Ragtime in Simla

by Barbara Cleverly

  ‘Give you a drink?’ said Johnny Bristow. ‘I usually have a pink gin about now. How about you? No? You’d better meet the others.’ In rapid and competent Hindustani he gave orders to a passing servant. ‘I’ll get Jackie and Bertie to come and join us. I think they’re out of bed. Ah – Jackie, here’s Carter and Mr, er, I suppose I should say Commander, Sandilands.’

  Jackie, not long out of bed, blinked myopically at them through bloodshot eyes. He was wearing the crumpled white suit which appeared to be the uniform in the chummery.

  ‘They’re here to investigate the death of that unfortunate Russkie, I expect. What they think we can tell them I really don’t know,’ Johnny said helpfully.

  ‘You can tell me,’ said Carter, ‘where you both were at the time.’

  A third figure, presumably Bertie Hearn-Robinson, entered the room.

  ‘A clumsy device,’ he said. ‘You say to me, “Where were you at the time?” I tell you. You say, “How do you know that was the time?” And before I know where I am I find myself in handcuffs!’

  ‘Perhaps we can save you a bit of trouble,’ said Joe mildly. ‘We’ve had a long conversation with Edgar Troop which would appear satisfactorily to establish an alibi and the first thing a good policeman will do with an alibi is check it and that’s why we’re here.’

  The three men relaxed somewhat and began to talk amongst themselves. ‘Well, let’s have a think… What day are we talking about?… Monday, was it? That was the day I went to the dentist.’

  ‘No, that was Tuesday.’

  ‘Was it the day little Maudie Smithson came and made that fuss?’

  ‘Good God, no – that was a fortnight ago!’

  ‘It wasn’t, you know!’

  ‘Just a minute, let’s get this straight. It was the day… or would it have been the day we tried out your new car, Jackie?’

  ‘That’s right! I believe that’s right! And we all went… no, we didn’t all go… I say, didn’t Reggie go up to Annandale that day?’

  Joe listened with exasperation and amusement. Too much gin for breakfast. Too many almost identical days. He was never going to get corroboration or denial here. And yet, on the other hand, the absence of corroboration seemed, paradoxically, to corroborate Edgar Troop’s account of his movements. Surely if he had anything to hide, surely, if this careless and dissipated crew were any part of a well-structured alibi, they would have been better rehearsed than this? And yet, on the slightest hint from Troop, any one of them would remember anything and, ultimately, contradict anything as required. Joe imagined with horror standing any one of them up in court as a witness.

  Charlie, who had been standing silently in the background, now cut in. ‘This is all very jolly and I’m a great believer in police interviews being carried out in the most public possible way but there are limitations and I really think I and the Commander have to ask if we could speak to you individually. Now we can either do that here or you could, as the saying goes, accompany us down to the station to assist us in our enquiries. I’ll play this either way. It might be more convenient for you, to say nothing of more discreet, if you were to set aside a room for our use.’

  A chorus broke out. ‘Of course. Of course. Anything we can do… Not sure if we can remember it all but we’ll do our best… Anyone got a cigarette?’

  Finally, ‘It’s a bit of a mess but why don’t you come into my room?’ said Jackie Carlisle and he led them into an adjoining room where a servant was perfunctorily flicking about with a duster and had – not well – just finished making up the bed. There were three roorkhi chairs, a low table, a battered bureau, a wheezy overhead fan, several half-empty bottles and three or four boxes of cigars as yet unopened.

  ‘Sit you down,’ he said.

  Carter flipped a notebook open on his knee. ‘Tell me now, Jackie. You met here on the day in question more or less by accident and with no serious prior engagement – am I right?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Jackie Carlisle absently.

  ‘And then you had tiffin? Correct?’

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘And what time is tiffin served?’

  ‘Oh, the usual… one o’clock or thereabouts.’

  ‘Then you and Johnny and Edgar and Reggie Sharpe went for a drive?’

  ‘That’s right. Bertie was there to begin with but he had to go back to work. You see, I’ve got this new car…’ He waved an explanatory hand at the window. ‘Well, not new exactly but new to me. Second-hand Delage.’

  ‘Ah, yes,’ said Carter. ‘The Delage. We’d certainly noticed it – so conspicuously and illegally parked. Would you…?’

  ‘Oh, I’ll get it moved! Have to wait until I’ve got it fixed though,’ he said resentfully. ‘Anyway, we drove out on the Mashobra road. We dropped Reggie off at the racecourse to do a bit of horse-coping.’

  ‘And until Reggie got off you were all together?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘All the time?’

  ‘Yes, I think all the time. Edgar got out for a pee, if that counts.’

  ‘Anybody else get out for any reason at any time?’

  ‘Not that I remember. It was all a bit informal. You know what it’s like just after lunch. I was thinking more about the car than anything else.’

  And there was a good deal more in the same vein with a lot of ‘as far as I can remember’ and occasionally, ‘ask the others, I can’t remember’.

  And then Carlisle resumed, ‘And we dropped Reggie off and drove a bit further up towards Mashobra but the road’s so bloody awful I didn’t want to bump a new car about too much so we turned round – quite difficult up there, I might tell you – and we came back here and played snooker.’

  ‘Who did?’

  ‘Well, I did. Edgar did. Bertie was there, I think. Or – wait a minute – some but not all the time is the answer but you’d better ask him. The long and short of it is we got back here about three and played two or three frames of snooker.’

  ‘Two? Three?’

  ‘Three, I think. Or it may have been four. More than two, less than five. Is this any good?’

  Charlie Carter listened with care and made an occasional note. His eye met Joe’s and they silently signalled, This is useless! And, indeed, four (or was it by any chance five?) had met for lunch, three (or was it perhaps five?) had gone for a drive, two (or was it three?) came back for a game of snooker which, it would seem, had occupied them from three o’clock until five (or was it six?).

  ‘Thanks, Jackie,’ said Carter at last. ‘That’s been most helpful. Now find Johnny and ask him if he’ll kindly look in. If you don’t mind us using your room?’

  ‘No. No, no. Help yourself! How about a cigar? Drink, anybody?’

  ‘Now that’s what I really appreciate,’ said Charlie Carter as Jackie left the room. ‘Succinct witness, all the facts at his fingertips, accurate memory of events! Christ! This is no bloody use! We’ll never get anywhere with these chaps! From about twelve noon on any given day they’re all completely bottled. They’re never going to remember something that happened more than two days ago. We’re wasting our time, Joe, you realize that, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Joe, ‘I realize that. This could, though, be the most carefully set up bit of obfuscation and by remembering nothing clearly, repeating themselves, contradicting themselves, arguing amongst themselves, they could set up the most impenetrable smoke-screen to conceal the movements of Troop.’

  ‘It could be but I really don’t think they’ve got the brain!’

  They sat for a moment dejectedly listening to the creaking of the fan as it stirred up eddies of yesterday’s curry, ancient cigar smoke and a hundred years of dissipation.

  ‘Any point going on with this?’ said Joe.

  Carter eyed him apologetically.

  ‘Got to, old man. Got to. Sake of consistency, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Thought you’d say that,’ said Joe. ‘Ah, well… Next! Johnny, old bean! Take a pew!’

  * * *
>
  Chapter Twelve

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  The next morning Joe took a rickshaw back to the Mall and got out in front of a green and gold decorated shop front with its hanging sign, ‘La Belle Epoque’. The shop window was empty save for a single dress of red satin displayed on a chromium-plated stand, well lit and managing to be at once exclusive yet discreetly welcoming. Joe was impressed. Impressed and embarrassed, suffering at once from an eagerness to explore and that embarrassment which overcomes the most sophisticated of men when confronted with the anguish of entering a women’s dress shop alone.

  ‘I’m supposed to be a policeman. A policeman of international repute, you might say. Clearly at my time of life I ought to be able to walk into a shop with a flourish and that’s what I’m going to do!’

  The shop door fell open at his gentle pressure and he stepped into a scented half darkness, the light supplied by partially concealed bracket lights set amongst fabrics on display. Side by side and talking loudly, two Englishwomen were considering day dresses being offered to them by two Eurasian girls. The transaction was overseen by a middle-aged and expensively dressed woman whom Joe presumed to be Mademoiselle Pitiot.

  Without interrupting her sales talk she extended a welcoming glance to Joe. ‘I don’t think you would regret it, madame,’ she was saying and, turning to the lady’s companion, ‘Do you not agree? Green is exactly the colour I would choose for madame. Mary, take this into the changing rooms and why not take the blue dress as well? Probably not the yellow – I may be wrong but I think madame would disappear in a yellow dress. Though Lady Everett surprised us all with her choice of daffodil for the viceregal ball last season, did she not? Come through and try them on.’

  She shepherded the party into the back premises, the assistants with armfuls of dresses, the customers eager.

  This little flurry gave Joe a chance to study Mademoiselle Pitiot. Early forties, fashionably bobbed black hair, obvious and attractive French accent. She was tall and slender but would, Joe thought, never have been reckoned beautiful even in her prime. Her skin was sallow, her eyes dark brown, her nose large, but her smile was wide and friendly. Her manner towards her customers was deferential but behind it there lay a humorous conspiracy which embraced Joe.

  She turned to him. ‘May I show you something, sir?’

  ‘I’m looking for Mademoiselle Pitiot, the proprietress,’ he said, offering his card. ‘I am Commander Joseph Sandilands of Scotland Yard and I would like to talk with her for a while.’

  ‘Marie-Jeanne Pitiot,’ she said extending a hand. ‘How do you do? You are welcome, Commander. But, please, come through to my office.’

  She called to an assistant for tea to be brought and led him to a small room, closing the door behind them. Sweeping lengths of fabric and piles of catalogues from two chairs, she offered him a seat and settled down opposite him on the other side of a crowded work table.

  ‘This is about Alice?’ she asked. ‘And her poor brother who was shot last year? I was with her at Annandale when the news arrived. A dreadful affair! If there’s anything I can do to help I’d be delighted to do so. I can’t think of anything I haven’t already done or said but perhaps Scotland Yard has come up with something?’

  ‘You speak excellent English, mademoiselle,’ Joe said.

  ‘Of course! There was a time and not so long ago when I did not but then I met Alice Conyers and we struck a bargain. When she took me into her employ… I take it you know the circumstances of this?’

  Joe nodded and she continued, ‘… Alice spoke only school French and I had very little English. On the boat out to India I taught her French and she taught me English. We still continue our lessons whenever we meet.’

  ‘Do you meet frequently? Do you still see much of Alice?’

  ‘Yes. We have remained good friends. She never treated me as an employee. She’s a very generous-minded girl, Alice, and she often says that she owes her life to me. Quite untrue, of course. But after the Beaune crash it fell to me to nurse her and I was glad to do so. To see her coming through that was a wonderful experience for me but if she owes me anything at all from that time it is nothing to what I owe her for having established me here and helping me to set up La Belle Epoque. I owe all this,’ she made a wide gesture, ‘to Alice. It’s no secret! She gave me money to set up the business and still takes an interest.’

  ‘A financial interest?’

  ‘No. I’m happy to say that the business has long been independent of any support and is flourishing. The only help she continues to give is her valued advice. And I repay Alice with – with what? – with friendship, loyalty and discretion. And in the enclosed and backbiting world of Simla, that is not to be sneezed at, Commander!’

  ‘What do you value about Mrs Sharpe’s advice?’ Joe asked. This woman was probably closer to Alice Conyers-Sharpe than any other person including her husband and he was anxious to learn more of her without appearing to force confidences.

  Marie-Jeanne replied without hesitation. ‘She is very clever. She looks on business with a fresh eye, a modern eye. So many centuries of hidebound traditional masculine ways of doing business do not impress her. She dares to tear up the rule book. She does not have to meet – would not be allowed to meet other businessmen on their territory in their smoke-wreathed, gin-sodden clubs and deal with them on their terms. She makes the terms. She changes the patterns. She sees where the opportunities arise and she seizes them. ICTC was largely an export firm when she took it over – tea, cotton, indigo, rice – and it still operates as an exporter but she saw, coming fresh from England, that India was longing for the luxuries it had denied itself during the war and she set about importing them. Champagne, whisky, tinned caviar, chiffon dresses from Paris, pianolas from New York – she brings them in and they sell. And her skill is in guessing exactly what people will be wanting next.’

  ‘This is a surprising ability, isn’t it, for one so young and inexperienced? You met her yourself when she was still in the egg, so to speak. You have witnessed the transition from untried girl to shrewd businesswoman. Was this a surprising metamorphosis?’

  ‘In a way it was not.’ Marie-Jeanne thought for a moment, looking at him consideringly. ‘I’ll tell you something about Alice! The first surprising thing (of many) I ever noticed about her…’

  At this moment the door opened and a tea tray was carried in and placed between them. Marie-Jeanne poured out cups for both of them and went on, ‘It was her silk underwear that made me realize I was dealing with a complex young girl!’ She smiled affectionately.

  ‘Silk underwear?’ said Joe in surprise.

  ‘Yes. I was a nurse, you know, working in the hospital in Beaune and I was assigned to Alice when she was carried in on a stretcher as her personal nurse. Not a usual procedure but as she was the only survivor you can imagine that she was very precious. We would have been much blamed if we had allowed her to die. I was to watch her every moment. The best surgeons in France were summoned to her bedside but I was the one who had the initial task of caring for her as she came straight from the scene of the accident.

  ‘My first task was to strip away her torn and bloodstained garments so that we could ascertain the full extent of her injuries. I remember she was wearing a dark grey woollen dress suitable for mourning. It was very plain, very English,’ she said with a laugh. ‘Of good quality but remarkably ugly and unfashionable. It was one of several similar outfits in her trunk all chosen as suitable for a well-bred English girl travelling to India. Figure my surprise, Commander, when under that drab outer layer there was revealed an emerald green silk camisole and matching knickers with a Paris label! She had stopped off with her companion Miss Benson, sadly killed in the crash, for two or three days in Paris and had dared to kit herself out with the latest in lingerie! I think that this was the first sign of her secret revolt against her narrow, restricted background. On the surface she was neat and decorous but the underpinnings bore witness to the yearnings of a you
ng girl for romance, luxury and fashion. It made me like her a lot!’

  Joe smiled. He remembered his older sister, Lydia, years ago swearing him to secrecy in the matter of a clandestine, peach-coloured, mysteriously engineered garment she had called ‘camiknickers’ which he had agreed to hide in his sweater drawer against the prying eyes of the housekeeper.

  ‘The first sign of revolt?’ he pursued.

  ‘Many were to follow! She was eager for life, for new experiences. She learned so quickly, talked to anyone regardless of class or sex, charmed them, heard their advice and weighed it. Alice was like a sponge absorbing everything at great speed.’

  ‘An energetic and formidable lady?’ said Joe.

  ‘Oh, yes. And not only energetic in her business activities – you have probably heard that she gives much of her time to good works.’

  ‘Yes, she herself has told me of her connections with the hospital. Determined and hard-working – but tell me, is there a lighter side to Mrs Sharpe’s estimable life? Does she ever have fun?’

  ‘All the time!’ Marie-Jeanne laughed. ‘She loves music, especially jazz… she has started a girls’ dance group, she is a member of the Spiritualist Society and the Dramatic Society and at weekends she — ’

  Joe interrupted. ‘The Spiritualist Society, did you say?’ His question was tinged with disapproval. In London spiritualists were all the rage, many of the old music hall performers with all their old skills intact had found an alternative way of making money by fleecing the gullible who were often in those post-war days desperate for news and contact with their departed loved ones. In Joe’s experience blackmail and extortion could follow close behind spiritualist sessions.

  ‘It’s quite harmless, Commander,’ she said, picking up his disapproval. ‘Simla no longer witnesses the glory days of Madame Blavatski but we have our own resident medium, a Mrs Freemantle, who is well thought of.’