“What do you suppose he’d think if he had to cut his hair and put on a uniform? Would he climb out of his trench into No-Man’s Land as willingly as I did? Would you think less of him if he refused?”
“Who are you?” I repeated, now louder. “What do you want?” If, despite O’Brien’s assurance, I’d been vaguely worried about bumping into more German assassins, Stanhope was the last person I’d been expecting to see in the street. He laughed and stepped towards the kerb. He raised his good hand to clutch at the open door of the taxi. He settled himself back in and looked out at me from the darkened interior.
“You, I am given to believe, take a different view of Queen and Country,” he said with a chuckle. “How would you respond if called on to serve?” he pulled the door shut and rolled the window down. “Would you be as selfish as Ayn Rand preaches? Or would you be as self-sacrificing as her follower was back in New York?”
“I’m going straight back to the police,” I said, pointing back in the direction of the station. “If you won’t speak sense to me, you will to them.” What was all this to do with some ludicrous American woman, or her followers? I raised my voice. “You’ll tell me here and now what is going on. Or I’ll have the police on you.”
“I don’t think that would be a wise move,” he said with another laugh. “You just keep an eye on tomorrow’s news, and then think about your duty to Queen and Country. Yes—tomorrow. That will, of course, be the 11 Epiphi in the Ancient Egyptian calendar. That makes it the Festival of the Risen Osiris—a most auspicious date, you’ll readily agree.” I dropped my arms and looked hopelessly at the grinning old maniac. He rapped on the window separating him from the driver. The taxi began to move off. Stanhope looked out at me again. “Yes, dear boy—you pay attention to the news tomorrow. I’m sure you’ll find it interesting. Believe me, Dr Markham, I did!”
There was something gloating in these final words—gloating in their deliberate lack of meaning. Stanhope looked back and me and might have said more. I followed his taxi for the first few yards. But it accelerated and the window began to close.
“What is going on?” I yelled. “What do you want with me?” But the taxi was now heading in the direction of Queensway, and I found myself with no one to shout at but the two women, who’d left off their inspection of the hat shop and were giving me funny looks.
In Boots, the young man had his back to me. With bright flashes from the overhead cables, a trolley bus glided past, on its side a big advertisement from the South African High Commission. A land of endless sun and endless promise, it said. In the background of the picture of the ideal emigrant family, a coloured servant pushed happily on a broom. No mention of failed gold mines. Here, in Westbourne Grove, it was coming on to rain again, and I had no umbrella.
“But what could a man of my standing have to fear from the Metropolitan Constabulary?” Pakeshi asked with one of his greasy smiles. “Are not my papers in order? Do I not contribute valuably to the life of our Imperial Motherland?” He moved forefinger and thumb with practised efficiency over his chin and plucked out a white bristle. “I answered the good Inspector’s questions and returned to my professional duties.”
“Professional duties,” indeed! I thought. If you count the ability to direct a knitting needle and write out morphine prescriptions a “valuable contribution”, there was no doubt Pakeshi was on firm ground. But I was in no mood for sneering, and I was grateful for his whisky, and its bitter undertaste that was reviving me by the moment. With much rubbing of his sore head, Hattersley had got the front door patched up, and I was back in my flat. Of course, the bodies had been taken away, and Mrs Dale’s cleaning lady had done her best with the stains. The Queen was propped up on the settee and was covering up one of the larger blood stains. Otherwise, things were back to a semblance of normality. I had a sudden thought.
“Are my things still in your flat?” I asked. Pakeshi nodded. “Could those men have been after something in my luggage?”
“Goodness gracious me, Anthony!” He burbled in an exaggerated Indian accent. “Did you think of that all by yourself?” He got up and looked at one of the larger stains on my sitting room carpet. “Surely, you are versed in all the ways of the white Sahib.” I ignored the mockery in his voice and took another sip on his drugged whisky. He was back in the dark suit he always put on for visits to his patients of quality. The only metal in evidence now about his person was the gold watch chain that no medical man could be without—unless, that is, his ambitions went no further than 2s.6d consultations. O’Brien, I was told, had asked a few questions about the bodies in my flat. I’d said nothing about his gun. I was sure he’d said nothing. Pakeshi didn’t appear to be under suspicion of murder. The exact nature of what questions Pakeshi had been asked remained unclear. But they didn’t seem to have troubled him. He stood over me, holding out a hand to help me up. I ignored the offer and got unsteadily up by myself. With a final look at the hole where the Queen’s nose had been, I followed him towards the door.
How the smell of curry didn’t pass through the wall between our flats and gas me in my own bed was another mystery beyond solving. I’d never actually gone through Pakeshi’s front door. All I can say is that his patients must have been pretty desperate to brave that ghastly miasma. The cooking smells were joined by the smoke from a dozen joss sticks that filled the place with the sort of fog you only get elsewhere from a chip pan that’s caught fire. Except I had an equally overpowering reason for being there, I’d have run straight out for a vomit.
“Oh, Dr Markham,” said Mrs Dale, “how delightful to see you looking so well.” She looked tipsily up from the settee where she was sprawled, and pulled her dress down so her knickers were no longer on display. “Don’t mind me at all, Dr Markham,” she tittered. “I’m just a silly old woman who’s had a little too much of Dear Srindomar’s nerve tonic.” She burped and stretched out to get at the remote control box that governed Pakeshi’s gramophone. She knocked it instead onto the carpet. As she tried to reach it, her wig slipped, showing cropped, grey hair. With an obsequious remark, Pakeshi walked over and lifted the tracking arm from the record. I suddenly realised she’d been listening to the slow movement of a symphony by Bruckner. The smell had taken my mind off all else in the flat. It had the disturbing incongruity you get with educated Indians. There was the smell, of course, and the brightly-coloured pictures on every wall of gods with many arms and elephant heads. There was also, however, a mass of the heavy, dark furniture that had last been popular in the days of Queen Victoria. All that took away the sense that I was in the home of some retired officer of the Raj was the picture, right above the sitting room fireplace, and level with the native gods, of Mahatma Ghandi. From the sad look on his ravaged features, it may have been taken just before his last and fatal hunger strike.
“Do please be seated, Dr Markham,” he said. He went over to a sideboard and poured three glasses of something bright green. He then put on another record—of Schubert lieder, sung, I think, by Elisabeth Schwarzkopf—and sat down. We listened in silence. I sipped carefully from my glass. Its base was alcoholic, though its other contents were beyond my understanding. All I can say is that it settled without dulling my wits. As the last piano accompaniment died away, I got up and went over to my things. They were just as Pakeshi had described them the previous evening. One of the suitcase locks had indeed been prised off, and someone had gone through everything inside. My dictating machine was missing. So were my walking boots. Apart from that, all was just a mess. The other bags were untouched.