THE ADAMSON CASE

Sun (Auckland), Volume III, Issue 810, 2 November 1929, Page 28

THE ADAMSON CASE

A SHORT STORY

- By

Col. G. R. Cassels.

A LONG time ago—longer, perhaps, than I care to remember—l wf,s a subaltern in the 40th Cavalry, and we were then quartered at Lajanpur, a small station on the north-west frontier of India. There was only a small garrison in T,ajanpur—just an Indian Infantry Battalion and a Mountain Battery besides my own regiment. We all belonged to the station mess, and naturally we all knew each other very intimately. In a small cantonment like Lajanpur you soon size people up find out who you like and who you don t like. My great pal was Dennis Jaffray—a subaltern in my own regiment about my own age, 28, and we shared a small bungalow together. One of the men we neither of us liked fit all—and I think most people shared our feelings—was a Captain Hugo Adamson, of the 41st Punjabis. In fact. Adamson was extraordinarily unpopular. He was a dark, sinister-look-ing sort of chap, with a supercilious manner and a nasty temper, and he was always falling foul of someone. I remember particularly one row Jaffray had with him that hot weather. It was on the polo ground, and one of Adamson's ponies was cutting it a bit —or at least he thought so. He galloped to the side of the ground, jumped off, and proceeded to lambaste the poor brute nearly to death with his cutting whip. Jaffray, who hated to see any animal ill-treated, told him exactly what he thought of him, hot words passed between them, and they were barely on speaking terms aftcrIt was in November that the trouble began. Besides the soldiers there were a few civilians in the station, and among them was an oldish fellow called Dalrymple—in the Public Works Department. He was a. harmless sort, of individual, but led by the nose by his wife, who was a Tegular “old soldier.” In the beginning of November the Dalrymples imported a daughter from home. Marjorie Dalrymple came as a surprise to us all. No one could understand how the Dalrymples came to have such a daughter. She was charming in every way, young, vivacious and extremely pretty. She had obviously been to a very good school, and was intelligent and well-read. In a small place like Lajanpur where there were very few married women, and only one or two girls, her arrival naturally caused something of a stir, especially among the bachelors. A good many fellows rather lost their heads about her, but soon it became evident that only two were seriously in the running—Adamson and Jaffray. It was also pretty clear that while the girl was flattered and pleased by Adamson's attentions—as a rule he avoided all women—she seemed happiest whefi with Jaffray. Well, for a month or so we all looked on and wondered, and then one day Mrs. Dalrymple announced at the club that her daughter was engaged to Hugo Adamson. There had been no doubt all along which of tho two men found most favour in Mrs. Dalrymple’s eyes, for. while poor Jaffray hadn’t a sixpence besides his pay, It was common knowledge that Adamson had considerable private means. We often wondered why he had joined the Indian Army when he was obviously so well off, but the popular belief was that he must have joined it because his British regiment preferred his room to his company.

I remember so well the evening when the engagement was given out. I had gone back to my bungalow early from the club, and was watching the ponies at their evening feed when Jaffray rode into the compound. I went up to him as he got off his pony, and I shall never forget the rage and misery which I saw In his face. “You’ve heard it, I suppose?” he burst out. “Did you ever hear anything so outrageous in your life—a girl like that, and that d d fellow Adamson. Of course, she doesn’t care twopence about him and her people have forced her into it—or rather her mother has. A brute like Adamson—a man shooting’s too good for.” "I’ve heard of it,” I said, “and I’m very sorry. It seems to me that a girl like Miss Dalrymple is utterly thrown away on a fellow like Adamson. She’s far too good for him in

every way. But perhaps she doesn’t think so, and if she’s happy I suppose that’s what really matters.” “Yes,” he muttered, “if she’s happy—that’s just the point, but I’m d d well certain she’s not.” “She ought to know best,” I answered, “and I hope she does. But look here, old chap, it’s all right your talking like this to me, and I know how you feel about it and I’m most infernally sorry, but go a hit slow talking to other people, won’t you?” “You're right, of course,” he replied, “and I’ll try to keep a tight hold on myself, but it’s not easy, George. When I think—oh, the thing’s intolerable,” and with that he broke away from me and went into the bungalow. The wedding was fixed for the second week in January—Mrs. Dalrymple was no believer in long engagements and the weeks which followed were rather worrying ones for me. I was very fond of Jaffray, and I hated to see how knocked he was over the whole business. He was never in good spirits now, and, although he still played polo regularly, he kept very much to himself at other times, evidently brooding over his trouble in a way which wasn't at all good for him. I did my best to try and draw him out of himself. I urged him to take leave or to come out. shooting, but my efforts were useless. Then he took to a habit I didn't like at all. He used to leave the mess directly after dinner, go back to the bungalow, change into mufti, and then go out for long walks, coming home at any hour of the night. And there was another thing which I liked still less, and this was that, on these noctural rambles, he always used to carry a revolver with him. It was true that at one time when things were unsettled on the frontier there had been an order that we were to carry revolvers after dark, but that rule had been cancelled for some time. I tried to chaff him out of this habit, but without success. He merely said, "Oh, you never know what you may bump up against when you’re out at night by yourself. It’s just as well to be ready for anything.” I didn't like it, for I was always in dread that he might come across Adamson some time, and if he did I wasn’t quite sure what might happen. There were other things which made me think a bit, too. While Mrs. Dalrymple continued blatantly pleased about the engagement and was constantly talking about “my future son-in-law.” I, who had watched closely, noticed that there was a forced gaiety about Marjorie, especially when she was with Adamson, and that, when one caught her off her guard, she often looked listless and unhappy. I wasn't the only one who noticed this either. ’As for Adamson, he was, if anything, more supercilious and offensive than ever.

Well, things went on in this way until the first week in January. Then one night when, as usual, Jaffray had gone off on one of his walks, I happened to be sitting up late in the bungalow. I was working hard for the staff college, then, and used to put in a good deal about half-past twelve when I heard Jaffray coming up the steps into the verandah. I called out to him, and at first ho seemed inclined to take no notice, and made off toward his own room, but then he changed his ifiind and came across to mine. Glancing at him I was startled to see how worn out and white he looked. His shoes and flannels were covered with dust, and he seemed dog-tired. “Have you been a long way tonight, Dennis?” I said. “You look as though you had.” “Oh, not farther than usual,” he answered, sinking wearily into an armchair. ‘Where did you go?” I asked, more for something to say than anything else. “What does that matter?” he replied dully. “Here, there, and everywhere —it's all the same to me.” At that moment I looked up through the window in front of my writingtable and saw a light coming up the

! drive—a bicycle evidently. The light i moved very slowly and wobbled, as though the rider was having trouble j with his machine. j “Is that you, Daubeney?” called | out a voice which I recognised as j Maynard’s—he was our adjutant, j “Yes,” I said. “Come in.” May-nard propped up his bicycle 1 against a large flower-pot which stood i on the drive, ran quickly up the steps | of the verandah, and hurried into my j room. I saw at once from his face that something was wrong. "Daubeney,” he said quickly, “ a dreadful thing has happened. Adamsons been murdered!” “Good God!” I cried. “How awful! How did it happen?” “I don’t know. Some of us had been playing pool late in the mess, and the doctor and I were going home together, when we came across Adamson lying in the road just near his bungalow. He was dead —shot clean through the heart.” “What a ghastly business!” I exclaimed. “Have you any idea who did it? Did you see anyone about?” “No,” he answered. "There wasn’t a soul there and everything was quite quiet. I left the doctor with him—not that he can do anything for him now, poor chap—but we thought one of us had better stop there till we could get hold of the police. I’m on my way now, but my bilte punctured just outside your bungalow, so I came in to see if you would lend me yours. I ought to get on as quick as I can, for after warning the police I must let our coloned know, as he is O.C. station, and then go on to the Punjabis.” “Of course you can have my bicycle, I said. “Is there anything i can do?” “I don’t think so, thanks,” he replied. “I’ll be off now.” He turned to leave the room, and for the first time saw Jaffray, who had remained sitting quite still and had made no attempt to join in the conversation. “Hallo, Jaffray,” he said. “I didn’t see you before. Why—where on earth have you been?” lie added, looking curiously at his clothes. "Just for a walk,” said Jaffray. ’ And do you always carry that with you when you go out for a walk?” asked the other, poiuting at Jaffray’s revolver, which was sticking out of the pocket of his coat. . . y p s - when I go out at night,” rejoined Jaffray coolly. “Oh!” said Maynard. There was an awkward pause, and then without another word he went out quickly For a moment neither of us spoke. I looked at Jaffray. lie seemed whiter than ever. “What do you make of It?” I asked “I don’t know what to make of it,” he answered slowly; “nor does anyone else yet, I suppose—but anywav someone has done the world a good turn.” “Oh, come,” I exclaimed, "that’s a pretty beastly thing to say, whatever you may think.” , don t care,” he said sullenly. Id say it to anyone. I’m going to turn in. Good-night.” After he had left me I sat at my desk lor some time. I must own I felt a bit stunned. It was the first time in my life that I had ever seen tragedy at close quarters, and I must own I didn’t like it—for many reasons. However, there was nothing to be done, and it was no use sitting up any V ° 1 If er ’, so 1 111 my turll soon followed Jaffray s example and -went to bed. That night I soon fell asleep, as I was pretty tired. How long I had been asleep I don’t know, but I tvas awakened with a start by the sound of someone talking in Jaffray’s room —someone talking quickly—but yet with pauses—in a sort of monotone. I could hear very distinctly, as the door between our rooms was open. At first, half awake, I wondered stupidly who on earth could be talking to Jaffray in the middle of the night, and then I realised that onlyone person was talking, and that that person was Jaffray himself. Yes, I m glad I met you. I’ve wanted to talk with you for some time. But it is my business—the business of anyone with any decent feelings. I tell you, Adamson, she doesn t care for you-—she never has cared for you. it’s her mother’s

doing entirely'. No. If you’ll only give her up I swear on my oath I’ll never ask her to marry' me. All I want is that she shall be happy'. No. She’s not. She’s miserable, I tell you, miserable. I know it. She’s told me so. And if she marries you she’ll he miserable all her life. Can’t y'ou let her go? You surely can’t want to marry lier now. Oh, you brute—you brute. Once more, will y'ou give her up? I’ll give you one more chance. No — stand still—l’ve got you covered. If y'ou move I’ll fire at once. I’ll count six. Tf you don’t promise to give her up before I say ‘six’ I’ll shoot you as you stand. Do you understand? One—two—three —four —five—six. Oh, my God, I didn’t realise it would be be as bad as that. Yes; X must look. Ah —dead —quite dead —Marjorie, my darling, you’re safe now. But I must be quick—quick—and then carry on as though nothing had happened. Where’s that empty case? Ah; that’s it. Now, quick, quick,” and the voice just trailed away into incoherent mumblings; then stopped altogether, and aIL I heard was tile sound of Jaffray’s deep breathing.

I lay awake aghast. Perhaps I ought to have wakened him up directly he began talking, but I was so taken aback that I hardly had any wits about me, and he talked pretty quickly'. I spent a miserable night try'ing to think what I ought to do. As far as I can remember I did not sleep at all. But one thing was quite clear in my mind, and that was that I simply must make Jaffray account to me for his movements from the time when he left the mess. I went to him the first thing next morning. He looked much fitter than usual, and not nearly so depressed. I tackled him at once. “Look here, Dennis,” I said, “do you mind telling me where you went last night after mess?” "I’ni sorry', George,” he answered, "but l can’t tell you that.” “Why not?” T demanded. “That’s my business and no one else’s,” he rejoined; and, although he was quite quiet and good-tempered about it, I could get nothing further out of him, nor was I any more successful when I tried again—more than once. As long as I live I shall never forget the next few day's. The police were busy making their inquiries into the case, blit naturally they w'ere not prepared to talk about it. Everyone else in the place, of course, was talking about it. I knew that, but I noticed that few people spoke of it to me, and that if I came upon a group of fellows talking, the esnversation seemed to drop at once on my approach. I also noticed that men began to avoid Jaffray', and I began to wonder what was in their minds and what Maynard thought, and whether he had said or hinted anything about the possibility of Jaffray being mixed up in the case. I wondered, too, what he would have done if he had heard Jaffray talking as I had that night. At last I could stand it no longer, and I made up my mind to go to my Colonel and tell him all I knew. Colonel Johnson -was a man we all felt we could go to when in any difficulty or trouble.

He was one of those CbO.’s about whom his officers knew that he was not only their commanding officer, but also their best friend, and he had helped many a man out of a hole. 1 was lucky in finding him in his bungalow, and it was not long before he knew all I had to tell him. He heard me out without interruption, thought a bit, and then said quietly;—1 m sorry for y'ou, Daubeney'; you've been placed in a very difficult position, and you’ve been through a bad time, but you were certainly right to come to me. And you’re right in another thing, too. It’s absolutely essential for Jaffray to account for his movements that night, and as soon as possible, and I’m going to send for him now and tackle him about it. If he refuses to say where he was I shall have to tell him what you heard, although I’d much rather not. It may make him speak out, if he won’t otherwise. Mind you, I don’t think that talk in his sleep should count against him much, even in our own minds. He may merely have been overwrought, and dreams are queer things which no one can explain. I’ll send for him now.” -Do you want me to stop, sir?” I asked. I m sorry, but I’m afraid you must ” he said, gravely. The Colonel called for his orderly', and told him to go and tell Jaffray sahib that ho wanted to see him at once. The man had hardly left the room ■nhen we heard the sound of a dogcart, coming up the drive, and the in°g 0 U l ' S bearer opened the door, say- " The Deputy-Commissioner Sahib lias come, your Honour, and wishes to see you at once.” “Very good, Roshan Khan,” said colonel Johnson, “give mj r salaams to tne Deputy-Commissioner Sahib,” Wilkinson the D.C. came in quickly, shook hands with the Colonel, and nodded to me. “I came over at once, sir,” he said to tell you that I have just heard from the Deputy-Superintendent of 1 olice that they know who murdered Adamson.” “les?” said the Colonel quietly, but though he spoke quietly I saw his c ’ ench on the arm of his chair. Mho did it?” “Adamson was murdered by his servant. Mahomed Zaman.” “By' his servant?” exclaimed the Colonel. “Good heavens! I’ve never heard of such a thing in all my service. “It isn’t so extraordinary when one comes to look into it. - Mahomed Zaman was a Pathan you know, and Pathan servants won’t stand things which other servants will put up with. It appears that Adamson habitually' ill-used this man, so that the fellow got hold of bis master’s revolver somehow and just lay up for him. The police had an idea of something like this from the first, and there was an actual ey'e-witness, but it alway's takes some time for them to screw the evidence out of native witnesses. They have their own methods, you know,” he added, a little grimly'. “Well.” said the Colonel, “I’m glad it’s all cleared up now. and I am verygrateful to you for letting me know so promptly.” Colonel Johnson saw his visitor out, and then came hack to me. “Thank God for that, Daubeney,” he said, as he threw himself into a long chair. Six months later Jaffrey married Marjorie Dalrymple. I have kept up With them ever since, and I think I I have rarely known two people more completely wrapped up in each other. Their happiness, perhaps, has been j intensified by- the remembrance of ' how they so nearly missed the chance ! of it—that winter in Lajanpur so j many years ago. —From the "Australasian.”