Barbara Cleverly (13 page)

She shivered. ‘But I think the dacoits learned the meaning of the word “Pukhtunwali”.’

Ť ^ ť

There was a silence filled only by the rhythmic creaking of the punkha. Kitty was lost in the horrors of the past.

While Joe gave her the time to order her thoughts and emotions, his own mind was busy absorbing the details and weighing the importance to his enquiry of the bloodstained events of that March twelve years before. He was forming no theories, making no judgements yet; he was simply taking in as much as he could of this series of alien and macabre events. This was often the way in cases that he had worked on. In the initial stages, a voracious acquisition of facts and impressions characterised his approach. He made no predictions, advanced no theories until he was certain that he had learned as much as there was to be learned about the crime. He knew the danger of constructing a neat explanation which could then be shot to ribbons by the late entry of a new piece of information.

And there was something about this, the first death of a memsahib, which tugged at his attention. He had devised his own theory, drawing on evidence from the rash of multiple murders which had shocked the population of Europe over the last fifty years, that it was the first killing of any series and the latest which were the most likely to give away the identity of the killer. The first murder, being the first, was inevitably the most amateur, the most sloppy, the most nervously executed of the crimes. If the killer went on to survive this undiscovered, he would improve his technique, take fewer chances, cover his tracks more expertly the second and third and fourth times. If his career continued to flourish he might become overconfident, feeling himself immune to detection, and by the time the police were investigating his fifth or sixth offerings, their acquired skill might just be the equal of his.

The killing of Dolly Prentice, being the first and by far the most convincingly accidental, was, Joe considered, the most significant. The pattern was like and yet not like the pattern of the subsequent killings. As in the other four cases there was the probably lethal presence of a native — in this the supposed dacoits. It occurred to Joe that not one witness mentioned actually having set eyes on a dacoit, though there were reports that the servants had seen them and been herded roughly out of the building by a gang of four or five armed men. Could someone — Prentice? — have hired them, lured them or tricked them into an attack on the bungalow? During his absence? And then have pursued them and got rid of the living evidence against him? Joe decided to rein in his imagination; no man would put at risk his wife, his daughter, his bearer and his household of devoted servants indiscriminately.

He turned back the pages of the album and looked again at the wedding photograph. Even from the sepia-tinted paper, Dolly sparkled with happiness and some other quality

satisfaction? Pride, perhaps? Was there a touch of the same emotion he had caught in the eye of an old tiger hunter in a painting in the mess — ‘See what a fine beast I have conquered’?

Joe looked at her conquest. Colonel, then Major, Prentice. Tall, athletic, commanding. Yes, a tiger. But he doubted that Dolly had her graceful foot on his neck. He remembered Kitty’s saying about marriage in the army — ‘Colonels must marry’. Was the man merely doing his duty for the sake of promotion? And Dolly, had she chosen the man or the station commander he would become? Had she been aware of his background, aware of his essential wildness?

‘You’re saying that Prentice, um, reverted to the code he was familiar with from his early youth

this Pukhtunwali

to exact retribution from the bandits who were responsible for his wife’s death? Would it still have such significance for him, after so long?’

Kitty lit another cigarette and considered his question. ‘Oh, yes, I think so. On the surface Giles Prentice is the pukka cavalry officer, punctilious, cold, arrogant, but I’ve always thought there was another layer to his character, something more volatile bubbling beneath the austere surface. And the Pathan code, well, it’s very — what shall I say? — very seductive in its simplistic, masculine way.’

‘Is there more to it than a duty of revenge?’

‘Yes. But not much. There is the duty of melmastia — that’s hospitality. It is expected that a Pathan will offer food, lodging, protection, even lay down his life to protect anyone who seeks shelter with him. Many British officers “take safe conduct” as the saying is. And come to admire the Pathan way of life while doing so. And secondly there’s the right of nanawati which means “coming in”. A Pathan has to offer protection to anyone who asks him for it, even his worst enemy. If a man comes to him with a tuft of grass in his mouth to indicate that he is subservient like the animals and with the Koran on his head, Pathans may not refuse nanawati. But the first and most important duty is badal — vengeance. Vengeance must be exacted for any injury done to the Pathan or to his family or tribe. He may wait many years before he accomplishes it — may even have forgotten the reason for it — but avenged he must be. There is a story — quite a recent one and I know it’s true because the incident was investigated by my cousin — that a perfectly innocent English officer was shot dead on the frontier by a tribesman. When he was asked why he had shot the officer who was unknown to him, the Pathan replied that his great-grandfather had been killed by an Englishman and he was taking revenge. “But after one hundred years?” my cousin asked, disbelieving. “One hundred years

yes

” said the Pathan, “perhaps I have been a little hasty.” And there are stories which tell of leathery old villains who have killed their own offspring when the code demanded it!’

‘So, in pursuing the dacoits, Prentice was avenging the death of Dolly?’

‘Yes. I’d rather not think about it but I would guess that’s exactly what he did. There was something so chilling in the intensity, the implacability of the man. He had a face of granite, an expression as fierce as all three Furies combined when he rode off on his punitive raid. But, then, you don’t have to be Pathan in your way of thinking to insist on your revenge. There were many British officers to encourage him. A burning bungalow, a burning memsahib, a terrified child, these woke fearful memories, you can imagine.’

‘Memories of the Mutiny?’

‘Yes. I was completely overwhelmed myself by the sight of a bungalow burning and I expect others of my age were too. I was what they used to call a Mutiny Baby. Born in 1857, actually in the residence at Lucknow. I knew all about the Mutiny. Our friends talked about it a lot of course and the destruction of the Prentice bungalow gave me quite a turn. I wasn’t the only person who said, “It’s all starting again”. There is always, just below the ordered surface of army life, the fear that it could all happen again. And remember, Mr Sandilands, that it was Englishwomen, army wives, who were the first victims of the butchery.

‘I had no bad feeling after the war until Peggy Somersham’s alleged suicide brought back memories, and the bad feeling returned with a vengeance when I counted up and realised that there had been five deaths on the station in March in succeeding years and I don’t think it had occurred to anybody else until Nancy started to question everything. And now here you are ferreting about like a stoat or should I say stoating about like a ferret? What’s your next move?’

‘I’m going to Calcutta,’ said Joe. ‘Next week. To see Harold Carmichael and Philip Forbes. With Nancy.’

‘Oh, yes?’

‘All right,’ said Joe, ‘I know what “Oh, yes?” means! Perhaps I should say we’re going in the Collector’s official car, driven by none other than Naurung!’

‘Impeccable chaperonage!’ said Kitty and she extracted a small gold watch pinned amongst the drapery of her bosom and studied it in a marked manner.

Joe laughed. ‘One thing we learn in the police is to take a hint! Thank you very much for many things and I’ll see you again soon, I hope.’

‘Sooner than you expect, perhaps, Commander. This afternoon if you like. People come to tea with me on Sunday. You could say I am “at home”. If it were known that the mysterious and handsome police sahib was amongst the cucumber sandwiches, part of the menu, you’d see a good turn-out. Anyway, that’s what you’re here for — or so I understood — to calm things down

to reassure the hysterical women that Scotland Yard has everything in control. You’d better be here. Bring your smelling salts! Five o’clock. Don’t forget!’

‘I shall be delighted.’ Joe rose to his feet, bowed, resumed his cap, saluted and turned on his heel.

‘Oh, Commander, there is just one more thing

’ Kitty called after him. ‘It probably is not of the slightest interest or importance but there is one rather odd thing I’ve noticed

’

Joe smiled encouragingly and waited for her to go on.

‘It’s the roses. They’ve appeared again. Oh, I know, you’ll tell me that every garden in the station is ablaze with roses and so they are but I’m talking about the ones in the graveyard. The crimson Kashmiri roses — well, that’s what I call them. I believe they’re actually a wild China rose that’s made its way through Nepal and Kashmir and down here to Bengal, Rosa indica minima, but I first saw them in Kashmir and that’s what they’ll always be for me — Kashmiri roses. They aren’t all that common. Dolly used to have one growing over her bungalow but, of course, that’s gone. There’s a good specimen in the Clubhouse gardens and I know Nancy has one or two but that’s about all. Most people are keener on growing the bigger, showier blooms, you know. Well, a bunch of them appeared on Joan’s grave and has done every year since her death. Nothing strange there but — can I be the only one who’s noticed this? — a bunch appears regularly, every March, on Joan’s grave, on Sheila’s, and on Alicia’s although there’s no longer anyone on the station who would remember them in that way. And, this morning at church, I saw that someone had put some on Peggy’s grave too. Now what do you make of that, Commander?’

The Bengal Greys’ idea of an appropriate Sunday lunch in summer was, inevitably, mulligatawny soup followed by jam roly-poly. Joe found this anaesthetic in the extreme although he had refused the jug of claret which appeared at his elbow, contenting himself with a glass of India Pale Ale. He feared that if he gave way and slept for the afternoon as every instinct prompted him he would never wake in time for Kitty’s tea party at five. He supposed that, conscientiously, he should be there. On an impulse he decided briefly to get away from the station and, calling for his pony, he went back to his bungalow and changed into jodhpurs and a shirt. He would take a distant view of the station in the hope that it might clear his mind.

He set off to follow again the mountain path that had been so fatal to Sheila Forbes. The sure-footed Bamboo made light of the crooked track, cantering easily upwards to follow the turns and finally arriving, as Joe thought of it, at the fatal corner. ‘How would I manage,’ he wondered, ‘if a naked saddhu bounced out from amongst the rocks?’ He was riding with a bitless bridle and would not have had much control but decided on the whole that Bamboo would be undaunted. And Joe had the advantage of two strong legs one on either side of the horse, perfect balance and years of riding experience. He glowered at the concealing rocks and fingered his crop, passionately wishing his enemy would make an appearance.

The path wound on and finally debouched in a little enclosure amongst the rocks, shaded by trees and watered by a stream. He could quite see why this was a favourite picnic place and made up in his mind an alternative ending to that unfortunate ride. In his mind he saw Sheila Forbes arrive breathless and triumphant, catching up the others and dismounting to join them on the grass in a sandwich and cool drink. Something to put in her next letter home.

Joe found himself consumed with rage, with a healthy hatred of the man who had persecuted and decimated this innocent group, who had plotted and planned and set up an ingenious series of cover stories and remorselessly watched while each of his victims had died before his eyes. He dismounted and looped his reins round a hitching-post obviously set there for the convenience of picnic parties and walked to the edge of the cliff looking down on Panikhat. ‘There’s my problem. Somewhere down there is my problem. Down there is a problem man. Perhaps he’s even looking up and wondering what I’m doing. Perhaps he’s afraid of me. I’d like to think he’s afraid of me.

‘ “ ‘I am Nag,’ said the cobra, but at the bottom of his black heart he was afraid.”

‘Oh, for God’s sake, let me be the bloody mongoose! Be afraid, whoever you are, you bastard! Make a mistake! Show your hand! Bring me some evidence, for Christ’s sake! Any little scrap will do. Something to hang an accusation on.’

He found that he had come to identify his adversary as a cobra. Not the common Indian cobra but a King Cobra, a Hamadryad, sometimes twelve feet long and who could strike from the bushes and kill unseen. He made for a rock and, feeling foolish as he did so, he thrashed the ground around it, not wishing to be the second to be bitten by a snake basking in the sun, and sat down, lit a cigarette and began to search the distant rooftops below, trying to identify Nancy’s house. His eye moved on to the large expanse of Kitty’s roof and he wondered what on earth he was going to say to Kitty’s assembled flock of nervous ladies. His task, it seemed, was to reassure but, far from reassured himself, he couldn’t for the life of him imagine how this was to be done.

A seasoned lecturer, he was accustomed to leading committees, forming opinion, getting his own way and, above all, moving things forward. People of all ranks listened to him, liked him and generally did what he asked them to do or believed what he was telling them. But he had to admit that he was at a loss as to what he was to say to this small group of women. Well-bred, polite and struggling to force down their panic, they would be only too ready to absorb any word of wisdom or comfort he had to offer. Joe sighed. He would far rather face a hundred sceptical and bloody-minded bobbies! But he had a part to play and though it was not one he had chosen he would give it his best attention and make sure he was prepared.