Murder On A Summer's Day Part 6

'I hear manager Sergeant talk to you outside my door and say my name.'

The room was opulent. I felt sure that the prince had brought his own furnis.h.i.+ngs. Rich silks in shades of plum and dark grape covered the chairs and bed. Scarlet silk pyjamas and a dressing gown monogrammed in gold thread lay on the bed.

'For his return. And I draw a bath.'

'So you expect he will return soon?'

'Yes, yes. He likes to trick, to joke, ever since young. In his palace, when guests come, to eat, he has a train go round and round the big table.' He smiled. 'Up he speeds it, so guests reach out, and what they reach for, food, cigar, drink, chocolate, is gone.'

This confirmation of the prince's reputation as a practical joker gave me a small glimmer of hope, though I felt little sympathy for a man who would crack such a bad joke as to have a whole estate, a whole village, down tools to search for him.

An Elizabethan table stood by the wall. On it was a writing case, and typewriter. In the corner of the room stood a heavy old safe.

'Did your master say anything to you before he went out yesterday afternoon?'

'Yes, memsahib.'

'What did he say?'

'He said Ijahar.'

'Just your name.'

'Yes. He was in good mood. Sometimes he say, You.'

'And then what?'

'I dress him. I put on his boots. Bring his gun.'

'Did the maharajah receive any messages or visitors before he went out yesterday?'

'Not yesterday. Day before. Mr Presthope only.'

I remembered that this was the old school friend under whose roof the prince and Miss Metcalfe had spent one night.

'Mr Presthope of Halton East?'

He nodded.

'Do you know what they talked about?'

Ijahar shrugged and shook his head.

'And are any of your fellow countrymen in the area?'

'Countrymen?'

'Yes, any Indian gentlemen, only it was thought someone may have been seen in the area on Friday.'

'No, memsahib, only my master and me.'

'I must look into the writing case. This is not to pry into your master's affairs. It is part of my investigation. Do you understand?'

He hesitated, as if expecting to hear his master's footsteps and to be caught in a moment of betrayal. All was silence.

'Very well, memsahib.'

'And I want you to be witness that I am taking nothing.'

'Very well, memsahib.'

I lifted the writing case a little nearer. I saw that under it was a telegram. I unfolded it. It was dated August 1, yesterday. What a strange message. It read simply, "Ides of August" and was signed "C".

We had read Julius Caesar aloud at school. Afterwards we ran about warning each to beware the ides of March, thinking this to be some villainous band of outlaws. It was disappointing to learn that the ides referred to the middle of the month. In some months, like March, the ides was the fifteenth. If I remembered correctly, in August the ides fell on the thirteenth. This cryptic message sounded like a warning. And who was "C"?

The sandalwood writing case had a key in the lock. I opened it. Placed on top of the envelopes was a typed note.

Received from Maharajah Narayan Halkwaer the sum of 10,000 (Ten Thousand Pounds) for disburs.e.m.e.nt by Thurston J Presthope, Esquire to Mr Tobias Metcalfe in accordance with said Maharajah's instructions.

T J Presthope31st July, 1924.

Thurston J. Presthope, Sandmoor Hall, Halton East, North Riding of Yorks.h.i.+re Presthope was the man the maharajah had stayed with on his first night in the area. Who was Tobias Metcalfe? Why, if the maharajah wanted to give him money, did he not do so himself? It seemed extraordinary that the maharajah had handed over such a large sum the day before he disappeared.

A further cursory glance through the writing case revealed what looked to be verse, exquisitely penned in an Indian script on blue bond paper, decorated with tiny hand-drawn flowers. Poetry. There were a couple of letters in what I took to be Urdu. There were also notes in English, but nothing that gave a hint of an invitation that would explain an absence.

'Has anyone, apart from you, been in this room since your master left?'

He shook his head. 'I have the key.'

'What is in the safe?' It struck me as careless that a receipt for ten thousand pounds was left in a writing case.

'My master's jewels and the dubte suraj ki chamak.'

'The dubte suraj ki chamak?'

'Gattiawan diamond, called glow as sun goes down.'

The newspapers had been generous with their information about the Koh-i-noor diamond, Mountain of Light, the empress of jewels that formed the centrepiece of the Great Exhibition at Crystal Palace in 1851. Now it was on display at the British Empire Exhibition. 'What is the dubte suraj ki chamak like?'

'It is like nothing else.' He lowered his voice to a reverent whisper. 'Dubte suraj ki chamak, a pale pink stone, weighs 186 carats.'

'That is bigger than the Koh-i-noor.'

He joined forefingers and thumbs to indicate its shape and size, about four inches. 'Diamond of the Mughal Emperors, mined in Golconda. In a time of war it was hidden in milk pudding.' He raised his fingers to a point. 'Around it, silver star diamonds and golden as moon diamonds. From top grow peac.o.c.k feathers.'

'Feathers?'

He nodded eagerly. 'Emeralds, rubies, pearls, sapphires.'

Much as I wanted to see this extraordinary gem, I decided against asking Ijahar to open the safe. My anxiety for the maharajah increased to the weight of one hundred and eighty-six carats. The man must be mad to have driven here carrying such a jewel. The car could have crashed. He could have been robbed. He was either extremely foolish or very daring. Perhaps both.

'Why did he bring the diamond here?'

For a moment, it seemed that Ijahar might tell me something, but he clammed up, pursing his lips.

'Ijahar, you know something. You must tell me. I am here on behalf of His Majesty's Government.' And so I was. Hearing myself say this aloud gave me a s.h.i.+ver of surprise at the gravity of such responsibility.

'I only hear them say.'

'Say what?'

'I do not listen.'

'Of course you don't. What was said?'

'The king comes here to shoot. My master will show him the diamond.'

'I see.'

I did not see. It was news to me that King George would be coming to Bolton Abbey for the grouse shooting. James must have known but had chosen not to tell me. I wondered what other pieces of information I would have to ferret out before I found the truth. I glanced once more at the note regarding disburs.e.m.e.nt of monies. It seemed careless to leave this lying about.

I had never met Thurston Presthope, but I did not like the sound of him. I added this old school friend to my list of people to interview. And then a thought occurred to me. Why not leave this here, or appear to leave it here? Set a trap.

'Ijahar, I want to use the typewriter to write a note. Will you wish to stay while I do this?'

He nodded. 'I stay, memsahib.'

'I shall use a piece of paper from your master's writing case.'

I took a sheet of writing paper from the case and rolled it into the typewriter. I copied the note exactly. Now here would come the hard part.

I took the paper from the typewriter. Ideally, I would have liked to trace and practise Thurston Presthope's signature. Since my notebook was handy, in my pocket, I took it out, and tried my hand at the flouris.h.i.+ng scrawl, twice.

I then forged Presthope's signature on the newly-typed note.

Ijahar had lost interest. He was smoothing the pyjamas on the bed. I put the original note in an envelope, and slid it into my satchel. My forgery, I returned to the writing case.

Ijahar turned his liquid brown eyes on me. The scar where his eyebrow should have been took on a livid cast as he stood in the rays of sunlight that poured through the window.

'Ijahar, I need to speak to Miss Metcalfe now.'

Tobias Metcalfe, the intended recipient of ten thousand pounds, must be some relation to the maharajah's paramour. Perhaps Lydia Metcalfe had put in a plea for financial a.s.sistance for her father, or a brother.

Eight.

'Her room, memsahib.'

The words uttered by the valet held a hundredweight of loathing. He rapped on the door, and then hurried away.

A voice called 'Enter, truant!'

I stepped into the room. Lydia Metcalfe was seated at a walnut dressing table, applying lip rouge. Through the huge oval mirror, she glanced at me in undisguised disappointment. Straight away I realised that Ijahar had emulated the prince's knock, to upset the woman he disliked.

She swung round on the stool. Of course, she was beautiful. What else might I have expected? Nineteen or twenty years of age, I guessed, with high cheekbones, flawless pale skin and full bow lips. No fas.h.i.+onable bob here. Her ma.s.s of waving red hair had been tamed into luxuriant pleats and loops. I could see why the maharajah had fallen for this most modern work of art.

'Miss Metcalfe?'

'Who the h.e.l.l are you?' Her London accent sat uneasily with such stunning looks.

'That's a yes?'

'Oh, witty, eh? Yes I'm Lydia Metcalfe. What of it?' She took a swig of something that looked like water. But a trained detective knows gin when she spots a bottle of Gordon's next to the perfume spray.

'I am Mrs Kate Shackleton, here at the request of the India Office to investigate the maharajah's disappearance. May I have a word with you?'

'What about?' She picked up the bottle and topped up her gla.s.s. 'I thought they were too busy searching for Narayan to bother me.'

'The search was resumed at dawn.'

'By the halt, the lame and the blind. They don't want to find him do they, your precious India Office, because they can't stop him.'

'Stop him?'

'They can't stop him marrying me.'

She rose gracefully to her feet, moving as if about to take her place on stage at the Folies Bergere. Tall, with long slim legs and a great deal of front, she wore a clinging silk dress the colour of young nettles. The row of emeralds at her throat was spectacular enough to form the solitary display in a high-cla.s.s jeweller's window. It was matched by the bracelet dangling from her wrist and a solitaire emerald on her ring finger. She made sure I saw it.

Now was certainly not the moment to enquire after the prince's wife and child. I tried not to gawp. 'You are engaged?'

She shot me a look that said she missed nothing, including my surprise. 'Yes. In the Hindu religion a man is allowed to marry four wives. He has only the poetry-writing princess. She was foisted on him, betrothed when they were children. It's me he wants and he is in a hurry.' I would have liked to ask why but decided against it. She told me anyway. 'He saw the way the Aga Khan looked at me when we were dining at the Savoy.' She downed the contents of her gla.s.s, glaring at me from big summer-blue eyes. Her animosity was ebbing. She looked a little defensive, as if expecting criticism.

'You must be anxious about your fiance.'

She softened a little when I referred to the prince as her fiance. 'You'd better sit down.' She indicated a bucket chair, covered with a gold satin throw. I sat down somewhat gingerly, half expecting to slide off.

Jamming a Sobranie c.o.c.ktail cigarette into a long holder, she sat on the bed. 'If you'd had the shock of your sweetheart taking this long about his business, and no word of explanation, you'd be knocking it back yourself.'

'When did you last speak to the prince?'

She threw the word back at me. 'Prince! He's a maharajah. One day he will be king of Gattiawan. But of course Britain doesn't like Indians to be called kings. They like to keep the monopoly of that to themselves. Are you here because they're pointing a finger at me? Are you instead of a detective?'