Barbara Cleverly (33 page)

Joe sat back on his heels and Andrew sat on the floor.

‘Well,’ said Andrew, ‘as you say, that says it all.’

‘Not quite all,’ Joe said. He held up the bloodstained exercise book and opened it at the last page. ‘This does say it all though.’

The writing was Prentice’s, cursive and carelessly sloping.

‘ “And the king was much moved, and went up to the chamber over the gate, and wept and as he went thus he said, ‘Oh, Absalom, my son, my son. Would God I had died for thee.’ G.P. 1910” ’

Ť ^ ť

Andrew closed his eyes in exhaustion and pity. He leant back against the charpoy and after a while reached out and took Joe’s hand. ‘Well done!’ he said. ‘You did it.’

‘Did it?’ said Joe bitterly. ‘God! What a mess!’

‘No one could have done more. I can think of no one who could have done as much.’

‘Prentice?’ said Joe. ‘What about Prentice? What can I think of him?’

‘Think this — that he was an evil man, a cruel and a deadly man and he’s gone to his reward. And as for Nancy — my wife! — well, by God, Joe, I’m proud of her! And think of something else — Midge is alive in this bloodstained house and that was where it was all tending.’

‘I didn’t do anything,’ said Joe. ‘Nothing whatever. I just let events unroll. And Prentice’s death — that was no doing of mine. And Midge is alive and that was no doing of mine either.’

‘Rubbish, man,’ said Andrew firmly. ‘You did everything! You got to her just in time. You worked it out. I saw that room — the bonfire. A few more minutes and he’d have applied the match.’

‘But what the hell do we do now? How can we find words to explain all this to Midge?’

‘We can’t leave Prentice here,’ said Andrew with sudden decision, attempting to get to his feet. Joe hauled him up and balanced him. Once he was steady on his feet Andrew took command. ‘Get hold of Naurung. We’ll carry the body back up to the house.’ He added with embarrassment, ‘I’ll make that an order, Joe. Carry him up to the house!’

‘We’re disturbing the evidence,’ said Joe. ‘He should lie where he was killed.’

‘For whose inspection, Joe? Yours and mine. You are the police representative appointed by the Governor to handle this and you are immediately responsible to me. I am the Collector of Panikhat. I am the Law Officer. Do I have to tell the world that the commander of a famous and distinguished cavalry regiment heartlessly killed four women — wives of his fellow officers — over a period, that he attempted to murder his own daughter and that he was shot to death by the Collector’s wife? How does it sound?’

‘Not the world,’ said Joe. ‘No, the world, perhaps, need not know but there is one person at least who must hear the truth.’

Leaving Andrew to watch over the body, Joe made his way back up the track to the bungalow and called Naurung. They set off down the garden together. With difficulty they carried Prentice and laid him on his bed. They looked down on him, on that bitter, vengeful face softened in death.

‘It’s a noble face,’ said Joe consideringly.

‘It’s the face of a devil!’ said Naurung hotly. ‘He deserved to die. Over and over again. Would that I could make him suffer as he made others suffer! God will not forgive him and I, Naurung Singh, will never forgive him! But now I understand what must be done.’

He took a box of matches from his pocket and lit a small lamp, setting it on the table beside Prentice’s head. By its flickering light, it seemed for a moment that, in death, that violent man was smiling.

Naurung turned with surprising authority to Andrew.

‘Now, sahib, I beg — go back to the memsahib and to Missy Sahib and take the Commander with you. Leave me here. I am in charge of the crime scene. I will go and sit on the verandah and wait for the morning. Perhaps I may go to sleep. People are notoriously careless when they are asleep. Especially after what has happened.’

‘Andrew!’ said Joe urgently. ‘Just reflect what you’re doing! The suppression of evidence

’

‘Oh, Joe,’ said Andrew with affection, ‘you’re eternally the Good Centurion! You know I’m right. Naurung — am I right?’

‘Yes, indeed, sahib.’ He turned to Joe. ‘Think of Missy. She will wake to a tragic accident. She will not wake to the bonfire, the bloodstains, the knowledge that her father is many times a murderer. I think for her, I think not for police procedures.’

Kitty’s prophetic remark replayed in his head: ‘There are the living to consider and to me they are more important than the dead. Perhaps even more important than the truth.’ A view so opposed to his own, so at variance with his training and beliefs he could not accept it. What could be more important than the truth? But perhaps he was asking the wrong question. Shouldn’t he be asking who could be more important than the truth? And the answer was clear and immediate. Midge was. Nancy was. Andrew was.

Without further question, Joe offered Andrew his arm and they set off up the dark street together.

‘Getting a bit old for this sort of thing! Long past my bedtime. Shan’t be sorry when we can get back to normal life,’ Andrew murmured between clenched teeth as he laboured on beside Joe. ‘See Bulstrode in the morning. Not now. Give Naurung a chance to tidy up.’

‘Things as they are at the moment, I think even Bulstrode might notice something out of the ordinary had happened!’ said Joe.

They paused at the end of the drive to the Drummond bungalow to give Andrew time to get his breath and both men looked up at the sky. It was the still moment before dawn.

‘Good Lord, we’ll be hearing Reveille soon,’ said Andrew. ‘There’s a lot to arrange. Funeral for a start. I’ll talk to Neddy about it. The Greys are very good at that sort of thing. Have to notify George Jardine, I suppose

Press announcement

I take it Midge is his next of kin. This is all up to me as her trustee and Giles’ executor

’

His voice muttered on. Already his official personality was taking over from the desperate participant in the bloody doings of the night. But Joe could not yet fight his way clear. He turned and looked back down towards Curzon Street. A white mist from the river was rising, curling its way through the garden wilderness and reaching out to the bungalow. ‘The Churel,’ thought Joe. ‘She’s come to gather him in. She will have her revenge for those innocent souls. God, I’m tired!’

They stood together for a moment, lost in thought. Finally Andrew said, ‘Come on, only a few more steps! Let’s get off the street. Too embarrassing to be seen out here together, covered in blood and gaping at the moon.’

Ť ^ ť

Saffron sky to the east was announcing dawn as Joe reached the stables. Running a hand over his face, he realised that he was both bloodstained and unshaven and to any passer-by would look disreputable and suspicious. He did the best he could; quickly plunging his head into a stable bucket and taking a towel from a nail nearby, he cleaned himself up and revived himself. He had not misjudged his man. Walking rapidly, William Somersham, punctual to the minute, came in view.

He stopped dead at the sight of Joe.

‘Sandilands!’ he said. ‘You get earlier and earlier! What brings you here? I’m riding out. Won’t you join me?’ And, looking more carefully at Joe and taking in the bloodstains, ‘What’s happened? What’s happened to you?’

‘Somersham,’ said Joe, taking him by the elbow, ‘William, there’s something you have to know.’

At once the horses began to stir uneasily and sniff the air. A moment later the smell of smoke borne on the wind off the river reached Joe’s nostrils. ‘Come with me,’ he said and led Somersham to the door. The stars were dimming, the moon hung on the horizon ahead of them. Joe pointed down towards Curzon Street.

‘Look there!’

The river mist was now swirling, shroudlike, about the bungalow. As they watched, silenced by the eeriness of the scene, a denser whiteness began to flow from the open doors and windows.

‘Good God!’ said Somersham. ‘What is this? What are you showing me? It’s fire! Is that Prentice’s house? On fire? Again? What the hell’s happening, Sandilands? I can’t believe this!’

Transfixed, they gazed on as sparks began to shoot from the roof and a yellow flame began to lick its way along the edge of the thatch. The yellow flames turned to shooting sheets of orange leaping upwards and, with an exclamation of dismay, they watched as a blood red fireball burst out from the roof and hung momentarily over the house.

‘Christ! You know I’ve seen this before, twelve years ago,’ said Somersham. ‘Surely not again!’

The rapid clamour of a bugle shattered the silence of the morning.

‘We must go down there,’ said Somersham urgently. ‘We must run!’

‘No! No, William, please listen to me. I know there’s no one alive in there. There’s something you have to know.’

As they watched, with commendable speed a horse-drawn fire engine galloped up from the infantry lines, furiously driven by a bearded Sikh and followed by the Shropshire fire picket at the double.

‘Stay, William,’ said Joe, ‘and listen to me. The last time we spoke you asked if I was getting any nearer a solution.’

‘Yes, I remember,’ said Somersham. ‘You gave me hope.’

‘I can give you more than hope now. I have the murderer.’

‘Peg’s murderer?’

‘Not only your wife — Joan Carmichael, Sheila Forbes, Alicia Simms-Warburton and — but for the mercy of God — his own daughter. It was Giles Prentice.’

‘Prentice, you say? Prentice did these foul things? And he’s still alive?’

‘No,’ said Joe. ‘Dead. He’s dead. He admitted his crimes. He would have murdered his daughter. He was shot in the act.’

Dazed, Somersham turned around and went to sit down heavily on the straw bale.

‘Prentice!’ he said. ‘But how? And why?’

‘I’ll do my best to explain,’ said Joe, patting his pockets in vain. He held out his hand. ‘Give me a cigarette, shove over and I’ll tell you.’ He joined him on the straw bale.

Carefully he laid out the whole tale of Prentice’s iniquity concluding with the words, ‘Andrew Drummond said to me, “Find him. You find him and I’ll shoot him.” I found him, though perhaps more accurately he declared himself as such people often do, unable to believe that anyone could frustrate their purpose, but it was Nancy who shot him.’

‘Nancy! And what now?’ said William. ‘Nancy — is she — er — all right? Is she safe? What would this be? Justifiable homicide? I hope she’s not in trouble with the law

’

‘There would be formalities to be gone through, of course, but no, I don’t think she’s in trouble with the law. My concern is not for Nancy but for Midge.’

‘Midge?’

‘Prentice’s daughter, Minette.’

‘Of course, Midge. Poor child. But look here, I say, Sandilands, Prentice’s house is on fire. The evidence will be destroyed, won’t it? Does she have to know what happened? Does she have to know her father was many times a murderer? Wouldn’t it be possible to keep this knowledge from her?’

Joe hesitated a long time before replying. ‘William, you’re the only person in the world who could say that. I can’t bring your wife’s murderer to justice and keep the facts from Midge.’

‘Justice!’ said Somersham explosively. ‘If Prentice were alive, I’d find the means to bring him to judgement. Silly Billy Somersham would have found the strength! But as it is, Joe, for God’s sake — spare that child and for the rest, let pass the judgement of God.’

Ť ^

The echo of the volley discharged by a Shropshire Light Infantry firing party over the grave of Giles Prentice died away and with it the rumble of wheels from the gun carriage which had carried him from his house to the cantonment cemetery. The clatter of hooves from the six grey troop-horses of Bateman’s Horse was silent at last and the serried ranks of Greys sowars — black mourning bands wound about their turbans — had tearfully dispersed to their barracks to grieve in private for the man who had brought them safely back from France. There were, at the last, some to weep for him, thought Joe. He watched as Prentice’s horse with muffled hooves and Prentice’s boots reversed and suspended on either side of the saddle was led away to the stable.

George Jardine’s Daimler with liveried chauffeur and footman waited outside Nancy’s bungalow. ‘I suppose I must go and talk to Uncle George,’ said Joe, ‘but not yet.’

But at that moment, ‘Joe!’ called George Jardine. ‘There you are! I have to go but just walk a few paces with me, will you?’

He put his arm through Joe’s and they turned aside from the crowd of mourners at the churchyard gate. ‘Don’t say anything, Joe,’ he said. ‘Don’t tell me anything. There are certain things I don’t want to know. “Death by misadventure” — that’s all I needed to hear.’

‘I was going to spend the day writing a report to you,’ said Joe.

‘I don’t want it,’ said George. ‘Let the dead bury their dead. And I’ll tell you — you’ve lifted a weight from this place. I feel it. All feel it. What more can I say? Congratulations, I suppose. So — congratulations!’

‘It was a mess,’ said Joe morosely.

‘Nothing like the mess it would have been if you hadn’t been here — never forget that!’

He started off back up the road to Nancy’s house but turned and said, ‘Oh, by the way, Joe — that box-wallah you and Naurung tracked down — the witness Bulstrode let go in the Peggy Somersham case — police finally caught up with him in Bombay. Wonderful invention, the telegraph! You were quite right, of course — March was the month he always visited Panikhat on his itinerary. Well spotted! Religious maniac apparently. And you spotted that too! I should think that by next week we’ll be announcing that we’ve got a confession. Wouldn’t be surprised to find he’s been responsible for more mayhem around the country. If anyone were to enquire. Eh? What? Wrap the case up and no need for panic next March. Should think there’s a promotion coming Naurung’s way, wouldn’t you?’

So cheerful, sincere and delighted was his large pink face that, for a moment, Joe believed him.

‘Well?’ said Kitty, taking the Governor’s place at Joe’s side.

‘ “The captains and the kings depart,

The tumult and the shouting dies