Joe considered this. ‘He speaks Hindustani well? That must be a help.’
‘Hindustani, yes, and fluent Bengali which is what most of the natives speak. Many of us who’ve lived here all our lives do, as a matter of course.’
A girl paused beside him to sip from his drink, extended her cheek for a kiss and went on her way.
‘Briefly then,’ Joe began, ‘this is where I’ve got to.’ And slowly his discoveries and suspicions began to unfold. Andrew Drummond listened with the closest attention, asked sensible questions from time to time and, as Joe’s account drifted to its close, he said:
‘Only one of the “incidents” took place in my time. We have the evidence of the photographs that Nancy took. The girl’s wrists! I’m not Sherlock Holmes, still less Sir Bernard Spilsbury the distinguished pathologist, but even I could see she could never have inflicted the wounds herself. Now, if we’re accepting the alternative, that is to say it wasn’t suicide but murder, we’re looking at a very clever fellow. A very clever murderer. He’d set this up with such care! He’s not going to make the foolish mistake of cutting the right wrist left to right and it occurs to my suspicious mind that this may be a mistake made deliberately to keep the police on their toes. To make sure that notice was taken. To draw attention to what he’d been up to. Keeping his head well below the parapet but there’s no doubt in my mind – he wants us to know he’s there! For some reason it’s important to him to announce his presence. What do you think? Could be so, couldn’t it? And, if I’m right, we could be dealing with an outstandingly nasty customer! Sandilands! Catch him for us! You catch him and I’ll shoot him!’
Chapter Eight
Sunday morning and Joe settled down to breakfast. A pot of coffee (excellent), two boiled eggs (perfect), chappatis (leathery), butter (tinned, he suspected, and slightly off) and the most solid, uncompromising pot of Cooper’s Oxford marmalade he’d ever seen. ‘Good old India,’ he thought.
As he finished dressing he heard the tinny clamour of a church bell. ‘Sunday, of course. Church parade, I suppose. That’s what I’m going to do this morning – set a good example for the honour of the Met. And, anyway, I might pick up some gossip. What was that woman’s name? – Kitty something or other, the doyenne of Panikhat? Perhaps I’ll make a formal call.’
As he buckled his Sam Browne about him, he checked his pocket to make sure he was equipped with calling cards and set off, swagger stick under his arm, towards the distant church.
Thunderously in step with a rhythmic clash of nailed boots and marching rigidly to attention, the second battalion of the Shropshire Light Infantry overtook him and preceded him into the whitewashed garrison church. They took their places, noisily securing their rifles in the racks provided. Joe remembered that since the Mutiny, where a very large number of people had been caught unarmed in church and massacred, British troops now paraded each with twenty rounds of ball, each with his side-arm.
A rather sanctimonious-looking sergeant in the Royal Corps of Signals, acting as sidesman, looked him up and down and showed him to an appropriate pew, probably accurately gauging Joe’s social consequence in doing so. If it wasn’t for the troops, if it wasn’t for the heat, if it wasn’t for the punkha beating overhead, he really might be in any suburban church in England. Automatically, he looked at the hymn board, read off the numbers and checked through the hymn book provided to see if he knew any of them.
‘All Hail The Power Of Jesus’ Name’, ‘There Is A Green Hill Far Away’ and – wouldn’t you know? – ‘Onward Christian Soldiers’. His customary church-going ritual complete, he looked round, seeing the haggard face of William Somersham, gazing at the dutiful faces of Greys officers, taking in the mutinous faces of British Other Ranks in serried rows and alighting with pleasure on the dark head of the Collector and, with an unseemly lurch of the heart, on Nancy at his side. The Collector also was scanning the scene and, as his eye lighted on Joe, he gently nudged Nancy and raised a stately but genial hand in greeting.
The chaplain preached inaudibly, the Shropshire Light Infantry sang uproariously, the assembled mems added their fluted accompaniment and Joe was out in the sunshine once more. His attention fixed at once on a recognisable and formidable female figure – Kitty, Mrs Kitson-Masters, conveniently standing talking to Nancy and Andrew Drummond.
‘Oh, Nancy!’ he thought. ‘Could we get a couple of horses, ride out into the country, take a picnic with us, find somewhere to swim? Dash it, it could be work! We could discuss the case, we could pool our thoughts…’
Settling his cap on his head, he made his way over to them and saluted. ‘Good morning, Collector,’ he said formally. ‘Good morning, Mrs Drummond. Did you hear me singing in harmony in “There Is A Green Hill Far Away”?’
‘Oh, it was you, was it?’ said Kitty. ‘I heard it! Haven’t heard that since I was at school! You should come more often. We’re short of male voices in the choir. There, I know who you are, or I would know who you are if the Collector would condescend to introduce us.’
‘I was,’ said Joe, ‘thinking I might do myself the honour of calling…’
She eyed him with a calculating and seeing eye, standing stiff as a ramrod, as would befit the widow of the Collector. A bearer stood beside her, parasol in one hand, hymn book, prayer book and service sheet and what Joe guessed was a bottle of smelling salts in the other.
‘Yes,’ she said in a decisive voice, ‘do that, Commander. Perhaps you would do me the honour of walking back with me? We must leave the Collector and his wife to do the polite. It’s usual after matins. Nancy, my dear, I declare, you get more the burra mem by the minute! I’ve always seen myself as the senior lady on this station but I’m going to have to watch out! You’ll never be as good as I was but you’ll always be a great deal prettier! Right, then, come with me, Commander!’
They set off together through the heat and dust. As they walked the call for sick parade rang out and Joe found himself automatically fitting the words to it:
Sixty-four, ninety-four,
He’ll never go sick no more.
The poor bugger’s dead!
And as they walked, they passed two British Other Ranks, by their pale faces obviously new recruits, hands on hips, disparagingly surveying Panikhat.
‘Panikhat?’ they heard one say. ‘Phanikhat… Phanicunt if you ask me!’
‘Could do with a bit of that,’ said the other.
‘Yer, a nice dog an’ duck! S’what we all need!’
Joe’s face remained impassive as they passed by in earshot. He wondered if Kitty had understood this and from the increased rigidity of her spine as she walked, he guessed that she had and liked her the better for it.
On arrival at her spacious bungalow, surrounded by the best gardens Joe had yet seen in Panikhat, a cascade of servants tumbled out of the door to greet them. A maidservant took Kitty’s hat and veil, her bearer handed over her church-going gear to another servant, a third set drinks out on the verandah and a fourth abjured a punkha-wallah to speed it up.
Kitty led him to a long chair. ‘I know why you’re here, of course,’ she began without preamble. ‘The station is divided, you know. Did you know that? Divided into those who think you’re wasting your time and wish you’d leave sleeping dogs to lie – this faction is headed by Superintendent Bulstrode, but I suppose he would think that. Anything you might turn up reflects unkindly on police procedures – and then there’s the other faction that think there’s been dirty work at the crossroads and this is headed by Nancy, under the benevolent eye of Andrew, of course. His eye is always benevolent where Nancy ’s concerned as I dare say you’ve already found. He lets her do pretty much what she likes. Wouldn’t have done in my day! But there… He was very badly wounded in the war. His game leg is a legacy of the second Battle of the Marne. I respect and admire him and I wouldn’t like anything sad to happen to him. He didn’t have to go off to the war. The Indian Civil Service was a reserved occupation but he’d served for a year or so with the Rajputana Rifles and was on the reserve of officers and they were glad enough to lure him away. With the wartime expansions they needed all the linguists they could recruit so Andrew went off to France and only just made it back again. He always says he owes his life to Nancy ’s nursing.’