Barbara Cleverly - The Damascened Blade

In a heavy police voice he took Grace through his suspicions and train of thought, feeling rather foolish in the face of her quizzical and only slightly exasperated reception of his account.

‘Good, Joe. Very impressive,’ she said finally. ‘But I can’t imagine why you didn’t tell me all this earlier. You shouldn’t have kept it to yourself. I could have helped you with it. I could have pointed out that there were a hundred ways of getting poison into Zeman at that party if anyone seriously wanted to. Lily, for example, drew everyone’s attention to the fact that Edwin Burroughs gave Zeman a bismuth tablet. Was it a bismuth tablet? How will we ever know? I didn’t examine it. Did you? And if you think about it, Burroughs has much more valid reasons for wanting to stir up trouble on the frontier. A full-blown incident with the Afridi at everyone’s throats would suit him, does suit him very well. He may puff and bluster and give you and James a hard time but when your backs are turned, believe me, there’s a nasty calculating gleam in his eye. Don’t be deceived – he’s delighted by the turn of events. And who’s to say he hasn’t had a hand in turning them! It’s no secret, I think, that Britain sank all its resources into that carnage in France. We’re stretched, Joe, for men and for cash. The administrators, like Burroughs, who hold the purse strings are quite desperate to retrench and this little corner of Empire is dashed expensive to maintain in a state of battle readiness. There are those who say that this sideshow is no more than a self-indulgent training ground for young army bloods who are determined to see a bit of action in the one remaining part of Empire where there is actually blood still being spilled.’

‘And it would be your suggestion that Burroughs eliminated Zeman to set in train a series of events so threatening as to allow the government to decide that a policy of retreat beyond the Indus would be the prudent step to take in the circumstances?’ Joe was aiming for a lightly quizzical tone but what he heard was heavy derision.

Grace turned a serious face to him. ‘Never forget that the third war with Afghanistan was a trumped-up affair involving a quarrel over the ownership of a garden, if you please! Your war began with the assassination of an Austrian Archduke in an obscure Balkans town. Peripheral to the main event you might say, the occasion and not the cause?’

Joe was silent, unable to challenge her.

She went on, now openly teasing him. ‘But I can see that you are not seduced by the idea of Burroughs as our killer. To be honest – nor am I! We were all passing plates around the table, helping each other to dishes that were just out of reach. Have you considered Betty? I saw her spooning out food for Zeman. Has it occurred to you that she could have faked her own sickness to throw suspicion on that wretched bird!’

‘Faked her sickness? Betty? Could she?’

‘Oh, come on, Joe! Every schoolgirl knows the trick of sticking a finger down her throat to bring on a vomitation. It can get you out of all sorts of situations you’d rather not be in – hockey lesson in January, tea with great-aunt Mildred… ’

Joe stirred in irritation. ‘But why…?’ he began.

‘Exactly! Why? Betty has the same motive as myself, which is to say – no motive! But while we’re at it, let’s consider Fred Moore-Simpson. Clever chap. Good strategist and quite ruthless. If he wanted to poison Zeman I think we wouldn’t be aware of the how. I certainly didn’t see him approach Zeman’s food or drink during the course of the meal. Did you?’ She looked up at him sharply. ‘But afterwards… after the ladies withdrew, I mean. What happened then, Joe?’

‘We all had a brandy or two – those of us who stayed on. That was me, James, the two Pathans and Fred… ’ His voice trailed away and Grace was after his thoughts like a greyhound.

‘And who dispensed the drinks?’ she asked.

‘We dismissed the staff – said we’d wait on ourselves and Fred took charge of the glasses and filled them.’

‘From a new bottle?’

‘No. It was about two-thirds full. It was in the cabinet in the durbar room.’

‘Did Fred know where it was?’

‘Yes. He went straight to it. Oh, all right! Yes, he certainly had the opportunity, but, no, Grace. Not Fred.’

‘I would seriously like to know, Joe, why you say with such decision “Not Fred” when you are perfectly ready to accuse me of this insanity?’

From some this would have sounded petulant. But not Grace, Joe thought. She sounded genuinely intrigued with – as always – an undertone of cynical amusement.

‘Well, again we come down to why, don’t we?’ Joe persisted.

‘You barely know Fred. Don’t be taken in by all that bonhomie! He’s ambitious and ruthlessly efficient. Perhaps I don’t need to tell you that any flyer who survived the war must have survival instincts coupled with a degree of luck to make the mind reel! There’s been talk of reducing the RAF drastically, axing the senior ranks of whom Fred is one. League of Nations-driven disarmament is the fashionable preoccupation; a stance that leaves Fred and his like, as advocates of gunboat diplomacy, finding themselves part of history. Now Fred is in the prime of life and has no intention of becoming surplus to requirements! An incident of this nature on the frontier to demonstrate in earnest how badly needed aerial reconnaissance or, even better, aerial proscription is, would play right into his hands. Instead of being sent back to a desk job in London for the rest of his air force life (which is on the cards) he now finds himself in an actively warlike situation requiring his special abilities and an extra squadron of bombers on the frontier. You saw as I did how he was relishing the developing situation. He’s already reaping the benefit of Zeman’s untimely demise.’

She paused and then added, ‘And it’s not only the Pathan for whom revenge is a compulsion. You remember what Hugh had to say about Fred’s nephew?’

‘Grace, this is barmy! You don’t think Fred killed Zeman!’

‘Of course not! Just letting my imagination run away with me. Now – there’s James. He was sitting right next to Zeman throughout the meal, he had access to the brandy… ’

‘All right! Enough! Too many suspects! Too many with motive and all with opportunity! We’ll have Fifteen Men On A Dead Man’s Chest before we’re much older!’

‘Yo, ho, ho! And a bottle of rum!’ said Grace.

They turned from the easy riding of the Bazar Valley, cutting off to the right, and began to climb into the hills. From now on all speech was to be in Pushtu. The Afridi have ears as keen as their eyes, Grace reminded him, and Joe was increasingly aware of scrutiny. Scrutiny from above and from either side as the track narrowed and began to rise steeply.

His spine began to trickle with sweat and he tried to subdue a shudder as he became aware of the eyes and possibly the gun barrels trained on his back. Which was the worse fate, he speculated – to be sniped at crossing a desolate Flanders field, his body never to be recovered from the enveloping mud, or to be blasted to bits by a jezail and left to desiccate on the hot stones of the Frontier?

Riding a few paces behind and knee to knee with Yussuf, Joe eyed Grace who was chatting easily with Aslam. A clever woman. A brave woman. What had he expected from his outrageous challenge? A confession? Probably not. The best he had hoped for was a sharing of the knowledge he was certain she had of the circumstances of Zeman’s death. Her answer had been evasive if not deliberately misleading. He had been half minded to share with her his evidence of faulty diagnosis to further unsettle her. He weighed the satisfaction of demonstrating to this confident woman that he was not the plodding policeman she had obviously marked him down as against the disadvantage of disturbing her when she was about to try to carry off the most enormous bluff. The next hour would test her resolve and her cunning to their extreme and Joe decided he could not pile on any greater pressure. Later. If there was to be any ‘later’.