Naurung dropped his eyes to his boots and replied slowly, ‘No, I have never heard of such a man.’
Chastened, they climbed back into the car and made their way back on to the main trunk road through to Calcutta. Progress along the potholed road crowded with people and animals kicking up clouds of dust was slow in spite of Naurung’s enthusiastic use of the horn and Joe discovered that on Indian highways even the Collector’s Packard gives way to cows and elephants. Shaken and stiff in spite of the luxurious springing, it was well into the afternoon when they caught sight of the welcome green expanse of the maidan, the reassuring octagonal bulk of Fort William and the crowded masts and funnels on the river beyond. They drove north up the Chowringhee Road, their eyes dazzled by the glare of the whitened palaces along its route, and Joe was surprised, after his four days’ absence in the country, that he was finding the familiarity of the city reassuring. Naurung stopped the car.
‘Well, here you are,’ said Nancy. “This is where you get off. I think you know your way about? Carmichael ’s establishment is somewhere along this street – here, I’ve written out the address for you. Naurung is going to drop me off at the hospital where I’m to meet Forbes and we’ll meet up again for tea. Just take a rickshaw to the Great Eastern when you’ve finished with Carmichael.’
Naurung seemed anxious to go off on his own business and asked if he might be excused when he had finally dropped them off at the Residence, announcing that he was staying the night with a member of his family. Joe waved them off as they set off back towards the hospital and fixed his mind on Harold Carmichael, formerly second-in-command of the Bengal Greys, formerly the husband of Joan.
British India does not walk very often, but distressed by the anguished face in his imagination of Joan Carmichael, Joe resolved to walk the length of Chowringhee to Carmichael ’s office. As he made his way past the once opulent villas of bygone nabobs – many of which ranked as palaces rather than villas – he noted that the further he walked from the centre, the more multiplex the subdivision of these great houses became.
Initially, brass plates discreetly announced the presence of banks, insurance companies, the Calcutta office of internationally known trading houses, engineers, architects and solicitors. But soon the brass plates got smaller as the number increased. Brass plates gave way to cards. The number of bell pushes multiplied. Names appeared on upper windows, front doors stood open. Kites circled the damp air and crows pecked crumbling cornices. Numbers grew into the hundreds.
After about twenty minutes’ walk, keeping to the shade of the arcades whenever he could avoid being forced out into the road by the crowds, he found himself outside number 210. Number 210 had no fewer than twenty names at the door, some of these boasting new name plates, most boasting cards and amongst these – after quite a search – he identified Carmichael, Popatlal and Mandavia, Importers of Fine Wines, Beers, Spirits etc. There was an electric bell push which, without much hope, he duly pressed. An Indian emerged from the darkness within and spoke to him at length. Joe shrugged his shoulders and smiled, pointed to Carmichael ’s card and looked a question which only elicited a further flood of Hindustani but eventually a hand pointing helpfully up the dark staircase.
As he progressed, heads appeared in various doorways and eyed him with curiosity. A Metropolitan policeman in uniform was not often seen at this end of the Chowringhee.
He came at last to an open door through which he saw a white-clad figure seated at a desk and writing without much urgency on a pad in front of him. He was balding, he had a grey moustache which might once have been the standard moustache as issued to, or at any rate worn by, British cavalry officers. His collar, which had once been stiff, lay on the desk beside him and his shirt was open at the neck. A large copper ashtray was full of the butts of many cheroots. There were two empty whisky bottles in the waste paper basket and another about half full at his elbow. An Army and Navy Stores ‘Colonial’ refrigerator in a mahogany case stood against the wall but the door was open and the contents were gone.
The walls were lined with photographs, mostly, Joe noticed, of the Bengal Greys, but these were spotted and damp-stained and thunder flies had made their way in and perished behind the glass. There was not much about the figure before him to recall the dapper cavalry major.
Joe knocked tentatively on the door and then, getting no response, with more authority. He was greeted by an irascible ‘Yes?’ Putting his cap under his arm, he strode into the room.
‘Major Carmichael?’ he said. ‘My name is Sandilands.’
Carmichael looked round. ‘Sandilands! Good Lord! Is it three o’clock already? Oh, I am sorry! It’s been rather a hectic day. One damn thing after another in this business… but now – come you in.’ He rose to his feet and extended a damp and hairy hand. ‘Funny time of day, this,’ he said. ‘Seems too early or too late to offer you a peg but I expect you won’t say no. You’d think in this humidity you wouldn’t necessarily need to keep up the fluids but everybody says you should so, here we are – a khushal ye.’
Joe knew the appropriate response but wondered whether in the light of what he saw it was entirely appropriate. ‘Khwar mashe,’ he said, the literal meaning of which he understood was ‘May you not be poor.’
‘Now,’ said Carmichael, as two fairly full tumblers of whisky appeared on the desk, ‘what can I do for Commander Sandilands? Of the Metropolitan Police, I understand? Rare bird in Calcutta!’
Joe went into a prepared speech, ‘… here at the invitation of the Governor… no particular anxiety to stir up old troubles or open old wounds… the Collector… some anxiety when – as you’ve probably heard – the death of Peggy Somersham last week awoke old rumours… thought it better to scotch these at the outset and reaffirm the finding of the coroner… not a good idea to let speculation grow…’ And so on.
Carmichael eyed him bleakly and in silence for a moment or two. Joe remembered Nancy ’s words, ‘A bitter man… the worst kind of Indian army officer… all moustache and bluster… not popular with the men…’
Moustache, yes, bluster no. Joe did not believe he had ever seen such a figure of defeat.
‘If you’re thinking about poor Joanie’s death, I can certainly reassure you. Very clear case. Killed by a snake but I expect you know all that.’
‘Was that usual – being bitten by a snake?’ Joe asked. ‘Remember I’m only an ignorant London bobby.’
‘Don’t know about usual… Not very common but by no means unknown. One or two a year, I suppose. If you’re quick and medical attention is immediately available it doesn’t have to be a fatality but Joanie was all on her ownsome and that’s all there is to say about it.’
Something prompted Joe to say, ‘You must have been very distressed?’
‘Have been?’ said Carmichael. ‘Still am. Most distressing damn thing by a long way that ever happened to me. And, of course…’ He paused for a long time and then resumed, ‘… I suppose this often happens in marriages. Something happens to one partner and all you can think of is the things you never said or did. Are you married? No. Then you probably wouldn’t appreciate this but, every marriage is full of times when you could have been a bit kinder, more considerate. Give you an example – Joanie hated snakes. Terrified of them and at that time we were living in a thatched bungalow – one of the old pre-Mutiny ones. It had a canvas ceiling. One night we were sitting there and we saw a big snake crossing from side to side above the ceiling under the thatch. Looking for mice. I thought Joanie would have a catalepsy! She screamed and sobbed and cried… damned embarrassing! Servants came running from all directions! Nothing would please her but that we should move house. We couldn’t at that time have sold the house without dropping quite a lot of money and I said, “Quite out of the question!” I didn’t have to say that, you know. Not a kind thing to say. And then, of course, this cobra business. It seemed like a terrible fate. A judgement on me perhaps. I was just going to say it took me a long time to recover but I don’t think I’ve ever recovered. Ah, well. You do your best at the time. It may not be very good but nobody can do better than their best, I’m always saying.’