Barbara Cleverly - The Damascened Blade

Joe waited. He had grown used to hearing George rehearse an apparently insuperable problem which he would promptly solve by a quick change of direction. George turned suddenly to Iskander. ‘This is your land, Iskander, the loss was your loss, an Afridi loss. What have you to say?’

‘Dr Holbrook has spoken of the arrangements she made with Ramazad Khan. She bartered three lives for three lives and Ramazad agreed to cancel the debt. Before the whole tribe, he had taken upon himself the duty of badal for Zeman. As far as the Afridi are concerned the trail of revenge ends there.’ He shrugged his shoulders and stared at the wall. ‘What the British official response is does not concern me any longer. I wanted to know the truth. Now I have an admission of the truth. What you now do with it is your affair. Bury it if you wish.’

There was a long pause as everyone pondered his words. Yes, they had the truth but who had any use for it any longer? Apart from the intellectual satisfaction of knowing the answer to a puzzle there was solace for no one in it. Joe suddenly realized that he was the focus of everyone’s attention. Iskander had reminded him that the Afridi were no longer in pursuit of revenge or justice and had passed the initiative back; Sir George would do and say anything which would smooth over the situation and Grace would support him in that. Betty looked at Joe, stricken and appealing, but James, expressionless, refused to meet his eye. They were all waiting for him to speak, sensing his struggle with the uncompromising puritan side of his nature. Joe felt a flash of resentment. He was not a judge and jury – his role was to find out the details of a crime, ascertain who was responsible and deliver the accused up to the proper authorities. It was no part of his job to decide whether to pursue or abandon an enquiry. He knew exactly where his duty lay.

He considered the worst that could happen if he did that duty. An unpleasant few months for James and Betty while James was suspended from active service. He would be acquitted, of course, but in the meantime there would be gossip, speculation and probably exaggeration. He had seen Indian drawing rooms at work. And Grace, what of Grace? She would have to give testimony, a testimony which would do her great discredit as a doctor. The Amir would have no use for a physician whose name had been linked, in however misleading a context, with the mention of a poison. The Pathan who became aware of the story would no longer seek her help. Grace knew better than anyone the fragile nature of trust in these parts.

Joe held his friends’, if not lives, at least careers and hopes, in his hands. It was easy to make a case for demanding the due process of the law; the official phrases formed unbidden on his lips. He looked at Sir George, whose expressive features were for once enigmatic.

Lily broke the silence. She seemed to be quoting from a poem that was unfamiliar to Joe.

‘So many gods, so many creeds,

So many paths that wind and wind,

While just the art of being kind

Is all this sad world needs.’

Lily added, ‘Ella Wheeler Wilcox. Something to be said – after all – for an American education?’

Joe smiled at her. This darned girl, for whose safety he’d once condescendingly assumed responsibility, had the knack of reading his thoughts, pricking the balloon of his pomposity, of pushing him in the direction he knew he ought to be taking. ‘I’m not aware of your Miss Wilcox, Lily, but I applaud her sentiments… though I prefer the more lyrical approach of Portia perhaps.’

Sir George interrupted. ‘No need to go into all that “quality of mercy” business. We’re all familiar with it. But how many people bother to quote a later line from Bassanio in support? Just one line. Says it all really. “To do a great right, do a little wrong.” Often say that to myself. What about it, Joe?’

‘Would there be any objectors if, after all, I proposed that the original findings of the autopsy carried out by Grace be adopted as the true record of what passed here at the fort on the evening of Thursday and the early morning of Friday?’ Joe asked.

All shook their heads or murmured, ‘No.’

‘Carried unanimously,’ said Sir George. ‘And now I think we can all be away to our supper.’

As Joe walked along to the mess Lily took his arm and asked, ‘Joe, can you tell me whether I’m left or right-handed?’

Joe was puzzled, thought for a moment and then said, ‘Right-handed, but I couldn’t swear to it.’

‘Yes. You say that because you’ve watched me eating with my right hand but, actually, I’m left-handed. There aren’t so many of us lefties around and I always notice when I come across another.’

‘I see where you’re going with this, Lily and – yes, you’re right! But in view of what was said just now in the durbar room I think – better left alone, don’t you? No good and quite a lot of harm might result if we went about stirring things up again. Time to practise “the art of being kind”, wouldn’t you say?’

‘Okay by me,’ said Lily cheerfully. ‘Let’s just think of it as “doing another little wrong”, shall we? I understand now how Sir George can sleep at night!’

Grace stood on the wall looking down on the courtyard where her escort was assembling, feeling, for perhaps the first time in her life, the giddiness of self-doubt. She reminded herself briskly that cantonment life didn’t really suit her. She wasn’t cut out for intrigue (though she had done her best!). It suited her better to be in tribal territory. Issues were clearer there. She smiled. What nonsense! That’s what she would have said a week ago. But now if she were honest she would admit to discovering in herself a quite reprehensible natural ability for deception! And that was a skill which might well come in very handy for survival in amongst the palace intrigue she was heading for! She brought her thoughts up short. Harry! What would Harry say if he could hear her?

As she watched, a troop of Afghani horsemen was forming up. The escort to Kabul, and the sort of people she could deal with. But they must be a bit puzzled by all their comings and goings over the last week! Perhaps it was just routine for them? And at least they were heading for home now. And Iskander? Grace acknowledged there were fences to mend there. How could you ever be sure with Iskander? On the whole, Grace thought he had probably forgiven her. And, after all, they were always, both of them, on the side of peace. It would even be a consolation to have him close by in Kabul – but that wouldn’t please poor Lily.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a high-pitched, raucous wailing which made her flinch. Filing out into the courtyard, beaming with pride and preceding the escort through the gates, came the Scouts’ pipe band. Hill men themselves, the Scouts were accustomed to bagpipes though not perhaps the authentic Scottish article. They were, nonetheless, practised in Scottish airs acquired from long-forgotten Victorian pipe-majors. Acquired also were the pipe banners, bright tartans, the pride of long-gone Scottish officers, making, as they fluttered in the wind, a gay contrast to the mud-coloured buildings, the mud-coloured hills and the khaki uniforms.

As Grace watched, James came and stood beside her. ‘Come on, Grace!’ he said as the pipe band struck up. “This is all in your honour! “Bonnie Charlie’s noo awa… Will ye no come back again?” Hope you don’t mind? They’re putting on quite a show to see you off!’

The band, playing lustily, skirled its way through the gates and fell in outside. The Afghani horses kicked and fretted, each restrained by a lean and rock-like bridle hand as they too lined up, baggage horses at the rear, Grace’s horse and that of Iskander standing ready at the head of the double file. Joe, Lily and Betty made up a farewell party. All goodbyes and farewell speeches, Sir George officiating, had been said an hour earlier and there was nothing to prevent a smart take-off into the hills. Betty silently watched the departure of Grace, her friend and refuge. Reserved and watchful, Joe and Lily looked about them. Joe followed the direction of Lily’s gaze and found, with no surprise, her attention concentrated on Iskander.