He set his horse gingerly to negotiate the rocky defile. ‘Couldn’t have done this earlier in the spring,’ he said. ‘When the snows melt it’s a raging torrent but it makes a useful track at this time of year.’
Carefully the horses picked their way through the stones and down to a brawling stream crossed by a slab of rock and on the far side their path led upwards once more until, rounding a corner, they came on the Red Fort. Edgar Troop reined in sharply and gestured to Joe to stay back. ‘Hello?’ he muttered in a puzzled voice. ‘Someone’s been doing a bit of make and mend! That’s curious.’
‘What can you see?’ said Joe.
‘The gate. Somebody’s repaired the gate. As long as I can remember this has just been an open archway but somebody’s repaired the gate and repaired it well, too. Now who can that have been? Rheza, I guess, or Rheza on Alice’s behalf. It looks to me as though we’ve stumbled on an ICTC staging post. And why not? No law against it, after all. Wonder if there’s anybody at home?’
He searched the building ahead with his binoculars saying as he did so, ‘The mast or flagstaff or whatever you care to call it – that wasn’t there last time I came this way… What’s going on, I wonder?’
‘Only one way to find out,’ said Joe.
They moved forward cautiously, Troop in the lead, listening intently, even sniffing the air.
The building before them with its small window openings, its crenellated parapet, its watchful tower, its newly repaired gate suddenly seemed a strong place. The westering sun struck colour from the ancient walls and the building became a red fort indeed.
‘Useful place, this,’ said Joe. ‘You can see for miles!’
‘Oh, yes,’ said Troop. ‘These forts in the mountains are always well placed. Nobody’s going to take it by surprise. When the British cleaned it up… oh, about fifty years ago… they didn’t want to leave a convenient roosting place for malefactors on their back doorstep.’
‘Well, that may have been their intention,’ said Joe, ‘but it looks about fifteen all at the moment. The British dismantle, the malefactors reassemble. Isn’t that about it?’
‘Yes, that’s about it, I suppose.’ Troop spoke slowly, his attention only half on Joe, his expression thoughtful. ‘Some while since I was last here… last spring, I’d guess. A year in which things have been happening, it seems.’
‘What sort of things?’ Joe asked.
‘Well, rather hard to tell but there is something. A difference between deserted and not deserted. If a place is deserted the grass grows but if it’s in use the grass gets trampled. The grass has been trampled. And there – look. That’s not, as you might suppose, horse shit, that’s mule shit. Don’t ask me how I know but I do. And if you’re going for a leisurely ride through these hills you don’t come riding a mule. And there have been quite a few mules. Recently. I’d guess we’re ahead of Rheza and Alice but how far ahead I don’t know. If anybody’s going to get a surprise from this encounter I’d sooner it was them than us. First thing is to put the horses out of sight. Can’t keep them silent – wish we could – but we can at least keep them concealed.’
‘Is there anywhere in this battered caravanserai where we can conceal them?’
‘ “Think, in this battered caravanserai,” ’ said Edgar Troop, surprisingly,
‘Whose portals are alternate night and day,
How sultan after sultan with his pomp
Abode his destined hour and went his way.’
‘Omar Khayyam,’ said Joe, much surprised.
‘As you say,’ said Troop absently, busily scanning the building ahead of them with his binoculars. ‘Stand here, Joe, and cover me while I go and take a look.’
He disappeared into a narrow staircase which corkscrewed its way downwards and Joe heard him moving about and exclaiming from below. He was gone for what seemed a long time and Joe had a moment of anxiety. ‘How little I know about this man,’ he thought, ‘and how I put myself into his hands. And come to that how many miles I am from anyone and anything that might reassure or be familiar.’ Finally thinking, ‘I’ll count up to a hundred and then I’ll go and see what he’s up to.’
But on a count of ninety, dusty and perspiring, Troop re-emerged. ‘Interesting! Interesting!’ he said.
‘Why? What have you seen?’
‘Well, in the first place there are capacious cellars down there and somebody’s taken the trouble to clean and sweep them out recently. Secondly, the cellar door was locked with an elaborate padlock. A sensible precaution, you’d think, but someone – presumably not Rheza Khan (he’d have more sense) – carefully left the key (quite a handsome one incidentally) hanging on a nearby nail. Bloody place is full of packing cases. All marked with ICTC lettering. All containing not – as you might expect – trashy Indian artefacts for the European market but far from trashy European rifles!’
‘Surprised?’
‘Surprised? Not in the least. Confirms all I was telling you about the Murphy system. I’d say this is the last consignment of who knows how many to make its way north of the Zalori. No, the only thing that surprises me is that it should have been left unattended. You don’t just dump a hundred rifles in a cellar in the middle of nowhere and bugger off. Unless you know that someone’s on his way to pick them up any minute. I reckon the mule train that dropped them off is not long gone, possibly off to the west towards the railhead on legitimate business, and Rheza is expected any moment to take charge. I’d guess his brigand cousins will arrive here tomorrow with fresh mules to pick them up. But, for the moment, we’ve got the place to ourselves. Wind’s about right,’ he added. ‘We’ll be safe to make ourselves a cup of tea.’
They led their horses up the slope, through the gate and round to the back of the building where they tethered them out of sight amongst the willow trees that had established a precarious foothold in the crumbling mud-brick walling. Troop slung his rifle over one shoulder and unbuckled his saddlebag, carrying it over the other. ‘There’s a little staircase round the corner. Let’s go and man the battlements.’ He led the way upwards, climbing the sunbaked masonry. ‘Careful,’ he said. ‘Don’t want to have to carry you home.’
They settled by an arched embrasure ten feet from the ground and having a sweeping overview of the approach to the fort.
‘Keep a lookout, will you, while I brew up.’ And from one pocket he withdrew a brick of green tea and from another a knife. He drew attention to a small charcoal stove in an angle of the wall and to a brass pot with small attendant cup on the wall behind it. ‘Somebody,’ he said, ‘has been here very recently and thoughtfully left the tea things for us!’
He dipped water from a rainwater cistern into the brass pot and placed it on the stove. Taking pieces of charcoal from a saddlebag he set light to them and waited for the water to reach a rolling boil. Shielding his hand with a handkerchief he set the pot on the floor and began with the knife to shave flakes of green tea from the block into the pot. Watching Troop’s neat, economical movements with admiration, Joe doubted if a cup of tea had ever been more eagerly awaited. The brass cup was filled from the pot and Troop brought it over, steaming and fragrant, to the embrasure where Joe remained scanning the road.
Joe found his respect for Edgar Troop mounting by the minute. ‘Tell me,’ he said, accepting the tea without taking his eyes from the scene below, ‘where did you learn to quote from Omar Khayyam?’
‘You are surprised to find even the faintest evidence of civilization in one so disreputable? My family were Baltic merchants. I was educated at the English School in Riga. Before the war, of course. I served in the army – the Russian Army. Not this mob but the Imperial Russian Army. People sometimes refer to me as Captain Troop. Does me less than justice! Major Troop would have been nearer the mark.’
He rummaged around in his saddlebag and took out two small packages. ‘Come and sit down. I’ll take over the watch while you help yourself to some of this. Any fool can go hungry.’
‘
This’ was a block of Caley’s Marching Chocolate and a packet of Huntley and Palmer’s Campaign Biscuits. They took turns to sweep the country through the binoculars, munching companionably. Joe remembered that he had had no lunch and wondered briefly what he might expect for supper. Assuming he was still around at supper time. The taste of the rough biscuit, the feel of the rifle in his hands, the jovial toughness of the man he found himself unexpectedly in harness with brought back with clarity the less unwelcome aspects of war. If only he’d been doing this with Sebastian! And was he crazy now to go unquestioningly through the familiar gestures with this stranger? They were in a situation where they would have to watch each other’s back. Troop was taking Joe’s ability for granted. His instructions ran to the minimum. He knew how Joe would react and that his reactions were trained and could be relied on. Joe had begun to suspect that his own background was less of a mystery to Troop than might be accounted for and yet Troop’s history and motivation for Joe were still unclear. Building on the camaraderie of the moment he picked up the conversation. ‘And,’ said Joe, ‘from the Russian Army to Simla – that seems a fair stride. How did it come about?’
‘Oh, well, when all hell broke loose in 1916 in Russia the most important thing to do was stay alive! I didn’t much care who won. My sympathies, I suppose, were with the Imperial Russian Army but one thing on which I was absolutely determined was that whoever else got killed, it wouldn’t be Edgar Troop! I deserted. I drifted south. Even found myself in the Red Army briefly, until they found I was English. Foreigners who’d served in the Imperial Army weren’t the most popular in the world with the Bolshies! I even once saw a firing squad falling in, planning to shoot me, if you can believe it! But I smoke a little hashish from time to time. I made up about twenty cigarettes which I distributed amongst my guard who were innocent kids from Moscow. I left them all grinning and giggling – capable of nothing – and went on my way.’
‘Nothing in this cup of tea that shouldn’t be there, I hope?’ said Joe.
‘No, no! As served at Joe Lyons! But, as I say, I introduced my guards to an expensive habit and proceeded on my way, finally getting to Kashmir. A long journey. It took the best part of a year. A useful year. At the end of it I was a pretty fair shikar and a pretty fair linguist too. In Kashmir I ran into the full might of the British Empire and in particular into a good, solid-going, experienced and competent British Proconsul. He had the sense to see that a Russian-speaking, English-born, former member of the Imperial Army might be a useful individual to have on a retainer. He made me an offer. I accepted his offer and I’ve stayed in touch with him ever since. Oh, yes, the Troop information service has been of some use to the Raj!’
Troop grinned and added, ‘I don’t suppose you’ll have forgotten that the talented but far from respectable Captain Troop is believed to hold a controlling interest in a thriving brothel?’
‘Yes, I had heard as much.’
‘Well, quite true – I do. And from the military’s point of view an expensive brothel is probably the best listening post you could have! Even wily Indians like to show off at times! Plenty of valuable information reaching the ears of the Chief of Staff started on the rounds as pillow talk.’
‘And what’s become of this British paragon who recruited you?’ Joe asked, his suspicions already formed.
‘Oh, he did well. Built quite a career. Widely respected. Knighted even. His name’s George Jardine.’
He paused, standing to one side of the embrasure and swept his binoculars back over the south road. He murmured a quiet oath. ‘We’ve got visitors!’ he said with satisfaction.
* * *
Chapter Twenty-six
« ^ »
He handed the binoculars to Joe. ‘Look where I’m pointing.’
Joe focused the glass and stared. He rubbed his eye and stared again.
‘Over there,’ said Troop, ‘where the road goes behind that big rock. Watch!’
Joe saw two figures on horseback come steadily round the rock and, leaving the road, start to climb towards the fort. Troop rubbed his glistening face with a large hand, turning to Joe with satisfaction. ‘I don’t want to boast,’ he said, ‘but I don’t think there are many people who could have outflanked Rheza in this bit of country and still have had time to arrange a two-man reception committee. Quite a satisfactory moment in many ways,’ he added blandly. ‘Alice! She’d swindle anybody! You, me, Rheza, George Jardine if she could! But not this time! Take your stand here, Joe, and cover me. I’ll go out and meet them. They’ll be coming through that passage in the rock there. Expect them to be armed. Rheza, I see, has a rifle and is bound to have a pistol. Alice looks as though she’s out for a picnic but don’t be deceived – she’ll have provided for her personal defence. I think it might easily emerge that the female of the species was the more deadly. As I say – can’t get away from Kipling, can we? But I don’t underestimate Rheza. A tricky little bastard in his own right and very dangerous. Had my eye on him for years. And in the meantime, we’ll trust in God and keep our powder dry! Eh?’
His face was elated; he stood at the turn in the path with his hands on his hips. Joe found that his own breathing was getting faster and his palms were sweating as his excitement grew. Soon the chink and clatter of horses’ hooves could clearly be heard and then voices, the deep tones of Rheza Khan and the light voice of Alice. They were speaking in a mixture of Hindustani and English.
‘So far, so good!’ Joe heard her say. ‘Be glad to rest for a bit.’
With Rheza Khan leading they rounded the turn in the path and entered the curtain wall of the little fort. Rheza Khan looked sleek, cool and efficient. It was hard to believe that he had just ridden thirty miles in the sun. He wore well-cut breeches and boots, a light tweed shooting coat and a white drill shikar helmet. Alice, riding behind him, matched him in style with jodhpurs, a white silk shirt and a wide-brimmed felt hat hanging down her back on a chin strap. Her abundant copper hair hung loose.
‘Good afternoon, Rheza! And good afternoon, Alice,’ said Edgar Troop, stepping forward. ‘Are you going somewhere?’
‘Troop!’ Rheza Khan jerked his horse to a slithering halt and sat and stared in astonishment.
Alice burst into a babble of indignant and angry speech. ‘Edgar! What the hell are you doing here? What the hell! Rheza – quick!’
‘Don’t try anything silly, Rheza Khan,’ said Troop. ‘And you too, Alice. Don’t do anything silly. I’m not alone.’
‘Not alone?’
‘No,’ said Edgar. ‘You’re a genius girl, Alice, and you, Rheza Khan, I’ll pay you the compliment of saying you’re not to be despised either, but I wouldn’t be likely to come to this brigands’ roost without a little armed support!’
Theatrically, Joe shot the bolt of his rifle and they both spun around and stared up at him. ‘Forgive the expression, Alice,’ said Joe from the window embrasure, ‘but the game’s up! And just to make this entirely official, I will say – you’re under arrest. And, to dot the i’s and cross the t’s, you should know that although you so skilfully sent Charlie Carter many miles and many hours out of his way, he’s a persevering man is Charlie. He’ll know where we are and, faint but pursuing, he’ll be joining us. In a very bad temper, I should think. He won’t be here for tea. I don’t think he’ll be here for supper but he could well be with us for breakfast!’
Edgar Troop intervened. ‘And until then – what to do with you two? No one knows, better than you, Rheza, that this dilapidated establishment has capacious cellarage, not all of which is occupied by assorted military hardware. I’ll apologize in advance for the poverty of the accommodation but that is where you will wait for Charlie.’
Joe knew Alice in many moods. He had seen her poised and competent with the great and good of Simla on the stage of the Gaiety Theatre; he had seen her on equal terms with George Jardine; he had seen her soft and yielding in a small, moonlit garden, but here was a different image. On the verge of making her escape, th
e fruits of three years spent looting ICTC in her saddlebags and now only the biddable and despised Edgar Troop and the deceivable London policeman between her and her rewards. In a flash, white-faced and as vicious as a leopard, she slid from her horse and stood, it seemed, at bay and in no mood to give up.
‘Under arrest?’ she said derisively. ‘On whose authority? And on what charge? We’re not in the Mile End Road, as perhaps I can remind you! “Would you mind coming down to the station” and that sort of routine! I’ll tell you, Joe, and I hope I won’t need to repeat it – I’m not going anywhere with you! Not now; not at any time.’
‘To answer your questions,’ said Joe, ‘there is a warrant out for your arrest. A warrant signed by Sir George Jardine. I am a duly appointed deputy police superintendent. And the charge? For the time being a holding charge only. Fraud. But I don’t need to tell you that more lies behind that. It’s a well-worn phrase but I’ll use it again – the game’s up.’ He turned to Rheza Khan. ‘And while we’re at it, I’m pulling you in for murder.’
‘Murder?’ said Rheza Khan derisively. ‘What are you talking about? The murder of that inflated Russian barn-door cockerel?’
‘Is this a confession?’ asked Joe. ‘If so, I’ll be interested to hear it in due course. And I’m going back a little bit further than that. I’m going back to the death of Lionel Conyers. I don’t need to tell you, of course, that the murder weapon used on both unfortunate victims was a .303, probably a British Army Short Lee-Enfield – of which there are not a few below and one of which you have with you, I see.’
Alice shot a look of blind astonishment at Rheza then looked back at Joe, more nearly disconcerted than he had ever seen her.
Ragtime in Simla Page 27