Free Death in Kashmir by M. M. Kaye Page A

nickname!’
    Janet burst out laughing and looked at once younger and less anxious. ‘Helen, I suppose! Where is she?’
    â€˜Having her skis waxed next door.’
    â€˜I thought I heard female voices from the men’s side as we came through. All most reprehensible!’
    â€˜Ssh!’ warned Sarah. ‘Here comes your little chum.’ But it was not Helen Warrender who pushed open the door and entered, but Meril Forbes: a colourless young woman in every meaning of the word, who despite an over-abundance of freckles might have been quite pretty had it not been for the hunted expression she habitually wore. Meril had the misfortune to be an orphan and to possess, as her sole relative and guardian, an elderly and autocratic aunt who lived more or less permanently in Kashmir. If she had ever possessed any character or will of her own, it had long ago been submerged in the strong waters of her aunt’s personality, for Lady Candera was one of those domineering old ladies who employ outspokenness to the point of rudeness as a form of social power politics, and are feared and deferred to in consequence.
    â€˜Hello, Meril,’ said Janet, sitting down on the floor before the stove, and tugging off her boots. ‘Glad to see you were able to come up for the meeting after all. I thought I heard something of your not being able to make it. What happened? Aunt Ena suffer a change of heart?’
    Meril’s face flushed faintly under its powdering of freckles. ‘Something like that,’ she admitted. ‘First she said she wouldn’t hear of it, and then suddenly she told me I could go.’
    â€˜If I were you, I’d take a chopper to the old pest,’ advised Janet candidly. ‘No jury would convict. You’ve got a sweet, kind nature, Meril; that’s your trouble. What you need is to get roaring drunk and recite the Declaration of Independence to your aged aunt.’
    Meril Forbes smiled wanly. ‘She’s been very good to me on the whole, you know. I mean, if it hadn’t been for her, I should have had nobody. She’s done a lot for me.’
    â€˜Oh well,’ said Janet, getting up, ‘as long as you feel like that about it. What do you suppose there is for supper? I’ve had nothing but some sandwiches since breakfast.’
    â€˜I can tell you,’ said Fudge, with some satisfaction: ‘Mutton broth and stew. Both good—I made ’em. Lots of coffee—me again. And lemon cheese-cakes sent up by the hotel. What do you suppose I’ve been doing while you three were frivolling around the snow-slopes with your boy-friends? Cooking the supper—that’s wot!’
    â€˜Bless you. I had visions of having to do it myself. Let’s go and knock the stuffing out of it without delay.’
    The remainder of the party were already gathered about the stove in the living-room, sipping cautiously at a weird concoction of hot rum, lemon, and various other mysterious ingredients procured and manufactured by Johnnie Warrender.
    â€˜Ah— les girls!’ exclaimed Johnnie, waving a steaming glass. ‘Come and try a snort of this, darlings. Just the thing to keep out the cold. A “Hell’s Belle”—that’s what they’re called. Jolly good name, too, hell’s bells!’ He laughed uproariously. It was evident that Johnnie was already ‘well on the way’—a not unusual condition for him. Sarah accepted a glass and retired with it to the farther end of the room where she sat sipping it gingerly and observing her fellow-guests with interest; in particular, Johnnie’s wife, Helen, who was talking to Mir Khan and Reggie Craddock.
    The other women in the party were wearing slacks and woollen pullovers, as were the men. But Helen Warrender, alone of the party, had brought a more exotic change of clothes for the occasion: a smartly draped wool dress, low-necked and short-sleeved, in a vivid