‘Would that the doctor who examined your friend Peggy had been as thorough!’
Immediately Joe wished the words unsaid. Nancy stared at him in horror.
‘Peggy? You don’t mean… Oh, Joe what are you trying to say?’
‘No, no – there was no sexual attack. I mean that the doctor failed to discover that she was pregnant. Not obviously so – I think she had only just found out for certain herself. She had been writing to her parents to tell them the good news. I found the letter. I gather she had not shared the news with you?’
Nancy was silent for a very long time, staring at her teacup. Tears began to flow down her cheeks and Joe, cursing himself out loud for his poor timing, passed her his handkerchief with a muttered apology.
‘It’s all right, Joe,’ she said finally. ‘There really isn’t a good or a right time to give someone news like that, is there? I was going to be shattered by it whenever you chose to tell me. And at least I’m sitting down with a cup of hot sweet tea in front of me! Carry on. I’m ready. I’ll mourn for Peggy and her child in my own good time… Now it’s more important to find out who’s responsible. What else does this tell us about him? Are you beginning to see further connections here?’
‘Two of the women were pregnant,’ Joe went on, taking her at her word. ‘But I don’t think we can count that as something in common because we have no evidence that the rest were. Unlikely, I should have thought. And just think – if you, her best friend, didn’t know, and her doctor didn’t know – there’s no mention of it in his records – her killer would not have known of it either. Unless she was killed by Somersham himself. But there is something in common with all the victims. They were well known to the killer.’
‘He knew them? Well? How well? How can you be sure?’
‘He is close enough to them to know their phobias. Think for a moment, Nancy. Everybody has a phobia of some sort. I have a phobia which I am certainly not going to disclose to anybody in India so please don’t ask me! Have you a phobia? And who in your circle would know that you had it?’
‘Yes, I have. And – yes, you’re right – everybody, I’m afraid.’ Nancy sighed. ‘But, really, I can’t see Bill Bulstrode or Harry Featherstone creeping up behind me with a spider to make me jump out of my skin! But I understand what you’re saying. If I were standing on the top of a ladder at the time it might be a different story. Anybody on the station with ears to hear that sort of gossip will hear it. The servants know everything and they talk amongst themselves. They talk to their sahibs and memsahibs. How do you suppose Kitty knows everything that goes on? That chaprassi of hers is a one man information bureau!’
‘So anyone, Indian or British, could have known about the phobias.’
‘Certainly. But why? If we knew why, we’d know who, wouldn’t we? There could be no reason why anyone would want to kill these women at all, let alone in this cruel way! We’re dealing with insanity!’
‘I think so too. But insanity on our terms. Not in the murderer’s mind. There is a pattern and a purpose to his crimes. These are not random killings for lust or robbery. They are cleverly planned and for quite some time ahead. They are planned by the kind of man who, on a Friday, selects the Friday razor to slit the wrists of his victim. A stranger or a native or someone hired to do the killing would have taken up the nearest. This man is European, I’m sure of that. I’m sure he knows his victims. I think he’s playing some kind of game we haven’t even guessed at and though he doesn’t want to be caught, he wants something else – acknowledgement perhaps? I don’t know. I’m still fumbling about in the dark! What I do know is that these killings are not the work of an Indian Jack the Ripper, an opportunist who prowls outdoors in a defined area and leaps on whatever prey comes to his knife. They are not the sequential killings for gain of a “Brides in the Bath ” Smith. So two of the strongest motives for killing can be ruled out.’
‘Goodness! Two! How many does that leave us to sift through?’
‘Only four.’
‘Suddenly I’m tired! Come on, Joe! Let’s go and meet my uncle. I could do with a cold bath closely followed by an iced drink and an evening of conversation that doesn’t include multiple murders!’
Chapter Twelve
They sat for a moment in the car on the Governor’s gravelled driveway as Naurung stepped out and opened the door.
‘Beautiful!’ said Joe. ‘Beautiful garden!’
He looked with pleasure on lawns that would not have been out of place in the Thames Valley, trees as old as the British Raj, a broad walk with a double flower border leading to a fountain. In the shade of a distant pavilion on a man-made hillock irrigation channels gurgled.
They stepped out of the car and at once the khansama came forward bowing and salaaming and offered a note on a silver tray. He was known to Nancy who greeted him as an old friend.
‘A note from Uncle,’ said Nancy in surprise and slit it open with her thumb. She read aloud: ‘ “Was so looking forward to our evening together and now, instead of spending the evening with you, I’m spending the night in a train on my way back from Delhi. Unable to get away any sooner. See you, therefore, tomorrow morning (my train gets in at half-past ten).
‘ “I’ve told them to put a bottle of Niersteiner 1916 on ice for you and there’s a good Chateau Lafite to go with it. I even made bold to order your dinner but as Bobagee seldom takes any notice of what I say, I won’t attempt to prophesy what will actually appear on the table. But, anyway, have a good evening and I’m sorry I can’t share it with you. Your affect. Uncle.” ’
They looked at each other… There was no question but that the same thoughts had occurred to both.
A liveried khitmutgar stood attentively at the head of the stairs and, salaaming from the shadows, the ayah emerged to take Nancy under her wing and bustle her off with much clucking sympathy while the khitmutgar led Joe up a flight of stairs. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Nancy disappear up a second flight of stairs and, with ironic amusement, wondered whether Uncle had deliberately sited them a decent distance apart.
To one accustomed to the dak bungalow at Panikhat, the room into which he was shown was a miracle of luxury. Marble floor, marble walls, fretted screen opening on to a wide balcony, a bed that would have slept four, a bath with actual running water and, in place of the top hat-like contrivance he had become used to, a genuine and unmistakable water closet with ‘John Bolding, London’ inscribed on it. The whole set within a mahogany seat in which was recessed an ivory handle inscribed with the words ‘Lift to flush’. On his dressing-table he found a further note which said in a slightly uncertain hand, ‘Dinner will be served at seven hours. This man will show you the way.’ Joe bowed to ‘this man’ who stood in attendance and allowed him to run a bath.
In preparation for his dinner with the Governor, Joe had on his way back up the Chowringhee called into the Army and Navy Stores and bought himself a white mess jacket and a dark blue cummerbund. He hadn’t the faintest idea what the appropriate colour for the Metropolitan Police would be but didn’t think dark blue could be wrong.
Shaved and bathed, dressed with the assistance of his appointed bearer, he surveyed himself in the long cheval glass. He was alarmingly agitated and excited at the thought of an evening alone with Nancy. Alone, that is, apart from the attendance of six or more khitmutgars. To collect his thoughts he stepped out on to the balcony, enjoying the sudden descent of the dusk and the evening wind setting in from the Hooghly River in the south. And, from long habit tucking a handkerchief up his sleeve and putting his cigarette case in his pocket, he followed his guide through the labyrinth of the big house. Down a flight of stairs, across a broad landing, up a further small flight of stairs and to a verandah with a wide view of the city. Through this and on to a balcony, lamp-lit and cool, a table laid with starched white linen and silver at which candles were being lit.