Death in the Andamans

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  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Notice

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Author’s Note

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Also by M. M. Kaye

  Copyright

  In fond memory

  of

  ‘Fudge’

  (Rosemary Cosgrave)

  and the Islands

  ‘The isle is full of noises…’

  The Tempest

  Author’s Note

  This story was roughed out during a wild and stormy afternoon towards the end of the long-ago thirties, on a tiny island in the southern waters of the Bay of Bengal.

  I happened to be there because a great friend and fellow art student, to whom this book is dedicated, had accompanied her parents to this far-flung bit of Empire when her father was appointed Chief Commissioner of the Andaman Islands. Shortly after her arrival in Port Blair she had written inviting me to come out and spend the winter with them: an irresistible invitation that would have had to be resisted had it arrived any earlier, since my art had not been paying very well and I could not possibly have afforded the fare. But as luck would have it I had recently put away my paint-brushes and tried my hand at writing instead, and to my stunned surprise a children’s book and my first novel, a crime story, had both been accepted for publication. What was more, an advance had been paid on them!

  The sum involved was, by today’s standards, incredibly meagre. But it seemed vast at a time when a return tourist-class passage by sea, from England to India and back again, cost only £40 (which is less than $50 at the present rate of exchange), and suddenly I was rich! I hastily bought a one-way ticket to Calcutta, where I eventually boarded a little steamer, the S.S. Maharaja, that called once a month at the Andamans, and four days later landed at Port Blair and was taken by launch to Ross — an island about the size of a postage stamp that guarded the entrance to the harbour and was topped by Government House, the residence of the Chief Commissioner.

  The largest building in Port Blair was a pink, Moorish-style jail; for the main island had been used for almost a century as a convict settlement, and more than two thirds of the local population, many of them Burmese, were either convicted murderers serving life sentences, or the descendants of murderers — this last because ‘lifers’ were allowed out after serving a year or two in the jail, permitted, if they wished, to send for their wives and families, given a hut and a plot of land and encouraged to settle. Even the majority of house-servants and gardeners on Ross, including those in Government House, were ‘lifers’: and a nicer lot of people I have seldom met! But the house itself was another matter …

  It was a disturbingly creepy place. What my Scottish grandfather would have termed ‘unchancy’. And if ever there was a haunted house it was this one. The incident at the beginning of this book happened to me exactly as I have described it, except that the figure I saw was not a European but a malevolent little Burman armed with a kriss — the wicked Burmese knife that has a wavy-edged blade. Other and equally peculiar things happened in that house: but that, as they say, is another story. The settings, however, and many of the incidents in this book, are real.

  There actually was a picnic party at Mount Harriet on Christmas Eve, and there was also a British Navy cruiser visiting Port Blair. We saw the storm coming up, and ran for it, and a few of us managed to get back to Ross on the ferry: though I still don’t know how we made it! Once back, we were cut off from the rest of Port Blair, and from everywhere else for that matter, for the best part of a week. The various Christmas festivities that we had planned were literally washed out, and by mid-afternoon on Boxing Day there was still a horrific sea running and every jetty in Port Blair had been smashed flat. But since the worst of the hurricane appeared to have passed, Fudge and I fought our way around Ross, ending up at the deserted Club, where we sat sipping gimlets* and staring glumly at the damp patches on the ballroom floor and the wilting decorations that we had put up so gaily only three days before.

  Perhaps because I had just written a crime novel I remarked idly that the present situation would be a gift to a would-be murderer. No doctor on the island, no police, only a handful of the detachment of British troops, no telephone lines operating and no link at all with the main island, and despite the gale, the temperature and humidity so high that any corpse would have to be buried in double-quick time — and probably without a coffin at that! To which Fudge replied cheerfully: ‘You know, that’s quite an idea! Who shall we kill?’

  We spent the next half hour or so happily plotting a murder, limiting our characters to the number of British marooned on Ross, minus Fudge’s mother, Lady Cosgrave, because we decided that our fictional Chief Commissioner had better be a widower with a stepdaughter, and plus two naval officers who had, in fact, been members of the picnic party on Mount Harriet, but had managed to make it back to their ship by the skin of their teeth. And since our real-life cast seemed much too average and humdrum, we derived considerable amusement from endowing them all with looks, characters, colouring and quirks that the originals did not possess.

  All in all it proved a very entertaining way of passing a long, wet afternoon. But it did not occur to me to make any use of it, because I had gone back to painting again. I never gave it another thought until a year later, by which time my mother and I were in Persia — or Iran, if you insist, though I prefer the old name. (A ‘Persian’ carpet or a ‘Persian’ poem sounds far more attractive than an ‘Iranian’ one any day.)

  The Second World War had broken out that autumn, so sightseeing and sketching were not encouraged — particularly sketching! — and time was hanging a bit heavy on my hands. It was the period known as the ‘phoney war’, and there being little else to do I decided to try my hand at writing another crime novel, using the plot that Fudge and I had concocted in the Andamans. Which I did: though by the time I finished it I was unable to get the manuscript home to my British publishers, owing to the fact that by then the war was no longer in the least ‘phoney’. And it was not until a long time later that it appeared in print in England under the title of Night on the Island.

  This is how a tale that was invented during an idle afternoon on a tiny, storm-bound island in the Bay of Bengal came to be written in Persia, in a small town on the banks of the Shatt-al-Arab, called Khurramshah, which not so long ago was reduced to rubble in the fighting between Iran and Iraq. Sadly, Ross had long since predeceased it; falling a victim to Japanese bombing that demolished Government House and its ghosts, together with every other building on the island — including the little clubhouse where this story began.

  I am told that the jungle has taken over Ross and that no one goes there any more. But that nowadays there is a modern hotel for tourists at Corbyn’s Cove. Time and the Tourist march on
!

  * A popular short drink in the days of the Raj, consisting of gin, ice and a dollop of Rose’s lime juice, plus a dash of bitters (optional). These, too, would appear to have vanished along with the Empire.

  1

  Something bumped lightly against the side of her bed and Copper Randal, awakening with a start, was astonished to find that her heart was racing.

  For a moment or two she lay staring into the darkness and listening. Trying to identify what it was that had woken her so abruptly. And why she should be afraid? But apart from the monotonous swish of the electric fan blades overhead there was no sound in the silent house, and the hot, windless night was so still that she could hear the frightened pounding of her heart. Then somewhere in the room a floorboard creaked …

  Every nerve in her body seemed to jerk in response to that small, stealthy sound and suddenly her heart was no longer in her breast but had jumped into her throat and was constricting it so that she could barely breathe. She had to force herself to sit up and ease one hand out from under the close-tucked mosquito netting, moving very cautiously, and grope for the switch of her bedside light. She heard it click as she pressed it, but no comforting light sprang up to banish the darkness.

  This, thought Copper, swerving abruptly from panic to impatience, is absurd! She rubbed her eyes with the back of her other hand and pressed the switch a second time. But with no better result. Yet there had been nothing wrong with the lamp when she turned it off, so either the bulb had given out during the night, which seemed unlikely, or else … Or else I’m dreaming this, she thought uneasily.

  The idea was a preposterous one, but nevertheless she pinched herself to make sure that she was awake, and reassured on that point, pressed the switch a third time. Nothing. Then the bulb must have … It was at this point that irritation changed swiftly back into panic as she remembered the yards of flex that lay across the uncarpeted floor and connected the lamp on her bedside table to a plug on the far side of the room. Supposing someone — something — had passed by her bed and tripped over the flex, jerking the plug from its socket? She had done that herself more than once, so there was no reason to suppose____

  ‘Stop it!’ Copper scolded herself in a furious whisper: ‘You’re behaving like a lunatic! And what’s more, if you sit here in the dark for just one more minute, you’ll end up screaming the house down. So get going!’ Thus adjured she took a deep breath and summoning up all her courage, pushed up the mosquito netting and slid out of bed.

  The smooth, polished floorboards felt pleasantly cool to her bare feet as she groped her way across to the switch by the bathroom door, and finding it, pressed down the little metal knob with a feeling of profound relief.

  Once again a switch clicked beneath her unsteady fingers, and this time a light came on. But it was not the bright, warm comforting one she had expected. Instead, a queer, greenish, phosphorescent glow filled the room, and aware of a movement beside her, she turned sharply and saw, standing so close to her that without moving she could have touched him, the figure of a little wizened man in a suit of soiled white drill.

  Copper shrank back, both hands at her throat and her mouth dry with terror. But the intruder did not move. In that dim light his blanched face glimmered like that of a drowned man coming up out of deep water, and she could see that his wrinkled features were set in an expression of malignant fury: a blind, unseeing rage that did not appear to be directed at her, for the unfocused eyes stared past her at someone or something else. But there was no one else, and the whole house was still. So still that the silence and the queer greenish light seemed part of one another, and Time had stopped and was standing behind her, waiting …

  I ought to scream, thought Copper numbly; Val’s only in the next room. I’ve only got to scream____ She opened her mouth but no sound came from her dry throat, and the green light began to flicker and grow dim. It was going out and she would be left alone in the dark with … with …

  And then at last she screamed. And, astonishingly, woke to find herself in her bed, shivering among the pillows, with the last echoes of her own strangled shriek in her ears.

  A light snapped on in the next room and seconds later a dark-haired girl in pink cotton pyjamas, newly aroused from sleep, burst through the curtained archway that separated the two bedrooms, calling out encouragingly that she was coming and what on earth was the matter?

  ‘N–nothing,’ quavered Copper through chattering teeth. ‘Only a nightmare. But a perfectly beastly one! I still can’t believe…’ She reached out a trembling hand and switched on her own light, apologizing confusedly for making such an appalling din: ‘I didn’t mean … I was going … I am sorry I woke you, but I thought he — it____ And then the light started to go and____ Oh Val, am I glad to see you! D’you mind staying around and talking to me for a bit until I’ve simmered down and unscrambled myself? Bless you____!’

  She lifted her mosquito net and Valerie crept in underneath it and having annexed a pillow and made herself comfortable at the foot of the bed, observed crisply that any talking to be done had better be done, pronto, by Copper. ‘Have you any idea what a ghastly noise you were making? It sounded like an entire glee club of love-lorn torn cats yowling on a rooftop. What in heaven’s name were you dreaming about?’

  ‘I’m not too sure that I was dreaming,’ confessed Copper with a shudder. ‘In fact I actually pinched myself just to make sure I wasn’t: and it hurt, too.’

  ‘Tell!’ ordered Valerie, and composed herself to listen while Copper embarked hesitantly on an account of the peculiar happenings of the last fifteen minutes or so, ending defensively: ‘It was real, Val! Right up to the time that I switched on the light by the bathroom door, I could have sworn I was awake and that it was all really happening. It was far more of a shock to find myself waking up in bed than it would have been to find myself being murdered!’

  ‘Hmm. I’d say that the trouble with you,’ diagnosed Valerie sapiently, ‘was either too many of those curried prawns at the Club last night, or else you’ve been letting the fact that you are living on a sort of Devil’s Island — anyway, a penal settlement — get on your nerves.’

  ‘The latter, probably.’ Copper relaxed and lay back on her pillow, watching the whirling, white-painted blades of the electric fan flicking swift shadows across the high ceiling, and presently she said slowly: ‘It’s a bit difficult to explain, but don’t you think there must be something a little out of kilter … something unchancy … about the Andamans? Just think of it, Val. In this particular bit of the Islands almost three quarters of the population, including most of your father’s house-servants, are convicted murderers serving a life sentence. They’ve all killed someone. Surely that must have some effect on a place — any place? Murderers being sent here year after year? All those dead people whose lives they took … the atmosphere must get choked up with them like – like static. Or wireless waves, or – or something____’ She hesitated and then laughed a little shamefacedly. ‘I’m sorry. I don’t seem able to explain it very well.’

  ‘Try not to think about it,’ advised Valerie practically. ‘Otherwise you’ll be waking me up nightly dreaming that you’re being murdered by convicts or haunted by the ghosts of their victims, and I’m not sure that I could take any more of that scarifying “woman wailing for her demon lover” stuff. It scared me rigid.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I’m not likely to have a dream like that twice, touch wood!’ said Copper, reaching up to rap the nearest mosquito pole with her knuckles. ‘And anyway, it wasn’t a convict I was dreaming about. Unless there are any European convicts here. Are there?’

  ‘No, of course not. What did he look like?’

  ‘Rather like a rat. If you can imagine a rat with wrinkles and a lot of grey, wispy hair. A mean, vindictive sort of face. He wasn’t much taller than I am, and he was wearing a grubby white suit and a big ring with a red stone set in it. You’ve no idea how terribly solid and detailed it all was. I saw him so clearly that I c
ould draw a picture of him; and it wasn’t like a dream at all. It was real. Horridly real! I was here, in this room. And I not only felt that switch click, I heard it. The only unreal thing was the light being green.’ She shivered again, and turning her head, sat up in sudden astonishment and said: ‘Why, it’s morning!’

  The clear pale light of dawn had seeped unnoticed into the room as they talked, dimming the electric bulbs to a wan yellow glow. Copper slid out from under the mosquito net, and crossing to the windows drew back the curtains: ‘It must be getting on for six. I don’t know why, but I thought it was the middle of the night.’ She leant out over the window-sill, sniffing the faint dawn breeze that whispered through the mango trees on the far side of the lawn, and said: ‘It’s going to be a marvellous day, Val. Come and look.’

  Valerie snapped off the bedside lamp and joined her, and the two girls knelt on the low window-seat to watch the growing light deepen over the sea and stretch along the ruled edge of the far horizon.

  Below them lay a wide strip of lawn bordered on the far side by mango, pyinma and casuarina trees that overlooked the grass tennis-courts, a tangled rose garden and two tall, feathery clusters of bamboo. Beyond this the ground sloped down to the beach so steeply that the clear, glassy water that shivered to a lace of foam about the dark shelves of rock appeared to lie almost directly below the house, and only the tops of the tall coconut palms that fringed the shores of the little island could be seen from the upper windows. Sky, sea and the level stretch of lawn seemed to be fashioned from Lalique glass, so still and smooth and serene they were: the still, smooth serenity that presages a perfect Indian Ocean day.

  The fronds of the coconut palms swayed gently to a breath of scented air that wandered across the garden and ruffled Valerie’s dark hair, and she stretched a pair of sunburnt arms above her head and sighed gratefully. ‘So cool! And yet in another hour it will be hot and sticky again. A curse upon this climate.’