The Damascened Blade (15 page)

Joe was very surprised. He’d been in India six months, working with Sir George, before he’d guessed at Sir George’s ambivalent role in the government of India, a guess never articulated and certainly never confirmed.

‘Are you suggesting that good old Sir George is a . . . what shall I say? . . . a grey eminence? An unseen mastermind?’

‘Are you suggesting that you didn’t know?’

‘I’m not saying that,’ said Joe with irritation. He could not resist asking, ‘But tell me – who put such an idea into your head?’

‘Oh, come off it, Joe! No one
puts ideas
into my head! I figure things out for myself. Wasn’t difficult! “You want anything done,” my father always says, “you go straight to the top.” Well, in India, if you want anything done – forget the Governors, forget the Army Top Brass, even the guy in the feathered hat.’

‘The Viceroy?’

‘Yes, him. You go straight to the top of the pile and that’s where you find Sir George. He huffs and puffs. He tried to make me see him as a woofly old sheep dog but us Yankee girls – we ain’t so easy to fool! He pretends there’s someone above him he has to consult but there isn’t, you know. He’s not that
easy
to handle but he’s a straight arrow, I do believe. Good dancer too.’

In a flash Joe understood exactly why George had despatched Lily to the frontier. He could almost hear the words – ‘Ship the damn girl up to the Hills and set Sandilands to look after her!’ Buying himself a week’s peace and quiet in Simla. At Joe’s expense!

It was ten o’clock and the guard was just changing. Joe borrowed a pair of binoculars from a Scout standing down and handed them to Lily. She turned the glasses to the Afghanis encamped below on the football field. ‘They’re having a pow-wow,’ she reported. ‘There’s Iskander in the middle. He’s doing all the talking. They seem to like what he’s saying . . . there’s an awful lot of agreeing going on.’ She was silent for a moment then added, ‘There’s thirty men plus Iskander and they’re all armed. They’ve got . . . thirty-five horses with them . . . good-looking animals . . . and a couple of pack mules. None of them are saddled up so I guess they’re not thinking of going anywhere in a hurry.’

She handed the binoculars back to Joe and said thoughtfully, ‘You know, Joe, there is a reason why Zeman was trying to get up those stairs. He could quite simply have been trying to put some distance between himself and Iskander. He was going up to James or Grace for help in the knowledge that his friend had poisoned him and all that stuff about vomiting being unmanly was just moonshine. Needn’t have been arsenic. Could have been something quick to react that we in the West don’t know about. I expect they all know about poisons.’

‘It makes sense. And you say they were quarrelling in the garden. But what about a motive? Now there we’re stuck, I’m afraid. Who knows what’s going on in the ranks of the Afghani aristocracy? God knows what power struggles they’re involved in! “Inheritance powder” – there might be a clue in that but it’s a bit tenuous and how would we ever find out? I can hardly go down to the encampment and say, “I say, lads, what’re the odds on the succession now? Iskander shortened a bit in the night, did he? Where’s the stable money?”’

A more sinister thought occurred to him. Zeman was of the royal blood and, all would agree, a charismatic figure. There might well be a faction at court who preferred Zeman’s style to that of the Amir Amanullah. If Amanullah had found out it would have made good sense for him to engage a trusted lieutenant and someone close to Zeman to dispose of him discreetly, well away from the Amir’s sphere of influence. If his rival were to die of natural causes under the unbiased eye of the Raj that would be nothing but good news for Amanullah. And doubtless Iskander would have his reward when he returned home. Joe knew he ought to be sharing these thoughts and theories, collecting information from James. But there was something in James’s behaviour since the discovery of the body that Joe was not entirely comfortable with. His friend to whom he would entrust – and indeed in the past had entrusted – his life seemed, in some unseizable way, to have taken a step back from him. Joe decided to leave James out of his calculations and, meantime, Lily was filling the gap remarkably well. And pacing along with his unspoken thoughts apparently.

‘And why wait do it here in the fort? Is that significant, Joe?’ she asked him.

‘I think so. Yes. There are nine impeccable Western witnesses, some of them decidedly important and well-regarded people falling over themselves to prove he had nothing to do with it, that the death was entirely natural and unavoidable. Because the suspicion that Zeman had been killed by
anyone
while under the protection of James and through him the British Army could well lead to conflagration. We couldn’t even accuse Iskander if we were certain he’d done it – it would be a frightful insult to the Amir.’

‘What would he do about it?’

‘At the worst, he would do what Amirs have done before. Declare a jehad – a holy war – against the British. They’ve done it on much slighter provocation. He would rouse the tribes on this side of the frontier to join his Afghani forces, he might even call on a little Russian support. They’re already supplying him with bomber planes. The Scouts you see manning this fort are all related to the tribesmen in the hills; they are Afridi, Khyberee, Mahsud, Wazir, Khattack, and though they are very loyal and very brave – best fighters in the world perhaps – they are also Muslim and the strength of their faith might well override any army loyalty. Every village has a Mullah holding the Koran in one hand and a drawn sword in the other! Every fort along the frontier could fall to a concerted attack from without and betrayal from within.’

‘The frontier in flames?’ said Lily, remembering a phrase she had heard on so many lips in Simla.

‘The frontier?’ Joe frowned. ‘No, worse than that – the frontier today, the Punjab tomorrow and the rest of India would soon follow, Lily.’

‘There’s only one thing to do, Joe. Pull ’em in and give ’em all the treatment! Sweat ’em until someone coughs!’

‘Lily, what have you been reading? Dime novels? No, I can’t do that. So long as we can keep up the pretence of “natural causes” and all are content with that, the fuse remains unlit. If I start stirring about, expressing or implying doubts, then we’re lost. You too, Miss Coblenz! You must behave entirely naturally. Don’t go around searching rooms and looking sideways at people.’

‘Not even Iskander?’ she asked innocently. ‘Here, take a look! He’s coming back in.’

‘Right, let’s go and meet him, shall we? Ask politely if there’s anything we can do . . . see if we can establish what his plans are for the rest of the day.’

An extraordinary change had come over Iskander, Joe decided. He appeared to have taken over not only Zeman’s commanding role but elements of his personality too. Grave, as befitted one who had just lost his friend and countryman, he was no longer a silent and menacing presence but easy, responsive and prepared to answer questions. Yes, there was something they could do, he said. He needed to write up a report on last night’s unfortunate occurrence, perhaps Joe could point him towards a supply of writing paper? They walked with him to the library where Joe found and laid out sheets of the fort’s headed writing paper, pens, blotters and all he could possibly need.

‘The report will take some time,’ said Iskander, ‘probably the whole of the rest of the morning as I shall write it out in two languages. This afternoon I have arranged for my men to bury Zeman. There is, Commander Lindsay tells me, a small Muslim burial ground between here and the river, the remains, I understand, of the village which was razed to the ground to make way for the building of this fort. It will be entirely suitable to lay him to rest there. I think we must put off until tomorrow our return with Dr Holbrook to Kabul. Perhaps you would be so good, Sandilands, as to inform her of our change in plan and ask her to be ready to move off immediately after breakfast?’

Joe murmured his readiness to do this. Lily, obviously hunting for some way of establishing contact with him and finding nothing better said, ‘Tea? I’ll have some tea sent to you, Iskander.’

To Joe’s surprise he turned to her and gave her a smile full of grace and humour. ‘You are kindness itself, Miss Coblenz. I should be very grateful for tea.’

Iskander was grateful for tea three times in as many hours and all delivered personally to the library by Lily.

‘
What
are you up to, Lily?’ Joe asked impatiently, finding her coming for the third time from the library.

‘Just keeping an eye on suspect number one,’ she said. ‘It’s all right, Joe. He’s just doing what he said he would do. It’s taking a long time and there’s a lot of pen chewing going on. But I think I was pretty helpful. You do spell “autopsy” with an “s”, don’t you?’

She continued to keep him under her eye during the afternoon but from the distance of the wall of the fort. Joe joined her to watch the funeral unobtrusively. With distaste his eye took in the bleak Islamic cemetery, rocky and forbidding on a flat plain between two folds of unrelenting hillside, perpetually shaped and honed by the endless, searing wind. An empty plain covered with forgotten memorial stones on end. Memorial stones of all ages, some new, some hundreds of years old, some straight and true, others undermined by the wind and leaning drunkenly.

‘What a place to await eternity!’ thought Joe and his mind fled to England, to peaceful and ordered headstones, soft, dark earth, here and there a self-sown blossom tree, healing rain and caressive wind. To a Surrey churchyard:
‘The Rev. Simon Graham, who departed this life . . .’ ‘Dora, beloved wife of the above, who fell asleep . . .’ ‘Benjamin Elliott, aged six months, asleep in the arms of Jesus . . .’
According to legend they waited in joyful hope for their resurrection but who, in this horrible place, would wait in joyful hope – or hope of any sort? He looked at the shallow grave prepared for Zeman and remembered the style of that subtle and perhaps even romantic figure and, for a moment, Joe grieved for him. ‘I’d sooner be working with him than consigning him to this bleak and unforgiving stone yard!’

He cheered himself with the thought that warriors of Zeman’s religion were guaranteed eternal felicity in the arms of timeless houris and hoped it might be true. He said a silent prayer to any god who was listening and noticed that Lily also, head bent, was lost in thought or prayer.

Following the funeral, a very brief affair, the Afghanis returned and to Joe’s surprise Iskander approached James with the suggestion that some of his off-duty Scouts might be persuaded to teach the game of cricket to his men.

‘Of course,’ James replied. ‘There is in fact a game scheduled for this afternoon for your entertainment but I had wondered whether to cancel it in view of the sad event of last night. Your men are very welcome to watch and get the hang of the game and afterwards I’m sure the Scouts would be delighted to coach your chaps. That is if they are not too downcast by the death of their commander. I would quite understand if you thought they might prefer to spend the afternoon in quiet thought and contemplation.’

Iskander raised a quizzical eyebrow. ‘These are handpicked warriors as I’m sure you have noticed – a corps d’élite. They do not sit about quietly contemplating the sudden death of their commander. If they had some new activity, a competitive game to master, I think it would take their minds off the present sadness. And never forget, Major, that funeral games have a very long tradition! When our ancestor, Alexander the Great, passed through these hills two thousand years ago, his Greek soldiers would have done exactly the same to honour the dead.’

Joe was both impressed and amused by Iskander’s practical approach to leadership and settled down on the walls with Lily to watch the entertainment. They were joined by Eddy Fraser.

‘Not playing, Eddy?’ Joe enquired and Eddy held up a bandaged hand.

‘Stopped a lustful on-drive at short leg,’ he replied. ‘Are you interested in cricket, Miss Coblenz?’

‘I don’t know anything about it,’ said Lily. ‘Never watched it in my life, though I have a dim memory that it has to do with the winning of the Battle of Waterloo – or have I got it wrong?’

‘It’s taken very seriously in these parts,’ said Eddy, not at all taken in by her sly humour. ‘We recruit from the Afridi and the Mahsuds who do most things in friendly, well fairly friendly, rivalry and here they are confronting each other on the cricket field. I would have cancelled this but James’s orders are “business as usual”. It generates a great deal of heat between the two tribes.’

‘Here we are,’ said Joe, ‘in the middle of nowhere and two cricket teams turn out who might be playing in England to all appearances!’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Eddy. ‘This is serious stuff! Everybody in whites, everybody in cricket boots, stripy silk scarves round their waists! We have a little recreation fund which we milked to provide everybody with the appropriate kit. If you get into the eleven, you get the clothes to go with it. Bobby Carstairs – there he is – captains one side and Mike Burgoyne the other. I play when I can, so does James. I made forty last week but the men are developing at such a pace that I’m far from confident of my place in the side.’

‘I’m shaking with excitement,’ said Lily, drily. ‘Can’t you see? But you’ll have to explain to me what’s happening. It’s kind of like baseball, I expect, but I don’t know anything about baseball either.’

‘No reason why you should,’ said Eddy. ‘Both English games.’

‘My!’ said Lily. ‘Both English games! I don’t believe anybody in the States knows that.’

‘Probably wouldn’t believe you if you told them,’ said Eddy.

A Pathan and a Scouts officer tossed a coin together and took opposite ends as umpires. The opening pair made their way to the crease and the game began.

‘If I shut my eyes,’ Joe thought, ‘this could almost be any English village green on a Sunday afternoon. If I open my eyes, on the other hand, what do I see? A pitiless blue sky, sun shining down that would fry an egg, the boundary line packed with vociferous turbaned figures, wild applause and even a blast on the bagpipes after every ball!’