Barbara Cleverly by The Last Kashmiri Rose Read Free Book Online

pinned a notice in three languages — ‘Crime Scene. No Entry.’ Naurung clicked his tongue disapprovingly. ‘This is not accurate. There is no proof that this is a crime scene.’
    ‘It’ll do,’ said Joe. ‘Suicide is a crime, after all.’
    In two places there was a blob of sealing wax and as Joe looked round the outside of the bungalow, he noticed similar blobs on each window. ‘Good,’ said Joe. ‘A proper arrangement. Yours?’
    ‘Thank you, yes, it was my arrangement. I think Bulstrode Sahib thought it was fussy.’
    ‘Not at all,’ said Joe. ‘Procedurally correct.’
    The two men smiled at each other briefly and stepped into the bungalow. The atmosphere was stale. Stale and unbreathed and smelling of nothing more strongly than disinfectant. Joe stood in the hall and looked about him. One by one he stepped into the rooms leading from the hallway where an air of casual everyday activity suddenly interrupted reigned. Somersham’s clothes were laid out in the bedroom as were also those of Peggy. Someone had stuck a list of things to do on the dressing-table mirror:
    Ring J.B. before lunch, Saturday.
    Pay Merrick’s bill.
    Order refill flit-gun.
    And then, in a different hand:
    Write to your mother before Friday!
    The evidence of life continuing was everywhere to be seen. There was no evidence of life about to be deliberately extinguished.
    He wandered from room to room checking their use and looking out for anything that struck him as unusual. With a sigh of irritation on entering the drawing-room he realised that nearly everything about the bungalow was foreign to him. The strange mix of lightweight rattan furniture and heavy Victorian pieces was disconcerting and even the use to which the rooms were put was alien to him.
    The study at the front of the bungalow at least was a familiar blend of library and office and Joe took in the mahogany desk where Somersham had been working while his wife had gone to her bath. The desk top had been cleared and Joe assumed that he had taken his records with him. A check through the drawers told the same story.
    ‘Captain Somersham has moved his effects out of the bungalow?’
    ‘Yes, sahib. He is located now at the Club in one of the guest rooms until such time as Bulstrode or your good self say he may return. He would not, in any case, wish to be in this sad place.’
    A picture of William Somersham bleakly alone in an anonymous club bedroom, haunted by what he had seen and haunted by memory, aware that somewhere suspicion still attached to him, came into Joe’s mind. He shook himself and returned to his search.
    He concluded that life was mainly lived on the verandah. Now shadowed by the lowered rattan blinds and abuzz with flies, it must have been a pleasant space here on the cooler side of the house with the doors standing open and a draught of air blowing through. Joe put his heavy file down on a small table and sat on the chair beside it preparing to leaf through in search of Bulstrode’s report. He grimaced as he put his weight on a solid shape underneath the cushion which went some way towards easing the uncomfortable stiffness of the rattan. He fumbled under the cushion and took out a leather writing case with a fountain pen slipped into the spine. The initials MES in gold on the front told Joe what Margaret Elizabeth Somersham had been doing before she went to her bath. And she had hidden it with that automatic gesture that comes to people who live in a busy household with many servants coming and going. Particularly when they have things they wish to conceal.
    Without hesitation, Joe picked up the case, opened it and took out the half-finished letter it contained. Peggy had been writing to her parents. He read through an account of her week’s activities. An ordinary life full of routine things but the girl’s sparkle shone through. She was doing her best to entertain her parents with exaggerated pictures of station characters, and her lively description of a polo match which