‘Captain Stringer,’ she said, and the sentry seemed amazed that I knew her. He was probably amazed that I knew anyone, given the state of me. The two of us – three if you included Miss Bailey’s horse, from which she did not descend – moved a little way from the sentry, but it was clear that ours was going to be a short talk. The horse was bucking about, kept wanting to start off towards its gallop in the park, and Miss Bailey gave every indication of wanting it to do just that. Neither horse nor rider was still for a minute, as I said, ‘Are you quite all right, after last night, I mean?’
‘Quite all right, but how are you? And I was very sorry to hear about your man.’
Well, there were any number of ways she could have found out about Jarvis. It wore me out to think of them.
‘I suppose it was all too much of a strain for him,’ she said. ‘Are you quite all right, Captain Stringer? because you don’t look it.’
I said, ‘I’m curious about Captain Boyd.’
‘Captain Boyd? Captain Boyd is dead,’ she said, with no change in the agitation of herself and the horse. ‘He was killed at the railway station.’
‘I know – that’s why.’
‘What do you mean?’
I could say everything or nothing, except I didn’t have the energy for the former. I recalled what I’d said to the southpaw at number 11 Clean Street. ‘I was at school with him,’ I said.
‘You were not,’ she said. ‘If you’re going to go to the lengths of lying about it, I suppose you must have a good reason for wanting to find out about him.’
‘Well,’ I said, ‘I do.’
‘But I can’t help you, I’m afraid.’
And she was off.
‘Are you coming up to Samarrah?’ I called after her, and whilst galloping away and holding down her bowler, she shook her head.
Chapter Seventeen
Another driver from Corps HQ took me to Baghdad station, and this time I arrived to find a great sense of stir: Tommies on long ladders repainting the place; the repair of both the tea and coffee salons was being taken in hand. In the railway territory beyond, work gangs were fettling three new locomotives; a vacuum engine was being fitted to the turntable. And once again The Elephant stood ready and facing Samarrah.
It was seven in the morning, and I was feeling a little better, but still not right. Major Findlay, swathed in cavalryman’s clobber, was standing beside the tender and speaking to one of the Royal Engineer officers who would be riding with us, together with a couple of their own batmen. Besides the holstered revolver, a .303 short-magazine Lee Enfield rifle was held by a strap over Findlay’s shoulder. About his neck were three bandoliers of ammunition, a haversack and a canvas water bag. He carried a rolled groundsheet, and wore cord riding breeches and long boots. All in all, he could have done with a horse, and indeed he was saying, ‘Strange to be unmounted, though. Do you know, I very nearly brought a bag of oats!’
He had brought a dozen saddles for delivery to Samarrah, and these had been loaded into the Turkish veranda carriage that was again coupled up to The Elephant. Stacked alongside them were some other Samarrah-bound crates, but our mission was to do with looking over the railway lines rather than provisioning the garrison, which received most of its supplies by river or by motor from Baghdad.
The Royal Engineer now moved away from Findlay, who was left looking handsome but too red-faced on the platform, and above all sad. For one thing, he must now have discovered that Miss Harriet Bailey would not be riding with us. But he himself could not back out of the trip; it would not be honourable.
I tried to imagine his movements after the break-up of the club meeting.
The important photograph had shown the former sweetheart of his own sweetheart (it was all these silly, romantic-story terms that came to mind when I thought of the matter). If Findlay had killed his rival in love, namely Boyd, then he would have gone all out to get back the picture. If he had not killed Boyd, then he would still – being a gentleman – have gone after it, to save Miss Bailey’s honour and spare her blushes (as the papers read by the mill girls had it). My guess was that he had got it back by finding Jarvis and ordering him to hand it over. Perhaps he’d given him a terrible slanging into the bargain, threatening who knew what punishments for making away with the private property of another person, and a lady at that. On the face of it, Findlay seemed mild enough, but the behaviour of an officer in company with his fellows was no guide to his behaviour with other ranks, and having seen that picture he wouldn’t be in a good mood.
On top of this, Findlay must now suspect that he was being thought the likely killer of Boyd, since he knew that other parties were interested in the photograph that incriminated him. He knew Jarvis had gone after the photograph, but who did he think had sent Jarvis? Or did he think Jarvis was acting alone? It all depended what Jarvis had told him in his last moments. It occurred to me for the first time that Findlay might have thought I’d sent Jarvis in after the photograph. Jarvis was my batman, after all.