Ragtime in Simla

by Barbara Cleverly

  ‘You must find that very distressing,’ was Joe’s inadequate reply. Brothels formed a part of his London life but he had never held such a conversation with a lady before. He had never heard a lady pronounce the word ‘brothel’ and he found that it shocked him.

  ‘Distressing?’ Alice laughed derisively. ‘Say rather appalling – not to be tolerated! Ours was never a happy marriage, Mr Sandilands, it was one of convenience but, initially, I did my best to pretend to the world that we had a normal married relationship. My fault, I wonder? Perhaps a bit my fault. When I arrived in India I had to fight. Fight to establish myself in a man’s world. It took a lot of careful work. It filled my days and nights. Reggie is not secure – he is easily threatened. He couldn’t keep his manhood intact with a woman who was his equal and was completely unmanned in the presence of a woman recognized by many to be his superior.

  ‘But then, at the end of our first season in Simla, I discovered that my husband had contracted – was in the first stages of – a venereal disease. At first I was stunned. I thought this was the sort of thing that only happened to other people – servants – soldiers’ wives – but I made him tell me who he’d got it from and where. Perhaps I was heavy-handed? Certainly I made it difficult for him. I insisted that he go and see a doctor. The MO here is very good; very co-operative and on my side. Between us we arranged for inspections – of the girls, I mean. Madame Flora didn’t like it, I’m told, but she jolly well knew if she wanted to stay open she’d have to do it my way. I kept it in the background but everybody knew that I’d caused the fuss and brought about the clean-up.’

  ‘And was the reaction favourable?’ Joe wanted to know.

  ‘Mixed,’ she replied candidly. ’You know Simla… well, you don’t yet, but you soon will. Plenty of Mrs Hawksbees around still to tittle tattle and remind one of a woman’s place. You know there are still many women who would totally deny the existence of brothels. They would not recognize a sexually transmitted disease if their husband’s tackle crumbled before their eyes. If you don’t notice it – it’s not really happening and a lady would never make reference to such matters. And then there are those who are truly women of the twentieth century. They may have been suffragettes, they may have driven an ambulance in the war… they know what goes on in the real world and they are with me all the way. A surprising number of them, Commander, roll their sleeves up and do a very messy job brilliantly and for no reward other than the satisfaction of knowing that they have improved things for their sisters. No matter what their colour or religion.’

  ‘I can believe it,’ said Joe simply. ‘I have known such a woman.’

  Alice looked at him silently for a moment with speculation.

  Before she could question him he asked, ‘And Reggie? How did he react to the strictures you imposed?’

  ‘Badly. It was very embarrassing for him on two counts – bossy wife who didn’t know her place and then, you know, naughty boy caught with his hand up a housemaid’s skirt!’ She laughed shortly and went on, ‘Don’t think he’s ever forgiven me. Showed him up in front of his gang! I don’t care! I made him use his influence with the madam and with Troop to have the girls medically examined and those suffering were to be sent to the hospital immediately for treatment. From then on regular checks were to be made and reports made to the hospital on a monthly basis.’ She gave a tight smile and added, ‘They think I’m a meddling nuisance but – too bad!’

  Joe was stunned by what he was hearing. ‘Did you confront this Madame Flora?’

  Joe would have been entertained to witness such an interview. Alice put an end to his speculation by saying, ‘I have never met the woman. She never appears in society, as my mother would have said. Her world and mine would never coincide were it not for the unfortunate Reggie. And I would never seek her out.’

  ‘I understand you have some personal contact with the hospital?’

  ‘I work there one day a week on the women’s ward. I interest myself in the women whose bodies have been ravaged by poor care – or no care – in childbirth, in the child brides who, after years of abuse by their husbands, are sent as a last resort to us for repair. And I raise money and I fund the care of the unfortunate creatures who risk their lives working for people such as Troop and Flora. I talk to the patients and I have managed to learn something of the way Troop operates though the girls are generally too frightened to speak to anyone outside the establishment.’

  Her blue eyes blazed with indignation and rage. Joe was fast forming the opinion that Alice Sharpe was a formidable woman, a woman who must have made some implacable enemies in Simla and not least, perhaps, her own husband.

  ‘And Reggie accepts all this?’

  ‘He has no choice in the matter. I control the finances of ICTC. I effectively pay him a salary and I have threatened to cut it drastically if he steps out of line. To show him that I was in earnest I cut two months of his pay and gave it directly to the women’s hospital. He was angry but there was little he could do about it. But I may have pushed him too far. He’s a weak man and I despise him but even weak men may seek help from stronger men. I fear Reggie may have used the services of Edgar Troop to shoot my brother in order to protect his share of the company.’

  And Alice Conyers’ share also, incidentally, Joe thought.

  Alice glared at him, resenting his silence. ‘You don’t believe me, do you?’

  ‘Why do you say so?’ said Joe in surprise.

  ‘You were looking at me with the supercilious, suspicious, sceptical, cynical air that men assume so easily. Even nice men,’ she added with an irritation she did not quite disguise with a spurt of humour.

  ‘You are deceived,’ said Joe. ‘Many are deceived by this badly stitched eyebrow.’ He raised his hand to his left eyebrow which hasty and belated surgery on the battlefield had left permanently tilted. ‘In the interview room, I can tell you it has its uses but it can work against me when I’m trying to charm and impress.’

  ‘Were you trying to charm and impress? But a wound! Of course, I see it now.’ She raised a hand and for a heart-stopping moment Joe thought she was about to touch with gentle fingers the scar on his face but she hesitated, looked away and turned her hand to her own cheek. ‘I too…’ She traced the silvery scar trail down her face. ‘But I was fortunate. I had the services of the best surgeon in the south of France.’

  ‘Whereas my face was held together with a clothes peg,’ said Joe, feeling, for the first time, that he was in tune with Alice Conyers. Wishing to hold on to this fragile rapport he said, ‘It must have felt like surviving on a battlefield, surviving the rail crash.’

  ‘Perhaps worse,’ she said, ‘because we were so totally unprepared for it and we were not young fighting men prepared to make a sacrifice of our lives. We were ordinary people looking forward to the south of France, to spring, to sunshine, to the rest of our lives.

  ‘But you’re right – it was like a battlefield. The blood, the severed limbs, the bodies lying like rag dolls. I was unconscious at first. I don’t know for how long. When I came to and looked around all I could see was destruction and death. I’d never seen a dead body before and suddenly there I was surrounded by dozens of them. The smoke and stench of burning flesh was thick about me but even worse was the silence. And suddenly I heard a child crying. It went on and on. I tried to get up but I couldn’t get my limbs to work. That was an awful moment. Mr Sandilands, I thought I was dead! I thought I was a ghost in some sort of dreadful limbo. My spirit was still there at this scene of desolation, anchored by a thread of consciousness. I’ve always believed in the survival of the soul and I had no doubt that I had died and was caught up between two worlds. Blackness descended again and when I woke up the child had stopped crying. I don’t know how long I was lying there unconscious and bleeding… they say it was over an hour before the rescue train arrived.

  ‘I was unaware of it because the next thing I remember is waking up in the hospital in Beaune with the kindly face
of Marie-Jeanne Pitiot smiling at me.’

  Joe sensed that she had said enough about the past but felt flattered that she had entrusted him with her sad story.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I really wasn’t trying to put you off your questioning. We’re both trying to discover the truth. I need to know who killed my brother. I desperately need to know. Do go on with your questions.’

  ‘It might be important to know how the company stands at the moment. I mean, did Lionel leave a will? Or have the lawyers reverted to the situation as it was before he died? Who really owns the company?’

  ‘I wish I knew! The matter is still under consideration by the firm’s lawyers in London. One opinion is that as he died intestate and without progeniture all reverts to his only living relation – me. Others maintain that grandfather’s wishes and provisions come into play and that the status quo obtains. I think that Reggie would remain quite content with the latter scenario but…’

  ‘Should you be declared the sole heir, then…?’

  She looked at him seriously for a moment. ‘Then I would think I was at risk. Don’t you think so too, Mr Sandilands?’

  Soft-footed, Rheza Khan re-entered the room and stood by the door, appointment book in hand, formally signalling that the interview was at an end. Joe rose to his feet and thanked Alice Sharpe for her co-operation, the professional courtesies rolling easily from his tongue. She held out a hand and took his, looking earnestly into his face.

  ‘I’m so glad you’re here in Simla, Commander. And please let me know if there is anything at all I can do to further your enquiries into this wretched business.’

  The Indian stood his ground by the door post watching Joe with eyes as dark and unyielding as obsidian. As Joe passed him he caught again the fragrance of sandalwood but much stronger than the delicate ghost of a scent that he had breathed from Alice Sharpe.

  ‘Hmm,’ thought Joe. ‘So that’s how it is between them!’

  Joe decided to start out on foot to walk down the Mall looking out for the dress shop run by the nurse and companion Marie-Jeanne Pitiot. He was half-way along the Mall when an uncomfortable thought struck him. He patted his pockets. No, he was not mistaken. Alice Sharpe had failed to hand back Korsovsky’s programme. And he hadn’t even noticed the sleight of hand by which she had concealed it. He hesitated, wondering whether to go back for it. He decided to leave it for the moment. It might come in useful later on if he needed an excuse to interview Alice again.

  As he stood uncertainly weighing his thoughts, a baby carriage as splendid as a Rolls Royce went by pushed by an ayah. The baby at that moment woke up and started to yell. The ayah hurried to pick up the red-faced scrap and talk to it tenderly. It gathered its strength and released another ear-splitting scream, Joe flinched.

  ‘My God!’ he exclaimed to himself. ‘Of course! The baby! Little Henri!’

  He summoned a rickshaw and directed the runners to take him to the Governor’s Residence.

  Sir George had not yet returned, to Joe’s relief, so he was able to go straight back to the guest house without having to give an account of himself. As he hurried across the garden he was struck by the thought that the trunks might have been dealt with in the efficient Indian way in his absence. He’d forgotten to leave instructions to say that they should not be touched. Entering his room he found that all had been cleaned and tidied but the trunks were still as he’d left them in the middle of the room, the piles of clothes a reprimand in the centre of such orderliness.

  Ignoring the clothes, Joe picked up the French newspaper which had lain at the bottom of one of the trunks. The date was 5th April, three years ago. A fortnight after the Beaune railway disaster. By the time this edition of the paper came out, he calculated that Alice would have been at sea for a day on the next leg of her voyage to India in the care of Mademoiselle Pitiot. She would not have seen it.

  The headline which had been nagging at the back of his mind since his conversation with Alice now screamed at him and he remembered similar headlines carried in the English press. ‘Miracle baby, little orphan Henri safe in his grandmother’s arms.’ He had even seen little orphan Henri looking with unfocused eyes at the camera on a Pathé News report in the cinema in Leicester Square. Yes, the article referred to the same baby. A second class passenger in the Beaune railway disaster, Henri had survived cradled tightly in his dead mother’s arms and had been cared for by nurses in Beaune until he could be identified and returned to his grieving grandparents.

  This article was not a fresh news item and, cynically, Joe saw it as an effort to keep the story alive but also an attempt to sum up and to bring a ray of hope however faint from the whole bleak disaster. The official list of the dead and the three survivors was given on page two. Three survivors? He turned hurriedly to page two. The passengers were listed by class – first, second and third – and classified again by nationality, the main lists by far being French and English with a sprinkling of other Europeans. Joe ran his finger down the page. No third class passenger had survived the crash and only one second class passenger – baby Henri. In the first class two names were listed: Alice Conyers and Captain Colin Simpson.

  Alice Conyers! Joe looked again at the message scrawled by Korsovsky’s agent across the top of the paper. ‘As requested.’ So Korsovsky had asked him to supply a copy of this paper. Why? He had assumed it was connected with the bookings listed for that summer. But his agent would have found a more efficient way of telling him his itinerary, wouldn’t he? He wouldn’t have trusted to the vagaries of the press to announce his bookings. No, Korsovsky must have had some other reason for wanting this paper. ‘I can’t tell you how sorry I am,’ he had added. Why sorry? There was something in the contents that he knew would distress Korsovsky. Joe checked the lists again. No Russian names. The name of Alice Conyers was the only link he could see. Surely this was no coincidence? And yet common sense (and Alice herself) told him that there could never have been any link in the past between the singer and the little English schoolgirl leading her sheltered life in the Hertfordshire countryside. And, anyway, the girl had survived against all odds. A cause for jubilation not sorrow for anyone who knew her, surely?

  ‘I need someone to talk to!’ Joe thought. He tucked the paper away in his pocket and strode off to the front of the Governor’s house where he knew a rickshaw would be waiting. He climbed aboard. ‘Police headquarters,’ he said.

  It was five o’clock and the sun was beginning to slide towards the western mountain range when Joe was dropped off at the police station. He was shown at once into Carter’s office. Carter, who had been poring over a thick file, flung it down with relief.

  ‘You want to know who is the biggest criminal in Simla? He is!’ he said tapping the file. ‘Big Red! Two or three thefts a week reported and now he’s branching out into physical attacks on children. Very nasty incident yesterday up at the temple on Jakko Hill. Little Lettice Murray, daughter of Colonel Murray, is said to be in a hysterical state after her awful encounter. Brave girl though! Stuck her lollipop in his eye and escaped.’

  Joe looked at him in puzzlement.

  ‘Bloody monkey! Gang leader of that pack of vermin who infest the monkey temple. Sacred to Hanuman the monkey god and I can’t touch them! Mind you,’ he added confidentially, ‘that’s not to say some of them don’t disappear at dead of night sometimes! Especially when my Sikh chaps are on duty!’

  ‘You don’t…?’

  ‘Of course not! No, we round them up and take them for a little excursion into the country. There’s a sort of monkey paradise about ten miles from here. When they’ve gone whooping and hollering up the trees we sneak off and leave them there.’ He laughed. ‘First time we tried this we made the mistake of hanging about to make sure they were all right, having a happy time, enough food to eat and so on, and as they seemed to like the place we got on to the cart and started off back for town. Well! We’d only gone a few yards when the warning was sounded. They all came piling down
from the trees and climbed back on the cart ready to go home! Just like a bunch of kids at the end of a Sunday School outing! Ah, but now – we’re as clever as they are!

  ‘But Joe, come out on to the verandah at the back and I’ll order us a cup of tea. Tell me where you’ve got to. Save my sanity – you see, I risk being obsessed by the simians of Simla.’

  Joe gave him his impressions of Alice Sharpe and an account of his conversation with her, adding, ‘And remember, Alice does give Reggie good reason to resent her – hate her even. I don’t know if that signifies, but it should be borne in mind, don’t you think? And tell me, Carter, what do you know of her secretary, this Rheza Khan?’

  Carter looked at him shrewdly. ‘Clever chap. Very able. Not a Simla man so I can’t tell you much about his background. I know he is from a well-to-do Indian family – father’s a rajah, I believe, up in the hills towards Gilgit – and he was sent away to school in England. Perfect English of course, and perfect manners. You’ll have noticed that he wears European dress. He was employed by ICTC in quite a high position, I believe, before Miss Conyers came out to Bombay. Virtually running the whole thing, according to some. No acknowledgement of that naturally. It appears that Alice came in and spent some time observing what was going on in the firm then made some pretty unpopular decisions. Under his influence many family members found themselves on a boat to Southampton! And Rheza Khan, whose qualities were, they say, immediately recognized by Alice, was promoted and now openly does the job he is best fitted for.’

  ‘So you’d say he has strong reasons for preserving the status quo? He wouldn’t have welcomed the arrival of Lionel Conyers in Simla, I’m thinking. Does he have an alibi? Though I’m assured by none other than Alice herself that the more prominently positioned you are in the eyes of Simla at the moment of the crime, the greater the likelihood that you’re involved.’