The two captains applied their shoulders to the door, and each time they crashed home against the woodwork, it opened a little more, inching something heavy and awkward away into the darkened room until there was just enough space for one man to squeeze in.
Morgan drew his pistol, cocked it and thrust his shoulder and chest into the gap, squirming between the door and the jamb.
‘Can you get a lucifer lit, one of you? I can’t see a blind thing.’ Morgan had pushed inside but his eyes were unaccustomed to the dark, and as McGowan scrabbled with another match, he stumbled hard over something on the ground, crashing onto the wooden floor, sending his pistol flying.
‘Goddamn…what filthy mess is this?’ As Morgan pulled himself to his feet he was aware of something wet and gluey that had stuck to the palms when he’d broken his fall. The feel was horrid yet familiar, and as he held his hands up to his unseeing eyes, a match flared behind him, showing him that his fingers, forearms and knees were covered in blood. Indeed, he was standing in a puddle of it, which spread as far as the pool of match-light reached, blackly red.
‘Christ alive!’ Morgan was appalled. ‘Come in quick, you two.’ But as the others barged through the half-opened door, Morgan looked at the bundle on the floor over which he fallen. ‘Careful, there’s a body there…there, just where you’re standing.’ Carmichael had hung back and as McGowan pushed in, he almost tripped over the corpse, as Morgan had.
‘I’ll get the lights going.’ All the bungalows were designed in the same way, and on the wall McGowan quickly found an oil lamp, which he tried to fire. It guttered briefly, shrank from the match and then caught, revealing everything in the room. ‘There, that’s done.’
Other than the heavy chaise-longue that had been used to bar the door, and the lake of blood, things were remarkably orderly. There was no sign of a struggle, but lying just inside the entrance was the body of a young woman. Both arms were pierced with bone-handled carving knives, which pinned her to the floor, whilst a brown satin dress was pulled up around her waist, showing her underwear and a bush of pubic hair between the separate legs of muslin drawers. There was blood on her thighs whilst round her mouth and neck a towel had been wound. Her auburn hair was thrown into chaos, both blue eyes wide open but seeing nothing.
‘God, that’s Kathy Forgett.’ McGowan instantly leant down and pulled her dress back over her bloody knees and ankles, returning a little modesty to her in death.
‘Oh, no…’ Morgan had seen dead women before during the famines back in Skibberean – but those corpses were different – and more dead men killed on the field of battle than he wanted to remember, but nothing like this. He, like the other two, pulled his handkerchief from his pocket and pushed it against his nose and mouth, for there was the most ghastly, foetid stench of blood and abused femininity all about them.
‘If this is what they’ve done to Mrs Forgett, where’s the Thanadar?’ McGowan dreaded the answer to his question, but as the three officers moved from the tiny hall of the bungalow to the sitting room and lit the oil lamp there, the answer was apparent.
‘What the hell’s that in his mouth?’ asked Carmichael.
‘It’s a pig’s tail,’ answered McGowan matter-of-factly.
There was very little blood, for Forgett had been executed with a butcher’s axe. The policeman lay sprawled on the floor. One blow had fallen obliquely across his neck, severing, Morgan guessed, the spinal column and causing almost instant death, and then the horrid little iron spike that backed the axe’s blade had been buried deep in Forgett’s sternum. Lying on his back with his legs folded under him, the chief of police could almost have been laid out ceremonially, and the impression was only underlined by the pink, curly gristle that emerged from his mouth.
‘Aye, that’s what it is.’ Between finger and thumb Morgan delicately pulled the distasteful bit of pork from Forgett’s lolling lips. ‘What does that mean?’
‘Well, at a guess, it’s an allusion to the biting of pig-fat-greased cartridges,’ McGowan volunteered. ‘I told you that Forgett had enemies.’
‘Yes, and we need to get after them.’ Carmichael led the others back to the hall and gestured towards the open kitchen door and the yawning back door beyond, which showed as a black oblong of night air. ‘Look at the trail – that’s the way they’ve gone.’ He indicated some smears of blood on the floor, drew his revolver and led the others back to the hall and towards the open kitchen door.
‘Wait. What on earth’s this…oh!’ McGowan exclaimed, noticing a rolled bundle of curtain cloth close to the woman’s cadaver.
The mainly buff, floral-patterned cotton curtain had been pulled from the pole above the window, that much was obvious, and something wrapped within it had bled into the material, staining it a rusty red.
McGowan pulled the tight-wrapped fabric to one side, revealing a crushed baby’s head, blue and deep purple with bruises and contusions. ‘It’s baby Gwen. They’ve beaten the poor little mite to death.’
Morgan had seen plenty of starvation-dead babies back in Ireland, and one of the servants’ still-born children at Glassdrumman, but nothing like this. The toddler had been deliberately wrapped in the curtain to drown any noise, then, from the look of things, heels had stamped hard on the delicate bones of her head, thumping the skull almost flat, making the grey matter of the infant’s brain ooze from her nostrils and ears.
‘Dear Lord.’ Carmichael was genuinely appalled. ‘Come on, there’s not a second to lose.’
‘Yes, but they’re almost cold.’ McGowan was too squeamish to touch Gwen, but reached down to Kathy Forgett. ‘They’ve been dead for at least a couple of hours.’
But Carmichael wasn’t having any of it and went charging through the house, out of the back door and into the night, towards the sallyport of the fort.
‘Right, I’ve got you, you murderin’ Pandy, you.’ The officer commanding Number One Company had run two hundred yards down the cinder path that led from the married officers’ quarters to the back gate of the fort, and there seized a sentry from the 10th, thrusting his pistol against the forehead of a terrified sepoy.
One minute Sepoy Puran Gee had been quietly standing at ease, belching curried goat, guarding the least used gate of the fort and expecting an agreeably undemanding couple of hours, and the next an angry sahib had come running at him, thrown his rifle to the ground and pushed a steely-cold revolver hard against his head whilst yelling a stream of incomprehensible Angrezi at him. It was bad enough having the Feringees blow his friend Mungal Guddrea to dog meat, without this sort of indignity.
‘For heaven’s sake, Carmichael,’ McGowan exclaimed, running across after him. ‘He’s not your man!’
Carmichael had forced the sepoy to his knees, one hand twisting the soldier’s collar, the other ramming the barrel of the revolver into his temple, a series of jerks causing the man’s cap to fall off and his face to twist in a combination of fright and pain, whilst his hands shot out sideways to steady himself against the officer’s assault.
‘Forgett and his family must have been dead for hours.’ McGowan grabbed Carmichael’s wrist and pistol. ‘Puran came on guard, what…about an hour ago?’ He looked to the soldier for confirmation, but the man was too scared to follow the question in English. ‘Besides, that wasn’t the work of soldiers – not from the Tenth, anyway.’
Carmichael allowed McGowan to push the pistol away from the sentry’s head, and released the hold on Puran’s collar. ‘How can you be sure?’
‘It stands to reason: the Forgetts have been dead since this afternoon, when the whole battalion was being trained by you lot, every man jack accounted for. All ranks are under curfew, either here in the fort or down in the cantonment,