And there was something about this, the first death of a memsahib, which tugged at his attention. He had devised his own theory, drawing on evidence from the rash of multiple murders which had shocked the population of Europe over the last fifty years, that it was the first killing of any series and the latest which were the most likely to give away the identity of the killer. The first murder, being the first, was inevitably the most amateur, the most sloppy, the most nervously executed of the crimes. If the killer went on to survive this undiscovered, he would improve his technique, take fewer chances, cover his tracks more expertly the second and third and fourth times. If his career continued to flourish he might become overconfident, feeling himself immune to detection, and by the time the police were investigating his fifth or sixth offerings, their acquired skill might just be the equal of his.
The killing of Dolly Prentice, being the first and by far the most convincingly accidental, was, Joe considered, the most significant. The pattern was like and yet not like the pattern of the subsequent killings. As in the other four cases there was the probably lethal presence of a native – in this the supposed dacoits. It occurred to Joe that not one witness mentioned actually having set eyes on a dacoit, though there were reports that the servants had seen them and been herded roughly out of the building by a gang of four or five armed men. Could someone – Prentice? – have hired them, lured them or tricked them into an attack on the bungalow? During his absence? And then have pursued them and got rid of the living evidence against him? Joe decided to rein in his imagination; no man would put at risk his wife, his daughter, his bearer and his household of devoted servants indiscriminately.
He turned back the pages of the album and looked again at the wedding photograph. Even from the sepia-tinted paper, Dolly sparkled with happiness and some other quality… satisfaction? Pride, perhaps? Was there a touch of the same emotion he had caught in the eye of an old tiger hunter in a painting in the mess – ‘See what a fine beast I have conquered’?
Joe looked at her conquest. Colonel, then Major, Prentice. Tall, athletic, commanding. Yes, a tiger. But he doubted that Dolly had her graceful foot on his neck. He remembered Kitty’s saying about marriage in the army – ‘Colonels must marry’. Was the man merely doing his duty for the sake of promotion? And Dolly, had she chosen the man or the station commander he would become? Had she been aware of his background, aware of his essential wildness?
‘You’re saying that Prentice, um, reverted to the code he was familiar with from his early youth… this Pukhtunwali… to exact retribution from the bandits who were responsible for his wife’s death? Would it still have such significance for him, after so long?’
Kitty lit another cigarette and considered his question. ‘Oh, yes, I think so. On the surface Giles Prentice is the pukka cavalry officer, punctilious, cold, arrogant, but I’ve always thought there was another layer to his character, something more volatile bubbling beneath the austere surface. And the Pathan code, well, it’s very – what shall I say? – very seductive in its simplistic, masculine way.’
‘Is there more to it than a duty of revenge?’
‘Yes. But not much. There is the duty of melmastia – that’s hospitality. It is expected that a Pathan will offer food, lodging, protection, even lay down his life to protect anyone who seeks shelter with him. Many British officers “take safe conduct” as the saying is. And come to admire the Pathan way of life while doing so. And secondly there’s the right of nanawati which means “coming in”. A Pathan has to offer protection to anyone who asks him for it, even his worst enemy. If a man comes to him with a tuft of grass in his mouth to indicate that he is subservient like the animals and with the Koran on his head, Pathans may not refuse nanawati. But the first and most important duty is badal – vengeance. Vengeance must be exacted for any injury done to the Pathan or to his family or tribe. He may wait many years before he accomplishes it – may even have forgotten the reason for it – but avenged he must be. There is a story – quite a recent one and I know it’s true because the incident was investigated by my cousin – that a perfectly innocent English officer was shot dead on the frontier by a tribesman. When he was asked why he had shot the officer who was unknown to him, the Pathan replied that his great-grandfather had been killed by an Englishman and he was taking revenge. “But after one hundred years?” my cousin asked, disbelieving. “One hundred years… yes…” said the Pathan, “perhaps I have been a little hasty.” And there are stories which tell of leathery old villains who have killed their own offspring when the code demanded it!’
‘So, in pursuing the dacoits, Prentice was avenging the death of Dolly?’
‘Yes. I’d rather not think about it but I would guess that’s exactly what he did. There was something so chilling in the intensity, the implacability of the man. He had a face of granite, an expression as fierce as all three Furies combined when he rode off on his punitive raid. But, then, you don’t have to be Pathan in your way of thinking to insist on your revenge. There were many British officers to encourage him. A burning bungalow, a burning memsahib, a terrified child, these woke fearful memories, you can imagine.’
‘Memories of the Mutiny?’
‘Yes. I was completely overwhelmed myself by the sight of a bungalow burning and I expect others of my age were too. I was what they used to call a Mutiny Baby. Born in 1857, actually in the residence at Lucknow. I knew all about the Mutiny. Our friends talked about it a lot of course and the destruction of the Prentice bungalow gave me quite a turn. I wasn’t the only person who said, “It’s all starting again”. There is always, just below the ordered surface of army life, the fear that it could all happen again. And remember, Mr Sandilands, that it was Englishwomen, army wives, who were the first victims of the butchery.
‘I had no bad feeling after the war until Peggy Somersham’s alleged suicide brought back memories, and the bad feeling returned with a vengeance when I counted up and realised that there had been five deaths on the station in March in succeeding years and I don’t think it had occurred to anybody else until Nancy started to question everything. And now here you are ferreting about like a stoat or should I say stoating about like a ferret? What’s your next move?’
‘I’m going to Calcutta,’ said Joe. ‘Next week. To see Harold Carmichael and Philip Forbes. With Nancy.’
‘Oh, yes?’
‘All right,’ said Joe, ‘I know what “Oh, yes?” means! Perhaps I should say we’re going in the Collector’s official car, driven by none other than Naurung!’
‘Impeccable chaperonage!’ said Kitty and she extracted a small gold watch pinned amongst the drapery of her bosom and studied it in a marked manner.
Joe laughed. ‘One thing we learn in the police is to take a hint! Thank you very much for many things and I’ll see you again soon, I hope.’
‘Sooner than you expect, perhaps, Commander. This afternoon if you like. People come to tea with me on Sunday. You could say I am “at home”. If it were known that the mysterious and handsome police sahib was amongst the cucumber sandwiches, part of the menu, you’d see a good turn-out. Anyway, that’s what you’re here for – or so I understood – to calm things down… to reassure the hysterical women that Scotland Yard has everything in control. You’d better be here. Bring your smelling salts! Five o’clock. Don’t forget!’