by Anita Anand
It was Divisional Detective Inspector John Swain who finally came to collect Udham. Together with Jones, they escorted him down the stairs and towards the exit. He had been entirely compliant throughout the evening. With the lightest of touches to the elbow, he was manoeuvred out of the door towards the bristling press pack.
The sun had long set and it was bitterly cold outside. Police had returned Udham’s hat, which he wore tipped back on his head. His overcoat, emptied of its weapons, was nonchalantly slung over his right arm, hiding the handcuff which attached him to Jones. He looked like he was popping out for a stroll with two friends.
The press shouted incomprehensible questions while photographers yelled to get Udham to look their way. Instead of ducking his head and quickening his pace as many do during the so-called ‘perp-walk’, Udham slowed his pace. Then, without warning, he turned to the bank of flashing cameras and grinned.
A frenzy of popping lit up the night, capturing a series of extraordinary images. With his eyes wide and teeth bared, Udham appeared to be enjoying some kind of ghoulish euphoria. The newspapers had their front page. It had been well worth the wait.
The drive from Caxton Hall to Canon Row Police Station takes only seven minutes, even less if the driver has a clear run of it. In those few minutes something strange happened to Udham Singh.
Though he had been revelling in his execution-style murder of Sir Michael all evening, the ‘Mohammed Singh Azad’ who presented himself at Canon Row had a very different story to tell. As an exhausted Detective Inspector Swain sat down to write up his confession, his prisoner told him calmly: ‘I did not mean to kill him, I just did it to protest. I did not mean to kill anybody.’28
Stunned by the dramatic volte-face, Swain processed Udham without comment. He asked his prisoner to sign his short statement, which Udham did in the name of Mohammed Singh Azad.29 His shoes and belt were removed, and Udham was taken down to the cells.
The hour was late. The paperwork was brief:
13th day of March 1940 To Supt C.I.D 10.50 p.m.
Mohomed [sic] Singh Azad aged 37, was charged at this station at 10 p.m. today 13th March 1940, with the murder of Sir Michael Francis O’Dwyer and will appear at Bow Street Police Court at 9.30 a.m., 14th March 1940. The prisoner attended a meeting at Caxton Hall this afternoon (13.3.40) at which Sir Percy Sykes was giving a lecture on Afghanistan. The prisoner fired six shots from a Smith-Wesson revolver killing Sir Michael O’Dwyer and wounding three others. Commissioner and other senior officers were informed and attended D.A.C.I. informed.30
Swain was finished for the night, but civil servants, summoned from their homes, were just dragging themselves back into the office. Who was this man? How had this happened? Was this part of a bigger plot? Was there any surveillance chatter that could have averted this debacle? The questions were falling like sleet from on high, and answers were demanded by morning. A secretary of state had been shot, for heaven’s sake! In Westminster of all places.
Across the city in Fleet Street, irritable subs ripped up their carefully planned layouts and started all over again. At the printing presses, inky, nicotine-stained fingers reset plates, while in dozens of darkrooms photographers beetled about in the shadows, desperate to find the image they knew was sitting somewhere on their film.
The sinister grin emerged from numerous trays of crimson. Britain would have a face to hate by morning.
That same night, a clipped and understated male voice from the BBC Home Service broke the news in its nine o’clock bulletin:31
Sir Michael O’Dwyer, a former governor of the Punjab, was assassinated this afternoon at a meeting in the Caxton Hall, London . . . Sir Michael O’Dwyer was seventy-four, and he joined the Indian Civil Service in 1885 . . . from 1913 to 1919 he was lieutenant governor of the Punjab. It was during this period, on 13 April 1919, that the Amritsar shooting occurred. A mob had attacked banks and other buildings and Europeans had been killed. At the request of the civil authorities, troops were called out and a number of natives were killed. This shooting raised a great political controversy at the time.32
In Berlin, the Nazis leapt on the story. By 9.15 p.m., a German announcer was interrupting usual programming to bring listeners the following:
The Indian freedom moment has now gone over to direct action against the English oppressors of India. This evening Sir Michael O’Dwyer was shot by an Indian at a meeting of the India Society. Lord Zetland, Sir Louis Dane and Lord Lamington were also injured. The shootings occurred towards the end of an overcrowded meeting at Caxton Hall . . . The Indian fighter for freedom has been arrested.
Goebbels himself was wading in, and by the time the midnight bulletin came round, the story had been sharpened to do the most damage: ‘News of the shooting and killing of Sir Michael O’Dwyer recalls the past misdeeds of British administrators in India.’33
‘Mohammed Singh Azad’ had become at once the most hated man in Britain and a hero to the Third Reich.
‘Outrage at London Meeting’,34 ‘Sir Michael O’Dwyer Assassinated’,35 ‘Hit by two shots’,36 ‘A Cowardly Outrage’,37 ‘Lord Zetland and Lord Lamington wounded’,38 ‘Sir Michael was shot in back’,39 ‘Woman Tackles Assassin’,40 ‘Assailant seized and Overpowered’,41 ‘Disgrace . . . We are Ashamed’,42 ‘Volley of Shots at London Meeting’,43 ‘Senseless Crime’.44 The headlines screamed out from the morning papers.
For the first time in weeks, the war had been knocked off the front pages. German papers told the same story in a very different way: ‘The death of O’Dwyer is likely to arouse a great satisfaction among the Indian population . . . behind his death stands the will of the whole Indian people to avenge their massacred countrymen . . . yesterday’s assassination shows that the young generation of a nation whose civilisation is thousands of years old is determined to resist the English terror.’45
By evening, Goebbels was encouraging all-out revolt in India:
The active resistance to Britain’s Indian policy by the nationalists of the country has recently taken a more concrete form in Sir Michael O’Dwyer’s assassination at Caxton Hall by a Punjab nationalist, Mohamed Singh Azad.
Indians apparently have not forgotten that on 13 April 1919, Sir Michael O’Dwyer had 600 defenceless Indians executed in the province of Punjab. Sir Michael O’Dwyer was one of the most ruthless and bloodthirsty of the Punjab’s governors. It was he who forced the Punjabis to shed their blood for the benefit of Britain during the last war. The assassination was a vendetta, and a justified one at that. We realise that a widespread revolt is impending in India.46
It was clear that the Germans would use the ‘avenger’ angle to destabilise the Raj. The British secret service had to paint Udham in a very different light, and they had to do it quickly.
CHAPTER 22
NAME IN VAIN
Who is this ‘Mohamed Singh Azad’? The question, referred to no fewer than thirty-one different heads of department, yielded nothing. In a space marked ‘Former papers for AZAD Mahomed Singh charged with the murder of Sir Michael O’Dwyer’, the handwritten comment ‘unable to trace’1 summed up a collective frustration of the government and security services.
‘Azad’ had been presented at Bow Street Magistrates’ Court the morning after his arrest and had smiled throughout the proceedings.2 Taken directly from the dock to Brixton Prison, he was to be held on remand till his trial for murder. Though he had barely said three words during his own committal, while he was being processed by Brixton Prison guards Udham appeared in a markedly talkative mood. His words were immediately reported to the governor in charge:
Sir, I respectfully beg to report the following matter to you. About 11.40 on this date [14 March 1940] I was in charge of the abovementioned prisoner in Reception when he made the following remark to me.
‘At this time yesterday, I was going to the pictures when I think to myself, it is better I go and see this fellow Michael. He has lived a long life. It is twenty years after.’
I am Sir, Your obedient servant3
His admission that he sought out ‘this fellow Michael’ indicated a premeditation which the prosecution might find invaluable if they chose to pursue the death penalty. His comment linking the killing to the Jallianwala Bagh massacre ‘twenty years after’ was less helpful. Brixton’s governor forwarded the incendiary admission to his superiors, little realising that it would provoke a massive cover-up.
Less than twenty-four hours after the shootings, every effort was being made to separate ‘Mohamed Singh Azad’s’ murderous act from the Jallianwala Bagh massacre.4 The Nazis had already made too much of the link and the British were determined to smother any potential uprising in India.
The IPI was doing most of the heavy lifting, with Vickery and Silver laying the groundwork, characterising Sir Michael’s assassin as some lunatic lone wolf even before they knew who he really was. To admit the assassin was part of a bigger organisation or conspiracy made the defence of the realm look weak; far from ideal at a time of war and heightened insecurity.
When it later became apparent that Mohamed Singh Azad was in fact Udham Singh, a Ghadar and Communist, known to Special Branch, MI5 and the IPI, and that each department had missed significant opportunities to bring him in over the years, Vickery and his colleagues had even more reason to control the narrative.
Forty-eight hours after the Caxton Hall shootings, Vickery fired off a note to his colleague, Denys Pilditch, director of the Indian Intelligence Bureau in Delhi. In it, he updated him on the investigation and ‘Mohamed Singh Azad’s’ confession and true identity. The memo also disclosed the undercurrent in Whitehall. The document was marked ‘Secret’, with good reason:
My dear Pilditch, I have not cabled you about the unfortunate affair at the Caxton Hall, as I understand that the India Office yesterday sent a telegram to the Government of India recording the main facts . . . The assassin, who on his arrest gave the name of Mohamed Singh Azad, has since proved to be UDHAM SINGH alias UDE SINGH, who is, of course, well known to us.
He has since made a highly unconvincing statement to the police, in which he says that he had not intended to kill anybody, but merely to make a gesture of protest. He explains (and this part of his story is probably true) that he went to the India Office on the morning of the crime, to secure a recommendation of an Exit Permit (actually he called there asking to see Sir Hassan Surhawardy [sic], one of the Indian Advisers, who happened to be out), but did not secure any satisfaction. On the way out from the waiting room, he chanced to see on the noticeboard, an announcement of a joint meeting of the East India Association and the Central Asian Society that afternoon. This announcement, he says, gave him the idea of utilising the Caxton Hall meeting to make his protest, for which purpose he took with him a revolver which he says he purchased in Bournemouth (presumably in September last).
Although the first part of UDHAM SINGH’S statement is completely unsatisfactory [that he had not meant to kill anybody in Caxton Hall], the judicial methods in vogue in this country render it improbable that the police will ever get the true story out of him . . . The revolver, which is still under expert examination, is said to be an obsolete Service type and could only be fired with accuracy at very close range . . . I am doing what I can to ensure that UDHAM SINGH does not make the court room a platform for objectionable political propaganda. There are already indications that that is the line he will take. Although he appears to be mentally unstable the crime was of such a deliberate and premeditated nature, that there can be little doubt that the verdict will be one of ‘wilful murder’.5
Vickery was desperately trying to clear up a mess that had occurred on his watch – and treading a fine line in doing so. Acknowledgement of any Russian interference or German help would shake Britain’s confidence. In creating the ‘lone wolf’ image, Vickery could not make Udham seem too mad either. If he did, there was every likelihood that he might be deemed unfit to stand trial.
Police searching the address on Udham’s fake identity card found a number of items which were proving unhelpful to Vickery’s strategy. Udham had roubles hidden in the room. Elsewhere among an assortment of Udham’s Western clothes and Indian kurta pyjamas they found a French beret6 and a map, showing the ‘International Motor Route from London to Cape Town and Calcutta’.7 It appeared to have some kind of code scribbled on the back.
A red diary for 1939 was a veritable tangle of intriguing loose ends. It had French addresses written in it: ‘Grand Hotel de Nice’ and ‘29 rue Victor Masse Paris ixe’.8 There were also numerous references to Berlin, which, like the writing on the map, appeared to be in code: ‘Delhi SW 4 o’clock SW 3.30 Berlin 1514’9 and ‘H.6 Bill 26. Swiss 19. George 14. H.M 25. Jack 11. F.7 NL 75. Tom 9. Sohm.16. B.33. Tom 13 – 36. 7 S.PS. 7N 5’.10
Hassan Surhawady’s name and home address appeared, along with the comment ‘Re Anglo French Ambulance Unit’, and the phrase ‘Honor Huld’ was written between two addresses, ‘Maple St 1 floor’ and ‘St George Hospital East End’.11
No listing exists for a ‘Honor Huld’ at either of these addresses, or indeed anywhere else in London. Nor does she appear in any census, electoral roll or telephone directory for 1939–40. Though ‘Honor Huld’ looks like the name of a woman, the words had a German meaning too: ‘honour’ and ‘graciousness’. A German contact perhaps? A coded call to arms? Though some of the writing in the flat needed decryption, one line did not.
Written in the red diary, at the end of an indecipherable series of letters and numbers, was: ‘4.30 Caxton Hall 13 March 3 p.m. Caxton Hall’.12 This was the date and almost the exact time of Sir Michael’s assassination. They would show Udham’s later statements – that he had only happened on the meeting by accident, that he had not known Sir Michael would be there, nor even know who Sir Michael was – for the lies they were.
The apparent codes strewn around his room raised fundamental questions for those protecting Britain from her enemies. Had Udham received his instructions through some kind of cypher? Had he been sent to Caxton Hall to kill these men? Had he taken it upon himself to settle some kind of score? What were the coordinates and place names about? Who, or what, was ‘Honor Huld’? If these matters were pursued, we do not know where they led. So many of the papers in the case of Udham Singh were buried by Vickery and his peers. Though thousands of pages have since been excavated, they may be the tip of a very murky iceberg.
Vickery continued to insist that there was no connection between Udham and foreign powers. Even though Udham’s past passport applications suggested otherwise, he pressed his argument in internal documents to other government departments: ‘There is no evidence to indicate that his action was sponsored by any organisation, association or other person, and I am of the opinion from all the facts that the outrage was the product of his evil mind and brought to successful culmination in the secretive and isolated manner in which he has spent his life.’13
At 80 Bandywood Road in Birmingham, seven-year-old Indarjit could not for the life of him understand what was going on in his own house. The adults around him had been acting very oddly for days. Just a few nights before, something his parents had heard on the radio had made them behave as if it was his birthday . . . no . . . more than that . . . as if it was everybody’s birthday.
Rubbing sleepy eyes, he and his brother came down in their pyjamas to see their mother weeping with joy, vowing to buy sweets for everyone in the street. His father, Dr Diwan Singh, was clatteringly jubilant too. Unable to sit still, he kept leaping up from the kitchen table, joyously repeating the mantra: ‘He’s gone! That man is gone!’ The boys were faintly aware of the crackling voice in the background coming from the wireless. Indarjit worried what their neighbour, the friendly local greengrocer Mr Pandry, might think of all this noise at such a late hour.14
When he asked his parents what they were celebrating, Indarjit’s mother grabbed him, and held him tight: ‘Puttar [my sweet child] . . . A good man . . . a good Indian man just punished
a bad man for a wicked thing that he did . . . a terrible wicked thing.’ It was not much of an explanation, but he and his brother were content to dance around the kitchen too, enjoying the ronak (exuberant celebration), and the unexpectedly late bedtime.15
The next morning, the excitement of the night before seemed like a dream. Padding down to the kitchen for his breakfast, Indarjit saw a new, sombre mood pouring out of the newspaper in his father’s hands. It flooded the kitchen, spilled into the rest of the house and into the world. Grown-ups, family friends as well as turbaned strangers washed up nervously at their door throughout the day. His mother ushered them into the house and their whispering filled the kitchen, pushing out the memory of their night-time party: ‘It can’t be him.’ ‘It’s him, I’m telling you.’ ‘But look at the name.’ ‘Look at the picture. Of course it’s him.’ ‘Did he tell you?’ ‘. . . not a word.’
Every so often, Indarjit thought he heard the name ‘Udham’ among the whispers. It made him think of his ‘uncle’.* He had not seen him in ages. Udham-uncle would have noticed the two little boys hugging their knees on the stairs. He would have taken them to one side, explained what was going on. They could have played the hide-the-hat game.
After the strange night and even stranger morning, life at Bandywood Road appeared to go on as usual, yet everything felt different. Indarjit overheard his parents talking about money with an urgency he did not recognise. He heard his father telling his mother that certain things needed to be done. That she would have to be strong. She told him that she had strength enough for all of them. Indarjit’s father said he had created a bank account in her name and was putting all their money into it.16