Читать книгу Inspector Ghote's First Case - H. R. F Keating - Страница 10

After a night of restless sleep on a bed that, despite Hotel Restful’s proprietor’s extravagant praise for it, had turned out to be no more than a simple charpoy, its criss-crossed ropes too slack to offer any proper support, Ghote, dressed still, for want of anything else, in his Assistant Inspector’s best uniform, was at precisely nine a.m. examining a garden gate constructed ingeniously from rurally twisted tree branches with the board at its top bearing the words Primrose Cottage in appropriately old-fashioned lettering.

Some twenty yards beyond stood the big bungalow. But, though its roof was covered with a heaped layer of grass, still green, Ghote had to admit that it failed altogether to look like one of the thatched cottages of England he had seen in pictures.

Oh, yes, of course, he said to himself, that roof covering must be just only kulum grass. Although I have never before been in Mahableshwar, I was once somehow learning that, because of the violence of the monsoons here, many houses are protected by having kulum grass spread thickly on their roofs. Isn’t it that sixteen-eighteen feet of rain is falling here in just only one monsoon month? That is almost the only thing I am knowing about Mahableshwar, except that nearby are the biggest strawberry fields in all India.

Yes, this bungalow, he thought now with a tinge of disappointment, is just like the others I was passing on my way here, built for coolness, though with at the back tall chimneys telling me there must be times of the year when a glowing wood fire is needed.

But now, in the joyous month of Chaitra, the grass in the garden here is green and delightfully fresh, and in that long flowerbed beside the path bright red cannas are just breaking into bloom, a single yellow one dancing among them. But what I cannot see are any primroses. No primroses at Primrose Cottage, how can that be? However, I am not at all certain what are primroses.

Wait. Away over there, under that tall deodar tree, its bluey-green branches sweeping downwards, isn’t there, crouching at work, a small boy wearing nothing but a raggedy half-pant? Could I quietly go over and ask him where are the primroses? It would be good to know. I may need something to talk about to Dawkins sahib while I am trying not to bring out that word suicide.

But, no. I may be observed going over to where the boy is working, and in any case I am very much doubting whether I would get one bit of sense out of a mali’s boy like that.

No, go in. Go up to the door of the bungalow, and ring or knock. It must be done.

He gripped the top of the narrow gate and pushed.

The gate stayed firmly shut. He pushed at it again. And again. Sweat broke out all over his back and the narrow width of his shoulders, not long before rinsed clean under Hotel Restful’s shower. Or rather under its reluctant trickle.

Then, stooping at last to see over to the gate’s far side, he found a small black painted metal latch. It, too, resisted him – will I ever get to see Dawkins sahib himself? – until with a crooked tugging forefinger he managed to force it upwards.

Abruptly the gate, with a dreadful squeal, swung wide under the force of his weight. The path to the house, close-packed flat reddish stones a shade darker than the earth beside them, stretched before him.

Go. Quickly, quickly go.

The house door. And, yes, there is a bell, if one that you have to pull at rather than press.

The sound inside of a prolonged jangling.

Oh God, have I made too much of noise?

The door was suddenly drawn back.

A khansamah stood there. A pillar of a man. High above his head there rested an elaborately tied orange puggaree. A red waistcoat, gleaming with bright-polished buttons, encircled the broad chest. Narrow, brilliantly white trousers showed off long legs, with on the feet below, gleamingly polished black leather chappals.

Sweepingly across the steadily immobile face looking down at him there was a curled and oiled black moustache of massive proportions.

Ghote’s immediate deduction, before he had time even to give out his name, was that Dawkins sahib, with such a fellow as this in charge of his household, must have a large staff indeed. Much larger than he had at all expected. How could the Englishman of the modest status Sir Rustom was mentioning run to such a household? But then to the surface of his mind floated Sir Rustom’s words: tokens of appreciation.

Hastily he coughed and spoke.

‘To see Dawkins sahib. It is Inspector Ghote.’

In a single jabbed shout the khansamah called out ‘Bearer’.

And in seconds a bearer was there.

‘Inspector Ghote to see Sahib,’ the khansamah pronounced.

‘This way, please. This way, Inspectorjee. Sahib was telling he had a telephone about yourself.’

A few paces into the interior. The bearer’s tap on a door. A distant voice answering. The door gently pushed open. ‘Sahib, it is Inspector Ghote wishing to see.’

And then Ghote was face to face with the white sahib he was here to question and being told by him to sit. He saw – it was his immediate reaction following his encounter with that towering pillar of a khansamah – a man who was short. Shorter by a good deal than somehow he ought to be, as he stood in front of a plump little sofa, its cushions so many blazes of bright unlikely flowers. And, yes, now I am taking one quick look, Dawkins sahib’s heavy tan shoes have had their heels definitely heightened, by almost half an inch.

Now Dawkins sahib hopped back on the sofa and blurted out something like, ‘Sit. Sit, man, for God’s sake,’ then pushed aside his book, something called Wisden’s Almanack Ghote noted, together with his reading spectacles.

Already Ghote had taken in that the man he was here to help was a good deal more formally dressed than, up in the cool of the hills, a retired white sahib might be expected to be. The sharply white shirt, under his yet whiter drill suit, was buttoned to the neck and from it there poured down a broad silk tie, striped somewhat like Sir Rustom’s one seen only yesterday but in altogether more clashing colours. And the collar of the shirt, unlike Sir Rustom’s, was stiff with starch.

Does Dawkins sahib know, Ghote wondered for one disrespectful instant, that it is altogether likely the starch sprayed on it was squirted from the lips of the man who was ironing it?

He saw now, too, that Dawkins sahib was extraordinarily well-shaved, all but for a bristling little moustache of a fading ginger colour. Again, Ghote imagined a bearer leaning over him as he lay back at ease, shaving brush swiftly dabbing at sun-reddened plumpish cheeks, a fine-honed razor then expertly wielded till those cheeks were as gleaming as the khansamah’s chappals.

More reddish hair stood up in a sharp crest above a face that, with its set mouth and unmoving pale-washed blue eyes, made Dawkins sahib man look – the notion struck Ghote like a slap – firm as a rock. A jutting British rock.

How …? How shall I be able to say to this rock that I have been informed he is in great distress? You cannot be distressing a rock.

What to do? What to do?

From somewhere deep inside came an answer, Dr Gross’s answer about tact. Yes, say something nice.

‘Mr Dawkins,’ he shot out. ‘Sir, I was altogether delighted by the name I was seeing on the gate of this bunga … of this cottage. Primrose Cottage. It is so altogether English. Very-very one hundred per cent.’

And the rock softened. Just a little.

‘Named the place myself, matter of fact, when I bought it from a man leaving with all the rest in ’47. Damn bad show that, always thought. The place was called The Deodars then, garden full of ’em, bloody monstrous trees. Had all but one chopped down. Then thought I’d better find a name that suited. Hit on Primrose Cottage. A primrose by the river’s brim, a simple primrose was to him. Never went to any damned university, or even to much of a school. Father couldn’t rise to the damn fees. But I’ve read my Wordsworth all the same, and always liked that bit. No damned puffing up, eh? Straight to the point. Plain man’s talk.’

‘Yes, sir. But what exactly is a primrose looking like? I am not thinking I have ever seen same.’

Dawkins sahib grunted.

‘Won’t see any here,’ he muttered. ‘Never found any to plant. Be damned expensive to try to get some from Home.’

‘Sir, that is one great pity.’

Ghote came to a halt. The something nice had been said. And exhausted, to last drop. Nothing for it now but …

At that moment Dawkins sahib suddenly jumped to his feet and started wildly looking all round the room.

Ghote looked at him in some puzzlement. But an explanation soon appeared.

‘Specs? Specs?’ the little rock shouted out. ‘Where the devil did I put my specs? Always disappearing, damn things.’

Ghote could, in fact, see them quite clearly. They had slipped a little way down between the cushions of the flowers-bright sofa.

But … but should I? Should I point out to this indignant white sahib something as obvious as this?

‘Damn servants,’ Dawkins sahib shouted now, ‘one of them must have put the damn things somewhere. Other day I had to come all the way up from the Club when I—’

He came to an abrupt halt.

But Ghote’s nerve had broken.

He was already on his feet, stepping over to the sofa. Now, keeping his back between Dawkins and the gap between the sofa cushions, he rapidly extracted the gold-rimmed glasses.

‘Sir, it is these you are looking for?’ he asked.

Dawkins wheeled round.

‘Ah, yes. Yes. Damn it all. So, Inspector Er … What’s all this about, eh?’

Ghote let this slide over him.

‘Sir. Dawkins sahib,’ he said. ‘Sir, I-I was sent here to you by your friend who is now called Sir Rustom Engineer, and, sir—’

Dawkins sahib broke in.

‘Good old Rustom. Yes. Used to go on shikar with him. Know that, do you? Many a fat chital deer fell to our guns, those days.’

A grunted laugh.

‘Well, more to my gun, if I say it. Old Rustom never much of a shot, matter of fact. Think he used to come along because I was an Englishman. Never myself went in for any of that stand-offish nonsense some people did. Chap’s a chap, I used to say.’

‘Yes, sir. Sir Rustom was recalling same.’

Never mind the blank lie, Ghote thought. What I must be doing is keeping on same side as-as this British rock.

‘Yes, dare say he does remember. We were good friends, you know. Good friends. So … So, when I found I was in trouble, it was natural I should drop old Rustom a line. And … And he sorted you out for me, did he? Inspector, eh? Know your onions, I dare say. What did my fellow tell me your name was? Always mutter, damn servants. Can’t cure ’em of it.’

‘It is Ghote, sir. Ghote.’

‘Right then, Inspector Ghote. Take it old Rustom’s put you in the picture, and all that. So what are you going to do about it?’

Ghote swallowed.

Then hoped Dawkins sahib hadn’t noticed.

‘Sir …’ he brought out at last. Then inspiration came. ‘Sir, although Sir Rustom was telling what you had put in your letter, he was not able – sir, he is a busy man – to give as much of time as he would have liked to filling in each and every detail.’

Another lie. But only doing the needful.

‘So, sir, perhaps, I am thinking, you could tell me full circumstances?’

There, I have asked. And without one mention of the word suicide.

Dawkins sahib, rock or no rock, looked abruptly disconcerted.

‘Full circumstances, Inspector?’ he said, making it totally plain that these were something he was very unwilling to discuss.

Ghote braced himself.

‘Yes, sir, in every detail. If I am to find out anything, I must be put hundred per cent into picture.’

A long moment of blank silence.

Then a shrug of the substantial shoulders on that surprisingly short body.

‘Very well, Inspector. Sit you down. Take a pew.’

Ghote hastened to plant himself back on his chair. He pulled out his notebook and extracted a pencil from the top pocket of his uniform jacket.

Dawkins sahib, sitting in the middle of the fat chintz-covered, flowers-patterned sofa, his short legs just clear of the floor below, gave a little cough.

‘Right then. Here goes.’

But nothing went. Not for as much as a minute and a half, even two minutes, of painful silence. Ghote, sitting there fixedly looking, not at silent Dawkins sahib but to the side of him at the bright-patterned sofa, remembered abruptly something his schoolmaster father had once told him. Chintz, however British the word sounded, was in fact the Hindi word chint, ‘bright with many colours’. For an instant he felt a tiny dash of superiority.

But at last Dawkins sahib, sahib of sahibs, began to produce his account.

‘Like this, actually,’ he said. ‘I was over at the Club. There most mornings, get a look at Times of India. Damn people refuse to deliver it here, unless I pay extra. Heard the phone ringing, and then one of the Club servants brought me a message. I should go back home immediately. A nasty accident. I just thought then that there had been a fire in the kitchen or something and I was not going to get my tiffin. But, of course, when I got here – came across the golf course, quickest way, nobody about, too soon for the visitors – he showed me … He showed me Iris—’

He choked, looked down at the fine carpet at his feet.

‘There she was. On the floor, dead. Up against the french windows here. Head wound, blood everywhere. Had to get rid of the old carpet. My twelve-bore beside her, trigger almost in her right hand. Gun’s kick must have jerked it free. ‘Spose she’d fetched it from my study, just next door here. In a locked cupboard, of course. Duty to keep guns safe. Imagine Iris must have known where I kept the key, and she—’

But now Ghote felt impelled to look up from his scribbling and ask a question.

‘And where was that, sir?’

‘What? What?’

‘Where it is you were keeping the key to that almirah where your gun was?’

Dawkins sahib blinked, looked all around as if he needed to see where it was he used to put the gun-cupboard key.

‘Oh,’ he said eventually. ‘Of course, in the bedroom. Drawer where my socks go. Used to pop the key in underneath them. Yes, there.’

‘So your wife could be well knowing where it was?’

‘Well, could have known, yes. May have been in the room sometimes when I tucked it away. Made no secret of it.’

‘Yes, sir, of course.’

A moment’s pause.

‘But, sir, tell me please. For your gun there must be cartridges. Was it loaded already?’

‘Good God, what do you take me for, man? First rule when you’re given your very first gun. Before putting it away check there’s no round in the breech. Elementary.’

‘Yes, sir. So your … so Mrs … Sir, she must have obtained ammunition.’

‘From a drawer, small drawer, in the cupboard. She-she must have taken out just one cartridge. One.’

‘So, sir, she – your wife, sir – must have known also where were the cartridges for your-your twelve-bore, sir.’

‘Yes, dare say she did. Don’t often use the gun, not nowadays. But she may have seen- Must have seen me looking in the cartridges drawer, some time. Yes, must have done. But does it matter how she knew that, the wife I’d have trusted with my life?’

So now, Ghote thought. Now I have got back, fully, to what it is I came here to find out. He is saying he would trust his wife, Iris memsahib, with his life. But, if Sir Rustom was right, he still is not able to understand why she could have killed herself in the way he himself was just only describing. And that is what I am here to be finding out. If it is at all possible to do same.

‘Mr Dawkins,’ he said, ‘I am understanding from Sir Rustom that you have no idea, none whatsoever, why your … why your wife should have done that thing. Sir, had she given even one hint that she would do it?’

‘Good God, no, man. She was pregnant, you know. Seven months gone, as they say.’

Seven months gone. The words instantly burnt themselves into Ghote’s mind. Seven months pregnant, almost exactly the same as Protima. Or is that same? When Protima was so angry that I was leaving for Mahableshwar, she was saying and declaring our child, my son, would come sooner, much sooner, than the time Dr Pramash has said. In much, much less of time.

He longed at that instant not to be in Mahableshwar, inside Primrose Cottage trying to assess and weigh each smallest detail of that British rock’s account of his wife’s death. He wanted to be at home, even if that was the sun-broiled flat with its rotten stove at the top of the tall block in the Dadar PS compound. He wanted to be hearing, truly hearing, every detail of Protima’s pregnancy.

But I cannot be there in Bombay. I have been given a task. By Sir Rustom Engineer. And here in Mahableshwar I must stay. And listen to whatever is said to me. Listen now to Dawkins sahib, with my each and every ear.

‘Yes, sir,’ he said, ‘I am well understanding now why you were so-so distressed at what your wife was seeming to have done. Without any explanation whatsoever being there. You are certain of that, is it?’

‘Good God, man, of course I’m certain. Why else do you think I would in sheer desperation write to an acquaintance from years back seeking some shred of help?’

At this revelation of weakness from the man he had begun to think of as rock-like in his stability, Ghote could not but feel an overriding desire somehow to accomplish the task he had been given.

‘Sir,’ he forced himself to say, ‘please to look at every circumstance of your life in the past months. Sir, could there have been something you were saying to Iris memsahib that might, for no good reason, have made her feel some despair?’

What have I done now, he asked himself. I have put myself, it is seeming, into the mind, into the very heart, of this British rock. And-and have I made some terrible wound there? Some wound that may at any moment cause him to kick me with force out of his house?

But the rock stayed silent and immobile as-as a rock.

Then at last words issued from it.

‘No. No, Inspector. You do well to ask me that. It seems, after the appalling thing that has happened in my life, I must put up with every sort of damned impertinence. So, I answer, once and for all, that nothing, not one shred of anything, passed my lips that could have given Ir—. That could have given my wife, damn it, any reason at all to … to do that appalling thing.’

‘Very good, sir. I would not ask any such question again.’

‘I should bloody well hope not. Do you think an officer like the chap who came up from the police station here was as bloody rude as that? As bloody insensitive? No, Inspector What-was-his-name … what the devil did he …? Darrani, that’s it. First-class man, first-class, asked me no more than he saw was necessary, told me straight away there could be no question of me not being over at the Club, dozens of witnesses, when the sound of that shot brought Khansamah in here and he found … he found … found Iris dead, lying there as I described it to you.’

Ghote wished now he was anywhere, anywhere else than sitting perched on his chair facing this man who had returned to find his wife dead, his own shotgun from that locked almirah beside her. He no longer wanted even to be at home back in his flat high above Dadar PS. He just wanted not to be where he was.

But I am here, he acknowledged to himself. I am here, and it is my bounden duty to ask more questions, to poke and to pry, until I have found the answer that is baffling Dawkins sahib. And baffled also, it seems, that ‘first-class officer’, Inspector Darrani.

‘Sir,’ he said, suddenly seeing a way of getting a respite from the fearful situation he had become entangled in. ‘Sir, I think it would be best if I am going now, ek dum, to see my colleague, Inspector – you were saying – Darrani, who was here almost as soon as tragedy was occurring.’

Dawkins sahib looked at him. Stared at him.

‘See Inspector Darrani?’ he said. ‘No need for that. I’ve told you. Told you. That man’s an absolutely first-class officer. He’ll have done every single thing necessary. Got it all taped.’

‘Yes, sir. Yes, I am sure what you have said about Inspector Darrani is hundred per cent correct. But that is the reason why I must be seeing. What he was learning may be of the utmost help to me.’

‘Humph. Have it your own way, if you must. But don’t you go running off this instant. I’ve a good deal more to say to you. And-and if I don’t say it here and now, I probably never will. We are talking about my dead wife, you know. The way she-she damn well killed herself, and for no reason. No bloody reason at all.’

‘Yes, sir. Of course, sir, if you have more to be telling I am here to hear.’

But, Ghote thought, I do not at all believe that what you may now say will be very useful. It is altogether easy to see you are still in one state of distress. But, if I am getting to see Inspector Darrani, I may be finding out ten times more.

But, no, I must stay here. Stay here and let this friend of Sir Rustom’s, however much or little such he is, have his say.

Yet then, it seemed, Dawkins sahib had nothing to say. He sat there on the squabby sofa, its chintz cushions patterned in those unlikely flowers, and glowered into mid-air.

So how long must I also sit?

‘She was born in India, you know.’

The words abruptly emerged as if from some deep well.

Ghote could almost hear the squeak of its bucket as it was being hauled up on its roller, almost felt himself leaning over the wide circle of the well wall trying to see if there might be anything more in the wooden bucket as it slowly rose up.

‘Met her when I was visiting an old friend. Forest officer. Staying on like me, Government of India contract. Chap called Watson. Out in a dak bungalow, not far from Poona. Poona. Can’t be doing with calling it Pune, as they tell us now you have to. Somewhere near Poona. Married, of course. Then, drinks before dinner, and in came this girl. Very quiet – unobtrusive, might say – but dashed attractive. Liked that. Can’t stand females who always make a dead set at you. No, but look, look, I’ll show you. Photo I sent her down to Bombay to have taken, just after we were married.’

Abruptly he jumped up from the fat sofa, strode over to a heavy roll-top desk on the far wall, tugged out a keyring, selected one of the bunch, plunged it into the keyhole of its long drawer.

‘Damn. Bloody thing jammed. Wrong bloody key.’

He twisted and pulled. To no avail.

‘Half a mo’. I’ll have to get Khansamah, if I can’t … Always knows what to do.’

Cautiously, Ghote got up and went across.

‘Can I be of help, sir?’

‘No, blast you.’

Tug, twist, tug.

‘Oh, all right, damn it, see what you can do.’

Ghote moved in front of the desk, put himself squarely at the middle of the long drawer, peered at it for a moment.

Then he reached for the jammed key – it was plainly just a little too large for the keyhole – took hold of it, got it gently to turn a little back to the left and—

Out it came.

Dawkins sahib pushed him aside, snatched the keyring from his hand, stuck in another key, turned it and jerked the drawer wide.

In a moment he had pulled out from it a photograph in a neatly painted frame.

But what Ghote had seen as Dawkins sahib tugged the drawer open was a thick scattering of what looked like old letters.

What if any of them are ones written to Iris memsahib, he thought. Letters from friends and family that might give one clue to her state of mind? Can I ask if I may see?

But Dawkins sahib was intent on something else.

‘Look at this photo,’ he jabbered out. ‘Just take a look at it. Iris, as she was just after we were married. And, you know, I actually had to persuade her to go and have it taken. Shy as a violet, she was. Violet eyes, too. Like a violet herself, might say. Violet hidden in the woods. And, damn it, I fell for her, though always thought of myself as a bachelor born. Fell for her, and, no time at all, married.’

He thrust the frame – it was painted in two shades of pale blue – into Ghote’s hands.

Ghote looked. The photograph did not appear to be a very good one. All right, I can see the colour of those eyes that Dawkins sahib called violet. They are striking, as he said. Very different from his own washed-out blue ones, though somehow not quite as I expected. And something is seeming also to be not altogether right about them. Perhaps some fault of the photographer. But I must not be staring too long.

He took a quick glance at the print at the bottom of the frame. Photo By Too Good Clicks, Bombay. Tel: 4028

Yes, perhaps Mr Too-Good-Clicks is not a too good photographer.

He handed the photo back. Dawkins sahib seized hold of it and shoved it into the drawer, slamming it shut.

For a moment Ghote wondered why it had not been hanging on the wall above the desk or perhaps displayed on some table in the room. But there was something else lodged in his mind.

‘Sir,’ he ventured. ‘Sir, inside that drawer you were just only opening, sir, I was seeing what were looking like old letters kept there. Sir, if they were written to you by your wife, then there may be in them some clues. Or perhaps they are letters written to her. Sir, may I examine?’

‘No, you may damn well not. Letters to my wife? Private letters? How dare—’

He stopped abruptly.

‘In any case,’ he said, ‘those are not letters either from or to my wife. Do you think she put any letters she wanted to keep into the drawer of my desk? What sort of an idiot are you? Damn it, my wife has-my wife had a desk of her own. Wedding present from myself, actually. Pretty little bureau. In what she used to call her sewing room, sort of little place where she could be private, if she wanted to be, do a bit of mending or something. Just as I have what I call my study.’

Ghote for a moment contrasted this arrangement with that of his own wretchedly small flat, or even with what he might expect in the new larger, telephone-equipped flat he hoped soon to have. Would he and Protima want separate places to hide away in? Never.

But he also very much wanted to go and look over that sewing room, to open that new bureau. Were the bright sofa cushions here also happy Iris memsahib’s three years ago choice? In the sewing room he could carry out one good, simple step in the task he had been given. To see if there were letters there to give some clue to Iris memsahib’s state of mind. But he thought this was not at all the moment to make such a request.

And, in any case, Dawkins sahib was saying something, and in rather more of a mutter than in his usual giving-orders manner.

‘… happy from that day on. Only once, once, did we have a bit of a row. Had the mali’s boy … Wretched brat never does what he’s told. If I’ve said it once, I’ve said it a hundred times. I will not have any damn yellow canna flowers spoiling the look of that bed by the front path. Every plant in it has got to be red. Red. Must have order. Order. What we brought to India. Order. But does that boy uproot even one yellow- But never mind all that. What I was telling you was I had the boy pegged down as stealing my watch. And Iris, typical woman, had to say Chintu’s such a sweet little chap couldn’t have stolen anything.’

But, catching those words bit of a row, Ghote was suddenly elsewhere. Once more back in Bombay.

What if Protima and I are having one bit of a row, or, worse, one very bad quarrel? Like we were having just yesterday? And … and it is bringing on the birth? Much, much too soon? A miscarriage. What if …

I must have time to think. I must stop this English rock going on and on.

I must get away.

‘Sir, yes, that is altogether most interesting. But, sir, as I was saying, I must be seeing Inspector Darrani. Sir, he may be investigating some case elsewhere at any moment. Sir, how do I get to Mahableshwar PS?’