The Damascened Blade (12 page)

‘Edwin,’ said Grace patiently, ‘no one is accusing anyone of anything. We think Zeman died of natural causes, probably food poisoning. We have gathered here to try to establish what exactly it was that killed him.’

‘And we may as well start with you, Burroughs,’ said Joe. ‘You were ill in the night, I believe?’

‘This is embarrassing,’ snapped Burroughs, ‘and I can’t imagine how you know that or why you think it’s any business of yours to question me in public about my health but, if you must know, I have an ulcer – an ulcer which responds badly to certain types of food. It was particularly lively last night and I slept badly. I had no unusual symptoms.’

‘Can you tell us which of the dishes you ate? For elimination purposes.’

Burroughs looked a little put out and then replied. ‘Every dish except the curries. And I drank three glasses of champagne and one of the pink stuff – what was it? Pomegranate? If you say so.’

‘And the bismuth tablet,’ said Lily sharply. ‘Don’t forget that! Zeman had one too. You gave it to him.’

‘What was that? Madam! What can you possibly be implying?’

‘Joe, please.’ Betty’s voice, subdued but firm, cut into a potential clash. ‘I think we can cut this short. I’ve worked it out. It was the pheasant. The question remains, of course, as to how the pheasant was polluted – poisoned – infected – call it what you will. But the pheasant, I think, is the villain. The very thought of it makes me feel sick again!’

She pressed her handkerchief to her lips as she finished and anxiously Lily scrambled up to fetch a glass of water. Betty took some sips and resumed. ‘Zeman and I were the only ones to try Lily’s pheasant. Do you remember it appeared late in the meal when most people had eaten quite enough? I think I remember Zeman ate quite a lot.’ She looked to Iskander for confirmation. He nodded. ‘And I ate only a little. I was ill in the night as Grace may have told you.’ She raised huge eyes to Joe and said, ‘Do you think the meat was infected or did someone deliberately set out to poison Zeman? Or me? Us? All of us or someone in particular?’

‘No one,’ said Joe with more firmness that he felt. ‘It’s my opinion that this was a tragic accident. Think about it – no one could have predicted which of us if anyone was going to eat the pheasant (if that is indeed the culprit). The dish was simply presented and offered to everyone around the table. It was pure chance that Zeman and you, Betty, tasted it. Far more likely, in fact, to have been
Lily
– she shot the thing after all and we all think of it as “Lily’s pheasant”. All the dishes were available to be chosen in any quantity by anyone. It would be impossible to select a particular victim at such a meal. A calculated attempt to kill any one or all of us would have led to all the dishes or a substantial number of them being poisoned. That did not happen. We’ll proceed with the recording of each diner’s choice of dishes for the sake of form and thoroughness but I agree with you, Betty – I expect we’ll come down to the pheasant as the common denominator. And then, I think, it will be time to speak to the cooks.’

After ten minutes of queasy reminiscence all were agreed that the pheasant was at fault and the three Pathan cooks who were responsible for the feast were summoned. They came smartly in, Scouts uniform, stiff-backed, proud and not at all intimidated by the unusual assembly of guests and Afghanis. They agreed amongst themselves that the chief cook, Abdullah, would speak for all and James proceeded to interview him in Pushtu, translating as he went.

Abdullah pronounced himself overwhelmed with grief and rage to hear what had happened and hotly denied that there could be any abnormality of any kind in the food he had served. He demanded to know on what previous occasion anyone at the fort had suffered from eating dishes prepared by his staff. When James hurried to say, ‘Never, Abdullah, never,’ he continued. He asked to be allowed to send to the kitchens to seek for any remaining part of the pheasant so that he might eat it himself in front of them all to demonstrate that all was well with it. He had personally tasted the sauce.

‘And very good it was too, Abdullah,’ Betty interrupted. ‘I meant to congratulate you on it.’

A messenger was sent to the kitchens to hunt for any vestige of the suspect bird while Abdullah treated them to a list of every ingredient in the pheasant dish and the manner of concocting the sauce.

‘You say you tasted the sauce, Abdullah,’ Joe confirmed, ‘but I wonder if you actually ate any of the meat from the bird?’

‘Ah, no, sir. The bird, wonderful specimen though it was,’ said Abdullah with a polite bow to Lily, ‘was very largely unusable. Such was the accuracy of the marksmanship which laid it low, there was little undamaged flesh on the carcass which I could put into my dish. You will understand, sirs, ladies, that with wild game birds such as the golden pheasant only the breast meat is usually cooked, the remainder being too tough to be pleasant eating. And even the breast meat requires long and careful cooking which is why it was later than the other dishes in being brought to table.’

News was brought from the kitchens that the pheasant dish and the carcass had both been disposed of. ‘Thought as much,’ said James. ‘Abdullah keeps his staff up to the mark and their cleanliness and efficiency are legendary. Hot climate, you know – can’t take chances.’

Grace, who had been listening intently to all that was said, now interrupted, her fluttering hands revealing her agitation. ‘James! Iskander! This has nothing to do with kitchen management. I think I understand what’s happened. It should have occurred to me earlier! How could I have missed this? Well, I know how I could have missed it – it’s jolly unusual! Quite extraordinary! Fascinating in fact! I’ve known about it for years but I never thought I’d see a case! Oh, I’m sorry, Iskander – I’m letting my professional curiosity and surprise run away with me. Let me say again, I’m very conscious that we’re discussing the tragic death of your friend but I think you – we all – will be gratified and relieved to hear that there is no mystery here. I think it very likely that Zeman died of andromedotoxin!’

Seeing puzzled faces all around, Grace went on eagerly, ‘Andromedotoxin! It’s very rare. I’ve never seen an example before though I’ve heard and read of it. Tell me, Iskander – you would know – does a plant called the mountain laurel grow in these parts?’

Iskander listened to her description of the mountain laurel and nodded, giving the Pushtu name for the plant. James also murmured in agreement.

‘There! We have it then! The pheasant, partridge too, I believe, has the habit of feeding on mountain laurel which produces high levels of the poison andromedotoxin in its flesh. Anyone eating the pheasant will be, unawares, ingesting the poison.’

‘What are the symptoms of this poison, Grace?’ asked Joe.

‘Nausea, vomiting, dizziness and loss of balance.’

There was silence as all absorbed the evidence and finally Joe spoke, catching the eye of everyone at the gathering. ‘Would anyone, then, be inclined to disagree with the verdict, if this were a coroner’s court, of accidental death due to food poisoning occasioned by the consumption of an infected bird?’ Joe summed up.

Everyone looked at everyone else and all looked finally at Iskander. With dignity and taking his time, ‘On the evidence we have,’ he said carefully, ‘I think that is the conclusion we would all reach. A desperately sad occurrence but in no way sinister, an occurrence which none of us could have foreseen or prevented which took the life of my dear kinsman Zeman and very nearly the life of the Commandant’s wife.’ He turned to Betty and bowed graciously. ‘We must praise Allah that Mrs Lindsay survived and, indeed, that not more of us died.’

Everyone was nodding and murmuring in agreement and looking forward to escaping from the threatening atmosphere of the enquiry when there was a sudden commotion outside and a havildar stepped into the room. He addressed James who, puzzled and concerned, translated for the rest of the company. ‘We have at the door the poultryman, Achmed. He insists on presenting himself to the Commandant to give information. Shall we . . .?’

‘Oh, good Lord, whatever next?’ spluttered Burroughs in exasperation. ‘Does your laundryman have a view? Are we to hear the beekeeper’s suspicions?’

‘Send him in,’ said James firmly.

An agitated Achmed, flushed and quivering with excitement and in his dirty working clothes, had obviously run straight in from the farm. On receiving a nod from James he started his story in a flood of Pushtu. Stopping him for a moment after the first few sentences to translate, James’s face grew grim.

‘What’s he saying?’ Lily spoke for them all.

‘He’s telling us that the pheasant was poisoned. Arsenic. He’s saying it was arsenic.’

Chapter Seven

The Afghanis, who had followed every word, became even more alert at the mention of poison and began to exchange looks. Arsenic was well known to the Afghani aristocracy. ‘Inheritance powder’ was how they referred to it colloquially and its regular use kept a phalanx of food tasters in constant employ at the palace.

‘Go on, Achmed, finish your story,’ said James and the man, not at all overcome to find himself the centre of such concentrated attention, launched into the next part of his account. A dramatic raconteur, as with all his countrymen, he made the most of his evidence. James heard him all the way through to the end before translating.

‘Well, that would seem to put the tin hat on it!’ he said. ‘Achmed and his assistant have been troubled for some weeks now by these blasted pheasants who have been attacking our prize Leghorns. There’s a ban on shooting within the precincts of the fort and they came up with the idea of laying out doses of poison hidden in kitchen scraps. The poison comes in the form of rat poison: government supplies, control of rodents for the purpose of. Apparently their schemes have been unrewarded – plenty of dead rats but the pheasants appeared to flourish. Two days ago, determined to get the better of the pests, his assistant put out ten times the usual dose.’

Again there was silence as all took in the new information.

‘I would guess that Lily got him minutes before the poison did.’

‘If this has been going on for weeks without killing the bird (or birds),’ said Grace, ‘there will have been a buildup of arsenic in the bird’s tissues, culminating in a massive last dose. Oh, dear! Andromedotoxin? Arsenic? Which one? Without the necessary laboratory facilities we may never be able to establish which poison killed him. But the effect would have been the same.’

The Afghanis were nodding their heads in understanding and acceptance of this last piece of evidence delivered with such emotion and regret by Achmed. Lily also was looking utterly distraught, turning her eyes constantly to Iskander who avoided her gaze.

‘It’s not Achmed’s fault! Please don’t blame anyone but me. I think I should apologize to everyone,’ she said finally, unable to contain her grief and guilt a moment longer. ‘If only I hadn’t shot the wretched thing! Oh, why did I have to show off!’

Iskander was the only one in a position to offer any consolation and he hurried to do this, his voice grave and gentle. ‘Never forget, Miss Coblenz,’ he said, ‘that it was Zeman himself who encouraged, indeed who challenged, you to make the shot. It is the will of Allah and that is all there is to be said.’

‘And, indeed,’ said Grace kindly, ‘Zeman helped himself to the dish. As did Betty. He ate a larger portion than she did and this accounts for the faster onset of the attack and its greater severity, amounting to fatality.’

‘You were about to tell us before we came to the durbar hall,’ Iskander reminded her, ‘at what time you estimate Zeman died.’

‘Ah, yes, I was saying . . . the state of digestion of the food matter, the advance of bodily rigor, and the temperature of the corpse all point to the same time. I would say about one o’clock in the morning.’

Betty looked up sharply. ‘Oh, no! You’re saying that when you were attending me at three o’clock poor Zeman was lying there on the stairs? Dead or dying? It’s too horrible to think of!’

‘Already dead,’ said Grace. ‘Whatever else, we all saw that he did not linger for long once he embarked on the stairs.’

Iskander was looking at Grace keenly. ‘At one o’clock?’ he said. ‘Are you quite certain of that, Dr Holbrook?’

Grace hesitated for a moment. She always weighed her statements carefully and was for a moment put out by having her decision questioned. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘At about one o’clock.’ She added reluctantly, ‘It
could
have been earlier, I suppose, but not much. Between half-past twelve and one. Why do you ask, Iskander? Is there perhaps something you want us to know? Any further evidence you can supply to throw light on this tragedy?’

Iskander shook his head and remained silent. Collecting himself, he gracefully thanked her for all she had done, made further kind comments to Betty and Lily and announced that he would now withdraw with his men to make arrangements for the burial of Zeman.

Distinctly subdued, the company dispersed to the officers’ mess. As they trailed away, Fred Moore-Simpson was heard to say, ‘Damn sad. And damn mysterious too! But I think I speak for all and would say – I need my breakfast!’

Joe, who was bringing up the rear, found himself face to face with Lily who shut the door quietly behind the last to leave and rounded on him.

‘Commander,’ she said, ‘I have to talk to you where we may not be overheard by anyone.
Anyone
. I will come to your room in ten minutes’ time. Can you be there?’

She entered silently in her soft riding boots, took a quick look around his room and settled down on the only chair. Joe sat on the bed close to her but not so close as to intimidate her. Perhaps she had come, needing a shoulder to cry on; perhaps she was to reiterate her guilt but he didn’t think that was what she had in mind. There was something apprehensive and even furtive in her behaviour. It disturbed him.

She sat quietly for a few moments, chewing her bottom lip. She opened her mouth to say something, thought better of it and closed it again. She tried to meet his eye and could not. Her gaze constantly slid away from his and focused on her hands knotted with tension in her lap.