The Last Kashmiri Rose

Chapter Twenty

On the morning following the Manoli Dance, Joe woke to the conviction that he was getting too old for race-riding in the middle of the night. Stiff and unaccustomed muscles were reluctant to obey his commands and he sat up painfully with a groan, testing each limb in turn. His thoughts ran back over the incidents of the previous night and centred on gallant Bamboo, remembering with affection his convulsive diagonal jump over the drainage ditch. ‘If I’m aching,’ he thought, ‘what about Bamboo, I wonder? Not getting any younger either.’

He knew that the horse would have been in good hands but a temptation came over him to assure himself of this. Painfully he kicked himself out of bed, pulled on the first clothes that came to hand and stepped out into a silent Indian dawn. Silent, that is, except for distant sounds. A dog barked and the bark was picked up in faint chorus by others and died away into the distance. Somewhere a water wheel was turning with a rhythmic clank. A small child awoke with a cry, instantly hushed.

Joe stood for a moment savouring the calm of a windless day. As he watched, the first spiral of smoke from a cooking fire began to rise, melting into the morning mist which lay in parallel with the sleeping earth. The world was waiting for the day. Soon the cacophony of life in Panikhat would break out once more but, for now, in opalescent peace, Joe had the town to himself.

Pausing to collect a handful of sugar lumps from his breakfast table, he set off through the town to the stables. Enjoying as ever the breathing and the smell, the clicks, the rustle and the constant movement of the stables, he looked for Bamboo. On the one hand he saw the ponies – Bamboo was amongst them – and on the other, stretching seemingly into infinity, the greys of Bateman’s Horse.

Bamboo greeted him with a flattering whicker of recognition and noisily accepted four lumps of sugar, bumping with his head to search Joe’s pockets for more. Joe ran a hand over his legs and over his quarters, decided that his companion of the night before was no more the worse for wear than he was himself and at a sound turned to see the long figure and haunted face of William Somersham.

‘Sandilands!’ he said in surprise. ‘You’re an early bird! I usually have the place to myself at this time of day. Do the police always get up at this hour?’

‘No. Not always. Not even often. I wanted to make sure my old friend and adviser – ’ He slapped Bamboo on the rump. ‘- was none the worse for our efforts yesterday.’

‘Congratulations, by the way,’ said Somersham, sitting down on a straw bale and offering a cigarette to Joe. ‘Congratulations! I didn’t witness your performance but by all I hear you did well, brilliantly even. There aren’t many who can outride Prentice. To look at me now you wouldn’t believe it but I nearly won the Manoli Steeplechase once. Though I wouldn’t have confessed it at the time I don’t mind telling you – I nearly won it because I was run away with! Bloody awful horse! Bought it from Prentice. It nearly killed me. I was young in those days. Should never have bought the animal. It was vicious and dangerous but when the charming Prentice sets his mind on something, the sort of diffident young man I was in those days just gets carried away.’

‘Tell me,’ said Joe. ‘It was a long time ago and you may not remember but I’ve been thinking a good deal about the night of the Prentice fire. It may be relevant to my enquiry – and it may not – but even so, do you remember that evening?’

‘Obviously. I shall never forget it. But I don’t think there’s very much I can tell you.’

He appeared to wish not to continue the conversation and stirred uncomfortably.

‘You were one of five officers dining together in the mess that night,’ Joe persisted. ‘Did you know each other well? Was it by arrangement that you met?’

Somersham considered this for a moment. ‘Five of us were there? No, we didn’t know each other particularly well so it was by pure chance that we were there in the mess together that evening. The other officers and their wives had all gone off to a midnight picnic. So what you were left with in the mess was, I suppose, the social misfits of the day. Carmichael ’s wife was ill and had cried off. Forbes the MO stayed behind on duty and the rest of us, all bachelors, couldn’t be bothered. Funny sort of entertainment if you ask me. I suppose Jonno – Simms-Warburton – would have gone like a shot if Dolly Prentice had been going but everyone thought she was in Calcutta with Giles.’

‘Simms-Warburton was in love with Dolly?’

‘Weren’t we all to some extent! But Jonno more than most. In our different ways we were all captivated by her. She deserved better than Prentice. He was not liked.’

‘Not liked?’ Joe queried. ‘Wouldn’t you put it stronger than that?’

‘All right, Mr Policeman. He was cordially disliked. It wouldn’t be too much to say he was cordially detested. Many were frightened of him. I wasn’t of course, but many were.’

‘And yet I’ve heard it said that he’s much respected by the men?’

‘Oh, yes. Very popular with the men. And the natives, the Indians, of all sorts, they eat out of his hand. But the officers have never been able to get along with him. It’s impossible to be easy in his company. He deliberately sets out to offend. He had nicknames for all of us – I was Silly Billy Somersham – still am! But Forbes, the MO, was a special target. Bullied him, you could say. Seemed to think he wasn’t quite up to the standards of the regiment and was always having a go at him. No cause to do that. Chap was a perfectly good doctor.’

‘And what were his relations with Carmichael?’

‘ Carmichael hated him. They should have been at level pegging in their career but it was always Prentice who was one jump ahead. Hard to live with that.’

‘So what we have here is an impromptu meeting of the Prentice Appreciation Society? But what about the fifth man? Dickie Templar. Did he have cause to hate Prentice?’

‘Dickie Templar?’ Somersham barely seemed to recall the name. ‘Oh, Templar! Passing through on his way to the frontier. No. He’d been here all of two minutes. Shouldn’t think he’d managed to work up a hatred in the time. Dickie. He was the one who spotted the fire.’

‘Tell me what happened then.’

‘Well, what do you expect happened? The fire was spotted. Our horses were right there. We got on them and rode out to Prentice’s bungalow. We weren’t on duty, you know. I mean, no reason for us to investigate… no reason at all. The Queen’s were dealing with everything. Good fellows… did their best… but they couldn’t save the bungalow. They go up in no time at all. Thatch, weeks of hot weather drying everything out. Go up like matchwood. Not a hope. Bandits did it. No doubt about that. Never has been. Dolly never stood a chance. The guilty men were caught and punished, as you probably know. No, Sandilands, it’s no use raking about in the ashes of the Prentice fire to solve your mystery. It doesn’t compare with the tragedy of Peggy’s death. That I really do want to know about! Are you any nearer to knowing what happened to Peg?’

‘Yes,’ said Joe. ‘Very much nearer.’

With a clatter a pony was led out and Somersham excused himself. ‘I ride at this time every day,’ he said without further explanation, mounted and was gone.

On return to his bungalow, Joe was glad to see Naurung deferentially in attendance and greeted him cheerfully.

‘The sahib is about to eat his breakfast,’ said Naurung. ‘I will wait.’

‘You’ll do no such thing,’ said Joe, ‘and that is an order. I’ll give you a cup of coffee and you’ll come and talk to me while I have my breakfast.’

Reluctantly Naurung entered and, as gingerly as ever, took a seat on the edge of a chair while Joe lifted a cover. to reveal two perfectly poached eggs on toast.

‘Right. Now, tell me what you have turned up.’

‘The sahib asked me to discover what Superintendent Bulstrode was doing on the night of Mrs Somersham’s death.’

‘Had he an alibi?’

‘Yes, I have to tell you that he has an alibi.’

Something in his manner caused Joe to look up. It would have been impossible for the dignified Naurung to be wrestling with suppressed laughter, but that, it seemed, was what was happening.

‘I have informers, police spies perhaps. They are everywhere. Men and women. I have a small fund and out of this I pay for useful information. I let it be known, indirectly of course, that I was interested in the doings of the Police Superintendent that evening. I started my enquiries among the women of the town. You will understand that they know everything. Bulstrode Sahib believes that he conceals his tracks but I will say that this is not so. It would be impossible to do so.’

He paused for a moment and Joe said in encouragement, ‘Good, Naurung. Just what I would have done in London. What did you find?’

‘Acting on information received, and pursuant to your instructions, I am having the Superintendent watched. It seems that he often visits the Shala-mar Bagh. This is a disreputable, oh very disreputable house. And my information is that he often spends long times there and that he was indeed there for three hours at the time of Mrs Somersham’s death.’

‘Three hours is a long time in the circumstances,’ said Joe. ‘Not visited many brothels myself and things may well be different in India but I would have thought that for the needs of most, an hour would be enough?’

‘I thought so too,’ said Naurung. ‘And for that reason, on Thursday, I set off to follow the Superintendent myself.’

For a moment Joe was embarrassed as he compared Naurung’s assiduous pursuit of his duty with the self-indulgent way he had gone off picnicking with Nancy. But Naurung was not aware of any uneasiness and carried on with enthusiasm.

‘He looked at me. He didn’t recognise me.’ Naurung looked pleased with himself. ‘You yourself have said it, sahib, Indians are invisible to English people. I took off my uniform and put on Indian clothes. He looked through me. I wasn’t there. Bulstrode Sahib sees only a uniform, he does not see Naurung Singh.

‘I entered Shala-mar Bagh where I have never been before and spoke to the doorman – a great big, warlike Rajput. But less warlike when I offered him a rupee to look the other way while I entered. Bulstrode was nowhere. He had disappeared. Then I noticed a small door ajar and I opened it. It led me to a passage at the back of the establishment. I followed it to a courtyard I did not know existed, a pretty courtyard where several small children were playing and, at the far end, I saw Bulstrode going towards a house built into the wall. Two beautiful young Bengali girls came hurrying out to greet him and take him by the hand and then a large lady also appeared and greeted him.’

‘This begins to look bad,’ said Joe, shaking his head.

‘I thought so too, sahib, but then, when I was wondering what to do next, the small children who had been absorbed in their game heard the cries and looked up. They threw down their toys and ran to Bulstrode and jumped at him shouting, “Daddee!” ’

‘Good Lord! Are you saying…?’

‘Yes, sahib! I had discovered his secret! You will remember that Bulstrode Sahib put aside his Bengali woman when he married an English lady?’

‘Yes, you told me. And the memsahib went back to England, you say, with her baby?’

‘And so, he took up his Indian wife again. If he had ever really put her aside.’

‘Well, I’m blowed! Poor old bugger! Leading a double life all this time! How tiring! No wonder he looks so done in! And all the time dreading being found out, I suppose.’

‘Oh, yes, it would have been harmful – perhaps fatal – to his career if the Collector of the time had known about Mrs Bengali Bulstrode.’

‘And it begins to explain why he didn’t want anyone making incursions into his territory asking awkward questions about disappearing natives. I think we can put his odd behaviour down to self-protection and – let’s not forget this – sheer incompetence. He knew there was more to Peggy’s death than met the eye and his answer was to close that eye. And bury the evidence. With a neat label.

‘Ah, well. If we had anything so useful as a list of suspects, Naurung, we could cross off one name. But that was well done – very well done, indeed! And it is something we should, I expect, talk to the Collector about. I have other important things to tell him. Things I found out in the mess before that mad midnight ride. Things you must hear too, Naurung. Come on, we’ll stroll over and have a conference with the Drummonds.’

On arrival at Nancy ’s bungalow they were shown on to the verandah, where Andrew and Nancy were sitting over a last cup of coffee in deep conversation with Dickie Templar.

‘Joe! Good morning! Just the person we were hoping to see! Thought you might be having a lie-in after your heroic efforts last night!’ Andrew greeted him and Naurung with much good humour.

‘We have a house guest, you see,’ said Nancy. ‘I think you met Dickie last night, though you were so done in I’m not sure you will have remembered. We asked Dickie to stay with us… in all the circumstances,’ she added mysteriously.

Templar shook Joe’s hand warmly, spoke to Naurung in Hindustani and was about to say something to Joe when his attention was drawn – everyone’s attention was drawn – to a figure flying down the drive. Midge Prentice, hatless, shining black hair bobbing as she ran and dressed, improbably, in an old painting smock smeared with many colours, caught sight of them and squealed, ‘ Nancy!’

‘Oh, Lord! What now?’ muttered Nancy and got up to greet her.

Midge ran up the steps and, ignoring everyone else, threw her arms round Nancy in a storm of weeping, her pretty face congested and wet with tears.

‘Goodness me!’ said Nancy placidly. ‘What’s happened to you?’

‘Oh, Nancy! You won’t believe! Something awful’s happened! Oh, why did it have to be like this? I was so happy – everything was utter bliss – and now I’m miserable. Miserable! I’m very sensitive – everybody says so and a shock like this could kill me! Don’t laugh! It could! A doctor once told me I was emotionally fragile. Fragile!’

‘Well, I’m not sure I would pay too much attention to that diagnosis,’ said Nancy, ‘but why don’t you tell us what’s the matter?’

Andrew, composed, favoured Nancy with a broad wink. Dickie Templar, looking concerned but outwardly calm, eyed Midge with affection from which amusement was not absent. He went over to her, kissed her cheek, rubbed at a paint stain on her nose and said, ‘Good morning.’ Midge burst into further floods of tears.

Nancy sank down on to a long chair and Midge came and firmly sat on her lap.

‘It’s Daddy,’ she said, ‘and I hate him!’

‘You don’t hate him,’ said Andrew.

‘I do,’ said Midge and, turning to Nancy, ‘you’d hate him too if you were me. It all began when I told him that Dickie had asked me to marry him.’

‘Has he?’ asked Nancy, throwing a look at Dickie.

‘Yes, yes,’ said Midge impatiently. ‘A long time ago. Coming through the Suez Canal…’

‘What did you say?’ Joe asked.

‘Well, I said yes, of course,’ said Midge. ‘Didn’t I, Dickie? Straight out. What else would you say – “Oh but this is so sudden”? It wasn’t sudden at all – I’d known it was coming since Malta. But Daddy was horrid. Just as horrid as he possibly could be! “You’re far too young… You’ve only just left school… You don’t marry the first man you meet…” And then – what a beastly thing to say – “You’re just like your mother.” I want to be like my mother! She came to a sad end, I know, but that wasn’t her fault. It sounds as if she had a lot of fun. I want to be like her and I want to marry Dickie! Nancy, you and Andrew are my guardians. I know Daddy’s left me to you in his will, he told me so, so you’ve got to speak to him! It’s your duty!’

Tears began again. Joe looked at Dickie Templar with interest and their eyes met. He was wearing stiff Gurkha shorts, bare feet thrust into nailed sandals and a white shirt open at the neck. He looked, Joe decided, strong, brown, handsome and just what any girl aged eighteen would want to marry.

Dickie said, ‘Now come on, Midge, you took the poor man by surprise. I mean – for God’s sake – give him a chance! He hadn’t seen me for twelve years – I might be the biggest rogue in Christendom for all he knows and whether we like it or not, you are only eighteen and you have only been back in India five minutes. We must give him time. I love you. I won’t go away. I won’t say I don’t mind waiting because I do but I can bear it. You can bear it. We can bear it. We’ll be all right. I’m not daunted. “Faint heart never won fair lady”, you know.’

‘Oh, Midge,’ said Nancy, tightening her arm about her, ‘it sounds like the voice of sense to me. I’ve not had the chance to say it yet so I’ll say it now – I think you’ve got a good chap there.’

‘And I’ll add – don’t ruin everything by going off at half cock,’ said Andrew. ‘Diplomacy. That’s the only way. You’ll only alienate Giles if he thinks you’ve come telling tales to us. What’s he doing at the moment?’

‘He was showing me how to do silk painting. I was enjoying it. We were having a good time until he spoiled it.’

‘Well, I suggest you go straight back as though nothing’s happened, pick up your brush and start painting again. We, meanwhile,’ he indicated everyone present with a wide gesture, ‘will put our considerable skills to discussing your problem and finding a way to its solution.’

‘That’s an outstandingly good offer, Midge, when you look at the talent on show,’ said Dickie. ‘Go back, love, and reassure him. Listen to what he has to say. And, above all, don’t go throwing down any gauntlets that someone else will have to pick up. After all, he’s been waiting for his daughter to come home and she’s hardly unpacked her bags before she announces her intention of marrying an unknown Gurkha. You must allow him time!’

‘Oh, all right. I’ll do what you say, Dickie. But I don’t think he cares a button about me,’ said Midge morosely.