Barbara Cleverly - The Last Kashmiri Rose

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.’