call it a day, Inspector.’
‘What about the lady nurses and the colonel, sir?’ the Indian reminded him softly.
‘Tomorrow morning, Tan. They’re not going anywhere.’
EIGHT
The funeral cortege went at a steady forty miles an hour northwards through the flat land between Ipoh and Taiping, green hills and mountains rearing up on the right. The pre-war hearse led the way, as this was a ‘White Area’ with no curfew nor restrictions on travel. In many parts, such as the long winding road up to the Cameron Highlands hill station, only convoys shepherded by armoured cars were allowed.
Behind the vintage Daimler came a motley collection of about a dozen vehicles, ranging from Alf’s old Hillman to Clarence Bottomley’s sleek Riley. There were several other cars belonging to other planters and to garrison and hospital staff, including an Armstrong-Siddeley Typhoon belonging to the matron and Alec Watson’s creaking Morgan. Steven Blackwell’s police Land Rover brought up the rear. He had no car of his own and was quite comfortable with using an official vehicle and driver for every purpose, as he considered that he was never really off duty.
‘Cracking on a bit for a funeral, aren’t we?’ said Percy Loosemore, in the front passenger seat alongside Alfred Morris. ‘Seems as if they’re trying to get shot of poor old Jimmy as quickly as they can.’
‘Got to keep up with the hearse,’ said Alf. ‘It’s a fair old trot from Ipoh up here.’
Tom Howden’s plotting had been successful and he sat in the back alongside Lynette. Few of the women had clothes really suitable for a funeral, but most had managed to find something relatively sombre in a place usually renowned for its summer dresses. Lynette wore a black skirt and grey silk blouse and Tom thought she looked lovely. He was rapidly falling for her and something told him that the feeling was mutual, so he was feeling very contented, in spite of the solemn occasion.
Taiping was a pleasant town at the foot of Maxwell Hill, a three-thousand-foot jungle-covered ridge with a hill station at the top, where there was a Rest House with a real log fire. A long dead-straight Main Street lined with shophouses led to the Lake Gardens, a landscaped park made from a reclaimed tin mine, where lay the New Club, a larger version of The Dog in Tanah Timah.
‘Could call in there for a snifter on the way back, as we’re not having a proper wake,’ suggested the irreverent Percy. No one bothered to answer him as the procession carried on through the town and down a long avenue of stately trees.
‘This goes to Kamunting, where the other BMH is,’ explained Alfred. ‘Like our place, there’s a big garrison almost next door, the 28th Independent Commonwealth Infantry Brigade.’
The cortege slowed down long before these were reached and turned off Assam Kumbang Road into the Christian Cemetery, a quiet park-like field, edged by trees.
‘Is this a War Graves place?’ asked Lynette in a hushed voice as they stopped behind the other vehicles on a parking area inside the gates.
Alf Morris shook his head as he opened the door for her. ‘It’s been here since the last century, since Europeans came out to run the tin and rubber industries. But now unfortunately a large part is kept for the military and their dependants, since the Jap invasion and now the Emergency.’
All the travellers disgorged from the cars and quietly made their way forward towards the front of the cavalcade, where the only hired car was the one belonging to the undertaker, another aged but stately Daimler. From this stepped the garrison padre, who ushered out Diane Robertson, today attired in a grey shantung silk dress and jacket that was the nearest she could muster as a mourning outfit. Also in the Daimler was her manager Douglas Mackay and his wife Rosa, both women trying to look as if the other was invisible. Together with half a dozen sisters from the hospital clustered behind their matron, a couple of planters’ wives made up a respectable contingent of ladies to support the new widow.
From his position as the rearguard of the convoy, Steven Blackwell looked at the small crowd ahead with concerned interest. In cases of murder, it was traditional for the investigators to attend the funeral of the victim, though he had never yet heard of any advantage coming from it.
The coffin was lifted from the Daimler by four of James’s fellow planters, including Les Arnold, and placed on a rather rickety trolley belonging to the cemetery. A large bunch of tropical flowers, which Steven assumed had been ordered by Diane, lay on top. A few of the onlookers stepped forward to add their own sprays of colourful blooms, including Doris Hawkins who contributed one from the Sisters’ Mess.
With the mourners following, the chaplain set off behind the coffin as it was trundled down a path between rows of old graves, some moss covered and dating back scores of years. John Smale wore a surplice over a light cassock with a purple stole around his neck, as he walked ahead of Diane and the Mackays.
The procession drifted along in silence, until the roar of an engine caused most heads to turn, as a black Vauxhall swept in from the road to the parking area.
‘Bloody hell, it’s the Old Man!’ muttered Percy Loosemore irreverently, as Desmond O’Neill hopped from the driving seat and hurried after the funeral procession. Not only did the colonel catch them up, but he pushed past the stragglers and with his jerky up-and-down gait, went straight to the front and squeezed himself between Diane Robertson and her manager. There were some scowls and muted murmurs from the throng, but as he was the most senior officer present, nothing was said aloud. The new widow looked quizzically at him, then turned her attention back to the proceedings, as they had by now arrived at the graveside. Steven Blackwell watched this tableau from the rear, putting O’Neill’s behaviour down to his well-known eccentricity, as the gaunt colonel put his hand on Diane’s elbow and solicitously steered her to the edge of the open pit.
‘What’s the old bugger up to now?’ hissed David Meredith to Alec Watson. Any reply was stifled by the start of the burial service, as the coffin was unloaded on to two planks placed across the fresh excavation. There was no church service, as Diane had impressed on the padre that neither she nor James had had any religious beliefs, but for convention’s sake, the Reverend Smale went though an abbreviated version of the service at the graveside. The police superintendent watched all the bowed heads as they listened dutifully to the calm voice of the priest, but saw nothing that rang alarm bells in his head hinting at someone’s guilt. Even the colonel’s peculiar actions could be put down to a middle-aged fantasy over a beautiful woman.
Within a few minutes the soliloquy was ended, the planks removed and James Robertson’s mortal remains were lowered into the ground.
Tom Howden stood dutifully alongside Lynette and the words of Rupert Brooke’s poem came into his head. He felt that ‘a corner of a foreign field that is forever England’, was most appropriate to this scene. Tom had another wave of unreality passing over him, momentarily disbelieving that he was standing in sticky heat below jungle-covered hills, watching a murdered man disappear below ground, instead of being in the cold drizzle of a December Tyneside.
There was no morbid ceremony of handfuls of earth being thrown on to the coffin and almost casually, the group turned away and left two Indian labourers to fill in the grave. Diane and the chaplain again led the way back to the cars, where a rather ragged series of commiserations were offered by those attending the service, before everyone went off to find their transport.
‘Look, the undertakers are doing a runner!’ exclaimed Alec Watson – and sure enough, the two Daimlers took off empty, obviously going straight back to Ipoh. As the junior medical officers watched, they saw that a redistribution of passengers was taking place. Douglas Mackay and his wife went to Les Arnold’s large estate car, while Diane was escorted to Desmond O’Neill’s Velox.
‘Looks like the old sod has taken a fancy to the blonde bombshell,’ muttered Percy Loosemore. ‘Good job our revered surgeon didn’t come, he’d have blown his top.’
They pressed nearer the cars and as the colonel gallantly opened the passenger door for Diane, they heard her call out rather too gaily for the occasion. ‘God, I need a drink after that! Desmond, call in at the New Club on the way back, there’s a dear.’
The next two days were busy ones for the police in Tanah Timah and the death of James Robertson had to take a back seat as far as Steven Blackwell was concerned, though in truth, there was little to be done except take unhelpful statements from people who knew James.
The reason for the diversion was an armed robbery at one of two banks in the town, which involved a
