The Last Kashmiri Rose

Chapter Twenty-Six

Saffron sky to the east was announcing dawn as Joe reached the stables. Running a hand over his face, he realised that he was both bloodstained and unshaven and to any passer-by would look disreputable and suspicious. He did the best he could; quickly plunging his head into a stable bucket and taking a towel from a nail nearby, he cleaned himself up and revived himself. He had not misjudged his man. Walking rapidly, William Somersham, punctual to the minute, came in view.

He stopped dead at the sight of Joe.

‘Sandilands!’ he said. ‘You get earlier and earlier! What brings you here? I’m riding out. Won’t you join me?’ And, looking more carefully at Joe and taking in the bloodstains, ‘What’s happened? What’s happened to you?’

‘Somersham,’ said Joe, taking him by the elbow, ‘William, there’s something you have to know.’

At once the horses began to stir uneasily and sniff the air. A moment later the smell of smoke borne on the wind off the river reached Joe’s nostrils. ‘Come with me,’ he said and led Somersham to the door. The stars were dimming, the moon hung on the horizon ahead of them. Joe pointed down towards Curzon Street.

‘Look there!’

The river mist was now swirling, shroudlike, about the bungalow. As they watched, silenced by the eeriness of the scene, a denser whiteness began to flow from the open doors and windows.

‘Good God!’ said Somersham. ‘What is this? What are you showing me? It’s fire! Is that Prentice’s house? On fire? Again? What the hell’s happening, Sandilands? I can’t believe this!’

Transfixed, they gazed on as sparks began to shoot from the roof and a yellow flame began to lick its way along the edge of the thatch. The yellow flames turned to shooting sheets of orange leaping upwards and, with an exclamation of dismay, they watched as a blood red fireball burst out from the roof and hung momentarily over the house.

‘Christ! You know I’ve seen this before, twelve years ago,’ said Somersham. ‘Surely not again!’

The rapid clamour of a bugle shattered the silence of the morning.

‘We must go down there,’ said Somersham urgently. ‘We must run!’

‘No! No, William, please listen to me. I know there’s no one alive in there. There’s something you have to know.’

As they watched, with commendable speed a horse-drawn fire engine galloped up from the infantry lines, furiously driven by a bearded Sikh and followed by the Shropshire fire picket at the double.

‘Stay, William,’ said Joe, ‘and listen to me. The last time we spoke you asked if I was getting any nearer a solution.’

‘Yes, I remember,’ said Somersham. ‘You gave me hope.’

‘I can give you more than hope now. I have the murderer.’

‘Peg’s murderer?’

‘Not only your wife – Joan Carmichael, Sheila Forbes, Alicia Simms-Warburton and – but for the mercy of God – his own daughter. It was Giles Prentice.’

‘Prentice, you say? Prentice did these foul things? And he’s still alive?’

‘No,’ said Joe. ‘Dead. He’s dead. He admitted his crimes. He would have murdered his daughter. He was shot in the act.’

Dazed, Somersham turned around and went to sit down heavily on the straw bale.

‘Prentice!’ he said. ‘But how? And why?’

‘I’ll do my best to explain,’ said Joe, patting his pockets in vain. He held out his hand. ‘Give me a cigarette, shove over and I’ll tell you.’ He joined him on the straw bale.

Carefully he laid out the whole tale of Prentice’s iniquity concluding with the words, ‘Andrew Drummond said to me, “Find him. You find him and I’ll shoot him.” I found him, though perhaps more accurately he declared himself as such people often do, unable to believe that anyone could frustrate their purpose, but it was Nancy who shot him.’

‘ Nancy! And what now?’ said William. ‘ Nancy – is she – er – all right? Is she safe? What would this be? Justifiable homicide? I hope she’s not in trouble with the law…’

‘There would be formalities to be gone through, of course, but no, I don’t think she’s in trouble with the law. My concern is not for Nancy but for Midge.’

‘Midge?’

‘Prentice’s daughter, Minette.’

‘Of course, Midge. Poor child. But look here, I say, Sandilands, Prentice’s house is on fire. The evidence will be destroyed, won’t it? Does she have to know what happened? Does she have to know her father was many times a murderer? Wouldn’t it be possible to keep this knowledge from her?’

Joe hesitated a long time before replying. ‘William, you’re the only person in the world who could say that. I can’t bring your wife’s murderer to justice and keep the facts from Midge.’

‘Justice!’ said Somersham explosively. ‘If Prentice were alive, I’d find the means to bring him to judgement. Silly Billy Somersham would have found the strength! But as it is, Joe, for God’s sake – spare that child and for the rest, let pass the judgement of God.’