Goodbye Calcutta

By Peter M. Elliott

Dickie Gordon, lucky to escape the Japanese Invading Burma in April,1941, is re-instated as a district officer in Bengal, India. He struggles to maintain the integrity of the Civil Service beseiged by ambitious politicians, corruption, and ruthless terrorists, a mix that hastens the disintegration of the Raj.
 
Beatrice, his decisive wife, is disenchanted with him and has an affair with Oxford educated Ravi Das, an ambitious colleague who becomes an influential politician. Co-incidentally, Dickie falls in love with Sarojini, Ravi’s sister, but is frustrated by her promised marriage to a son of a powerful family. Dickie disappointed in love, trapped in a collapsing career, derails himself after surviving a poisonous snake bite. He survives a street mugging, a leopard attack during unofficial leave, and bungles an attempt to murder Das only to face a serious death threat wrongly accused of raping Sarojini. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Troubador Publishing Ltd
• Release date: Mar 19, 2022
• ISBN: 9781803139302

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Copyright © 2022 Peter M. Elliott

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.

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Contents

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

FOURTEEN

FIFTEEN

SIXTEEN

SEVENTEEN

EIGHTEEN

NINETEEN

TWENTY

TWENTY- ONE

TWENTY-TWO

TWENTY-THREE

TWENTY- FOUR

ONE

A message, in the form of a note stuffed into a buff envelope, left in my pigeonhole in a Calcutta Club stated that Mr. Richard Gordon a depraved English man will be executed to revenge the good name of Sarojini Nath who provided Krishnan Nath with a daughter and not a son but is saved from eternal dishonour because she was plundered by the vile Gordon and so not a virgin at the time of her marriage. She was raped and soiled by the evil Gordon. Keep looking behind you Mr. Gordon you will not see your honourable assassin.

This unpunctuated but menacing message is the last straw. I feel angry at taking the blame for an unknown history of art lecturer’s seduction of Sarojini in England. Also, there is implied bitterness in the note that Sarojini had produced a daughter and not a son. Am I being blamed for that? Should I think about confronting Krishnan Nath, her husband by arrangement. I find a threat from the Nath’s to send an assassin to kill me as bizarre. I hesitate, thinking it might be better to contact Detective Inspector Kassim Huq only to remember, as I looked for the telephone number, that he has been moved from Calcutta CID to the Punjab.

My life is in turmoil. I have been forced to resign from the Indian Civil Service and deserted by my wife Beatrice on what seems a female caprice. However, I am becoming more aware that my own self-destructive behaviour may have driven her back to England. Workless, aimless, and threatened by assassins, I sought my bed to reflect on my perilous situation.

I married Beatrice Porter just nine months before I was posted to Burma as a transfer from the ICS. She wisely left Burma just before the Japanese invasion returning to the safety of India. So, she found it difficult to empathise with me because she hadn’t shared my exhausting and painful experience of trekking out of Burma. I was unable to tell her anything about my bruised feelings, or my massive guilt about leaving Pauline to Japanese brutality. Miles, her husband, didn’t hear the rifle shots that brought him sudden death as he towelled his sweaty face having played tennis on the garden court. Screaming camouflaged soldiers invaded the garden shooting him, a servant winding down the tennis net before tidying the court and bayoneting his older brother George sitting comfortably in a deck chair puffing his pipe. At that moment of merciless attack, I emerged from the bungalow, alongside Pauline, to witness the grisly scene. She jettisoned a tray spilling cups, saucers and cakes that crashed to the ground and ran screaming towards Miles. On impulse I dropped a tea pot and ran to the long storm drain to escape. Crawling frantically for my life I was pursued along the drain by Pauline’s screams. Screams now a constant terror in my nightmares.

I almost died from shame and exhaustion during my trek out of Burma. We were a desperate little group having lost one of two young girls to sickness. Their mother was weak with illness and losing the will to go on when a patrol of Indian soldiers found us.

After a spell recovering in a military hospital, I was re-employed as a collector and magistrate, shortened to the old term district officer for convenience, with a temporary posting to Goharaganj. Immensely pleased to be released from hospital, I was grateful for the sympathetic way in which I was treated by the Indian Civil Service, ICS for brevity. To my surprise it was Denis Toogood, DT to all who knew him, who managed to arrange the post. He was a good friend to Beatrice. They were friends long before I met her. However, she was not pleased by my posting to Goharaganj, fondly known as Gohar, and resisted a move from Calcutta. Unknown to me at the time, it was DT, with the gravitas of being District Commissioner, who persuaded her that it was the best offer I could expect. My tortured mind drifted back to those days of 1942.

*

The club, social hub of all life, is busy on a Saturday night. People are dining, jovial sounds radiating from the bar. Other groups, drinking and chatting at tables on the terrace are waiting for the dance band to set up their instruments and begin to play. The band strikes up with a blare of brass, the opening of a lively American dance tune. Some diners take to the dance floor; others trickle in from the terrace. Doctor Roy asks Beatrice to dance. She accepts with alacrity because the dark brown Indian is a smooth, capable dancer. Together they launch into a quick step. I keep talking to Sebastian and Mildred Lacey. He is the local dentist. Angela, their daughter, is with them. She is an alluring girl with a well-developed figure that I noticed and admired when she was swimming in the club pool. Her merry eyes and saucy smile unsettle me. So, I excuse myself and stride out into the still, warm night air and light a Dunhill Cuban cigar savouring the taste. I notice a shivering orange light glowing in the distance to my right. It grows quickly and then clouds of black smoke begin to smother the horizon.

I shout out loudly ‘it’s a large fire’ at no one in particular. Activity on the terrace indicated that others have noticed. ‘What is it?’ asks a female voice.

Jamieson, the Superintendent of Police, is dancing with his wife. A steward taps him on the shoulder with a smart white glove. ‘There is a telephone call sahib.’ Jamieson follows the steward to the secretary’s office. I follow him, overhearing Jamieson say ‘Khalgat, it’s a bloody riot then.’ The policeman listens for some time and then says ‘okay, thank you,’ clipping the old phone to the upright stand. ‘It’s Khalgat. It’s a bad riot. The Mohammedans are on the rampage.’ He walked to the band’s microphone. They stop playing.

‘Ladies and Gentlemen, please pay attention. I have just received a message to say that there is a riot in Khalgat. I have no reason to believe there will be trouble here in Gohar.’

Dr Roy excuses himself from the table. Other Indians prepare to leave gathering up wraps and handbags. Jamieson is finishing his announcement. ‘I think that you should be able to continue to enjoy yourselves here in complete safety. I would ask any police officers here and members of the auxiliary and emergency services to report to my station as soon as possible. Also, medical staff might like to be on call at home. Thank you.’ He glances at the Anglo-Indian bandleader and encourages him to start playing. The band bursts into a foxtrot. Couples get up to dance. Conversation resumes. The Indians have gone. The Anglo-Indians are preparing to go. Europeans are dancing. Some are preparing to leave. The party is dying.

‘Where is your designated station?’ asks Beatrice.

The Bar for the moment,’ I reply without hesitation.

She sat on a tall stool and crossed her legs. Kayser Bonder legs O’Dell calls them, likening them to a flattering advertisement for silk stockings, fashion items just about impossible to get. She chews an olive on a stick and watches a steward mix her a cocktail.

‘Here’s mud in your eye,’ she says with a wink.

‘Down the hatch my love.’ My salute is said in a crisp, loud voice.

‘Don’t shout so Dickie. I’m sitting next to you.’

‘Sorry,’ I whisper. ‘It is a bad habit. I must break it.’

‘I do hope so.’

Looking at her sitting demurely on the stool I realise that I might still love her … just a little, but things were not the same.

‘What do you think?’ she enquires. ‘When are we going to have our riot in Gohar?’

‘Tonight, who knows, it’s overwhelmingly Hindu of course, so it may never happen. Khalgat is about half and half … perhaps more Mohammedans.’

‘It’s so close Dickie. Isn’t it bound to affect the people around here? Hindus taking revenge.’

‘Ah, there you are,’ calls out an eager voice. ‘Beatie, you promised me a dance.’

Beatrice slithers languidly off the stool. She is wearing a tight, black, off the shoulder dress. I watch her sway in strict tempo as she walks arm in arm with Gilmour to the dance floor, seeing again why other men seek her company so much. I catch the bar steward’s eye. The man drops his eyes but there is a ghost of a smile playing on his lips. I hope that any infamy attributed to my wife is not gossip amongst the servants. Anyway, I will get to know about it one way or the other in time. As if to confirm my thoughts, O’Dell, the number one suspect, is walking towards the bar.

‘Good evening, Jack, just arrived?’

‘Yes, yes … what a terrible night.’

‘What would you like to drink?’

‘Brandy Dickie, thank you.’

O’Dell took out a silver cigarette case, slipped out a long cigarette, shut the case with a snap and tapped the cigarette six times. The steward appeared with a lighter.

‘Mayhem in Khalgat,’ says O’Dell. ‘I drove into the east of the town to bring out my Ayah and her mother. She is visiting her Mum for a few days. She will be needed to help Diana with the children as I’m off to Calcutta again in the morning. The west end of the place was ablaze. Crowds were getting close. I just made it out.’

‘Alarming … what religion is your Ayah?’

‘Christian, she’s a convert from Hinduism. We call her Nanny now. Khalgat is a hell of a mess, burning and killing each other in the bazaar district. What’s always surprising is the terrible noise. It’s like the low baying sound made by hounds when they’ve picked up the scent. Nanny was terrified. Riots spread so fast. I just about got out in time.’

‘Jack … hello! It’s lovely to see you!’ It’s Beatrice returning with Gilmour. She leans forward and kisses O’Dell on the cheek. He presses her waist with his long fingers.

‘How is dear Diana?’ she gushes. O’Dell assures her that his wife is well and then entertains her with a description of his dash to rescue the Nanny from Khalgat.’

Gilmour offers to buy a round of drinks. He has seen it all before and tells us, yet again, about the riot in Goharaganj in 1930 when the river was full of bloated corpses.

‘Fortunately,’ says Beatrice sweetly, ‘Khalgat is down river from us so any corpses should float in the other direction.’

Wilson, the club secretary, a retired colonel from the Indian Army, appears grey faced. ‘Friends’, he says gravely, ‘I’ve just received word from Jamieson. There’s trouble in Karnapur. Two English airmen from the Base have been found murdered with their heads chopped off and missing. They were found near the brothel district. Other mutilations may have taken place. The RAF police moved in to investigate without permission from the civil police and have had to be rescued by Jamieson’s men and a platoon of Gurkhas from the training camp. His message briefly is that tension is high. He advised me to shut up shop and send you all home.’ Wilson then made a brief announcement using the microphone. The band packed up hurriedly. The stewards fled, leaving an untidy mess.

Wilson surprises us by asking us to stay for a nightcap. ‘One more for the road, there won’t be any trouble here tonight. Two murders in Karnapur will be enough blood letting for one night.’

‘Yes,’ agrees O’Dell. ‘Things will be quietening down now.’

Beatrice looks at O’Dell tapping a cigarette on his silver case and announces brightly ‘thanks … I’ll have a last drink.’

She just wants to stretch any occasion in O’Dell’s company I thought sourly. I was about to say goodnight.

‘That’s my girl,’ exclaims a cheerful Wilson.

‘Oh Jack,’ moans Beatrice dramatically, hands over her eyes, ‘first the Japanese, and now this, and the war in Europe with all of us stuck out here helpless.’

Eventually, she slides off her stool. O’Dell kisses her goodnight pressing her waist again. She kisses Wilson.

‘Goodnight Beatie, it will all work out my dear.’

My Morris 10 rumbles into life. Only O’Dell’s Jaguar remains parked in the club driveway.

‘Our secretary Colonel Wilson is a sweetie,’ says Beatrice.

‘Yes, retired, so no more fighting for him. He fought in Europe in the last one with a Maratha Regiment. The poor buggers were frozen stiff in cold winters. His wars are over.’

‘Like yours,’ she giggles.

Weak headlights on the old Morris just copes with the grey night forcing me to concentrate. We don’t speak, occupied by our own thoughts. It’s typical of her to make a scornful remark disregarding the injury to my leg. I want to explore Beatrice’s relationship with O’Dell but can never find a way to begin.

I garaged the car and told Beatrice I was going to check the living quarters. The Mali, our head gardener, appeared and assured me that all is well. ‘There will be no trouble sahib. We are all friends here.’

There is a balance of Hindus and Mohammedans living together as servants. There are no hotheads. Most of the men have wives and children.

Shining my torch on the ground I tramp back to the house wary of snakes. The chowkidar, the old guard, is alert and pleased to see me. I ask him if he would like to sleep inside the house.

Yes sahib, he replies with a toothless grin. Gathering his cotton dhoti around him he hobbles along behind my own hampered stride, a distressing legacy of my trek out of Burma. The injury irritates Beatrice who finds partnering me on the tennis court a trial. Habiksad, the bearer, greets me and deals with the chowkidar, telling him exactly where he can sleep. For comfort I would have chosen a different spot but did not interfere with Habiksad’s instructions. The chowkidar did what he was told recognising the bearer’s power of position. The fact that he is being ordered about by a Mohammedan will be tucked away in the recesses of his mind.

‘The riot in Khalgat is bad. Tell me about it Habiksad.’

He glanced at the figure of the old chowkidar curled up in his dhoti. The bearer speaks quietly. ‘What I know sahib is that my people had to put right the murder of a butcher, that is all I have to say sahib.’

‘What about the murders of the airmen in Kusgunj District?’

‘Sahib?’ The Bearer is clearly puzzled.

‘Two British airmen were murdered in the brothel district of Karnapur.’

Habiksad spread his hands. ‘I know nothing sahib. If they died in Kusgunj they were bad men. That is all I have to say sahib.’

Now inside the bungalow I ask him to pour me a stiff whisky. I think the evening’s events are significant adding to a feeling of unease that life is becoming unfulfilling. A hard day’s work lies ahead, but tonight’s shocks are Jamieson’s problem. Tomorrow the civil service will grind into action with investigations, enquiries, and temporary law courts. The saving grace is that Khalgat is in Macdonald’s district. Fortunately, the butchering of RAF personnel in Karnapur, known to all as KP, will become the District Commissioner Denis Toogood’s responsibility. I breathe a sigh of relief.

TWO

My detachment from the consequences of the riots is spoiled by the discovery of women and children in a distressed state crammed into two railway wagons abandoned in a rail siding. The isolated siding is just inside Macdonald’s district. Mac, a bachelor Scotsman, will have his hands full dealing with the aftermath of the riot in Khalgat, so I ask railway traffic to move the wagons to Karnapur station, reckoning that this would make it easier for the Famine Relief Agency to feed them. I instructed one of my office clerks to contact the Famine Commission in Calcutta. He finally found a contact and handed me the phone. On the end was a Mr. Charles sitting in an air-conditioned office off Great Russell Street. I inform him about the famine victims found in Basti rail siding. Charles is unimpressed by my lack of information as I didn’t know who the people are or where they have come from. A flow of apathetic words from Charles ends with ‘there is no famine in your district.’

‘Look, a railway engineer found the people shunted into a siding that is close to the boundary of my district. What I need to know is where famine exists currently. This information might give us a clue as to who the people are and where they have come from.’

Charles took some time to answer but came back speaking with a reproachful tone saying ‘the Basti siding is in Macdonald’s district are you sure they aren’t riot victims?’

‘They are not riot victims.’

Charles continues with the astonishing statement that ‘officially there is no famine anywhere. Bihar is regarded as an area of scarcity now that the hot weather is over.’

‘Mr. Charles you will need to organise to feed these forty-eight desperate people, including children, and quickly. The two wagons will be in a siding at Karnapur Station. The District Commissioner is Denis Toogood. He will be informed of the discovery of these famine victims and will probably be in contact with you as you are the primary contact.’ I give him DT’s address and telephone number.

Charles began to protest and complained, ‘as there is no recorded famine anymore, we are not responsible and so …’

I heard a muffled but irritated female voice finishing off her words with ‘… hurry up Henry darling we’re going to be late.’

I cut Charles off with ‘goodbye’ and hung up the phone, wondering why a woman should speak to Charles in his office. My clerk presumably found his home number.

The Traffic Superintendent telephoned to say the wagons would be moved that night insisting that they would be shunted into a siding farthest from the station and well beyond the freight yard. He estimated the arrival time to be one o’clock in the morning. ‘The main concern is disease. The Station Master is jumpy because of the riots and is not prepared to provide any of his staff to help.’

‘Yes, disease is a hazard. The odd thing is that Calcutta has told me that officially there is no famine anywhere and therefore no relief is available.’

‘Rubbish, they can’t be aware of Nakirbazar? Bengal is getting into more and more trouble. There is a growing shortage of all foods throughout Bengal.’ For an Anglo-Indian, the Traffic Superintendent is an assertive character. He finished by describing the location of the siding.

I sent my messenger, known as a chaprassy, with a note to Doctor Roy informing him of the presence of famine victims who look sick and distressed. As the wagons are scheduled to arrive at Karnapur in the early hours of the morning, I feel it necessary to organise local relief. Roy is invited to attend a meeting in my office at 5 o’clock. The same message is sent to Inspector Cox, and to Das, Controller of Agriculture and Rural Land Services. Cox arrives early having visited the people himself. Jimmy Cox is a tall, lean figure with skin as yellow as a Chinaman. He has a long nose misshapen by a bad break in boyhood and a square black moustache growing on a long upper lip. He always thinks deeply before speaking.

‘What do you make of it all?’ I ask, waiting for Cox to gather his thoughts carefully so that he could respond to such an open question.

Cox stutters. ‘It’s w-worrying.’

‘What forty-eight people. Why?’

‘They are Mohammedans.’

I’m caught unawares. ‘Is that significant?’

‘Well yes … they are starving, but they are survivors of c-communal violence, not famine victims. They are a g-group of families but without their men. It appears that they were led out of a nasty situation by one of the b-boys. They hopped a g-goods train as it was leaving a place called Boddapur. Do you know it?’

‘Boddapur .., it must be about four hundred miles away.’

‘They have been shunted and t-tacked onto d-different trains at least three times by sympathetic railway officials …more likely those wanting to g-get rid of them and move them on. Anyway, they are terrified. A gang of cut throats r-relieved them of all their possessions. Two, or three young women are injured. I s-suspect rape’

I watch Cox’s large Adam’s apple move up and down inside a thin, wrinkled neck. He is an ugly man, but I like and respect him. It is typical of the man that he visited the site of the wagons quickly and extracted a story from the victims before coming to the meeting. He will never rise further in the police ranks having been passed over for promotion, but he is thorough, conscientious, and tireless.

The meeting in my office begins at eight minutes after five with the arrival of Roy. I brief the group and ask Cox to inform us about the people concerned. Roy is interested in the story but refuses to visit the people. ‘I doubt if much can be done for them by me. I will contact the hospital in Karnapur. It is their responsibility. Some of them might need hospital treatment … the young women for example.’

It is roughly what I expect of Roy. He is a handsome devil, big for a Bengali and charming to women, full of smiles and witty sayings, a constant dance partner of Beatrice’s. I think him to be lazy. Das agrees to provide emergency water and food supplies for the people but insists that my staff make the arrangements for feeding the victims. He will despatch an ox cart and driver with food, dried milk, and cans of water to my office. Cox offers to allocate two policemen for twenty-four hours. They should arrive within an hour to help me co-ordinate the action and ensure the safe delivery of the food.

The telephone rings as the meeting breaks up. It’s Denis Toogood. ‘What’s all this about starving people in abandoned wagons in Basti siding?’

I explain the situation waving to Das as he leaves. Cox remains.

‘Where are they from?’

‘We think from the Boddapur area.’

‘Boddapur! What are they doing in the Basti siding? Good God.’

I listened to my superior officer huffing and puffing as he thought about things. ‘Gordon, this is what I want you to do. Contact District Officer responsible for Boddapur. Inform him about the situation and tell him we are sending back some victims of communal violence that occurred in his district. It is his responsibility to look after the welfare of these people … lay it on a bit. I will arrange now for the journey by train. The first train in the morning can pick them up and I believe there is a junction at which they can be tacked onto a train to Boddapur. We can’t have these beggars around here. The situation is brittle enough. The murders of the airmen are serious enough, tension is high, recent riots have put the Hindus on alert and they are the majority in KP. It’s a tinderbox. This is just the kind of thing that will ignite the place’

DT is blustering, using his browbeating style. I hold the receiver away from my ear and point it at Cox, who smiles. I can still hear him ‘now listen carefully, do not feed them or minister to them in any way … well, make sure they have some water. If you attend to them, they will clamour to stay here and kick up a fuss, a real kerfuffle. They will take advantage of weakness. Inform Boddapur of their condition and insist they provide food and medical attention on arrival. Refer … what’s his name to me if he demurs. I know his superior officer well. He’s a friend of mine, two years behind me at St. Paul’s.’

‘DT,’ I say patiently, because the Commissioner likes to be referred to by his initials, ‘two things, I continue in a relaxed voice, ‘the people are starving, and some women have been raped and need attention at once. Secondly, the junction you mention is hundreds of miles north of here and it will take …’

‘I will arrange it,’ cut in DT. ‘The situation is too tense to fiddle about with feeding Mohammedan refugees here. We had a major riot in Khalpur … Mohammedans on a bloodthirsty rampage again and a sudden riot in that little village west of here, many Hindu deaths.’ He paused clearing his throat. ‘Send them back to their homes. It’s the only sensible thing to do. What I can’t understand is why action wasn’t taken immediately, some time ago, when these beggars were discovered.’

‘They are women and children DT, no men, who were probably all killed. They have no homes.’

‘All the more reason to send them back to Boddapur; their community will look after them. What a way to run a railway, eh? Keep me informed.’ He rang off.

I replaced the receiver taking two attempts to clip it onto the stand. My hand is shaking with suppressed rage. I look at Cox, standing tall and thin before me, dark blue hat under his arm, bamboo swagger stick gently brushing his khaki shorts.

‘You look tired Coxie’

‘I am. Last night was no picnic.’

‘Tell me what happened.’

‘Mohammedans took out the Hindus, butchered something like thirty m-men, women and children, b-burnt their bustees and slaughtered cows as a final insult. I lost one of my men restoring order. We are using all available m-men to saturate the p-place. I’m expecting seventy m-men as reinforcements today. Some minor trouble in Khalpur worries us.’

‘Still, bit steep, isn’t it?’

‘Jamieson’s expecting serious t-trouble.’

Jamieson always dramatized events, so he would use heavy handed tactics.

‘Did you hear DT?’’

‘Some of it … ah, it … well, if you are not going to f-feed them you will not need my men. I’m hard p-pressed and need them elsewhere.’

‘Boddapur is a long way from here. I don’t know much about it.’

‘It’s a rum sort of a place … a dump.’ Cox sat down facing me.

‘What would you do?’

‘Follow orders. I’m a policeman.’

‘They will die.’

‘Probably … just as many died last night. The fittest will survive.’

‘I’ve never been happy with that concept.’

Cox slaps his thigh twice with his stick.

‘If I decide to feed them, will you withdraw your offer of two men?’

Cox did not reply. He slaps his thigh with the swagger stick again.

‘Das will be organising the ox-cart with supplies.’

Cox grinned. ‘Das is a rogue. He will be taking his time. DT’s probably right. Send them home to their own people.’

We look at each other for a while. ‘You are going to feed them,’ says Cox.

‘Yes, of course, if I can.’

Cox gets up from his seat. ‘I will detail two men as guard for the ox-cart, if you get it. As soon as the food is delivered, they will have orders to report for duty at Karnapur Station.

‘Will they be armed?’

‘As usual just with long batons. Mind how you go,’ said the lanky policeman over his shoulder as he left the office.

I reflected over the day. My friend James Warmington, the Senior Executive Civil Engineer of the railway, sitting in a wicker chair on his trolley being pushed along by trolley wallahs running along the rails in bare feet on a routine inspection, suddenly coming across abandoned wagons with refugees. Must have been a shock. DT’s unsympathetic and exasperating approach to the problem almost matched by Cox, who referred to my colleague Das as a rogue. Was this a fair remark, one formed by experience, or a remark induced by fatigue? The riot in Khalgat was bad.

I thought briefly about Macdonald my neighbouring officer. I really didn’t know him, never met him socially and rarely in a work context. His district is troublesome, so he might need help. However, I would wait to be called upon as I might have to deal with a spread of violence myself. For the moment, the refugees needed help.

THREE

Beatrice is unsympathetic about my reason for missing dinner. ‘Cook is cooking duck l’orange and we are due to play the Bell’s at bridge tonight at the club. Have you forgotten?’

‘Sorry my love but duty calls.’

‘I’ll see if Jack O’Dell can partner me tonight.’

Hackles rise on my neck. ‘Fine, one thing dear, it’s important. Please ask Habiksad to come to my office as soon as dinner is over. Tell him to bring a small flask of whisky, a heavy rug, and my double-barrelled shotgun and cartridges.’

‘I might cancel dinner and go to the club.’

‘I think that will upset cook and be a waste of good duck.’

‘Oh, all right Dickie. What time will you be home?’

‘Probably early morning around three o’clock.’

‘God! I’ll tell the chowkidar.’ She rang off.

Das telephoned to tell me that the oxcart is on its way. I hoped I hadn’t sounded surprised. Das is an Oxford graduate, polite and cultured, with impeccable manners and rumoured to be clever, a writer of Hindi poetry and songs. He is seen rarely at the Gohar club except on formal occasions, yet he is popular with many Europeans, so I was intrigued when Cox referred to him as a rogue. Das is known as a civil service politician so I didn’t trust him and assumed that he would have contacted Toogood. I waited patiently for the cart and the policemen. Habiksad arrived with a picnic hamper containing a flask of chicken soup, some cold duck, half a pomelo and my silver hip flask full of whisky. Memsahib gave it to him just before going to the club with O’Dell sahib. He also brought my double-barrelled shotgun and a box of cartridges, a small pannier of water and my heavy jacket.

The policemen arrived just before the oxcart. I briefed them about the situation and sent them with the cart to the railway sidings. I would follow in my car. I parked the dark maroon Morris 10, with black mudguards and bumpers, in a grove of mango trees and well off the rough, dusty road leading away from the outer limits of Karnapur. It will be difficult to see at night. A walk of about a quarter of an hour, with Habiksad walking ahead holding a storm lantern tied to a bamboo pole, will bring us to the railway sidings. Horace, our spotty Dalmatian dog, trots beside me on a lead enjoying the unexpected night walk. The luminous dial of my watch reads ten minutes to one o’clock. The siding is empty. We have arrived before the train with its miserable cargo and the oxcart. It arrives after one o’clock, but without an escort. The driver simply saying the men got off