Death on a Pale Horse - By Donald Thomas Page 0,45

in England. As for his evangelism, his work had been among common soldiers with an enthusiastic cast of faith, and very often among the less fortunate in the Provost Marshal’s cells.

It did not surprise me that, in the relatively small English population of Hyderabad, Mr. Dordona should have encountered Captain Carey. A few minutes that morning with Crockford’s Clerical Directory informed us that the captain’s late father had been a minister of the Church of England with a taste for evangelism. The parents were determined that only a strong Old Testament name would do for their son. Young Jahleel was destined for a childhood of moral discipline and the career of a Christian soldier.

During Mr. Dordona’s account, Holmes sat with brows drawn down as if not a word must be missed. When there was a pause, he looked up.

“Very good, Mr. Dordona. But I still do not understand what you expect of my colleague Dr. Watson—or of me—that you could not get elsewhere. Why would Scotland Yard not believe a man of your openness and honesty? Do they think you have come to England to kill somebody?”

The movement of Holmes’s mouth was both humorous and scornful. I could not tell whether Holmes intended a joke in poor taste or had aimed one of those terrifyingly accurate insights by which he penetrated to the inner mind and secret thoughts of his witness. As they stared at each other, neither he nor Mr. Dordona batted an eyelid. It was a joke, surely.

Our visitor wore an uncomfortably wide white collar, so starched and shiny that it looked like gloss-painted enamel. He eased his chin forward over this rather aggressively, like a man determined not to be put off.

“Mr. Holmes, I want nothing for myself. I bear a message from the late Captain Brenton Carey to anyone who will listen. Scotland Yard would not do so; the War Office will certainly not.”

“Dr. Watson and I will, however?”

“You shall judge, sir. I was with Captain Carey when he died. On the previous Sunday, I had come from Lahore to address a prayer-meeting in the garrison chapel at Hyderabad. These were soldiers about to leave for Quetta and the battlefield. I had not yet returned to my duties in Lahore.”

Samuel Dordona paused just long enough to let Holmes understand that he would not be pushed, as they say. When he told his story, it was as if he had rehearsed it in his mind many times on the voyage home, fearful of forgetting any detail.

“Captain Carey and I had known one another for some time. I had a high regard for him. On the Tuesday afternoon, I received a note from his wife asking me to come at once to the bungalow, which they occupied in the camp. You will know from the press that his fatigue party had been striking bell tents vacated by ‘B’ Company the day before.”

“We have read the press reports of the inquest.”

“It was said in evidence that as the floor of a bell-tent was being lifted, one man in the fatigue party lost his grip because his foot slipped on the muddy ground. Did they have that detail in the gazette?”

“Not that it was muddy, I think.”

“I walked on the same ground the next evening. It was bone-dry, sir. We had had no rain for more than a month by then. There was no mud. Nothing that would cause a man to slip that evening or the previous day.”

“Rain, Mr. Dordona, is not the earth’s sole lubricant. But pray continue.”

I intervened on my client’s behalf.

“You know a good deal about soldiering in that area,” I said to Mr. Dordona. “Had you ever known such an accident happen before?”

He looked at me and shook his head. “Never before, sir. However, when working with a heavy wagon-team, the first rule, of course, is that nothing must startle them.”

“But you were not an eye-witness?” Holmes suggested. “That is to say, you were not at hand when Captain Carey fell into their path?”

“Mr. Holmes, I spoke to two men who had been witnesses. They could only tell me what you already know. By the time I arrived at the bungalow, the regimental surgeon had attended my friend. Even as a medical man, he could only give me his best conjecture. Everything depended on the damage to the intestines. He hoped and believed that there was no rupture.”

“If it is not too much trouble,” said Holmes casually, “would you please write down the surgeon’s name?