The Rose of Tibet by Lionel Davidson

a few days. It’s really very hard to know,’ he said, waving Houston to a chair and sitting down himself, ‘what we can do for you here. I’m sure we sent every scrap of information as it came in to your Mr Stahl.’
    Houston told him what he thought might be done.
    ‘Yes. Well, you can try. I’m sorry about the death certificates. I’d stretch a point if I could, but my hands are tied. I don’t know if I’ve quite got it,’ he said, offering his cigarettes, ‘about the corroboration. There’s not very much to corroborate, is there? We’ve only got the single signal from Lhasa.’
    ‘I wondered if I could borrow that, and the rest of the correspondence, to copy.’
    ‘I expect you could do that.’
    ‘And see any Press reports there might have been about the avalanche.’
    Lister-Lawrence pursed his lips. ‘I doubt if you’ll get much joy there. There must be dozens of avalanches every day in that part of the world. Still, you never know.’
    ‘Also this business of the caravan they were supposed to join – I thought it might be an idea to get a signed statement from someone who was with it.’
    ‘What about?’
    ‘About conditions on the way. It seems a possible avenue.’
    ‘Oh, quite. The difficulty there would be to find the people. It’s really something for the Tibetan trade man in Kalimpong – he issues the licences and personal chitties for everyone who goes in and out. I could drop him a line, if you want,’ he said without enthusiasm. ‘Or better still you could go up there.’
    ‘To Kalimpong?’ Houston said.
    ‘Why not?’
    ‘Isn’t it a long way to go?’
    ‘You’ve come a long way already,’ Lister-Lawrence said reasonably. ‘And I think you’d find Sangrab a very decent old chap. Mind you, I should point out that they’ve all gone a bit funny up there this year. They’ve fallen out with the devils and are holding prayer meetings all over the country. They’re not too keen on answering foreigners’ questions.’
    ‘They’d save themselves, and us, too,’ Houston said diffidently, ‘a lot of trouble if they’d just answer one simple one. For instance, they must have some register of foreigners who die there. A burial record of some kind, say.’
    ‘Yes, well, they don’t actually bury people.’
    ‘Whatever they do. Cremate them, then. Someone’s got to keep score,’ Houston said lightly, fighting down the deep revulsion for his task that swept over him again.
    ‘I’m afraid they don’t cremate them, either.’
    ‘What do they do?’
    ‘Oh, well they have their own sort of customs, you know,’ Lister-Lawrence said, energetically tapping his cigarette ash. ‘I doubt if this is a very profitable field.’
    ‘What do they do?’ Houston said again after a few silent moments.
    ‘Well. Vultures, actually,’ said Lister-Lawrence, apologetically. ‘I’m frightfully sorry, old chap. We all have our own customs, though, you know. They say it’s really very hygienic and all that… . There isn’t much point in pursuing it, is there? But there’s absolutely no reason why you shouldn’t trot up and see old Sangrab. And you could certainly ask around in Kalimpong about the caravan. They make up all the teams there. It’s rather a jolly place, Kalimpong,’ he ended, somewhat out of breath.
    Houston felt suddenly very sick. He stubbed out his cigarette. He said presently, ‘Supposing I don’t get very far in Kalimpong, is there any other Tibetan representative in that area I might see?’
    ‘There’s a chap up in Gangtok. But that’s in Sikkim, and you’ll need a chitty to get in there. It’s a protected State. I’ll get off a line to Hopkinson for you – he’s our man there.’
    ‘Would there be any point in having one more try at Tibet? At the British representative there?’
    ‘We haven’t got one, old boy. That’s the trouble. Old Hugh Richardson is in Lhasa, of course, but he’s acting on behalf of the Indian government, and we mustn’t