The band went into a slow waltz and Joe gathered her to him. ‘The Destiny Waltz’. His mind went back at once to France. This had been one of the few gramophone records they owned and he had last heard the tune being played on a wheezy accordion in an estaminet not many miles behind the lines. And here it was again. ‘Police boots!’ thought Joe and, with a quick glance down at Nancy ’s silk stockings and delicate, high-heeled kid shoes, he said, ‘Can you do a reverse turn?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Nancy. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever tried.’
‘Come on, then,’ said Joe, with a quick glance around which told him that, satisfactorily, every eye in the room was following them. ‘Hold tight! Now!’
‘That was good!’ said Nancy. ‘Let’s do it again!’
Under the proximity engendered by this complicated manoeuvre, Joe let his cheek brush hers.
‘What shall we do next?’ said Nancy.
Joe raised an eyebrow.
‘No! I wasn’t talking about a hot, squashy time behind the potted palms in the kala juggah! What over-heated stories have you been listening to about memsahibs? I was talking about the investigation, for goodness sake! Just remember I’m the Collector’s lady! The Governor’s niece! Caesar’s wife!’
‘Seriously,’ said Joe, ‘you may not think so but I’m working through my list and I want to see Forbes, the husband of the girl who went over the precipice, to find out if he’s got anything to add. But, more importantly, Carmichael, the snake girl’s husband. Neither is on the station still. Is it known where they are?’
‘More or less, but not exactly. Carmichael sent in his papers just before the war. He wasn’t particularly happy with Joan as I think I told you but all the same, he was pretty shattered by her death. Who wouldn’t have been? But she left him quite a lot of money and, as I say, he left the army and went into business in Calcutta. Wine imports or something of that sort. He went into partnership with some box-wallahs, Gujeratis from Bombay, I think. They didn’t get on. Not surprised about that – not many people found they could get on with Harold Carmichael. He was very bitter. He was passed over once or twice and when the war began he didn’t rejoin the regiment so he didn’t go to France with them. He was very much criticised for having stayed safe. Perhaps I’m being unfair. He wasn’t very fit and – as I say – he was very knocked about by Joan’s death. They say demon drink took its toll too. I suppose he still lives in Calcutta.’
‘And Sheila Forbes’ husband?’
‘The regimental doctor and a good one by all accounts. He went out to France with the regiment but got a job in the Hospitals Inspectorate after the war and he’s based in Calcutta too though I expect he spends most of the year on tour.’
‘So, in other words, if we wearily tracked our way back to Calcutta we could perhaps see both of these gents? True?’
Nancy nodded and said, ‘Leave it to me. I’ll do a little telephoning tomorrow,’ and added, ‘I wonder what everybody thinks we’re talking about so earnestly? I bet nobody suspects that we’re at the throbbing heart of a police enquiry.’
‘Throbbing?’ said Joe. ‘Maybe, but not at the heart of a police enquiry. I ought to be saying, “I say, old girl, you look jolly fetching, I must say, in that get up. And, I say, when am I going to see you? I mean see you properly?” ’ And, his voice dropping to a seductive growl, ‘ “I want to see more of you!” Am I getting it right?’
‘Certainly,’ said Nancy. ‘Jane Fortescue certainly thought so!’
‘Jane Fortescue? Who on earth’s she?’
‘She was just beside us when you made that remark. And don’t imagine that won’t be echoing round the bridge tables and the mah jong sessions tomorrow!’ And she went into her own imitation, ‘ “My dear, who was that man, plastered to Nancy Drummond?” ’
‘Not all that plastered,’ said Joe sadly.
With a riff of drums, the band fell silent and the voice of the compère was heard. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, please take your partners for a gentlemen’s excuse-me.’
The Shropshire Light Infantry went dreamily into ‘If You Were The Only Girl In The World’.
Joe led Nancy away from the other dancers to the edge of the room and they stood for a moment together, Joe’s protective arm still unnecessarily close about her waist. A laughing thick-set young man tugging an unwilling girl in his wake bumped into Joe and excused himself. ‘Andrew! So sorry, old man! Oh! Good Lord! Sorry again… not Andrew… er, oh, I say!’
Nancy cut short his embarrassment. ‘Harry! You find me in the hands of the police! This is the Commander Sandilands I was telling you about. Joe, this is Harry Featherstone, our Deputy Collector.’
They shook hands and, muttering further apologies, Harry hauled his partner on to the floor.
‘Do you mind if we don’t attempt a gentlemen’s excuse-me?’ he said. ‘But I could do with a drink.’
‘Come along, then,’ said Nancy. ‘It’s about time I introduced you to my husband. He’ll give you a drink. I’m booked for this one, though I can’t see my partner.’ And she took him to a corner of the room where a middle-aged man sat with one long leg awkwardly askew on a stool and with two pretty girls sharing his foot rest. ‘That’s my husband,’ she said. ‘He may be lame and he may even perhaps be old but I can’t help noticing he’s never alone!’
Joe looked and liked what he saw. Nancy leant across and kissed the top of his head. ‘Andrew,’ she said, ‘this is Commander Sandilands – Sandilands of the Met as they call him.’
‘I hope they don’t,’ said Joe.
Drummond extended a hand. ‘Excuse my not getting up,’ he said. ‘Wasn’t there a book by Edgar Wallace called Sandilands of the River?’
‘Sanders of the River, I think,’ said Joe. ‘But a book called Bulldog Drummond did come out at Christmas.’
‘And this,’ Nancy continued, ‘is my husband, the distinguished Collector of Panikhat.’
They shook hands and as the two girls were led away by partners, Joe sat down beside the Collector who snapped his fingers at a passing waiter for a drink. ‘Pink gin do you? That’s what I’m drinking. I’m so glad you’re here. Rumours abound, I know. Nancy, bless her heart, has got the bit completely between her teeth – seems to have Uncle on her side, in the presence of whom, of course, a humble Collector takes back seat! I really admire her, you know. She doesn’t let things drop but…’ He paused for a long time and gave Joe a level glance. ‘Tell me, Sandilands,’ he said, ‘speaking confidentially – is she on the point of making a fool of herself? Digging all this up after all these years? Could be, you know. Not trying to force a confidence, of course, but give me a lead if you can. Is this a lot of nonsense?’
Joe decided to trust, his instincts. He judged that Andrew Drummond was a man in whom he could – and must – confide and said carefully, ‘It’s early days for me, you do realise that, I’m sure. I’ve only been here two days. But I’m bound to say, as far as first impressions go… I think the whole thing stinks! How easy it is to criticise, and I’ve no idea what facilities were available to the police or the coroner at the time, but – looking at it now from the perspective of 1922 – very sloppy police work. Witnesses not interviewed, statements taken on trust, no fingerprinting or blood typing done and more of the same. I’m speaking without prejudice but you did ask me and that’s my impression.’
‘Well, I’ll tell you something, my boy,’ said the Collector, ‘that’s been my bloody impression too! I wasn’t here before the war and I wasn’t here during the war and perhaps I have no right to speak and, God knows, I don’t want a scandal to sweep through the station but if we’re really talking about murder, more than one murder, we have a duty, I have a duty, you have a duty. Police giving you facilities, are they? Oh, you’ve got Naurung in your corner, have you? Now there’s one that’ll go far! Spotted him a long time ago! With Indianisation going at the pace it is, I wouldn’t be surprised if we were looking at the next Superintendent of Police but two.’