Anthea Dunlop was seated on a floral sofa in a parlour that looked like it had been transported from a tea room in the Lake District, complete with a shelf full of mounted china plates and an embroidered Bible verse, framed and mounted on the wall. The woman was staring into space, making no effort to move the few strands of grey hair that had come loose from the severely tied bun and which hung limply at the side of her face.
I negotiated my way around a doily-covered side table and took a seat opposite her. On a sideboard next to her sat a number of framed photographs, including one of a couple in wedding dress.
‘Mrs Dunlop?’
She looked up. In her hands she clutched a rosary.
‘I’m Captain Wyndham of the Imperial Police Force. I’m sorry for your loss. However, I’m afraid I need to ask you some questions.’
‘I’ve already spoken to the Indian officer,’ she replied.
‘I’m sure you have,’ I said gently, ‘but I’ve been charged with leading the investigation into your husband’s death and, if I may, it would be best if I could hear the details from you first-hand.’
She paused, then nodded. ‘Of course, Captain.’
‘I understand you were the one who found him,’ I said. ‘I’d be grateful if you could tell me what happened in your own words.’
She began turning the rosary over between her fingers.
‘I awoke at around half past six,’ she said quietly, ‘I dressed and made my way down to breakfast at, well, it must have been around a quarter past seven. The maid has instructions to have everything prepared by seven o’clock. Alastair, my husband, was usually in the dining room before me – he’s normally an early riser – but in the run-up to Christmas, he’d secured a week’s leave from work, so when I didn’t see him, I didn’t immediately assume there was anything wrong.’
‘Go on,’ I said.
‘I ate breakfast, and when I’d finished and he still hadn’t appeared, I began to worry that he might have taken ill in the night. Calcutta’s such an awful place … so many infections going about, especially at this time of year.’
It was a curious statement to make, but she was right in part – Calcutta really was a God-awful place, but winter wasn’t its worst season. You were far more likely to contract something terminal in the monsoon than you were in December. But it was a moot point. Alastair Dunlop hadn’t been killed by cholera or dysentery but most likely by a bloody great knife through the chest.
‘I went upstairs and knocked on his door,’ she said. ‘He didn’t reply, so I knocked louder and called out to him. It was only when I entered the room and found …’
She reached for a handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes.
‘He was just lying there … his face … disfigured …’
I suddenly regretted having sent Surrender-not out to examine the foot of the drainpipe. He may still have had a problem talking to women his own age, but to the surprise of both of us, we’d discovered that he had a gift for talking to older women, especially the English ones. God only knows what they saw in him, but part of me suspected it was novelty value. A little Indian chap who spoke with a public-school accent – there weren’t many of those in the police force. In his absence though, it seemed best just to plough on.
‘When was the last time you saw your husband alive, Mrs Dunlop?’ I asked, as considerately as it was possible to do of a freshly widowed woman.
‘Last night,’ she said. ‘It must have been around half past nine. We’d returned from dinner at the house of one of my husband’s colleagues. That was down in Alipore.’
‘What did your husband do?’ I asked.
‘He was a director at the School of Tropical Medicine.’
‘A doctor?’
‘He was a scientist,’ she replied tersely. ‘He’d never taken the Hippocratic oath.’
There was a knock on the door and Surrender-not entered. He smiled at Mrs Dunlop, gave me a nod.
‘Come in and take a seat, Sergeant,’ I said, gesturing him to the sofa beside her. ‘Did you hear anything untoward during the night?’ I continued. ‘Any unusual noises?’
‘Not that I can recall,’ she replied hesitantly, ‘but I’d taken a sleeping draught – I have done for several years now.’ She glanced at the photos on the sideboard and started sobbing.
I looked over meaningfully at Surrender-not.
‘May I fetch you a glass of water, Mrs Dunlop?’ he asked softly.
She looked up, the streaks of tears running down her dry cheeks. ‘Most kind of you to ask, but please don’t worry. I’m fine.’
I waited till she’d composed herself.
‘Was there anyone else beside you in the house last night?’
‘Our maid, Neri, of course, and the cook, Bhakti, but they had both retired to bed by the time Alastair and I had come home. I doubt they’d have heard anything.’
‘Have you any idea why someone might wish to harm your husband?’ I asked.
‘I’m sorry?’ Her forehead creased in confusion like a concertina, or was it alarm?
‘I’m trying to understand why someone would choose to break into your house in the middle of the night and commit murder.’ I pointed to the surroundings. ‘Unless you tell me otherwise, this doesn’t look like a burglary to me.’
‘I don’t know if anything has been stolen,’ she snapped. ‘My husband has been murdered. You’ll forgive me for not having carried out an inventory of the contents of the house.’
I decided to temper my questions.
‘How long had you been married, Mrs Dunlop?’
‘Almost twenty-five years,’ she said. ‘We met at Oxford. Alastair was doing post-doctoral research into the transmission of airborne diseases and I was studying divinity. Of course, women weren’t allowed to graduate in those days, but we were permitted to attend the lectures and sit for the examinations. We were introduced at the home of one of his professors. He took rather a shine to me.’
I scanned the photographs on the sideboard. Other than the one of the happy couple on their wedding day, there didn’t appear to be another of Alastair Dunlop.
‘Do you have a recent photograph of your husband?’ I asked. ‘It may help with our inquiries.’
‘There may be one in his study,’ she said. ‘I can take a look for you.’
‘That would be very good of you,’ I said.
‘Is there anything else?’
‘We have some questions for your domestic staff, but I may wish to talk to you further.’
A trace of something passed across her face and was gone in an instant.
I watched as she rose, stowed her rosary and walked slowly towards the door, and all the while I wondered what that look had meant.