The question seemed bizarre and out of place to Christopher.
“I don’t see what God has got to do with this,” he said.
“I told you before, I haven’t come here to discuss theology.”
“Oh, but Mr. Wylam, don’t you see? It all goes back to theology in the end. It all goes back to God. How could it be otherwise? But if you are not yourself a believer, you may find it hard to understand.”
“’mm not here to understand. I’m here to find my son. He was here in this orphanage. For all I know, he may still be here.”
Carpenter went over to his seat by the fire and sat down. He looked tired and unhappy.
“What makes you think he was here?” he asked.
“I found his initials carved into the wall behind a chest in the sick bay. So let’s stop playing games. Martin Cormac was killed sometime this morning because he had information about you and your activities. Until something happens to convince me otherwise, I’m holding you responsible.”
The look of shock on the missionary’s face seemed genuine enough.
“Cormac? Dead? What do you mean? I know nothing about any killing.”
Christopher explained. As he did so, the blood drained from , Carpenter’s face. The look of horror grew more pronounced.
‘ “I swear I know nothing whatever about this,” he stammered.
“I
swear it to you. I know about your son, yes. I know about the monk, Tsewong, yes. But this other thing, I swear I had no hand in it. You must believe me.”
“Tell me about my son. Where is he?”
Carpenter looked away.
“He’s not here. You are right: he was. But he left a week ago.”
“Who is he with? Where have they taken him?”
“Mishig took him, the Mongol Agent They left for Tibet. I think he planned to travel over the Sebu-la.”
“Where are they headed?”
Carpenter shook his head. He looked directly at Christopher.
“I don’t know,” he answered.
“They’re going to Tibet: that’s all L know.”
“Are they going to Dorje-la? Is that their destination?”
The missionary seemed agitated. He shook his head vigorously.
“I don’t know where you mean. I’ve never heard of a place called Dorje-la.”
“You sent some of your children there. Never girls, just boys.
The monk Tsewong came from there, didn’t he? He was sent here by the Dorje Lama.”
Carpenter took a deep breath. He was shaking.
“You know a great deal, Mr. Wylam. Who are you’ What do you want?
What’s so important about your son?”
“I thought you might tell me that.”
“I only kept him here until they were ready for the journey.
Mishig told me nothing. Tsewong told me nothing. You must believe me!”
“Where is Dorje-la?”
“I don’t know!”
“Who is the Dorje Lama?”
“The abbot of Dorje-la! That’s all I know, I swear.”
Christopher paused. Just what did Carpenter know? What was he prepared to do, who was he prepared to sell, for a little influence, a little funding?
“And you know nothing about Martin Cormac’s death?”
“Nothing! I swear.”
“Did they pay you?”
“Pay me?”
“To keep William here. To hand him over to Mishig.”
The missionary shook his head.
“Not money. Promises. Promises of help. Listen, you must try to take the broader view. I have important work to do, the Lord’s work. There are souls to be saved. Do you understand that? They are going to hell, all these millions, with no Saviour to redeem them. I can rescue them, I can give them Paradise. Don’t you see?
The Lord is using us: you, me, my orphans, your son. We’re all his tools. It’s mysterious, the way He works is mysterious. Unless you understand that, you will understand nothing. I do what I do for His sake, for the sake of His work.”
Christopher reached out and grabbed hold of the man. He pulled him out of his chair to his feet.
“You sell little girls for God? You sell boys to convert the
heathen?”
“You don’t understand .. . !”
Christopher threw him back into the chair.
“Have they harmed him? I pray God they haven’t harmed him.
For your sake,” The Scotsman shook his head violently, protesting.
“No! He’s safe, he’s well. I swear it! They haven’t harmed him.
They won’t harm him. They want him for something. They want him safe.
He’s important to them. Believe me, he’s safe.”
Christopher could not bear to touch the man again. There was nothing he could say to him, nothing that would bring back Martin Cormac or draw William an inch nearer to him.
“When you have your mission in Lhasa,” Christopher said, ‘remember what it cost. Think about it every day. Every time you hear the trumpets in the temples drowning your prayers. And ask yourself if it was worth it. Ask yourself if God is worth that much.”
He opened the door and went out slowly. It closed behind him with a dull click.
Carpenter looked at the remains of the fire: no phoenix, no bright feathers, no flurry of sudden wings just ashes crumbling into dust. He glanced up and caught sight of the hook in the ceiling. The sunlight lay on it like gold leaf. He still had the girdle that the monk had used: he had not given it to Cormac. It was in a drawer in the corner. The chair was just high enough to allow him to reach the hook.
There was a policeman at the rest-house door. He looked as though he had always been there, a fixture, a solidity in the flux of the busy street. He wore the regulation blue uniform with a dark pugaree bearing his divisional badge. Huge moustaches sagged over and round a humourless mouth. He stood rigidly, like a tin soldier on parade. Christopher knew he was waiting for him. Waiting and planning a promotion based on his arrest. He carried a thick riot stick and looked as though he knew how to use it.
Smoothly, Christopher slipped into the shadows on the side of the street. A buffalo cart screened him further from the eyes of the policeman. He became invisible. Until now, he thought, he had been stumbling about like a beginner. It was time he grew up again. Breathing deeply, he scanned the street rapidly in both directions. He had to leave Kalimpong now. But he had left his equipment and money in the rest-house, the latter well hidden beneath a floorboard.
There was a back entrance. Slipping through a maze of stinking alleyways, he made his way unobserved to the small, rubbish choked courtyard at the rear of the house. As he expected, the police had forgotten to post anyone there. Cautiously, he tried the rickety door. It was unlocked. He slipped inside and found himself in a gloomy passage at the end of which a dusty shaft of sunlight beckoned. He closed the door gently; the stagnant air of the rest house began to fill his lungs. The smell of rancid butter permeated the place.
The house was quiet, and he succeeded in making his way unchallenged to his room. The room itself was unguarded. He let himself in with the simple iron key.
The man in the chair showed neither surprise nor welcome as Christopher entered. Christopher closed the door gently and put the key back in his pocket. He saw that the room had been given a thorough going-over again, but he did not think his visitor had been responsible. The man was dressed in the robes of a Tibetan monk, but he was clearly no ordinary trapa. His clothes, his bearing, his eyes, his lips all gave token of a man of some
