Murder on a Summer's Day, page 30
part #5 of Kate Shackleton Series
I had left a wet stain on the plush seat.
It was my turn to hesitate.
‘I have this in hand, Mrs Shackleton. No doubt you will wish to change before we go further.’
‘Yes, but listen to me first. This is what I believe happened. On Friday, about noon, Prince Narayan received a telegram from Mr Chana, advising him of a propitious day for his wedding to Lydia. He knew he would leave Bolton Abbey soon, so decided he would fit in a little shooting. After he shot the doe, he set off riding to Halton East to see Presthope, his go-between, and ask whether he had yet spoken to Lydia’s father. The prince never arrived at Halton East because on the way he met his step-brother, Jaya.’
Around the table in the centre of the library, we formed something like a small court of enquiry: Sir Richard, his assistant Lazonby, Dr Simonson, Dr Habib, and me.
Each person supplied his own small piece of the jigsaw puzzle.
Dr Simonson reported post mortem findings on Maharajah Shivram Halkwaer: poisoning due to his having taken a suffusion of rhododendron leaves in a small portion of curry or herb tea. Simonson had brought with him the silk shirt bundle of rhododendron flowers and leaves, ginger, charcoal biscuits and the bunch of nettles.
Lazonby referred to his notes, as if looking down would soften the words he had to say. ‘The Wootton-Ferrers drove Prince Jaya to Newcastle for the London train last Thursday. He said he was joining his family at the Ritz. He did not.’
Dr Habib was the gentleman for whom the phrase a fine figure of a man had been coined. On a good day he would be an excellent advertisement for his profession. Now, he appeared ill and drawn. ‘I was ill myself but I brought Prince Jaya’s temperature down. It is true that the rash could have been self-inflicted by nettles. The prince was always interested in chemistry and botany.’
Dr Simonson gave Dr Habib a sympathetic glance. ‘We were used to men feigning sickness in the armed forces, but it is not something one would expect of a royal prince.’
It annoyed me that Jaya was still free to wander about and had not been challenged. ‘There is enough information to have Jaya and Ijahar taken to the police station for questioning.’ Ijahar was still being questioned by Mr Chana, and reported to have said enough to incriminate himself.
Dr Habib’s face had turned to stone.
‘Much of this is circumstantial.’ Sir Richard rose. ‘Lazonby.’
‘Yes, sir?’
‘You have paper and pens with you?’
‘I do.’
‘I would like everyone at this table to write a statement of what they have said today, without collusion.’ He left the room.
We remained at the table, like pupils kept back to write lines. Pens scratched. We did not so much as look at each other for the longest time.
Habib put down his pen. ‘Ijahar – I never trusted that creature. He has good reason, though, to hate the British. His great grandfather was one of the sepoys in the rebellion of 1857.’
I was still writing. I wrote every detail since coming to Bolton Abbey last Saturday, as if my words would make the difference between finding a path to justice and truth and letting Jaya off to live a life in which, to quote the astrologer, ‘the greatness of his ancestors would shine in him’.
We had all finished writing. The clock struck the hour. Sir Richard did not return. I began to feel concerned about Mrs Sugden, Rajendra and the ayah. If Jaya was as cold and calculating as I believed he was, they would be safe, for now. If the man was mad as a hatter, also a possibility, he might somehow find them and mow them down.
I wondered what the stars really had revealed about Jaya and his future.
Lazonby gathered in our statements.
Stop worrying, I told myself. Mrs Sugden is warned and armed.
The clock ticked on.
We grew restless.
Eventually, Sir Richard returned. ‘I have spoken with his lordship.’
None of the men made comment.
‘What about the police?’
‘His lordship will deal with the matter.’
‘How?’
‘Appropriately, once all the facts are clear.’
Lazonby slid our statements into a manila folder and handed it to Sir Richard.
He was right, of course. I was being too hasty in expecting Jaya to be handcuffed and led away on the instant.
‘Mr Lazonby will now give each of you a copy of the Official Secrets Act, which I require you to sign.’
Lazonby placed papers in front of me and the two doctors.
It reminded me of a school examination. I half expected Lazonby to warn us against turning over our papers before hearing the word Begin.
Dr Simonson pushed the paper away. ‘Not necessary, sir. Patient confidentiality and all that, and as a matter of fact, I have already signed.’
Dr Habib followed his lead. ‘My discretion is assured.’
At that moment, I wished I had spent some time acquiring a medical degree. It was clear that the Official Secrets Act had been brought into the room for one person alone: me.
Dr Simonson pushed back his chair. ‘Mrs Shackleton, I’m setting off for home. Don’t worry about Mrs Sugden and the prince and his ayah. They’ll be safe now.’
‘Thank you.’
The two doctors left.
The piece of paper lay in front of me. I did not pick up the pen.
Sir Richard gazed at a bookcase on the far wall. ‘You will perhaps wish to work for your country again, Mrs Shackleton.’
‘Perhaps, but on a basis of trust. I don’t believe my grandfather, Lord Rodpen, signed any such document when he served his country.’
Now was not the time to reveal that I had no notion what either my real or adopted grandfather had done. I only knew that I was entirely uneasy about what was happening, or more precisely what was not happening: arrests.
‘How do I know something will be done? No one paid me any attention when I said that Prince Narayan was murdered.’
‘Give me a short while, Mrs Shackleton.’ Sir Richard tapped the manila folder containing our statements. ‘I may be able to answer any questions you have, once we have perused these documents. Then I believe you will appreciate the importance of your signature.’
Mr Lazonby and I were left alone.
‘Shall I ring for refreshments, Mrs Shackleton?’
‘No, thank you. But you might explain something to me.’
‘Of course, if I can.’ He walked to the bell pull. ‘But if you’ll pardon my insistence, I’m ravenous myself and I’m betting that you’ll join me.’
‘You missed breakfast?’
‘I did. And you too?’
I nodded.
He sat down opposite me. ‘What did you want to me to explain?’
‘Dr Habib said that Ijahar’s grandfather took part in the Sepoy Rebellion. What did he mean?’
I wanted to know what prompted Ijahar to act in the way he had. Was it fear or love of Jaya, nationalism, a hatred of the British, or all of those motives?
‘The chip has been passed shoulder to shoulder through generations. It was ridiculous. It should never have happened. Of course, it’s the Indians who call it the rebellion, or the revolt. We call it the Indian Mutiny.’
Like every schoolchild, I had heard of the Indian Mutiny, the siege of Lucknow, and had seen pictures of British women and children dying of hunger, thirst and disease in some terrible tower.
‘The Indian soldiers went mad, burned, slashed, slaughtered, men, women and children. It was a time of terror.’ He made a steeple with his hands, long fingers that looked meant for playing the piano.
‘Why?’ And as I asked, I remembered vaguely, something to do with a breaking of taboos.
‘Grievances, coming to a boil. You could say it was triggered by ammunition. The sepoys of Meerut refused to use the cartridges issued for Enfield rifles. The cartridges had to be greased and their paper ends bitten off. Rumour had it that the grease was a mixture of beef and pork fat, unclean to Moslems and a profound insult to Hindus.’
‘And was it true, that it was beef and pork?’
‘What matters is what those soldiers believed. Eighty-five sepoys refused Brevet-Colonel George Smyth’s order to fire the Enfields. They were court-martialled for mutiny, stripped of their uniforms, and clapped in irons. The madness, the mutilations, the slaughter of everyone with a white face began the next day. Smyth didn’t act quickly enough. The rebels went on to Delhi, to ferment revolution. They ransacked the city. When British retribution finally came, it was as terrible as anything the Indians had perpetrated.’
For a long time, we waited for Sir Richard to return. Refreshments came and went. The sun came out; the sun disappeared behind a cloud. The clock chimed the half hour, the hour, the half hour.
The door opened. As Sir Richard entered, Lazonby left.
‘Well Mrs Shackleton, we have had preliminary discussions. Naturally there is more to learn. Prince Jaya is now – I suppose we might say – under house arrest. Ijahar has proved helpful in supplying Mr Chana with a considerable amount of information.’
‘And what is to be done?’
‘Jaya will be punished, depend upon it. But this cannot come to trial. Imprisoned, he would be a hero to nationalist India. Execute him and we make a martyr. A democratic India would not appeal to him at all but the masses would not know that.’
‘So what will happen?’
‘He will be exiled and appear to have turned his back on his country. People who matter will know what he has done.’
‘Is that all?’
‘To a man like him, it is everything.’
‘But he is a killer.’
‘And remains a prince. He will do no more harm.’
‘Is that all you can say?’
‘It is too soon to say more. He will be allowed to attend his father’s funeral.’
‘The murderer at his victim’s funeral, that is not justice.’
‘It is politics.’ He sighed. ‘I like it no more than you do, but needs must.’
Forty-Four
Almost two weeks had passed since Maharajah Shivram’s cremation. I had heard that Jaya was gone from Bolton Abbey, banished from the scenes of his crimes.
Having received a request from Indira to see me before she left Yorkshire for London, I drove to Bolton Abbey. I wondered whether she would ask me about Lydia Metcalfe. If she did, how much should I tell her of what I had learned? My information came from James. He had written to me from France.
12 August, 1924
The Ritz, Paris
Dear Kate
Here I am in Paris. What would I have done without your valuable introductions? The Embassy staff are too slow to field at a fourth form cricket match and have their own snail-like ways of making themselves less than useless.
They are, however, making discreet enquiries of jewellers to ascertain whether a certain gem is thought to be on offer in any of the capitals of Europe.
Poor James. He seemed to think some naïve diamond merchant would hold up a hand and say, ‘Ah yes, that is the dubte suraj ki chamak diamond. I am about to cut and slice Gattiawan’s prized jewel.’
Your friends on the other hand, Miss Windham and Mr King, have been hospitable and charming to the nth degree. (Mr King is the only American I have met who understands the rules of cricket.) They know everyone in Paris and have made the acquaintance of Miss Metcalfe with a view to keeping me informed of her doings.
Miss Metcalfe’s activities centre on parties, the theatre and suppers with her friends from the Folies Bergère. She frequently becomes tearful when asked about her maharajah, and excites a great deal of sympathy.
16 August
I had to break off this letter in haste when news came to me that Miss Metcalfe, who disappeared from view for several days, was on her way to Marseilles. This does not bode well. Here I am in Marseilles, knowing only an impoverished count and countess (if they truly be who they claim) who are acquainted with Mr King and Miss Windham. This supposed count and countess do their best, but their information is not of the highest quality. Fortunately, a young and bright chap from the consulate has come to my aid and informs me that Miss Metcalfe is booked on a berth to India. I have wired Sir Richard and await instructions. No doubt, she will be prevented from leaving.
19 August
This may be my last missive for some time. I have to hurry to board ship, having received a telegram from Sir Richard. I am to keep an eye on Miss Metcalfe and follow her to India. Please tell Mother not to worry.
Sir Richard assures me that my tailor has been informed and will send suitable clothing to await my arrival at the next port, wherever that may be. I should have liked more notice of this eventuality, as you can imagine.
Sorry, must break off now, and pass this to dear Mr King who has very kindly come to see me off and will give my letter to a chap who returns to London today and will post.
Your affectionate cousin, sending kind regards to all,
James
I decided against mentioning Lydia Metcalfe, unless Princess Indira brought up her name.
The tents and marquees were gone from the hill behind Bolton Hall. I parked at the rear of the house and walked round to the front. The bench where Mr Chana had sat stood vacant, yet welcoming. Who else would sit there in years to come, I wondered. They would look across the lawn, to the abbey, and beyond to the trees that rose on the far bank of the river, and have no notion of the high drama of these August days.
The young footman opened the door.
He led me to a bright room, perhaps the brightest the house had to offer. It was a music room, with chintz-covered chairs and sofas. I waited there until Indira arrived moments later.
She glided into the room, looking quite beautiful in a milky sari with barely a hint of silver. I thought of the last time I saw her, when she had been beside herself with worry and grief.
‘Please sit down, Mrs Shackleton.’
‘Your highness.’
‘It will be just the two of us for lunch. The duchess is with my mother-in-law. I wanted the opportunity to thank you for everything you did.’
‘I am glad to see you looking a little better.’
‘You must have thought me quite mad when I asked you to take Rajendra to safety.’
‘Not at all. Your instincts were right.’
She touched her perfect hair. No doubt some hairdresser had just been at work. How must it feel, I wondered, to be waited on, hand, foot and hair. I remembered Lydia Metcalfe, insisting that she preferred to ‘do’ for herself, without the attendance of servants she saw as enemies.
‘You were the only person I could speak to at the time, and I will remember that, and that you saved the life of my child.’
‘I am glad to have been of service. What will you do now?’
‘We travel to London. No one with any sense would sail for India in August, but in September we will return.’
It occurred to me that Lydia Metcalfe had deliberately set off early, to be in Gattiawan first.
‘When the time is propitious.’
She smiled. ‘I think you do not believe in astrology.’
‘I would not dismiss it. Jaya’s mother must have had high hopes after his birth when she had his horoscope cast.’
‘Yes. It will be a blow to her that she will never see her son again.’
‘Do you have news of him?’
‘Your government is still deciding where to send him. I believe he is now on Lindisfarne.’
‘Holy Island.’ Someone in government had a sense of humour.
‘The high tide creates a natural curfew. I do not know where he will live out his days.’
‘Any other man would face the death penalty for what he did.’
‘And for what he tried to do. His attempt on my child’s life was treason. Mr Chana tells me there is talk of sending him to the Isle of Man, or Tasmania. Jaya hates the sea.’
‘I don’t understand how you can be so calm about this.’
‘Having failed, Jaya would gladly have died a martyr to his cause. The worst punishment will be exile from India, from Gattiawan, constantly watched, forever cursing his failure. I understand that he has begun drinking rather heavily. I suppose his minders encourage that. It will be a living death for him, and I am glad. Yet strange as it seems, I miss him. Or, rather, I miss the person I thought he was.’
Before I had time to reply, the footman tapped on the door and announced that luncheon would be served.
We stayed where we were for another moment.
‘And the woman? Is there news of her?’
‘She is under surveillance, and on a ship to India.’
‘Going to collect her booty no doubt. It puzzles me that Jaya can be dealt with and prevented from travelling, yet a woman like that is free to maraud where she pleases.’
When would she speak of the diamond, I wondered?
I did not have long to wait. She smoothed her sari as we rose to go to the dining room. ‘I had hoped you would retrieve the diamond. Do you think she has hidden it?’
‘I don’t know. I did wonder whether Jaya may have acquired it, through Ijahar.’
‘I believe Ijahar would have been persuaded to confess, if that were the case.’ Her voice was icy. ‘She has it, Mrs Shackleton. I want it back, for my state, for my son, for India. Please do not give up.’
‘I am not sure what else I can do.’
‘Keep the diamond in your thoughts. Eventually, she will give herself away.’
We lunched on venison. Not knowing how long a deer must be hung, and how long after that it stays ‘good’, I wondered whether I might be biting into the white doe. This idea did nothing for my appetite, but I kept the thought to myself, and tried not to picture the doe so ingloriously trussed in Stanks’s barn.
