Night Train to Jamalpur(41)

‘Possibly.’

‘Well,’ I said, ‘what do you think it was?’

‘I think it was some sort of canister, a silvery metallic tube. That mean anything to you?’

‘Not immediately, no. What size was it?’

‘Perhaps six inches long . . . half an inch in diameter.’

‘You’re sure he was hiding it? Not just throwing away some bit of flotsam.’

‘Pretty sure he was hiding it.’

‘And you never mentioned it in your statement?’

‘When that statement was being taken down at Jamalpur, he was sitting about six feet away. Anyway, I’ve said my piece now; I shan’t do any more about it.’

I said, ‘Have you been interviewed by an Inspector Khan of the C.I.D.?’

‘Who?’

He had not, then.

We discussed the shooting for a little longer; we then moved on to the snakes. Selwyn said that suspicion must fall on a railwayman, somebody who often rode on the network, or at least knew it very well. I told him something of my encounter with the snake men of Howrah, in company with Deo Rana.

‘Snakes – nagas – are symbolically important to the Hindus,’ Selwyn told me. ‘Of course you know Lord Shiva wears a cobra around his neck.’

‘I did not know that.’

‘And of course you know that the serpent, Shesha, is the king of all nagas. Lord Vishnu rests on him.’

‘Is that so?’

‘All around Calcutta, you will see the manasa tree, sacred to the little goddess of that name. She’s the sister of Vasuki, king of all the serpents.’

‘Really?’

‘It gives protection to the planter from snake bites. It’s a horrible-looking thing really, a sort of springwort. The branches appear dead at the lower levels, where you’ll see a crudely carved figure of the goddess.’

That was a turn up. Surely I’d just seen such a half-dead bush at the Insty? Two of them, in fact. But there had been no carved figure beneath.

‘Snakes are important for the home team as well, of course,’ said Selwyn.

‘The home team?’

‘The religions of the Book,’ he said, indicating the crucifix around his neck. ‘In the Garden of Eden, the snake is death – death or the devil. Something bad anyway. One way or another, you have to come to terms with the snake.’

Silence for a space.

‘That said, there aren’t many snakes where I will be going next year,’ Selwyn said.

‘Back to Blighty?’

It appeared that Peter Selwyn, like Charles Sermon and the driver of the Jamalpur night train, would soon be sailing for Liverpool.

‘I did think of staying on, but you can’t dwindle here. You’re either running the hundred-yard dash or you’re dead, but in the little town of Southwold in Suffolk, dwindling is the number one activity. Everybody’s at it.’

Southwold was on the coast, and so once again the need for bracing sea air.

‘When are you going?’

‘January. I was jolly lucky to be left a little cottage near the harbour.’

‘There’s a small gauge railway in Southwold,’ I said. ‘Goes to a spot called Halesworth. Main traffic is fish.’

‘Tell me more about that Gurkha chappie of yours. I like the sound of him.’

I conveyed to Peter Selwyn my high opinion of Deo Rana.

‘I wish I had a Gurkha to help with my work in the cathedral,’ he said.

‘They’re mainly known for their skill at hand-to-hand fighting.’

‘That’s exactly what I need! Shall I tell you a joke about the Gurkhas?’

‘Go on then,’ I said, rather warily.

. . . Ten minutes later, after we had said our goodbyes amid the bowing servants of the club lobby, and I was standing on Chowringhee looking for a tonga, I decided it would be worth re-telling that joke, but that I had better be very careful where and when I did it.

Mainly, though, I was thinking about Fisher.





Chapter Six



I

What the men of the East Indian Railway ever found to debate, I did not know – argue over, yes, but as to formal debating, I had never seen any sign of it. As far as I could tell, the Debating Society committee existed mainly to organise the Debating Society supper dance, which was the number one jamboree of the season for railway officers, and quite famous in Calcutta. It was the occasion when the Company repaid favours, or tried to make new friends – so the guest list extended beyond the Railway.

On the morning of the dance – Saturday 28 April – I took a turn on the maidan with Lydia. She would actually be spending half her day on the maidan, since she would be going riding with Bernadette later on. We walked over the light brown grass in our light brown sola topees, the burning sun seeming to make an additional weight pressing down upon our heads. As we left the town behind, the sound of the Saturday traffic was replaced by the sound of music. We approached a military band playing in a bandstand that surely didn’t belong here, but must have been whirled by some international tornado from Hyde Park . . . In which case it had crash-landed, because it was slightly broken down. Wooden chairs with peeling paint were scattered around the bandstand, where an audience of sorts had gathered, consisting mainly of red-faced men of the Charles Sermon type, who came to hear the marching music. Then there were some middle-class Indians, who seemed more detached.