Night Train to Jamalpur(40)

I sent a runner to say I would be there.


IV

The service of evensong at St Paul’s Cathedral was not short. As on my visits with Lydia to York Minster, I marvelled at the way the choir managed to make the Magnificat – nine short lines on paper – last a quarter of an hour. The cathedral was white and cool. The congregation was black and white, mainly the latter. The presiding vicar – not Peter Selwyn – was white. A curious feature of the cathedral was that it was full of bright green birds. As the congregation took its place they had been swooping about all over, and I somehow thought they would be well-mannered enough to stop when the service began, but they did not, and their swoops became ever more daringly low over the vicar’s bald head. He ignored them; everyone ignored them except me. I spotted Selwyn halfway through the service. He looked slightly bored, and was fiddling with the silver crucifix on a long chain around his neck. I walked up to him in the cathedral compound after the service. We shook hands, and he asked whether I had enjoyed the service. I said I had enjoyed the birds: ‘I thought they were beautiful.’

‘And you mean the Reverend Fuller is not?’

On his home ground, the fellow was more like his true self. He had it all laid on here. Close at hand were all the best things in Calcutta: the cathedral, the Victoria Memorial, the maidan . . . and the bar of the Bengal Club. This was a stately place of wicker sofas, potted palms, and flitting, white-turbanned bearers. The chiming of several clocks harmonised pleasantly with the tinkling of glasses as the pegs were served. Selwyn knew our white-turbanned bearer very well, and seemed on the best of terms with him. He took his whisky with soda and ice, which was not considered good form in India – only water was meant to be added. Selwyn said, ‘They say ice spoils the taste of the whisky, but then I don’t much care for the taste of whisky.’ He leant forwards, ‘Left entirely to my own devices, I’d have it with lemonade.’

We sat back.

I asked, ‘What exactly is a canon?’

‘Well, first of all, it is spelt c-a-n-o-n, not two ns in the middle, yes?’ I nodded, sipping my drink. ‘It’s just that you sent your chit confirming this appointment to “honorary c-a-n-n-o-n Peter Selwyn”.’

‘Thanks for pointing that out,’ I said. ‘I’ll know next time.’

‘I think perhaps there had better not be a next time. Nothing against you personally Captain Stringer, but we don’t want to seem to be conspiring.’

‘Conspiring about what?’

‘Well, I don’t think there’s any point having a conspiracy unless it’s against someone.’ He was grinning. ‘I refer to your peculiar friend Fisher. He never comes here, does he?’ he added, looking about.

I shook my head. ‘His club is the Tollygunge. For the golf.’

‘How grotesque.’

‘He’s only a temporary member.’

‘Yes, because he would certainly be blackballed if he applied to become a full one. There is a vestige of civilisation, even among the committee men of the Tolly.’

Selwyn was now signalling to his friend for another peg. ‘I’m essentially a half-retired vicar with certain administrative duties in the cathedral chapter. I still do the odd bit of preaching . . .’

‘Which is why you were on the train to Jamalpur Junction.’

‘. . . Which is what I want to talk to you about. I formed the impression you didn’t quite see eye to eye with Major Fisher even though he’s a colleague of yours, and I thought you might like to know about something I saw when the train was at stand and everybody was wandering about in the flipping desert.’

‘I would.’

‘It’s very simple. Fisher had something in his hand; he dropped it into the dirt, and kicked some more dirt over it. After he was so rude to me, I was naturally very keen to catch him in some indiscretion – anything would have done really, but ideally something that implicated him in the crime . . .’

‘And would get him hanged.’

‘Well . . . no. Something that would embarrass him, I suppose, because I don’t think he could really have shot the poor man, do you?’

‘I don’t know. I certainly don’t see why he would. I don’t think John Young had an enemy in the world, except possibly . . .’

‘Who?’

‘It doesn’t matter. But what did Fisher drop?’

‘When he’d moved away, I went over to see if I could find out, but perhaps I’d misjudged where he dropped it . . . Anyway, I could find nothing, and by now he was watching me.’

‘Do you think he knew you’d seen him drop it? Whatever it was?’