Barbara Cleverly (27 page)

They set off to walk, Midge arm in arm with Easton and Smythe, Joe arm in arm with Kitty, Nancy between Prentice and Andrew Drummond.

The Club when they reached it was likewise en fęte. The Shropshire Light Infantry dance band was beating out a polka and to Joe’s astonishment, the Greys officers were all wearing night-shirts over their mess dress.

‘Manoli Night, you see,’ said Prentice. ‘You must excuse me for a moment while I garb myself like Wee Willie Winkie.’

He walked to a table where were laid out various items of night attire and selected a voluminous starched white shirt. With the twittering help of Midge he struggled into it and arranged it in folds over his mess jacket. The other officers had set out to look absurd but not Prentice. He wore his white shirt with the air of one deliberately robed for some priestly ceremony.

Joe danced a stately waltz with Kitty, paused to have a drink with Andrew and, hoping he was not being too obvious, seized the first opportunity to gather Midge into his arms for a second polka. ‘One, two, three, hop,’ said Midge cheerfully. ‘You’re pretty good, Joe!’ And, as they circled the room, smiling, ‘I like to be noticed!’

‘Don’t we all?’ said Joe. ‘I certainly do!’

As the dance drew to a close, Midge seized his arm. ‘I’ve got something I want to tell you,’ she said. ‘And I want to tell Nancy too! Nancy! I want to tell you a secret! Come where I can talk to you!’

‘Well,’ said Nancy, ‘nothing like the Manoli Dance for releasing inhibitions. But even this early in the evening the kala juggah appears to be occupied. If you really want to tell secrets we’d better step out on to the verandah.’

‘Listen,’ said Midge, looking around to make sure they were not overheard and linking her arms with theirs, ‘I said — didn’t I — there was somebody?’

‘There was somebody in your life?’ asked Nancy.

‘Yes. Somebody in my life. If he can get here in time, you’re going to meet him! He’s driving down from Calcutta! All this way just to see me!’

‘Tell us some more,’ said Joe. ‘Tell us about this lucky chap. All we know so far is that he plays piquet and he’s your knight in shining armour!’

‘Well, for a start,’ said Midge, ‘he’s a Ghurka officer — I think I told you that — and to go on with, I met him on the boat. We both got on in Marseilles. You’ll love him! I do! But that’s not all. I’ll tell you something very odd. He didn’t tell me until we had got to know each other very well and then he did and I think you’ll agree that this is the most romantic thing you’ve ever heard! On the night of the fire — you know what I mean by the night of the fire?’

They both nodded. ‘We know what you mean by the fire.’

‘Well, on the night of the fire he was there! Not only was he there but they’d hidden me among some flower pots

’ She gave a deprecating laugh indicating how odd it was that anyone of her charm and sophistication should have been found in amongst a stack of flower pots. ‘

and he found me! He dug me out and looked after me. And he said on the boat — when we’d got to be very good friends of course — “That isn’t the first time I’ve kissed you.” Because when he dug me out he gave me a kiss and he’d never forgotten. “I knew I’d find you again one day,” he said. Wasn’t that a romantic thing to say? Oh, I do hope he gets here this evening! I know you’ll like him. I hope Dad likes him too.’

‘Are you saying,’ Joe began carefully, ‘that we’re talking about Richard Templar, at present an officer with the Tenth Gurkhas? And that Richard Templar is coming here this evening perhaps?’

‘Yes,’ said Midge happily, ‘that’s just exactly what I’m saying. Fancy your having heard of Dickie! And you must call him Dickie — everybody does.’ She smiled at Nancy. ‘It’s a surprise for Dad but I really wanted you to know first, Nancy, then you can help me to make him feel welcome.’

‘Oil the social wheels perhaps?’ said Nancy drily.

‘Exactly! Don’t you think it’s exciting? I do! I wonder what everybody will say? There! Now you know! I’m glad I’ve told somebody. I’m a bit of a flirt, I know. Everybody says so, I know they do. But there’s something a bit different about Dickie. He’s serious.’

‘There you are!’ came the cheerful voices of Easton and Smythe. ‘Found you both!’

‘Next dance is mine, Midge,’ said Smythe.

‘And the next dance is mine,’ said Easton to Nancy. ‘You’ll have to excuse us, sir.’

‘I’ll excuse you,’ said Joe, only too thankful to have a moment to digest the information he had just received and to calculate its possible consequences. He turned to stare through the window into the lighted room. In accordance, it would seem, with the traditions of the Manoli Dance, the band kept up both tempo and sound, in this case, ‘The Blue Danube’ played fortissimo.

Ť ^ ť

Joe set himself somewhat apart. ‘What would you say if you just came into this room now? You’d say, “An animated scene!” “On with the dance!” You’d say, “Hearts at peace under an Indian heaven.”

‘How wrong you would be.’

The dance band gave way to a not very well rehearsed jazz group led by an unpractised tenor saxophone and under the influence of this the pace warmed up. Joe saw Midge, flushed and excited, being passed from hand to hand, he saw Nancy dancing with considerable skill in the arms of an unknown officer of the Artillery. Over the heads of the dancers his eye took in Prentice, alone, observing, austere and in every particular correct.

‘Are you my man, Prentice?’ Joe wondered.

Andrew Drummond limped over to him and sat at his side. ‘Baffled, Sandilands?’ he said.

‘Less baffled,’ said Joe. ‘In fact I think I’m almost certain I know who is responsible and why. There are just one or two more questions I have to ask. But the worst thing — and this is a characteristic of enquiries leading to the solution of a series of killings of this sort — is that the police can do no more than wait for and be ready for the next incident. The girls on the station have written a song čSong” brought up to date as you might say, and some may think this is funny but I didn’t. It concludes — “Here’s to the dead already, And here’s to the next one that dies!” That gets a bit near the bone for me.’

‘It’s a British way of going on,’ said Andrew.

‘Not to me it isn’t,’ said Joe. ‘It just could be a bloody stupid way of going on! And, Drummond, if I’ve got it right, we all have good reason to be afraid. There will be one more killing.’

‘Ceaseless vigilance, Sandilands?’ said Andrew.

‘Ceaseless vigilance, Drummond!’ Joe agreed.

As they spoke, the saxophonist gave way to a cavalry trumpeter in the flashy mess dress of the Bengal Greys.

‘Take your partners,’ shouted the compčre. ‘Take your partners for the Post Horn Gallop!’

There was a loud cheer as the dancers opened up to take their places round the edge of the dance floor. Joe took his place beside Nancy and slipped his arm through hers. ‘Not galloping, Mrs. Drummond?’ he enquired.

‘Not if I can avoid it,’ said Nancy. ‘What about you? Are you steeplechasing?’

‘Not if I can avoid it,’ said Joe firmly.

But he was wrong. As the Post Horn Gallop drew to its tumultuous conclusion Prentice took the stage and his dry voice came across. ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he said, ‘in accordance with tradition I will now say — take your horses for the Manoli Steeplechase! And I ask Mrs Kitson-Masters to do the draw.’

He held up a Bengal Greys ceremonial turban and proffered it to Kitty who started to draw and read out the names. ‘Smythe. Hibbert. Fortescue. Bulstrode.’ An ironic cheer. ‘Prentice.’ Another ironic cheer. ‘Sandilands.’ Applause from his admirers. ‘Easton. Forrester.’

Prentice continued, drawing, to Joe’s dismay, a service revolver from his pocket, ‘I will invite the Collector to start the race. As soon as you are ready, gentlemen.’

There was a clatter and a confusion as the horses were assembled at the verandah with white eyes and frothy muzzles. Joe turned to Nancy. ‘Do I have to do this?’ he said.

‘Yes, or be forever disgraced,’ said Nancy. ‘It’s a setup. You realise that, don’t you? Come on, Joe. You’ve got one half of the women eating out of your hand already — you might as well gather up the other half. But for God’s sake — watch your back!’

Amongst the confusion Joe was glad to claim Bamboo from the line of horses.

‘Gentlemen,’ announced Andrew Drummond, ‘we dispense with the formality of Epsom Downs and I shall say, “On your marks. Get set. Go.” I give you a count of ten to get in line and get mounted. The course goes across the maidan, down to the ford, right at the river bank, right again round the church, across the paddy and back up Station Road finishing here.’

‘This is the last thing in the world I want to do,’ said Joe, ‘at my age. Irresponsible, half-witted cavalry officers, full to the tonsils with the Club’s champagne! This is the braves of the tribe flashing their manhood, spreading their tails. I didn’t come out to India to get ridden into a waddi by some little half-wit half my age!’

Grumbling, he took his place amidst the laughter in the rough line-up. The Greys officers had discarded their jackets and were riding in night-shirts, many wearing nightcaps.

‘Here you are, Joe,’ shouted Midge, throwing a nightcap up to him. ‘Wear this for me!’

‘This is how it gets done,’ thought Joe. ‘Probably since the beginning of time and men fall for it! Christ! I bloody well fell for it!’

‘What do I get if I win?’ he shouted back to Midge.

Kitty answered for her. ‘A ravishing smile, a blown kiss and a cigarette, I should think. Don’t count on more than that! As you often tell me, you are, after all, on duty.’

‘On your marks!’ shouted Andrew and a pistol shot started the Manoli Steeplechase amid deafening cheers.

“This shouldn’t be too difficult,‘ thought Joe. ‘There’s a torch at every turn, good moonlight. I’ll stay back. I’m not going to lead this drunken mob in the dark. Thank God for Bamboo! This would be a great moment to get run away with.’

Shouting and swearing, the cortčge streamed away across the maidan.

Prentice was riding slightly ahead and to his right. Two unknown officers were noisily attempting to ride each other off to his left. Someone else he did not recognise was ahead, one or two behind him. Comfortably packed into the field, Joe galloped to the first turn and settled down to ride. Unseen by him a drainage ditch opened up across their path but the reliable Bamboo flew it and galloped on.

In the moonlight and by the flickering light of the torches Joe became aware of a drainage ditch to his left — something more than a drainage ditch — something more in the nature of a nullah. Deep. And widening. He also became aware of a horseman on his right, a horseman boring into him. His mount was a tall black waler, all of fifteen hands, Joe calculated, with a hogged mane and a banged tail. Big enough to eat Bamboo.

‘Bugger off, Bulstrode!’ he shouted. ‘Get out of my pocket, you stupid sod! You’ll have me in the fucking ditch!’

Joe didn’t want to be in the ditch. It looked very dangerous. He pulled to his right and crashed into the encroaching Bulstrode and Bamboo staggered. He lurched away to the left towards the nullah and at the last minute, at the crumbling edge of this obstacle, the horse took off on neat feet, jumping obliquely. As a piece of trick riding it was impressive and any who saw it must have supposed that Joe was a considerable horseman but it was clever Bamboo. Taking the obstacle at a diagonal it was a jump of about twelve feet. The take-off was not good but, mercifully, the landing was sound and Joe found he had put the nullah between him and his pursuer.

Bulstrode slithered to a halt at the edge of the ditch and Joe galloped on, painfully aware that in order to rejoin the race he would have to jump the nullah once more. He rode on, unencumbered by other riders, keeping the next torch in sight. In some inexplicable way, the obstacle became shallower and wider and he was able at a point happily to splash across on to the other side and found himself, having cut off a wide corner, leading the field.

‘So exactly,’ he thought, ‘where I don’t want to be! Not with these drunken louts behind me!’

He touched Bamboo with a spur and the horse laid itself down to gallop. In a wide arc he took the last turn and with relief felt the solid ground of the maidan and with more relief saw the bobbing lights of the finish.

‘All right, Midge,’ he thought. ‘Get the kiss ready! Here comes Sandilands!’

And by five or six lengths he cantered in ahead of the field.

One by one the runners returned. Gasping, panting, horses with flared nostrils and foaming muzzles, jingling curb chains, they milled about. Already they all had stories that would become part of legend.

‘Look at that!’ said Smythe, pointing to a gash in his boot. ‘Know what that is? It’s your bloody spur, Johnny!’

‘Oh, it was you, was it? I’d have upset you if I could but I didn’t realise it was you!’

‘Who was that in the ditch?’ Joe heard somebody ask.

‘Bulstrode,’ said Prentice.

‘How the hell did he get there?’ said Joe. ‘He nearly had me in the ditch, blast him!’

‘So I noticed,’ said Prentice, accepting a light from a servant and drawing on a cigar.

‘Obliged to you, Prentice,’ said Joe.

‘Can’t have people putting guests of the mess in the ditch. The Greys have a certain responsibility of hospitality, after all.’

‘Melmastia?’ said Joe.

Prentice gave him a level glance. ‘Yes, if you like,’ he said.

Midge battled her way through the crowd to Joe’s side and, hopping beside him, put one foot on his toe, jumped, swung herself into his arms and, sweeping the nightcap off his head, kissed him firmly.

‘That’ll do, Minette,’ said Prentice and Midge slithered to the ground.

‘Well done, Commander,’ came the voice of Kitty. ‘I hear from Easton you ride like a Cossack!’

‘I had a very clever pony who got a very bad rider out of trouble!’

‘Never had much time for false modesty,’ said Kitty. ‘You did very well. The other runners are not exactly inexperienced, you know.’

There was a riff of drums and a distant voice said, ‘Supper is served, ladies and gentlemen!’