“Your talk of treason is wholly beside the point,” he continued. “Continued British rule of India has been a disaster for the Indian people. You were not in Bengal when the rice crop failed. You did not see the multitudes who wandered in the country districts, having abandoned their towns and villages—the sunken eyes, wan faces, lips flecked with foam, lower jaws projecting, bones protruding through skin, stomachs hanging like empty sacks. You did not see them howling with the pain of hunger, begging alms. Can you imagine the very children sold by parents, and the collective suicides? Can you imagine how the starving even split open the stomachs of the dead or dying to eat their entrails? Millions died to the point where the country was covered with the corpses of the unburnt or unburied. And then there was the pestilence that carried further millions away. All this was the work of English rule of India. Do not accuse me of treason when revenge is a better word.”
“Then you’re a bloody fool,” I snarled. Yes, Pakeshi had a gun, and he knew how to use his hands in ways I hadn’t conceived. But I knew nonsense when I heard it. “The rice crop failed because the virus used by the Japanese in China spread to India. The plague was also Japanese work. We did everything possible to relieve the distress. How would you and your Congress Party friends have fed fifty million starving beggars? As I recall, it was the Congress Party that machine-gunned the corn meal distributors, and lied that the meal was contaminated with beef lard. Don’t tell me about Indian patriotism when all you want is to add German gold to English paper.”
Pakeshi smiled and sat down. He’d spoken about the famine with what seemed genuine passion. The virus had “escaped” from a Japanese laboratory in 1942, and he was old enough to have been practising then. But he was now his usual ironic self, and it was hard to tell if he’d believed a word about his pity for the Indian poor. He took out his watch and looked at the time. In defiance of the No Smoking sign, I took out my cigarettes and lit up. Pakeshi glowered and reached for the leather strap to pull the window down an inch. He controlled himself and went back to his cold smile.
“Mr Kingsley Wood might have done more than he did from New Delhi,” he said, quietly giving in. “And do you recall how the potato famine killed Irish nationalism for a generation? If British rule has lasted this long over India, is it not because a fifth of India lay dead by 1943?” He waved at the newspaper reports of the Indian rioting. “How do you suppose this would be controlled if India were not still prostrate? Leave aside air power—there are currently not ten thousand white soldiers in the whole of India.” I gave no answer, and the argument died. Pakeshi looked again at his watch and sighed.
“But do tell me, dear Anthony.” He asked, “what better plan you have than my own. The men who tried to kill you this morning were not police officers. But I saw no inclination at Kings’ Cross to give yourself in to the real police.”
“I was wrong,” I said. “I want to get off this railway train in York and turn myself in to the first uniformed constable I meet. I want that document back, so I can hand that over as well. If you want to continue to the Hull ferries, that’s your concern. I’ll not tell anyone.” Pakeshi raised his eyebrows.
“And you will trust the authorities not to hang you?” he sneered.
“The authorities would never knowingly hang an innocent man,” I said with firm assurance. “I don’t understand what’s in the papers. But I trust the honesty and good intentions of the men who rule this country.” That shut Pakeshi up. He sat opposite me, his mouth open. Once or twice, he looked as if he’d burst out laughing. But he obviously found no reply. We sat in silence for perhaps ten minutes.
The carriage swayed again, and there was a grinding of metal on metal. Pakeshi put a hand to his pocket, then sat up and looked out of the window. We were coming to a stop at a platform where all the station lights were burning bright. I heard shouts further along the platform, where a conversation had started with the drivers.
“There is no scheduled stop at Sleaford,” Pakeshi said flatly. “Your wish to have a rope put about your neck may have been granted sooner than you expected.” He might have said more, but we’d now stopped, and there was a man on the platform just outside our window. He had his back to us, and all I could see was his hat. “Get down!” Pakeshi whispered urgently. He pulled me to the floor. We huddled together. I saw the man’s shadow as he seemed to be putting up a hand to see into the compartment. There was a laugh and a muttered comment I couldn’t hear through the glass. Pakeshi looked briefly over at the locked door. He pulled out his gun and held it uncertainly.
“If you try using that,” I said, “we’ll both hang for sure.” I could almost hear my heart banging away inside my chest. I wanted to persuade him to put the gun away and stand up. But my throat was suddenly tight, and I was going into a fit of the shakes. Had they already found the dead man all those miles back along the line?
There was a loud hiss of steam and a long shudder of steel as the locomotive engine started up again. I saw the glow from the platform lights move as we began to pull out of the station. As everything outside the window darkened again, Pakeshi stood up. I didn’t know which was worse—Pakeshi gloating and self-assured, or Pakeshi nervous to the point of dithering. Each was awful in its own way. I’d spent all day with the former. Now, I was having a glimpse of the latter. He took hold of his gun in both hands, as if each might cancel out the tremor in the other.
I remained on the floor. We must still have been some way till the magnetised line started again, and the railway train was still only rumbling along. Even so, we were moving, and it was only a matter of time before the carriage to carriage search reached our own compartment.
“My plan of getting off at York has just changed,” Pakeshi said. He reached for the strap to get the window open. Suddenly, he froze. There were men in the corridor outside our compartment. The blind was still down, but I thought I could see a shadow on the thin cloth.
“He’s in there,” one of them was saying. The door handle rattled, and the compartment door slid open about an eighth of an inch. The man swore and seemed to let go of the handle. “Get it unlocked,” he snarled.
“I don’t know about that,” the ticket inspector said. “You can’t get me opening first class compartments without proper cause. The Railway by-laws say very clearly—here, you can’t go pointing that thing at me!” There was a muffled thud outside, as if of something hard on flesh and bone. There was then another muttered conversation. Pakeshi put a knee on my back and pushed me harder against the floor. He pushed himself as far as he could against the wall of the compartment. The door rattled again.
“Dr Markham,” another man said, now in a strong London accent, “we know you’re in there. Just unlock the door and come out. I promise we won’t hurt you.”
“They aren’t the police—are they?” I whispered through chattering teeth. Pakeshi pulled the window down and reached down to get me to my feet.
“Help, help!” the ticket inspector suddenly cried outside. “Help!” he now yelled. There was a muffled gunshot, and then silence. I wanted to try squeezing myself under the seat. But Pakeshi held me fast with one hand, his gun in the other. Now the door was rattling again, and I heard the sound of the inspector’s key in the lock.
“Tell them you’ll throw the Memorandum out of the window if they try coming through the door,” he whispered. Teeth chattering uncontrollably, I looked blankly at him. “Tell them that,” he whispered fiercely. “Play for time if you want to stay alive.” I found the voice to do as he said. The door lock ceased rattling, and there was another conversation outside.