‘As Christians,’ Lydia said to Kendall, ‘. . . we are all Christians, I suppose . . ?’
Somebody said, ‘Rather.’
‘. . . As Christians,’ Lydia ran on, ‘we’re not supposed to assert our moral superiority.’
‘Who says?’ enquired Kendall, genuinely baffled.
‘John 8:7.’
‘Well, I daresay . . .’ said Kendall, who’d gone a bit vague.
‘“Let he that is without sin cast the first stone”,’ quoted the man who’d said ‘Rather.’
The shrewd-looking old lady pointed her cigarette at Lydia and said, ‘I think you’ve just asserted your moral superiority.’ It was a blow struck on Kendall’s behalf, but he didn’t seem to have noticed. He was lumbering along some distance behind.
He said, ‘I’m not asserting my own moral superiority . . .’
‘Anyone who knows Mr Kendall knows that would be ludicrous,’ said the old woman.
Kendall said, ‘I’m asserting the moral superiority of the British state over the condition of anarchy.’
Somebody said, ‘I think we lost the moral high ground after the Amritsar massacre,’ and everyone turned towards the new speaker, a young subaltern by the looks of him. This was a very unexpected – and strong – intervention on Lydia’s side.
Kendall said, ‘You are speaking of the Ajnala incident?’
Lydia said, ‘When they kill us it’s an “outrage”, when we kill them it’s an “incident”.’
‘Who is your husband?’ the old woman suddenly asked Lydia. She seemed to keep switching sides – just to keep trouble brewing.
‘I don’t see what that’s got to do with anything,’ said Lydia, but somebody pointed to me, saying, ‘There he is.’
Kendall looked my way: ‘You’re a railway officer, I think?’
I explained that I was a police detective, seconded to the East Indian Railway Commission of Enquiry.
The man who’d pointed me out (whom I’d never clapped eyes on before), said, ‘You’re on a sort of busman’s holiday, I suppose. No offence meant.’
‘I’ve nothing against busmen,’ I said.
Half turning towards me, Lydia said, ‘I should imagine my husband fought alongside plenty of them in the Somme Battle.’
I could have kissed her for that, especially since she looked so miserable. As a rule, this sort of ding-dong would do wonders for her.
The doughty old woman said, ‘Can’t see why anybody would mind an investigation. Unless they were on the take.’
Kendall, who had coloured at the Somme remark, coloured further at that.
Lydia stood up and looked across the room at me, with a sad half-smile that I could not understand.
Bernadette too was silent in the tonga as the three of us rode back to Cedar Lodge. But whereas the wife’s silence was unfathomable, Bernadette’s was less heavy and more thoughtful. I was convinced that her infatuation with the R.K. was over, and so I had scored a victory on that front. I also felt that the question of Fisher had been satisfactorily resolved. All, or most, of his mysterious behaviour could now be accounted for, and I intended to reward myself by spending my last full day in ‘the hills’ doing little or nothing.
Back in Calcutta, Lydia and Bernadette had booked a programme of cross-country horse rides, and these would start tomorrow, from some stables at Ghum. Perhaps the exercise would do something to buck Lydia up, or maybe it would take my own departure to do that. I was an anchor to the wife’s social ambitions, and she might float free without me.
There were no returned cards waiting for her at the Lodge, but as Ajit took our coats, he handed me a small and more official envelope that had arrived for me only an hour earlier. It was from the duty sergeant at the Darjeeling police office on Auckland Road. Detective Inspector Khudayar Khan of the Calcutta CID was in town, and he would be obliged if I would get in touch as soon as practically possible so that arrangements could be made for a further interview regarding the shooting of John Young on the night train to Jamalpur.
II
The arrangement made was that the detective inspector would come to Cedar Lodge. It happened that the door was opened to him by Lydia, and I heard her speaking rather merrily to him as I came downstairs. His presence seemed to have a galvanising effect on her, even though I had warned her that he could be out to fix a murder charge on me. She was holding his Panama hat as she said, ‘It seems a shame to sit chattering over teacups in such a very beautiful place.’ I did not catch his murmured response. He did not need to say much, looking as he did: blue twill suit with military cut, starched white collar.