‘You’ll be returning your horse to the Chummery? Well now, when you get there I’d like you to deliver this to Edgar in person,’ Sir George had said. ‘Don’t entrust it to anyone else in that hopeless establishment! Why? I don’t often call at the Chummery but the last time I did so there were two telegrams on the mantelpiece. One was a year old and the other – goddammit! – was nearly two years old. Both unopened and one was from me! This could be important and I don’t want it to go astray.’
Joe didn’t want to do this. He knew that if he was intercepted it would be nearly impossible to avoid a second breakfast leading to a drink or two, a morning of inconsequential gossip shading off into tiffin and imperceptibly into an afternoon moving lethargically round the snooker table. He wondered whether, if he rode round the back, he could hand his horse over, leave the telegram with a servant and make a discreet withdrawal, and this he resolved to try. To no avail. He had hardly turned into the compound before a window banged open and a cheerful voice summoned.
‘Must have smelled the coffee, Sandilands!’ Hospitably, the beaming face of Jackie Carlisle appeared at the window. ‘Come on board and tell us the latest news! You who have the ear of the great and good must have something interesting to tell us in this otherwise uneventful town.’
Joe knew that he was caught and Jackie continued, ‘Heard someone say the other day, “Where Sandilands goes, trouble follows.” Come on, Joe, live up to your reputation – enliven our dull lives.’
Reluctantly, Joe handed his horse to a syce who had hurried forward on hearing the hooves on the gravel. In the Chummery, Joe had discovered, the grooms knew their business, but the house servants, of whom there seemed to be a number varying from day to day and from two to ten, seemed to take their pace from their employers. He let himself into the house and made for the breakfast room. Here at least there was order. The table was laid for four with piles of bread and fruit and a large steaming bowl of porridge. A large pot of coffee too – good coffee. That you could count on. Three of the inmates were already gathered around the table and dressed in their usual crumpled white linen suits. Jackie Carlisle entered clad in a silk dressing gown and made his way to the sideboard. Joe watched in awe as Jackie poured himself out a drink and threw it down in one gulp. His eyes bulged and his purple face took on a darker shade. He crowed, he stuttered as he fought for breath.
‘Christ!’ said Joe, impressed. ‘What was that, Jackie?’ and he waited while Jackie spluttered on.
‘Oh, for God’s sake – someone loosen his stays,’ muttered Edgar.
‘Only thing that gets me going these days,’ Jackie managed at last. ‘Want some?’
‘I’d need to know what it was,’ said Joe guardedly.
Edgar intervened. ‘Don’t touch the bloody stuff!’ he said. ‘It’s wormwood. Absinthe.’
‘Absinthe?’ said Joe, surprised. ‘I thought it was illegal?’
‘Yes,’ said Jackie, wiping his mouth and looking round vaguely, ‘I believe it is.’
‘So it should be,’ said Bertie Hearne-Robinson. ‘It’ll kill him sooner or later.’
Edgar picked up the glass and sniffed it. ‘This is nothing,’ he said. ‘When I was in the Russian army, most of my fellow officers imbibed it nasally.’
‘Edgar, is that linguistically possible?’ Joe asked.
‘Possibly not. But certainly physically possible! Witnessed it many times. They’d pour out a little cupful and snuff it up. Jackie may be in a bad way but he’s not quite as bad as that. Not yet.’
‘It’s boredom,’ said Johnny Bristow. ‘Poor old sod! Who can blame him? Nothing much happens. I know how he feels. When Joe’s been up here a bit longer, goodness knows into what he’ll be driven by boredom.’
‘Or into whom,’ leered Bertie. ‘Couldn’t help noticing that Margery Phelps was showing more than common interest at the Gaiety last night . . . and Colonel Phelps is in Burma, I understand. Like me to fix it up for you, Joe?’
‘Oh, come on!’ said Johnny. ‘The Commander can do better than the garrison hack! Handsome young chap like him, chestful of medals, friends in high places, all the charm in the world, he can have his pick! Let’s think . . . Now, little Maudie Smithson’s still unbacked, I believe. She’s quite a strider! What about it, Joe?’
The conversation diverted into an informed comparison of the attractions of the available ladies of Simla and much speculation as to the attractions of the unavailable.
‘This is nothing but talk!’ said Edgar. ‘Not one of you has anything going if the truth be told. Young chaps like you ought to be making things happen. When I was your age –’
Bertie hurried to cut him off. ‘When you were our age, you were Emperor of all the Russias! Don’t tell us!’
This was beginning to turn into a mild Chummery quarrel and Joe didn’t want to listen. Mercifully, he remembered his telegram. ‘Oh, by the way, Edgar – telegram for you. Or rather a telegram for Sir George for passage on to you. It’s probably nothing but he said I had to put it into your hand. Hold out your hand!’
He passed a buff form across. Not much privacy here. All crowded round to read over Edgar’s shoulder. As he watched he wondered very much how the leaky ship that was the Chummery stayed afloat. He knew that Jackie Carlisle was paid a substantial allowance by his wife’s family to stay in India. He knew that Johnny Bristow carelessly but seemingly successfully bought and sold horses, had horses for hire and carriages for that matter. Bertie Hearne-Robinson was widely believed to have contacts over the border and not to be above a little gentlemanly smuggling in concert with a number of gentlemanly Pathans and all under the cover of the house lettings and sales agency he ran from an office in the Mall.
Then there was Edgar. What about Edgar? An accomplished shikari, he managed shooting trips for passing visitors. He arranged contacts and some of the contacts he was fabled to arrange were of a rather dubious nature. It was widely known that Edgar enjoyed shares in a prosperous and select brothel in the lower town. Perhaps it was no wonder that the respectable did not care to be seen to be associated with the Chummery, but at the same time perhaps it was clear why the adventurous sought their company, admired their style and, on annual return to Simla, found their way there. Want a game of polo? Johnny would fix it. Want to dispose of a few stones? Bertie was your man. Want to raise a small holiday loan? Jackie might be able to help. Easy terms, only needing a promissory note.
It was clear to Joe that demand would always create supply and when you had a town full of men – full of women too – on pleasure bent, the procureur, the middle man, would always prosper. That was what kept the Chummery going!
‘Could we,’ he enquired mildly, ‘have a look at this fabled telegram? And could we – I beg your pardon, gentlemen – have a little privacy to do so?’
All were at once contrite. ‘Yes, old boy, of course. Good gracious! No problem at all!’
They rose in turn from the cluttered breakfast table and left Joe and Edgar alone.
Joe considered the once handsome square face opposite as Edgar studied the telegram. He seemed to be spending a disproportionate amount of time on such a short missive and had clearly read the text three times before Joe asked impatiently, ‘What’s it all about, Edgar?’
‘Ranipur,’ said Edgar. ‘They want me to go there. Happens sometimes.’
The name was familiar to Joe. Ranipur. Familiar, but amongst so much unrelated information about India he couldn’t place it.
‘It’s a princely state,’ said Edgar and he lifted a framed map from the wall and set it on the table between them. ‘It’s about three hundred miles away. Here’s Simla. And down here there’s Delhi. Now follow the railway line from Simla down to Kalka and Umballa. That’s the way you came up last month. It’s not shown but there’s a branch line, a private line, connecting with the main one at Umballa. Here,’ he said, pointing with a splayed finger. ‘There’s a narrow gauge railway like the one up to Simla. It was put in by the maharaja of Ranipur to improve access to his state.