Night Train to Jamalpur(37)

‘Yes, that fits the bill.’

Had any such outfit been found among the possessions of John Young’s son, Anthony? A search of his house might have accounted for the agitation he had shown at the Institute. It should be simplicity itself to find out whether Anthony Young had been on duty as a ticket inspector on the night of the murder, and if so where. Should I let on about my encounter with the lad? I decided against. I was not meant to be investigating. And for all Khudayar Khan’s interest in Young, I felt I would be lucky not to graduate to the position of suspect myself, in which case I should not be seen to be throwing blame elsewhere. Nor would I mention my suspicion that I had been the intended target. Khan would think that self-important of me, and he would think me incompetent for losing the file. But it was as though he read the drift of my thoughts.

‘You are on a railway Commission of Enquiry, or something,’ he said, and I started in on an explanation of my work, which he cut off halfway through, saying, ‘This whole country needs a Commission of Enquiry.’

Not quite the remark of a fully paid-up loyalist, I thought.





Chapter Five



I

The next day was Friday. The thermometer was nudging the ton, but most of the senior railway police at Fairlie Place were ‘gate-happy’, being about to leave for Darjeeling and the hills.

That morning, Superintendent Bennett went into a conference with two of his detectives about the snakes. The news was all over the police office. Overnight another common krait had been found in a first class sleeping compartment of the night train from Howrah to Moghalsarai. Moghalsarai was on the main line, the Grand Chord, from where passengers changed to the branch for Benares, that city full of Hindu temples (and factories). Moghalsarai was a long way out, about three hundred miles. The snake had been under one of the two lower berths; it had been discovered in the middle of the night, and beaten to death with a cane by a man called Watkins who was the chairman of Blakeborough & Sons, hydraulic engineers of Calcutta. The other men in the compartment were from the same outfit; their trip had been made in relation to a contract with the Railway. I had heard that, after leaving Howrah, the train had made two stops on its journey to Moghalsarai, but I did not know where.

A communiqué had been out to say the reward was being increased from five to ten thousand rupees. Immediately before he went in to the conference, I had collared Bennett and told him of my experiences among the snake men of Howrah. Bennett had heard me out politely, but had not taken a note, and when I finished, he said, ‘This snake charmers’ uncle . . . don’t you think he sounds rather mythological?’

‘He might hold the key,’ I said.

‘The key to losing another twenty-five rupees, would that be?’ Bennett said, lighting his pipe. I nearly asked whether the common krait was not becoming rather too common on the trains of the East Indian Railway. I was becoming rather sick of Bennett. His charm had worn thin, and who was St bloody Julien anyway?

I said, ‘You have a few leads of your own, I suppose, sir?’

‘I’d rather not say just now, Jim.’

All this enigmatical stuff wouldn’t wash. It stood to reason that if he was closing in on the culprit, he wouldn’t have increased the bloody reward.

An hour later I was looking over some papers in the office when I heard – by the banging of some doors – that Fisher himself had pitched up. A little while later I heard muffled shouting, followed by Jogendra Babu’s raised voice: ‘Fisher sahib, kindly shut up!’ A door opened, and now the voices were clearer. Fisher said, ‘Any more of that, pal, and you’ll be out on your bloody ear.’

‘As for rudeness,’ Jogendra Babu said, ‘I recommend to read your own Bible, and story of mote and beam.’

‘Yes,’ said Fisher, ‘I’ll go off and read it now. Nothing I like more than thumbing through the bloody Old Testament.’

‘Parable of mote and beam is in New Testament.’

The gloves were off between these two. Another door was slammed, then another; then Fisher came into our office with papers under his arm. He sat down, lit one of his Trichinopoly cigars, and began leafing through the papers. After a while, I said, ‘You saw Khan yesterday in the Writers’ Building?’

Fisher nodded.

‘Me too. What did you make of him?’

‘Typical bloody Indian, wasn’t he? Trying to blame Europeans for everything that goes wrong in his bloody country.’

‘He tried to blame you?’

‘Wanted to know why I thought it was dacoits. I said, “How about this? They were known to target that stretch of line. The thing had all their hallmarks, and we saw one of them clearing off on his horse.”’