“Mr. Wylam?” he said, in an accent to match his wife’s.
“Do take a seat. We’ve not had the pleasure of meeting before. Is this your first visit to Kalimpong?”
That was a subject Christopher preferred to stay clear of.
“I’ve been here before,” he said.
“Once or twice. Just short visits.
No time to socialize.”
Carpenter glanced at him sharply, as though to suggest that socializing was hardly an activity men like Christopher engaged in.
“Or go to church?” The little eyes twinkled behind thick lenses.
“Ah, no. I’m afraid .. . that is, I’m not a Presbyterian, Dr.
Carpenter ‘ “Oh, too bad, too bad. Church of England, naturally.”
This was getting off to a bad start.
“Well, no, not exactly. More Roman Catholic really.”
Christopher was sure the men in kilts stiffened and drew in ghostly breaths.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Wylam,” Carpenter persisted, ‘but I don’t quite understand. Surely you cannot be “more” or “less” Roman. The Church of Rome is not a church of compromise. Extra ecclesiam nulla salus, is that not so?”
“Yes, I expect it is.”
“You were brought up in your faith, I expect?”
“Yes. Ah, Dr. Carpenter, I .. .”
“Of course. That is usually the way. There are few converts to the cult of saints. The Anglicans sometimes turn in that direction, to be sure. But they are half-way there already, more’s the pity.”
“I’m sure. Now, if you don’t mind, I .. .”
“Do you know,” Carpenter continued, utterly disregarding Christopher, “I have often thought that your faith meaning no disrespect has much in common with the faiths one encounters in this dark wilderness. I think of the Hindus with their extravagant gods, their priests, and their offerings. Or the Buddhists of Tibet, with their hierarchies of saints and their candles always burning on altars of gold and silver. Of course, I have never set foot in their savage temples, but I .. .”
“Dr. Carpenter,” Christopher interrupted.
“I’m sorry, but I haven’t come here to discuss theology. Another time, perhaps. For the moment, I have other matters that require my attention.”
Rebuffed, the long-suffering martyr of Kalimpong smiled a gap toothed smile and nodded.
“Yes, of course. Mr. Frazer did mention to me that you were coming and that you might want to ask me some questions. He did not tell me what these might concern, but said they were of a confidential nature.
I’m sure I will do my best to answer them, though I cannot imagine how
your affairs could possibly concern me, Mr. Wylam. I know nothing of
trade or commerce. My one and only aim here is the purchase of souls
from damnation, though
the penny I pay is not a copper one. Nor silver nor gold, for that matter. I deal in .. .”
“I’m sorry if Mr. Frazer was mysterious with you. I am here in Kalimpong on an important matter, but one that need not concern you. Nevertheless, you may be able to assist me. I require some information, information you may have. I understand you were responsible for looking after a Tibetan monk who died here some weeks ago. A man called Tsewong. Anything you know of him would be of use to me.”
The missionary gave Christopher a curious look, as though that had not been the question he had expected It seemed to have thrown him slightly off balance. The smile left his face and was replaced by a keen, probing expression. He rubbed the tip of one finger along the edge of his nose, lifting his spectacles a fraction.
He was clearly weighing his answer. When it came at last, it was cautious.
“I cannot see of what concern the monk could be to you or to Mr. Frazer. He was not a trader. Just an unfortunate devil-worshipper with scarcely a penny to his name. May I ask the reason for your interest?”
Christopher shook his head.
“It’s a private matter. I assure you it has nothing whatever to do with trade. I merely wished to know whether he said anything of importance while in your care, whether you recall anything that seemed significant at the time.”
The missionary looked sharply at Christopher.
“What would you deem significant? How am I to judge? I have already given an account to Mr. Frazer and to Norbhu Dzasa, the Tibetan Agent here.”
“But perhaps there was something that seemed trivial to you and was not put in your report, and yet would be of interest to me. I’m trying to find out how he came to Kalimpong, where he came from, whom he had come to see. You may have some clue that would help me.”
Carpenter reached up, removed his spectacles, and folded them up
carefully, one leg at a time, like a praying mantis folding an even
tinier victim in delicately articulated forelegs. For a moment, the
mild-mannered missionary had gone, to be replaced by another man
entirely. But the substitution lasted only a second before
Carpenter regained control of himself and straightened the mask he had allowed to slip. As carefully as before, with the same insect like deliberation, he unfolded his spectacles and replaced them exactly as they had been.
“The man was dying when he was brought to us,” he said.
“He died the next day. All that is in the report. Would that I could say he had gone straight to the arms of a merciful Saviour, but I cannot. He spoke deliriously of things I did not understand. I speak a little Tibetan, but only what suffices for conversations with the dzong-pongs and the shapes when they come to visit me.”
Christopher interrupted.
“Did anyone like that visit you while the monk was here? The Tibetan Agent, perhaps. I forget what you said his name was.”
“Norbhu Dzasa. No, Mr. Wylam, there were no visitors, unless you count Doctor Cormac. This man Tsewong died among strangers, I regret to say.”
“You say he spoke deliriously, that he muttered things you did not understand. Did he say anything at all about a message? Did he mention the name Zamyatin? Or my name, Wylam?”
Christopher was sure the little Scot reacted to the questions. He seemed to grow pale and then flush. Just for a second, the mask slipped again, then Carpenter was back in control.
“Absolutely not. I should have noticed something of that kind, I am sure. No, it was all gibberish about the gods and demons he had left behind him in the mountains. You know the sort of thing I mean.”
Christopher nodded. He did not believe a word of it.
“I see,” he said.
“Are any of your staff Tibetan? Or perhaps some of your orphans?”
Carpenter stood up and pushed his desk back.
“Mr. Wylam,” he expostulated, “I really would like to know just where you are driving with these questions. You are verging on the impertinent. I am willing to answer anything within reason, but questions about my staffer the children in my care pass the bounds of what I regard as proper or allowable. You are not, I take it, a policeman. Nor a government official, presumably. In which case, I would like to know what right you think you have to come here prying into my affairs and the affairs of this institution. In fact, I think it would be best all round if you were to leave at once.”
Christopher remained seated. He had succeeded in rattling the man.
“I’m sorry,” he said, “I didn’t mean to seem impertinent. I think it will be best if I explain. My son William was kidnapped two weeks ago. As yet, the motive for the kidnapping is not known. But I have reason to believe he was abducted on instructions contained in a message carried out of Tibet by this man Tsewong. I’m not at liberty to tell you why I think that to be the case. But I assure you my reasons are very serious.”
Carpenter sat down again slowly, as though something very sharp had punctured him. He looked more rattled than ever.
