The Winston Affair by Howard Fast

officer for eight stations on the narrow gauge and for the airstrip as well. It just happens that he’s here today because Thursday’s our day for clinic.”
    â€œWhere can I find him, Sergeant?”
    â€œHe’s at the medic shack. Why don’t you hop into the back of the lorry, Captain, and I’ll drop you there. I’d ask you to ride in the cab, but that means at least ten steps through this rain.”
    â€œI’ll ride in back.” Adams grinned. “Thank you, Sergeant.”
    In front of a small bungalow, the sergeant stopped and leaned on his horn. Adams made the veranda in three long steps, and faced a short, gray-haired man with an enormous mustache and quizzical blue eyes.
    â€œMajor Kensington?”
    â€œYou have the advantage of me, sir.”
    â€œBarney Adams,” he said, trying to dry his face with a handkerchief.
    â€œWelcome to Bachree. I’ll bring you a towel, and then we’ll go inside.” He was back in a moment. Drying his face and hands, Adams followed Kensington into a tiny cubicle that was office and consulting room.
    As he sat down, Kensington said, “Don’t mind your clothes on the chair. Anything around here that water can harm has already been harmed. Tea or gin, Captain?”
    â€œTea, if you don’t mind. And I’ll take a rain check on the gin.”
    â€œGood. Rain check. I like that, Adams.” Kensington went to the door and shouted to someone to bring tea and buns and jam. Then he offered Adams a cigarette and thoughtfully lit it for him.
    â€œThe few comforts of Bachree. There are, unquestionably, more wretched places on earth—for whatever consolation that holds. May I ask what brings you to Bachree, Adams?”
    â€œI’ve been appointed defense counsel for Charles Winston.”
    â€œOh?”
    â€œYesterday, as a matter of fact. I have a limited amount of time to prepare my case.”
    â€œIt’s a thankless task you chose for yourself, if I may say so.”
    â€œI didn’t choose it.”
    â€œNo—no, of course not. We don’t exercise much choice about anything these days. But what can I do for you?”
    â€œI’m not sure. But since you were the officer who sent Winston down to the NP Ward in the General Hospital, I thought I would talk to you. I understand that I’m fortunate to find you here.”
    â€œI hope it’s worth the trip and the wetting. I don’t know what I can tell you that isn’t already in the record.”
    The tea was brought in, thick and dark. Adams had his plain, but Kensington loaded his with condensed milk from an open can, explaining, “I think it’s the rain gives me such a sweet tooth. I’ll leave half my teeth here for sure. Have a bun.” He was already digging into the jam pot.
    â€œAbout the murder itself,” Adams began. “Are there any possible doubts? Is it conceivable that Winston is innocent?”
    â€œNo. You can rule that out completely, Adams. Not only were there witnesses, but Winston was found with the gun in his hand. From the moment he was found, he made no attempt to deny the crime.”
    â€œYou weren’t here when it happened?”
    â€œNo—not when it happened. I was at Sutta, about twelve miles up the line. They rang me there, and I ran down by jeep. It took me about forty-five minutes because the road is very bad.”
    â€œAbout what happened that night, as much as you know. Would you mind telling me? I know you’ve gone through this before, but I would appreciate it.”
    â€œDon’t mind a bit,” Kensington said. “I was set for a bleak and ugly day here. Fresh company’s an unexpected treat. Take the two men to begin with—Winston, the murderer; Quinn, his victim. I won’t say I got to know them; to me, they were not men one would particularly want to know or be intimate with. But I did get to observe them.
    â€œYou