Death in Kashmir

by M. M. Kaye

  So here she was once again upon the winding Kashmir Road. Being borne swiftly towards the city of Srinagar, and the Dal Lake where Janet had lived on a houseboat named Waterwitch.

  9

  It was past five o’clock by the time the Creeds’ car left the mountains and came out upon the level valley and the long, straight, poplar-lined road that leads from Baramulla to the city of Srinagar—that curious admixture of ancient and modern India that stands astride the Jhelum River, sheltered by a curving arm of the mountains and near a chain of beautiful lakes.

  The sun was low in the sky, and its fading rays turned the white snowpeaks that ring the valley to rose-pink and amber; and here the river that had raged through the narrow mountain gorges behind them, spread out into a broad and placid stream that flowed serenely between green banks lined with willows and chenar trees.

  On either side of the road lay long fields of yellow mustard, the emerald green of crops, patches of late iris, purple and white, and small, huddled villages ringed by willow and walnut. Flocks of slow-moving sheep strayed homeward in charge of brown-robed shepherd boys who played upon small reed flutes, and the twilight was sweet with birdsong and tinged with a sense of nostalgia and lost dreams and the scent of spring.

  It was dark by the time they reached Srinagar, so Sarah spent the night on board the Creeds’ houseboat; but soon after breakfast on the following morning she set off in a shikara—one of the slim, flat-bottomed, gaily canopied boats that are the gondolas and water taxis of this eastern Venice—in search of the Waterwitch.

  It did not prove difficult to find, and the agency with which the boat was registered for hire accepted Sarah’s explanations and the receipt without undue interest, and dispatched her in charge of a polite young Kashmiri to Chota Nagim, some few miles outside Srinagar City where the Waterwitch was moored. She had not looked forward to this return visit, but that first trip to Nagim enchanted her.

  The shikara, once clear of the city, slid away down cool, sun-dappled waterways fringed with willows; past ancient wooden houses perched upon stilts above the stream and crazily reminiscent of Hansel and Gretel. Through villages whose walls rose out of the water, and whose carved and fretted balconies overhung the passing boats. Villages whose main street was the waterway.

  As the heart-shaped paddles rose and fell in unison, the boat glided under old, old bridges and by temples whose glittering roofs were discovered on closer inspection to be plated not with silver, but with pieces of kerosene tins. Brilliant blue kingfishers flashed and darted above the quiet reaches of the stream, and innumerable bulbuls twittered among the willows. And at last they came to a quiet backwater near an open stretch of lake where, moored against a green bank and sheltered by the boughs of a gigantic chenar tree, lay a small houseboat.

  It was a trim little craft, and according to Sarah’s guide contained a living-room, and a small dining-room with an adjoining pantry from which a narrow wooden stair led up to the roof. The forward part of the roof was flat, and supported an orange and white striped awning, and beyond the pantry lay two small bedrooms which led off each other, and were each provided with a minute bathroom.

  Unlike the majority of houseboats upon the lake, the sides of the Waterwitch had been painted white, while the wooden shingles that covered the peaked roof above the after section of the boat were stained green, so that the whole effect was rather that of a child’s Noah’s Ark. It formed such a gay and attractive picture, backed by the green of the willows and mirrored in the clear lake water, that Sarah was aware of a sudden and overpowering sense of relief.

  She could not have said what she had expected, but subconsciously she had supposed that an air of darkness, decay and mystery would linger about the boat in which Janet had lived and where she had written down and hidden her secret. But there was nothing dark or mysterious about this trim little boat with its freshly laundered curtains fluttering in the breeze.

  As the shikara drew alongside, a sliding-door in the centre of the boat was drawn back and the red-bearded mānji,* the owner, popped out upon the duckboard wreathed in welcoming smiles, and after a brief conversation with the man from the agency, salaamed deeply and hastened to usher Sarah on board.

  The Waterwitch was furnished in much the same style as any other houseboat upon the lake. The wooden panelling of the walls was unstained and unpainted; as were the low ceilings, which were formed of small sections of wood cut into squares, diamonds and hexagons, pieced together to make a complicated mosaic overhead. There were cheap cotton curtains at the windows and the living-room was crowded with furniture: a sofa, upholstered in faded and much worn plush, whose springs looked to be in urgent need of repair; three armchairs with clean but faded cretonne covers, a large writing-desk, two occasional tables of intricately carved walnut, and several others in brass or papier mâché, in addition to a standard lamp of horrifying design.

  A narrow shelf with a fretwork rim ran round the entire room at the level of the top of the windows and was crammed to over-flowing with dusty, dog-eared books and out-dated periodicals, and Sarah regarded this tattered array of literature with blank dismay.

  There if anywhere she thought, is where I shall have to look; and her heart sank at the prospect of leafing through all those thousands of musty pages. She had hoped to be able to complete her search of the little houseboat in a matter of hours, but she had not calculated on several hundred assorted books and magazines as possible hiding places. It was going to take days, not hours, to conduct a really thorough search through the contents of those close-packed shelves …

  ‘Very nice room!’ urged the mānji, extolling the beauties of his boat. ‘Good chairs for sittings. All covers I wash new. Many beautiful books. Many sahibs are leaving books on my boat for long time now. Here is dining-room. Take a look, Miss-sahib, very fine dining-room.’

  There was no door across the opening between living-room and dining-room, its place being taken by an old-fashioned bead curtain, and the mānji held a bunch of the coloured, clashing strings and ushered Sarah through into the next room.

  This was better! The dining-room appeared to contain the minimum of furniture and hiding-places, which after the clutter of the living-room was a relief. The table was a work of art in polished walnut wood; oval in shape with a deeply cut and beautifully carved pattern of chenar leaves running round its rim, and Sarah ran her hand appreciatively across its shining surface as she passed on, urged by a lyrical running commentary from the mānji, to a small pantry, half of which was taken up by the short wooden staircase that led up through a species of trap-door to the roof.

  A bedroom, a small bathroom, a second bedroom beyond it, and another bathroom. The little boat was clean and neat. Swept and garnished and empty of all feeling. An impersonal, placid little boat that gave no hint, no whisper of the secret lurking somewhere within it. Blobs of sunlight reflected off the water outside danced a silent saraband upon the ceilings, the uneven floorboards creaked loudly and cheerfully under Sarah’s feet, and the little boat rocked gently to the movement, slapping the water in small gay splashing sounds against its sides.

  There seemed to be nothing of Janet here. Janet belonged to the grey skies, the white snowfields and the black winter forests of Gulmarg; not to the gay green and gold and blue of maytime on the Dal Lake.

  An hour-and-a-half later Sarah was on her way back to Gagribal Point and lunch with Fudge and Hugo, having completed all the necessary arrangements with the man from the agents, and given orders that the Waterwitch was to remain at its present moorings. She had also provisionally booked the next-door ghat, or mooring-space, on behalf of the Creeds: ‘You won’t mind mooring your houseboat there instead of at Nagim, will you Fudge? It’s only just round the corner really, and it looked so peaceful and sheltered. Nagim seemed to be full of boats.’

  ‘Mind? My dear child, for this I will leave you half of my overdraft in my will,’ said Hugo cordially. ‘Fudge has a single-track mind in these matters, and merely b
ecause some four score years and ten ago, when we first visited this salubrious health resort upon our honeymoon, we parked our barque upon Nagim, she cannot conceive of any other pitch. This regardless of the fact that what was once a blossoming Eden far from the madding crowd, has since had endless monstrosities of wood and stone built all round it, in the form of club-houses, cafés, boarding-houses and what-have-you, and is so thickly jammed with houseboats that one’s left-hand neighbour is never ignorant of what one’s right-hand neighbour doeth. No. Speaking for myself, I shall be delighted to park elsewhere. For one thing, I do not fancy floating upon sewage; and for another——’

  ‘That will be quite enough!’ interrupted Fudge hastily. ‘It’s a lovely idea, Sarah. We’ll have our boat taken out there immediately after lunch.’

  The afternoon had been spent sitting upon the roof of the Creeds’ big houseboat, as it was poled by a team of husky Kashmiris down the same waterways that Sarah had passed through that morning. And with the evening they came to their mooring.

  The Waterwitch had been connected, via several hundred feet of wire, to the main electric light cables that ran alongside the Nagim road, and as all her lights were lit, her windows glowed cheerfully in the twilight, and Fudge, who had been trying to persuade Sarah to remain on the Sunflower, was relieved at the sight of the gay little boat. ‘It doesn’t look so bad,’ she admitted. ‘How did you manage to find it, Sarah?’

  ‘Oh, just looking around,’ said Sarah vaguely. ‘Don’t worry darling. I shall be quite safe. I shall have Lager with me, and your boat is so close that I’ve only got to raise a yell if I feel nervous.’

  The Creeds’ houseboat had been moored about thirty yards below the little Waterwitch and facing it, so that the cookboat, which housed their mānji and his family and would also provide accommodation for Ayaz, lay behind it and out of sight. The mānji of each houseboat usually combined the office of cook, headwaiter and valet de chambre with that of owner; but tonight Sarah declined the culinary services of her own factotum and dined on board the Sunflower with the Creeds.

  They were not more than halfway through the meal when a shikara bumped alongside in the darkness and a voice hailed the cookboat in Kashmiri. A few minutes later Ayaz, the Creeds’ bearer, appeared in the doorway with an envelope on a small brass salver, which proved to contain an invitation to a cocktail party at the Residency on the following evening, addressed to Major and Mrs Creed and Miss Parrish.

  ‘That’s quick work,’ commented Sarah, as Fudge scribbled an acceptance and handed it to Ayaz: ‘How did they know we were here? Helen, I suppose.’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ said Fudge. ‘Hugo and I wrote our names in the book this morning, and put yours in too for good measure. We were having coffee at the Club and met the new P A—an erstwhile acquaintance of yours.’

  ‘Forgive a poor ignorant newcomer,’ said Sarah, ‘but what exactly is a P A?’

  ‘Personal Assistant,’ translated Hugo, helping himself to cream: ‘A poor wretch whose job it is to send out the invitations to Residency Tea-Tipples and Bun-Battles. I believe it also includes such onerous duties as translating the khansamah’s menus into French, arranging the rhododendrons on the dining-room table, fetching and carrying for the Lady Resident, and prompting her in a hissing whisper when she mixes the names of her guests. This sinecure is at present held locally by a bootfaced damsel by the name of Forbes.’

  ‘Forbes? You don’t mean Meril?’

  ‘The same. No Helen of Troy, as you will be the first to admit. But doubtless oozing with efficiency.’

  ‘I shouldn’t have thought she’d be in the least efficient. However, she was a pretty good skier.’

  ‘Was she, indeed? I can’t say I ever noticed her performance in particular. It’s those spectacles I suppose. I must admit I am sorry for the wench.’

  ‘Why? Because “girls who are spectacled never get their necks tickled”?’

  ‘That, of course,’ admitted Hugo. ‘But the girl is also gravely handicapped by an aunt who holds the All-India Gold-Plated Cheese Biscuit, open to all comers, for sheer undiluted louse power.’

  ‘Hugo!’ expostulated Fudge indignantly.

  ‘I apologize, m’dear. An ill-chosen simile, but doubtless Sarah gets the idea.’

  ‘I have heard rumours,’ admitted Sarah, recalling certain forcible remarks of Janet’s on the subject of Meril’s aunt. ‘What’s the matter with her?’

  Hugo said: ‘You will undoubtedly meet the lady at this binge tomorrow, and be able to judge for yourself. Speaking for myself, she fascinates me, and I cannot help regretting that upon her demise it will not be practicable to have her stuffed and placed in some public museum.’

  ‘And they say that women are cats,’ commented Fudge, selecting a banana from the fruit dish. ‘For sheer concentrated cattiness, you can’t beat the male!’

  ‘Nonsense!’ said Hugo. ‘I speak but the limpid truth. Lady Candera is the Original Boll Weevil. She has an eye that can bore holes through six feet of armour-plating, and a tongue that could skin an elephant. Take it from me—a tough baby! Strong men blench before her and women take cover.’

  ‘Is she quite as formidable as Hugo makes out?’ inquired Sarah of Fudge.

  ‘Well, almost,’ admitted Fudge, dipping her banana thoughtfully in the coffee sugar and ignoring Hugo’s outspoken criticism of the action. ‘I’m scared of her myself; but then I take jolly good care to avoid her.’

  ‘Worm!’ observed Hugo, removing the coffee sugar.

  ‘Worm yourself! You’re terrified of her. She prides herself on always saying exactly what she likes as rudely as possible. And that’s always pretty unnerving to the general public.’

  ‘Tell me about her,’ said Sarah, interested. ‘She sounds full of entertainment value.’

  ‘She is, in a way,’ admitted Fudge with a laugh. ‘I’ve often thought that life would be a lot duller if it were not for these highly coloured characters. If everyone were all a nice pink, like the Hoply girl or Mrs Ritchie, how bored we should all be! I appreciate the addition of a few nice splashy reds and purples myself. They add a dash of paprika to the mixture, if nothing else.’

  ‘Lady Candera,’ pronounced Hugo, ‘is a type that is, or was, fairly common all over the world. But we grew a special brand of them in the Indian Empire. Next year there will be no Indian Empire, and so that brand will become extinct—along with the Johnnies and Helens and their ilk. They won’t go to ground in England, because it will not be able to give them what they want; so the Lady Canderas will retire to infest places like Cyprus and Madeira, while the Johnnies and Helens will probably get themselves dug into Kenya. Ehu fugaces! And if you shove that slimy chunk of fruit into the coffee sugar once more Fudge, I shall arise and assault you.’

  ‘You still haven’t told me much about this Lady Whatsiz,’ complained Sarah. ‘What’s she like?’

  ‘Nothing on earth,’ said Hugo promptly.

  Fudge threw him a withering look. ‘She is tall and thin and, as Hugo says, she’s got an eye like a gimlet. I believe she’s half French or Afghan, or something of that sort. They say she used to be a raving beauty when she was a girl. She must be about ninety by now—well anyway pushing eighty—and she looks like something that has been dug up from the ruins of Byzantium.’

  ‘Miaow!’ said Hugo, handing over the cream jug. Fudge ignored him.

  ‘Her husband was something or other in the I C S—the Indian Civil Service. Or am I thinking of the F and P?’

  ‘Foreign and Political Department,’ translated Hugo kindly, ‘the chaps who only had to keep breathing in order to end up with a four-figure pension and a handle to their names.’

  ‘Well anyhow, he was something big in some Indian State,’ said Fudge. ‘But he’s dead now, and she lives in a houseboat near Gagribal with Meril and a sort of dim companion-woman called Pond.’

  ‘And a very suitable name too, if I may say so,’ interpolated Hugo: ‘I have seldom encountered anyone
so damp as that female. If there is a breeze about, she ripples.’

  Fudge ostentatiously returned the cream jug: ‘Where was I? Oh yes. They live somewhere near Gagribal in a huge houseboat.’

  ‘Chiefly noticeable,’ said Hugo rapidly, ‘for the outsize telescope erected on the roof, by which means they are enabled to keep an indefatigable eye upon the misdeeds of the unwary.’

  Fudge giggled. ‘They used to spend a lot of time peering through it, and years ago Lady Candera tried to start a “Purity League” in Srinagar. She said that the goings-on she observed in other houseboats and passing shikaras were flagrantly immoral and should be stopped. She even tackled the Resident about it, and he apparently replied that he would consider taking action provided he could have a good look at the “goings-on” through the telescope first. She never spoke to him again.’

  ‘Poor Meril!’ said Sarah. ‘No wonder she looks so harried.’

  ‘Let’s go and sit up on the roof,’ suggested Fudge, rising. ‘There’s a moon tonight.’

  ‘Not me,’ said Hugo firmly. ‘I have no desire to waste my last leave in Kashmir scratching mosquito bites.’

  ‘Is it really that? Our last leave in Kashmir?’ sighed Fudge. ‘Oh dear! Somehow I can’t believe it. We’ve spent so many leaves up here. Do you suppose we shall ever come here again?’

  ‘No,’ said Hugo. ‘Unless, of course, the Amalgamated Brotherhood of Mangle Manufacturers, of whom you will by then be an unwilling member, come here for their Communal Workers-of-the-World Jamboree and Butlin Binge one day. Then, standing by the rows of cosy, communal, Comrades Dormitories, and gazing out at the Concrete Lido that will have blossomed by the lake, you will drop a tear into its medicated waters and murmur, “Ah me! How lovely it used to be when it was merely sewage!”’

  ‘Disgusting brute!’ said Fudge. ‘There was a time when you used to spend hours holding my hand in the moonlight.’