Dead in the Dog

‘Just routine, Clarence! We have to know where everyone was at the material time, you see. And to get corroboration where possible.’

‘Well I was in my jolly old Riley at the material time, miles from here,’ he snapped crossly. Then he stood up, deciding that the police had had enough of his time.

‘And I have to be at the Garrison Mess in five minutes. Dashed rude to turn up late, the Brigadier will be there tonight.’

With that, he nodded curtly to them and stalked out.

‘Cocky young devil,’ muttered Steven, but Tan kept a discreet silence.

The senior policeman looked at a list on a sheet of paper and ticked off a few names. ‘No point in bothering Dr Howden or Major Morris – we know well enough where they were on Friday night.’ He dabbed his face with a handkerchief, wondering if another nine years in this country would finally acclimatize him to the heat. ‘Right, let’s 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 cortège 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 cortège 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.