Night Train to Jamalpur(70)

The R.K. was saying, ‘When Major Fisher pointed you out to me at the dance, he mentioned that he was your colleague on the enquiry team; he also said you’d worked on the narrow gauge railways in France. But excuse me – am I to speak of narrow, small or light railways?’

Major Fisher was sniffing his cigar.

‘Havana,’ said Fisher, when he saw me eyeing him.

I hesitated. The R.K. had asked a question about railways. Not about my daughter. I started in about how ‘narrow’ and ‘small’ gauge were interchangeable terms. A railway designated ‘light’ could be either, or it could be a railway of the standard gauge, but either way it would have been given certain exemptions by the Ministry of Transport as regards signalling, fencing, level crossing and so on. ‘But I am speaking of Britain,’ I added.

‘And I am speaking of the tiny Indian state of Suryapore,’ said the R.K., ‘where my father wants to build a railway – a light railway – to carry from our two small mines of coal to our principal river, which is in fact our only river, for onward shipment. I am employing Major Fisher here to implement this project.’

‘But Major Fisher works for the East Indian Railway,’ I said, eyeing the man once again.

‘Not for long,’ said Fisher.

I asked at random one of the numerous questions swirling in my mind: ‘Where did you two meet?’

‘At the Tollygunge Club,’ said the R.K. ‘I was told Major Fisher was in the railway business somehow, and I resolved to engage him in conversation . . . I like a challenge, you know.’

We both looked at Fisher, who lifted the cigar to his lips and viciously bit off the end.

‘You shouldn’t do that with a Havana,’ I said.

‘Stow it,’ he said.

I turned to the R.K., asking simply, ‘Where do I come in?’

The R.K. said, ‘You will be returning to Britain at the end of August. Major Fisher and I wonder whether you would be willing to act as our agent in the mother country. It would be a short commission, but well worth your while in the monetary sense. We would want half a dozen locomotives, perhaps twenty covered goods wagons and a small number of coaching vehicles. We have settled on the two-foot gauge, and so you would be required to hunt up the war-surplus stock.’

‘Can’t you find the two-foot gauge in India?’ I said.

‘If I were you,’ said Fisher, who was finally lighting his Havana cigar, ‘I wouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth.’

‘Some of the British war surplus did come out here, Captain Stringer,’ said the R.K., ‘but it has often been badly tampered with. It all seems to have been through something much worse than a mere war . . . and so we look to the homeland.’

‘Right,’ I said. ‘Well, I’ll be happy to try and help.’

‘Good,’ said the R.K. ‘We can refine the details over the coming weeks. This is for you, Captain Stringer, to seal the deal.’

He removed a silver hip flask from his golf bag; he passed it to me. In sheer relief, I took a sip of what was probably excellent whisky before thinking about it, and then – also before thinking about it – I passed the flask back to the R.K. He managed to refuse it by smiling and bowing.

‘But you must have it back,’ I said.

‘Oh, but you will never manage to give it back,’ he said, still smiling. ‘You are stuck with it.’

Of course, no Hindu would share in that way. I coloured up, but that didn’t matter. He wasn’t asking me to visit his home state, and he wasn’t asking me to take Bernadette there. He did not seem particularly interested in Bernadette: she was just a dancing partner, and I found myself, in spite of everything, a little put out by that. But on balance I was greatly relieved. Fisher had not acted in concert with the R.K. to kill me on the night train, and it appeared that he had not been carrying a silencer on that train either. Rather, he had been carrying an expensive cigar in an expensive cigar tube, both purchased on the strength of having hit the jackpot with the R.K. I assumed that he had wanted to ride up with me to Darjeeling in order to sound me out on small gauge railways, and make sure I was the man for the job.

Fisher had now stepped outside the caddie shelter. It had stopped raining; there were golden gleams of sun in the sky, and the guru’s tree looked much prettier and less sinister to my mind. I covertly returned the Webley to the pouch in my golf bag.

We resumed our game on the sixth hole, a dogleg. I played a safe, short shot with my mashie. The R.K. attempted the same. I didn’t see where his ball went, but he made another of his curious observations after the hit: ‘I am in the artificial sand.’ He meant another bunker. Fisher took out his driver. He meant to try and cut the corner.