A Division of the Spoils

by Paul Scott

  As they came down the stairs the station that was not Chadford presented itself, raw and uncompromising. They were at the front of the train. The special coach stood directly opposite the exit from the covered bridge. It was flanked by two guard’s vans, one separating it from the engine, the other from the first of the first-class carriages. Beyond this the train stretched back a couple of hundred yards or more. The platform was crowded but a rope barrier guarded by police kept the area in front of the Governor’s coach clear of everyone except people who had business there. Of these there did seem rather a large number.

  Gopal was talking to the MCO’s Indian colleague, apparently putting Ashok into his care. Two Government House servants stood at the foot of the steps that led to the coach’s observation platform, which was also the point of entrance. They saluted Rowan when they caught his eye. The MCO was talking to a British sergeant who had a clipboard of papers. The luggage was going up into the coach. Beyond the barrier charwallahs were collecting money and taking back mugs from hands at windows. Further beyond where the crowds were greatest Rowan could still make out bouncing headloads – the luggage of late arrivals. He wondered where the coffin was and eyed the guardsvan-like coaches which flanked the one he and Gopal were to travel in. And had his suspicions.

  ‘You could help me out, maybe,’ the MCO said, arriving with his clipboard at Rowan’s elbow. ‘I know it’s supposed to be sacred territory but I’ve got six officers in three of the four-persons only compartments and three officers in most of the coupés. Now I’ve got a GHQ priority who’s just come in on the Delhi train.’

  ‘The one due in at 2130?’

  ‘It was ninety minutes late.’

  ‘And you want to put him in the special coach?’

  ‘According to my calculations after you and the Indian gentleman are settled in the two single-berths there’s a couple of coupés going spare. Unless of course the servants are travelling in style.’

  ‘What rank is your GHQ priority?’

  ‘Lieutenant-Colonel.’

  ‘That’s not senior enough to qualify as a possible exception. But I’ll ask Mr Gopal if he has any objection and then see how we’re placed. Has Captain Carter been transferred?’

  ‘Carter?’

  ‘The MCO here.’

  ‘I’m the MCO here. The previous chap’s name was Carter.’

  ‘Did he hand over to you?’

  ‘He’d gone when I got here. Why?’

  ‘He would have explained the uses and abuses of the special coach.’

  ‘I don’t know where abuses comes in.’

  ‘Abuses come in if the coach kept to save Movement Control inconvenience from sudden Government House priorities is treated as a convenient way of solving routine problems of overcrowding. If Mr Gopal and I weren’t going up to Pankot tonight the coach wouldn’t be on the train.’

  ‘It is on the train.’

  ‘Because we’re going up.’ Rowan looked at the top paper on the clipboard. ‘Is that a copy of the GHQ priority?’

  The MCO pulled it from the clip and handed it to Rowan. ‘See for yourself.’

  Rowan took the paper, the usual carbon copy of a movement order, with an illegible signature – someone signing for an officer of the Advocate-General’s branch. Rowan read the text. Then read it again and handed the paper back.

  ‘It says Colonel Merrick is accompanied by a sergeant and a servant. Where are they all at the moment?’

  The MCO referred to his own sergeant, who said there was no problem about the servant and that the colonel’s sergeant had been ‘fixed up’. But the colonel himself was waiting, hoping for something better than a third place in a coupé. He had a disability. The MCO said, ‘What sort of disability?’

  Rowan broke in. ‘I know the officer in question. Just a moment.’ He went to Gopal who was lecturing Ashok. ‘May I have a word, VR? Let’s go in.’

  From the observation platform one entered directly into the sitting compartment. The coach had been equipped to look as much like a houseboat on the Dal lake as was possible. The sofa and over-stuffed chairs were covered in chintz. Numdah rugs added to the thickness of an Indian carpet. There were chintz curtains at the windows. A faint smell of sandalwood.

  ‘Oh dear God,’ Gopal said yet again. He had brought the tiffin set with him and the umbrella.

  Rowan put his briefcase on one of the chairs. ‘An interesting situation has arisen,’ he began.

  ‘We are to travel in an ordinary compartment?’

  ‘No, they’re all full up. The MCO wants us to take some of the overflow.’

  ‘To me this sounds like a confusion. Why do you call it interesting?’

  ‘The overflow happens to be Merrick.’

  Slowly the smile and frown of pretended exasperation left Gopal’s face. He seemed to take a firmer grip on the umbrella and the tiffin-set, making them look like defensive weapons. Offensive, even.

  ‘Merrick? Ex-Superintendent of Police? Now Major?’

  ‘Major no longer apparently. Lieutenant-Colonel.’

  ‘You have seen him?’

  ‘Not yet. I wouldn’t know him by sight anyway. But there’s no doubt it’s Merrick. Would you object?’

  ‘Object to him travelling with us? Is that open to me? You are His Excellency’s chief emissary. It is for you to say.’

  ‘It could be useful.’

  ‘Useful? What could be useful about being with this man?’

  ‘Aren’t you in the least curious to see him?’

  ‘Not in the least curious, Nigel. I will have nothing to do with it, but please don’t bother about me. They can make up my bunk and I can nurse my cold.’

  ‘The beds are already made up in the two main single berths.’

  ‘No, no. I must have my own bedding. I have it with me. They can put it in one of the old aide’s coupés. Your Mr Merrick can sleep in His or Her Excellency’s berth.’

  ‘We’ll have to talk about what we do tomorrow before you go to bed. I’d better tell the MCO it’s no go. Obviously you feel strongly.’ It surprised Rowan a bit that he did.

  ‘And obviously you want him. You say useful. You are the better judge of this. So let him in. But first let me sort out my sleeping quarters and disappear. If we must talk let us do so in there. And please send Ashok in to say goodbye.’

  Gopal went through into the dining-compartment. Rowan returned to the platform and gave Ashok his uncle’s message. The MCO was standing with arms folded, his weight on one leg, advertising his patent amusement.

  ‘We’ll take Colonel Merrick and his party. The servant will have to muck in with our own but I don’t suppose he’ll be any less comfortable.’

  ‘You mean you’re offering two berths?’

  ‘For Colonel Merrick and his sergeant, yes.’

  The MCO’s assistant said, ‘There’s that Major Hemming sir, the one who kicked up a fuss.’

  The MCO nodded. ‘If it’s two berths going spare the answer is two officers, surely. Colonel Merrick and this Major Hemming.’

  ‘The berth’s aren’t going spare. There’s one for Colonel Merrick and one for Sergeant Perron.’

  ‘Is that his name?’

  ‘So it says on the Movement Order.’

  ‘The sergeant’s settled in.’

  ‘Then you’ll have to unsettle him or squeeze his officer into a coupé.’

  ‘We’re due out now.’

  ‘That’s up to you. But there’d be no point in bringing Colonel Merrick without the party specified in the movement order. The officer, the sergeant and the servant.’

  ‘You’re saying all or nothing?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It beats me.’

  As the MCO and his sergeant set off Ashok came down from the coach. Rowan spoke to the Indian official to confirm that he would see the boy safely out of the station. He bade Ashok goodbye, wished him luck in his exams and returned to the sitting-room compartment. The head bearer was putting out bottles and gla
sses on the marble top of a waist-high mahogany corner cabinet. A miniature brass rail held them secure. He ordered a brandy and soda and presently carried the glass out to the observation platform and placed himself where he could see fairly far down the train. The rope barrier was still in position but a section of it had been opened up. There was a sound of warning whistles. The platform was still crowded. The only Englishwomen he could see were in a group: girls in uniform, QAS, seeing someone off, probably on short leave or on posting up to the General Hospital in Pankot. They had some RAF and American officers in tow and looked merry.

  Then they moved in closer to the carriage making room for people to pass: the MCO and an officer whose left arm hung stiffly by his side. Behind them Rowan just made out the tall jungle-green clad figure of a man wearing a green slouch hat and, next to him, someone in a pugree. Luggage bobbed on the heads of the coolies in the rear.

  Rowan went back into the coach and drank his brandy down and returned to the observation platform. He went down the steps as the party passed through the opening in the rope barrier.

  ‘Colonel Merrick?’

  The man tucked a swagger cane under his left arm. Momentarily Rowan was appalled by the scar-tissue that disfigured the left side of Merrick’s face. Sarah had never mentioned that. He took Merrick’s right hand, briefly.

  ‘My name is Rowan.’ He had been steeling himself to say ‘sir’. The word did not come. But he managed the rest of what he’d rehearsed. ‘I think we have a mutual friend in Sarah Layton. I already know your sergeant.’ Before Merrick could react he turned to Perron. Yes. No mistake. He offered his hand. ‘How are you, Guy?’

  A little muscle ridged itself on Perron’s cheek.

  ‘Fine, thank you, Nigel.’

  They shook hands. Rowan readdressed himself to Merrick.

  ‘We’d better sort things out so that the luggage can go in. There’s a spare coupé which has its own bath cubicle, and then there’s a single berther that’s probably more comfortable but it shares washing arrangements with another. There’s no one using the coupé.’

  ‘I should be more than content with either,’ Merrick said. ‘But I do have a certain handicap. The coupé would suit me very well if it’s really not wanted. Then I could have my servant in with me. In any case, it’s very civil of you.’

  ‘I’ll have the luggage put in then. Is this your servant?’

  Rowan glanced at the man who stood to one side of Guy Perron. Extraordinary. A cap of gold thread swathed with stiff white muslin, an embroidered waistcoat over a white tunic gathered at the waist by a belt, and baggy white trousers. Into the belt was tucked a miniature axe on a long shaft decorated with silver filigree. The face was clean-shaven but pockmarked. The eyes looked as though they were rimmed with kohl. A bazaar Pathan: handsome, predatory; the kind of man Rowan instinctively distrusted.

  ‘Yes, that’s Suleiman,’ Merrick said. ‘There isn’t much luggage. We came in a hurry and fairly light.’

  Rowan called over one of the servants from the coach. He gave orders for Merrick’s luggage to be placed in whichever coupé wasn’t occupied by Mr Gopal.

  ‘What have you got, Guy?’

  Perron indicated a kit-bag by his side and a briefcase in his hand. ‘Just these.’

  ‘Well we can sort you out later.’ He told another bearer to put Perron’s kit-bag in the sitting-room. ‘I expect you could both do with a drink. Let’s go up.’ He led the way to the observation platform and stood aside to let Merrick up. Perron waited. Rowan waved him on. When they had both gone up he watched the Pathan follow the porters into the coach at the other end. Then he smiled at Ashok, nodded to the MCO and went into the sitting-room.

  Merrick had removed his cap and placed it with the swagger cane on the small table between the two armchairs. He looked younger than Rowan had expected and, by Perron’s side, curiously unimpressive. Perron, in this confined area, appeared large and heavily built. The jungle-green uniform added a special note of aggressiveness. His hair was fairer than Rowan remembered and the face, in maturity, less mobile in expression. As a youth Perron had smiled constantly.

  ‘Thank you for taking us in,’ Merrick said. ‘I imagine it’s meant bending the rules a bit.’

  ‘Imperceptibly. What will you have, Colonel Merrick?’

  ‘A whisky would do very nicely, thank you. And perhaps Perron may have one too. Then I think he’d like to get his head down. He’s spent most of the past week travelling.’

  ‘There’ll be a light supper next door in ten minutes or so,’ Rowan said. Warning whistles were being blown. ‘What about it, Guy? The MCO said the Delhi train was very late in. Haven’t you missed dinner?’

  ‘I haven’t had it but I haven’t missed it.’ Perron’s tone was edgy and abrasive. ‘Incidentally; no whisky for me. Unless it’s Scotch.’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘Really? Well, that fits.’

  ‘Fits what?’

  Perron didn’t answer. He stiffened his trunk and limbs as if coming to attention. ‘With your permission, sir,’ he said to Merrick, ‘I should like to do as you suggest and get my head down.’

  ‘Shall I continue in custody of the bag, sir?’

  ‘No, leave that here.’

  Rowan signalled to a servant in the dining-room and pointed at Perron’s kit-bag.

  ‘If you want to tuck down I’ll show you where you can settle in.’

  The bearer was handing Perron a glass of whisky and soda as Rowan went past him. In the dining-room he paused, heard Perron say, ‘Goodnight, sir’, and Merrick’s reply, ‘Goodnight, Sergeant.’ The train began to glide forward. When Perron came in, holding his glass, Rowan went to the far door at the right-hand side of the dining compartment and passed through it into the corridor. Merrick’s Pathan, on guard outside the farthest coupé, watched him. Rowan slid open the door of No. 1 compartment. The lights were on. His case was on the luggage rack. Perron followed him in.

  ‘Which would you like, Guy? This one with the bed arranged so that your head faces away from the engine?’ He opened the door into the shower and B.C. cubicles and then another door into a duplicate berth. ‘Or this one where the head faces towards?’

  Perron looked round the rosily-lit compartment.

  ‘Have you nothing in between?’

  ‘I’m afraid not.’

  ‘Then I’ll make do with this.’

  ‘I’m told the last Governor’s lady preferred it.’

  ‘What about the present Governor’s lady?’

  ‘She never comes up to Pankot. If HE has to he goes by road.’

  ‘The coach is something of an anachronism?’

  ‘You could say that.’

  ‘That fits too.’

  ‘Like Scotch. Why? Fits what?’

  ‘The generally hallucinatory atmosphere I currently exist in. Your health.’

  The servant came in with the kit-bag, stowed it on the rack and left by the sliding door that gave on to the corridor. When he had gone Perron shot the bolt.

  ‘Guard your property and your life,’ he said, as though it were a quotation. In one corner of the compartment there was a diminutive armchair, chintz-covered. He squeezed himself into it. ‘The Red Shadow is at large. Did you ever see anything quite as camp?’

  ‘Camp?’

  ‘Suleiman.’ Perron hesitated. ‘Never mind.’ Then, ‘Sandhurst, wasn’t it? Chillingborough and Sandhurst. Now this. ADC to HE. The Governor in Ranpur. Unless I’ve been imagining it all and still am, which seems likely. I believe something may have happened to me a week ago tonight. It is Sunday?’

  ‘No. Monday. The thirteenth. What happened to you a week ago on Sunday?’

  ‘There was a Maharanee mixed up in it somewhere. And then there was poor Purvis. Are you sure it’s the thirteenth? I could swear it was still Sunday.’

  Rowan looked at his watch. ‘Actually we’re both wrong. It’s now Tuesday the fourteenth.’

  ‘Good,’ Perron said. ‘Two days near
er.’

  ‘Nearer what?’

  ‘The successful conclusion of Operation Bunbury. She’ll have had my telegram by now. She will have given the first little tug to the first little string. What should we allow? A month, conservatively? Can I hold out even for a month? Or shall I commit murder? What do they do to sergeants who murder their officers?’

  ‘Hang them, I think.’

  ‘Very degrading. A firing squad would be different. Aunt Charlotte would approve of a firing squad.’

  The train clacked over a series of points. Rowan steadied himself. Perron produced a hip flask from a sidepocket of his jacket and topped up his whisky and soda. ‘Scotch,’ he said. ‘A parting gift from my previous officer. A pleasant enough but finally very ineffectual man. The only alternative he had to propose was that I apply at once for a commission. He thought it likely it could have been immediate but I said immediate or delayed made no difference because accepting a commission at this stage of the game would simply be a policy of despair.’

  ‘There’s no need to drink your own whisky, Guy. Just press the bell.’

  ‘I don’t suppose you have the slightest idea what I’m drivelling on about, have you, Nigel?’

  ‘Some of the details are a bit obscure but oddly enough I get the general drift.’

  ‘Do you? I wish I did. I find the general drift elusive. So here’s to Aunt Charlotte and Operation Bunbury. I hope you’re not going to ask me to explain Bunbury as well as camp.’

  ‘No. But how will an imaginary sick friend solve your problem?’

  ‘He died. At least he did according to the telegram I sent Aunt Charlotte. You remember Aunt Charlotte?’

  ‘The sister of your balloonist uncle?’

  ‘That’s the one. The one who got on awfully well with that stunning girl you were with at School versus Old Boys. I can’t remember her name. Did you marry her, by the way?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Are you married?’

  ‘No, go on about Bunbury.’