Ragtime in Simla

Maisie looked. ‘Stupid cows,’ she said, ‘sweating it out under all those layers of cloth! And why do nuns always wear glasses? Does becoming a nun do your eyes in or do you have to be short-sighted in the first place before they’ll take you on? At least those two have had the sense to order drinks. One of them, the big one, is drinking fizzy mineral water by the looks of it and the little one is drinking something her Mother Superior would never approve of, I should guess! What is that pink drink anyway?’

‘Looks like a Campari-soda to me. Distinctly intoxicating,’ said Joe.

‘Should we tell her? Perhaps the waiter got her order mixed up and she’s too inexperienced to realize! Can’t be doing with a legless nun aboard!’

‘It’s all right. That one can take her liquor!’

‘Tell you something else, Joe,’ Maisie added, her voice suddenly bright with excitement and suspicion. ‘Just look at her right foot!’

‘Her foot? What do you mean – her foot?’

‘Look at it! It’s been tapping to that jazz rhythm for some time now. I’ve never seen a syncopating nun before, have you?’

‘See what you mean! Come on then, Maisie – into battle! Let’s go and renew an acquaintance!’

They strolled arm in arm along the deck and paused in front of the two grey figures. To the gentle click of rosary beads a French voice was whispering through the office for the day. As Joe turned to look at them and opened his mouth to speak they both looked up, calm and friendly.

‘Dieu soit loué!’ said the smaller of the two easily. ‘Mais c’est le Commandant Sandilands et Madame Freemantle!’ She leaned close and whispered in English, ‘I had wondered when you’d condescend to recognize us! Don’t tell me! You’re ru

‘Wish I could say the same, Sister Alice,’ said Joe affably. ‘And how do you do, Marie-Jea

‘We were just saying – it’s getting very crowded up here and rather too hot,’ said Alice, seemingly undismayed. ‘Why don’t we go below? The Richelieu lounge perhaps will not be so full of people. I’m sure there are things you and Mrs Freemantle would like to confide in private.’

‘We were rather more expecting to put you two in the confessional,’ said Joe. ‘But – lead on, will you? We’ll follow. Not anticipating that we’ll lose track of you out here in the middle of the ocean.’

They settled down on buttoned leather seats around a small table screened by the fronds of potted palms from the rest of the room. As a steward approached Alice immediately opened the conversation. ‘First things first,’ she said. ‘Get us some drinks, will you? Campari-soda for me, Perrier water for Marie-Jea

Joe had no doubt of this and he had no doubt that any Frenchman would hasten to take the part of a religieuse, especially a pretty one, against an Englishman if she accused him of harassment.

‘I acknowledge the difficulties, Alice, and don’t worry, we’ll stay as far away from you as is possible on a ship this size until we reach Marseilles. And then, while we go on north to London I expect you and your friend will – let me guess now – transfer to a transatlantic liner and on to New York? New Orleans?’

A flash of humour behind the spectacles told him his guess was right. He found it very disconcerting to be talking to Alice, whom he had known in some quite intimate situations, now hidden from him in the folds of headdress and the concealing habit. He found the lack of thick copper-coloured hair confusing and wondered briefly if she’d cut it off the better to enter into the spirit of the playacting. Marie-Jea

‘I was about to ask how you had managed to slip out of Simla but I think I can work that out,’ Joe said. ‘The passenger lists from the station… what was it? – “… four French nuns, three box-wallahs, two brigadiers…” Sir George wasn’t joking when he read out the list? You were the French nuns?’

‘Well, I was one of them, Joe. The other three were girls from Marie-Jea

‘And the swag, Alice? The loot? The ill-gotten gains? Stashed away in your luggage in hollowed-out bibles?’

‘Something like that,’ she smiled. ‘Trade secret, Joe! Don’t ask!’

‘How did you manage to get back into Simla?’ His mind going back to that dark night, he added, ‘We all thought you must be dead. I was horrified for you.’

‘Thank you, Joe. I appreciate that. I decided to play safe and return the way I’d come. It wasn’t easy in the dark, in fact it was awful! I didn’t stop – just slogged away on that good horse at a slow pace. The worst part was coming across your rescue party, flares and all, clattering along in the dark. Not that they were likely to catch sight of me – I saw them coming a mile off – but you’ll never know how tempting it was to rush forward and ask their help. So many of them. So solid. So cheerful. It was agony to hear their silly, familiar voices getting further and further away and the blackness and silence rolling in again. Leaving me shivering and alone.’ Her voice wavered.

Maisie groaned and kicked Joe’s ankle.

‘All’s well that ends well,’ said Joe brightly, ‘and it certainly seems to have ended well for you, Alice. Tell us where you holed up in Simla. You disappeared without trace. And some very clever fellows were watching for you: Charlie’s regulars, George’s irregulars. Quite a decent reward discreetly on offer as well.’

‘I was in the convent of course. The Mother Superior was very understanding when I explained that I was being pursued, misrepresented and threatened. I have been a very generous patron of the order, you understand, Joe. She repaid a portion of my kindness. And glad to do so. I still have friends, you may be surprised to hear.’

‘And then Mademoiselle Pitiot joined you later, travelling openly to Bombay to keep a long-arranged business appointment.’ He turned his attention to Marie-Jea

‘No,’ she said placidly, ‘not a glove salesman. The recent purchaser and new owner of Belle Epoque. The sale was arranged some while ago. No mystery there!’ Marie-Jea

‘Not impossible, I suppose, to locate your guest,’ Joe went on ruminatively. ‘But to be honest I didn’t even try. I did, however, talk with the maître d’hôtel of the Grand. I checked their bookings and, of course, there it was: a table for two for lunch at one o’clock in the name of Mademoiselle Pitiot. The maître d’hôtel, who knows you well, remembers you arriving and showing you to table number ten which you had particularly requested. He reports that the lunch party didn’t break up until after half-past two as would have been normal. The murder occurred several miles away over rough country at precisely two forty-five.’