Barbara Cleverly - The Last Kashmiri Rose

‘Don’t we all?’ said Joe. ‘I certainly do!’

As the dance drew to a close, Midge seized his arm. ‘I’ve got something I want to tell you,’ she said. ‘And I want to tell Nancy too! Nancy! I want to tell you a secret! Come where I can talk to you!’

‘Well,’ said Nancy, ‘nothing like the Manoli Dance for releasing inhibitions. But even this early in the evening the kala juggah appears to be occupied. If you really want to tell secrets we’d better step out on to the verandah.’

‘Listen,’ said Midge, looking around to make sure they were not overheard and linking her arms with theirs, ‘I said – didn’t I – there was somebody?’

‘There was somebody in your life?’ asked Nancy.

‘Yes. Somebody in my life. If he can get here in time, you’re going to meet him! He’s driving down from Calcutta! All this way just to see me!’

‘Tell us some more,’ said Joe. ‘Tell us about this lucky chap. All we know so far is that he plays piquet and he’s your knight in shining armour!’

‘Well, for a start,’ said Midge, ‘he’s a Ghurka officer – I think I told you that – and to go on with, I met him on the boat. We both got on in Marseilles. You’ll love him! I do! But that’s not all. I’ll tell you something very odd. He didn’t tell me until we had got to know each other very well and then he did and I think you’ll agree that this is the most romantic thing you’ve ever heard! On the night of the fire – you know what I mean by the night of the fire?’

They both nodded. ‘We know what you mean by the fire.’

‘Well, on the night of the fire he was there! Not only was he there but they’d hidden me among some flower pots…’ She gave a deprecating laugh indicating how odd it was that anyone of her charm and sophistication should have been found in amongst a stack of flower pots. ‘… and he found me! He dug me out and looked after me. And he said on the boat – when we’d got to be very good friends of course – “That isn’t the first time I’ve kissed you.” Because when he dug me out he gave me a kiss and he’d never forgotten. “I knew I’d find you again one day,” he said. Wasn’t that a romantic thing to say? Oh, I do hope he gets here this evening! I know you’ll like him. I hope Dad likes him too.’

‘Are you saying,’ Joe began carefully, ‘that we’re talking about Richard Templar, at present an officer with the Tenth Gurkhas? And that Richard Templar is coming here this evening perhaps?’

‘Yes,’ said Midge happily, ‘that’s just exactly what I’m saying. Fancy your having heard of Dickie! And you must call him Dickie – everybody does.’ She smiled at Nancy. ‘It’s a surprise for Dad but I really wanted you to know first, Nancy, then you can help me to make him feel welcome.’

‘Oil the social wheels perhaps?’ said Nancy drily.

‘Exactly! Don’t you think it’s exciting? I do! I wonder what everybody will say? There! Now you know! I’m glad I’ve told somebody. I’m a bit of a flirt, I know. Everybody says so, I know they do. But there’s something a bit different about Dickie. He’s serious.’

‘There you are!’ came the cheerful voices of Easton and Smythe. ‘Found you both!’

‘Next dance is mine, Midge,’ said Smythe.

‘And the next dance is mine,’ said Easton to Nancy. ‘You’ll have to excuse us, sir.’

‘I’ll excuse you,’ said Joe, only too thankful to have a moment to digest the information he had just received and to calculate its possible consequences. He turned to stare through the window into the lighted room. In accordance, it would seem, with the traditions of the Manoli Dance, the band kept up both tempo and sound, in this case, ‘The Blue Danube’ played fortissimo.

Joe set himself somewhat apart. ‘What would you say if you just came into this room now? You’d say, “An animated scene!” “On with the dance!” You’d say, “Hearts at peace under an Indian heaven.”

‘How wrong you would be.’

The dance band gave way to a not very well rehearsed jazz group led by an unpractised tenor saxophone and under the influence of this the pace warmed up. Joe saw Midge, flushed and excited, being passed from hand to hand, he saw Nancy dancing with considerable skill in the arms of an unknown officer of the Artillery. Over the heads of the dancers his eye took in Prentice, alone, observing, austere and in every particular correct.

‘Are you my man, Prentice?’ Joe wondered.

Andrew Drummond limped over to him and sat at his side. ‘Baffled, Sandilands?’ he said.

‘Less baffled,’ said Joe. ‘In fact I think I’m almost certain I know who is responsible and why. There are just one or two more questions I have to ask. But the worst thing – and this is a characteristic of enquiries leading to the solution of a series of killings of this sort – is that the police can do no more than wait for and be ready for the next incident. The girls on the station have written a song èSong” brought up to date as you might say, and some may think this is funny but I didn’t. It concludes – “Here’s to the dead already, And here’s to the next one that dies!” That gets a bit near the bone for me.’

‘It’s a British way of going on,’ said Andrew.

‘Not to me it isn’t,’ said Joe. ‘It just could be a bloody stupid way of going on! And, Drummond, if I’ve got it right, we all have good reason to be afraid. There will be one more killing.’

‘Ceaseless vigilance, Sandilands?’ said Andrew.

‘Ceaseless vigilance, Drummond!’ Joe agreed.

As they spoke, the saxophonist gave way to a cavalry trumpeter in the flashy mess dress of the Bengal Greys.

‘Take your partners,’ shouted the compère. ‘Take your partners for the Post Horn Gallop!’

There was a loud cheer as the dancers opened up to take their places round the edge of the dance floor. Joe took his place beside Nancy and slipped his arm through hers. ‘Not galloping, Mrs. Drummond?’ he enquired.

‘Not if I can avoid it,’ said Nancy. ‘What about you? Are you steeplechasing?’

‘Not if I can avoid it,’ said Joe firmly.

But he was wrong. As the Post Horn Gallop drew to its tumultuous conclusion Prentice took the stage and his dry voice came across. ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he said, ‘in accordance with tradition I will now say – take your horses for the Manoli Steeplechase! And I ask Mrs Kitson-Masters to do the draw.’

He held up a Bengal Greys ceremonial turban and proffered it to Kitty who started to draw and read out the names. ‘Smythe. Hibbert. Fortescue. Bulstrode.’ An ironic cheer. ‘Prentice.’ Another ironic cheer. ‘Sandilands.’ Applause from his admirers. ‘ Easton. Forrester.’

Prentice continued, drawing, to Joe’s dismay, a service revolver from his pocket, ‘I will invite the Collector to start the race. As soon as you are ready, gentlemen.’

There was a clatter and a confusion as the horses were assembled at the verandah with white eyes and frothy muzzles. Joe turned to Nancy. ‘Do I have to do this?’ he said.

‘Yes, or be forever disgraced,’ said Nancy. ‘It’s a setup. You realise that, don’t you? Come on, Joe. You’ve got one half of the women eating out of your hand already – you might as well gather up the other half. But for God’s sake – watch your back!’

Amongst the confusion Joe was glad to claim Bamboo from the line of horses.

‘Gentlemen,’ announced Andrew Drummond, ‘we dispense with the formality of Epsom Downs and I shall say, “On your marks. Get set. Go.” I give you a count of ten to get in line and get mounted. The course goes across the maidan, down to the ford, right at the river bank, right again round the church, across the paddy and back up Station Road finishing here.’