Night Train to Jamalpur(44)

‘Well, it would be a shame if he was proved corrupt,’ said Lydia as we walked through the lobby, ‘given that he was so nice about my dress.’

‘Hold on,’ I said. ‘Who’s trying to prove him corrupt?’

‘I should say that was the theme of your incessant questions about him.’

‘You realise it’s essential he doesn’t get wind of my suspicions?’

‘You think he already has done.’

‘You seem very confident about reading my mind.’

‘One doesn’t exactly have to be the Martian Girl.’

‘Who’s the Martian Girl?’

‘A very famous mind-reader on the halls.’

‘I’ve never heard of her.’

We had already waved away two bearers offering champagne, and I wished we could explain that Lydia was teetotal, and I was on quinine, because they all looked so disappointed.

Lydia said, ‘You think he staged that attack on the train and the wrong man was killed by mistake. And you think your Major Fisher might have been involved.’

‘That’s pretty unlikely, isn’t it?’

‘But it’s what you think.’

This particular dance floor was chequered black and white like a chessboard, and the spirit lights on the white tablecloths were all glimmering pinks. The French windows were open on to the dark lawn, where pink and white Chinese lanterns hung from the trees, before the blackness of St John’s churchyard took over.

I had a waltz with Lydia. Afterwards, we separated, and I saw Askwith entering, having presumably greeted all the important guests. He was deep in conversation with Superintendent Christopher Bennett. Naturally the two would know each other. They were talking in low voices, and Bennett looked glum, in contrast to his wife Mary, who was following behind and talking excitedly to a woman I didn’t know: ‘We did think of the Great Eastern for the reception, but in the end it had to be the Grand. I mean, you only get married once, don’t you? One hopes so anyway!’ She appeared to have found the one woman in Calcutta who hadn’t heard all about her wedding.

I turned towards the dancing. Claudine, Ann and Bernadette all had partners, none of whom was the R.K. I became aware that Dougie Poole was swaying by my side, whisky in hand.

I said, ‘I’m told the Hindus believe all life is the dance of Shiva.’

‘Yes, but Shiva dances to destroy the world,’ said Poole, ‘so it’s not quite as light-hearted as it sounds.’ He took another sip of his peg. ‘There’s Shiva the destroyer, Vishnu the . . . preserver, Brahma the creator. You can remember it because . . . no, it’s gone.’

‘How’s life in traffic?’ I said.

‘Oh,’ he said, ‘the goods traffic is increasing constantly, but the more goods traffic you have, the more goods wagons you have to keep tabs on.’ A photographer and his assistant were photographing the dancers, perhaps for the East Indian Railway Magazine. ‘You know the trouble with goods wagons?’ said Poole. ‘They’ve got wheels on ’em, so they’re liable to go just anywhere. But how’s everything going on in the police department, Jim? Any ideas about this snake blighter?’

‘Well, that’s not my investigation.’

‘Lucky you.’

I looked about until I located Superintendent Christopher Bennett. He was trying to light his pipe in the garden, just beyond the French windows.

‘It’s his,’ I said.

From his appearance it was odds-on that Bennett had read the snake report in the newspaper. He attempted a smile when he looked towards me though. I turned again towards the dancers. Lydia was in amongst them. I did not know her partner, but he was old and grey enough not to be counted a rival. It was accepted between the two of us that dancing was not my strong point. Dougie Poole had drifted away. He was hunting up another peg, and every so often he appeared to be buffeted by a strong wind that didn’t exist. Why did he drink? He would be on a good wage, perhaps fifteen hundred rupees per mensem; he had a flat full of servants; regular trips to the hills, and his daughter, Ann, had been to good schools in England and Calcutta . . .

Lydia and Bernadette came up, and they were excited after the dance, as if they’d come off a fairground ride. I raised the question of Dougie Poole.

Lydia said, ‘Did you notice his dinner suit?’

‘What about it? It’s too big.’

‘Yes, and he’s wearing a white dinner jacket.’

‘We all are.’

‘And a wing collar with it. That’s wrong.’

‘I don’t see anything wrong with it.’

‘I know. That’s why I had to return the wing collars you bought in Port Said.’