she would, you hoped, be able to enlighten you about the other sides?’
‘So I hoped.’
‘They were, of course, lovers,’ said Mukhtar.
‘Were they?’
‘There were others. She was one among many.’ Was there a note of disapproval in his voice? ‘But their relationship seems to have been particularly intense.’
‘I did not know. For certain,’ he added, not wishing to give too great an impression of ignorance. ‘It was one of the things I wanted to find out.’
The terjiman nodded.
‘And that was all?’
‘All?’
‘You did not wish to find out, for instance, how other sides of Miss Kassim’s activities had been progressing?’
‘Other sides?’
Mukhtar did not expand.
‘No? Good. You were just, as you say, gathering information about Mr Cunningham’s personal life. Well, if I can help, I would be glad to. We are, after all, colleagues, are we not?’
‘We are, and I am most grateful to you for your offer of help. Please let me make it clear that I have no wish at all to intrude on your investigation. Nor to duplicate it. I am sure it will be conducted perfectly satisfactorily. It is just that, since Mr Cunningham was a British citizen, and, indeed, an official of His Majesty’s service, certain enquiries have to be made.’
‘Of course!’
‘There are, too,’ Seymour felt he could add, ‘certain pressures at home in this case.’
Mukhtar smiled broadly.
‘That, too, I can understand. And, as you can imagine, there are also pressures here.’
They both laughed. There was a kind of professional solidarity developing between them.
The terjiman glanced at his watch.
‘I am afraid I must return to the theatre. There are other questions to be asked.’
‘Of course!’
They went back along the tight little street, full now of the smells of people cooking their evening meal. From the smell it appeared that onions were going to figure largely.
‘It is a pity,’ said Mukhtar, ‘about Miss Kassim. I was going to the theatre anyway today to see. There were some questions I wanted to put to her. Like yours,’ he said, smiling, ‘they were about Mr Cunningham. But now I shall not be able to put them.’
‘Sadly, no.’ Seymour thought for a moment. ‘May I ask – does the fact that you were here to ask her some questions about him imply that you see a possible connection between the cases?’
‘Possible? Well, possible, yes. But I have no firm view yet. The questions about Cunningham Effendi are one thing, and Miss Kassim’s death, another. At the moment. All we know so far is that Miss Kassim is dead, apparently murdered.’
‘May I ask how she was killed?’
‘She was strangled. Probably, my colleague, Mr Demeyrel, suggests, with the string of a bow.’
‘Bowstring?’ said Seymour, startled, and with the words of the landau driver still fresh in his mind.
‘Yes. Confirmation will have to wait until he performs his autopsy, because the string is so deeply embedded in the flesh that it is hard to tell with the naked eye. But, clearly, it is a very thin, hair-like cord of some kind, so thin that it is barely visible. Indeed, I myself did not see it until Mr Demeyrel pointed it out to me. He thought it might give an immediate lead to my enquiries.’
‘Well, yes,’ said Seymour, ‘it would.’
‘That is why I have to go back to the theatre. The band should be there now.’
‘Band?’
‘There will be string players among them.’
‘Oh! That kind of bowstring!’
‘Why, yes,’ said Mukhtar puzzled. ‘What kind did you think?’
That bloody landau driver, thought Seymour! With his bowstrings and Fleshmakers!
Squatting on the steps of the theatre was a small, dejected group of men.
‘You are the band?’ asked Mukhtar.
‘To our misfortune, Effendi, we are,’ said one, who appeared to be the leader.
‘Which among you is the kemengeh player?’
‘Oh, my God!’ said one of the musicians despondently. ‘Effendi, it is I.’
‘Your
‘So I hoped.’
‘They were, of course, lovers,’ said Mukhtar.
‘Were they?’
‘There were others. She was one among many.’ Was there a note of disapproval in his voice? ‘But their relationship seems to have been particularly intense.’
‘I did not know. For certain,’ he added, not wishing to give too great an impression of ignorance. ‘It was one of the things I wanted to find out.’
The terjiman nodded.
‘And that was all?’
‘All?’
‘You did not wish to find out, for instance, how other sides of Miss Kassim’s activities had been progressing?’
‘Other sides?’
Mukhtar did not expand.
‘No? Good. You were just, as you say, gathering information about Mr Cunningham’s personal life. Well, if I can help, I would be glad to. We are, after all, colleagues, are we not?’
‘We are, and I am most grateful to you for your offer of help. Please let me make it clear that I have no wish at all to intrude on your investigation. Nor to duplicate it. I am sure it will be conducted perfectly satisfactorily. It is just that, since Mr Cunningham was a British citizen, and, indeed, an official of His Majesty’s service, certain enquiries have to be made.’
‘Of course!’
‘There are, too,’ Seymour felt he could add, ‘certain pressures at home in this case.’
Mukhtar smiled broadly.
‘That, too, I can understand. And, as you can imagine, there are also pressures here.’
They both laughed. There was a kind of professional solidarity developing between them.
The terjiman glanced at his watch.
‘I am afraid I must return to the theatre. There are other questions to be asked.’
‘Of course!’
They went back along the tight little street, full now of the smells of people cooking their evening meal. From the smell it appeared that onions were going to figure largely.
‘It is a pity,’ said Mukhtar, ‘about Miss Kassim. I was going to the theatre anyway today to see. There were some questions I wanted to put to her. Like yours,’ he said, smiling, ‘they were about Mr Cunningham. But now I shall not be able to put them.’
‘Sadly, no.’ Seymour thought for a moment. ‘May I ask – does the fact that you were here to ask her some questions about him imply that you see a possible connection between the cases?’
‘Possible? Well, possible, yes. But I have no firm view yet. The questions about Cunningham Effendi are one thing, and Miss Kassim’s death, another. At the moment. All we know so far is that Miss Kassim is dead, apparently murdered.’
‘May I ask how she was killed?’
‘She was strangled. Probably, my colleague, Mr Demeyrel, suggests, with the string of a bow.’
‘Bowstring?’ said Seymour, startled, and with the words of the landau driver still fresh in his mind.
‘Yes. Confirmation will have to wait until he performs his autopsy, because the string is so deeply embedded in the flesh that it is hard to tell with the naked eye. But, clearly, it is a very thin, hair-like cord of some kind, so thin that it is barely visible. Indeed, I myself did not see it until Mr Demeyrel pointed it out to me. He thought it might give an immediate lead to my enquiries.’
‘Well, yes,’ said Seymour, ‘it would.’
‘That is why I have to go back to the theatre. The band should be there now.’
‘Band?’
‘There will be string players among them.’
‘Oh! That kind of bowstring!’
‘Why, yes,’ said Mukhtar puzzled. ‘What kind did you think?’
That bloody landau driver, thought Seymour! With his bowstrings and Fleshmakers!
Squatting on the steps of the theatre was a small, dejected group of men.
‘You are the band?’ asked Mukhtar.
‘To our misfortune, Effendi, we are,’ said one, who appeared to be the leader.
‘Which among you is the kemengeh player?’
‘Oh, my God!’ said one of the musicians despondently. ‘Effendi, it is I.’
‘Your
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