Ragtime in Simla
(Sprache: Englisch)
Simla 1922. While the rest of India bakes in the hot season, up in the pine-scented coolness of the Himalayan hills the English have recreated a vision of home. Here are half-timbered houses, amateur theatricals, gymkhanas and a glittering vice-regal court...
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Simla 1922. While the rest of India bakes in the hot season, up in the pine-scented coolness of the Himalayan hills the English have recreated a vision of home. Here are half-timbered houses, amateur theatricals, gymkhanas and a glittering vice-regal court for the socialites. The summer capital of the British Raj is fizzing with the energy of the jazz age. It is toward this country that detective Joe Sandilands is heading as the guest of the governor of Bengal. But when Joe's travelling companion, a Russian opera singer, is shot dead at his side on the road to Simla, he finds himself plunged into a murder investigation. As Joe begins to unravel the mystery which has its roots in the aftermath of the First World War, he discovers that behind the sparkling facade of Simla lies a trail of murder, vice and blackmail.
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Chapter OneParis, 1919
"Don't stare, Alice, dear!"
Maud Benson (Universal Companions, Foreign and Eastern Travel Division) shot a glance of concentrated disapproval at her latest charge. Her charge remained willfully oblivious and continued to turn her head excitedly, drinking in the strange sounds and bustle of the Gare de Lyon refreshment room, still elegant in spite of four years of wartime neglect.
Alice sighed, and in pursuit of a world-weary image lay back against the buttoned leather upholstery of the banquette. Like the second barrel of a shotgun, inevitably came: "Don't loll, dear!"
Alice continued to loll and turned to her companion with a mutinous expression. Fearing that she might just have gone too far (for the moment), Maud said in a placatory tone, "You need not, Alice, feel obliged to finish your cup of tea. The French really have no idea . . ." The monument of corseted rectitude creaked forward slightly to take up her own cup and, while deploring the dire French habit of putting the water in the pot before the tea leaves, determined, nevertheless, to set a good example. "Always finish what is put in front of you," even if it is a cup of badly brewed tea.
Alice didn't take the hint but continued to stare enviously at the drink in the hand of the Frenchwoman sitting opposite. Frothy and pink, it fizzed seductively in a tall glass and Maud had no doubt, to judge by the appearance of the woman sipping it, that it contained alcohol. To her horror, Alice leaned forward and addressed the woman. In English public school French.
"Excusez-moi, madame, mais qu'est-ce que c'est que cette . . . er . . . boisson?"
"Alice!" hissed Maud, bristling with indignation. "You don't address a perfect stranger! What will she think?"
The woman in question put down the enviable pink drink and, after a moment of well-bred surprise, replied in scarcely accented English and with a charming smile of friendship. "It is called a Campari-soda. Very
... mehr
refreshing and very French." And without pause she turned to a passing waiter and said, "Monsieur, un Campari-soda pour mademoiselle, s'il vous plait!"
Alice's face lit up with a smile of guilty delight. Maud Benson closed her eyes and pursed her lips.
They were only three hundred miles into their journey and Maud shuddered at the thought that there were at least seven thousand more to be survived in the company of this girl. Alice Conyers. Time and again she had warned her charge, "This is France. You're not in Hertfordshire now and the company is very mixed. You should avoid getting involved with strangers. And, above all, avoid a certain type of woman. Yes, woman. One learns to recognize the type. It's easy to connect with such people but not so easy to disconnect. A good rule is 'never talk to strangers.' " She didn't know what more she could have said. And yet . . . "For all the good I've done, I might as well have been playing the flute!"
Discreetly, she palmed a bismuth tablet into her mouth. A martyr to indigestion, she had learned to take this precaution at the first sign of stress.
Maud recalled the briefing her Principal had given her before this assignment had begun. "Out of the top drawer, Miss Benson. Rich family. Best of prospects. Your charge is going out to India where she is to assume the reins of power, it would seem, at the head of the family business--I'm speaking of the great commercial house Imperial and Colonial--at least, half the reins of power since she is, very sensibly, to share that eminence with a second cousin. Sad recent history--deaths in the family--so you must be prepared for a gloomy little companion, I'm afraid."
(Maud felt a little gloom and becoming mourning would be preferred to this ceaseless chatter and frivolous curiosity.)
Alice's face lit up with a smile of guilty delight. Maud Benson closed her eyes and pursed her lips.
They were only three hundred miles into their journey and Maud shuddered at the thought that there were at least seven thousand more to be survived in the company of this girl. Alice Conyers. Time and again she had warned her charge, "This is France. You're not in Hertfordshire now and the company is very mixed. You should avoid getting involved with strangers. And, above all, avoid a certain type of woman. Yes, woman. One learns to recognize the type. It's easy to connect with such people but not so easy to disconnect. A good rule is 'never talk to strangers.' " She didn't know what more she could have said. And yet . . . "For all the good I've done, I might as well have been playing the flute!"
Discreetly, she palmed a bismuth tablet into her mouth. A martyr to indigestion, she had learned to take this precaution at the first sign of stress.
Maud recalled the briefing her Principal had given her before this assignment had begun. "Out of the top drawer, Miss Benson. Rich family. Best of prospects. Your charge is going out to India where she is to assume the reins of power, it would seem, at the head of the family business--I'm speaking of the great commercial house Imperial and Colonial--at least, half the reins of power since she is, very sensibly, to share that eminence with a second cousin. Sad recent history--deaths in the family--so you must be prepared for a gloomy little companion, I'm afraid."
(Maud felt a little gloom and becoming mourning would be preferred to this ceaseless chatter and frivolous curiosity.)
... weniger
Autoren-Porträt von Barbara Cleverly
Barbara Cleverly is the author of nine novels of historical suspense, including The Damascened Blade, winner of the CWA Ellis Peters Historical Dagger Award, The Last Kashmiri Rose, Ragtime in Simla, The Palace Tiger, The Bee s Kiss, Tug of War, An Old Magic and The Tomb of Zeus. She lives in Cambridge, England where she is now at work on the newest Joe Scandilands novel, Folly du Jour.
Bibliographische Angaben
- Autor: Barbara Cleverly
- 2006, 384 Seiten, Maße: 20,777 cm, Kartoniert (TB), Englisch
- Verlag: Bantam Books
- ISBN-10: 0385339720
- ISBN-13: 9780385339728
Sprache:
Englisch
Pressezitat
"Ms. Cleverly deftly transports readers to an exotic locale filled with intrigue, suspense, and characters skilled in the art of deception. This is a perfect travel for historical mystery fans." Booklist "Fully developed characters and a convincing portrayal of time and place lift Cleverly's second historical...the author's talents seems capable of transcending any shift in scene." Publishers Weekly
"The sense of place is exotic, enveloping and superbly depicted. Joe Sandilands second outing is a filling follow his auspicious debut." Contra Costa
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