Текст книги "Ragtime in Simla"

Автор книги: Barbara Cleverly

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Текущая страница: 11 (всего у книги 21 страниц)

‘Were there any bodies unidentified?’ said Carter.

‘Yes,’ said Joe. ‘Here’s one. One body without papers or any other identification. Police are asking for help in identifying this thirty-year-old man. Third class passenger. Ah.’

‘Look!’ said Simpson sharply. ‘Look here though!’

He was pointing a finger at a name in the first class list but in the English section.

‘Isobel Newton!’ he said. ‘Isobel Newton! Now translate that into French!’

‘Isabelle de Neuville,’ said Joe and Carter.

Chapter Fourteen

« ^ »

They were quiet for a moment after their outburst, looking intently at the printed page as though it could give them yet more information.

‘I’ll tell you something else,’ said Carter, holding the paper up to the light. ‘Do you see this? It’s very faint but there’s been a pencil mark by the name of Isobel Newton. To draw Korsovsky’s attention to it perhaps?’

‘Who is this Korsovsky you keep mentioning?’ asked Simpson.

Joe told him about the Russian’s death and his suspicions that there existed some link between Alice Sharpe or – as he now had to think – the woman calling herself Alice. He described the note in girlish handwriting on the programme from the Nice Opera House. Simpson picked up at once the reference to Nice.

‘Isabelle de Neuville was on her way to Nice. She seemed to know the area well. Could there be a connection?’

‘Certainly. We know that Feodor Korsovsky was also on his way to the south of France that summer – look, it’s mentioned on an inner page… here it is… recitals in the Roman amphitheatres of Provence. That’s not far from Nice, is it? Perhaps Isabelle was counting on seeing him there?’

‘Bit far-fetched,’ Carter said dismissively. ‘And don’t forget that if there was any connection between Korsovsky in 1914 and this English Isobel who was French Isabelle and is now English Alice, what we’re looking at is a steaming love affair between a – say seventeen– or eighteen-year-old English girl and a Russian singing star in his mid-thirties. And this is a well-bred English girl, product of an English public school and reader of Wind in the Willows! Can’t see it myself.’

‘There is one way of finding out for certain,’ said Simpson. ‘I’ll take a look at this Alice Sharpe. I think I’d remember which was which,’ he added.

‘Two problems,’ said Joe. ‘No one is going to take your word – excuse me, Simpson, I mean no offence – injured as you were at the time…’

‘Not sure I do myself!’

‘And secondly…’ Joe paused for a moment. ‘Remember that two men from Alice-Isobel’s past have been shot dead before they could get a look at her. If you think we’re going to let you come anywhere within sight of our Alice you’re mistaken!’

‘Good Lord!’ said Carter, suddenly alert. ‘That’s right. Look, Simpson, does anyone in Simla know your name? Know who you are? Think carefully, man!’

Simpson thought for a moment. ‘Only you two. I came straight here from the station. I haven’t checked into the hotel yet.’

‘That’s all right then. I booked the room in my own name,’ said Carter. ‘Now how are we going to manage to get you close enough to her without her being able to see you? You are, after all, Simpson, rather a distinctive figure. Look, if you don’t mind lying in wait in the post office you could watch out for her when she leaves her office to go home at one o’clock. She always takes a rickshaw. You can’t miss her men – they wear blue and gold livery with blue turbans. Put on a topee – that’ll hide most of your head – and skulk about until she goes by. Joe and I will make sure she stops in front of the window so you can get a good look at her.’

Simpson looked at his watch. ‘It’s a quarter to one already. Can we get ourselves in position in the time? Remember I don’t walk very fast.’

‘Oh yes. The post office is just down the road. Look, borrow my topee and pull the brim down. Like this. Well, it’s not wonderful but if she doesn’t see the stick she’ll just take you for a tourist in dark glasses – we get a lot of tourist wallahs in the season. Not a few in dark glasses. The glare, you know.’

Ten minutes later Simpson was standing at the window of the post office busily writing messages on the backs of postcards while Joe and Carter lingered chatting in the middle of the Mall. A church bell tolled one when a rickshaw team hurried by and round the corner to the headquarters of ICTC. Five minutes later they came back conveying Alice Sharpe. At once Joe and Carter stepped forward with cries of delight and greeted her. At her command the men stopped and she turned first to Carter then to Joe, smiling and returning their greeting. After the brief formalities she spoke again and the men trotted on their way.

‘Well?’ they said eagerly when they had made their separate ways back to the station. ‘Well?’

Flushed and excited, Simpson stared at them in turn, saying at last, ‘I’m almost sure it was Isabelle de Neuville.’

‘Almost sure? No better than almost?’

‘I’ll say pretty sure if you prefer but, look, they were very much alike and Alice Conyers had rather a chubby face which this girl hasn’t got but then she might have lost her puppy fat in India, and her face would be darker and leaner after three years in the sun, wouldn’t it? Sorry, I’m not being very helpful, am I? But I am trying to be honest.’

‘We understand that,’ said Joe. ‘But look here, is there enough there for you to press this further?’

‘I think so, yes… I really think so. Of course, I’m not swearing but you understand that.’

‘She’s not going to admit to a damn thing! Not the woman I met,’ said Joe. ‘Never! She’s clever and she’s tough and she enjoys taking risks – now I come to think of it she convinced me that the writing on the programme was done by an English hand. She even demonstrated by using her own handwriting! A woman with that sort of nerve isn’t going to fold in the face of an accusation of this kind. She’s going to laugh it off.’

‘And let’s not forget,’ said Carter, ‘particularly those of us who have to go on working in this town, that she is both popular and well connected. Alice Conyers-Sharpe would simply speak to her friend the Vicereine and the next thing you’d hear would be that Simpson and Sandilands had been put on the first train back to Kalka and that the mad police superintendent Carter had been carted off up the hill to Doolallie!’

‘There has to be another way. We’ve got to unmask her without risking our own professional credibility. We’ve no proof so we’ll have to resort to trickery. We’re just going to have to be cleverer than little Miss Isobel and shock her into an admission.’

‘Joe, what are you up to?’ asked Carter suspiciously. ‘You’ve got something up your sleeve, haven’t you?’

‘Yes. A little scheme. One for the dirty tricks department, you might say. And if it doesn’t work no one will be any the wiser. It won’t rebound on us! I’ll explain, but I’m afraid it involves your dying again, Simpson!’

‘… and I need an address from you, Carter,’ said Joe. ‘A certain Minerva Freemantle.’

‘Mrs Freemantle?’ said Carter, surprised. ‘Now why could you want to see her of all people? Seeking a spot of unorthodox information, are we? A little cabalistic help? I hope you know what you’re about, Joe! She lives in an apartment over the continental grocer’s shop down the Mall. She has an excellent view of Scandal Point from there. Very convenient. A formidable lady and have a care – she too is well connected!’

Leaving Carter and Simpson to take separate rickshaws to Carter’s house for lunch, Joe set off to walk down the Mall. He found the continental grocery and mounted the narrow stairs between two shops to a first-floor flat. He rapped on the door and when this was answered by an Indian servant he produced his card.

‘Tell Mrs Freemantle that an officer of Scotland Yard wishes to speak to her without delay.’

A moment later the servant returned, opening the door wide, bowed him inside and withdrew through a smaller door at the far end of the long room Joe now entered.

He stepped straight into a comfortable parlour. Large windows overlooking the Mall gave an airy freshness to the room though the wine red curtains framing them might create an atmosphere of Victorian intrigue when drawn, he thought. The remains of a log fire gave off a subtle herbal scent. Juniper perhaps? Lush plants in shining copper pots were grouped on tables in the corners of the room which was dominated by a large, round and highly polished walnut table. A white cat occupying a deep armchair by the fire stretched and shot a narrow-eyed look of intense suspicion at the intruder.

She was standing by the window, an imposing woman in her early thirties. The window, as Carter had promised, afforded an excellent view of the neck of the Mall where everyone paused and stopped to gossip. Joe noted that, with the window open only six inches, sounds of laughter and snatches of conversation floated upwards by some trick of the rising air currents to reach the ears of anyone who might be standing at the window.

Minerva Freemantle was holding Joe’s card between two fingers and the look in her eye rivalled that of her cat in cold suspicion. She was a strikingly handsome woman with the upright carriage of a lady whose heyday had been the stately Edwardian age. Her back was straight and her strong shoulders well fulfilled the task of supporting her ample bosom. Her glossy dark hair was curled into a neat chignon and a central parting divided her head exactly in the centre.

She fixed Joe with a haughty stare. ‘You have been in Simla for four days, Commander. Quite long enough to establish that I do not see anyone without a prior appointment. And policemen not at all.’ The voice was cultured, the tone cold.

Astonished by this encounter and very intrigued, Joe reached out and with suppressed laughter took her hand.

‘Maisie!’ he said. ‘Maisie Freeman! Don’t you recognize me?’

Minerva Freemantle’s chin sagged towards her bosom as she gaped at Joe. ‘Young man, you have the advantage of me! Am I to understand that you are presuming a previous acquaintance?’

‘Acquaintance? I’ll say!’ said Joe happily. ‘If you can call feeling someone’s collar getting acquainted! Let me take you back four years, Maisie. Backstage at the Empire. Are you beginning to get it? “Merlin the Mysterious and Maisie”! Small matter of a gold watch that went missing? Memory returning yet, is it? Gold watch nicked off some poor chump in the audience who thought it would be a lark to come up on stage and offer it up to Merlin to use in his act. Amazing watch! It survived being smashed with a hammer, set alight and dunked in a goldfish bowl. Then with a roll on the drums and a distracting waggle of your backside you pulled it out of your corset undamaged and returned it to its grateful owner. Problem was – the owner wasn’t so grateful when he got back to his seat and found it wasn’t actually in his pocket! I wasn’t the arresting officer – I was the detective sergeant lurking in the background, learning the ropes.’

After a moment of astonishment Maisie’s face cleared and she gave a frank and cheerful laugh. ‘Well, bugger me! Now I’ve got you! You had a moustache in them days! Handsome devil you were! Still are, I see… Christ Almighty! Must have had a rocket up yer arse to make it to Commander already! But what the hell are you doing in this godforsaken hole? Not still tracking me and Merl, are you? Like them fuckin’ North-West Mounted Police what’s supposed to always get their man? Well, hard luck if you are ’cos Merl died two years ago and where he’s gone you wouldn’t want to follow! And we was never bent anyway – as you bloody well know, bluebottle!’

‘Sorry to hear about Merlin, but you seem to be doing all right on your own account.’ Joe looked round the room. ‘Got yourself a nice little gaff here and a nice little scam going. I hear you’re well regarded in Simla, Maisie – the cream of society queuing up for a place at your table on Friday nights? I expect your conjuring experience comes in useful producing all the rappings, the materializations, the ectoplasm and whatever else you produce to amaze and entertain. But don’t worry, Maisie…’ Joe’s tone signalled clearly that Maisie had every reason in the world to worry, ‘… your secret’s safe with me.’

He paused.

‘Just as long as…? Go on. What’s coming next? There’s always a string attached with your mob. What’re you after?’

‘Well, funnily, there is something you can do for me. It’s very easy and right up your street…’

Joe explained what he wanted Mrs Freemantle to do. He outlined his scheme without giving away any information about Alice Conyers, saying simply that he wished to startle one of the sitters at her forthcoming seance into making a revelation. She listened carefully to his requirements, nodding her understanding.

‘Well, Maisie, how about it? Can you do this?’

‘Course I can do it! Piece o’ cake! But I won’t!’

Joe was taken aback. ‘What do you mean, you won’t?’

‘Just that. You heard me. I won’t do it.’

‘May I ask why?’

‘You may indeed,’ she mocked, the elegant, clipped vowels appearing again. ‘But come and sit down while I explain and I’ll give you a drink. At least for old times’ sake.’

She tipped the cat from the chair and invited Joe to sit down. A moment later she pressed a whisky and soda into his hand, saying as she did so, ‘Or should it be – as of old – a brandy and Baby Polly?’

She pulled up a chair opposite him.

‘Before we go any further can we get two things straight as between two old acquaintances on collar-feeling terms? First – that was a put-up job with the watch. The chap who claimed we stole it was an illusionist himself – bugger was trying to get rid of the opposition! And it worked, didn’t it? You couldn’t quite pin it on us but you had a bloody good try and scuppered our career on the halls, damn you! Had to change tack after that but Merl was always sharp. He could see it – after the war with so many loved ones going missing and passing over the demand was there, wasn’t it? The demand for someone to pass messages and receive messages from the newly dead. Sorry, I should say the ones who’ve gone ahead. Mediums! Everybody wanted to consult one. Merl decided that we’d move to Brighton where there was a lot of that stuff going on and cash in.’

Joe interrupted. ‘Interesting to catch up with your life story, Maisie, but can we get back to my problem?’

‘Selfish pig!’ Maisie commented. ‘Hold your horses. This is important. Brings me to the second point. Listen! We set up. Me being the medium – doesn’t always have to be a woman but you remember what Merl looked like? No point frightening off the marks so he did backstage and worked the illusions.’

Maisie paused for a moment. Theatrically, Joe judged, but he didn’t hurry her. He took it as a roll on the drums and waited patiently for the waggle of the backside which had made such an impression on him.

‘The illusions worked. We were bloody good but that’s not the point.’ She paused again. ‘I started extemporizing.’

‘What was that, Maisie?’

‘Extemporizing – cloth ears! I started saying words that weren’t on the scripts. Things just started coming into my head and I said them. Out loud, just like that. And the sitters knew what I was on about, all right. I said things in those sittings I had no idea about before we started. Things that only my clients and the dear departed would know. I heard voices in my head, whispering usually, sometimes shouting, passing on messages – messages full of love and hope and reassurance as a rule. Sometimes they used my voice to make contact. I was scared at first and told Merl I wanted to stop but word got round and we couldn’t keep them off with a stick! We put the prices up – charged double – still they came. Merl never really understood. He thought I was just clever and lucky… Well, I was, but there was more to it than that. Much more.’

Maisie looked at him intently. ‘You see, Joe, it’s a true bill. I can really do it. I have to do it. When Merl died I stopped charging fees. It didn’t seem right. If someone wanted the comfort of a communication with a husband, a wife, a father and I could give it, that’s what I had to do and I couldn’t charge for it. It didn’t stop rich folks giving me presents and some have been very generous but you don’t have to have a brass farthing to ask me for help.’

‘But how did you fetch up here in Simla?’ Joe asked.

‘No mystery. A client who was on home leave from India went back and spread the news. I got an invitation to come here, all expenses paid. I’d never travelled and with Merl gone who was to tell me I shouldn’t? It’s a very spiritually minded place, this, Joe. Ever since that Madame Blavatski lived here they’ve been keen on it. And this town’s full of spirits, not all of them on the side of the light. In fact I’ve directed a lot of lost souls towards the light since I’ve been here. I look on it as my work.’

‘It’s very interesting, it really is, Maisie,’ Joe said with only a trace of impatience. ‘But I can’t see why you won’t help me out.’

‘You can. You’re sharp. I don’t need to spell it out.’

Joe sighed. ‘You would be compromising your art if you descended to the subterfuge I’m suggesting? Something like that?’

‘Put it like that if you like. But – would you spit in church? No? Well, it would be like that if I twisted the truth like you want me to. Sorry, Joe. Can’t be done.’

Joe felt his anger rising. ‘Maisie, can you hear yourself? Know what you sound like? A self-righteous cow who’s forgotten where she’s come from! You hear a few voices, come in for some adulation by credulous idiots who can’t face the truth without a spiritual crutch and you think you’re the next thing to the Madonna! What do you think I’m asking you to do this for anyway? To blacken someone’s character? To bring eternal damnation about their ears? Of course not! Get this into your silly head will you, love? I’m with you on the side of the light! All I want to do is catch a murderer who could well kill again, to right a wrong and solve a puzzle that needs to be solved! The way you go on anybody’d think I was asking you to call up the spirit of Charlie Peace!’

He got to his feet. ‘Well, I did ask nicely. You’ve made your decision. You can bloody well live with the consequences!’

He was at the door and opening it before she called out to him.

‘Consequences? What consequences?’

He stood silently watching her.

‘You’re a shit, Joe Sandilands! You’d blacken my name in Simla, wouldn’t you? A word in the Governor’s ear about those unresolved charges against my name back in London and I’d be finished.’

She got up and paced to the window, her face stiff with resentment. After a moment she turned to him. ‘Oh, all right. For God’s sake, I’ll do it. You’d better come round here for a rehearsal tomorrow afternoon about four. The seance is at eight o’clock sharp.’

‘Right,’ said Joe settling back into the chair again. ‘I’ll tell you how I want you to play it tomorrow afternoon then.’

‘No you won’t! I’m the bloody professional! It’s my reputation at stake! If I’m doing it, you’ll get it done and you’ll know that you couldn’t get it done better.’

Joe nodded his acceptance. ‘I take your word for it, Maisie. Oh, just one more thing and perhaps I should have asked this first -may I see a list of your sitters for tomorrow? Make sure my target is on it.’

Maisie went to a bureau and took a sheet of paper from a drawer.

Joe looked at the list. ‘I want you to go through this list with me and tell me a little bit about each person. And I don’t mean the gossip you’ve collected at that window – I mean the reasons, if any have been given, for wanting to be here. Who are they trying to contact on the other side?’

Maisie knew the list by heart and recited the names from the top in order. ‘The list changes every week. Some people are what you’d call the core of the meeting and we add others for variety. Major Fitzherbert. He’s a regular. Trying to contact the Mem. They were inseparable. He’ll likely succeed because she only died a year ago.’

‘Is that significant – a year ago?’

‘Oh, yes. You tend not to be lucky if the subject passed over more than about four or five years ago. They lose interest, you know – the spirits, I mean. They have work to do on the other side. They don’t particularly want to be called back here all the time to sort things out for their relations. You know – “Aunty Enid – what did you do with Granny’s garnets?” It’s boring for them.’

‘I can understand that. But Maisie – does this really work? I mean, you can tell me. It carries me out of my depth.’

‘Out of your depth?’ said Maisie derisively. ‘It carries me out of my depth! But it’s there and it does work. But you – you’re too bound up in police procedures. You imagine that if you don’t understand it, it doesn’t exist! Where was I? Mr and Mrs Tilly. He’s a financier. Their three boys died in Flanders. The eldest comes back quite often. Helps them to bear it. Then there’s Miss Trollope. This is her first visit. She’s hoping for a message from Snowdrop. Her dog.’

‘Any hope?’ asked Joe trying to keep a straight face.

‘Yes. Now if he’d been a cockatoo or a stick insect I’d say no but dogs do come through. They put their noses in your hands sometimes to show they’re there. Then we’ve got Colonel and Mrs Drake. They lost their twin daughters to the cholera in the plains three years ago. They’ve not given up hope yet. Then there’s Mrs Sharpe of ICTC. Her husband never comes with her. She’s trying to contact her mother.’

Joe looked away, but too late apparently to avoid giving Minerva a message he was unaware of signalling. ‘Ah! So that’s your mark! The Saintly Alice? Well, well!’ She gave a cynical smile and went on with her list. ‘And the last name is Cecil Robertson, the jeweller. I think he comes to see if he can catch me out – there’s always one! But also because he’s an expert on religions and he’s, well, I suppose you could say he’s making a study of me and my techniques. Oh, and lastly, a newcomer you can add to the list – Joe Sandilands, policeman, blackmailer and sceptic. With him in the room sneering, the spirits will take a powder and I won’t blame them! Now, that’s all you’re getting! Bugger off! Hecate wants to get back into her chair.’

Joe got to his feet and the waiting cat sprang triumphantly back into its place.

‘I’ll make sure you have no cause to regret what you’ve agreed to do for us, Maisie, and thank you for – ’

‘Cut the cackle, smart arse!’ she snapped impatiently. ‘You don’t need to turn on the smarm for me. I’ve said I’ll do it – leave it there, will you?’

Joe put on a face of blazing honesty, one hand over his heart.

‘I have your word and I trust you, Maisie. I wish you’d trust me a little.’

Maisie Freeman began to laugh. A derisive laugh that made her magnificent bosom quiver and rattled the jet beads around her neck.

‘Well,’ said Joe, ‘why not? I did make it my business to see that that charge sheet against you in London was wiped clean. You’ve been in the clear for four years now!’

He dodged neatly as a whisky glass materialized and flew through the air, narrowly missing his ear.