‘Not now, Naurung. Much too late.’
Joe sighed. If only he’d been first on the scene how different the outcome might have been. He made no comment. There was nothing to be gained by criticising police procedure. No good would come from antagonising Bulstrode though a word to the Collector might not be out of place. He sensed that Naurung understood the shortcomings and though in no way accountable for them he was feeling embarrassed at the continual admissions of failure he was having to make. Joe began to see exactly why Bulstrode had put his havildar in the firing line.
‘At least we have a fresh and unbiased account of the scene in Mrs Drummond’s photographs. Let’s have another look while we’re here on the spot.’
Joe took out the photographs Nancy had taken, held them up and compared them with the scene before him. He produced, with the slight air of theatricality he always felt, a magnifying glass and began to examine them. No quips and jibes were forthcoming from Naurung who looked at the glass with appreciation.
He shuffled his feet slightly and said carefully, ‘While you have that device in your hand, sahib, perhaps you might find it worth your while to examine the marks on the lady’s shoulder. I have not had the benefit of such a glass but I am quite certain that there were marks of some kind there.’
Joe moved his glass to the white shoulders. ‘Yes, you’re right. And I think you have already guessed what these are? Impossible to say for certain and we will need to check this with Bulstrode if it’s not in the report – and as you question it, I take it that it is not?’
Naurung nodded, continuing to look uncomfortable.
Again Joe got the clear impression – and one which he was convinced was being subtly signalled by the havildar – that he found much to criticise in the professional performance of Bulstrode Sahib. He indicated by a slight pause that he had received Naurung’s unspoken message and went on, ‘Well, perhaps we should wait until I’ve spoken to the doctor but I think we’d both say that these are finger marks. Someone has forcibly held her down in the water while she bled to death. And the water was warm – the blood would flow.’
Again Naurung nodded then he asked, ‘But she would have screamed, would she not, sahib? Somersham has said that he heard her singing in the bathroom. He would surely have heard her screaming?’
‘Certainly. But no one has reported hearing any unusual sounds let alone a scream. He must have taken her by surprise and stopped her from shouting by putting a hand over her mouth, which would make it pretty difficult to subdue her and cut her wrists at the same time… I think he got into the room before she entered, hid somewhere, then slipped out and caught her unawares and gagged her with something – that sponge over there? A flannel? I don’t think so. I think our friend is too well organised to leave such details to chance – I think he probably brought a gag with him and took it away with him. On the same principle, he could have brought his own weapon too and used the razor on the spur of the moment. But why? A taunt? Some sort of appalling joke?
‘So what have we got? A happy young woman going to her bath at six o’clock. By seven she is dead. Her husband goes nowhere near the bathroom. So how did the killer get in?’
He looked around the room. In the corner of the room was a tall cupboard, locked and with the key still in the lock. At high level on the outer wall there was a small window. The top-hung casement was shut but not secured. Beneath this little window there was a stool.
‘Hold the stool for me, Naurung, I want to look at that window.’
When Joe climbed on to the stool the window sill was at his waist height. Peering through it he saw a narrow alley.
‘Where does this alleyway lead?’
‘It leads to the infantry lines and then on to the village.’
‘The village?’
‘Town perhaps. The native town. That is where I live.’
Magnifying glass in hand he examined the sill of the window with great care. Without question there were small smears of blood which, being above eye level, had avoided the cleaner’s cloth. He steadied himself on Naurung’s shoulder and jumped on to the ground. ‘Have a look,’ he said, handing him the glass. ‘What do you find? Paint? Chilli sauce? Lipstick?’
‘No, sahib, it is blood.’
‘Now let’s have a look in that cupboard.’
The cupboard had evidently been used as a box room. There were two suitcases, there were files of correspondence, a cricket bat, a hockey stick and a tan canvas shikar helmet hung on a peg. At first sight the cupboard seemed dusty and it seemed the dust was undisturbed but, on a closer look, it was clear that there had been recent disturbance. Joe took a flashlight from his pocket and examined the floor. The dust was scuffed and stirred up but there were no clear footprints to be seen. He turned the beam on to the walls and looked carefully at every square inch of the wooden partition. On the point of giving up his search he remembered to check the back of the door and, as he pulled it towards him, the light reflected on something white about a foot from the bottom edge. Bending nearer Joe saw that a tiny scrap of white fabric had been caught up on a splinter of the rough wood and delicately he detached it and held it up for Naurung’s inspection.
‘Indian cotton, sahib. Rough cotton. It is not a fabric a lady’s dress would be made from. And catching so low down on the door it must be from a man’s trousers – an Indian man’s trousers.’
Joe took a small pager evidence bag from his back pocket and popped the fabric into it, sealed it and put the date, time and his initials on it. Passing his pen to Naurung he asked him to add his own signature.
‘And would anyone have noticed someone climbing out of a high window? Someone bloodstained perhaps?’
‘Anyone bloodstained would have been noticed. Though when the crime is committed in a bathroom… it is not difficult to clean the blood away. And there was a blood-covered towel found by the bath. He could have used it as protection or cleaned himself on it afterwards. As for being noticed – a sahib climbing out of a bungalow and using the alleyway would certainly have been noticed, covered in blood or not, but an Indian walking in the alleyway would not have been commented on necessarily. It is commonly used by servants on their way to the town.’
‘Was there anybody nearby?’
‘You will find this problem in India – there is always somebody nearby. There are servants in the compound, strangers come and go.’
‘Did anyone come forward to be interviewed?’
‘No one wants to get into trouble, you understand.’
‘So, suddenly this popular pathway is deserted?’
‘Almost deserted. You will see in Bulstrode Sahib’s notes – a witness did come forward. A merchant. A representative of Vallijee Raja. Spice merchants in Calcutta. He was on his way to the kitchens at the Club where he was going to try to sell spices to the cook and was taking this short cut from the village. It was being said in the bazaar that such a man had been seen leaving the alley and then he came forward willingly to make a statement. He said that he had reached the Club shortly after “Cookhouse” sounded and must have been in the alleyway about ten minutes earlier. He saw nothing suspicious and heard no unusual noises.’
‘Bloody hell!’ said Joe, exasperated. ‘I’d give a lot to interview him!’
‘It would be difficult. Bulstrode Sahib did not detain him. He did not appear to be lying, according to the Superintendent. If he had anything to hide he would have lied about the time he was in the alley. He called at the kitchens at the time he says he did and the cook confirms that he placed an order with him for spices. He could be anywhere in India by now. These box-wallahs travel many miles in a week. Sometimes by train.’ He shrugged his shoulders.