Lydia kissed Bernadette and we all agreed to walk straight through to dinner, but the happy mood was interrupted when I produced Eleanor Askwith’s leaflet.
‘She’s been feeding the poor again, has she?’ the wife said, rather bitterly. It seemed to me that she resented the amount of time Eleanor Askwith spent among the destitute children of Calcutta – which was not really all that much time. From what I could make out, she gave a few days every year to this effort called the St Dunstan’s Fund. The wife called this ‘Lady Bountiful stuff’. It was a different sort of do-gooding to her own. Lydia was involved with an outfit called the Women’s India Association. She had become an honorary member of that club, in her role as an emissary of the Women’s Co-Operative Guild, Yorkshire division. At these meetings, co-operative credit schemes were discussed (whatever they might be) and plans for the education of Indian females. It seemed to me that these enlightened women had their work cut out, given the approach of India’s religions to women.
We walked through the lobby of the hotel, which was dark but not heavy, the chairs and tables being mainly bamboo, and interspersed with many plants and even small trees in copper pots. There were cushions scattered about the place, but you didn’t get much in the way of upholstery in Calcutta; and the floor was a matter of rugs on bare wood rather than continuous carpet. On the walls were paintings of picturesque Indians looking happier than was needful, given that they were only carrying water pots or beating clothes; and there were dried snake skins hanging from the walls as well.
We were shown to our table by a bearer, who went off to get the menus. The wife called after him what sounded like ‘Shook-ree-yah’, which was Hindustani for ‘thank you’ or so she thought. As we waited for his return, I said, ‘How rich are the Askwiths?’ and both Lydia and Bernadette piped up, for they were very interested in this subject.
‘Their flat is unreal,’ said Bernadette.
‘Parquet flooring throughout,’ said Lydia. ‘And they won’t be renting in the hills. They’ve bought a place up there.’
‘It has a paddock and a pony for Claudine,’ Bernadette added.
‘Is she a good rider?’
‘That’s the queer thing. She doesn’t ride at all. Says it makes your sit-upon too big.’
‘Bernadette!’ That was the wife.
‘I’m only saying’, Bernadette continued, ‘they just don’t know what to do with all their dough.’
‘And how does Askwith get on with Ann’s dad?’
‘Mr Poole’s a lovely man, but he’s a rummy isn’t he? Everyone knows that.’
‘Does he ever talk about his work?’ This was to Bernadette specifically, since she spent more time with the Askwiths.
‘About the railway you mean?’
‘About his particular line of work.’
‘Well, he’s a top box-wallah, isn’t he?’
‘Yes, in traffic.’
‘What’s that, exactly?’
‘Movement of trains. Keeping tabs on the whereabouts of carriages and wagons so they’re always in the right place at the right time, and scheduling them for cleaning and periodic running repairs.’
‘Sounds lethal.’
Chapter Three
I
Early the next morning, I ran into both Askwith and Poole.
I had woken at six in the hotel, and I went down to a chota haziree of anchovy paste on toast and a pot of tea. I took it on the terrace, and even though the heat had started, the teapot was wrapped in a thick, knitted cosy. As I ate, I watched a squad of Indian police doing physical jerks on the maidan.
The wife and Bernadette were still sleeping in our suite of rooms. After dinner the night before, Bernadette had complained of a headache, and Lydia had given her two aspirin, which had sent her off. I reckoned she had been drinking pegs at the dance. Lydia and I had then revolved the idea of lovemaking, but even though Bernadette seemed deeply asleep, she might wake at any moment and walk through the door connecting our room with hers. We had had relations only once since coming to India, and that had been exactly a week before, when Bernadette had stayed overnight with the Askwiths. It had been a perfectly satisfactory ride (at least, I thought so) and we had ended in a bath of sweat.
A bearer brought some more toast, also that morning’s copy of The Statesman. The snakes were all over the paper, whereas the shooting of John Young did not feature and, I believed, had not featured at all, possibly because it had occurred too far ‘up country’. A press communiqué from the East Indian Railway was quoted to the effect that all possible steps were being taken to safeguard passengers. Carriages, especially first class, would be thoroughly inspected by Company personnel when trains were made up, and a reward of five thousand rupees was to be offered in return for information leading to the apprehension of the culprit. But in light of the two further fatalities, the paper asked, ‘How long before the masses will abjure travel on the line?’ (In common parlance, the East Indian Railway was always ‘the line’.)