Barbara Cleverly - The Damascened Blade

Puzzled and wary, Rathmore grunted but seemed happy to take a large swallow followed by another. Joe, hovering solicitously, topped up the glass and, leaving the bottle by Rathmore’s elbow, resumed his seat. Sir George raised his own glass, admiring the delicate amber of the Glenlivet against the soft lamplight. ‘Only the best for the officers of Gor Khatri, what! It’s not champagne but I can’t think of a more suitable tipple with which to charge my glass and toast the hero of the hour! Lord Rathmore! I understand that congratulations are due. Single-handedly, you have pulled off a coup which has eluded the combined efforts of His Majesty’s Government and armed forces for decades. You have brought us peace and a trading agreement with the Afridi.’

Rathmore gobbled in astonishment.

‘I see you’re surprised that I know already? Grace and Iskander were both eager to fill in the details before the meeting started. I make a point of finding out what’s going on from the horse’s mouth, you’ll find. The only way, I think you’ll agree?’

Grace and Iskander were both fixing George with suspicious eyes but he carried on oblivious, ‘When the authorities in Simla hear about your exploits – your mad dash into enemy territory… running the gauntlet of the Afridi forces… (by the way, old chap, if you take my advice you’ll say you “took safe conduct” – that’s the phrase – don’t want to appear too hot-headed, no one trusts a hothead!) and when they hear about your bargaining with the old rascal Ramazad, you’ll find yourself fêted. (He’s been known to get the better of many a wily old negotiator including, I have to admit, yours truly!) You’ll be a hero! You must be prepared to be consulted as to how to deal with the Pathan – prepared to reveal how you managed it – prepared to be an authority. I have to warn you that after a time you may find it begins to weigh a little heavily though – let us learn the sad lesson of notoriety from Lawrence of Arabia!’

‘ “Rathmore of the Frontier”,’ hissed Lily. ‘Doesn’t quite have the same ring.’

Joe looked around the table. For the first time ever, Burroughs and Fred Moore-Simpson were united in their expression which was a blend of outrage and unwilling admiration. James and Betty were tight-lipped and staring at the table. Grace, uncharacteristically, was concentrating on sipping her whisky. Iskander was staring mutinously into the opposite wall.

‘Watch it, George!’ Joe thought. ‘I see what you’re doing but any moment now you’re going to overdo it and Rathmore will catch the edge of your scorn and all your masonic advantage will be lost. And two promising careers will be lost too, to say nothing of Iskander’s life!’

He stood up and raised his glass. ‘A toast!’ he announced. ‘To peace on the frontier!’

Everyone, including Lord Rathmore, including Iskander, raised a glass and echoed his words.

Lily leaned to Joe and whispered, ‘That was quite a performance! And like a good shepherd George has got all the sheep herded into the right pen! With a little help from his faithful dog, of course! But do you suppose, Joe, he hasn’t noticed that one of ’em’s a black sheep?’

That there’s a killer still at large, you mean? Nothing escapes his notice. What we’ve just heard is the first barrel of the shotgun. Wait for the second!’

After the strained silence of the occasion, a general hubbub broke out as relief washed through the company and they began to talk amongst themselves. Fred was anxious to question Rathmore on the strength of the defences and the layout of Mahdan Khotal, Edwin Burroughs to establish the strength of the Malik as a diplomatist and as a leader of armed men. He wished to know if the Malik would conform to the Tammany definition of an honest man, that is, ‘one who would stay bought’. Grace, serious and concerned, engaged Iskander in conversation about the state of health of his sister when last seen and offered her congratulations on the birth of a healthy nephew. Rathmore downed his third whisky and launched himself into his first public account of his adventures behind enemy lines. To the shared amusement of Joe and Lily, it was noticed that already his role was becoming more dashing in retrospect and they had no doubt that by the time he got back to Simla he would be presenting himself as a blend of Curzon and Kitchener with a dash of T. E. Lawrence.

Genially, Sir George broke in, calling his flock to order. ‘I know James has organized supper for us all in the mess… something special, James? Shepherd’s pie? Wonderful! My favourite! Especially with a good burgundy. And a jam roly-poly to follow? Perfection! Perhaps we shouldn’t keep the staff waiting then? Dermot, Edwin, Fred, if you’d like to start off, the rest of us will join you in a minute. I believe there’s just one more i to dot and one more t to cross before I can write up my report. The matter of Iskander’s query. Easily resolved, I think, if we can just hear what Grace has to say but no need to detain everyone… Fred, I can see, is ready for his nose-bag.’

Fred, indeed, was eager for his supper but quick also to understand the dismissal and co-operatively led the way from the durbar room. The rest of the party seated themselves again and looked at each other. James and Betty were sitting close together, Betty’s hand protectively over James’s. Grace and Iskander were giving nothing away. Sir George’s smile faded as the others left the room.

‘Here comes the second barrel,’ said Lily.

They all looked expectantly at Sir George.

‘Had a boil on my neck once,’ he said. ‘Nasty great red thing. Used to call it a “ Delhi sore”, I believe. Swelled and swelled and the medico said there was only one thing for it – lance it. He did. Messy business, pus and gore all over the place, but he was right. The minute the pressure was relieved and all the nastiness expelled it started to get better. I have a feeling we have the same sort of situation here with this business of the death of Zeman and I’m going to prescribe the same sort of treatment. Short and sharp but I’m afraid none of us is going to escape uncontaminated. And I’m handing the scalpel – not to you, Grace – you’re part of the problem – but to Joe. Carry on, Joe!’

‘Iskander’s persistence in questioning the official account of Zeman’s death, it must be admitted, was entirely justified,’ Joe began without hesitation. George had no time for hesitators. ‘Zeman did not die an accidental death due to food or any other kind of poisoning. He was killed that night but not in the circumstances described, not in the place in which his body was found and not by the method all had assumed.’

‘Well, that’ll do for the first cut,’ said Sir George. ‘Now squeeze the rest out inch by inch and don’t forget I was not a party to this little charade so you’ll have to fill in the details to my satisfaction. So, continue, Joe!’

‘I’ll start with the testimony of two witnesses who, I am certain, have been telling me the apparently inconsistent truth right from the start. Lily. And Minto.’

The terrier looked up on hearing his name and bared his teeth with a rumbling growl.

‘That horrid little dog?’ said Sir George, unbelieving.

‘No other! And while he’s showing his teeth, I’d like everyone to note the size of the gap between his canines.’

Everyone peered at Minto’s mouth. Although pleased by the attention, he turned his growl up a few points.

‘It was a hot night and we had all eaten far too much; some of us had, indeed, drunk more than we should have done.’ He moved smoothly into the next part of his story – Lily’s account of her agonized hour in the garden – deciding shamelessly to edit it to spare her blushes. ‘Lily could not sleep, she has told us, and went down to the garden to get a breath of air at – oh, what did you tell me, Lily? – sometime before one o’clock?’