The Damascened Blade

Chapter Six

Joe walked silently round the guest wing. ‘Past eleven o’clock and all’s well,’ he was tempted for a moment to call out. But only just ‘all well,’ thanks to that bloody fool Rathmore! Blast him! He could have provoked a fourth Afghan war with his jingoistic rubbish. Just the kind of thing to raise the sensitive prickles of Zeman and, indeed, the even more sensitive prickles of Iskander. To insult a guest was against all the rules of Pathan hospitality – against all the rules of Joe’s idea of hospitality too. Luckier than he deserved, than he even realized in fact, that Zeman had taken it so lightly.

Joe, James and Fred had stayed on with the two Afghans after the party broke up, James calling distractedly for brandy. Fred, bottle in hand, did the honours, pouring out with lavish hand glasses of a fine old cognac. Joe guessed that the generosity of Fred’s measures reflected the relief of the five men that they had been left behind by the civilians. He could not deny that he felt more comfortable in the after-dinner company of Zeman and Iskander than that of Rathmore and Burroughs. To Joe’s surprise both the Pathans accepted a glass of brandy. To Joe’s further surprise they were quite prepared to settle down and do what Pathans enjoy after a good meal: they proceeded to swap news and scandal and tell stories and even to have a laugh at Rathmore’s expense. Unexpectedly, Iskander gave an impassioned and hilarious imitation of Rathmore’s declamatory style. This broke any remaining ice and they all relaxed gratefully into the familiar unbuttoned comfort of an after-dinner officers’ mess.

So in the end, everyone had rolled away to bed in high good humour, beyond anything Joe and James could have expected. Accompanied by vigilant Scouts James patrolled the lower fort, Eddy Fraser the grounds, and it fell to Joe to check the guest wing. ‘Remember,’ James had said, ‘the frontier never sleeps,’ and, thankfully at last, his patrol complete, he had settled in for the night with Betty in the double-sized guest room on the first floor. Not much concession to marital comforts here! Two iron beds, two narrow mattresses, four coat hangers, two candlesticks, two candles, and two bedside tables. ‘No concessions!’ he had warned Betty. ‘Not even for the memsahib! We don’t want to get a reputation for having gone soft. This is a barracks not the Ritz!’ But his wife’s presence turned it into paradise. James had no yearnings for silk-clad houris reclining on damask cushions; Betty and an army issue blanket filled his world for the night.

Joe had seen that the defences were impeccable and he stood for a moment listening to the soft footsteps of sentries in their grass-soled chaplis on the walls above his head. Impeccable. Yes. As tightly controlled as one could wish. And yet the swift gleam of moonlight on a bayonet as a sentry turned awoke a sickening and well-remembered fear in Joe. For a dizzying moment he remembered that the fort was manned by over a thousand native troops, cousins of the very men against whom they were busily defending these walls. What held them and their loyalty in place? The handful of British officers? The King’s shilling? Joe leaned his back against the wall as the vertigo took hold. What the hell was he doing here? What was James doing here? What business did they have in this unyielding wilderness? Had he elected to join a mad picnic party on the slopes of a volcano? All his senses were crying a warning.

He calmed himself by reaching in his pocket for a cigarette. The scrape of his match against the box was enough to bring a hissed warning down from the wall above. ‘No, no, sahib! No smoking after dark!’ Joe grinned, his tension evaporating. No problems with the security of the defences but he remained uneasy, however, as to the internal safety measures. The fort was not designed to cope with trouble from within. But what trouble could there be? Joe only knew that he felt uneasy. He had learned to trust his instinct and never to dismiss a prickle of anxiety however subconscious, however unfocused. He thought carefully about each occupant of the guest wing and came to the conclusion that his anxieties centred on Rathmore. Arrogant, eager to make an authoritative impression for Lily’s benefit and even with a half-formed determination to put Zeman – ‘and any other blasted tribesman’ – in his place, Rathmore was troubling him. Had he learned a lesson? Joe wasn’t sure but at least Lily, his primary charge, was safely tucked up in bed by now and alone. Joe had called to her to be sure to lock her door and she had briefly opened it with a derisive smile and had said impatiently, ‘Don’t you worry about me, Joe! I’m perfectly well equipped to defend myself but – if it’ll make you feel easier… ’ And she had closed the door firmly. He heard her fumble with the lock and a last decisive click reassured him that in this at least she was prepared to take his advice.

‘Now what did she mean by that?’ he thought as he went along the corridor. ‘Ought I to have checked her luggage for a secreted Colt revolver?’ He remembered her remark about Wyatt Earp and the skill with which she’d shot the pheasant and he wondered again about Miss Coblenz. She was on the first floor also, between James’s room and Joe’s own. At the end of the corridor was Grace Holbrook. Well, for good or ill, there they lay in a row.

And, at least, all on the first floor were able to lock their doors. With the sudden influx of civilian visitors James had organized carpenters to fit locks to the guest wing rooms but supplies of ironmongery had run out when the first floor had been fitted and he’d decided to install the female guests – and Joe in his protective role – in the more secure accommodation upstairs. The gentlemen downstairs would just have to resort to the chair under the door handle routine if they were of nervous disposition, Joe thought with a smile.

He completed his patrol of the wing by checking on the ground floor rooms. Candles flickered under the doors of the first two rooms occupied by Zeman and Iskander. The next room was in darkness and silent apart from a stricken wuffle. Poor old Burroughs! Next to Burroughs an oil lamp was still alight and Fred Moore-Simpson was tunelessly whistling a selection from The Mikado. The room at the end of the corridor was Rathmore’s. Dark and silent. Joe hesitated. To disturb or not to disturb? Well, he deserved it!

‘Rathmore!’ he said, tapping on the door. ‘Is all well?’

‘Perfectly well,’ said Rathmore, adding impatiently, ‘Tea at seven. And the papers, please.’

As he passed the stairs to the upper floor a low growl broke out. Somebody had thought it a good idea to house the appalling Minto here by the door in a hastily constructed box. Joe detected James’s hand in this. He wouldn’t want to spend his precious time alone with Betty fending off Minto and Joe guessed that the animal had been banished from the bedroom. And not happy with the arrangement either, Joe thought, judging by the noises he was making. Joe bent down and tapped on the kennel.

‘Anyone at home?’

Minto swaggered out and made his annoyance clear.

‘Hey, it’s only me – Joe! Remember me? No, obviously not! There’s no need to be unfriendly, mate.’ Joe picked up Minto by the scruff as he spoke, scrubbled his furry chest and put him down again. ‘Back in your kennel! Sit! Stay!’ The dog looked at him malevolently. ‘Wretched animal!’ said Joe and he remembered that leopards in the hills were not uncommon and that they were known to fancy a snack of dog. ‘Any hope, I wonder?’ but he supposed the fort defences too strong.

Joe walked through the open archway and stepped into the garden for a few moments to clear his head before going to his own bed. It was a very private place enclosed on two sides by the guest wing and the now deserted entertaining rooms. A breath of cool air coming down from the mountains stirred the almond trees and blossom floated lazily down on to the dark pool. The only sound was the gentle gurgling of the piped river water constantly refreshing the swimming pool and for a moment Joe was tempted to throw off his clothes and plunge in. The icy touch of the water was just what he needed to wash away the anxieties and the uncertainties which were making his skin itch. Instead he breathed in the scents of jasmine and rose accompanied, as always in India, by a scent unknown to him. He wandered for a while amongst the roses and stopped to listen to the sudden song of a nightingale in the orchard beyond the wall, shot through by melancholy, aching to share this overpowering moment with someone close, his mind going back to just such an evening in a garden in Calcutta. ‘Nancy! Be well, Nancy! I’m thinking of you. Wretched girl!’

He trailed sadly back upstairs to his room. Stifled laughter and the sharp click of a key turning in the lock as he passed James’s door heightened Joe’s feeling of loneliness. ‘I shan’t sleep tonight,’ he thought. ‘Mistake to have that second brandy. Always makes me maudlin!’ But he was wrong and against all his expectations he fell straight into sleep. And into a series of disconnected dreams, dreams in which tribesmen jostled with London policemen and snatches of English rang out across the plaintive songs of the frontier. All at once, through this came a warning. Something had clicked him into instant wakefulness.

Dark night still outside and all quiet. All was quiet inside too. Or was it? A light shifted across the gap at the threshold and he slid out of bed and went to stand by the door. Carefully he opened it and peered through. Seeing two familiar figures moving quietly down the corridor, he stepped out. ‘Anything I can do?’ he called quietly.

James, holding a flickering candle, stopped dead and turned around. He did not smile or even speak, in fact he looked, Joe thought, distinctly put out to see him appearing in the doorway. James frowned, put his finger to his lips and hissed, ‘Shh!’ Grace Holbrook, following close behind, impressive in ancient plaid dressing gown and curlers and carrying a leather medical case, turned to Joe with a reassuring smile and said in a whisper, ‘No need to worry, Joe! It’s Betty. James came to fetch me but, you know – worried father-to-be! Her sickness has come back. Not surprising after that supper! Asking for trouble! Anyway I expect a little shot of Collis Browne’s Chlorodyne will do the trick! Night-night! And don’t worry! I’ll fetch you if it’s serious – James would want you close by, I think.’

Back in his room, Joe lit a candle and checked the time. Three o’clock. Poor old James! No wonder he looked so seedy! And poor old Betty. What bad luck to be struck down again just when she’d thought it was all over. Joe hoped it hadn’t ruined their evening. Betty had steered a sure course through the hazards of that potentially disastrous party and Joe was well aware that her grace, humour and foresight had kept hands off daggers and smiles on lips. Perhaps he would find a vicar’s daughter to complete his schemes when he got back to London. Yes, that’s what he would look for – a girl who knew what the rules were and who had the spirit to break them. Yawning, he waited for a few more minutes in case Grace needed him and then fell back into sleep and back into dreams. ‘Getting too old for the full Pathan Gastronomic Treatment,’ was his last waking thought.

He woke as the first note of reveille sounded and at once the early morning hush was shattered. Running footsteps hurrying on the stairs, doors that opened and shut, Indian voices calling anxiously, a wave of distress rolled upwards. Other voices, English and Indian joined in. There was the clang of a water pot being set down and nailed sandals clattered up the stone steps. Joe scrambled hurriedly into his clothes and went to the door. The bearer was standing outside James’s door banging loudly, wide-eyed and wailing desperately.

‘What’s going on?’ Joe said.

The bearer turned to him with relief and a torrent of Pushtu as, shock-headed and bleary, James unlocked his door and appeared, shrugging into his jacket, and together they looked down the stairs and at the chattering and wildly gesticulating bearer. James stood seemingly paralysed and at last shook himself. ‘Come on, Joe,’ he said. ‘Something fearful’s happened.’

The door of Grace’s room opened and she stepped out into the corridor, alert and ready for the day. ‘James? Joe? What on earth’s going on? Do you need me?’

‘Too late if what the bearer has to tell me is right,’ said James. ‘But come with us, Grace, will you?’

They hurried to the top of the flight of steps and looked down. Sprawled diagonally across the stairs, half-way up there lay a body, apparently lifeless. A brown hand was extended upwards as though appealing for help, a chestnut turban had come unknotted and spilled like a waterfall down the white stone steps. Khaki uniform, shirt and breeches, shiny boots and an unmistakable face turned in profile identified the man.

‘Zeman,’ Joe said, aghast. ‘It’s Zeman Khan!’

James, fully awake and taking in the enormity of the event, was the first to react as the politician in the soldier took control and he began quietly to give orders. Joe caught the name of Iskander. ‘We’ll touch nothing for the moment.’

Stepping carefully they moved down the stairs and knelt beside the body.

‘Somebody open the bloody shutter, for God’s sake! I can’t see a fucking thing! Oh, sorry, Grace! Forgot you were there. We’ve got a bit of bother here.’

‘So it seems,’ came the level voice of Grace Holbrook.

And the desperate voice of Iskander Khan: ‘Zeman! Is he badly hurt? Did he fall? When did this happen?’

He came from his room buckling on his gun-belt, already in uniform, and started up the stairs. Joe gripped him by the elbow. ‘We’ve only just found him… but – I can’t wrap this up – I think, and as I say it it sounds impossible – I think your friend is dead.’

Distraught and dangerous, Iskander looked from one to the other and back to Grace who broke the impasse. She took control at once. ‘He may not be dead. Move aside. I must see what I can do! Iskander, will you please approach with me?’

Iskander looked over her shoulder and James and Joe knelt on the stairs. Something caught Grace’s attention as she felt for his pulse at wrist and then neck. ‘He’s dead, I’m afraid, but – oh, good gracious! – look there – and there! Mind your feet and do be careful not to disturb anything, will you all?’

She was pointing to a trail of vomit which had oozed from underneath the body and dried on the stairs. Gently she turned the body over and a further gush of vomit flowed from his mouth. Iskander turned pale and looked aside to hide his distress. Silently Grace pointed to the trail which started at the door of Zeman’s room, continued up the stairs and ponded under the body. She resumed her examination, bending limbs, examining eyes, gently feeling his skull.

‘Why is he on the stairs? Where was he going?’ Lily’s voice, wavering and scared, came from above putting the question that had been in everyone’s mind. ‘And don’t tell me to go to my room,’ she added. Joe subconsciously noticed she was already dressed, wearing a brown divided riding skirt and a white blouse.

‘Could he have been coming to see me?’ said Grace. ‘Obviously taken ill in the night and seeking assistance. Any opinion on that, Iskander?’

‘I think you are right, Dr Holbrook.’ Iskander spoke automatically and slowly, as one shocked. ‘If he were taken ill he would have sought your help but only as a last resort. That is the Pathan way. He would not have come to look for me because I too am a man and a Pathan.’

Seeing incomprehension all around he elaborated. ‘Sickness like this is despised amongst us.’ He waved an impatient hand at the trail of vomit. ‘It is a weak and womanly thing. If you were unlucky enough to suffer such a thing you would suffer it alone and never draw attention to it. He must have been in fear of his life if he attempted to reach the doctor.’

‘That’s true,’ said James, and Grace nodded, her own opinion confirmed.

The poor, distressed body of Zeman and the sad evidence of a lonely and agonized death only filled the forefront of everyone’s mind. All realized that the body before them was more dangerous dead than it had been in life. It needed but one Afghan to shout ‘murder’, Joe thought, and the fort would explode. And more than the fort. There were considerations here – badal, melmastia, a whole melting pot of barely controlled emotions and compulsions. It would be impossible to mourn the dead man until the facts of his death had been established.

James stood for a moment, unable to move.

‘James, why don’t you let me deal with this?’ said Joe. ‘Get some help and we’ll take his body down to the hospital. Perhaps you would be willing to give it a proper examination, Grace? Would you agree to that, Iskander?’

Iskander thought for a moment and everyone was still, waiting for his reaction. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘certainly. I would, of course, much prefer simply to bury my friend but these are unusual circumstances, an unusual death. It is important for everyone to be clear as to how Zeman died. Dr Holbrook is the only one who can tell us this and she is trusted alike by you and by us. She is aware of our customs and religious observances and I am confident that she will honour them and show respect for the dead. But I would ask that three of my men be summoned to be present also. The Amir would expect it,’ he added. He moved with an almost ceremoniously protective gesture to put himself between the body of his friend and the rest of the company. ‘If you would kindly have a stretcher sent we will carry our kinsman down to the hospital. Meanwhile, I will guard his body.’

The body of Zeman was laid out on a table in the morgue of the hospital. He lay soiled and lifeless but commanding even in death. ‘What a bloody waste,’ thought Joe. ‘All his life before him. I liked and admired him. That man could have been my friend.’ Three wide-eyed Afghan officers briefed by Iskander stood solemnly in the background, watchful and suspicious, and Grace began her postmortem examination.

‘Now you do all understand that I am not a pathologist,’ said Grace, fixing on a pair of spectacles. ‘But I do appreciate that Muslims bury their dead very swiftly and if we are going to get to the bottom of the cause of Zeman’s death, I’ll have to do my best. Sir Bernard Spilsbury would find much to fault in my performance, I’m sure.’

‘Grace,’ said James, ‘he’s in London, you are here. You’re the best doctor in India and more importantly you’re the only civilian doctor for three hundred miles so go ahead. Our own MO here is a jolly fine chap, as you know, you trained him after all – and none better when it comes to treating bullet wounds and sunstroke but he’d be the first to say, “Let Dr Holbrook do it.” ’

Grace stripped away Zeman’s clothing with assistance from Iskander and began to work away patiently with a steady hand, giving a commentary on what she was doing in English and in Pushtu. She took the temperature of the body. She examined eyelids and lower jaw explaining that these areas would give the earliest and the clearest indication of the onset of rigor mortis but following this with the caveat that the relatively low temperature of the stone staircase would have delayed rigor. She asked her audience to mark the beginnings of hypostasis, pointing out the tell-tale pattern of staining which showed the points where his body had been in contact with the hard stone steps. They noted the livid bluish colour which had begun to gather at the waist and in the right buttock and thigh. Proof, as all witnessed, that his body had lain there where found for some hours and had not been moved from some other place and put on the stairs. She examined his limbs and torso finding no wounds, no puncture marks, nothing unusual.

Such an intimate examination of the body of their senior officer must have been unbearably stressful for the Afghans, Joe thought, but so extreme were the circumstances of the man’s death and so acute the need to know the truth, they watched on, silent and wary. And the whole thing was only possible thanks to the impersonal, efficient and thoroughly scientific procedure Grace was demonstrating.

Finally, a gruelling hour later, she was ready to sum up. Pointing to a white china dish which held a sample of the vomit taken from the mouth and throat she said, ‘Well, there you have it. The matter expelled consists, as you might expect, of semi-digested particles of the food Zeman ate at the banquet, poultry, rice, fruit and so on. I see no evidence of foreign matter but lacking the facilities of a chemistry laboratory that is as much as I am able to say. The state of digestion, as you see from the size of the particles, is not very advanced and this gives us an indication of the time of death. A time which is borne out, I may say, by the temperature of the body and the progress of rigor.’

‘But why Zeman?’ Iskander interrupted. ‘We all ate the food. No one else has been affected!’

James and Grace looked at each other in horror and each said, ‘Oh, my God!’

‘What? What are you saying? Who…?’ said Iskander.

‘She’s all right, Grace,’ James burst out, grasping her hand. ‘When I left her this morning she was sleeping like a baby and just as pink. She’s all right!’

‘I think you’d better tell us what happened in the night, Grace,’ said Joe. Turning to Iskander he said, ‘I think you should know. I heard a noise at three o’clock and woke. When I looked into the corridor Grace was going along to attend to Mrs Lindsay.’

‘James fetched me. And yes, it would have been at about three. I – we both – assumed it was a return of the sickness she’s been suffering from lately, aggravated, no doubt, by the unaccustomed rich food. She told me she had a stomach pain, had vomited and she had a high temperature. I gave her some drops of Chlorodyne and she began to feel better. I sat with her for half an hour and she fell comfortably asleep so I went back to my room.’

Echoing everyone’s alarm, James said, ‘Look, I’m going to send a bearer to knock up everyone who was at dinner last evening and check whether they’ve been ill in the night. Who’s left? That’s Fred, Burroughs and Rathmore. Lily, as we saw for ourselves, is unscathed.’

He gave orders to a Scout standing in attendance.

‘While we’re waiting… is there any other aspect we haven’t covered? Any other possible cause of this sickness? I’m trying to avoid saying the dreaded word… ’

‘It’s not cholera. No,’ said Grace firmly. ‘Nor yet dysentery. But you’re right. We’ve been concentrating on the internal workings. A poisonous bite perhaps from animal or reptile? As you all saw, there were no puncture marks on his body. A crack on the head will sometimes make you vomit, though perhaps not so… um… copiously. No sign of blood anywhere.’ She had already taken off Zeman’s turban and inspected his head but now she pushed her fingers gently into the thick black hair and palpated the skull inch by inch. With her fingers just beyond the right temple she stopped. She moved them slowly over the interesting patch again and sighed., ‘There it is! Nearly missed it. There’s an indentation. Three inches long and dead straight. Would you like to feel this, Iskander?’

He nodded and allowed her to guide his finger to the spot. He nodded again. ‘As you say,’ he confirmed.

The tension in the room was growing. The Afghan soldiers muttered to each other.

‘A crack on the head! That’s all we need!’ Joe thought desperately. ‘The Amir’s bloody cousin, son of the local Afridi bad boy, killed in suspicious circumstances while he’s under James’s roof, protected by the shield of melmastia. Killed by one of us! We’ll never get out of this alive! Grace, couldn’t you have kept your mouth shut?’

But Grace now had the bit between her teeth, the complete professional, absorbed in her task and, watched intently, she was busily shaving away the hair from the suspected wound. ‘There!’ she announced with satisfaction. ‘No wonder I didn’t spot it. No bleeding, you see, and very little distortion.’

‘It’s very straight,’ Iskander commented, his eyes watchful like a stalking cat.

‘Yes, isn’t it?’ said Grace apparently unconcerned. ‘As the skin has not been penetrated to any depth it was obviously not a blow from a talwar or sharp blade of any kind. The skull has not been crushed so it’s not a rifle butt or any of the blunt offensive weapons I expect you come across every day in your work, Commander.’

Joe caught the edge of something in Grace’s tone. She was appealing to him in some way. ‘The poor old girl’s probably feeling the strain of all this, though she hides it well,’ he thought. ‘It’s been a one woman show so far and she’s done it beautifully but she needs some help.’

‘You’re right, Doctor. Not the blow of someone attempting to kill him, you’d say. Just one blow and such an unlikely wound formation,’ he said. ‘In my experience of head wounds battering occurs. You find several blows on different parts of the skull delivered in uncontrollable rage or to make absolutely certain. And there are no defensive wounds visible, are there? I mean injuries to the hands and arms which a victim receives in his attempts to ward off the attack.’ He looked again carefully at Zeman’s hands and lower arms. ‘No scratches. Not even a broken nail.’ And then, ‘Good Lord! I know what this is! Iskander – Zeman was lying slightly on one side when we found him, wasn’t he? Which side? Do you remember?’

Iskander was ahead of him and broke in, ‘It was the right side. Like this.’ He demonstrated the position. ‘And Zeman’s head was resting across the step… like this. Are you saying, Sandilands, that he collapsed on the stairs and cracked his head on the straight edge? They are stone, those steps, are they not?’

‘They are, and very sharp-edged! I barked my shin on one while we were carrying the body around earlier. There you are!’ He rolled up his trouser leg and revealed a livid bruise across his shin. ‘Same sort of injury.’

‘Mmm… that has to be speculation though. Let’s take a closer look, shall we?’ said Grace.

Wretched woman! Did she never know when to stop? Joe wondered.

Taking a magnifying glass from her kit she peered over the wound, grunted, smiled with grim satisfaction, reached for a pair of tweezers and plucked out something invisible to everyone standing by.

Iskander knew what was required of him.

‘They’re doing a bloody double act,’ Joe thought. ‘What is going on?’

Iskander took the magnifying glass and held it over the end of the tweezers. He breathed out a gusty sigh. Of relief?

‘A flake of white stone,’ he announced solemnly.

The Afghanis queued up to examine it in turn, each sighing and nodding.

‘So,’ said Iskander with authority, ‘we are evidently looking at a death by natural causes. Zeman eats something infected at supper, leaves it late before he attempts to seek help, dies on the stairs and hits his head as he falls.’

One of the other Afghanis said something hesitantly and Iskander nodded gravely. ‘My friend is asking, Dr Holbrook, what are the possibilities that Zeman was poisoned? Poisoned deliberately?’

Again in two languages Grace began, ‘It is certainly possible. Even likely. For this reason we must gather together all who were at the evening meal and find whether anyone else has been affected. We must establish the course of the meal, exactly what he ate and drank. James, could we meet at once in the library? No – back in the durbar hall – it may help people to remember more clearly. It would be a good idea to have last night’s kitchen staff standing by in case we need to speak to them. And, Iskander, I would like your officers to be present at our deliberations.’

James gave instructions to his men, who hurried off. ‘I’ve said – in the durbar hall in ten minutes. Hope that’s all right?’

The hall when they assembled was clean and bright with no sign of the previous night’s party. Joe and James dragged a rug into the middle of the floor and, as the other six people arrived, directed them to sit where they had been the night before.

News of the death of Zeman had spread. Fred Moore-Simpson slipped into his place next to Iskander, briefly placing a comforting arm around his shoulder and murmuring, ‘Awfully sorry to hear what’s happened. Dreadful, simply dreadful! He was a fine man. Let me know if there’s anything – anything – I can do.’

Rathmore came in looking, Joe thought, shaken and apprehensive. Joe was automatically noting everyone’s appearance, not quite certain himself what he was looking for but taking in details any of which might at some later point need to be dredged from his unconscious. And there was something different about Rathmore besides his loss of cockiness. He was walking unsteadily. Yes, definitely favouring his right foot. Hardly able to meet Iskander’s eye, ‘James, Iskander,’ he said with a nod to each. ‘Shocking bad news. Food poisoning is what I hear? Hasn’t affected me, I’m pleased to say. Is that what you wanted to know?’ He sat down when invited to do so on the right of Iskander as before.

Pale and exhausted, Edwin Burroughs was next to arrive. He merely nodded and took his seat. Lily, arm in arm with Betty, was the last to come down. With a cry of concern, James hurried to lower Betty on to her cushion. Betty looked miserable, white and pinched, and she twisted a handkerchief in her hands in agitation. The three Afghani officers ranged themselves around the room, an ominous presence.

‘Well,’ said Burroughs, finding his voice, ‘is someone going to tell us why we’re here? Isn’t this where the chap from Scotland Yard tells us we’re all under arrest?’

‘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.’