Death in Kashmir (14 page)

It was perhaps half an hour later that she left her room and crossed the hall in a cloud of grey tulle powdered with rhinestones, her red head burnished to a sophisticated smoothness and her green eyes shining like peridots between curling lashes whose natural darkness was a perpetual thorn in the flesh to several of her red-headed but sandy-lashed acquaintances.

There was someone waiting in the unlighted drawing-room. A too early guest, lurking abashed in the shadows, thought Sarah; wondering why the servant who had shown them in had not turned up the lights. The last of the daylight still lingered in the garden, but the drawing-room was almost dark, and she pressed down the switches as she entered and advanced with a smile to apologize for the omission. But her eyes—or was it her senses?—had evidently played tricks with her, for there was no one there.

The big, high-ceilinged room was empty, and Sarah looked around it with a puzzled frown, for the impression of someone waiting there had been so vivid that for a moment or two she found it difficult to believe that she had been mistaken. Probably a shadow thrown by the headlights of a passing car from the road beyond the garden wall, she thought. Drawing up her shoulders in a little shiver, she went out onto the wide verandah where dinner had been laid that night because the approach of the hot weather had made even the big rooms of the old bungalow seem too warm and stuffy.

The sky behind the feathery boughs of the pepper trees at the far end of the garden was turning from lemon yellow to a soft shade of green, and the air was sweet with the scent of roses and jasmine and fragrant with the smell of water on dry, sun-baked ground. But looking out over the fast darkening garden, Sarah was conscious of a disturbing and inexplicable sense of unease; though mentally reviewing the events of the past day she could find nothing to account for this sudden feeling of foreboding that possessed her.

A faint sound behind her made her turn swiftly, expectantly. But it was only a small beady-eyed lizard that had rustled across the matting, and not … not … what? What
had
she expected to see? A girl in a blue skiing suit? Yes—that was it! She realized, with a cold shiver of incredulous horror, that she had turned expecting to see Janet!

*   *   *

From the moment that Sarah had arrived back in Peshawar, over two months ago, everything that had occurred during the closing days of the Ski Club Meeting had seemed to fade into unreality. It was as though it had all been a nightmare from which she had awakened to find herself in a safe and familiar room. And since she had no intention of leaving that room, she had thrown herself with an almost feverish gaiety into what social life there was left in the Station, and thrusting the memory of Janet into the background of her mind had done her best to forget the snowfields of Khilanmarg, the Blue Run, and a line of footprints on a deserted verandah. She had very nearly succeeded in doing so—to the extent, at least, of persuading herself that her imagination, and Janet's, had run away with them, and that the ice of the Blue Run had been the sole cause of those two tragedies.

Of the house among the pine trees she would not let herself think at all, for fear that it might break down her escapist line of reasoning. But now, suddenly, she was remembering Janet again … Was it because of this party tonight—the party that would have been thirteen?—and because if she herself had not told Reggie Craddock that he ought to get a fourteenth member for the party at the ski hut, Janet would never have stayed? But that, thought Sarah defensively, would have made no real difference to Janet's fate, since she would still have seen that red spark of light from the hotel and gone out to keep her rendezvous with——

‘Sarah!'

Mrs Addington made an abrupt appearance at the far end of the verandah, wearing a gaily coloured kimono over a pair of pink lock-knit bloomers of almost Edwardian aspect, and with her hair tightly screwed into innumerable metal curlers.

‘What is it, Auntie? Good heavens! Do you know that it's almost five past eight and you asked your guests for 8.15? Or have you forgotten there's a dinner party?'

‘Of course I haven't, dear. I never forget anything. In fact I've just remembered something. The Creeds are coming tonight. Antonia told me so this evening.'

‘I know they are,' said Sarah patiently. ‘You asked them at least six weeks ago.'

‘Yes, yes, dear. Don't interrupt me. I only wanted to say that I'd quite forgotten them when I was writing out the table plan. So of course I hadn't really got thirteen people after all—there were fifteen.'

‘Oh darling, you are hopeless! And you black-jacked the unfortunate Charles Mallory into coming to your party entirely under false pretences. I'm ashamed of you!'

‘Well that was what I wanted to ask you about, dear. Do you think we can ring him up and tell him we don't need him after all? It's the savoury, dear: Angels-on-Horseback. So
humiliating
if there are not enough to go round. He didn't seem particularly anxious to come, so I'm sure he'd be only too delighted to get out of it.'

‘I don't doubt it,' said Sarah dryly. ‘But he's not going to get the chance! No, darling: I refuse flatly to let you trump your already ace-high reputation for tact. You and I can either pretend to a loathing for Angels-on-Horseback, or cut the whole course off the menu. Take your choice.'

‘Yes, perhaps that will be best. And now I come to think of it, dear, I don't believe it was Angels-on-Horseback after all. I changed it to cheese straws, and the Khansamah
*
always makes hundreds of those: last time we had them at the tennis tea next day. The ones that were over, I mean. Mrs Kidney said it was
such
an original idea. Good heavens! Is that a quarter past eight? You really shouldn't keep me here talking, dear. I shall
never
be ready in time!'

She disappeared with the speed of a diving duck as the little gilt clock in the drawing-room struck the quarter.

Sarah's wide net skirt whispered along the matting of the verandah as she passed round the long table with its load of silver and cut glass and bowls of Maréchal Niel roses, assisting portly Mohammed Bux, the
khidmatgar,
†
to rearrange the table for the addition of two extra places.

She held her aunt's table plan in one hand and a small pile of name cards in the other, but it might have been noted, had anyone been there to look over her shoulder, that she did not distribute the cards entirely in accordance with the original plan. The revised arrangement, apart from the inclusion of the Creeds, contained one alteration; for when, half an hour later, the guests were seated, Major Gilbert Ripon, who should have sat at Sarah's right hand, had been relegated to the far end of the table, while Captain Mallory occupied that place.

‘Not that it was worth the trouble,' confessed Sarah later, leaning over Fudge's shoulder to peer at herself in the looking-glass of the cloakroom at the Peshawar Club, ‘because he talked almost exclusively to that hearty Patterson girl, and on the only occasion that we managed to start a conversation, Archie Lovat kept chipping in until in the end they forgot all about me and discussed the last day's hunting across my prostrate form for about ten minutes. After which, of course—
did
you hear her Fudge?—Aunt Alice suddenly noticed the alteration in her dinner plan, and being Aunt Alice, naturally commented upon it at the top of her voice: curse the darling old mothball! And Charles Mallory sort of lifted one eyebrow and looked slightly surprised—damn him—and Gilbert Ripon glared and that revolting Patterson girl giggled. All in all Fudge darling, one of the more frosty of my failures.'

‘Not so frosty, really,' commented Fudge consolingly, powdering her nose with care: ‘After all, he
has
come on to the dance, hasn't he?—despite all those outspoken comments by your well-meaning but muddle-headed aunt. And that, let me tell you, is no mean concession on his part. He isn't often seen around at dances. Oh well—good luck darling, but don't say I didn't warn you!'

‘And if you warn me just once more,' retorted Sarah, ‘I shall begin to suspect your motives; so stop fussing about with your face and let's go off and dance.'

Being a popular girl, the queue of would-be partners was a long one, and it was almost halfway through the evening before Charles Mallory was able to dance with his hostess's niece. He proved to be a surprisingly good dancer, which for some reason she had not expected him to be, and Sarah clapped enthusiastically for an encore.

The band, which had been playing a gay and rather noisy quickstep, obliged with a waltz, and when the verse ended its leader crooned the refrain in an adenoidal whisper:…

‘The moonlight and the moon,

And every gay and lovely tune that's played for you,

Were made for you.

The Summer and the Spring,

And that golden wedding ring,

Were only made for you…'

Sarah's silver-shod feet stumbled and checked and Charles Mallory felt her go rigid in his arms, and glancing down at her saw that her face had suddenly lost every vestige of colour.

‘Shall we sit out the rest of this one?' he suggested. ‘I'm not very good at waltzes.'

Sarah said: ‘Please,' in a small, breathless voice, and Charles led her out of the hot, crowded ballroom into the cool night air of the Club garden, and once there propelled her firmly across the lawn and put her into a wicker chair.

He stood looking down at her for a moment with a slight frown between his eyes: she certainly did look oddly shaken, and he said curtly: ‘Wait here and I'll get you a drink.'

He left her sitting in the starlight, and returned a few minutes later carrying a frosted glass in each hand. Sarah thanked him, still in a small voice, and drank in silence while Charles pulled up a second chair, and sitting down, watched her over the rim of his glass without appearing to do so; his own face in shadow.

In the ballroom behind them the band, evidently pleased with their choice of an encore, embarked on a repetition of the song, and Sarah shivered so uncontrollably that her teeth chattered against the edge of her glass.

For the past few weeks life had been so gay that she had thought herself free of the nightmare of Gulmarg. But for some reason it seemed to have returned that evening to haunt her, and though she had tried to push it away it had followed her. Now it was here too—born of a trite, haunting melody—and suddenly she was back once more in the eerie moonlight outside the snow-shrouded hut on Khilanmarg, and Janet was fastening on her skis for her last run and humming that soft, catchy tune …

‘The Winter and the Fall, and the sweetest words of all, were simply made for you,'
crooned the leader of the band.

Sarah said: ‘Why
must
they go on and on playing that thing!' There was a sharp edge of hysteria to her voice, and Charles Mallory leaned forward and removed the glass from between her unsteady fingers. ‘You'll spill that, and spoil your dress,' he said in a matter-of-fact voice. ‘It isn't much of a tune, is it? But they'll stop in a minute.'

He offered Sarah a cigarette, and when she refused it, lit one himself and embarked casually on a surprising story about an impoverished dance-band leader in a Budapest café, who had been born a Prince of an Imperial House: talking to give her time to recover herself and to take her mind off the music that drifted through the opened windows of the ballroom behind them.

Presently the band stopped and as the dancers came streaming out into the cooler air of the lantern-lit garden Sarah said: ‘I'm sorry. It was stupid of me to behave like that. I don't know what's got into me tonight. But that tune reminded me of something unpleasant, and…'

‘What are you two gossiping about?' cut in Helen Warrender brightly. ‘I'm sure it must be something terribly interesting. Can we listen?'

Charles stood up and she plumped herself firmly into his vacated chair, ordered her partner to fetch her a brandy and soda, and turning her back upon Sarah said: ‘Isn't it hot, Charles! I'm simply sticking to my frock. That's the worst of taffeta; even though one pays an absolute fortune for a model, it behaves like flypaper in the heat. Thank goodness we shall be leaving for Kashmir the week after next. I really couldn't stand this heat much longer. We're staying with the Douglases at Murree, on the way. I expect you know him, don't you? He's Lord Seeber's son.
Such
a darling. Do fetch another chair, Charles. And one for Tim.'

Charles collected two more chairs and a small green-painted table as Helen's partner returned across the lawn bearing drinks.

‘Thank you, Tim. Oh damn! They've put ice in it! Why can't they keep the sodas cold instead of drowning them with ice cubes? Never mind—it's not really your fault. Give me a cigarette will you, Tim?'

The obedient Tim obliged and took the vacant chair, and Helen hitched her chair round to face Captain Mallory: ‘Tell me, Charles, what did you think of the polo this afternoon? As a whole, I mean? Do you think we shall ever be able to raise enough people to play at all regularly? Of course if Johnnie had really been playing up to his handicap this afternoon, we'd have beaten you by much more. But then it's not really worth trying against these scratch teams.'

Charles said solemnly: ‘Thank you, Helen.'

‘What for? Oh! but I didn't mean
you,
Charles. I've seen you play at Delhi and Meerut, and I think it's so sporting of you to play with this ragtag and bobtail. But I suppose we should be grateful even to them. After all, they do give us some practice games. Oh really, Tim! You know I never smoke gaspers! Thank you, Charles. As I was saying——'

Sarah yawned, and opening her evening-bag pulled out a slim enamelled vanity-case, and with it something that fell on to the grass at her feet. It was the uninteresting looking envelope that she had not had time to open with the rest of her mail, and had pushed into her bag to read later. Picking it up she glanced at her companions, but as Mrs Warrender's taffeta-draped back obscured Charles Mallory and determinedly excluded her from the conversation, and the unsatisfactory Tim had removed himself and his rejected gaspers into the night, she shrugged her shoulders and opened the envelope; holding it so that it caught the light of the lanterns that hung in the trees behind them.