Death in Kashmir (22 page)

Outside, the night was full of noises. The slap of wind-driven water against the sides of the houseboat, and the jar and whine of the ropes and chains that moored it to the bank; the sough of the wind through leaves and branches, and the chorus of creaks and groans from the boat itself as it rocked and jerked and fidgeted at its moorings. But inside the small living-room it was comparatively quiet.

The harsh yellow light poured down on the faded covers of the chairs and sofas, the tortured carving of the overornate tables, the shabby Axminster carpet and the long row of dusty books and tattered magazines. And looking about her, Sarah was seized with the uncomfortable fancy that everything in the boat—each piece of furniture—was endowed with a peculiar life of its own, and was watching her with a curious, sly hostility. So must they have watched Janet. Janet scribbling her record with fear-stiffened fingers and repeated glances over her shoulder. Janet hiding it away somewhere on this small boat.

The room knew. The room was aware. The blank eyes of the window-panes blinked and brooded, reflecting a dozen Sarahs in lilac linen dresses. The cheap cotton curtains billowed faintly in the draught, and the bead curtain in the dining-room doorway swayed and clinked softly as though some unseen presence had just passed through it …

Outside the wind was rising, and as the boat began to rock to the gusts, Lager pattered restlessly about the room sniffing at the skirting-boards and the shadows of the chairs, and whining. Sarah spoke to him sharply, and having pulled the curtains to, snapped off the lights and marched determinedly to bed.

She turned off the dining-room lights as she passed through, but left the pantry light burning so that when she was settled in bed with Lager curled up at her feet, and switched off her bedroom light, she would still see its glow through her half-opened door. It gave her a vague feeling of reassurance, like a nightlight in a nursery, and she fell asleep lulled by the rocking of the boat and the wail of the wind through the branches of the big chenar tree. But some two hours later she awoke suddenly and sat bolt upright in bed. She had no idea what had awakened her: only that one moment she had been fathoms deep in dreamless slumber, and the next moment wide awake and with every sense tense and alert.

The threatened storm had skirted the lake and passed on down the valley towards the mountains of the Banihal Pass, but the boat still rocked and creaked at its moorings, and the water still slapped noisily against its sides. The wind was blowing in savage gusts, and in a brief lull between them Sarah could hear the scuffle of rats in the roof and the steady snoring of Lager, who had burrowed under the blankets. It was several minutes before she realized, with a sharp pang of alarm, that the pantry light was no longer burning and the entire boat was in darkness.

Stretching out a hand she groped for the curtains of the window near her bed and pulled them aside, but no moonlight crept in to lighten the little room, for the sky was covered with clouds and a light rain was falling on the uneven surface of the lake. Sarah felt for the switch of the bedside lamp and heard it click as it turned under her fingers, but the light did not come on and the room remained shrouded in darkness.

It's the storm, she thought. The wind must have torn down the wires or blown a branch of a tree across the line somewhere. There's nothing to be frightened of …

Then why was she frightened, and what had awakened her? Why was she sitting so rigidly upright in the darkness, listening intently for the repetition of a sound?

And then she heard it: and knew that this was the sound that had jerked her from sleep into tense wakefulness.

It came from the front part of the boat. From the dining-room, thought Sarah, trying to place it. She heard it quite clearly in a pause between the gusts of wind, despite the multitudinous noises of the night: a muffled scraping sound that was quite unmistakable. The sound made by one of the sliding houseboat windows being drawn stealthily back in its groove.

Sarah knew those windows. They were guarded by outer screens of wire flyproof mesh that also slid back into the thickness of the houseboat walls when opened. They had no bolts, but were fastened together on the inside by inadequate latches of the hook-and-eye persuasion. And as the frames, owing to warping and slapdash workmanship, hardly ever fitted quite accurately, it was a simple matter to slip a knife blade between them from the outside and lift the latch.

Somebody had just done that. Someone who was even now easing the stubborn ill-fitting frames apart, inch by inch.

Sarah sat rigid, her heart hammering; waiting for what she knew would be the next sound. Presently it came: a barely audible thud, followed by a slight extra vibration of the uneasy craft as someone stepped down through an opened window into the boat.

A scurry of wind drove the rain against the window-panes by her bed, and in the resulting rocking and creaks from the
Waterwitch
she could not pick out any further sound of footsteps.

If I just sit here, thought Sarah frantically, and don't move or make a sound, perhaps they won't come in here. Perhaps it's just someone after the spoons. If I keep still … But she could not do it. There was Janet—and Mrs Matthews. Why had she been so stupid and so stubborn as to sleep alone on this ill-omened boat? It was all very well to tell herself not to panic or do anything silly, because nothing really bad could happen to her. Look what had happened to them? No: she dared not sit still and wait. She must get away quickly. But she had forgotten Lager. If she got out of bed he would wake up and bark …

Of course! That was it—Lager. Lager would save her! He would race off into the darkness, barking defiance and create a diversion, for darkness would be no problem to him, and he could, when the occasion demanded it, make as much noise as a hurdy-gurdy. It might well be sufficient to frighten away the intruder—though on this wild night it would not wake the Creeds—and under cover of the noise Sarah herself would escape by the back of the boat and rouse the cookboat.

She leaned forward in the darkness and dug Lager out of his nest of blankets. He was warm and velvety and relaxed, and he continued to snore gently. But he did not wake. Sarah shook him and spoke urgently into his floppy ear in a tense whisper:
‘Lager! Lager! Wake up. Rats, Lager!'

But the dachsund puppy did not move. Sarah shook him violently. He's doped! she thought incredulously. He's eaten something. Where? When? And then she remembered how he had scuttled off into the shadows when she returned from the Creeds, and had reappeared licking his chops. He had eaten doped food. Food that had in all probability been put there for this special purpose …

A sudden fury of rage shook Sarah, temporarily submerging her panic, and clutching the unresisting Lager under one arm she slid to the floor and groped her way across the room.

For one wild moment she had considered opening the window and shouting. But she knew that the wind would tear the sound to tatters and it would only be a waste of breath. She would have to go through the empty second bedroom behind her and through the bathroom and out at the back of the boat, from where she could rouse the
mānji.
Or better still, feel her way along the narrow duckboards that ran along both sides of the boat, until she reached the gangplank by the pantry door, and go down it and along the bank to the Creeds.

The
Waterwitch
rocked to another sudden buffet of wind, and Sarah banged her head violently against the open door of her cupboard and dropped Lager. For a moment she clung to the edge of the cupboard door while a variety of coloured sparks shot through the darkness: she must have forgotten to latch it and the draught and the uneasy motion of the boat had combined to swing it open.

After a moment or two she stooped dizzily and groped about in the darkness. Lager still snored gently, and guided by the soft sound she gathered him up and made unsteadily for the spare bedroom door, moving this time with more caution.

It seemed a long way in the dark. The door was ajar—presumably the wind again—and Sarah passed through it. There was no gleam of light from the black night beyond the curtained window-panes, and the wind shrilled through the cracks in the houseboat and sent cold draughts along the floors. Once something touched her cheek and she started back, her heart in her mouth. But it was only a curtain billowing out on the draught.

She tried to remember how the room was furnished. A bed against the wall, and the door into the bathroom to the left of the bedstead; the dressing-table under one window. Was there a chest of drawers under the other? She could not remember, but once she touched the bed she would get her bearings.

Sarah moved forward an inch at a time, one hand held out before her. Where
had
the bed got to? And then suddenly her hand touched polished wood. But it was not the end of a bed. It must be the dressing table. No, it was too high for that and too smooth, and it had a carved edge. Surely there was no table in the spare bedroom that had a carved border to it?

She stood still, confused and uncertain, her head still aching and dizzy from its violent contact with the cupboard door. And as she stood there, she became aware of something else: a curious clicking sound somewhere near her. She could hear it between the blustering gusts of wind.
Click … clack … click
 … Very softly, like someone telling beads.
Beads!
The garish bead curtain that hung in the open doorway between the dining-room and the living-room … That was it!… it was here, close beside her; swaying and clicking in the dark. And with a sudden, sickening shock of panic she realized what she was touching. It was the oval dining-table with deep, carved, chenar-leaf border.

She wasn't in the spare bedroom at all. She was in the dining-room! She must have lost her bearings when, confused by the blow on her head, she had stooped down to grope in the dark for Lager. And the curtain that had touched her cheek was blowing out from an open window; that was why this room was so much colder. There was a window standing open in it; which could only mean that the sound she had heard—the sound of a window being opened—had come from here.

She was in the wrong room. And in the same instant she realized that someone else was in the room with her.

Sarah stood frozen, not daring to move. Even her heart seemed to have stopped beating. She could hear no sound other than the noises of wind and water and the creaking of the boat as it rocked and strained at its moorings, but she did not need any sound to tell her that someone was there, close to her; almost within reach of her hand. Sheer animal instinct, that sixth sense which warns us of the near presence of one of our own kind, was sufficient …

I mustn't move, she thought frantically. I mustn't breathe … She felt the floorboards under the feet vibrate, and the air about her stirred as though something solid had passed her in the black dark.

There was a sudden lull between gusts of wind and in the brief silence Lager gave a loud snuffling snore.

She heard someone draw a hard breath in the darkness, and something—a hand—brushed against her bare arm.

Sarah dropped Lager, backed wildly away, and screamed at the top of her voice. And as she did so a light flashed on; the white glare of an electric torch, full in her face, and an incredulous voice said: ‘For God's sake! Sarah!'

The next moment arms were about her holding her closely, and she was struggling frantically, still in the grip of terror. Her captor held her with one arm and with his free hand turned the torch onto his own face.

‘Charles!'

13

Sarah burst into overwrought tears, and Charles, holding her, said: ‘I'm sorry, Sarah. I didn't know there was anyone on board. Don't cry, dear. It's all right now. There's nothing to be frightened of now.'

No, there was nothing to be frightened of now. All at once Sarah knew that. The terrors and confusions and doubts that had haunted her since that white night in Gulmarg when she had awakened in the moonlight were over: Charles was here and she was safe. For a long moment she let herself relax against his shoulder, and then jerked away; aware of a sudden and entirely unfamiliar feeling of shyness.

‘Here,' said Charles. ‘Handkerchief.'

Sarah accepted it thankfully, blew her nose and sniffed childishly.

‘Could we turn on the lights do you think?' said Charles. ‘I'm not sure how much more life there is left in this battery.'

‘There aren't any,' said Sarah unsteadily. ‘I think the line must be down somewhere. But there are candles in the next room, if you've got any matches.'

‘I've got a lighter. That'll do instead. Good Lord! What on earth's that?'

Charles retreated a swift step and flashed the beam of his torch onto the floor.

‘It's Lager,' said Sarah, dropping onto her knees beside the limp velvet bundle: ‘I'd forgotten him, poor lamb. I dropped him when you touched me. I was so scared.'

‘What's the matter with him? Is he ill?'

‘No. He's doped.' Sarah lifted wide startled eyes to Charles's face above her. ‘Did you do it?' she asked sharply.

Charles went down on one knee and turned the puppy over. ‘Do what? Dope him?'

‘Yes,' said Sarah in a whisper.

‘No. Why the hell should I want to?' said Charles impatiently. He turned back one of Lager's eyelids and studied the eye for a moment. ‘Opium, I should say. He'll be all right.'

Sarah said in a shaky whisper: ‘Someone did. If it wasn't you, then there's someone else who meant to get on this boat tonight.'

‘What's that?' said Charles sharply. ‘Look—it sounds to me as though something pretty tricky has been going on around here. This is no place to talk. Let's find these candles.'

Sarah got up holding Lager in her arms and they went into the living-room and lit two dusty, yellowed candle-ends that still remained in a pair of tarnished candlesticks of Benares brass. The flames flickered wanly for a moment or two in the draught and then steadied and burnt brighter, and the small room was once again just a room: overcrowded with furniture of a vanished era, shabby, over-ornate, uninteresting and uninterested; and remembering the vivid impression of tense and watchful awareness that it had given her earlier that night, Sarah wondered at herself.