Free Death on a Pale Horse by Donald Thomas Page A

would,” said Frank, nodding emphatically but still smiling.
    â€œI speak of what I know, doctor,” Sellon continued. “As a matter of honour, his name and misconduct were never revealed by those other subalterns who judged him. He was tried by his equals and convicted. Indeed, he admitted his guilt.”
    â€œAnd what was his sentence?”
    â€œHe was to go ten rounds against a junior captain who had been a school and regimental boxing champion. No one could compel him to do so, but it was the price of avoiding a public trial.”
    â€œHe agreed?”
    â€œHe did. Of course, he was no pugilist and after that half hour he had been badly beaten. Yet he had tried to hold his own against a superior antagonist. In this he had shown a good deal of pluck. By doing so, he won back much of the reputation which he might have lost through an act of folly—as I choose to call it.”
    â€œWhat happened to him then?”
    â€œHe remained in the Army, though not in the same regiment. He transferred and began again. I think you do not understand, perhaps, that such rituals are also the way in which the Army protects its own.”
    I certainly understood how much I still had to learn about India and the codes of its British rulers.
    â€œWhat happened in the 109th Foot?”
    Captain Sellon leant forward again.
    â€œSince you are no longer joining that regiment and have heard nothing so far, I think we may leave the matter there. We have talked enough of these things to give you an understanding. You will forgive me if I do not choose to make them a matter of gossip. If you ever discover the answer to your question, it will not be through me.”
    His two juniors were unwilling to contradict him, in his presence. As for me, I was about to face life and death somewhere beyond the Khyber Pass. Joshua Sellon was right. Regimental tittle-tattle was something best avoided. Or so I thought.
    About half an hour before reaching Lahore, we stopped at a remote junction on a wide and fertile plain. There was a loop in the line where our train was held back, waiting for an on-coming set of southbound coaches to pass us on its return to Delhi or Bombay. As we sat there, our carriage door was opened by an officer in the uniform of a brigade major. He summoned Captain Sellon out to the platform. They spoke for a moment about something that was evidently confidential. Then, as the door was closed from outside, it became evident that Sellon had been commanded to join a conference further up the train.
    While we waited for the southbound train to pass, I knew that Jock and Frank would never keep their mouths shut in their captain’s absence. As for Joshua Sellon, I was never to see him alive again.

2
    J ock gave Frank a nudge.
    â€œYou ass!” he said, gasping and grinning before he looked at me again. “It’s all right, sir. Not your fault. You weren’t to know about old Josh.”
    â€œWhat about him?”
    â€œHe’s only Provost Marshal’s Corps! That’s all! Snooping into black-guards, as they say. He’s done court-martials, but he won’t tell tales.”
    â€œThe long and the short of it was the Putney-Wilson case,” said Frank, eagerly but quietly, as if Sellon might still be listening, “that’s what happened in the 109th. You’ll hear about it anyway in Lahore. But I daresay the tale reached the English press. Emmeline Putney-Wilson?”
    â€œI don’t believe so.”
    â€œReally? Not the suicide? It surely must have done.”
    â€œI think not. At any rate, I cannot recall it in the papers.”
    â€œWell, Emmeline was married to Major Putney-Wilson of the 109th. He was seconded to Delhi for several months. She was a pious sort of lady, it seemed, devoted to the two little children. First row of the garrison chapel on Sunday morning, hymn-book open. Voice of a prima donna and looks of a pretty horsebreaker. Also a voice