4.Little Victim (8 page)

‘Well, ideas come to Antonia in the most unusual circumstances.’

‘I love reading other people’s jottings, but
only
if they are indiscreet. She doesn’t think there’s going to be a murder here, does she? Now then, if there were a murder, who d’you suppose would be the victim?’

‘You,’ Payne said promptly. ‘The killer would turn out to be your grandson.’

‘Stanbury? But he isn’t here!’

‘He is. He’ll have arrived secretly. He’ll appear in a minute dressed up as a waiter or a visiting maharaja and he’ll manage to hand you a poisoned cocktail.’

‘Look at that lunatic – just look at him!’ Mrs Depleche cried, pointing. ‘Nearly fell into the fountain. What an idiot! He’s holding a glass!’

‘Not his first, that much is clear.’

‘Blind drunk!’ Mrs Depleche cackled.

‘Could be lethal in this heat.’

The man was tall and stooped a little. He wore a sun-bleached jacket, a panama hat and dark glasses. A reddish-brown book protruded from his jacket pocket . . .

They watched him stagger shambolically across the sleek green lawn. He held his left shoulder higher than his right and he had a curious gliding walk – a bit like the actor Alastair Sim, Payne reflected. He gave the impression of being disorientated . . . Something desperate about him . . . Was the fellow a lunatic or merely sozzled? He displayed the dipso’s unnerving indifference to what others might think of him. He was heading in the direction of the folly. Hope he won’t bother Antonia, Payne thought.

‘The fountain’s a mini replica of the one at Castle Howard,’ Mrs Depleche said. ‘Did you see the teddy bear on Roman’s desk?’

Payne said he had. ‘It’s got a Harrods label.’

‘What an observant boy you are. Roman gets all his stuff from England. He’s mad about England, you may have noticed? He would give anything to be able to call himself Lord Brideshead or something. He is a romantic, I suppose.’

He is an egregious ass, Payne thought, though he didn’t say so.

‘He’s got an English girlfriend, apparently. He promised to introduce her to us. I hope her Englishness is not her only virtue’ The next moment Mrs Depleche flourished her opera glasses by way of a greeting. ‘Ah Roman, my boy. Where have you been hiding? We were just admiring your fountain. However do you manage to get everything so right?’

11

Murder is Easy

The first death was yet to be discovered, but the second couldn’t have been more public.

It had taken place some six hours before the garden party at Coconut Grove, at the time of the partial solar eclipse.

The body lay on the main street of Kilhar for at least five minutes before somebody thought of dragging it on to the pavement. The hawkers stopped shouting their wares and people gathered around, some of them holding pieces of smoked glass, through which they had been gazing at the sky, and pointed to the blood, which was seeping from a wound in the head. Flies and hornets buzzed above. A dog came over, sniffed at the blood and dipped its tongue in it. Another dog joined it – then a third. No one made any real effort to shoo the dogs away. A shop assistant eventually threw a foul-smelling piece of tarpaulin over the body, but so casually that an arm and part of the head remained exposed. Some people started walking away, others lingered. An one-legged man on crutches bent over, ostensibly to pull the tarpaulin over the head and the arm, but when he straightened up, he was holding a wristwatch. He quickly pushed the watch into his trouser pocket. No one appeared to notice the theft.

Twenty-five minutes later a police car arrived. There were three uniformed policemen in it. One of them unveiled the corpse and frowned down at it’s face. He put questions to the men in the crowd but got only shrugs and shaking of heads. No one admitted to knowing the victim. One man then came forward and said that he had actually seen the accident.

The death had been caused by a speeding car. The car hadn’t stopped. It had been grey in colour – or maybe white, in need of a wash. No, the man hadn’t taken note of the registration number. Had there been anyone with the victim? Yes – a woman. A local woman in a sari, her face concealed by a red scarf. They had been walking side by side, she and the victim. Now the witness couldn’t swear to this but he imagined the woman gave the man a shove just as the car approached, causing him to stagger and fall in front of the car. The woman had then run off. She had vanished in the crowd. It all had happened very quickly.

Could the witness describe the woman? Tall – big hands – pale gold sari – red scarf – the face was veiled. The witness couldn’t
swear
that the woman had actually pushed the man, no. It all happened very quickly, he repeated. She’d moved in a funny way, not really like any of the local women. In what way funny? The witness couldn’t say. Was it possible that ‘she’ had actually been a ‘he’? A man? The witness shrugged. He had no way of knowing. It was possible, yes. The police officers shook their heads. One of them lit a cigarette. The other spat on the ground, then he too lit a cigarette. Eventually they let the witness go.

An ambulance arrived and two paramedics carrying a stretcher went up to the body. After exchanging a couple of words with the policemen, they placed the body on the stretcher, which they carried back to the ambulance.

One of the policemen observed that Kilhar was a terrible place for accidents and his colleague agreed. The first policeman then said that his mother-in-law was becoming too big for her boots and having her in the house was driving him mad, the mornings were particularly bad and he had problems sleeping; one of these days he wouldn’t be responsible for his actions, he said. The second policeman said that the new brothel was not what it was cracked up to be, he didn’t think he’d go again. Eventually the two policemen departed and the crowd dispersed. The dogs stayed a while longer, licking at the blood on the pavement.

In a couple of minutes there was no sign that anything untoward had ever taken place in the street.

12

The Public Enemy

Remember you are just an extra in everyone else’s play
. That saying of Franklin Delano Roosevelt’s popped into Major Payne’s head as he watched their host swagger towards them across the terrace. The throng of local dignitaries and their wives and the couple of English expatriates who had been invited to greet Mrs Depleche parted at his advent. Payne was put in mind of the bizarrely curdled appearance of the Red Sea when divided by Moses in the film of
The Ten Commandments
.

Roman Songhera was a well-set-up, olive-skinned young man with a florid face and sensuous lips. He had drooping eyelids, thick lashes, and somewhat restless light-brown eyes. His appearance was less colourful than that of his waiters, but nearly as theatrical. He was dressed, monochromatically, in white: a double-breasted suit with broad lapels, one of which was adorned by a black gardenia, a gleaming white shirt with a buttoned-down collar, and a white turban that was crossed from each side of his head very symmetrically in such a way that it came to a peak at the top of the forehead where there shone a large ruby. His pointed patent-leather shoes were also white.

‘He only wears the turban for my sake. I have a thing about men in turbans,’ Mrs Depleche whispered. ‘He hates what they call “ethnic” dress, poor darling, but would do
anything
to get me to buy the house.’

Their host looked as anachronistically quaint as the unicorns and damsels sporting on a medieval tapestry. He brought to mind a stage conjurer from the heyday of the English music hall, Payne decided. However, the ruby gave every impression of being the real thing. Roman Songhera’s platinum tie pin, gold cufflinks, and Rolex watch seemed genuine too.

But it was the sight of Roman’s striped tie that caused Major Payne’s eyebrows to go up. It was an Old Harrovian tie. How silly of the fellow to put on an OH tie for the visit of the one person who, better than anybody else in the world, knew that his background wasn’t exactly exalted – that he was the grandson of an Indian orderly and the son of a grocer from Kashmir – and that the big money had come from his – now estranged – wife Sarla. Mrs Depleche had told them the story on the plane.

Sarla Songhera, it appeared, had won a fortune on the lottery. The Sublime Subcontinent Lottery – the Incomparable Mother India Pools – some such name. Several billion billion
billion
rupees. Or was it trillion? Some such mad figure. It amounted to less than one and a half million pounds, if that, according to Major Payne’s vague estimate, but by Goan standards that was fabulous wealth – what sultans and maharajas, if not exactly the Queen of England, had in their coffers.

‘High time!’ Mrs Depleche croaked.

Roman’s eyes were bloodshot and he seemed to find it hard to concentrate. Something appeared to be weighing on his mind. Still, he managed to play the gracious host. He put on what Mrs Depleche had affectionately referred to as ‘Roman’s society nonsense’. Bowing his head slightly, his right hand fiddling with his cufflink in a manner reminiscent of Prince Charles’s famous nervous tic, he said, ‘I do apologize, Charlotte. Major Payne. Not the done thing, I know. Something cropped up. Untoward as well as unavoidable, alas. Terrible bore. Too dreary for words to start explaining.’

‘Where’s your mysterious English girlfriend?’ Mrs Depleche asked. ‘You promised to introduce her to us.’

‘I fear she’s indisposed.’ Roman paused. ‘Bad tummy – awful bore.’

Songhera’s voice struck Major Payne as peculiarly familiar. He frowned, then it came to him. Golly, he sounds like me, almost. I wouldn’t say ‘indisposed’, though, would I?
Only
as a joke. I’ll never say ‘awful bore’ again, as long as I live. Songhera seems to have a mynah’s ear for accents . . . Am I being a crashing snob?

‘Oh, what a shame.’ Mrs Depleche tut-tutted. ‘I’d been so looking forward to meeting her. Never mind. I hope she’ll be better soon.’

Roman asked them if they were having a good time – did they have everything they wanted? If they didn’t, they only needed to tell him. He informed them that he was considering buying two peacocks for the garden, then suggested that they try the ice cream – apparently there was a thirty-
ninth
flavour on offer now – a jelabis ice cream – gorgeous sticky golden balls dripping with rose-water syrup. Couldn’t he tempt them? It was awfully good. They could have jelabis ice cream with hot wafers. A dish fit to lure Zeus away from Olympus, Payne murmured, but he declined nevertheless.

‘How about Eton mess? My chef makes perfect Eton mess.’

‘I went to Harrow, actually,’ said Payne.

‘I am not allowed any pudding,’ Mrs Depleche said. ‘Something to do with my sugar levels.’

‘Such wet blankets!’ Roman shook his head in mock despair. He then said he wanted to propose a toast. Shooting out his cuffs, he picked up a cocktail glass from a tray and held it aloft. ‘Sorry, Charlotte, I should have done this earlier. Terribly remiss of me. Welcome to Coconut Grove. I hope it will be as good a home to you as it has been to me.’

Mrs Depleche laughed. ‘Not so fast, Roman. It’s a splendid place but I haven’t said yes yet, you know.’

‘I am sure it is only a question of time before you do. Major Payne, I am thinking of organizing a polo tournament here. The trouble is that my chaps don’t quite know the ropes. I understand that you are a seasoned polo player and I very much hope you would be able to advise me.’

‘I’d be happy to, my dear fellow,’ Payne responded in part. ‘I can hardly wait to see your stables.’ His enthusiasm on this count was unfeigned – he liked horses. ‘Perhaps you could instruct one of your grooms to show them to me?’

‘I will show you my stables personally.’

‘You are too kind. I look forward to it.’

‘The pleasure will be entirely mine.’

‘What about your crocs? When will you show us your crocs? As far as I am concerned, crocs come before horses,’ Mrs Depleche declared extravagantly. ‘Roman’s got a croc farm a stone’s throw from here,’ she explained to Payne.

‘How terribly amusing,’ Payne said. A croc farm was one of the most grotesque things he could imagine. I could kick this young man in twenty-one different positions and still feel half-starved, he thought.

‘Apparently the muggers disport themselves in a decorative lake of sorts. They become snappy at feeding time,’ Mrs Depleche explained with relish. ‘The spectacle can take on apocalyptic overtones when, in the general excitement, a servant falls into the lake – or is pushed in, isn’t that what you said, Roman?’

‘We do that kind of thing only as a special treat for VIP visitors.’ Roman gave a bow. Payne’s eyes narrowed. A jolly tasteless sort of joke – still, the fellow seemed to have a sense of humour of sorts – or
could
he be serious?

‘When are we going then?’

‘Tomorrow morning after breakfast?’

‘I can’t wait. I’ve been mad about crocs ever since I got my first alligator-skin pumps,’ Mrs Depleche said. ‘What time is the firework display tonight?’

Their host didn’t answer. He was staring down at his cufflinks as though in dismay. Payne was put in mind of the mother in the poem whose face takes on a ‘distressing error in form’. Well, Songhera’s cufflinks were wrong all right – they didn’t match his tiepin – they should have been platinum, not gold. Songhera was clearly the kind of chap who minded terribly about perpetrating a sartorial faux pas.

‘Do excuse me, such a bore.’ Roman took out his mobile phone as a buzzing sound was heard. He seemed to have received a message. He stood stock-still, reading it, his lower lip stuck out. He scowled. He went pale . . .

There was a pause. Something jolly unsettling seemed to have happened. Major Payne struck a match and put it to his pipe. Was Interpol after him? Or had Songhera’s English girlfriend run off with his main rival perhaps, if indeed he had a rival? Payne remembered his thought earlier on about being an extra in someone else’s play.

What
was
Songhera’s play?