Now, she devoted herself, inter aha, to the welfare of the orphans of Kalimpong, whom she had helped make world famous through the pages of a thousand parish magazines, and to the furthering of the Mission’s plans to bring the Christian witness to the benighted heathens of northern Sikkim and Tibet. She was forty-four, flat chested nervous of temperament, and given to kidney troubles.
She was going to die two years later in an accident involving two
Tibetan ponies, an over-laden mule, and a two-hundred-foot drop near Kampa-Dzong. In the meantime, however, she was on one side of the doorway and Christopher on the other.
“I’m sorry if I don’t match your expectations, Mrs. Carpenter,” said Christopher as politely as he could.
“If it’s inconvenient, I’ll call again. But I am in Kalimpong on urgent business, and I would like to start my investigations as soon as possible.”
“Investigations? What have you come to investigate, Mr. Wylam?
I assure you, there is nothing here to investigate.”
“I think I will be the judge of that, Mrs. Carpenter. If you would kindly let your husband know that I am here.”
The formidable presence turned and barked into the gloomy interior of the entrance hall.
“Girl! Tell the Reverend Carpenter that a person is here demanding to see him. An English person. He says his name is Wylam.”
The girl departed, but Mrs. Carpenter remained, as though afraid Christopher might have designs on her brass knocker. She had brought the knocker all the way from a shop in Princes Street herself, and had no wish to see it fall into the hands of a man without a visiting card.
In less than a minute, the girl returned and, still invisible, muttered something to her mistress. The presence shifted and gestured wordlessly to Christopher to enter. As he stepped through the door, childhood tales of Protestant irregularities chattered in the back of his mind. The girl led him along a narrow, carpeted passage dimly lit by weak electric bulbs to a dark-panelled door.
He knocked and a thin voice bade him enter.
‘ll John Carpenter’s study, like his wife, his faith, and his own person, had been carried wholesale from Scotland and set down, virgo intacta, in the heart of heathendom. Nothing Indian, nothing dark skinned, nothing indelicately foreign had been permitted to obtrude itself into this small, un incensed sanctuary of Christian virility. On the walls, the heads and antlers of Highland stags braved the moths and biting insects of the north-east frontier, while men in kilts and bristling beards glared their defiance of the heathen and his gods.
Had Jesus Christ himself walked in dark skinned, Jewish, and mundane the good Reverend Carpenter would have made haste to convert him there and then and to have him baptized Angus or Duncan. The Aramaic-speaking Jewish teacher from Nazareth was nothing or worse to John and Moira Carpenter. Their Jesus was a pale Galilean, blond, blue eyed and beardless, walking miraculously above the wild flowers and heather of a Scottish hillside.
John Carpenter was standing, hands clasped behind his back, peering at Christopher through a pair of gold-rimmed half-moon spectacles. He was a man in his early fifties, spare, slightly bent, balding, with teeth that would have made a dentist turn to drink and wild women. He looked, on the whole, as though he had seen better days. Christopher thought he seemed nervous.
“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.”