Death in Kashmir (39 page)

‘Oh no!' said Sarah unhappily. ‘He couldn't have been so cruel! Fudge would have
hated
it so!'

‘Maybe. But she couldn't have done anything about it, because once you walk into the particular spider's parlour, your chances of getting out are nil. And even if she did get the chance, she'd never have been allowed to take the children with her, and she wouldn't have abandoned them—not in a million years. At least she's been saved that.'

‘Didn't she … do you think she ever suspected anything?'

‘Not the real truth. That's something she can't have conceived of. But she's told us that she was afraid her husband was involved in something that he didn't want her to know about, and that was why he was under stress. I think she suspects some kind of black-market deals. No more than that. They had been poor, and suddenly they seemed to be rich. Money was coming from somewhere and she didn't know from where. There were other things too that she couldn't account for. Mir says she has been lucky, and that there is a verse in “one of your Christian books” (it's in the Psalms, as a matter of fact) that says: “Keep innocency and take heed unto the thing that is right: for that shall bring a man peace at the last,” and that Mrs Creed has kept innocency and so will gain, perhaps, peace at the last. I hope so.'

Sarah said: ‘She loved him…'

‘Yes, she loved him. Very much, I think. But there are worse things than losing someone you love. There is finding out that they are not
what
you love. Mrs Creed is a truly “good” woman, and she admired his political views because they seemed to her compassionate and kind and caring. He never let her know more than that, and she could not have borne to discover the truth, and find that her beloved husband was not only a traitor but a murderer. And a thoroughly bad hat into the bargain!'

Sarah said restlessly: ‘Nobody can be
all
bad.'

‘That's true, and there was one good thing in him: though he himself would probably have considered it a weak spot. His love for his wife and children. All the rest was bad. Not even grandly bad: only mean and vain and cruel and egotistical.'

‘Why?
Why
Charles?'

‘I'm not sure. But from what we've learned, and from what his wife has unconsciously given away, he was a man who was eaten up with envy of those who had more than he had. More money, more brains, more personality, a better education, a better social background. It is an only too common failing in these days,' said Charles bitterly.

‘But he
was
clever. And popular—people liked him. Everyone liked him.'

‘Oh yes. He was clever. But not clever in the right way. He was cunning. His childhood had bred in him an envy of those who had more than he, while his vanity made him wish to lead in everything. He went to a university where he fell in with a very radical and distinctly precious set, most of whom had enough pull to get them into cushy jobs when they left. Hugo hadn't, so he plumped for the Army where he found, as so many find in so many walks of life, that an average man with money and a good social background could get ahead of a better man with neither.'

‘But a brilliant man—' began Sarah.

‘A brilliant man will rise to the top anywhere. You can't stop him. But Major Creed was not brilliant. Only cunning: and in his own view, “penniless”, because he had very little in the way of a private income. He was passed over once or twice in favour of men he considered were inferior to him except in pocket and background, and he could not rise above it. He allowed it instead to sour him and destroy him. He had already acquired strong Communist sympathies at his university, but now he went over to the Party heart and soul, and for the meanest of motives: “Envy, hatred, malice and all uncharitableness!” He transferred into the Indian Army in 1937, and shortly after the war broke out managed to get himself attached to the Intelligence Corps of all things.'

‘Yes, he said something about that. About knowing people in it and being able to find out about that hut in Gulmarg because they … But I didn't believe he could ever really have been in it. I thought he was—was just inventing. Lying again, I suppose…'

‘He wasn't, worse luck. No; Hugo of all people was involved in intelligence work, and what's more he was carefully vetted for the job; which proves that he must either have covered his tracks very well, or else the “vetting” was pretty slack in those days! That's one reason, of course, why he was above suspicion. And why the opposition always knew so much about what was going on. It seems that he organized and ran a very effective under-the-counter Intelligence Service of his own at one and the same time as the official one; and without anyone ever suspecting it! Oh, he was clever all right. I suppose all traitors have to be—those who get away with it! And all the time he remained, on the surface, “Hugo the Good Fellow”, “Hugo the Joker”, the “Life and Soul of the Party”——Pity no one every dreamed
which
Party…!'

Charles paused and began to tear up the grass stems, shredding them between his thin, tanned fingers, and presently Sarah said: ‘Tell me about it, Charles. What was in Janet's curtain?'

‘Everything,' said Charles. ‘Everything except a name: Hugo's! That was something they hadn't yet discovered. You know, of course, that there is to be a transfer of power from Britain to India.'

‘Of course,' said Sarah with the ghost of a laugh. ‘Nobody around here talks of anything else these days.'

‘Quite,' agreed Charles dryly. ‘But what you don't know is that the transfer will not take place next year, as was originally announced, but in August of this year.'

‘What!'
Sarah sat bolt upright. ‘But–but——'

‘Unfortunately, it's true: you'll hear the announcement very soon. As far as that part of it is concerned, we have found Janet's curtain too late.'

‘Why? What difference could that have made? And why do you say it's “unfortunate”? Don't you want them to run their own country? How would
we
like it if——' She saw that Charles was laughing at her, and stopped and bit her lip. ‘I'm sorry. I should have known. What were you going to say?'

‘I was going to say that it's a great pity that so many people fail to realize that the war that has just ended is only a taste of what is to come. That this “Peace” we are enjoying is only the lemon, the very sour lemon, that both teams suck at half-time. The big struggle is to come, and it is going to be far more bitter: because it will be between ideologies and not nations.'

‘But what has this got to do with the transfer of power?' demanded Sarah. ‘Everyone knew it must come one day.'

‘Of course. But there are those who profit enormously from chaos and disaster, and who will therefore ensure that both occur when that day comes. To this end, money has been spent. It has been poured out!'

Sarah said: ‘But, Hugo? What was he doing in all this?'

‘Hugo handled the money. And from here. What better place was there? This is not “British India”. It's a protectorate: an Independent Native State ruled over by a Maharajah, who is “advised” by a British Resident and can only be disposed—and that only as a last resort—if he behaves
really
badly. Even then, he must be replaced by his heir. Kashmir is, in a way, national—almost international—ground; and moreover, it has a largely Mohammedan population and a Hindu ruling class. That was an asset to begin with! But it had a better one. It was a famous holiday resort for both Indians and British. People from all over India came here, and needed to give no explanation for doing so beyond that they were on holiday.

‘Huge sums of money came in here: American dollars, brought by American Communists wearing American Army uniforms. Oh yes, some of them were in it too! English pounds and Indian jewels, bar gold, and silver rupees. All kinds of money was collected here: much of it the proceeds of large-scale robberies. Here it was changed into whatever currency was needed, and here the leading plotters and agitators came for orders and pay, and for funds. There were a great many helpers—among them British men and women.'

‘I know,' said Sarah soberly. ‘Johnnie Warrender was one, wasn't he?'

‘No, not Johnnie. Helen.'

‘
Helen!
Then it was——But why—I mean Johnnie is dead. I thought…' said Sarah incoherently.

‘Oh yes, Johnnie killed himself. It was no accident, but he faked it very well. You see he had learned about his wife. And besides, I think he was a dead man already.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘He was finished. What Americans would call “washed up”. There was nothing any more for him. He had been living on an overdraft for years, and now there was no hope of paying it off, or of paying his other debts. Or playing polo again. With the transfer of power the world of people like Johnnie Warrender will come to an end. It was Helen who worked for Hugo. I don't think she really knew what she was doing: she probably didn't want to! She is a stupid woman of limited outlook, who thought only of the money and nothing else at all. A perfect tool for Hugo. Do you remember the theft of the Rajgore emeralds?'

‘Yes,' said Sarah. ‘There was a lot about it in the papers; and you mentioned them too—you said they were here.'

‘So they are. We suspected that those emeralds would come to Kashmir, as a good many other stolen jewels had done, and we set a watch for them. But they slipped through. Mrs Warrender brought them and passed them to Hugo on the road.'

‘But she couldn't have done that!' protested Sarah. ‘I was there: and Fudge too. She didn't give him anything!'

‘She's told us herself. She gave him the emeralds. They were inside some fruit—a grapefruit or a papaya or something.'

‘No,' said Sarah slowly. ‘It was a watermelon. I remember now…'

‘Helen Warrender would have done almost anything for money. There are too many people like that.' Charles pulled up a long grass stem and sat chewing the end of it thoughtfully, looking out over the lake, and after an appreciable interval, Sarah said: ‘You can't stop there. Tell me about the rest of it. There are so many things I want to know. That message in the matchbox—how did they find out? About the curtain, I mean? And how did that pockmarked man, Ahamdoo, know?'

Charles said thoughtfully: ‘Now that he's dead, I don't suppose we'll ever know the answer to that. We can only guess.'

‘Then how did
they
know?'

‘That question,' said Charles with a faint smile, ‘should be “Why didn't they find out sooner?”—considering how little privacy there is on a houseboat!'

‘You're telling me!' sighed Sarah with deep feeling: ‘That's why I can't imagine how Janet managed to make that curtain without every Kashmiri within a radius of ten miles knowing all about it.'

‘But they
did
know. That's the whole point. It is also a beautiful illustration of why the thought-processes of the East so often succeed in baffling the West. There is an old saying, which originated in this part of the world, that “It is always darkest under the lamp”. Janet Rushton knew that to be true, and being a smart girl, she put it to good use. She knew very well that if she attempted to make that record in secret—say, after dark when the curtains were drawn—she would undoubtedly have been found out, and however carefully she had hidden it, it would have been discovered. So she did it openly and in full view, and when it was finished, she hung it up where everyone could see it. Therefore, because it was common knowledge, no one even thought to mention it …

‘From what the
mānji
now tells us, she must have planned it all very carefully. And since she had the advantage of being born in India and spending a good slice of her childhood here, she knew a lot about the mind of India. She knew, for instance, that because it was inclined to be devious, it could be deceived by openness: and she traded on that knowledge.'

‘But the bead curtain?' prompted Sarah.

‘The
mānji
says that there had always been one on the
Waterwitch;
apparently many boats had them in the old days. But one day in late November, Rushton Miss-sahib destroyed it. She seems to have tripped and fallen, and grasping at the curtain as she fell, brought it down with her. It was old, so the strings broke easily, and he says that the Miss-sahib was very upset and insisted on replacing it. When she found that such things were no longer made locally, she sent him to the bazaar to buy string, and also extra beads, since many of the original beads had fallen between the floorboards and been lost.

‘This, of course, ensured that the maximum number of people would hear the tale. She even went to the bazaar herself and bought more beads, and as there was a last sunny spell towards the end of the month, she sat out on the roof of her boat and threaded them in full view of every passing
shikara,
while Mrs Matthews sketched on the bank. She worked on it for the best part of ten days, and by the end of that time it had become such a familiar sight that it was taken for granted, and ceased to be of the slightest interest. In other words, she deliberately sat under the light and flaunted the thing that must be hid.'

‘Yes … yes, I see,' said Sarah. ‘It was a sort of double bluff.'

‘Exactly. And it succeeded in fooling everyone. It might have continued to do so if a certain dealer in carpets (now behind bars and telling us a lot of interesting things in the hope of escaping death!) had not been a lover of Persian poetry. He was one of the many who had actually seen Janet Rushton working on her curtain when he came alongside in his
shikara,
hoping to sell her a carpet, and he had also been one of the people who searched the
Waterwitch
after her death, just in case she had left behind anything either useful or incriminating; and found nothing. But only recently, happening to read that poem, the connection between words and beads suddenly struck him, and he began to wonder …