‘Correct,’ Walsh agreed. ‘Insane, isn’t it?’
Twenty-Five
The servants who had to be up before first light had long since retired to their beds all over England, while those of a higher status had turned in shortly after seeing their employers to theirs. It was, in other words, that rare hour of the night when there is perfect silence and complete darkness in even the largest country house.
Colonel Howarth, hovering uneasily on the border between consciousness and sleep, tossed and turned in his bed.
Thoughts of the inspector from London were still troubling him. In the old days, people like Blackstone would not have been a problem. The only policeman likely to have visited Amritsar Lodge back then would have been the local bobby, and it would never have occurred to him that he might be granted any audience with the squire. No, he would have considered himself well done by if he had been offered a cup of tea by the housekeeper, and then sent on his way.
But things were much changed. The old respect for authority was disappearing. The very qualities which had made Britain into Great Britain were being discarded as if they were no more than trash. Only in India was there any sign of the natural order being maintained—and India, much to the Colonel’s perpetual regret, was a young man’s country.
There was a sudden click from across the room. The Colonel, still wrapped in his semi-dreams of the days when even the hint of insolence could be answered with the horse whip, did not register it at first, but when the click was followed by stealthy footsteps, he recognized the danger for what it was and reached for the loaded revolver which he always kept on his bedside cabinet.
‘There is no need to be alarmed, Charles,’ said a reassuring voice from the darkness. ‘We are both a long way from the Northwest Frontier now.’
The visitor struck a match, located the oil lamp, and lit the wick. A small circle of light filled the area around the Colonel’s bed.
‘Better put the gun away before there’s an accident, don’t you think?’ the visitor suggested.
‘Of course,’ Howarth agreed, placing the revolver back on his cabinet. But what’s all this about—midnight visits, and so forth? Bit dramatic, ain’t it?’
‘We live in dramatic times,’ his visitor replied. ‘A policeman—an Inspector Blackstone—came to see you this morning, did he not?’
‘That’s right,’ Howarth agreed.
‘It was always pushing our luck to use the tiger, but we knew we would reap great benefits from such an action,’ the visitor said. ‘Do you remember the durbars which the Viceroy used to hold for the Indian princes?’
‘Indeed I do,’ the Colonel said fondly.
‘The Viceroy would sit on his throne and wait for the prince to approach him. There would be thousands of troops on display. No expense was spared in the effort to put on an impressive show.’
‘Happy days,’ the Colonel murmured.
‘Those durbars were more of a pageant than a political negotiation. But the fact that they were pageants was political in itself. Before we ever got down to talking business, we had demonstrated to the prince how powerful and impressive the British Empire truly is. The tiger served a similar function. There may have been more efficient ways to carry out a kidnapping, but none which could have had so much impact—none which could have served as such an inspiration for the future.’
‘I know that. That is why I agreed I would go along with it.’
‘Yet when you run a risk, you must be prepared to pay the price for dealing with its consequences. We had hoped that the police would be too stupid to trace the tiger back to its source, but sadly, as Blackstone’s visit demonstrates, that has not proved to be the case.’
‘I think I managed to pull the wool over the Inspector’s eyes quite well,’ the Colonel said, with more confidence than he felt.
The visitor shook his head sadly. ‘You did not. Blackstone knows that the tiger came from here. Though he has gone away, he will return. And before he can do that, action must be taken.’
‘What kind of action?’ the Colonel asked, with a growing unease.
‘Your groundsman, Tebbitt, knows enough of what has gone on to make him a danger.’
‘He served me in India for over twenty years,’ the Colonel said. ‘You can depend on him to keep our secrets.’
‘We can depend on no one,’ the other man told him. ‘At any rate, he need concern us no longer. But he is not our only problem, is he? This particular end of the chain has two weak links.’
‘And I’m the other one?’ the Colonel asked tremulously.
‘Unfortunately so.’
‘Are you here to murder me in my own bed?’
The visitor laughed. ‘Of course not. You are a brother officer. A comrade in arms. Whatever the damage you could do to the project, we would never condemn you to such an ignominious fate. But something does have to be done.’ The visitor paused. ‘Where is your best dress uniform?’
‘It’s…it’s in the wardrobe.’
‘Shall I fetch it for you?’
‘No, I…yes, if you would be so kind.’
The visitor crossed the room and returned with the uniform. ‘You cut a fine figure in your younger days,’ he said. ‘I see this uniform, and I can see you on the maidan, wearing it. What fear you inspired! What respect! What service you did for the Crown during your time in India!’
‘I did do the Crown some service,’ the Colonel admitted.
‘But the greatest is yet to come. When the history of these times is finally written, you will emerge as a towering figure—an inspiration to generations yet unborn.’
‘Do you really think so?’
‘I know so!’ The visitor held out the uniform. ‘Would you care to get dressed now.’
‘Of course,’ the Colonel said, climbing stiffly out of bed.
‘You should have a valet to dress you, but you do under-stand that it would have been too great a security risk to bring one with me.’
‘Yes. Naturally.’
‘So instead I will serve as your valet.’
‘You couldn’t do that! It would be—’
‘I can, and I will.’
‘You do me great honour,’ the Colonel said, feeling a lump forming in his throat.
‘No, it is you who do me the honour,’ the visitor assured him. ‘Can you not imagine what a privilege it is for me to be with you at this truly heroic time?’
Since the Colonel was not used to being dressed by inexperienced hands—and since the visitor, having never dressed another man in his life, was about as inexperienced as it was possible to be—the whole process took some time. But finally it was done.
‘You still cut a fine figure,’ the visitor said in admiration. ‘A little portly, perhaps, but every inch a soldier.’
‘What happens next?’ the Colonel asked.
‘I am needed in London, and so, regrettably, I will have to leave you.’
‘How will you travel?’ the Colonel asked, wishing to prolong the departure as long as possible.
‘I have a horse tethered at the edge of your estate. Do not worry, I will be back in the capital before I am missed.’
‘So what—’
‘You should give me at least an hour to get clear of the area. That will present no difficulties, will it?’
‘None.’
The visitor smiled. ‘Forgive me for even asking, Charles. I deal with so many of the new kind of soldier that it is sometimes hard to remember that men of your stamp still exist. But perhaps, through our noble enterprise, we will see men like you rise to the fore again. And that will make all our sacrifices worthwhile.’
The Colonel looked from his visitor to his night table, and then back to his visitor again. ‘Shall I leave a note?’
The visitor shook his head. ‘A note would only create unnecessary complications. But never fear, Charles, your heroism will not go unremarked. A hundred years from now, bookshelves will groan under the weight of volumes celebrating you
r life and achievements.
When the visitor had left, the Colonel walked over to his night table and picked up the service revolver. It had served him well over the years, and had taken at least three enemy lives. And in all that time he had never thought—even in his wildest imaginings—that the last time he fired it, the barrel would be aimed at his own head.
Twenty-Six
A great deal had happened in the previous twenty-four hours, Blackstone thought, as the open carriage made its way up the drive towards Amritsar Lodge. A ransom demand had been made for the safe return of the prince; a waterman called Lou Gammage had been abducted by a couple of Indians dressed as Lascar sailors—and a retired Army colonel had been found dead in his own bed with a bullet from his own gun through his skull.
‘It’s not as rare as you might imagine for retired colonial officers to end up shooting themselves,’ said the man sitting next to him in the carriage.
‘Isn’t it?’ Blackstone replied. ‘And why is that? Because you have to have a few screws loose to become an Army officer in the first place?’
‘I think that was a little uncalled for,’ Major Walsh said mildly.
Yes, it was, wasn’t it, Blackstone agreed silently.
He wondered why he kept giving in to the urge to snipe at Walsh. It wasn’t as if he didn’t like the man. He did like him. Perhaps, despite the Major’s weakness for the bottle, he even admired him.
He was sure that if they’d been sergeants in India together—or both inspectors in Scotland Yard—they’d have got on famously. But the problem was, they hadn’t been either of those things. They weren’t equals, nor were ever likely to be—and somehow the upper classes always brought out the worst in Blackstone.
‘You’re quite right,’ he said aloud. ‘The remark was uncalled for, and I apologize for it.’
‘Don’t give it another thought,’ Walsh said—and sounded as if he meant it. ‘As a matter of fact, you may be right. Possibly we do all have a few screws loose. But I was talking about the fact that it’s sometimes very hard to give up India. It’s like a drug.’ He paused. ‘You were there yourself, weren’t you? Surely you know what I’m talking about.’
‘We were in two different countries,’ Blackstone told him. ‘When you talk about the effect your India could have on a man, what you mean is the effect it could have on an officer. I was in the ranks myself.’
‘And was that so very different?’
‘There was a world of difference.’
‘So what did it mean to the common soldier?’
‘It meant heat and dust. It meant the possibility of dying of a particularly nasty disease he’d never have caught if he’d stayed at home. It meant—’
‘Damn!’ Walsh said, patting his pocket. ‘Damn and blast!’
‘Something the matter?’ Blackstone asked. ‘Is the truth a little too close for comfort?’
‘What?’ Walsh said distractedly.
‘The truth?’ Blackstone repeated, suspecting that he was being unfair to Walsh again, yet unable to restrain himself. ‘Was it too close for comfort?’
‘Oh, I see what you mean,’ the Major said. ‘No, it’s nothing like that. Fact is, I seem to have lost my cheroots. Must have left the damn things on the train. Dashed annoying. But let’s get back to the lot of the common soldier in India. Surely there must have been something that the other ranks liked about the country?’
‘There was. They liked kicking the Indians around. But if they ever stopped to think about it—and a few of them did eventually—they realized being a ‘nigger’ is nothing to do with the colour of your skin.’
‘Come again?’ Walsh said.
‘They’d been the ‘niggers’ once themselves—back in England. And when they finally returned to the mother country—if they lived that long—they’d be the ‘niggers’ again.’
‘How cynical you can sound. You’re not some kind of radical, are you?’
‘No. I’m a policeman. And if a policeman is to do his job properly, he has to look at things as they are, rather than as he’d like them to be. Tell me about the India you and your fellow officers knew.’
‘If you were very rich, then I don’t suppose it was much different to being at home,’ Walsh said. But if your family was only moderately prosperous—as mine was—you suddenly found yourself living like a king. You could employ all the servants you wanted to. You could play polo to your heart’s desire. Birth still mattered—a lord’s a lord wherever he is—but it didn’t matter as much as rank.’
‘Very nice,’ Blackstone said dryly.
‘But it wasn’t just that. You didn’t get to love India for purely selfish reasons. You felt useful there. Sometimes you even felt heroic. You were defending what Disraeli called ‘the brightest jewel in the English crown’. It was a privilege to be of service. That’s why leaving it could be such a shock. That’s why there are so many suicides.’
‘And are all the suicides as quick as Colonel Howarth’s? Or do some of the old India hands just decide to drink themselves to death?’
‘Are you trying to insult me?’ Walsh demanded, showing anger for the first time since Blackstone had met him.
‘No,’ the Inspector said, only slightly disingenuously. ‘I’m just doing what I’m supposed to do—what you told me to do. I’m drawing on your expertise.’
Walsh’s anger disappeared as quickly as it had arisen, and he laughed.
‘It’s true that some officers do decide to drink themselves to death once they come home,’ he said, ‘though if suicide is my aim, it’s a process which began long before I ever left India.’
The carriage pulled up in front of the house, and was met by a middle-aged, uniformed inspector with thinning hair and a slightly bemused expression.
‘The name’s Downes,’ he said, shaking Blackstone’s hand with a vigour which showed his relief that someone else had finally arrived to take over the whole unpleasant business. ‘I’ll take you straight to the body, shall I?’
‘You sound like you think there’s a rush,’ Blackstone replied. ‘Colonel Howarth’s not got any other plans for today, has he?’
‘Well, no.’
‘In that case, I think we’ll stroll round the grounds while I pick your brains.’
The two detectives walked around the side of the house, with Major Walsh following discreetly a few paces behind. They climbed the steps to the terrace, and Blackstone turned to inspect the peacocks.
There were two of the birds in the garden. If either of them had any sense of the drama which had been played out in the house, they showed no sign of it. Instead, they concentrated all their efforts on creating a fine display for the benefit of their drab concubines.
They were so full of pride and self-importance, whatever the circumstances, Blackstone marvelled. In that way, he supposed, they were a bit like the British in India!
‘Any chance the Colonel’s death wasn’t a suicide, Mr Downes?’ he asked the local policeman.
Downes frowned. ‘According to his servants, the Colonel always kept the pistol on his night table, so I suppose there’s always a chance that the shooting was an accident.’
‘An accident!’ said Blackstone, who had never for a moment considered such a possibility.
‘I know what you mean,’ Downes said—though he obviously didn’t. ‘If he’d been cleaning his gun, there’d have been an oily rag around somewhere. And there wasn’t. Besides, you don’t put on your best dress uniform to do a messy job like that.’
He hadn’t even considered the possibility that the Colonel had been murdered. And why should he have? Murders didn’t happen in nice places like Windsor, especially when—as the royal standard flying from the flagpole at the castle proclaimed—the Queen herself was in residence.
And though the local inspector’s reasoning was seriously flawed, the conclusion it led him to was more than likely correct, Blackstone thought.
The Colonel probably had died by his own hand—the dress uniform seeme
d to confirm that—but it was quite likely that it had not been at his own suggestion.
‘Will you be wanting to speak to the servants?’ Downes asked.
‘Probably. Where will I find them?’
‘I had all the staff—outside as well as inside—sent down to the servants’ hall.’
‘Any of them missing?’
‘As a matter of fact, there is. One of the groundsmen. We’ve been to his cottage to look for him, but he isn’t there. He’s a chap by the name of…’
‘Tebbitt,’ Blackstone supplied.
‘Yes, that is his name.’
‘You say you’ve been to his cottage. Is he married?’
‘No, he lives alone. He normally eats with the rest of the servants, and the housekeeper sends a parlour maid over to his cottage sometime during the day to pick up his washing, dust around, and so forth. So far as we know, he spends the evening by himself.’
‘So none of the servants will have touched his cottage since yesterday?’
‘Correct.’
‘In that case, I’d be grateful if you’d send a couple of your lads over to the cottage to do a thorough search.’
‘Glad to. Err…what will they be looking for, exactly?’
‘Anything out of the ordinary,’ Blackstone said airily. ‘If they can find his cash box, they should check to see if there’s any money in it. They should try to establish whether or not any of his clothes are missing. And, of course, they should keep their eyes peeled for bloodstains.’
‘Bloodstains?’ Downes repeated.
‘Bloodstains,’ Blackstone confirmed.
Twenty-Seven
The butler was a distinguished-looking man in his late fifties, who—like most of the staff and all of the furniture—had come with the house. He had not even raised an eyebrow when he had been instructed to go to the Colonel’s sitting room for questioning, and now, though both Blackstone and Walsh were seated while he stood, he still managed to look very much in charge of the situation.
‘We’d like to ask you a few questions about the Colonel’s visitors,’ Blackstone told him.
Blackstone and the Great Game (The Blackstone Detective Series Book 2) Page 14