The Damascened Blade

Chapter Seventeen

Then your policeman’s imagination does not deceive you, Joe,’ Grace said lightly. ‘I’m glad about that. You say you “can’t imagine why”. Well, that could be because there is no reason why. I did not kill Zeman.’

Unabashed, she met his level gaze, rendered all the more penetrating by the sooty emphasis of his eyes, and said again, ‘I did not kill Zeman. But I’d really like to hear what you mean by “knowing how” I could have killed him.’

For the sake of peace on the frontier Joe would have kept silent – had, until now, kept silent, unsettling images from the dinner party still with him. He had a picture of Grace moving around the table to talk to Lily and occupying for a minute or two Zeman’s vacated place, setting his sherbet glass negligently to one side as she settled. She could easily have palmed a pill and Grace, so experienced in all practical matters pertaining to Life and Death, with a working knowledge of poisons, could easily have dropped it into the glass. It hadn’t been cyanide. In manhandling the body on the stairs Joe had come close enough to check that there was no bitter almond smell about the man’s mouth. The vomit also had been innocent of any betraying smell of poison known to Joe. And cyanide was an instant killer. Whatever else, it wasn’t cyanide.

With a start of horror Joe wondered what would have been the Amir’s reaction when it was revealed that his personal physician designate – both female and foreign – had done away with his kinsman, a trusted serving officer? If, as many thought, he was searching for the trigger for a holy war against the British, surely none better than this would ever offer? But Joe hadn’t dismissed the theory of a palace coup and he remembered flakes of what Iskander described as white cardamom being liberally sprinkled into Zeman’s tea and Grace’s voice, casual and authoritative, ‘Why don’t you all try it? It’s an excellent carminative.’ A cover for Iskander? So easy to put something besides the cardamom into his superior officer’s cup. Were Grace and Iskander conspiring? The only thing the unlikely pair would work towards together would be the preservation of the fragile status quo, he thought. Joe had liked Iskander. He thought him clever and reasonable with a sense of humour which appealed to him. Perhaps that had put Joe off his guard.

In a heavy police voice he took Grace through his suspicions and train of thought, feeling rather foolish in the face of her quizzical and only slightly exasperated reception of his account.

‘Good, Joe. Very impressive,’ she said finally. ‘But I can’t imagine why you didn’t tell me all this earlier. You shouldn’t have kept it to yourself. I could have helped you with it. I could have pointed out that there were a hundred ways of getting poison into Zeman at that party if anyone seriously wanted to. Lily, for example, drew everyone’s attention to the fact that Edwin Burroughs gave Zeman a bismuth tablet. Was it a bismuth tablet? How will we ever know? I didn’t examine it. Did you? And if you think about it, Burroughs has much more valid reasons for wanting to stir up trouble on the frontier. A full-blown incident with the Afridi at everyone’s throats would suit him, does suit him very well. He may puff and bluster and give you and James a hard time but when your backs are turned, believe me, there’s a nasty calculating gleam in his eye. Don’t be deceived – he’s delighted by the turn of events. And who’s to say he hasn’t had a hand in turning them! It’s no secret, I think, that Britain sank all its resources into that carnage in France. We’re stretched, Joe, for men and for cash. The administrators, like Burroughs, who hold the purse strings are quite desperate to retrench and this little corner of Empire is dashed expensive to maintain in a state of battle readiness. There are those who say that this sideshow is no more than a self-indulgent training ground for young army bloods who are determined to see a bit of action in the one remaining part of Empire where there is actually blood still being spilled.’

‘And it would be your suggestion that Burroughs eliminated Zeman to set in train a series of events so threatening as to allow the government to decide that a policy of retreat beyond the Indus would be the prudent step to take in the circumstances?’ Joe was aiming for a lightly quizzical tone but what he heard was heavy derision.

Grace turned a serious face to him. ‘Never forget that the third war with Afghanistan was a trumped-up affair involving a quarrel over the ownership of a garden, if you please! Your war began with the assassination of an Austrian Archduke in an obscure Balkans town. Peripheral to the main event you might say, the occasion and not the cause?’

Joe was silent, unable to challenge her.

She went on, now openly teasing him. ‘But I can see that you are not seduced by the idea of Burroughs as our killer. To be honest – nor am I! We were all passing plates around the table, helping each other to dishes that were just out of reach. Have you considered Betty? I saw her spooning out food for Zeman. Has it occurred to you that she could have faked her own sickness to throw suspicion on that wretched bird!’

‘Faked her sickness? Betty? Could she?’

‘Oh, come on, Joe! Every schoolgirl knows the trick of sticking a finger down her throat to bring on a vomitation. It can get you out of all sorts of situations you’d rather not be in – hockey lesson in January, tea with great-aunt Mildred… ’

Joe stirred in irritation. ‘But why…?’ he began.

‘Exactly! Why? Betty has the same motive as myself, which is to say – no motive! But while we’re at it, let’s consider Fred Moore-Simpson. Clever chap. Good strategist and quite ruthless. If he wanted to poison Zeman I think we wouldn’t be aware of the how. I certainly didn’t see him approach Zeman’s food or drink during the course of the meal. Did you?’ She looked up at him sharply. ‘But afterwards… after the ladies withdrew, I mean. What happened then, Joe?’

‘We all had a brandy or two – those of us who stayed on. That was me, James, the two Pathans and Fred… ’ His voice trailed away and Grace was after his thoughts like a greyhound.

‘And who dispensed the drinks?’ she asked.

‘We dismissed the staff – said we’d wait on ourselves and Fred took charge of the glasses and filled them.’

‘From a new bottle?’

‘No. It was about two-thirds full. It was in the cabinet in the durbar room.’

‘Did Fred know where it was?’

‘Yes. He went straight to it. Oh, all right! Yes, he certainly had the opportunity, but, no, Grace. Not Fred.’

‘I would seriously like to know, Joe, why you say with such decision “Not Fred” when you are perfectly ready to accuse me of this insanity?’

From some this would have sounded petulant. But not Grace, Joe thought. She sounded genuinely intrigued with – as always – an undertone of cynical amusement.

‘Well, again we come down to why, don’t we?’ Joe persisted.

‘You barely know Fred. Don’t be taken in by all that bonhomie! He’s ambitious and ruthlessly efficient. Perhaps I don’t need to tell you that any flyer who survived the war must have survival instincts coupled with a degree of luck to make the mind reel! There’s been talk of reducing the RAF drastically, axing the senior ranks of whom Fred is one. League of Nations-driven disarmament is the fashionable preoccupation; a stance that leaves Fred and his like, as advocates of gunboat diplomacy, finding themselves part of history. Now Fred is in the prime of life and has no intention of becoming surplus to requirements! An incident of this nature on the frontier to demonstrate in earnest how badly needed aerial reconnaissance or, even better, aerial proscription is, would play right into his hands. Instead of being sent back to a desk job in London for the rest of his air force life (which is on the cards) he now finds himself in an actively warlike situation requiring his special abilities and an extra squadron of bombers on the frontier. You saw as I did how he was relishing the developing situation. He’s already reaping the benefit of Zeman’s untimely demise.’

She paused and then added, ‘And it’s not only the Pathan for whom revenge is a compulsion. You remember what Hugh had to say about Fred’s nephew?’

‘Grace, this is barmy! You don’t think Fred killed Zeman!’

‘Of course not! Just letting my imagination run away with me. Now – there’s James. He was sitting right next to Zeman throughout the meal, he had access to the brandy… ’

‘All right! Enough! Too many suspects! Too many with motive and all with opportunity! We’ll have Fifteen Men On A Dead Man’s Chest before we’re much older!’

‘Yo, ho, ho! And a bottle of rum!’ said Grace.

They turned from the easy riding of the Bazar Valley, cutting off to the right, and began to climb into the hills. From now on all speech was to be in Pushtu. The Afridi have ears as keen as their eyes, Grace reminded him, and Joe was increasingly aware of scrutiny. Scrutiny from above and from either side as the track narrowed and began to rise steeply.

His spine began to trickle with sweat and he tried to subdue a shudder as he became aware of the eyes and possibly the gun barrels trained on his back. Which was the worse fate, he speculated – to be sniped at crossing a desolate Flanders field, his body never to be recovered from the enveloping mud, or to be blasted to bits by a jezail and left to desiccate on the hot stones of the Frontier?

Riding a few paces behind and knee to knee with Yussuf, Joe eyed Grace who was chatting easily with Aslam. A clever woman. A brave woman. What had he expected from his outrageous challenge? A confession? Probably not. The best he had hoped for was a sharing of the knowledge he was certain she had of the circumstances of Zeman’s death. Her answer had been evasive if not deliberately misleading. He had been half minded to share with her his evidence of faulty diagnosis to further unsettle her. He weighed the satisfaction of demonstrating to this confident woman that he was not the plodding policeman she had obviously marked him down as against the disadvantage of disturbing her when she was about to try to carry off the most enormous bluff. The next hour would test her resolve and her cunning to their extreme and Joe decided he could not pile on any greater pressure. Later. If there was to be any ‘later’.

The covert scrutiny abruptly turned to overt challenge. Two tribesmen appeared, blocking their track, and Joe was aware of riflemen on either side of the defile. Aslam shouted a response and two men emerged from behind rocks to return the greeting but Joe noticed they did not relax their vigilance. Grace added a pithy comment in Pushtu, apparently recognizing one of the Afridi as she called out his name. For once Joe could follow what was being said. It had been well rehearsed at the fort and the Pathan love of gesture, drama and joking repartee made all very clear.

Aslam began by exchanging brief but friendly greetings. He paused, waiting, relaxed and confident, to be waved on. He did not state their business but affected to assume the challenging guards were aware of it. Back came the questions as expected and with a touch of impatience Aslam told them to stop prevaricating and let them through. Time was short. There was a perceptible stiffening in the guards’ attitude and they again questioned Aslam. Eyes rolling with exasperation, he said, enunciating clearly, that the lady doctor had been summoned to attend the Malik and how come they didn’t know that?

The guards consulted amongst themselves and all declared that no message had gone out. A runner had come through yesterday morning with a message from the ferenghi fort but that was all. Were they sure they’d been summoned? Aslam, half in anger, half in joke, shouted at them. ‘You silly sods! You’ve been sitting up in those rocks so long you’re growing moss on your arses! The message came through to the fort at Gor Khatri. The Memsahib’s staying at the fort for a day or two before going on to attend the Amir Amanullah. She could do without this detour but as a favour to the Malik and because it sounded so urgent she agreed to come. The message came in the night. You buggers were all asleep – come on, admit it! Well, no skin off our nose – we can just turn round and go back. Just explain to old Ramazad why his medical assistance didn’t get through, will you?’

With a show of bad temper, Aslam began to turn his horse around. This was an uneasy moment. Joe could hardly breathe. If they failed now they would all be shot dead in seconds. At his side, Yussuf yawned negligently, spat in the sand and leaned over to pass a comment to Joe in Pushtu. Joe nodded, grimaced and idly began to pick his nose.

‘No! Wait a minute!’ The cry went up just as Aslam had predicted. But then something unexpected: one of the Afridi, apparently with a rush of insight, shouted at the others, his pronouncement accompanied by a loud guffaw. The others, understanding dawning, joined in his laughter, one of them counting ostentatiously on his fingers. It was evident to Joe that ribald jokes were being exchanged.

Yussuf leaned towards him and whispered, ‘Laugh with me, sahib,’ and, digging him in the ribs, they too appeared to be joining in a joke which was a total mystery to Joe. With a new sense of urgency and all smiles, the leading Afridi waved the two gunmen to come down from their cliffs.

While they were conferring together Grace moved her horse close to Joe and hissed an explanation. ‘What a piece of luck! I’d been thinking it was about time Allah, the All Merciful, took a hand and now they assume I’ve been sent for to attend the Malik’s new wife. (I hadn’t heard the old one was dead!) She’s due to give birth any day now they reckon. They’re actually fixing up an escort for us to get us through to Mahdan Khotal with all speed! God knows what we’ll say when we get there. I’ll have to play it by ear when the time comes!’

Lily had finally reached the end of what had been the longest day in her memory. Gently and firmly – with kindness even – she was escorted to the room that had been made ready for her and it was clearly explained that she should stay there and keep quiet.

‘What’s the good of that?’ Lily thought. ‘There’s no way in this world I’m going to sleep tonight. Everything’s happening all around me and I take no part. I don’t want to be here any more. I want to be back in Gor Khatri with people I understand. There’s a drama unfolding in this horrible place. Drama? A tragedy, more like!’ Her dismal thoughts were punctuated by the sound of lamentation from Halima’s room. Her cries had grown fainter and further apart and yet there was no one to whom Lily could turn to ask what was happening. Silently she made her way back to the main room and settled down on a heap of cushions by the window. She closed her eyes and fell instantly asleep.

She woke as swift-moving dawn broke once more, lighting the barren hills and sliding across the courtyard below, rolling back the shadows of the night. Lily jerked into full wakefulness as though she had never slept. She looked down on pacing figures in the courtyard and remembered why she was there at the window. She listened intently for noises from the next room and was relieved to hear a faint groan from Halima. At least she was still alive. Nothing then had changed in that long night.

She rolled over on her elbow and looked down on the rigid figure of the Malik who, it seemed, had not abandoned his silent vigil throughout the night. ‘What now?’ thought Lily. ‘Is there nothing they can do? Surely primitive women in a primitive tribal area know more about childbirth than anyone in the world and yet they seem helpless.’

The morning wore on. Women went in and out, their expressions increasingly sad and desperate. Down below a holy man joined the Malik and the two prayed together repetitively and with repeated gestures. The words were formal but the Malik’s anguish was manifest and Lily’s heart went out to that vengeful and violent man. Silently she added her own prayers to theirs. The children, she noticed, had all been sent away to play at the far end of the courtyard and Lily remained alone, anxious and frustrated as the hours crawled by. Finally, ‘I’m not going to waste another second,’ she decided. ‘I’m going to see what’s going on! At least I can sit with Halima for a bit. She may be surprised to see me. She may not even remember who I am but I think she might be glad to have me by her. It’s worth a try. I’m not going to spend another second in this room.’

She jumped to her feet but her attention was instantly diverted to a rattle and tumult from below. To Lily’s surprise, amidst shouts, the gate of the fort was creaking open as four men pushing the heavy timbers before them worked to admit a small cortège. Two Afridi tribesmen preceded a strange group of riders. Lily’s heart leapt as she saw that three of them were in Scouts’ uniform. She observed their approach with a spurt of hope. Perhaps they’d come to rescue her, to escort her back to the fort at Gor Khatri. Perhaps they would get her out of this alarming place. Perhaps a deal had been done. At least they represented something familiar. ‘Now I’m not alone,’ she thought.

The fourth member of the party was, on the other hand, completely incongruous and completely unfamiliar. A female figure. A female figure astride a horse. Surely that was unusual? She was dressed in red, veiled and in native clothes though she didn’t look like any of the native women Lily had seen since her arrival. This woman was short and stout and carried herself with some authority. She flung a leg over her horse’s head, jumped with surprising agility to the ground and began to fluff out her baggy trousers, calling out commands to her accompanying Scouts. Accustomed as she now was to the deferential attitudes of women in the presence of men, it was a surprise to hear and see a woman prepared to speak and speak loudly; a woman, moreover, to whom it seemed the Afridi were prepared to listen. Who could this be?

And at once Lily saw who it was. Grace! Grace Holbrook. Solid, uncompromising, organizing and efficient Grace! Grace who now turned and fixed her gaze on the Malik. The Malik, standing with the Imam by his side, looked from Grace to the Scouts and to the pair of his Afridi warriors who had escorted the small group into the square. He was speechless for just long enough. Grace hurried to greet him heartily and spoke to him in Pushtu. Such was his astonishment or his fatigue he could only reply in a hesitant voice, pausing to exchange dazed looks with the holy man. The exchange was very brief and Lily, with unspeakable relief, saw the Malik with a sweeping gesture invite Grace to accompany him to the harem. Grace took her medical case from the horse and followed him. Lily heard Grace begin to climb the stairs and ran to the door to greet her.

‘Oh, hullo, Lily,’ said Grace, ridding herself of her veil. ‘There you are! Talk to you in a minute. I think I’d better find out what’s happening here first. Just for the moment – be a good girl and get out of my way!’

She turned to address the assembled women crisply, firmly, unsentimentally. They all reacted in their different ways to welcome her. She went into Halima’s room where she remained for about ten minutes before emerging to say briefly to Lily, ‘Pencil and paper!’ before hurrying back inside.

This was Lily’s chance. She took a sheet of paper and a pencil from the table and at last was admitted to the sick room. The wax-like figure on the bed was hardly recognizable as Halima. Lily just managed to stifle a cry of alarm as she came to the awful conclusion that Halima was dead. But she must be mistaken – two women were gently smoothing her forehead and holding her by the hand. Lily tried to avert her eyes from the slopes of the enormous abdomen over which Grace was now working and wondered what to do next. Grace snatched the paper from her hand and started to scribble a message, talking to Lily in English as she wrote.

‘Lily, you’re to get this to the Malik right away! We’ve got a potentially lethal situation here. One more hour and we’d have lost them both. I have to operate.’

‘Do you mean… ’ Lily began, searching for the right word, ‘do you mean a caesarean? Is this a case for a caesarean operation?’ Such procedures were rarely talked of in Lily’s world and always in tones of horror.

‘Yes,’ said Grace, ‘it certainly is. But more than that – it’s serious enough for me to need the Malik to tell me whether, if it comes to the point, he wants the child or his wife to survive. In a few more minutes it may be too late to choose.’

Lily took the paper from her hand and, in what she could only imagine to be an acute breach of protocol, ran down the stairs in a swirl of drapery pulling on her veil as she ran, rounding the corners, racing down the second flight and out into the sunshine to the surprise of the watchman at the door, looking neither to left nor right, to the waiting Malik who turned on her with a searching look of blazing enquiry. Lily remembered at the last minute to look down and fold her hands in a gesture of humility while he read the note. The Malik held it and read. He read it again. He turned and gazed up at the sky. He looked up at the fretted window and sighed. For a moment he put a hand over his eyes and then turned to Lily and spoke almost apologetically.

‘Halima,’ he said.

Lily ran, taking the stairs two at a time and back into the room where Grace was working and the women were waiting. Grace looked at her steadily.

‘“Halima”. He said, “Halima.” ’

‘Hmm,’ said Grace. ‘These blasted people! I’ll never understand them! Now buzz off, Lily! This is where it all starts to get very messy and I can’t be doing with… ’

But Lily had already disappeared.