The Package Included Murder (5 page)

Alma Ata, Ludmilla Stepanovna informed her group (and, beyond them, the world), was the capital of the Soviet Republic of Kazakhstan. Before the Revolution it had been an important garrison town called Verny and on the left was the bus station – a product of the present glorious regime. The current population was five hundred and seventy-six thousand and the main nationalities were Kazakhs and Russians. On the right was the …

The faces of the tourists were beginning to look blank. Desmond Withenshaw tried to dam the battering of Ludmilla Stepanovna's voice and inexhaustible supply of facts. ‘Er – excuse me, but isn't that a mosque?'

Ludmilla Stepanovna's eyes narrowed. Bozhi moi, but there was one in every group! ‘Is Mussulman temple,' she agreed indifferently. ‘Is not important.'

‘Is it open for worship?'

Ludmilla Stepanovna bared her teeth. ‘I do not know. On left is town market. Very picturesque.'

Desmond Withenshaw slumped back in his seat. ‘Isn't it funny,' he remarked to his wife in a loud voice, ‘how very up-tight they always get when you ask them anything even remotely connected with religion? Guilty conscience, do you suppose?'

‘Yonder is house of former military governors,' said Ludmilla Stepanovna, trying hard to think how best she might wreak vengeance on this revolting and bearded hooligan. ‘Nowadays, is town hall.' The driver pulled the minibus into the side of the road and stopped. ‘I now tell you amusing anecdote. In Czarist times was governor of town called Kolpakovsky. He was very fond of trees …'

‘Oh, well,' sniggered Tony Lewcock, ‘it takes all sorts!'

‘… and paid everybody who planted a tree in the town ten copecks.' Ludmilla Stepanovna paused dramatically before delivering the punch-line. ‘And ordered all who cut one down to be flogged in public by soldiers!'

It is a well-known fact that the English are a reserved and humourless lot but Ludmilla Stepanovna was still bitterly disappointed by the lack of response. The faces that were raised to hers were insultingly uncomprehending. She took it out on the driver, ordering him to drive on by means of a grammatical construction which is normally only addressed to one's intimate acquaintance and dogs.

The driver retaliated by letting in his clutch so fiercely that half the Albatrossers found themselves rolling in the aisle. Before they had time to collect themselves, the brakes were slammed on.

Ludmilla Stepanovna explored her bruises grimly and then continued with her commentary to an audience that was now totally indifferent. This time she exhorted them a admire a church – the Cathedral church. Mr Withenshaw was still scrabbling round on the floor for the contents of his wife's handbag and offered no comment. The church, Ludmilla Stepanovna said, was built of wood and had been constructed at the beginning of the twentieth century without the use of a single iron nail.

The Albatrossers received this intelligence stoically.

‘Is now principal museum of Kazakhstan Republic. We visit. All will now descend. Hurry, please!'

In the confusion and turmoil that inevitably accompanies any move made by any bunch of tourists, the Hon. Con managed to catch hold of Miss Clough-Cooper and draw her to one side. ‘You and me must have a little talk.'

Miss Clough-Cooper tried unobtrusively to pull away from the Hon. Con's unyielding grasp. ‘Yes, yes … Of course. Er – this evening, perhaps?'

‘Speed,' observed the Hon. Con, looking owlish, ‘is of the essence. How about now? You're not really interested in trailing round this soppy old museum, are you?'

‘Well …'

‘Oh, blimey!' The Hon. Con unconsciously tightened her grip on Miss Clough-Cooper's arm. ‘What's happening now?'

The little group of Albatrossers, which had just about struggled as far as the church door, milled about aimlessly for a few seconds and then began to straggle back crossly down the path. Ludmilla Stepanovna snapped apologetically at their heels.

Miss Jones trotted up to report, happy to drive a wedge between the Hon. Con and Miss Clough-Cooper. ‘The museum's closed, dear. Nobody seems to know why. Mrs Beamish is absolutely furious!'

‘Oh, damn and blast!' said the Hon. Con. ‘Best laid plans of mice and men, eh? Never mind,' – she gave Miss Clough-Cooper's shrinking arm an encouraging squeeze – ‘ we'll perhaps get another chance later on. Keep an eye out for me, will you?'

Miss Clough-Cooper's face and voice were quite expressionless. ‘Yes,' she promised, ‘ I certainly will.'

Ludmilla Stepanovna was in a bad temper. She had been counting on snatching half-an-hour's peace and quiet while somebody else conducted her flock round the museum. The minibus driver, extracted prematurely from his favourite boozer, wasn't too pleased either. However, the Cathedral-museum frequently closed without rhyme, reason or prior notice and Ludmilla Stepanovna had her contingency plans ready.

‘We'll go to the Agricultural Exhibition,' she told the driver as they stood watching the tourists clamber back into the bus.

‘Sofia Ivanovna won't like it,' the driver pointed out gloomily. ‘She said last time that she wanted at least twenty-four hours' notice.'

Ludmilla Stepanovna was luckily able to bear other people's misfortunes philosophically. ‘What can't be cured must be endured,' she said. ‘I'll handle Sofia Ivanovna!'

The Agricultural Exhibition was located in a park on the outskirts of the town and, in her eagerness to avoid trouble, Ludmilla Stepanovna tended to over-sell its attractions. The Albatrossers examined the huge, two-two-storied wooden building with something short of rapture.

‘I go to get Director of Exhibition,' Ludmilla Stepanovna told them, grasping her handbag belligerently. ‘ You will wait here and admire our world-famous mountains.' She indicated a row of distant, snow-covered peaks.

‘Oh, aren't they simply lovely!' cooed Mrs Frossell.

Zoë Withenshaw turned her back on them. ‘Frankly, I don't think they're a patch on the Alps. Do you, Mrs Beamish?'

Mrs Beamish purred at this flattering appeal. ‘Well, I hardly think you can compare this place with Davos, can you?' she laughed gaily. ‘And I really think Davos is my favourite, you known. The après ski is always so
good
at Davos.'

‘Better than St Moritz?' queried Miss Clough-Cooper, slipping easily into this jet-set conversation. ‘Well, I suppose it's all a matter of taste but I …' She didn't get a chance to expand her theme. The Hon. Con had work to do and Miss Clough-Cooper found herself being dragged away into the bushes.

‘Have a pew!' invited the Hon. Con, pointing to a rustic bench which stood mouldering in the sun.

Miss Clough-Cooper, mindful of her summer frock, declined. ‘Tell you the story of my life?' she echoed fretfully. ‘What on earth for?'

The Hon. Con reckoned it was a bit too early in the game to inform the girl that anything connected with her was bound to be fascinating, and produced a more acceptable explanation. ‘It's all connected with the theory I've been working out – about this joker who's trying to kill you. Now, it's highly unlikely that a sweet-natured kid like you could possibly have made a mortal enemy in the few short days we've been together on this trip. So, if the chappie really is a member of our little party, the motive must go back to your life at home in England. Mustn't it?'

‘It could be a maniac,' Miss Clough-Cooper pointed out unhappily.

The Hon. Con grinned indulgently at her. ‘'Fraid we tend to regard homicidal maniacs as pretty much a last resort,' she explained. ‘They're considered a mite – well – unprofessional, don't you know. No, I think we'll find in the end that this blighter's as sane as you or me. Now, then,' – she sat down on the bench and, in spite of Miss Clough-Cooper's previous refusal, patted the space next to her invitingly – ‘why don't you take some of the weight off your feet and tell me all about what a nice girl like you is doing in a lousy dump like this?'

‘There's no need to push!' The Hon. Con was quite pleased with the way she kept her cool and refused to be provoked by that dratted Intourist guide woman. She just hoped that young Penny Clough-Cooper appreciated the sacrifice.

Ludmilla Stepanovna was nursing a few grievances on her own behalf. Her confrontation with the dreaded Sofia Ivanovna had been nasty, brutish and short and, though she had eventually emerged victorious, it had been a traumatic experience. Her shattered nerves had taken another hammering when she found that her flock, in spite of clear and forceful instructions to stay where they were, had scattered. You couldn't, she told herself in a paroxysm of rage, trust these bloody capitalists out of your sight for two seconds!

The Hon. Con and Miss Clough-Cooper had been the last ones to be rounded up and Ludmilla's meagre supply of tact had long since been exhausted. She herded them as fast as she could into the Agricultural Exhibition where that arch-hypocrite, Sofia Ivanovna, all smiles and girlish charm, was waiting to receive them. Even a dictatorship of the proletariat, reflected Ludmilla Stepanovna bitterly, doesn't ensure perfect justice.

Sofia Ivanovna, still looking as though butter wouldn't melt in her mouth, launched herself into her little speech of welcome. The Hon. Con's wasn't the only attention that began wandering, though it was probably the first. She looked around gloomily. The place was full of display cabinets full of unlikely looking fruit and stands covered with photographs of animals. Mostly sheep. Big deal!

Sofia Ivanovna was telling her captive audience at some length that Alma Ata meant ‘Father of Apples'. One or two people made a faint effort to appear interested while the Hon. Con scowled at a basket of plastic oranges that weren't even trying to look real. She peered round to see where Penny Clough-Cooper had got to. Right on the other side of the group. The Hon. Con sighed. Sometimes you'd almost think that the girl didn't want her problems sorted out for her.

Sofia Ivanovna had reached the sticky part. Still smiling through, she asked her visitors which particular aspects of Kazakhstan agriculture especially interested them. This innocent, even kindly question produced a blank and embarrassed silence during which the Albatrossers severally and despairingly examined their boots. It was the beastly unfairness of the query, they told themselves, that really got up their noses. Blimey, you could write what they knew about any kind of agriculture on a one copeck piece and still have room left for the Lord's Prayer.

Sofia Ivanovna was still waiting. Loudly.

‘The Honourable Constance is very interested in horses!' Miss Jones became the blushing cynosure of all eyes but she stood her ground like a trooper. The Hon. Con was not in actual fact, all that keen on horses but Miss Jones conceived it as her duty to promote the Hon. Con's ‘ county' image where and when she could. Considering that the Hon. Con had never done any huntin', shootin' or fishin' in her entire life, Miss Jones's self-imposed task was uphill work.

‘Horses?' Sofia Ivanovna's deep, dark eyes flashed with excitement ‘But, of course! As you know, Kazakhstan is famous throughout the world for the excellence of its horses. This way, please!'

Secretly relieved and very impressed with Miss Jones's astonishing savoir faire, the rest of the party followed obediently as she was conducted with some ceremony up a shallow flight of wooden stairs to the first floor. Here were even more improbable samples of local produce and more photographs of sheep.

‘Oh, I do wish we could read the language!' lamented Mrs Beamish prettily as she gazed at a brightly-coloured poster emphasising the importance of manure in modern farming practice. ‘I'm sure it would make everything much more interesting.'

Sofia Ivanovna elbowed her out of the way and hauled out of the shadows a little nut-brown, gnome of a man who smiled shyly at nobody in particular. ‘Here is our expert!' She gave the little man a shake and addressed him in a machine-gun burst of Russian. The little man continued to smile. ‘His name is Alexander Nikolaievitch Chichibabin!' said Sofia Ivanovna proudly. ‘He will tell you everything about our universally renowned horses.'

Miss Jones insisted that the Hon. Con should be removed from the back row and brought to stand beside her, right at the front. There wasn't unfortunately, room for Miss Clough-Cooper as well, a disappointment that Miss Jones bore with fortitude. Alexander Nikolaievitch waited politely until everybody was settled before embarking on his dissertation. In Russian.

It wasn't long before the Hon. Con was huffing and puffing with frustration. Alexander Nikolaievitch got into his stride and, gesticulating enthusiastically, soon forgot all about the desirability of having a translation. The Hon. Con sighed noisily and, for want of anything better, began glaring at the display of photographs in front of which they were all standing like a lot of lemons. Miss Jones, equally at a loose end, followed suit.

The Hon. Con got it fractionally ahead of Miss Jones. ‘Great steaming Jehosaphat!' she gasped. ‘The lousy, rotten swine!'

Miss Jones turned eyes watery with dismay on the Hon. Con. ‘Oh, Constance, it can't be,' – she swallowed hard – ‘ can it?'

Credit where credit's due – the Hon. Con didn't hesitate. ‘Don't look, Bones!' she hissed and, ignoring the tiny Alexander Nikolaievitch who was still talking, though less confidently than before, she grabbed hold of Desmond Withenshaw. ‘You'd better get the women out of here!' she whispered fiercely, squeezing the last ounce of drama out of the situation. ‘Pronto!'

‘I beg your pardon?'

The Hon. Con shook the art teacher vigorously. Oh for those halcyon days when you told somebody to do something and they did it – without arguing! ‘Are you blind or something?' She indicated the display of photographs with a quivering finger. ‘The horses, man!'