The Damascened Blade (17 page)

If you fail to do your duty Lord Rathmore’s life becomes forfeit and his body will be delivered to the fort shortly after noon next Friday.

Joe and James read this hideous document through to its conclusion without a word and, having done so, turned back to the beginning and independently read their way through it once more. It was Joe who finally broke the silence between them. ‘This,’ he said, ‘is absolute balls! Iskander’s gone barmy! Don’t you agree? Nobody in their right senses could act on this and he must be told so.’

James sank into a chair. ‘You can’t dismiss it just like that, you know, Joe.’

‘I can and I do. The only problem is – how the hell do we communicate with bloody Iskander? We can’t just send a man with a chit, can we? He – by which I mean they – are over there!’ With a wide gesture he pointed to the circle of empty hills. ‘Somewhere out there.’

‘Well, as far as communications are concerned,’ said James, ‘it’s not such a problem. We send someone out with a white flag and our reply. He puts it under a stone and plants the white flag next to it and in due course you may depend someone, and we don’t have to know who, picks it up. It’s not a problem.’

‘Problem! said Joe. ‘It’s one bloody problem after another. Now look here, James – Iskander talks of inconsistencies. What inconsistencies? Have you any idea? You’ve got, if not an official autopsy, at least a sincere opinion expressed by a highly qualified source – Grace. I’m not prepared to just say, “Oh, dear,” and forget it. And if, for some reason, we reject Grace’s findings, we confront a more serious problem – “Who killed Cock Robin?” And how did they kill Cock Robin? “I, said the Sparrow, with my bow and arrow.” How likely is it that we are going to have a helpful sparrow step forward and tell us he did it?’

‘The fact remains that if we reject the autopsy, an important citizen, Afghani subject, was done to death while in my care. Iskander is perfectly correct when he says that if this fact became generally known, a blood bath would ensue which would follow all of us to the grave and beyond. I couldn’t be responsible for letting that loose. No,’ James attempted a smile, ‘in the circumstances, this is a pretty generous offer Iskander is making us. The solution he suggests would, in fact, defuse a nasty situation. There must be a victim.’

‘A murderer found guilty?’ asked Joe.

‘Yes, of course. Just that.’

Joe looked at him in exasperation, ‘Perhaps you could tell me whom you have in mind?’

James was silent. ‘Just leave it to me, Joe,’ he finally said.

‘Not sure that I can, old mate,’ said Joe, unhappy and fearful. ‘As I see it, you have two alternatives: first – and this is probably what any other commander along the line would do – is to heave poor old Achmed into the firing line. Or Abdullah, whichever is the more dispensable. I wouldn’t be surprised if that was what Iskander himself were expecting. No? Didn’t think you would, so we’re left with the second. You have a perfectly able Scotland Yard detective right here at your elbow. Make use of me! You’re running me in blinkers, James! Give me your support to investigate this shambles properly and find out if it was murder and if so who is responsible. A week would be more than enough. I don’t boast but it’s what I do for a living.’

‘No, Joe. Neither of your schemes is acceptable. And I refuse to discuss it any further. There is a third option and this is the only one available to me. Please take my word on that.’

‘Third option?’ Joe asked warily. ‘What exactly do you have in mind, James?’

‘There
will
be a victim offered up for execution at noon next Friday,’ he said, unable to meet Joe’s eye. ‘It will be me.’

The two men contemplated each other. Joe, angry and puzzled, looked down at James, chill and haunted. ‘This,’ said Joe, ‘is madness time. I can’t for a second accept what you say and see no reason whatever to do so, for God’s sake! Do you realize what you’re doing? At the dramatic – I would even say hysterical – suggestion of Iskander Khan, you seem prepared to set all evidence that doesn’t suit him on one side!’

He looked both anxiously and affectionately at his friend. ‘I can’t understand you, James! This isn’t like
you
. Unless, of course,’ he added lightly, ‘you know something I don’t . . .’ and he resumed, ‘What you should do is this – reply to Iskander Khan by whatever means recommends itself to you. A level and unflustered reply is what is called for. He speaks of “inconsistencies” – let him enumerate them. Say that if he’s not satisfied with the findings – as far as they’ve gone – the authorities here are quite ready to pick the matter up. You can mention my name if you like. We’ve been friends for years and you probably haven’t even noticed that I’m considered by some to be quite a star. Zeman had heard of me; Iskander may have heard of me. I’m sure that’s the proper way to play it. It wouldn’t be a good idea to ignore Iskander’s letter but it’s a bloody awful idea to accept this
Boys Own Paper
solution to the problem! See if you can get me some official status, James. Why not? Then I could deal with this as a proper police enquiry and we could, incidentally, drop the hint that as a preliminary to a measured police enquiry, we would expect the return of that damn fool Rathmore – and when you’ve got him in hand you can box his ears for having been so bloody inept as to get himself snatched! Be a man, James! You make me feel like Lady Macbeth! “Infirm of purpose, give me the dagger!”’

‘Dagger? What dagger? Oh, yes,’ said James miserably. ‘But it’s probably no use trying to send him a message. If he’s gone off back over the border, he’s out of earshot, so to speak. It’s my guess he wants to avoid any parlaying. He’s shot his arrow and wants no riposte. He’ll sit up there in the mountains, out of our reach, and come down to witness the execution.’ He sighed. ‘He’s got us sewn up! But I suppose we ought first to go and check on Rathmore. Iskander didn’t write this letter in the middle of the night seconds before they set off. He wrote it – and this chills the blood, Joe – yesterday morning when he was closeted in the library for three hours. He’d had a talk with his men, they’d chosen their hostage, planned this action and they put it into smooth operation hours later. I wonder how the devil they managed to get him away?’

‘And all that jovial bonhomie on the cricket ground was so much eyewash!’ Joe said bitterly. ‘All that chatter and joking was a blind. They were fixing the sentries using whatever pressure or inducements came to hand – I don’t know what – family ties, favours called in, gratitude of the Amir . . . And the sentries turned a blind eye or even helped with bundling poor old Rathmore out of the fort through the back gate. They had horses enough. Four spares, was it?’

They hurried along to Rathmore’s room on the ground floor of the guest wing and looked about them. ‘Bed hasn’t been slept in,’ said James. ‘Apart from that, nothing untoward, would you say, Joe?’

‘All his personal effects are still here,’ said Joe, checking the wardrobe and the shelves in the bathroom. ‘Slippers under the bed so he was wearing his outdoor shoes. I don’t have Rathmore’s wardrobe by heart so I can’t say for certain what he’d got on but I can’t see here the outfit he was wearing when he arrived – wasn’t it a sort of highly tailored colonial traveller’s outfit? Khaki drill with lots of pockets and leather patches on the shoulders?’

‘It was. So you’re saying that after supper he comes along to his room and chooses to put on not his dressing gown but a substantial suit and his walking shoes? Odd. Almost as though he knew he was going to be snatched!’

‘Well, expecting to go out for a night-time walk, anyway. That’s as far as we can go on the evidence,’ said Joe carefully. He walked over to the dressing table and examined the effects laid neatly and innocently out on the top. A pair of ivory-backed hairbrushes, silver comb, a shoe horn, a flask of Trumper’s ‘Eucris’ and a leather writing case. Joe opened the writing case and looked carefully at the contents. A few letters from England and copies of outgoing letters, a small diary with nothing of importance to Joe. An entry made for seven days hence told them that Rathmore was confidently expecting to be back in Simla. Unused envelopes, a writing pad, a fountain pen and two HB pencils made up the contents. Joe examined the pen. ‘Out of ink,’ he commented. Lastly, he took out the writing pad and held it at an angle to the light.

‘Well, sometimes you have a bit of luck! Look, there’s something here, James,’ he said. ‘Give me your torch.’

He shone the light at a narrow angle against the page.

‘What does it say – “Dear John, Pig gone. Soldier on.”?’ James managed a weak smile. ‘I see it. Indentations. Letters. From the page above. Must have been writing with one of those hard pencils for it to show through like this. Can’t make it out though. I say, is this all right? I mean, peeking at a chap’s correspondence? What’s he going to say if he ever finds out?’

Joe ignored him and took out his magnifying glass. ‘Got it! Well, one word at least and perhaps the most important. The first one, not surprisingly, while the pencil was at its sharpest. Look, you can just make out the heavier down strokes. And, if I’ve got it right, this word’s nearly all down strokes. And Rathmore would appear to be heavy-handed in this as in everything! Looks like L I L Y. He’s writing to Lily Coblenz! But why would he do that? He was sitting opposite her at supper, he could have said anything he wanted to say to her face.’

‘Not if it were clandestine in any way,’ said James. ‘Something he wouldn’t want any of us to overhear. Love letter? Oh, Lord, that’s all we need!’

‘Well, whatever it was, it must remain Rathmore’s secret,’ said Joe, ‘I can’t make out anything more. I wonder if the recipient of this billet doux will feel able to inform us? Let’s go and have a word with the lucky lady, shall we?’

He was remembering the scene at the door of the dining room the previous evening, the last time he had set eyes on Rathmore. Joe tried urgently to conjure up the expression on Rathmore’s face as he spoke to Lily. He had only had time to get out a few words before Iskander placed himself between them but his face had spoken volumes. Joe had not been able to interpret the emotion in that context but, looking back, he felt it had been one of triumphant complicity directed at Lily. Complicity. Joe, with a flash of insight, began to see how Iskander might have managed his conjuring trick – the disappearance of Rathmore. But did the conjuror have an assistant? Grimly, Joe decided he had a hundred hard questions to put to Miss Coblenz.

Their deliberations were cut short by the entry of Betty. Tense and pale, she stood for a moment, silent in the doorway. ‘Lily,’ she said. ‘I’m looking for Lily. Anyone seen her this morning? Anyone know where she is?’

‘Oh, she’ll be around,’ said James, ‘somewhere. With Grace maybe? Having a bath? I don’t know. You, Joe?’

‘I don’t know where she is,’ said Joe suddenly alert, ‘but I do know where she
isn’t
and that’s under my care. Oh, dammit! Bloody little nuisance! I’m getting a bad tremor out of this. Little earthquake about to happen? But – for a start – have you looked in her room?’

They ran upstairs to find Grace standing by the open door of Lily’s room.

‘She’s gone, James! Lily’s not there!’

Chapter Ten

With dreadful predictability a third pristine, unslept-in bed greeted them. James called for a havildar and ordered a complete search of the fort. Miss Coblenz was to be brought to him directly no matter where she was found or what she was doing. Betty and Grace went off to help in the search and, left alone in Lily’s empty room, Joe and James looked at each other in silent despair. They could no longer do other than accept the truth – that Lily too had disappeared at some unknown hour the previous night.

Looking yet again at Iskander’s letter although he knew every word by heart, James said, ‘He mentions
one
hostage. Rathmore. He doesn’t say he’s taking Lily and, as you know, Joe, that’s not the Pathan way. He wouldn’t harm or inconvenience Lily or any woman. Oh, hell! The trackers are out. Eddy’s gasht left ten minutes ago. I’ll run another one in an hour and another an hour after that. I’ll shake these hills until Iskander and his bandits fall out! For the moment, that’s all we can do, I think.’

‘Not quite all we can do, James, surely?’ said a confident voice from the doorway behind them and Fred Moore-Simpson stepped into the room. ‘I understand from Betty that our Afghan friends have bunked off in the night and you want them found? If there’s some urgency about it I can probably help.’

Joe and James looked at each other and Joe nodded. Briefly James laid out the problem for Fred and handed him Iskander’s letter, adding as Fred finished reading, ‘And as well as Rathmore they seem to have carried off Lily Coblenz, so all in all we have the makings of a situation with which these hills will still be resounding in a hundred years’ time.’

‘And, in the meantime, I expect you’re planning to fall on your sword, James?’ said Fred shrewdly. ‘I can see why you would. But look, we’ve got some days to play with and it seems to me – oh, tell me to shut up if you like – that we can attack this problem on two fronts. Firstly, we have to try to contact these brigands and that means locating them. You’re obviously doing all that you can on the ground but isn’t it time you moved into the twentieth century? What about a little air support? There are some spotter planes based at Miram Shah down in Waziristan. We could telegraph them via Peshawar and have a plane sent up. One pair of eyes can cover many square miles from a thousand feet, see things you can’t see at ground level. These planes are so small they could land on the football pitch here if you clear the goalposts – or the road, even the road would do.’

James turned an anguished face to them. ‘Now why the hell didn’t I think of that?’

‘Medieval thinking, my boy,’ said Fred. ‘Not surprising in this bloody medieval country!’

‘That would be a help indeed,’ said James. ‘Thank you, Fred! I’ll get someone to take you over to the communications room. The lines are still working – they at least didn’t cut the wires – and you can liaise straight away with Peshawar. Oh, by the way, I sent a signal to the fort at Landi Kotal – that’s half-way down the Khyber, Joe – to watch out for and detain the Afghanis when they try to pass through. Nothing seen of them so far but they’re going to wire us every hour on the hour with news or a nil return. But you mentioned two fronts, Fred?’