimes I think I’m married to a clam! Are you married?’

  ‘No,’ said Joe. ‘Just as well perhaps, because I don’t think I’d be a very good clam.’

  ‘Good,’ said Meg Carter, ‘that suits me but come in here.’

  She showed him into a small office of a type with which Joe was becoming familiar. Ragged files on shelves, noisy overhead electric fan, water in a water cooler, Benares brass ashtray, group photographs on the wall – it was standard Indian equipment.

  ‘Come in! Come in!’ said Charlie Carter. ‘Sorry not to have been there to greet you. Didn’t hear you arrive. Come and sit down and tell me where you’ve got to.’ He pushed a cigarette box towards Joe. ‘I’ve cabled his agent and prepared a press release. I’ll have an autopsy report this afternoon confirming the cause of death and the Coroner has it in hand too. We have a problem though… who to identify the body? Who knew him? I’ve arranged for him to be photographed and I’ve examined the body for distinguishing features. (None incidentally.) There must be a next of kin somewhere…’ He paused and ran a worried hand across his face.