Night Train to Jamalpur(16)

Through the window slats, the dusty ground was a dazzling yellow. It was as if we were riding across the surface of the sun itself. I thought about Fisher. Which Calcutta hotel was he booked into? What, come to that, was his first name? Hang on, I did know that. I’d seen it on a chit delivered to him at the office: Noel. But therein lay another mystery. What had the chit said? I would have given fortunes to read it, since it was written in a very elegant hand. Was it to do with our investigations? I did not believe so. Perhaps it had been an invitation. Fisher, a single man in a city of dances and parties, must have had a social life of some sort, but to the best of my knowledge, the only club he belonged to was the Tollygunge, on the southern edge of town, which was famous for its golf course. I believed Fisher was good at golf. It was one of the subjects he would read books about, together with the Hindustani language and odd aspects of railway engineering.

I leant forward and said to Fisher, ‘When you play golf at the Tolly, who do you play?’

‘Generally go round alone,’ he muttered, from behind his magazine.

‘What’s the sub?’ I said. ‘Twenty quid a year, I’ve heard.’

‘Don’t make me laugh.’

Well, there wasn’t much chance of that.

I sat back; a golden flash came through the window. I closed my eyes against it, and the syncopation of the carriage put me into a short dream. I saw Indian trains coming up with the sunrise. I saw myself in a compartment, pointing a pistol at the head of John Young. How dare he drain Loch Lomond? The gun went off, and the watch-and-ward men were in the compartment doorway: ‘You are committing nuisance! It is strictly prohibited!’ A moment later, that train compartment was a cell in the Alipore Jail and Fisher was pacing about outside. I heard him shouting, ‘Get in there and watch that bugger!’ But I wasn’t bothered about Fisher; there was something called an electric rope on the floor of the cell, and I knew that at any minute, it would turn into a king cobra.

I awoke with alarm. I had not meant to sleep in the presence of Fisher. It was the noise of our compartment door being dragged open that had roused me. The train was hurtling along, and my sola topee was rolling quickly back and forth on the luggage rack. In the doorway stood a ticket checker, a European. He was staring at Fisher.

‘Recognise me?

Fisher put down his reading and eyed the man. ‘You’re a ticket inspector.’

‘Chief Ticket Inspector . . . Many countries but one empire!’

Fisher continued to eye the man.

‘Why, it’s the slogan of the Boys’ Empire League!’ said the ticket man. ‘We’re comrades, the pair of us . . . animated by that noble spirit of fair play that commands the respect of the world.’

After eyeing him for a little longer, Fisher said, ‘Are you going to inspect our tickets or not?’

‘You didn’t recognise me,’ said the ticket inspector. ‘But I recognise you. It’s Noel, isn’t it? Noel Fisher. I’m Tommy Melrose! From the Peckham branch! Do you remember Bill Barclay? He’s living on Lake Tanganyika. In a boat! And Dickie Watson? He’s farming in New South Wales. You wouldn’t believe how many sheep he’s got. He doesn’t even know himself. Only trouble is, it’s mutton for breakfast, mutton for luncheon, mutton for . . .’

Fisher had removed his authority to travel from his pocket book. He passed it towards the ticket inspector. ‘Warrant card for temporary staff,’ he said, ‘I think you’ll find it in order. He has one the same,’ he added, indicating me. The ticket inspector took the document.

‘Major Fisher, is it?’ he said, ‘. . . and travelling in first class. By the way, I hope you’ve checked this compartment for snakes?’ He attempted a laugh, but it was difficult under the weight of Fisher’s stare. He handed back the warrant card. ‘I always knew you’d get on. What are you doing out here?’

‘Never you mind.’

‘Hush-hush, is it? You really don’t remember me?

‘I do, yes.’

‘Thank God for that. Thought I was going crackers for a minute.’

The ticket man turned to me. ‘Always the man of mystery, was Noel. He once said to me that he meant to come out east and make a fortune, but when I asked how, he wouldn’t let on. You don’t hear much about the old BEL these days. Half a dozen of us founded the Peckham Branch; we had a concert – raised five pounds. The Mayor gave the vote of thanks, wished us every success . . .’

Fisher was staring out the window at passing palm trees. It was strange to hear the cockney voice in conjunction with those.