Barbara Cleverly (4 page)

Although the bungalows were of many different periods evidently, they all conformed to the same pattern. They each had a passionately tended garden within a dusty compound, thatched roofs, tiled roofs, even corrugated iron roofs, wide eaves and, on all sides, a wide verandah. Views into the interior as he went on his way revealed pyjama-clad men beginning their day, women in early morning deshabille, here and there children being got ready for the day or playing in the sun with attentive servants. In most gardens a water carrier was seeing to the avenues of pot plants that lined every entrance drive. Further reference to his notebook revealed that Dolly and Giles Prentice had lived at number 5 Curzon Street.

Walking on, a branch road set off to the right identified itself as Curzon Street. In 1910 there had been a substantial house at number 5 but now there was nothing. The plot was set apart from its neighbours at the end of the cul de sac, its rear open to cultivated fields and, Joe calculated, eventually to the river. And wide open to a night attack by dacoits, he thought. He made his way on to the abandoned site but his progress was hindered by the dense scrub and weeds which struggled across the place where Dorothy Prentice had died in the fire and where Chedi Khan had died holding her in his arms. Joe stood for a moment, feeling his way back to that disastrous night. He was not surprised that Prentice had chosen not to rebuild. Consulting his notes again, he discovered that Prentice, however, had not gone far away. The neighbouring property was now his, a large bungalow whose garden adjoined the scene of the old disaster.

But disaster seemed to be all around him. As he pressed on down the street, he peered more closely at little plaques attached to the gates of some of the older bungalows and shivered in spite of the warm morning when he understood what he was reading.

‘In this bungalow on Sunday the 17th of May 1857 died Mrs Major Minter and her three children, cut down by mutineers and their bodies thrown down the well’ read the plaque on number 1 Clive Street. At number 9, Captain Hallett of Bateman’s Horse had died ‘gallantly defending his wife and son from an attack by mutinous Sepoys. All were hacked to death.’

Who was it who had called India ‘The Land of Regrets’? He walked on and a turning led him once more back to the parade ground where the full heat hit him. He decided it was time to turn back. Two young officers trotted past, eyeing him curiously until, with a flash of recognition, one called out derisively, ‘If you want to know the time, ask a policeman!’

Joe was not in the mood to be patronised and favoured them with a repressive police stare, a stare he had perfected in dealing with recalcitrant fusiliers during the war and London’s criminal classes and even disrespectful police constables. He was pleased to note that it did not seem to have lost its force; under his level regard, both seemed abashed.

Resolving never again to step out into Indian sunshine without a hat, Joe turned back in the direction of his dak bungalow. By the time he reached it, military Panikhat had awoken to full and raucous life. Nailed boots marching formed a clashing foreground to the softer noises of the town and marching orders, familiar to Joe, were heard in an almost continuous stream.

‘Move to the right in fours! Form fours! Right!’

And, from a distance, ‘At the halt! On the right! Form close column of platoon!’

‘Good old army,’ thought Joe, ‘though what relevance this has to infantry action on the north-west frontier which is probably what’s waiting for these men, I can’t imagine. Probably pretty useful for Wellington’s army in the Peninsula and here they are, still at it! I’ve been out of the army for four years but I could step back in and form fours!’

He returned to the care of the bearer assigned to look after him. His bearer had decided that, on this his first public appearance in Panikhat, he should be in uniform. Pressed, folded and neat, his khaki drill lay on the bed. In the ghulskhana his bath was full, his towel folded over a towel horse.

The bearer appointed to him, his palms pressed together, greeted him. ‘Egg, bacon, sahib. Coffee. Jildi.’

Joe thanked him in English and, deciding it would be churlish not to wear the uniform put out for him, stepped thankfully into the bath which was neither hot nor cold and washed away his sticky night and his no less sticky walk. Breakfast appeared at astonishing speed and, assuming that someone would tidy his room, empty his bath, empty the large top hat-like contrivance in the corner which did duty for a closet, he decided it was not too early to embark on his course of obligatory calling.

He thought that the Police Superintendent should come first followed by the doctor, the Collector and, not least, the CO of the Bengal Greys who, by a small note on his table, had elected him an honorary member of their mess. A second note from the Panikhat Club told him he had been elected a member (‘for the duration of your stay’) of the Club. In both of these he detected the hand of Nancy Drummond.

Armoured against the growing heat by a standard issue British army pith helmet that some thoughtful soul had left in his bungalow, he set off to walk to the office of the Police Superintendent.

The Police Superintendent was cold, the Police Superintendent was resentful and far from pleased to see him. He was pleased enough not to have to deal with what he clearly believed to be a nonsensical mare’s nest uncovered — as he put it — ‘by the women’, though relieved to find, after a quick look at the medal ribbons on Joe’s chest, that he was dealing with, if not a soldier, at least someone who had been a soldier.

He looked Joe over, his sharp blue eyes cold and suspicious. ‘Don’t know what on earth you’ll make of this, Sandilands! And please don’t think it was any idea of mine to waste your time with it!’ he began almost without preamble. ‘Don’t want to pre-empt anything you may find out for yourself but, in my opinion, this is a lot of nonsense and even if it wasn’t a lot of nonsense, we’re looking at a cold trail. A very cold trail. If there’s the slightest thing I can do to help — though I can’t imagine what — let me know. For a start, we’re chronically shorthanded here. The Governor blandly suggests I put an officer at your disposal. Easy for him! I’ve assigned a police havildar to you. Naurung Singh. His English is quite good, you’ll find, if you don’t rush him. He served for a year as interpreter to a British unit and — well —’ he gave a chilly smile, ‘we haven’t got anybody else. He’s very ambitious and I wouldn’t recommend you believe everything he tells you. Tries hard to please, if you understand what I’m saying. I’ll call him in in a minute but in the meantime — where do you want to begin?’

Without giving Joe a chance to reply he went on, ‘Rather expect you’ll want to begin with the Somersham bungalow.’ He threw a key on to the table between them. ‘Take Naurung with you — he’ll show you around. Not that there’s much to see. It had pretty much been trampled over by the time I got there. I was out myself in the native town when it happened

’ He cleared his throat and stirred uncomfortably.

Joe waited in silence for him to carry on.

‘Bit of petty thieving going on. In the bazaar. By the time I got word of the unfortunate occurrence the world and his wife and his bearer had traipsed through. At least three people had handled the razor

Somersham himself was covered in blood, the whole household scurrying about yelling and in the middle of it all Mrs Drummond, cool as you like, taking photographs!’

‘Exactly how much cleaning was done?’ asked Joe.

‘Hot country, India,’ said Bulstrode, ‘as I’m sure I don’t need to remind you. No refrigerated units here for storing

er

cadavers. And you can’t just let blood lie indefinitely. To cut it short — I had to order the cleaning of every surface that had blood on it. Apart from that everything’s as I found it when I entered.’

Joe’s heart sank. A cold trail and a clean one. Deliberately cleaned? Nancy’s suspicions were beginning to chip at his objectivity.

‘I suggest you have a look at these,’ said Bulstrode, depositing a wad of papers on the table. ‘I haven’t had time to copy them — we can’t call on the squad of clerks I expect you’re accustomed to at the Yard — so for heaven’s sake don’t lose them. Documents relating to the other deaths the women are getting worked up about. I’ve put aside all the transcripts of all the police interviews in each case. Pretty formidable file, I’m afraid! And that’s something Naurung won’t be able to help you with — he doesn’t read English all that well. (He’ll have to improve if he’s going to get where he wants to in the force.) Ask him anything though — where to go, who to speak to, who to salute and who not to salute and so forth. Still, at least when you’ve read through these, you’ll be able to set the ladies’ minds at rest. Quell the clucking in the moorghi-khana

’

‘The

?’

‘The hen coop. That’s what we call the room the mems use at the Club. Humph! If they closed that down half our problems would disappear. Make life a lot easier. Anyway, Sandilands, they won’t listen to me, perhaps they’ll listen to someone who knows bugger all about it as long as he’s from London. Put your medals on, parade before them and tell them not to worry their pretty little heads — that’s all you need do.’

He realised his tone was degenerating into bitterness and added crisply, ‘I’ve put an office by for you, unless you can think of something better. Poky little place, I’m afraid. It used to be the stationery store. I’ve cleared it out for you a bit. There’s a desk, two chairs and a window. No telephone, but you can always use mine. Now, let me offer you a peg.’

Joe had resolved not to drink before midday but suddenly, insidiously, the idea of a whisky and soda was an attractive one and he accepted.

The Police Superintendent poured out two whiskies and handed a glass to Joe. He jangled a little bell and the door opened to admit Naurung Singh. Naurung was tall and commanding. Despite luxuriant whiskers, Joe guessed that his age was not much more than twenty-five. His police uniform was topped with a blue turban. He bowed without much subservience and smiled a smile discreet but friendly.

The Superintendent rose to his feet and spoke rapidly in Hindustani and said, ‘I’m going to leave you, Sandilands. Give you a chance to read your way through all this bumf. I’ll leave Naurung here so ask him anything you want to know. Oh, and by the way, you’ll be expected by the Greys for tiffin. One o’clock. Naurung will show you the way.’

Joe drew the bundle of papers towards him and gestured at Naurung to take a seat. The Sikh hesitated. He perched for a moment at the extreme edge of his chair, rose, unnecessarily, to adjust the blind and did not sit down again.

‘I shall have to find out who to salute and who not to salute,’ thought Joe, ‘but I shall also have to find out who to offer a chair to and who not to offer a chair to. Obviously, Sikh policemen do not get a chair. In the Met I can think of a number of officers who wouldn’t let a constable sit in their presence

Suppose it’s all one world.’

He settled himself to turn over the bundle of papers before him. They were of all sorts and sizes, written on all sorts of paper, some on privately headed writing paper, some on lined foolscap sheets with a government watermark. Some were in an educated English hand by men accustomed to the Greek alphabet, others were in the flowing and elaborate copperplate of Indian clerks.

‘Naurung,’ he said, ‘have you read these?’

‘I have tried, sahib, but I do not read English easily.’

‘Do you know the stories?’

‘I have heard them.’

‘Now, you’re a policeman with experience. The Superintendent thinks there is nothing suspicious, only a series of

’ He had been going to say ‘coincidences’ but he changed this and continued, ‘a series of chance happenings

a series of things that happened at the same time by chance. What do you think?’

‘I do not think it is coincidental, sahib.’

Their eyes met for a moment.

‘I’m going to like this man,’ thought Joe.

‘Tell me,’ he said. ‘We’re looking at five — possibly more — mysterious deaths over a long period. At least, there’s nothing particularly mysterious about the deaths — the only mystery is that they all occurred in the same month of the year. I can’t believe that Mrs Drummond is the only one who’s noticed this. Others must have said the same thing. Now, tell me, Naurung, what is being said?’

Collecting his thoughts while Joe was speaking, he said slowly, ‘They do not think it is a coincidence.’

‘Well, if we dismiss the chance of coincidence, what alternatives have we?’

‘What is left is what you would call foul play.’

‘So they are saying openly that it was foul play?’

‘Sahib, you ask me what people are saying and I tell you what people are saying. But there is a third explanation which many people whisper. I do not want to appear an ignorant black man — “natives are so superstitious” — I think that is sometimes said?’

‘Yes, I’ve no doubt that is sometimes said. But remember, I’m an ignorant London policeman — you can say what you want to me.’

Naurung looked acutely embarrassed and it was some time before he replied, saying finally, ‘Sahib, do you know what I mean by a Churel? No? A Churel is the ghost of a woman who died in childbirth. She haunts rivers and fords. Her feet are turned backwards so that she can lead men to their destruction. I say this but I do not believe it. They are vengeful spirits. People will say that a Churel seeks to be revenged on the mems of the Bengal Greys because of something — perhaps a long time ago — that happened. Because of a grievance she carried to the grave. A grievance that has not yet worked itself out. I tell you this because you ask. Me, I dismiss it as idle gossip. If you listen to all the gossip you will never find your way to anything.’

‘Listen,’ said Joe, ‘I’ll tell you straight away — I don’t believe in your Churel.’

‘I tell you, sahib, neither do I. But all the same, there is a link to the Churel through water.’

‘Water?’

‘May I remind you, sahib, that Mrs Somersham died in her bath, Mrs Simms-Warburton was drowned crossing the river and Mrs Forbes fell over a precipice and died on a river bank. It is not much but is there another connection?’