Murder on a Summer's Day (5 page)

The reception area of the hotel was deserted. I tapped the counter bell. Moments later a stout, twinkly-eyed fellow, as broad as he was high and with a nose to make Mr Punch proud, emerged from an inner office wiping crumbs from his mouth with one hand, and with the other hand fastening a reluctant button on his braided navy jacket.

‘Good morning, madam.’

‘Good morning. I’d like a room please.’

He pursed his lips, allowed his eyes to pop, shook his head and let out a breeze expressive of doubt. ‘I’m sorry. We are not accepting guests at present.’

‘Do you have a room available?’

‘Oh yes. But not for…’

‘Not for what?’

‘It’s nothing to do with your being an unescorted lady.’

‘What is it to do with?’

‘We are in an unusual time, and not knowing who might come through the door I have instructions to be careful, and can say no more.’

I took out my business card and handed it to him. ‘Please give this to the manager. Say I wish to speak to him.’

He held the card at a good distance and scrutinised it. ‘Please wait. There is a seat over there.’ He nodded towards the window.

I stayed put.

The manager was not long in coming, hurrying towards me. Of medium height, as wiry as his commissionaire was stout, he walked with ramrod-stiff gait, as though a cord of steel ran up his backbone.

He wore a dark suit, which somehow looked wrong. Here was a man I would expect to see in khaki. His small neat moustache said Military Man. ‘Mrs Shackleton, I do beg your pardon for this slight. I was tipped by the India Office to expect you.’

Well thank heaven for that.

He made a small bow. ‘I’m Sergeant. Clive Sergeant is my name and sergeant is the rank I rose to. I alerted staff to be wary of newspaper reporters. My apologies that Cummings applied this caution to you.’

Cummings, the commissionaire, ambled up, straightening his shoulders.

‘You have luggage?’ Sergeant asked.

‘In my car, the blue Jowett.’

‘Cummings, see to Mrs Shackleton’s luggage. The garden room.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Cummings stopped short of saluting.

‘Now if you’ll come this way, Mrs Shackleton. I took the liberty of having my wife stand by to make you a breakfast. I believe you left home at an ungodly hour.’

‘That’s very good of you, Mr Sergeant, but I am here to interview the prince’s valet and his companion.’

‘They are not going anywhere, madam. I’ve seen to that. Following your instructions, the Rolls-Royce is under lock and key. No one, including the prince’s companion, will have access to it. As to the valet, he is standing by, waiting for his master’s return. So, this way if you please, to the dining room.’

Breakfast sounded suddenly tempting. What’s more, this man would make a good ally.

A few moments later we sat at a window table in a pleasant, half-panelled room that looked out onto the garden. Someone must have been peeping through the circular glass in the door that communicated with the kitchen because almost straight away a waitress appeared, carrying a tray.

Mr Sergeant waited until she had gone and then risked a small smile. ‘I will see that you are well looked after, Mrs Shackleton. I served under the general, your grandfather, Lord Rodpen, on the Northwest Frontier. We all admired and respected him greatly. It will be an honour to assist you in any way I can in this dreadful business. I am most distressed to have let us all down by losing so important a guest as the Gattiawan heir.’

Of course he was not to know that the venerable grandfather, General Rodpen, was mine only by virtue of adoption.

He stirred his tea. ‘And now this terrible business with young Osbert Hannon.’ Sergeant lowered his head. ‘Poor boy. What a blow. As if we haven’t suffered enough losses already. He was his mother’s only remaining son.’

‘So I understand, and leaves a young widow.’

‘How could someone so fit and agile have such a mishap?’

‘Mr Sergeant, did Osbert seem in any way perturbed after escorting the prince yesterday?’

Sergeant shook his head. ‘Not a bit of it. I saw him in the afternoon. He told me that the prince bagged a doe, and that he and Isaac had taken it to Stanks’s barn. He said that the prince had gone on alone, to explore the moors. Last night, Osbert joined the search party and was out until the early hours.’ Sergeant stroked his moustache. ‘Surely to God Osbert wasn’t so wearied that he slipped crossing the Strid. Local lads are so confident they can leap it that sometimes they misjudge. Osbert would have been in a hurry to rejoin the search at dawn.’

A breakfast was placed in front of me by the waitress. I gazed at bacon and egg, black pudding, fried bread and mushrooms.

‘Is that all right? My wife said you may prefer a kipper or a boiled egg, but I told her, I said that the general always liked a fried breakfast.’ He scrutinised the plate, and tutted. ‘She left off the kidney.’

‘It’s all right. I don’t want kidney, thank you. This should see me through the day.’

‘You’re sure?’

‘Positive. Perhaps while I eat you would be kind enough to tell me something about Gattiawan. Having served in India you must know a great deal about the place.’

‘About India, yes. It is a land of extremes, Mrs Shackleton, riches beyond the dreams of avarice, alongside the most abject poverty and starvation.’

‘What is Gattiawan like?’

‘Most of my time was spent on the frontier. I have never been to Gattiawan, or any of the princely states. I know that they are allowed to get on with their business as they please, as long as they pay taxes to the crown.’

I thought back to my schooldays, and the lessons on Peoples of the Empire. ‘There are hundreds of princely states, I think.’

‘Yes, five hundred and sixty or more, taking up about a third of the land. I do know that Gattiawan stood by us during the Great War. There are those in India who when push came to shove for the war effort said, “England’s need is India’s opportunity”. Not to put too fine a point on it, they wanted us gone from India. But Maharajah Shivram and his son Prince Narayan fought alongside us. I would shift heaven and earth to find the prince.’

The breakfast was getting the better of me. I pushed the black pudding to the side of the plate. ‘Mr Sergeant,
The Times
court circular item referred to the Maharajah of Gattiawan’s arrival in Marseilles on the SS
Malwa
. I take it that was the senior Maharajah, Shivram, Prince Narayan’s father.’

‘Yes. The Indian princes have all manner of titles, nawab, nizam, rao, rawal, but in Gattiawan they use maharajah, which I believe is rather superior to a mere rajah.’

‘But Prince Narayan is also a maharajah? So there are two maharajahs in the family.’

‘Strictly speaking there are three, Maharajah Shivram, his missing son Narayan, and Narayan’s young son. At the age of seven a prince who is in line to be ruler officially takes the title. It can be confusing, but it helps that we more commonly refer to them all as princes.’

A surfeit of princes did not entirely clear the confusion. If I could find Narayan, I would at least put a face to the middle one.

‘Did Prince Narayan and Miss Metcalfe travel on the SS
Malwa
with the family?’

‘No. They were already in Paris and came to London to visit the British Empire Exhibition.’

‘What brought him to Yorkshire in advance of the grouse shooting?’

‘They came by way of Derbyshire – Chatsworth. Miss Metcalfe is from these parts. I believe the maharajah wanted to see where she grew up – her original habitat, I suppose you might say.’

‘What kind of man is he?’

‘He is handsome, extravagant, courteous, rides well, a superb sportsman, every inch a prince.’

Now I really did want to find him.

I placed my knife and fork on the plate. ‘Please thank Mrs Sergeant for that excellent breakfast. Now I really must speak to the valet, and Miss Metcalfe.’ I pushed back my chair.

‘Who will you see first?’

‘The valet.’

Sergeant rose from the table. ‘Miss Metcalfe…’ For the first time, he hesitated. ‘She is in her room now. If, as I hope, the prince returns, he will be angry if she has not been treated courteously. On the other hand, if the Indian royal family arrive and she is here, that could be highly embarrassing.’ He sighed and spread his hands in a helpless gesture.

‘Mr Sergeant, what would you do in the army?’

‘I would have the day’s orders, and contingency plans.’

We walked to the door. ‘Our day’s orders must be to find the maharajah. As yet, we do not need a contingency plan. Miss Metcalfe could have useful information. Did anyone else travel with the prince?’

I had already asked this of Mr Upton, the duke’s agent, but I am not above asking the same question twice, in case I elicit a different answer. This time I did not.

He paused by a well-tended aspidistra. ‘Prince Narayan and Miss Metcalfe drove up together. The valet, Ijahar, came by train. That is the extent of the entourage.’

‘Strange. My Meeks encyclopaedia had photographs of Indian princes, seated on elephants, surrounded by ranks of soldiers and countless servants.’

‘Mrs Shackleton, it is unheard of for such a man to travel with a single valet. He should have aides-de-camp, secretaries, launderers, drivers, drummers and trumpeters and their servants, servants’ servants, and a dozen minions. It is Miss Metcalfe’s influence that they travel like “normal people”, as she puts it. She cannot abide hangers-on. If it were up to her, he would leave his valet behind, but Ijahar is so loyal he would have run after the motor all the way up the Great North Road.’

His description of Miss Metcalfe almost tempted me to see her first, but my uncle always maintains that if one wants to find out about a man, there is no better source of information than his valet.

‘Does he speak English, this valet?’

‘Yes, in his fashion.’

We reached the bottom of the stairs. ‘So, Mr Sergeant, please lead the way to Ijahar.’

As we climbed the stairs, Sergeant said, ‘The man’s pestered the life out of my staff. Every five minutes asking, Have they found my master? He is in and out of the hotel like a jack-in-the-box, staring across the countryside, as if he’ll divine where the prince has got to.’

Prince Narayan, Lydia Metcalfe and the valet occupied the entire first floor. From the landing window, I looked across at a spectacular, sunlit view. Only gently moving clouds cast a shadow across the scene.

Sergeant pointed to a closed door. ‘Ijahar is in there. Will I come in with you?’

‘No. Thank you, Mr Sergeant. I will introduce myself.’

I tapped at the door. It was flung open by a young, thin Indian who stared at me from anxious eyes. One eyebrow had been obliterated by a great scar. He wore a white turban, tunic, baggy trousers and dhoti. The man looked at me expectantly, a smile beginning to form. ‘They have found his highness?’

‘I’m afraid not. Are you Ijahar?’

It was a stupid question. He could hardly be the night porter, disturbed in an illicit nap.

‘I am Ijahar.’

‘My name is Mrs Shackleton. I am here at the request of the Duke of Devonshire, to investigate your master’s whereabouts. May I come in?’

The poor man seemed taken aback, and alarmed at the prospect of being alone with me. I wondered whether it would have been better to let Mr Sergeant stay.

Ijahar opened the door wide, and propped it with a shoe, which did not do the trick. He then placed a smoothing iron there, to hold the door open.

I watched in disbelief. Was he afraid I might slam the door and ravish him?

The room was little more than a linen cupboard. Pipes ran along the back wall, against which lay a roll of bedding. The slatted shelves held neatly folded clothing. On the floor was a doubled blanket, covered with a slightly scorched sheet and next to that an impressive collection of clothes irons and smoothing irons, one perched precariously on an unlit Bunsen burner. A shelf held an array of clothes brushes.

‘You take very good care of your master, Ijahar.’

He nodded enthusiastically. ‘I am dressing him since he was a child.’

Talking in a cupboard, albeit a large cupboard, did not seem a good idea.

‘I have a few questions. Let us go into your master’s room, where we can speak more comfortably.’

The thin face clouded with doubt. The scar on the absent eyebrow seemed to stretch. ‘He is not liking it if you go in his room, memsahib.’

‘I will take responsibility, Ijahar. I need to see the room.’ Still, he hesitated. ‘It is better if you show me. I could ask the manager.’

He sighed, and nodded. ‘You follow me please.’

We stepped along the landing to the next room. Ijahar withdrew a key that hung on a ribbon around his neck. ‘Manager Sergeant says keep it locked. Let no one in.’

‘But you are letting me in now.’

‘I hear manager Sergeant talk to you outside my door and say my name.’

The room was opulent. I felt sure that the prince had brought his own furnishings. Rich silks in shades of plum and dark grape covered the chairs and bed. Scarlet silk pyjamas and a dressing gown monogrammed in gold thread lay on the bed.

‘For his return. And I draw a bath.’

‘So you expect he will return soon?’

‘Yes, yes. He likes to trick, to joke, ever since young. In his palace, when guests come, to eat, he has a train go round and round the big table.’ He smiled. ‘Up he speeds it, so guests reach out, and what they reach for, food, cigar, drink, chocolate, is gone.’

This confirmation of the prince’s reputation as a practical joker gave me a small glimmer of hope, though I felt little sympathy for a man who would crack such a bad joke as to have a whole estate, a whole village, down tools to search for him.

An Elizabethan table stood by the wall. On it was a writing case, and typewriter. In the corner of the room stood a heavy old safe.

‘Did your master say anything to you before he went out yesterday afternoon?’

‘Yes, memsahib.’

‘What did he say?’

‘He said Ijahar.’

‘Just your name.’

‘Yes. He was in good mood. Sometimes he say, You.’

‘And then what?’

‘I dress him. I put on his boots. Bring his gun.’

‘Did the maharajah receive any messages or visitors before he went out yesterday?’

‘Not yesterday. Day before. Mr Presthope only.’

I remembered that this was the old school friend under whose roof the prince and Miss Metcalfe had spent one night.

‘Mr Presthope of Halton East?’

He nodded.

‘Do you know what they talked about?’

Ijahar shrugged and shook his head.

‘And are any of your fellow countrymen in the area?’

‘Countrymen?’

‘Yes, any Indian gentlemen, only it was thought someone may have been seen in the area on Friday.’

‘No, memsahib, only my master and me.’

‘I must look into the writing case. This is not to pry into your master’s affairs. It is part of my investigation. Do you understand?’

He hesitated, as if expecting to hear his master’s footsteps and to be caught in a moment of betrayal. All was silence.

‘Very well, memsahib.’

‘And I want you to be witness that I am taking nothing.’

‘Very well, memsahib.’

I lifted the writing case a little nearer. I saw that under it was a telegram. I unfolded it. It was dated August 1, yesterday. What a strange message. It read simply, “Ides of August” and was signed “C”.

We had read
Julius Caesar
aloud at school. Afterwards we ran about warning each to beware the ides of March, thinking this to be some villainous band of outlaws. It was disappointing to learn that the ides referred to the middle of the month. In some months, like March, the ides was the fifteenth. If I remembered correctly, in August the ides fell on the thirteenth. This cryptic message sounded like a warning. And who was “C”?

The sandalwood writing case had a key in the lock. I opened it. Placed on top of the envelopes was a typed note.

Presthope was the man the maharajah had stayed with on his first night in the area. Who was Tobias Metcalfe? Why, if the maharajah wanted to give him money, did he not do so himself? It seemed extraordinary that the maharajah had handed over such a large sum the day before he disappeared.

A further cursory glance through the writing case revealed what looked to be verse, exquisitely penned in an Indian script on blue bond paper, decorated with tiny hand-drawn flowers. Poetry. There were a couple of letters in what I took to be Urdu. There were also notes in English, but nothing that gave a hint of an invitation that would explain an absence.

‘Has anyone, apart from you, been in this room since your master left?’

He shook his head. ‘I have the key.’

‘What is in the safe?’ It struck me as careless that a receipt for ten thousand pounds was left in a writing case.

‘My master’s jewels and the dubte suraj ki chamak.’

‘The dubte suraj ki chamak?’

‘Gattiawan diamond, called glow as sun goes down.’

The newspapers had been generous with their information about the Koh-i-noor diamond, Mountain of Light, the empress of jewels that formed the centrepiece of the Great Exhibition at Crystal Palace in 1851. Now it was on display at the British Empire Exhibition. ‘What is the dubte suraj ki chamak like?’

‘It is like nothing else.’ He lowered his voice to a reverent whisper. ‘Dubte suraj ki chamak, a pale pink stone, weighs 186 carats.’

‘That is bigger than the Koh-i-noor.’

He joined forefingers and thumbs to indicate its shape and size, about four inches. ‘Diamond of the Mughal Emperors, mined in Golconda. In a time of war it was hidden in milk pudding.’ He raised his fingers to a point. ‘Around it, silver star diamonds and golden as moon diamonds. From top grow peacock feathers.’

‘Feathers?’

He nodded eagerly. ‘Emeralds, rubies, pearls, sapphires.’

Much as I wanted to see this extraordinary gem, I decided against asking Ijahar to open the safe. My anxiety for the maharajah increased to the weight of one hundred and eighty-six carats. The man must be mad to have driven here carrying such a jewel. The car could have crashed. He could have been robbed. He was either extremely foolish or very daring. Perhaps both.

‘Why did he bring the diamond here?’

For a moment, it seemed that Ijahar might tell me something, but he clammed up, pursing his lips.

‘Ijahar, you know something. You must tell me. I am here on behalf of His Majesty’s Government.’ And so I was. Hearing myself say this aloud gave me a shiver of surprise at the gravity of such responsibility.

‘I only hear them say.’

‘Say what?’

‘I do not listen.’

‘Of course you don’t. What was said?’

‘The king comes here to shoot. My master will show him the diamond.’

‘I see.’

I did not see. It was news to me that King George would be coming to Bolton Abbey for the grouse shooting. James must have known but had chosen not to tell me. I wondered what other pieces of information I would have to ferret out before I found the truth. I glanced once more at the note regarding disbursement of monies. It seemed careless to leave this lying about.

I had never met Thurston Presthope, but I did not like the sound of him. I added this old school friend to my list of people to interview. And then a thought occurred to me. Why not leave this here, or appear to leave it here? Set a trap.

‘Ijahar, I want to use the typewriter to write a note. Will you wish to stay while I do this?’

He nodded. ‘I stay, memsahib.’

‘I shall use a piece of paper from your master’s writing case.’

I took a sheet of writing paper from the case and rolled it into the typewriter. I copied the note exactly. Now here would come the hard part.

I took the paper from the typewriter. Ideally, I would have liked to trace and practise Thurston Presthope’s signature. Since my notebook was handy, in my pocket, I took it out, and tried my hand at the flourishing scrawl, twice.

I then forged Presthope’s signature on the newly-typed note.

Ijahar had lost interest. He was smoothing the pyjamas on the bed. I put the original note in an envelope, and slid it into my satchel. My forgery, I returned to the writing case.

Ijahar turned his liquid brown eyes on me. The scar where his eyebrow should have been took on a livid cast as he stood in the rays of sunlight that poured through the window.

‘Ijahar, I need to speak to Miss Metcalfe now.’

Tobias Metcalfe, the intended recipient of ten thousand pounds, must be some relation to the maharajah’s paramour. Perhaps Lydia Metcalfe had put in a plea for financial assistance for her father, or a brother.