Murder on a Summer's Day (15 page)

Waiting is the hardest part. At 6.30 p.m., I sat on the edge of the ornate memorial fountain, a little way up the road from Bolton Hall. Usually, I like fountains, and enjoy watching them cascade, catch the light, and create the feeling of being freer than air. But this creation, dominated by an enclosing heavy stone structure, did not tempt me to trail a hand in the water.

In half an hour the train would arrive, bringing the Indian family, grieving mother, widow, fatherless child. James would alight from the train and into a waiting Bentley. I would hand over my report, to him and to the coroner.

What would happen then? James would thank me oh so politely on behalf of the India Office and the British government. He would tell me that my services were no longer required.

Or he might say, ‘You are quite right, Kate. This was no tragic accident, this was murder. It must be properly investigated.’

‘He was murdered.’

The voice startled me. I looked up to see who had spoken. It was Mr Upton. He, like me, was waiting for what might happen next – the arrival of the Indians. Yesterday morning, he had looked tired and a little put out by my arrival on the scene. Between then and now there had been a subtle change in his manner, as though something had been taken from him. But what? And was he speaking about Osbert, or about Narayan?

‘Who was murdered?’

He pointed to the inscription on the fountain. ‘Lord Frederick, second son of the 7th Duke of Devonshire. This fountain was built in his memory. He was Gladstone’s private parliamentary secretary. When Gladstone tried for conciliation in Ireland, Lord Frederick took on the job. He travelled to Dublin with Earl Spencer, bearing a message of peace. They did for him in Phoenix Park.’

‘Won’t you sit down?’ Was Upton trying to say that he, like me, believed there had been foul play here at Bolton Abbey?

He shook his head. ‘Jobs to do. There’s all the extra work at the Hall, and we’ve lost three men.’

‘Three?’

‘Osbert drowned, poor Isaac beyond help in the hospital, and now Joel.’

‘What has happened to Joel? I saw him this morning.’

‘No one knows. He has run off. Who can blame the lad?’

‘Shouldn’t someone be looking for him?’

‘He knows his way about. Daft as he is, he has a notion of self-protection. No one wants to be called at the inquest.’

‘Why not?’

‘He doesn’t want to be called, I should have said. He is afraid to speak in public, and lost without his dad.’

He touched his cap and strode off in the direction of the Hall.

No one wanted to be called, he had said. Did he include himself in that? I would like to be called.

After a few moments I followed, wishing I had detained him, questioned him, to discover whether he knew something I did not.

I walked to the priory and wandered among the gravestones until I heard motor car engines on the road. Curiosity drew me to look as the fleet of Bentleys came into sight. To observe people climbing out of the cars, I had to walk away from the priory, round to the side of the house, where a tree screened me from view.

The Duke of Devonshire and a stately Indian, who must be Narayan’s father, Maharajah Shivram Halkwaer, flanked by lines of staff, waited to greet the arrivals. The maharajah wore Indian dress in a dull red. I have seen the duke on only a couple of occasions and he was at a distance from me, but unmistakeable. He is a solid-looking man with a ruddy complexion. I have heard him likened to a walrus, but with a strong jaw.

The first car, with curtained rear windows, drew up at the front of Bolton Hall.

Footmen stepped forward to open the doors of the car. The Duchess of Devonshire stepped out first. In a caring gesture, she held out a hand to an older woman, dressed in a white sari, her bowed head covered. That must be Narayan’s mother. Next a younger woman stepped out. She also wore white. Taller than her mother-in-law, and the duchess, she held herself erect, creating a sense of a space around her. That space was invaded straight away, by a little boy aged seven or eight who scampered from the car. A young woman servant came after him, but he shook her off and went to his mother, immediately assuming a more dignified stance.

From the second car came an elegant man in his early twenties, dressed in a beautifully cut long dark jacket in the Indian style. Slim and handsome, he looked neither right nor left but walked straight to the senior maharajah. Although they did not touch, and the younger man bowed, some powerful emotion passed between them, almost electrifying the air. It was so private that I turned away, even though I could not be seen from my spot by the tree.

Or so I thought, until a man in a dark grey suit and black turban spotted me, making me feel caught out. From the way he glanced about him, I thought he must be a bodyguard. What a pity Narayan had not travelled with this observant man. James walked on the man’s other side, and did not notice me.

I set off to walk back to the hotel, hoping that James would come to find me before very much longer.

And then I saw a sight I shall never forget. A long line of Indian servants, dressed in white, walked along the road carrying vast amounts of luggage, in their hands and on their heads. I stood aside to let them pass.

Behind them came carts, full of luggage, pushed by more servants. They gave the appearance of being here to stay for a very long time.

I was sitting in the hotel garden when James appeared, taking long strides across the lawn. James stands six feet tall in his stocking feet. He stood six feet tall in his stocking feet at age fifteen, but willed himself to grow no taller. As he came closer, I noticed how much thinner he looked than when I saw him earlier in the year, at Hope’s funeral. Never less than immaculately turned out, he is a good-looking man, with a small, fair moustache and neatly parted light brown hair, turned a shade darker by pomade.

He smiled and shook my hand, sitting down beside me on the bench. ‘Glad of the opportunity to stretch my legs, Kate. That was a long journey, Leeds, Skipton, and then here. It felt never-ending.’

‘I saw all the Bentleys.’

‘Assembling the family and their entourage is like deploying three regiments to the same part of the front line.’

‘Who has come?’

‘Uncle Tom Cobley and all. Fortunately, they have brilliant aides-de-camp.’

‘And I saw the aeroplane this morning.’

‘They flew from Croydon. The duke travelled with the maharajah, his doctor and two aides-de-camp.’

‘Doctor? Is the maharajah a sick man?’

‘No. But that’s probably because he always travels with a doctor.’

‘They must have taken it very hard.’

‘They certainly did. They’re all utterly devastated. Narayan was the heir, and a fine man.’

‘That little boy I saw, is he Narayan’s son?’

‘Yes, and next in line. The little Prince Rajendra. He has sisters, two girls at home in India who have yet to find out that their father is dead. I don’t believe the little boy fully grasps what has happened.’

Neither does anyone else, I thought, but now was not the time to say that.

‘I take it that the women in the car with the Duchess of Devonshire are the prince’s wife and mother.’

‘Yes. They are all shell-shocked.’

‘And the other young chap, in the second car with you?’

‘The maharajah’s younger brother, Prince Jaya. He’d been in Edinburgh with a school friend so came via York. It was awful in that train, Kate. I’m not over-sensitive to atmosphere, but that train! I swear it wasn’t powered by steam but by grief.’ He stood up. ‘Let’s take a turn around the grounds. My legs have died on me.’

‘And who was the Indian in the dark grey suit and black turban, travelling with you and Prince Jaya?’

‘Oh, Mohinder Singh Chana. Bright chap. Aide-de-camp.’

The man to whom the maharajah had sent the mysterious telegram. Twenty-one forty. The man who had sent the cryptic reply: Ides of August.

James looked at the view across the river. ‘It’s so beautiful here.’

‘Yes. Pity that it’s taken a crisis of Empire to bring you to Yorkshire.’

‘I know. It was kind of you to invite me after Hope died. But I’ve been busy at work. I had to keep doing something to fill my brain, and stop me thinking.’

‘I suppose that keeps you out of a house full of memories.’ I took his arm and steered him towards the road. He must see the wood for himself, the spot where Narayan had lain. But he did not know that was in my mind and continued his train of thought.

‘It’s not so simple. We got in each other’s way, Kate, Hope and I. I was thinking about her on the train journey. If I was going down the stairs, she was coming up. If I wound the gramophone, she was just about to read her book. And now I feel so bad about this. When she went on a visit, I felt relieved. And I know she was always glad when I went to work.’

‘That’s how people rub along most of the time, James.’

‘But I didn’t want her to be gone.’

‘If you were Thomas Hardy, you’d write some very moving poems about feeling guilty. But would she want you to feel guilty?’

‘No. And at least we had the chance to say goodbye.’ He touched my arm lightly and I knew he was thinking of how I lost Gerald. ‘Sorry. I shouldn’t be deviating from the task in hand. Blame the train and the sense of loss that wound round the steam and smoke.’

I thought about the darkness of Bolton Hall. After Indian palaces and the best London hotels had to offer, it seemed hardly the best place to house a grieving family.

‘James, I have a report for you, and have copied it to the coroner.’

Perhaps my report would carry more weight if it came via James.

‘Oh? Can you tell me what’s in this report?’

‘I would rather you read it, and then I can tell you what is not included.’

I pulled the report from my satchel and handed it to him. We paused in our walk while he read it.

‘I wish everyone I worked with was as succinct as you. Thank you.’ He put the report in his pocket. ‘But that’s a bit of a bombshell you’re dropping, saying that the maharajah did not die at that spot. Are you accusing someone of murder?’

‘I can’t accuse someone when I don’t know what happened. But you need to see the place where he was found.’

‘The coroner is at Bolton Hall now, speaking to his lordship, arranging for an inquest to be held at the Hall tomorrow. I’ll hand this to him personally.’

‘Well then, do you want to do that first?’

‘He won’t be leaving yet, and he does already have your photographs.’

‘Good.’

We had almost reached the place behind Bolton Hall, where the ground slopes up to Stanks’s farm, and one can enter the wood.

‘It’s this way – up the hill.’

‘Lead on then,’ James said.

James listened without speaking as we crossed the narrow lane and began to climb towards the wood. Fortunately, my Cuban heels were just about adequate for the gentle slope. Leaving out only the information about the prince’s mysterious telegram, which could cause serious trouble for Cummings and his cousin, I told him everything that I had found out, and, more importantly, what I had not found out – such as where Narayan had died. ‘It’s important that we find the place, because there may be some trace or clue as to what really happened. The more I’ve thought about this, the more convinced I am that Narayan was murdered on Friday, his body hidden somewhere, and then produced, ready to be found on Saturday. It is too much of a coincidence that on Saturday morning one of the grooms who was with him was found drowned. He knew something. Perhaps he saw who killed the prince.’

‘Your photographs, Kate, do you have extra copies?’

‘No. But I do have the negatives in the hotel safe so can make more if needed.’

‘I’ll let you know.’ His stomach rumbled. ‘Excuse me. It was impossible to eat on the train. It would have looked so heartless.’

I looked at the ground, to avoid being tripped by tree roots, or stubbing my shoe on small rocks. An extraordinary tree caught my eye. It appeared to have two legs, the centre of its trunk having been worn away, and yet it stood as sturdily as the rest.

‘There’s something else you should know. This may be important because of what you said about the rivalry between Gattiawan and a neighbouring state. The local coal merchant told fellow drinkers in the Elm Tree that he saw an Indian on Bark Lane on Friday afternoon. Later, he changed his mind, and said it was a gipsy.’

‘Have the police talked to him about it?’

‘Who knows? Nobody tells me anything unless I ask, and I can’t exactly start interviewing the police when I don’t know how far you want my remit to extend.’

I was on the point of saying that my trusty assistant would make his own enquiries but something in James’s manner made me hold back.

‘So, this is the fateful wood.’

‘Yes.’

James glanced down at his shoes, but followed me without another word.

The evening had grown chilly, and chillier still as we entered the shady wood. We walked in silence along the path. James stopped dead, and stared. ‘What’s that crow doing there?’