Murder on a Summer's Day (32 page)

To be invited by the Duke and Duchess of Devonshire to luncheon on Christmas Eve came as an unexpected surprise. Having been paid by the India Office for my investigations, and rewarded by Princess Indira, this seemed like an added bonus, a special thank you for the miniscule part I had played in ensuring the smooth continuation of our rule in India.

The sky was full of snow. I felt some misgivings as I set off, taking the precaution of including an extra blanket and a change of clothing, as well as my trusty boots. One never knows at this time of year what the weather will bring and whether even a motor as trusty as mine will need to be abandoned by the roadside.

There were twenty for luncheon, including Dr Simonson, who reminded me that I had not yet taken up his offer of a ride in the Bugatti. We exchanged addresses and telephone numbers over a glass of sherry. He seemed inordinately pleased to be sitting beside me at lunch. I was not too displeased myself.

Given the state of the weather, staying too long was not a good idea. Dr Simonson and I were leaving at the same time, when the butler made a discreet beeline for me.

Dr Simonson hovered by the door.

The butler glanced about him before whispering, ‘Her ladyship thought you might care to know that Miss Metcalfe is visiting her family.’

‘Oh? How long has she been here?’

He hesitated. My guess was that the arrival of Miss Metcalfe and the despatch of my invitation to lunch would be suspiciously close to each other. So that was why I was here. Once more, I was expected to interrogate ‘that woman’. Did someone really expect that I might burst in at the farmhouse and discover her at the kitchen table, eating mutton stew and polishing the Gattiawan diamond?

Dr Simonson took my hand as we reached our motors, mine parked neat as a spirit level, his cock-eyed. ‘I know this is short notice, but I had not intended to go to Skipton Hospital New Year’s Eve dance, Mrs Shackleton. If you were free to come with me, I should change my mind and accept the invitation with alacrity.’

I smiled. ‘It seems a pity that you should miss the dance.’

‘Then you’ll say yes?’

‘I should be glad to.’

‘You may not say that when I dance with you.’

We parted with a smile, and on first name terms. And I should have driven straight home, before the blizzard, but I could not resist. After all, Lydia Metcalfe may not stay here for long. Who knew what country might next call her to ravish its ruler or dip her hand into its treasure trove?

As I drove from Bolton Abbey, the snow came in swirls, making it difficult to see, transforming the once familiar route into a mysterious journey. The rattle of the cattle grid alerted me to watch for the turning to the Metcalfe farm. Greyish white sheep stood disconsolately near the drystone wall, doing their best to find shelter. Perhaps someone would bring them in soon.

By the turn off I left the car and put on my boots, not wanting to risk driving up the lane. The snow fell faster now and if the weather turned I may not be able to drive back along the narrow track.

Halfway up the path, I caught sight of a figure on the edge of a copse. Something in the way she moved told me it was Lydia. I had not expected to see her out in the snow. There were footprints, where she had crossed a stile.

I crossed also and followed her steps into the copse. She was holding a basket.

‘Lydia!’

She turned, and blinked in surprise. ‘I didn’t hear you.’ She wore a man’s army greatcoat, sleeves rolled up, a navy check scarf, and boots. ‘It’s the snow. Everything becomes so muffled.’ She placed a branch of holly in the basket, next to a sprig of mistletoe.

‘I’m surprised to see you back, Lydia. I thought you hated walking, and the countryside.’

‘Who told you that?’

‘I can’t remember. Perhaps it was you.’

‘Then I was lying.’ She cut another branch of holly. ‘Do you want some?’

‘Yes please.’

‘You know it doesn’t belong to me to give you.’

‘Doesn’t it?’

She cut the mistletoe. ‘It’s his lordship’s. All of this is owned by one man.’ She waved her arm, to indicate as far as the eye could see, which with snow falling fast was not very far, but I took her meaning.

‘And do you mind that? You don’t like the place after all. You couldn’t wait to get away.’

‘Who said that? My mother?’

‘I don’t remember.’ I did not want to tell on Mrs Metcalfe.

‘Well, it’s not true. I love it here. I love it in May when the bluebells appear. I love when the orchids come out and you have to look so carefully to find them. Over there, there’s a wild rose bush. I cut my finger on one of its thorns when I was little and I painted a white rose with my blood. This place is mine, Mrs Shackleton. Mine as it was my mother’s and her mother’s. But all of it is claimed – the land, the oak, the ash, the rabbit, the deer, the very birds of the air are his to shoot down. Can that be right? Do you ever think of that when you do their bidding? Do the hordes who come and pay them sixpence to walk across this little bit of England think, Why? How? Who gave it to them?’

The sky was now so white that it was like looking at a solid wall.

‘I didn’t know you felt so strongly, Lydia.’

‘Well now you do know.’

Her sense of entitlement was bred in her bones. It came through her attachment, and she had left the place rather than live here knowing someone else claimed what she saw as her heritage. Before she had language, she felt injustice in her soul.

‘Is that why you took the diamond?’

She pressed more holly and ivy into my arms. ‘Go on, take it. Be my fellow conspirator.’

‘If I’m you’re fellow conspirator, will you at least tell me about the sunset diamond?’

‘Do you know that Narayan planned to give the dubte suraj ki chamak to King George, in exchange for greater privileges and an expansion of territory?’

‘No.’

‘They’re not entitled to it. They have enough, our rulers. It’s someone else’s turn.’

‘But it’s not yours. The diamond belongs to India. It belongs to Gattiawan.’

‘It’s like everything else. It belongs to whoever gets their paws on it.’

‘When James Rodpen followed you to Paris, he lost track of you for a few days. Just for my own interest, where did you go?’

She laughed. ‘You should have followed me. You would have liked Switzerland. And their bankers are so wonderfully helpful and discreet.’

‘The diamond is in Switzerland?’

‘In a safe bank, and a deep vault, under a lovely made up name and with only one person in the world who knows the alias, the combination and the whereabouts of the key.’

‘That’s theft.’

‘I suppose some people would call it that. And I don’t claim to be a Robin Hood, taking from the rich to give to the poor. Why should I? No one else does.’ From the road came the sound of a motor horn. ‘I think that’s for you.’

We walked together back to the stile. Lydia took my holly and ivy and stood back as I clambered over. She handed me her basket, and then climbed across with such grace that it made me think of how she must have shimmied down from her second floor room at the Dorchester.

‘Won’t you change your mind about the diamond?’

‘No. I only told you because I need to boast to someone about how clever I am. Since you are almost as clever as me, it may as well be you. But if you tell anyone, I’ll deny it.’

She walked me back to the lane where Dr Simonson’s Bugatti stood at the side of the road, parked straight for once, right behind my Jowett.

‘Merry Christmas, Kate.’

‘Merry Christmas, Lydia.’

I watched her walk back towards the farmhouse.

As I came closer, Dr Simonson climbed from his car and stood smiling, his feet planted firmly in snow. ‘Your only chance of getting home tonight will be by train from Skipton.’

‘If the trains are running.’

‘If not, I do have a spare room.’

It was very late on Boxing Day when I reached home. The telephone was ringing as I walked through the door.

Mrs Sugden picked up the receiver. ‘Mrs Shackleton’s residence.’ She covered the mouthpiece. ‘It’s your aunt. Shall I say you will telephone back to her?’

I shook my head and took the receiver. ‘Hello, Aunt Berta.’

‘At last! I thought you must be lost on the moors.’

‘The snow was deep, crisp and even on Christmas Day in the Dales. I was perfectly snug.’

She did not want to hear about my white Christmas.

‘I have had a wire from James. Have you heard?’

‘Not since his letter.’

‘He has had an offer… wait a minute, I shall read you the exact words… an offer of an administrative post from Her Highness Maharani Indira Halkwaer. He intends to accept.’

‘Oh.’

‘Is that all you can say, oh?’

‘He could do worse. I liked her, and she was most generous to me.’

‘Yes I know. But what will you do with a Rolls-Royce and a case of jewels? Ginny told me it has put you to the expense of garaging a motor you don’t drive and buying a safe for clover emeralds that you refuse to wear.’

‘Do you know anything more about this post that James has accepted?’

‘Only what Richard tells me. Apparently the maharani and her mother-in-law intend to operate Gattiawan as some sort of matriarchal state, until the little prince is of age. They have all sorts of plans for social improvement. Oh, and the little prince will grow up to be an engineer who builds sewers. Well I don’t see James fitting in with that sort of situation.’

‘He may.’

‘Do you think so?’

‘If he has accepted.’

‘But is he cut out for it?’

‘Time will tell.’

‘I disagree with leaving matters to the accident of time and place. That is a very male attitude to life. We must go see for ourselves. You know how persuadable James can be where ladies are concerned.’

I did not know, but preferred not to contradict.

‘Are you still there, Kate?’

‘Yes, Aunt. So will you and Uncle go to India?’

‘Good heavens no. You and I must go.’

‘Me?’

‘Well, naturally, you involved him in this.’

‘He involved me.’

‘No matter, what’s done is done, but it can be undone if necessary.’

‘How?’

‘We’ll work that out on the voyage. How soon can you sail for India?’

After I hung up the receiver, I walked into my drawing room, very glad to be home. I poured myself a sherry. There were things I noticed in quite a different way. The curtains, which were here when we bought the house, are Madras embroideries, exquisite designs on a dark blue background. Three cushions are covered in hand-printed Delhi squares. The occasional table is a Bombay blackwood teapoy. On the landing, we have a fern in a Benares jardinière. India had come to me, without my ever really being aware of it, until my visit to Bolton Abbey. And there, India had almost overwhelmed me.

I have a lot to learn from my mother and aunt. They are very good at organising other people. Time for me to pick up a trick or two. Later, I would telephone my mother. She and Aunt Berta would enjoy a passage to India, but not I. Not any time soon.

Mrs Sugden popped her head around the door. ‘I expect you’ve forgotten we’re both invited over by the professor and his sister for drinks, spice cake, mince pies. And Christmas Day leftovers I don’t doubt.’

‘I had forgotten.’

‘Plenty of time. We don’t want to be first to arrive, last to go.’

‘Shall we give ourselves a head start?’

‘Go on then.’

I poured another glass of sherry. As we raised our glasses in belated Christmas greetings, I looked at Mrs Sugden as if for the first time, thinking back to that moment at Dr Simonson’s when we were so worried about Rajendra’s safety. She had taken Lucian Simonson’s service revolver, snapped it open and popped in ammunition. Where did she learn that?

When researching her family tree, my friend Sylvia Gill discovered that most of her ancestors did not stray from Yorkshire. She was pleased to discover that a third cousin twice removed became a Folies Bergère dancer and married the Maharajah of Kapurthala. Stella Mudge (1904–1984) merited a chapter in Coralie Younger’s fascinating book,
Wicked Women of the Raj: European women who broke society’s rules and married Indian Princes
. A 1997 television programme explored Stella’s life story and attempted to uncover a fortune thought to be held in the vaults of a Swiss bank. Unfortunately for Stella’s next of kin, she had not divulged details of aliases and combinations. The treasure remains unclaimed.

Stella Mudge was the granddaughter of Yorkshire farmers. Lydia Metcalfe, in this story, is the daughter of Yorkshire farmers sent at an early age to live with her aunt and uncle in London. I have transformed Stella’s parents, Joseph and Emily Mudge, into Lydia’s aunt and uncle. Joseph Mudge was landlord of the Earl of Ellesmere, Bethnal Green.

The Indian princely states of Gattiawan, Kalathal and Gundel are figments of my imagination. Several books proved helpful for background research. These included
A Princess Remembers, the Memoirs of the Maharani of Jaipur
, Gayatri Devi;
Maharani, The Story of an Indian Princess
by Brinda, Maharani of Kapurthala as told to Elaine Williams;
The Princes of India in the Endgame of Empire, 1917–1947
, Ian Copland;
Lives of the Indian Princes
, Charles Allen and Sharada Dwivedi;
The Legacy of India
, ed G T Garratt;
The Memsahibs, The Women of Victorian India
, Pat Barr.

My agent, Judith Murdoch, told me about her visit to a lake near Lahore and the minaret built there by Emperor Jahangir as a monument to his pet deer. Dr Krishna Aggarwal, retired consultant anaesthetist, drew my attention to the story of the exiled Dalip (or Duleep) Singh, last Maharajah of the Sikh Empire, whose family’s considerable property included the Koh-i-Noor diamond.

I explored various parts of the Yorkshire Dales, to find a suitable setting for the story. While walking through Westy Bank Wood on the Duke of Devonshire’s estate at Bolton Abbey, I realised this was it. Bolton Hall is not open to the public and I did not seek permission to go inside, preferring to imagine it and the surrounding area as it was, or might have been. I enjoyed reading
Bolton Abbey, The Yorkshire Estate of the Dukes of Devonshire
, by John M Sheard, resident land agent.

Lydia Metcalfe and the other characters in this story are fictional. In 1924, when the story is set, the Duke of Devonshire was Colonial Secretary. He and the duchess appear as background characters.

Various questions arose during the writing. I am always grateful when friends patiently explain some detail that is beyond me. For their generous assistance, thanks to retired police officer Ralph Lindley; Eden Parish; Bill Spence (aka Jessica Blair); Noel Stokoe, editor of the
Jowetteer;
Barry Strickland-Hodge, Director, Academic Unit of Pharmacy, Radiography and Healthcare Science, Leeds University, and Viv Walsh, retired nurse.

Thanks to my sister Patricia McNeil for her continuing help and encouragement.

Special thanks to Caroline Kirkpatrick and all in editorial, design, production and publicity at Piatkus, and to Helen Chapman for her superb illustrations.

Kate Shackleton owes her appearance on the other side of the pond to agent Rebecca Winfield and the good offices of Pete Wolverton and Anne Brewer at Thomas Dunne Books/Minotaur.