‘Well, again we come down to why, don’t we?’ Joe persisted.
‘You barely know Fred. Don’t be taken in by all that bonhomie! He’s ambitious and ruthlessly efficient. Perhaps I don’t need to tell you that any flyer who survived the war must have survival instincts coupled with a degree of luck to make the mind reel! There’s been talk of reducing the RAF drastically, axing the senior ranks of whom Fred is one. League of Nations-driven disarmament is the fashionable preoccupation; a stance that leaves Fred and his like, as advocates of gunboat diplomacy, finding themselves part of history. Now Fred is in the prime of life and has no intention of becoming surplus to requirements! An incident of this nature on the frontier to demonstrate in earnest how badly needed aerial reconnaissance or, even better, aerial proscription is, would play right into his hands. Instead of being sent back to a desk job in London for the rest of his air force life (which is on the cards) he now finds himself in an actively warlike situation requiring his special abilities and an extra squadron of bombers on the frontier. You saw as I did how he was relishing the developing situation. He’s already reaping the benefit of Zeman’s untimely demise.’
She paused and then added, ‘And it’s not only the Pathan for whom revenge is a compulsion. You remember what Hugh had to say about Fred’s nephew?’
‘Grace, this is barmy! You don’t think Fred killed Zeman!’
‘Of course not! Just letting my imagination run away with me. Now – there’s James. He was sitting right next to Zeman throughout the meal, he had access to the brandy . . .’
‘All right! Enough! Too many suspects! Too many with motive and all with opportunity! We’ll have Fifteen Men On A Dead Man’s Chest before we’re much older!’
‘Yo, ho, ho! And a bottle of rum!’ said Grace.
They turned from the easy riding of the Bazar Valley, cutting off to the right, and began to climb into the hills. From now on all speech was to be in Pushtu. The Afridi have ears as keen as their eyes, Grace reminded him, and Joe was increasingly aware of scrutiny. Scrutiny from above and from either side as the track narrowed and began to rise steeply.
His spine began to trickle with sweat and he tried to subdue a shudder as he became aware of the eyes and possibly the gun barrels trained on his back. Which was the worse fate, he speculated – to be sniped at crossing a desolate Flanders field, his body never to be recovered from the enveloping mud, or to be blasted to bits by a jezail and left to desiccate on the hot stones of the Frontier?
Riding a few paces behind and knee to knee with Yussuf, Joe eyed Grace who was chatting easily with Aslam. A clever woman. A brave woman. What had he expected from his outrageous challenge? A confession? Probably not. The best he had hoped for was a sharing of the knowledge he was certain she had of the circumstances of Zeman’s death. Her answer had been evasive if not deliberately misleading. He had been half minded to share with her his evidence of faulty diagnosis to further unsettle her. He weighed the satisfaction of demonstrating to this confident woman that he was not the plodding policeman she had obviously marked him down as against the disadvantage of disturbing her when she was about to try to carry off the most enormous bluff. The next hour would test her resolve and her cunning to their extreme and Joe decided he could not pile on any greater pressure. Later. If there was to be any ‘later’.
The covert scrutiny abruptly turned to overt challenge. Two tribesmen appeared, blocking their track, and Joe was aware of riflemen on either side of the defile. Aslam shouted a response and two men emerged from behind rocks to return the greeting but Joe noticed they did not relax their vigilance. Grace added a pithy comment in Pushtu, apparently recognizing one of the Afridi as she called out his name. For once Joe could follow what was being said. It had been well rehearsed at the fort and the Pathan love of gesture, drama and joking repartee made all very clear.
Aslam began by exchanging brief but friendly greetings. He paused, waiting, relaxed and confident, to be waved on. He did not state their business but affected to assume the challenging guards were aware of it. Back came the questions as expected and with a touch of impatience Aslam told them to stop prevaricating and let them through. Time was short. There was a perceptible stiffening in the guards’ attitude and they again questioned Aslam. Eyes rolling with exasperation, he said, enunciating clearly, that the lady doctor had been summoned to attend the Malik and how come they didn’t know that?
The guards consulted amongst themselves and all declared that no message had gone out. A runner had come through yesterday morning with a message from the ferenghi fort but that was all. Were they sure they’d been summoned? Aslam, half in anger, half in joke, shouted at them. ‘You silly sods! You’ve been sitting up in those rocks so long you’re growing moss on your arses! The message came through to the fort at Gor Khatri. The Memsahib’s staying at the fort for a day or two before going on to attend the Amir Amanullah. She could do without this detour but as a favour to the Malik and because it sounded so urgent she agreed to come. The message came in the night. You buggers were all asleep – come on, admit it! Well, no skin off our nose – we can just turn round and go back. Just explain to old Ramazad why his medical assistance didn’t get through, will you?’