The Damascened Blade (30 page)

‘Yes. Bad enough for Harry but he was a seasoned soldier and medical man. He knew what was what and what had to be done. I can’t imagine what it must have felt like for that young subaltern to have to pull the trigger. The first time he’d killed in action and he had to put a bullet in his friend. He’d become very fond of Harry . . . everyone was fond of Harry.’ Her voice was becoming more indistinct. She rallied and said more brightly, ‘But, at the end, I thank God he met his death looking into a friendly face! If Jock hadn’t made that brave but suicidal dash into the ravine, much, very much, worse would have occurred.’

‘And Jock made it back safely?’ Lily hardly dared ask.

‘Oh yes. He was much applauded, of course, and nobody bothered to remind him that he’d disobeyed an order. They were very relaxed about such things in those pre-war days. He only just made it back though. He was shot at as he ran and was slightly wounded. Shot at by someone firing an old-fashioned musket, a jezail.’

‘And you’re telling us that all this is linked in some way to Zeman?’ asked Lily, trying to understand.

‘I think it must be,’ said Grace. ‘You see, the two Afridi who had discovered Harry’s broken body were young boys no older than Jock, but not just any boys, they were the two older sons of Ramazad Khan.’

‘So it would have fallen on the youngest of all, Zeman, to do this badal thing? To be avenged on the British for his older brothers?’ Lily frowned, working her way through to a conclusion Joe had come to some time ago. ‘But, hang on – what you’re saying is – not just
any
old Briton – you’re saying
the
Briton, the one who knifed the Afridi? You’re saying this Jock?’ She fell silent for a moment and then breathed, ‘Grace, this Jock, we wouldn’t all know him by some other name, would we? Like it might be James? James Lindsay?’

‘Yes,’ said Grace, ‘James Lindsay. Bless the man!’

With a lurch of the heart and a sudden insight, Joe cursed himself for his blindness. He looked at Grace with anguish and asked quietly, ‘Why do you say that, Grace? Why do you say, “Bless the man!” with such emotion?’

Tears had begun at last to shimmer in Grace’s eyes and she dashed the sleeve of her blouse hurriedly across her face before replying slowly, ‘Because at the risk of his own life, James Lindsay saved my husband from suffering an unspeakable death. Harry, my husband, Harry.’

Chapter Nineteen

There was a deep silence as Grace’s story ended. They listened to the song of a bird hidden amongst the apricots, a thrush perhaps, Joe thought, adding its own sad coda to the tale. At last Iskander stirred and began to speak diffidently. ‘Dr Holbrook, would you mind if I . . .?’ His voice trailed away.

She smiled at him. ‘I was hoping you’d be able to fill in the gaps in my tale, Iskander.’

‘We speak of a time long ago. Twelve years but the memories are very clear for you and for me. I was only a boy of nine at the time of which you speak and Zeman was a year older. He was always much more the warrior than I was and used to trail about behind his older brothers begging them to take him with them on raids. At last when he was ten years old they agreed to take him and they supplied him with the only weapon that came to hand, an old jezail that had long done no more than decorate a wall of their home. He watched the battle from the safety of the crags, delighting in the British discomfiture. Finally, when the Lewis guns were brought up the Afridi decided to call it a day and retreat. Zeman’s brothers were in the rear, angry at their orders, unwilling to withdraw when they were doing so well and, bringing up the rearguard, they came upon an injured British officer. He’d fallen from a cliff face and was unable to move. Zeman was told to keep watch for them up in the rocks while they . . .’ Iskander paused briefly then resumed, ‘robbed him and considered their next move.

‘Before even Zeman was aware of what was happening a figure had leapt from the shadows and stabbed his brothers to death. The man, a man with red hair, then pulled up the shirt of one of them and slashed his flesh with the point of his dagger.’

Lily gasped and shuddered.

As though speaking only to her, Iskander said, ‘This would not be the surprising and sickening deed you might think. It is the custom among the tribes to carve their tribal symbol on the backs of their enemies.’

‘And sometimes they even wait until they’re dead,’ said Rathmore waspishly.

As though he had not even heard the interruption Iskander went on, ‘Zeman remained calm. He did not cry out but aimed his jezail and fired. But the hammer stuck and the British soldier began to run. Zeman tracked him as he ran and pulled the trigger again. This time it freed itself and he was certain he had hit him. He climbed down to attend to his brothers. With a burning anger against the man who had done this he copied the letters which he could not understand on to his arm with a piece of burned wood and later copied them on to paper so that he might one day identify what he assumed to be a tribal symbol.’

‘What did it say?’ asked Lily. ‘Do you know, Iskander?’

‘No one could work it out, not even the ones among us who knew English. I showed the word to my English teacher one day in Peshawar and he could not understand either. Look!’ He took a stick and wrote in a few brisk strokes in the sand: EENDO!

‘Can’t figure it out,’ said Lily, considering.

‘Nor could Zeman until some years later. At school in England he was idly writing out the letters which he regularly did to keep it fresh in his mind and his anger glowing when the boy at the next desk looked over and said, “I say, Khan, never would have taken you for a Scotsman!” Zeman asked him to explain. His neighbour was a McGregor and had recognized the motto of an enemy tribe – the Lindsays. “E’en do and spare not!”’

‘Look, I’m awful sorry to be slow here but I still don’t know what it means,’ Lily complained.

‘”Even do . . .”’ said Joe. ‘In other words, “Go right ahead and take no prisoners!”’

‘So when, after many years, Zeman encountered in Peshawar a certain red-haired Major Lindsay who had served on the frontier before the war he resolved to be avenged for his brothers.’

‘And Grace’s escort duty provided the perfect opportunity,’ said Joe.

‘Yes, indeed. I was supposed to be in charge of the troop but Zeman insisted on coming with us as senior officer. He counted on being invited into the fort where he could get close enough to Lindsay to kill him.’

‘Zeman? I’m finding this a bit hard to swallow,’ said Lily. ‘He was charming, he was amusing – he got on so well with James!’ She gasped and then said slowly, ‘Oh, Lord! Do you remember? I think I recall . . . when I was about to shoot that darned pheasant Zeman said, “Slay and spare not, Miss Coblenz!” Was he needling James? Saying, “I’m here. I know who you are.” Taunting him?’

‘Yes, all that. I’m sure, Lily,’ said Joe. ‘But look, Iskander, you must have seen this situation developing, have been aware of the awful consequences of such a rash act? I didn’t see you as a bloodthirsty warmonger!’

Iskander replied a little stiffly, ‘I am Afridi. I too live by the laws of pukhtunwali. I understand badal and I understand Zeman’s compulsion. In his place I would have felt the same urge to avenge my brothers. Nevertheless, the time was not an opportune one. I was uneasy because we were the guests of Major Lindsay. He had welcomed us as friends within the gates of Gor Khatri. That evening after the feast I tried to talk Zeman out of his plans, to persuade him to pursue them at a later day.’

Joe wondered whether Iskander was trying to convey a message to Lily by this little speech – ‘Once an Afridi, always an Afridi. Untameable.
Untransplantable
.’ Grace at any rate seemed to have understood and she flashed at Joe a look of unfathomable intensity.

‘And what were his plans?’ asked Joe, feeling he already knew the answer.

‘We were both to change into our uniforms and be ready to leave the fort by the chiga gate that night. Our men had been warned and we had bribed the guards. Zeman was to go up to Lindsay’s room in the middle of the night – he had found out from the sweeper which was Lindsay’s room – and stab him in the throat with his dagger just as Lindsay had killed his brother. I waited all night for Zeman’s signal but it never came. With some relief I assumed he’d changed his mind and I fell asleep until the noise on the stairs awoke me the next morning.’

Joe flicked a glance at Grace who was staring at the ground, determinedly silent.

‘But there were two people in James’s room,’ said Lily. ‘There was Betty. What about Betty?’

‘If she had wakened he would have killed her too. Two brothers, two lives in reparation. It would not have been
my
way but I do believe Zeman was corrupted by his contact with the West where it is nothing to kill a woman. An everyday occurrence you might say. I am sure Sandilands can confirm this,’ Iskander said with a touch of defiance. ‘I was unable to dissuade him.’

‘But he didn’t succeed in his attempt,’ said Joe. ‘I heard James lock his door on retiring at eleven o’clock. The downstairs rooms including yours and Zeman’s do not have locks and there was no reason to suppose that those on the first floor would have. But they do. Zeman would not have known that. If he had reached James’s room that night he would not have been able to get in without banging the door down and that didn’t happen.’ He looked again at Grace but she avoided his eye. ‘And Zeman died of poisoning. Now I know what you’re all thinking – we’ve got an easy equation here. At last we have a motive and it’s all beginning to add up. But is it? Zeman is about to attempt to kill James so James, the target, finds out somehow and forestalls the attempt by killing Zeman first in a sort of premeditated self-defence. Mmm. That makes no sense to me. I know my friend. He’s got a hell of a temper – I’ve seen him kill with a gun, a knife and even his bare hands. He wouldn’t go sneaking around popping poison in his sherbet. What have you to add, Grace?’

At last she responded to his direct challenge and her eyes narrowed for a moment. A signal? A warning?

‘I know your interpretation is the correct one, Joe. I am equally certain that James did not kill Zeman and I will swear to that on a Bible if you have one. But it doesn’t matter, I’m afraid, what
I
think or what
you
think, because in the minds of the Afridi – and for this
you
must take the blame, Iskander – James did away with Ramazad’s third son whilst his guest at the fort and also his two older sons and that’s quite an overdraft on goodwill!’

‘How heavily did that weigh with Ramazad when you were bargaining with him, Grace?’ asked Lily.

‘Ramazad! I think I caught him, just for once in his life, at an emotional moment! I told him clearly that I’d just presented him with the lives of his wife and son – he knew quite well that they would both certainly have died if I hadn’t intervened. And I slipped into the balance the death of my husband fighting the Afridi.’

‘Three all?’ said Lily.

‘Three all. As you say. It was a gamble and I was far from sure I’d be able to talk him into giving up the need to demand badal with all that tribal pride at stake, but I think he was moved by the story of my husband’s death and he said to me what the Afridi always say – “But your husband died at Afridi hands!” (Not quite true but near enough.) “How can you bring yourself to save Afridi lives?” I think the euphoria of having his wife restored to him turned things in our favour and after a bit of bluster and some very uncomplimentary epithets linked with James’s name, he agreed to wipe the slate clean!’ She sighed. ‘I think . . . I hope this marks a significant turning in our dealings with the Afridi. But what an effort!’

‘And all so unnecessary!’ drawled Rathmore.

They all turned to look at Rathmore who had been sitting silently with a derisive smirk on his face. ‘For an intelligent woman, Dr Holbrook, you show surprising lack of insight! All this talk of weighing in the balance, bargaining lives for deaths, tribal pride, is so much sentimental claptrap!’ He looked triumphantly round at the astonished faces turned to him. ‘Tribal pride, indeed! I can tell you what tribal pride is worth! Oh, yes! I am in a position to tell you down to the last farthing precisely what it takes to buy off tribal pride!

‘And as for
you
!’ He turned his scorn on Joe. ‘I suppose it makes a welcome change from routine police work haring about the desert dressed in that gawd ’elp us get-up but – really! – when it comes to being a Khan – I suppose some Khan and some just Khan’t!’ He greeted his own joke with a bark of laughter but no one joined him.

‘Do you know what your mistake was?’ he plunged on. ‘Well, I’ll tell you! You made the mistake of underestimating the Afridi. You assume they’re just a bunch of medieval savages locked into their centuries-old traditions and you think you can get the better of them by playing them at their own tribal customs game. Nonsense! They would always beat you at that! Oh, no, that’s not the way. I, on the other hand, saw straight to the heart of our problem and solved it! We were always going to be released today. Oh, yes! I had negotiated it before ever the circus came to town!’ He cast a derisive look at Grace and Joe and Lily, still wearing their native dress. ‘Would you like to hear how I did it?’

‘Nobody’s going to step out of the rocks and shoot him,’ Lily thought. ‘I’m going to have to do it myself!’ She touched for reassurance the bulge of the small pistol she kept in her boot and calmed her irritation by deciding which part of his bloated body to aim at first.

Not waiting for a reply, Rathmore pounded on. ‘It’s obvious to me that a man who can run a tribe of such size efficiently must be a fair sort of businessman. And that’s how I dealt with him. He recognized me for what I was . . .’

‘And what were you, Dermot?’ Lily drawled.

‘A businessman like himself and one empowered to deal with him in the name of the British Government. Money, Miss Coblenz. I’m sure I don’t need to tell you of all people how the power of money transcends all languages, all little local difficulties. I explained my plans for opening up a trade route over the frontier and into Afghanistan. He understood at once what was involved and made some positive and very helpful suggestions. Roads. That’s what it all comes down to. He pointed out (I had already noticed) that the road system is not good. Patchy and unsuitable in most places for the lorry transport I have in mind. Did you know that the contracts for road building in this country are hotly sought after? No? It’s the local tribes who undertake the work and there is strong competition between them to be awarded the contracts by the government. The Afridi lost out last time to the Mohmands and they’ve never forgiven them. I was able to say, “This time it’ll all be different, Ramazad, because I will be the one advising on the distribution of contracts. But of course I can only do that if I am free to deal in Simla.” He took my point at once, of course. He offered, very sensibly, to extend the terms of reference to include an Afridi protection squad of Khassadars, I think he called them, who will guard the road workers initially and stay on as road patrols for the convoys when they start coming through. Excellent man! He has quite an eye for detail and is a tough negotiator. Just the kind of man I like to do business with!’