Murder On A Summer's Day Part 39

I opened my eyes, and looked at the clock.

As I did so, something reared up from beside the bed, a writhing, twisting snake as tall as a tree, with hooded head, tiny eyes, open jaws, and a forked tongue pointing at me.

I froze. So did the snake, poised, elegant, offended, and then it swayed.

Stay still, I willed it, keeping my eyes on the dots of hatred that it wore for eyeb.a.l.l.s.

I have not made a will. My library book is overdue.

Forty.

Once in the corridor, I leaned against the wall, shaking with fear. Only the alarm clock had come between me and the snake, as I grabbed the clock, flung it, leapt from the bed and raced from the room, shutting the door behind me.

I looked at the bottom of the door, at the smallest of gaps. Did reptiles have the ability to flatten themselves and slither free? It might wend its way from room to room, first taking its revenge on me, then carefully poisoning guest after guest.

I do not know how long I stood there, barefoot, wearing only pyjamas, trembling. But they were moments of stunning clarity.

It is a cobra.

It is the dancing cobra belonging to the snake charmer.

Someone knows I sleep with the window open and has sent a dancing cobra to kill me. Someone has watched me, followed me; knows where I took the child. But there is only one snake. The child will be safe with Sykes and Sugden.

Never have I been so glad to see someone as when Rachel appeared at the end of the corridor, holding a tray.

She walked as far as Mrs Sugden's door, opposite mine. Good old Mrs Sugden, early riser.

Rachel stared at me.

'What's the matter, madam?'

'There's a snake in my room. It came in through the window.'

'We don't have snakes.'

'It's a cobra.'

'Was it a dream?'

I shook my head. 'Lock this door. Put something thick and heavy against the bottom, in case it tries to wriggle under.'

She put down the tray. 'I'll just...' She tapped on Mrs Sugden's door.

I did not tell her that Mrs Sugden would not be there to receive her early morning tea.

Next, Rachel tried to insert her key into my lock. I could tell she was humouring me.

'It won't go in. Your own key is on the other side. Shall I...'

I stopped her from opening the door. 'Go find Mr Sergeant. Tell him to close my window from the outside, and then to come here straight away.'

She tapped on Mrs Sugden's door again.

'Never mind that. She's not there! Just go! Do as I say.'

As she turned and hurried along the corridor, I slid down, and sat with my back to the wall.

Be rational. Snakes cannot open doors. A cobra could not crawl through such a small gap. Think of something else.

I felt so very cold, so cold that my bones moaned a foretelling of old age. Think of something else. Try and recall the dream I had before waking. A voice had spoken so clearly. But that was not a real person. It was a dream voice, saying, 'He is too young.'

Poor Osbert Hannon was too young to drown; his baby son too young to lose his father.

'He is too young.'

Ijahar was too young to have worked as Maharajah Narayan's valet since Narayan was a child, which was what he told me when I first spoke to him. It can be difficult to tell a person's age if something else about them attracts your attention. With Ijahar, it had been the livid scar where his eyebrow should have been, and his over-anxious manner. Had he lied to me, or been confused by my questions?

Narayan must have been at least a dozen years older than Ijahar and would have had a valet before Ijahar was born. Perhaps I had misunderstood.

I recalled my first meeting with Ijahar, when he bowed, propped open the door of his little room and cut a pathetic figure, racked with anxiety about his master. Yet last night, he had strutted arrogantly, berating some poor young devil about not polishing his master's shoes.

Ijahar no longer had a master, or had he?

In and out like a jack-in-the-box, Sergeant had said of him. In and out of the hotel so often that no one would pay heed if he wandered hither, thither and yon, disappeared for long enough to kill, and to hide a body. The prince had been shot at close range. Ijahar could come within close range of his master. That was part of his job. Yet the idea was preposterous. Sir Richard was right. The man's servitude was too deeply ingrained for him to break a taboo and murder a prince. The notion went against all conventions, all sense, against the natural order. It simply could not be.

Yet why, when Prince Narayan's belongings had been cleared from the room, had so many bits and pieces been left behind in the linen closet? Not simply left, but adorned with flowers.

Mr Sergeant quick-marched along the corridor towards me. Rachel trotted after him. Without a word, he opened the door to my room, took the key from the lock, shut it again and locked the door.

'You believe me then?'

'I closed your window. The cobra has curled up in the wash basin. It must have been thirsty.'

'I suppose frightening someone half to death is thirsty work.'

'I've sent for the snake charmer. He should keep his creature under tighter control. Are you all right?'

'Mr Sergeant, Rachel, I need clothes and shoes, and I need them now.'

Twenty minutes pa.s.sed before Rachel returned.

'Sorry, Mrs Shackleton. It's the best I could do.' Had there been time for dismay, the outfit Rachel produced would have brought it on by the bucket load. The tweed skirt would need two safety pins to stay up. The neat white blouse was, at least, beautifully ironed. A beige cardigan sported decorative bobbles which must have set the knitter something of a challenge. At least the bloomers were so well washed as to be threadbare.

'We could wait until the snake has gone,' she said helpfully, handing me a pair of lisle stockings.

We were in a vacant room, two doors from mine. 'No time.' As I dressed, I said, 'Tell me something about Prince Narayan's manservant.'

'Oh him. Nice as pie.'

Which translated from the Yorkshire means you would not trust him to carry a gla.s.s of water across the room.

'I notice he has left some stuff in the linen cupboard.'

'He has. He'd no inhibitions about taking over the place. It's supposed to be our Empire, but if you ask me, they're the ones who rule the roost. Look at the way they've taken over Bolton Hall, with all them tents outside. If I was to pitch a tent there, I'd be shifted along quick as you could say tug that forelock.'

The lisle stockings were on the baggy side.

'Rachel, there are irons in that little linen room, and starch, but it's a bit cramped for him to have done his laundry work there.'

'Oh he didn't do his laundry in there. We had bets on that he'd go to the river and wash the royal shirts on the rocks, like you see them doing in picture books. He came down to the cellar and took over the biggest sink, using his own scrubbing brush. He's not a laundry man, he says. If he was in India, he wouldn't do any laundry. He'd be too good for it.'

'And what about starching and ironing?'

'He helped himself to our starch didn't he? And the same with the irons, if he got to them first. He took up s.p.a.ce on the table as if he owned the place.'

'You didn't like him,' I said, in my best mistress of understatement manner.

'He's shifty, that's what I think.'

My heart was starting to thump. Not because of Rachel's mistrust of Ijahar, but at the thought of the flowers, ginger, charcoal biscuits and bunches of nettles. Whatever Ijahar got up to in that little room, valeting must have been far down on his list.

'Are you any good at identifying flowers?'

'I'm not bad. And I know the meanings, the language of flowers.'

'Come with me to the laundry room.'

As we left the room, I caught sight of myself in the gla.s.s and wished I hadn't.

Rachel turned her key in the lock. She led the way along the corridor. 'You're a detective aren't you?'

'Yes.'

'Mrs Metcalfe told me. You went to London.'

'I did.'

'Did you see Lydia? Her mam would like to know if she's all right.'

I felt a stab of guilt. 'Yes, she's very well.'

She must have been very well to climb out of a second-floor window and make a run for Paris. I would call and tell Mrs Metcalfe that Lydia had gone because it struck me that Lydia's first thought would not be to send her mother a postcard. "Climbed the Eiffel Tower today from the outside. Wish you were here."

We walked into the linen cupboard. Picking up one of Narayan's shirts, I shook it out and spread it on the shelf. Lifting the charcoal biscuits, ginger, nettles, blossoms and leaves, I placed them on the shirt.

'What a funny feller. Takes all sorts doesn't it, madam?'

'It does. Do you recognise those flowers?'

She did.

I tied the shirt into the kind of bundle a picture book tramp would carry over his shoulder on a stick.

'Rachel, the first minute you have, please bundle up the prince's linen. Lock it away somewhere, and if you are asked say...'

'By Ijahar?'

'Or anyone, say you haven't time just now but will find it later.'

That way, Ijahar would not suspect me of emptying his lair.

I hurried from the hotel and carried the items taken from the laundry room to my car.

Before I had time to start the engine, a voice practically shrieked at me.

'Mrs Shackleton!'

I turned to see Mr Sergeant, grim and shocked. 'What is it? Has the snake escaped?'

'The snake is still in your wash basin. Its owner is on his way, full of protestations that he believed it to be safely in its basket.'

'Then what is the matter?'

'All h.e.l.l has broken out at the Hall. Maharajah Shivram Halkwaer is dead. He was found in his room by his servant this morning. Poisoned.'

Forty-One.

At Bolton Hall, I parked my motor on the road, behind a line of Rolls-Royces and Bentleys.

I walked round to the front of the building. If I asked Indira a question about Ijahar, that might d.a.m.n his prospects for life. To broach the matter with Sir Richard would be to risk being asked questions to which I had no answers, as yet.

It was then I saw Mr Chana, seated on the garden bench. Once more he wore the black turban and dark grey suit. He sat back, hands clasped in his lap. At first I thought he was looking at me, in my scarecrow-like garb, which I had forgotten until with every step my heels lifted from the ill-fitting shoes. But he was watching a finch that pecked at the gra.s.s. As I came closer, he offered a half-hearted greeting.