Ragtime in Simla (Joe Sandilands Series #2)by Barbara Cleverly
Simla 1922. While the rest of India bakes in the hot season, up in the pine-scented coolness of the Himalayan hills the English have recreated a vision of home. Here are half-timbered houses, amateur theatricals, gymkhanas and a glittering vice-regal court for the socialites. The summer capital of the British Raj is fizzing with the energy of the jazz age. It is toward this country that detective Joe Sandilands is heading as the guest of the governor of Bengal. But when Joe's travelling companion, a Russian opera singer, is shot dead at his side on the road to Simla, he finds himself plunged into a murder investigation. As Joe begins to unravel the mystery which has its roots in the aftermath of the First World War, he discovers that behind the sparkling facade of Simla lies a trail of murder, vice and blackmail.
"Fully developed characters and a convincing portrayal of time and place lift Cleverly's second historical...the author's talents seems capable of transcending any shift in scene."—Publishers Weekly
"The sense of place is exotic, enveloping and superbly depicted. Joe Sandilands second outing is a filling follow his auspicious debut."—Contra Costa
Read an Excerpt
"Don't stare, Alice, dear!"
Maud Benson (Universal Companions, Foreign and Eastern Travel Division) shot a glance of concentrated disapproval at her latest charge. Her charge remained willfully oblivious and continued to turn her head excitedly, drinking in the strange sounds and bustle of the Gare de Lyon refreshment room, still elegant in spite of four years of wartime neglect.
Alice sighed, and in pursuit of a world-weary image lay back against the buttoned leather upholstery of the banquette. Like the second barrel of a shotgun, inevitably came: "Don't loll, dear!"
Alice continued to loll and turned to her companion with a mutinous expression. Fearing that she might just have gone too far (for the moment), Maud said in a placatory tone, "You need not, Alice, feel obliged to finish your cup of tea. The French really have no idea . . ." The monument of corseted rectitude creaked forward slightly to take up her own cup and, while deploring the dire French habit of putting the water in the pot before the tea leaves, determined, nevertheless, to set a good example. "Always finish what is put in front of you," even if it is a cup of badly brewed tea.
Alice didn't take the hint but continued to stare enviously at the drink in the hand of the Frenchwoman sitting opposite. Frothy and pink, it fizzed seductively in a tall glass and Maud had no doubt, to judge by the appearance of the woman sipping it, that it contained alcohol. To her horror, Alice leaned forward and addressed the woman. In English public school French.
"Excusez-moi, madame, mais qu'est-ce que c'est que cette . . . er . . . boisson?"
"Alice!" hissed Maud, bristling with indignation. "You don't address a perfect stranger! What will she think?"
The woman in question put down the enviable pink drink and, after a moment of well-bred surprise, replied in scarcely accented English and with a charming smile of friendship. "It is called a Campari-soda. Very refreshing and very French." And without pause she turned to a passing waiter and said, "Monsieur, un Campari-soda pour mademoiselle, s'il vous plait!"
Alice's face lit up with a smile of guilty delight. Maud Benson closed her eyes and pursed her lips.
They were only three hundred miles into their journey and Maud shuddered at the thought that there were at least seven thousand more to be survived in the company of this girl. Alice Conyers. Time and again she had warned her charge, "This is France. You're not in Hertfordshire now and the company is very mixed. You should avoid getting involved with strangers. And, above all, avoid a certain type of woman. Yes, woman. One learns to recognize the type. It's easy to connect with such people but not so easy to disconnect. A good rule is 'never talk to strangers.' " She didn't know what more she could have said. And yet . . . "For all the good I've done, I might as well have been playing the flute!"
Discreetly, she palmed a bismuth tablet into her mouth. A martyr to indigestion, she had learned to take this precaution at the first sign of stress.
Maud recalled the briefing her Principal had given her before this assignment had begun. "Out of the top drawer, Miss Benson. Rich family. Best of prospects. Your charge is going out to India where she is to assume the reins of power, it would seem, at the head of the family business--I'm speaking of the great commercial house Imperial and Colonial--at least, half the reins of power since she is, very sensibly, to share that eminence with a second cousin. Sad recent history--deaths in the family--so you must be prepared for a gloomy little companion, I'm afraid."
(Maud felt a little gloom and becoming mourning would be preferred to this ceaseless chatter and frivolous curiosity.)
"She is not straight out of the schoolroom, she is twenty-one years old, but has led a very sheltered life in Hertfordshire. Her grandfather's executors have expressed a requirement for a highly dependable and experienced traveling chaperone and naturally they came to us."
First impressions had been good on the whole. Though pretty enough (and this was always a concern), the girl had appeared sensible and well spoken. Her manners were those of the lady she was and rather old-fashioned. She seemed to have none of that brash giddiness that some modern young girls affected and which could give such trouble on board a P&O steamer. Her wardrobe consisted of entirely suitable clothes in mourning colours of black and grey appropriate to a girl who had recently lost not just her only brother on the battlefield mere days before the war had ended but also her father and mother to the flu the previous year. And, to cap it all, her grandfather, Lord Rupert Conyers, whose death, in the words of the Times obituary, "was occasioned by a fall from his horse while hunting with the Essex and Suffolk Foxhounds" the previous December.
Maud had hoped for an undemanding run through to Bombay but was aware that the major challenge to effective chaperonage was in the three-week-long sea passage. The steamers were crowded with stylish young army officers returning to India from home leave. Many were looking for eligible wives, always in short supply in India. They had charm; they had slim, active figures and a look of suntanned alertness. Maud was well aware of the dangers and, in spite of her clever stratagems and unsleeping vigilance, had presided, in her time, unwillingly, over no fewer than three engagements (one, at least, most unsuitable) during her traveling career and had lost count of the number of broken hearts.
But she decided she need have no fears for Alice Conyers. The girl had confided early in their journey that she had the greatest hopes of marrying her second cousin, at present a junior officer in a native infantry regiment, thereby securing the dynastic future of the firm. A sensible arrangement, Maud had thought. In all the circumstances. Even a pretty and wealthy girl these days found her choice of husband very much restricted. The war had scythed down young men in their thousands and Alice had confessed sadly that she had met no one in England she could regard as a marriage partner. So, with no regrets behind her and a favourable prospect ahead, Maud thought, it should be an easy matter to keep Alice on a straight canter down the course. Provided, naturally, that she could keep "designing women"--and she felt the description might well fit Alice's new acquaintance--at bay and fortune-hunting men at arm's length.
But Alice had left discretion behind as they had left England. Her first sight of a foreign country seemed to have turned her head. She had insisted on staying on deck on the cross-Channel ferry in spite of the stiff March breeze and had launched into conversation not only with fellow passengers but even with several of the deckhands. Instead of writing up her diary on the train to Paris she had stared about her asking a thousand questions which had brought Maud's crochet work almost to a standstill. And now they were in Paris and the mere name appeared to work some magic on Alice Conyers. Maud was glad their itinerary had allowed for no more than three days in the capital of frivolity. Alice had spent precious time patronizing the boutiques of the Rue de la Paix when she could have been visiting the Louvre. Here she was, luggage stuffed with who knew what frou-frous, bright-eyed, alert, and smiling at the world. Overexcited.
And things were getting worse. They were seated in the elaborately decorated refreshment room of the Gare de Lyon waiting for the Blue Train to be announced. Alice had sighed with pleasure and repeated the names of the towns through which it traveled on its way from Paris to the Riviera and beyond to Italy when the announcer gave them out: Lyons, Avignon, Marseilles, Cannes, Nice, Monte Carlo. She leaned forward to eye the waiters in long aprons down to their ankles as they whisked about deftly delivering plates of highly seasoned and decidedly foreign-looking food to the travelers. And now her attention was entirely caught by this Frenchwoman who had settled down opposite them, sipping her dangerously sophisticated pink drink.
No better than she should be, decided Maud. Traveling alone, what's more, and that tells you something! Typical of a certain type of Frenchwoman and a totally unsuitable acquaintance for Alice. She was wearing a wedding ring on a slim white hand but that cut no ice with Maud. Her clothes were in the height of fashion and at a guess, that dark red traveling coat with its glossy black fur trimmings and matching toque were from the House of Monsieur Worth. Well, some French had profited from the war, apparently. Perhaps her husband--or protector--was in armaments, Maud thought suspiciously and wished she could convey these thoughts to Alice, but the woman spoke good English and was certain to understand. The Frenchwoman extended slender silk-clad calves and neat buttoned ankle boots. Alice tucked her own legs under the table, conscious suddenly of her lisle stockings and lace-up shoes. She turned a defiant face to Maud.
"I'm having a Campari-soda, Miss Benson. Would you like one?"
"No, I would not!"
Maud didn't like to see the look of sly complicity which this provoked between Alice and the Frenchwoman.
"Pardon me," she said. "I am Isabelle de Neuville and I'm traveling to the Cite d'Azur. And you?"
"I'm going to the south of France too but only as far as Marseilles. I'm picking up a P&O steamer from Marseilles to Bombay. I'm Alice Conyers and this is my companion, Miss Benson."
Madame de Neuville acknowledged Maud with an unnecessarily friendly bow and then pointed upwards to the ceiling to one of the many florid Belle Epoque landscapes with which it was decorated. Maud had, on entering, advised Alice not to look. "Voila," she said. "That's where you're going. The painted lady represents Marseilles. The street you see is the Canebiere where all the low life and quite a lot of the high life of Marseilles is to be found. That is where your boat will leave from."
Alice followed her pointing finger, enchanted but a little scandalized by the series of opulent and semi-clad ladies who personified the cities along the route of the Blue Train. They smiled enticingly down at the travelers below, their allure only a little dimmed by almost twenty years of cigar smoke.
"And which one represents your destination?" Alice enquired.
"That one. Nice. And the street in the picture is the Promenade des Anglais."
"It looks lovely! So full of sunshine and flowers! So southern!"
"Yes, indeed. The mimosa will be over now and the magnolia and orange blossom will be out . . ."
Maud decided that this exchange should be nipped in the bud. "I observe," she said frostily, "that you are traveling without your maid?"
"Ah, no," was the reply. "My maid is handling the luggage. I hope successfully. But since the war, reliable domestic staff are hard to come by. Do you not find that?"
"Oh, I do!" said Alice. "And I had noticed that all the waiters are under sixteen or over sixty!"
"Sadly it is the same all over France and not only waiters--policemen, porters, shop assistants, engine drivers . . ."
Two things occurred at this moment to bring this rather limping conversation to a close. On the one hand, Alice's Campari-soda appeared and, on the other hand, Thomas Cook's agent appeared at Maud Benson's side.
"You have plenty of time for the moment, madam," he said, bowing politely to Maud, "but you should take your seats. If you would accompany me?"
With relief, Maud heaved herself to her feet and gestured to Alice to follow her. Isabelle de Neuville raised her glass and smiled at Alice. "To our journey," she said. "What do your English flyers say? Happy landings? Here's to happy landings!"
Alice seized the opportunity to taste her drink and annoy Maud further by not instantly leaping to her feet. Under her lowering gaze, Alice took a second sip and a third and though, truth to tell, she did not quite like the bitter aftertaste of the strange concoction, she defiantly drained her glass.
At this moment, sheepishly and with a torrent of French, Madame de Neuville's maid sidled up to her. She was dark, she was slim, she was, in Maud's opinion, unsuitably fashionably dressed for her station in life and she was, furthermore, in a shrill bad temper which she took no pains to disguise. She seemed put out to find her mistress in conversation and, after an initial look of surprise directed at Alice, she favoured her with a hostile glower. To add to Alice's embarrassment at the display and to Maud's gratification, she at once embarked on a furious and whispered quarrel with her mistress.
"There, you see!" said Maud as they followed the Cook's agent down from the peace of the Blue Train bar into the hubbub of the main station. "Now you see what will happen if you pick up with anyone who may address you. You are abroad now. This is Paris, where all the undesirables of Europe congregate. You see the kind of company you're in. Like mistress, like maid, if you ask me! Neither of them better than they should be. Maid, indeed!"
"I thought Madame de Neuville was very nice," said Alice. "And what lovely clothes!"
"Clothes! Are they paid for? And, if they are paid for, who paid for them? That is the kind of question you have to ask yourself when you take up with a stranger."
"Was she," said Alice, "do you think, a demi-mondaine?"
She wasn't entirely sure what the word meant but it had an image of risk, danger, and glamour and at that moment she very much wanted to be associated with it and dissociated from the world of Maud Benson with its careful checks and counter-balances.
"Demi-mondaine! Huh! Fully mondaine, I shouldn't wonder," sniffed Maud. "Most Frenchwomen are, you'll find. Now, come along!"
On arrival at the train they saw their luggage under the eye of the Cook's man and in the charge of porters in peaked caps and blue smocks loaded into the luggage compartment. They also saw Madame de Neuville and her maid, no longer in altercation, watching expensive luggage being loaded likewise. Alice made her way in Maud's wake, chirruping happily at the sight of the sleek and gleaming blue painted coachwork of the train, and they were handed by their agent into their reserved seats in the Pullman train under the management of the wagons-lits company. Alice was astonished by the elegance. She thought the attentive liveried stewards with their cream and umber kepis the most glamorous thing she had ever seen.
Meet the Author
Barbara Cleverly is the author of five novels of historical suspense, including The Damascened Blade, winner of the CWA Historical Dagger Award, The Last Kashmiri Rose, Ragtime in Simla, The Palace Tiger, and The Bee’s Kiss. She lives in Cambridge, England where she is now at work on the second Laetitia Talbot mystery, which Delta will publish in 2008.
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In 1919 Alice Conyers reaches Paris, the first leg of her trek to India to take over the reigns of the Imperial and Colonial Trading Corporation. Since the death of her brother Lionel during World War I, she inherited 51% of the stock while her second cousin who she plans to marry owns the rest. However, their train falls into a ravine killing almost all on board. Alice continues on to India where she makes her firm a success.................... In 1922 Northern India, Scotland Yard Detective Joe Sandilands has finished up his tour of duty in India and is now the guest of Sir George Jardine, Lieutenant Governor of Bengal. He plans to spend a month in the guest cottage at Simla at the base of the Himalayas. Joe gives a lift to Russian opera singer Feador Korosovsky and witnesses his murder in the car driving them to Sir George. He reports the homicide and learns that Lionel, Alice brother died in the same spot with the same MO. Sir George asks Joe to help the authorities. He does finding all roads lead to Alice and that train wreck............................ Barbara Cleverly has written a fantastic historical police procedural at a time when India learned it was the equal of their occupier sand wants freedom from British rule. The exotic locale enhances the mystery and romance by adding an aura of danger to the westerners. The protagonist is an enigma who readers will not like; while the antagonist receives empathy though the choices that person made were criminal. RAGTIME FOR SIMLA provides readers with a sense of time and place during the final hours before the sunset of the British Empire.......................... Harriet Klausner
RAGTIME IN SIMLA by Beverly Cleverly is the 2nd title in the Joe Sandilands series. The scene is Simla, 1922. Simla is/was a recreational summer retreat in the foothills of the Himalayans, very popular with the British ‘expat’ community. Joe Sandilands was invited by Sir George Jardine, acting governor of Bengal, to spend time in Simla before returning to England. The mystery is very intricate with quite a bit of backtracking to events happening during a train crash in France in 1919. I was very interested in the descriptions of Simla, 1920’s India and colonial culture. The major characters are British and much is told of the Pathan ‘tribal customs’. (You would think Joe would know more of Pathan customs after his run-in with a Pathan character in Book #1 - THE LAST KASHMIRI ROSE.) I would recommend this book to mystery readers, especially those interested in a strong sense of foreign locale.