Barbara Cleverly (31 page)

‘Get on with it, Flora!’ said Carter, exasperated.

‘Oh, my God!’ murmured Joe under his breath. Fascinated, he could only watch and wait for Flora to confirm an awful suspicion and, without doubt, she was enjoying herself, teasing out the suspense, playing with them, and they could only silently sit it out.

‘You should know, gentlemen, that Lionel Conyers was the second victim and Korsovsky the third. The first, oh the first victim, was killed much earlier. But the motive for all three murders is the same. To bring about and maintain the personation of Alice Conyers by Isobel Newton – if we’re using official language.’

‘And the first victim?’ asked Carter.

‘Was Alice Conyers herself!’

‘What the hell are you talking about, Flora?’

She sat forward in her chair looking at each of the three men in turn, claiming their absolute attention.

‘Alice Conyers was murdered. And by Isobel Newton.’

‘Don’t be silly! She died in the rail crash. Everyone knows that. You yourself inspected the body!’ Carter was becoming angry.

‘Yes! I inspected the body! I’ve already told you that – but I didn’t tell you everything I noticed about the state of the corpse! I was left alone with it for as long as I chose to take. The official cause of death registered by the harassed doctor who had the task of processing over two hundred accident victims was accidental death due to a broken back and head injuries. A reasonable assessment considering the time available to him and the circumstances. After all – who is going to look for murder amongst so much carnage?’

She paused for a moment, fearing no interruption from her audience who were weighing every word, every nuance.

‘But I was looking more carefully, with the eye of one who knew that something was not as it should be. Before even I had taken in the stockings and the underwear I had noticed that the injuries to the head were unusual. Her face was completely

’ she reached for a word, ‘

obliterated. Smashed beyond recognition. When I had inspected the clothing and come to the conclusion that my mistress had changed places with this poor girl I took a closer look at the injuries. Not a pleasant task. I have no training in these matters and it took a lot of determination to handle a corpse in such a way but I managed. I turned the body over. Her back was injured as the doctor had said. Certainly there was much bruising to the spine and that seemed to be clearly the spot on which she had fallen. I would say that the impact of her fall was on the back. Why then was there such damage to her face?’

‘Oh, come on, Flora,’ said Carter, ‘it happened in a ravine. Steep slope, she probably rolled about taking injuries on all sides.’

‘Then why were there no injuries on any other sides? I checked. No bruising or cuts on her sides, no other injuries to her front apart from the very selective crushing of her features. It was not a case of one glancing blow against a rock and rolling onwards

the face had been destroyed by a series of blows aimed exclusively at the features. If you were to take the body away from the context of the accident you would say without any doubt at all that Alice Conyers had been murdered. Now, I am aware that there will never be any way in which I could prove the truth of what I am saying but I am telling you everything that I know as a witness to help you bring to justice the one who is responsible for this trail of death. And it is not I.

‘I do not think the injury to the back on the corpse I inspected would have been sufficiently serious to cause death. I would guess that Isobel, surviving almost unscathed, had come across Alice unable to move, unconscious perhaps but alive and a hideous idea had come to her. Here, injured and at her mercy, was a girl who had everything Isobel wanted. Perhaps she changed clothes before smashing her face. I think she did. The red tunic dress under the jacket would have had to be pulled over the head. If she had done that over those shattered and bleeding features

well, Commander?’

‘There would have been smears and stains of blood, possibly brain tissue on the inside of the tunic, picked up as it was pulled down over the face.’ Joe supplied.

‘Yes. That occurred to me and I checked. There were no stains on the inside lining. The staining was all about the neck where blood had ponded. So – the switch had been made before Isobel had finished her off.’

Joe was thinking furiously. Wishing desperately that he could have had a look at the corpse himself. Eager to ask Flora a hundred questions and at the same time unwilling to give her the satisfaction of supplying answers he did not want to hear. Assuming her story to be true, Flora represented even more of a menace than they had imagined to Isobel Newton. Not only was her blackmailer aware of her impersonation, she was aware that Isobel was guilty of murder and surely Isobel must, at some level, through her weight of guilt, have been fearful of this.

‘But what have you to say about your blackmail letters after the death of Conyers and now of Korsovsky – the so-called “protection” you offered and charged a fat price for? What is the meaning of those if it isn’t murder? “We’ve killed off a possible menace to your continued privileged existence and we think it’s worth so many rupees.” Those letters!’ Carter asked.

Flora smiled sadly and shook her head. ‘I have already told you – I am not responsible in any way for those killings: I guessed why they had been committed and who had done them, of course I did! And I decided to make the perpetrator pay for it. The letters never laid claim to the murders – I asked for extra payments to ensure my silence, Superintendent, not to reward me for shooting (or having shot) two innocent men!’ And she added quietly, ‘If you are honest, Charlie, you will admit that there is nothing else I could have done. What would have been your response if I had come to you last year and denounced Alice Conyers-Sharpe as the killer of her brother, that is the man who would have been her brother if she had only been who she said she was and not the woman who had actually murdered Alice and taken her place three years ago?’

Carter’s uncomfortable silence was answer enough.

‘You see! If you hadn’t simply labelled me mad you would have assumed my accusations were due to spite at her having harassed me and curtailed my activities here chez Flora. I’m sorry, Charlie, that your real target should turn out to be a woman whom you have always respected. How much more convenient it would have been, how much more satisfying to have flung me in jail.’

Flora’s slanting smile was mocking and triumphant and Joe found that even he could no longer meet her eyes. ‘But don’t be too embarrassed by your failure,’ she went on smoothly, ‘you are not the first, nor yet the hundredth, man to be deceived by Isobel Newton. And you will not be the last.’ She looked away thoughtfully for a moment. ‘Because, you see, men are primed by nature to fall victim to her deceptions. They – all men – are so convinced of their own superiority, of their own irresistible attraction, they accept at face value and take as no more than their due a woman’s attentions. There is nothing easier for a pretty and clever woman than to lead a man by his — ’

‘That’ll do, Flora!’ said Carter stiffly. ‘You’re talking like a tart!’

Ť ^ ť

The party which made its way back to the police station was subdued and thoughtful. Instead of enjoying the excitement of a showdown with its keenly anticipated arrests, they had now to rewrite in many important particulars their carefully composed plot and even perhaps to add a third crime to Isobel’s charge sheet. Flora’s manifest satisfaction at this turn of events made it no easier to bear. ‘Bloody woman!’ thought Charlie. ‘Smug little trollop!’ thought Joe. Simpson, eager as ever to be helpful but aware of his limitations, accepted Charlie’s suggestion that he go off back for tiffin with Meg, bearing the message that Joe and Carter would follow as soon as they could.

They sank down disconsolately into chairs in Charlie’s office. With a sigh he opened a drawer and held up a sheet of paper. A sheet headed with black gothic script and bedecked with sealing wax and scrawling signatures. Joe recognized it.

‘A warrant?’

‘Yes. Thought it sensible to be prepared. Things are moving fast and I thought I’d better get Sir George’s signature on this just in case we should need it. And it’s looking increasingly as though we shall need it.’

Joe didn’t need to ask the name inscribed on the sheet. ‘You must have been very sure of yourself and very persuasive to get him to sign away Alice Conyers’ freedom?’

‘Almost had to hold a gun to his head! I waited until you’d gone to bed last night, joined him in one last brandy and then hit him hard with the necessity of having the full force of the law in reserve to deal with someone so influential and so fly as little Miss Isobel. I just happened to have the warrant with me.’ He smiled. ‘And then when Flora came over the horizon I thought, oh good, we’re not going to need this after all.’

‘Look, Charlie,’ Joe began slowly.

‘It’s all right, old son! I know how you’re feeling about this. You needn’t be involved. Not sure I’d want you around when I put the cuffs on! Not safe! One anguished look from those tear-filled blue eyes and you’d become a liability. Stay well away – that’s my advice!’

‘Is there anything we ought to review?’ asked Joe with an edge of despair in his voice. ‘Before we rush in? Any evidence we could collect? It seems to me we have very little, if any, solid evidence. All we have is hearsay, coincidence, speculation and accusation.’

As they trundled once more through the sequence of events, the acceptability of alibis, probability of motive, a havildar came into the room with a telegram. ‘From Calcutta, sahib.’

‘The bullets! About time too!’ said Carter, tearing open the envelope. ‘Now let’s see what we’ve got.’

He read the messages carefully, then read them again and handed the sheets to Joe.

Joe read: ‘Bullet A Killing A Gun A Stop Bullets B x 2 Killing B Gun B Stop Bullets C x 2 Gun C Stop Bullets D x 2 Gun D Stop Bullets E x 2 Gun E Stop Fingerprints guns C and D Suspect 1 Stop Gun E no prints Stop’.

‘Ah,’ said Joe, ‘it gets worse. Seems to clear Edgar Troop of using any one of the three rifles we took away from Flora’s – could have other rifles somewhere else, of course. Ironic that the only solid evidence we’ve got proves nothing against anybody, though.’

‘Let’s think about this. I suppose with all your involvement with the chaps in Calcutta it’s you we have to blame – excuse me, thank – for this excessively succinct way of communicating the forensic information! The bullet that killed Lionel Conyers (that’s bullet A – we took it out of his body) was fired by a gun they’re labelling “A”. The two bullets that finished off your Russian friend were fired by a different gun – “B”. And the three rifles we took from Flora’s, two service rifles and the third one in the bag, were total innocents and nothing to do with either of the killings. The two service rifles had Troop’s prints all over them as you would expect but the third innocent one had been wiped clean. Now what the hell are we to make of all this?’

‘Easier to start at the end, I think,’ said Joe. ‘Flora, knowing nothing of modern methods of ballistic recognition, was trying to implicate Troop in the murders. I expect she wiped clean the third rifle to make it look more suspicious. And I don’t think we have to look any further than young Claudio to find a reason for her wanting Edgar Troop out of the picture! But then we’re left with the question of the two different rifles used in the two killings. That’s the worrying part

Same modus operandi, even the same cigarette ends left at the scene, but different rifles

’

‘Can’t see what’s so strange about that,’ said Carter. ‘Lots of people in Simla have more than one gun. There are probably more rifles per head of population in Simla than anywhere in the world outside Texas!’

‘True – but,’ persisted Joe, ‘we’re not talking about lots of people in Simla who might shoot for fun or competition or just collect guns. We’re talking about a sniper.’ After years of keeping his head down in the trenches, the word itself still had the power to make Joe shudder. ‘I know their habits. They grow attached to one particular weapon and go on using it. They know its character, its idiosyncrasies – and all rifles have them – and they don’t give it up. I know of snipers, marksmen who went through the whole war using the same weapon. No

“Killing A Gun A, Killing B Gun B” – that’s where the puzzle is!’

He was remembering something that Alice had said about Lionel’s killing that had struck a false note with him but before he could expand on the disturbing thought taking shape the telephone on Carter’s desk gave its customary throaty purr and rattle.

‘Superintendent Carter, here, Simla Police

Ah, yes, indeed I did

You have?

Good man! Seven o’clock this evening? Thank you very much, Patwa Singh. Thank you very much indeed.’

He put the telephone down and turned eagerly to Joe. ‘We’ve got them!’

‘Who’ve we got?’

Carter looked anxiously at his watch. ‘The birds are flying now!’ he said dramatically, enjoying the moment. ‘That was the stationmaster at Kalka. I’d warned him off to tell me if any of our suspects made a booking on a train out of here. I’ve got lookouts covering the roads too. Hang on, Joe!’

He hurried to the door and shouted commands. Buckling on his Sam Browne, he explained: ‘The whole of a first class compartment has been reserved all the way through to Bombay! Two passengers only. And paid for by ICTC. The train goes at seven from Kalka which means that Alice and a companion are probably going to catch the two o’clock local train from Simla to connect with it. In half an hour. Not much time!’

He folded the warrant and slipped it into his pocket. Before Joe could speak again the havildar returned, face bright with excitement. ‘Sahib, sir! Word has come that Memsahib Sharpe passed down the Mall ten minutes ago in a tonga. Two tongas! Their luggage was in the second one! They went west towards the Kalka road.’

‘They? Who was with her?’ asked Carter.

‘The Pathan, sahib. Rheza Khan.’