Murder on a Summer's Day (6 page)

‘Her room, memsahib.’

The words uttered by the valet held a hundredweight of loathing. He rapped on the door, and then hurried away.

A voice called ‘Enter, truant!’

I stepped into the room. Lydia Metcalfe was seated at a walnut dressing table, applying lip rouge. Through the huge oval mirror, she glanced at me in undisguised disappointment. Straight away I realised that Ijahar had emulated the prince’s knock, to upset the woman he disliked.

She swung round on the stool. Of course, she was beautiful. What else might I have expected? Nineteen or twenty years of age, I guessed, with high cheekbones, flawless pale skin and full bow lips. No fashionable bob here. Her mass of waving red hair had been tamed into luxuriant pleats and loops. I could see why the maharajah had fallen for this most modern work of art.

‘Miss Metcalfe?’

‘Who the hell are you?’ Her London accent sat uneasily with such stunning looks.

‘That’s a yes?’

‘Oh, witty, eh? Yes I’m Lydia Metcalfe. What of it?’ She took a swig of something that looked like water. But a trained detective knows gin when she spots a bottle of Gordon’s next to the perfume spray.

‘I am Mrs Kate Shackleton, here at the request of the India Office to investigate the maharajah’s disappearance. May I have a word with you?’

‘What about?’ She picked up the bottle and topped up her glass. ‘I thought they were too busy searching for Narayan to bother me.’

‘The search was resumed at dawn.’

‘By the halt, the lame and the blind. They don’t want to find him do they, your precious India Office, because they can’t stop him.’

‘Stop him?’

‘They can’t stop him marrying me.’

She rose gracefully to her feet, moving as if about to take her place on stage at the Folies Bergère. Tall, with long slim legs and a great deal of front, she wore a clinging silk dress the colour of young nettles. The row of emeralds at her throat was spectacular enough to form the solitary display in a high-class jeweller’s window. It was matched by the bracelet dangling from her wrist and a solitaire emerald on her ring finger. She made sure I saw it.

Now was certainly not the moment to enquire after the prince’s wife and child. I tried not to gawp. ‘You are engaged?’

She shot me a look that said she missed nothing, including my surprise. ‘Yes. In the Hindu religion a man is allowed to marry four wives. He has only the poetry-writing princess. She was foisted on him, betrothed when they were children. It’s me he wants and he is in a hurry.’ I would have liked to ask why but decided against it. She told me anyway. ‘He saw the way the Aga Khan looked at me when we were dining at the Savoy.’ She downed the contents of her glass, glaring at me from big summer-blue eyes. Her animosity was ebbing. She looked a little defensive, as if expecting criticism.

‘You must be anxious about your fiancé.’

She softened a little when I referred to the prince as her fiancé. ‘You’d better sit down.’ She indicated a bucket chair, covered with a gold satin throw. I sat down somewhat gingerly, half expecting to slide off.

Jamming a Sobranie cocktail cigarette into a long holder, she sat on the bed. ‘If you’d had the shock of your sweetheart taking this long about his business, and no word of explanation, you’d be knocking it back yourself.’

‘When did you last speak to the prince?’

She threw the word back at me. ‘Prince! He’s a maharajah. One day he will be king of Gattiawan. But of course Britain doesn’t like Indians to be called kings. They like to keep the monopoly of that to themselves. Are you here because they’re pointing a finger at me? Are you instead of a detective?’

‘I am a detective.’

‘Well then, I expect you’d like a clue. Gretna Green.’

‘Gretna Green?’

‘I told him it would be very romantic if we could elope to Gretna Green.’

‘Did he say that he was going there?’

‘It wouldn’t be an elopement if he went alone, would it? I think he’s making some arrangements, checking that the marriage would be valid, arranging a Hindu marriage to follow. When he came back from his ride yesterday, he brought me a four-leaf clover and said, Be mine.’

‘It’s unusual in a man, to know the meaning of flowers.’

‘I teased him about it. I said it would take more than a weed to make me stay with him forevermore. He said there would be an even better surprise for me when he returned. And I knew it was to do with our wedding.’

‘So you believe he went to make some arrangements.’

‘If we’d been in London he would have sent one of his minions but they can’t be trusted. I’m teaching him to do things for himself.’

‘Have you told the police what you have just told me?’

She laughed. ‘Our village plod? It’s none of his business. I got rid of him.’

‘How?’

‘Oh, he came sniffing round, looking down his nose at me. I turned on my smoulder, his legs melted and he ran away.’

‘I wish you had told him because it sounds odd that the maharajah would go straight from deerstalking into making arrangements for a marriage.’

‘Are you saying I’m stupid?’

‘Of course not.’

‘When you are wealthy beyond dreams, you can do anything. He could have had a car waiting.’ She spoke with more hope than conviction.

I waited for her to listen to how weak and unconvincing her words sounded.

‘All right, if you must know, I am worried. Narayan can barely stand to be away from me for more than an hour or two.’

‘So you have been by his side, apart from the riding, since you left London?’

‘I didn’t say that.’

‘Miss Metcalfe, I’m not asking questions to be intrusive. I want to try and piece together events. If you tell me anything that he said or did when he was with you, something that made you believe he might act out of character, or have a plan to go somewhere – apart from Gretna Green – I could extend my enquiries. The physical search of the estate here is the most useful approach, but we can also build a picture, do you see?’

‘It’s a picture you want? Well put this in your picture. I want my maharajah back. If someone has hurt him, I’ll kill them.’

‘Is there anything else you can tell me? You left London when?’

She leaned back against the pillows and kicked off her shoes. ‘We drove a week ago Friday from London to Chatsworth. Narayan dined with the Duke and Duchess of Devonshire last Saturday. Of course, I wasn’t invited.’

‘Why was that?’

She laughed, showing perfect teeth. ‘I’m not the right sort, not pukka. I suppose you must be or you wouldn’t be here, but you seem all right.’

‘Was there a particular reason for the visit to Chatsworth?’

‘He didn’t say so, but I know it was to do with the Gattiawan diamond. The Koh-i-Noor diamond is on display at the British Empire Exhibition. Narayan and I went together to see it. His father had mentioned that perhaps they might loan the Gattiawan diamond for display during the second part of the exhibition, when the Koh-i-Noor is returned to the king.’

‘And after Chatsworth?’

‘We stayed in Derbyshire for a few days. For once we gave that damn valet the slip. Narayan sent him here on the train. It’s ridiculous, a grown man expecting someone to dress him. I can’t abide the thought of some maid messing about with me. I do for myself, thank you.’

‘Did you meet anyone, talk to anyone, who may have followed you here, from London, or from Chatsworth?’

‘No. We didn’t tell anyone where we were going. I didn’t know myself. Narayan said it was a surprise. I expect he’d talked to Devonshire about it, about coming up here for some riding and shooting. And I believe he thought because we’re far-flung here, I would able to stay at Bolton Hall. I knew I wouldn’t, and I wouldn’t want to.’

‘Tell me about staying the night in Halton East.’

She pulled a face. ‘Narayan was told Bolton Hall was still “shut up”, but that if
he
wanted to stay there he could. They’re not so subtle, these fancy aristocrats of ours. But of course, I’m meant to know my place, and they’re not above trying a bit of nose-rubbing.’

‘That must have upset you.’

‘Not likely it didn’t.’ She shook her emerald bracelet at me. ‘Do I look as if I care to mix with boring old farts? They won’t put up with me and I won’t put up with them. Narayan knows that, and he admires me for it. We spent one night with that so-called friend of his, Thurston Presthope. They were at school together. I saw through him straight away. He said his wife is away. It’s obvious that she’s left him. He doesn’t pay his servants. He’s a gambler, and a waster. There was a dead moth on the dining room table. I said to him, “What’s that doing there? Do you have a wager on how long it will take to turn to dust?” Of course Presthope had to pretend to be amused.’

‘What does he do, this Mr Presthope?’

‘He’s a so-called gentleman, which means he does nothing and hasn’t two ha’pennies to rub together. He called here on Thursday. I expect he asked Narayan to lend him money.’ Her startling eyes flickered with a sudden idea. ‘Presthope’s behind this.’

Before she had time to say more, there was a tap on the door. She made as if to leap up eagerly, then recovered her poise and leaned back, calling as she had to me, ‘Enter!’

A fair-haired young chambermaid appeared in the doorway. ‘Miss Metcalfe, I’m to ask if you need any help with your packing.’

‘Packing? Why would I be packing?’

‘The Indian gentleman, the maharajah’s manservant, madam, he said you are leaving.’

Lydia picked up the ashtray and flung it at the chambermaid, missing her by a hair’s breadth. ‘Tell him that! Tell him I’m going nowhere till Narayan comes back.’

The chambermaid bolted from the room.

‘I’ll swing for that wretched creature, by God I will. I’ll tell Narayan, sack him, or I leave you.’

Her emerald bracelet glinted as she raised her glass and took another drink of gin.

‘Miss Metcalfe,’ I tried my soothing voice. ‘Is it possible that the valet expects the Indian royal family will be arriving, because of Narayan’s disappearance?’

‘What of it if they do? I have a right to be here.’

Bravado. Another moment and she would start to cry.

‘Who is Mr Tobias Metcalfe?’

‘My father. Why?’

‘I believe I heard one of the estate workers mention him, and it occurred to me… No it’s nothing.’

‘What?’

‘I wondered whether the maharajah’s true purpose in coming here was to ask your father’s permission to marry you.’

Her eyes widened. ‘D’you know, I bet that was it. It would be just like him to play by the rules. When we arrived on Tuesday, the farm was our first call, at Narayan’s insistence. He particularly wanted to see my father but he was out of luck.’

‘Why was that?’

‘My father wasn’t there. He and my brothers stayed clear until we had gone. Narayan talked to my mother.’

‘Did he mention marriage?’

‘He might have said something to Mam, while I was looking round the farm. My mother always tries to give me a job, tries to draw me back in. I went to collect eggs. But Narayan would get short shrift from Dad if he asked permission to marry me. I know exactly what he’d say.’

‘What?’

‘The usual. Narayan’s married already, his skin’s the wrong colour, I’m old enough, I’ve been pleasing myself all my life. Shall I go on?’

‘Not unless it helps to get it off your chest.’

She refilled her glass and took a long swig. Her face was now flushed, her eyes a little glassy and fierce.

‘I don’t understand why Narayan is taking so long. He’s too used to his comforts, and that servile creature massaging his toes, or whatever he does.’

‘We’ll find him. Miss Metcalfe…’

‘My name’s Lydia. Stop calling me miss, stop rubbing it in.’

‘Lydia, I’ve never yet looked for a missing person I haven’t found.’

‘Well then why are you talking to me and not out looking? Do you think I have something to do with his disappearance, that I’ve murdered him and shoved the body under the bed? That bloody valet tells lies about me. Narayan doesn’t listen. He loves me. He would not do this to me, just disappear. Do you think someone is keeping him away from me against his will?’

‘This is not bandit country, Lydia.’

It seemed unkind to remind her that she was the one who demanded her lover travel without an entourage.

I took my leave of Lydia Metcalfe, puzzling over the fact that the prince had used a go-between to bribe Lydia’s father into approving a marriage he abhorred.

The sound of sobbing drew me to a room across the hall. The young chambermaid was huddled over the wash basin, splashing water on her face, and crying piteously.

‘Oh dear. Did that ashtray hit you? Let me see.’

‘N-o-o-o, it, it didn’t hit me…’

‘Then what’s the matter?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Doesn’t look like nothing.’

Through her sobs, she choked out an explanation. ‘I had some bad news today.’

I am sorry to say that where a polite person would pretend not to notice distress, a detective must perforce stick her oar in. It is not an entirely hard-hearted practice. The poor girl looked in need of comfort.