The Baghdad Railway Club(65)

As before, Bob Ferry was already present in the club room, smoking alone under the dark colours made by the stained glass when I arrived with Jarvis. He was beautifully turned out in recently pressed khaki. I said, ‘I do believe this weather suits you.’

Ferry smiled. ‘It’s a case of mind . . . over matter.’

There was no sign of his having seen me raiding his archive.

Jarvis was getting acquainted with our Arab waiter whose name, evidently, was Layth or something of the kind.

‘Your name means lion,’ Jarvis said.

Layth, who had a few words of English, asked, ‘Stanley . . . what mean?’ and I could see the question had knocked Jarvis. What did Stanley mean?

As other club members began to arrive and take their places around the table, I asked Ferry how things were going on at the telegraphic office of the Residency.

‘. . . Overwhelmed,’ he said at length.

I heard from the other end of the table, ‘Ah, a glass of fizzle.’

It was the cavalryman, Major Findlay; Jarvis poured champagne for him. We had not run to that at the previous meeting, and I wondered who was paying for it. No doubt Shepherd himself. His parents owned half of . . . what was it? Worcestershire? Why would a wealthy man like that risk his life taking Turkish backhanders?

Miss Bailey arrived, and I stood together with all the other men. She wore a sort of Chinese coat. Now that I studied her again, I could see that her skin had been a little roughened by the desert sun; and she was perhaps a few years older than I’d thought. Findlay looked on very sadly as she took her place, for she was seated at the opposite end of the table to him.

The meeting began, and in spite of the champagne, it did so sombrely, with a speech from Shepherd about the passing of Stevens – evidently a marvellous pugilist, and a bluff fellow who took some knowing but whose behaviour would occasionally (very occasionally, it seemed to me) disclose a heart of gold. Shepherd mentioned the forthcoming return to Samarrah, and the brigadier muttered, ‘Tomfoolery. You’re sure to get into another scrape,’ but he did so affectionately. ‘If anyone would care to come, let me know,’ said Shepherd. I thought this might be a joke, but evidently not. ‘It’s a fascinating stretch of line,’ he was saying. ‘I can offer you a fine 2-8-0 engine, albeit of German make, a carriage that was formerly the personal saloon of General von der Goltz . . . the golden dome of the mosque at Samarrah . . .’

He was making a general invitation of it: come and be fired on by Arabs or Turks. It did not seem an attractive prospect, but I observed Captain Ferry take out a gold pen and make a careful note in his pocket book. Miss Bailey said, ‘Might make a diverting day or two,’ at which Findlay immediately said, ‘I’ll come. It’s the Seventh Cavalry up there – I do know they’re short of saddles. I’ll take a load up for them. And I suppose one ought to see the Mosque of the Golden Dome.’

‘It’s called the Al-Askari Mosque,’ said Miss Bailey, rather coldly.

He looked put-out, but rallied quickly.

‘Sounds good anyway,’ he said, ‘and I’m all for seeing it.’

Shepherd now gave me the floor, and – very much doubting that the cavalrymen of Samarrah were short of saddles – I rose to my feet. I’d had in mind a quick rundown of the police set-up at York station, the extent of our jurisdiction, the tremendous size of the railway lands around York, but as I faced my audience, I realised I had not given enough thought to the matter.

‘I’m Captain Stringer,’ I said, and the brigadier looked at me sharply, as if he’d only just realised my identity. (I’d thought by now that everyone in the club would know my name.) ‘Before coming out here,’ I continued, ‘I was with the Seventeenth Northumberlands on the light railways in France – the railway pals, as they’re known, and a first-rate group of lads . . .’

I was being not only dull, but also – as the wife would say – common.

‘. . . But that’s not for tonight,’ I said. I looked down at my hand; it was shaking. ‘Tonight I mean to talk to you about my work as a detective – plain-clothes – on the railway force at York. Now the police office is on platform four at York station, which is the main “up” and anyone heading London-way on a Tuesday morning about eleven o’clock sort of time would have seen the full police strength parading outside. That was before the war, I mean . . .’

I lifted my glass of champagne, drank it all off, and everyone around the table watched me do it. ‘However . . .’ I heard myself saying, and I didn’t know why. Brigadier General Barnes was eyeing me carefully. Major Findlay – redder than the previous week – was looking at the ceiling. Miss Bailey kept adjusting the position of her glass of champagne, and I reckoned I had about five seconds before she dismissed me out of hand as a dullard and a blockhead. I was making a worse fist of this than Stevens had in his early stages, and he’d eventually become interesting. How had he done it? By yarning – by telling a tale.