1905.
The year I hadn’t been strong enough.
I felt I was reading entrails, portents of something ominous.
A religious man might have seen in them the hand of God or gods, and after all, here I was in an ashram dedicated to Kali the Destroyer. Was this all part of some supernatural reckoning? The past, they say, catches up with us all. Maybe it had finally caught up with me.
NINE
February 1905
East London
With Bessie’s unconscious body removed from the scene, the crowd, in the way that crowds do, sensed the show was over and began to thin. Those that remained morphed from mob to judge and jury, expounding several theories as to who’d attacked her.
Surely the answer was cut and dried. It had to be Tom Drummond, the waste of space whom Bessie had married in such haste. He’d a temper and a history of sorting out his problems with his fists. But here, in the ragged atmosphere of the East End, nothing was ever that simple.
I waited till the crowd had drifted off, then re-entered the house and climbed the stairs. The door to Bessie’s room was ajar, the room itself empty and the bed stripped down to the blood-soaked mattress. These four walls had contained the sum total of her worldly possessions: the canary in its cage; a ramshackle writing desk, chipped and scarred; a shabby chair on which was draped Bessie’s red shawl; a knackered wardrobe with its door hanging open and with a suitcase on its roof; and, in the space beneath the bed, a steel trunk of the type favoured by sailors, secured by a sturdy padlock.
I entered and tried to close the broken door behind me, but it swung open once more. I took a closer look at the damage. The lock looked sturdy enough, the bolt still fully extended. But even the best lock is useless when the door frame is rotten. The jamb itself was thin and had come away easily. I doubted it would have taken more than a few hefty shoves to detach it from the frame.
That’s when I spotted it, though the truth is I all but tripped over it. On the floor, not far from the door, lay its key. That seemed odd. The only reason I could think of as to why the key should be lying there on the floor was if it had been dislodged from the lock when the door had been forced. And if the door had been locked from the inside, then how could Tom Drummond, or anyone else for that matter, have attacked Bessie and got out of the room? It would imply that her attacker beat her to a pulp then left while she locked the door behind him before collapsing on the bed. That made no sense.
Taking a handkerchief, I carefully picked up the key, wrapped it and placed it in my tunic pocket. I spent the next few minutes scouring the room, looking for whatever weapon had been used to attack her. I found nothing. I was about to look outside the open window when I heard Whitelaw’s voice coming from somewhere along the landing. I hurried back out into the hallway in the hope that, with the crowd gone, he might permit me to go to the hospital to check on Bessie.
In a room two doors along, I found Whitelaw standing over an old couple seated on the edge of a bed. Beside them stood Rebecca. Her face was flushed. As for the couple, one was the old lady who’d opened the door to us earlier. The other, I presumed, was her husband. He looked as old as Adam, and as frail, with a face thick and gnarled like tree bark. Thin strands of white, wispy hair strayed from under a small black skullcap. In one shaking hand, he held the crook of a walking stick, and in the other, he held the hand of his wife.
‘So they didn’t hear anything?’ asked Whitelaw.
Rebecca nodded her head. ‘That is what I’ve been trying to tell you.’
‘A woman is beaten to a bloody pulp a few feet away and Mr and Mrs Rip Van Winkle didn’t hear a peep? They just slept through it, did they?’
The girl sighed. ‘Mrs Feldman left the room before seven o’clock this morning. She’s been in the kitchen or the yard for most of the morning. Mr Feldman is partially deaf in one ear and quite deaf in the other. A train could have gone through the landing and he wouldn’t have heard it.’
I introduced myself with a cough.
‘Wyndham?’ said Whitelaw. ‘I thought I told you to keep watch downstairs.’
‘Yes, sir, but there’s no one left to keep watch over. I thought I might –’
‘Well, seeing as you’re here, why don’t you see if you can get some sense out of this pair? A woman is attacked down the hall and they don’t hear a flippin’ thing apparently. If they’re to be believed it might as well have happened on the moon.’
Rebecca interceded on the old couple’s behalf. ‘I’ve been trying to explain to your colleague that Mr Feldman is almost totally deaf and Mrs Feldman wasn’t in the room, but he doesn’t seem to understand English.’
Beside me, Whitelaw stiffened, and I quickly suppressed any sign of amusement.
‘Have you seen any strangers enter or exit the building today?’
The girl shrugged. ‘I don’t think so.’ Suddenly her expression tightened. ‘Wait. There was one man. He came with Tom, Mr Drummond.’
‘With?’ I asked. ‘What time was this?’
‘It must have been after eight. The whistle at the docks had gone some time before. Mr Drummond brought him. They came in and sat down in the kitchen. I know because I was in there when they arrived, preparing breakfast.’
‘And you say he arrived with Drummond?’
She nodded. ‘Yes. I didn’t see Tom go out, but he normally leaves for St Katharine Docks around six in the morning to join the men looking for day work. If he doesn’t find any, he normally comes back here and has breakfast.’
‘Does he usually bring others back?’
‘This is the first time I’ve seen him with a guest.’
It was an odd choice of word. Tom Drummond didn’t strike me as the sort of man who entertained guests, especially at eight in the morning.
‘What did he look like, this guest?’
She thought for a moment. ‘Medium height, shorter than Mr Drummond. His nose was odd.’
‘Odd?’
‘Like a shark’s fin.’
‘Anything else?’
‘He had a brown coat. Patched.’
‘Like everyone else’s around here,’ said Whitelaw.
She glared at him. ‘The patches were green. Who patches a brown coat with green fabric?’
‘Someone who hasn’t got any other colour?’ I asked.
She seemed to find that amusing. ‘In Whitechapel? There are thirty tailors on Brick Lane alone.’
It was a fair point. Around here you couldn’t throw a stone without hitting a tailor, and every tailor had a bin full of offcuts, scraps of fabrics in all colours.
‘Maybe he’s just eccentric?’ said Whitelaw.
‘Maybe. It simply struck me as unusual.’
From her seat on the bed, the old woman, Mrs Feldman, spoke up nervously: Yiddish words, aimed at Rebecca.
The girl’s expression changed, the cockiness suddenly, if temporarily, vanishing.
‘What is it?’ I asked. ‘What did she say?’
‘She said there was another visitor this morning … not a visitor exactly, and not a stranger.’
‘Who?’
‘The landlord, Mr Caine.’
‘What time was this?’ asked Whitelaw.
Rebecca consulted the old woman, who now looked like she was rueing having opened her mouth.
‘She thinks around half past seven. Before Tom Drummond returned with his friend.’
‘And he called on Bessie?’
Another round of question, answer and translation.
‘That’s right,’ said Rebecca. ‘He came to see if she was all right … and to collect the rent, no doubt.’
‘You didn’t see him?’
‘I had errands to run,’ she said. ‘I was out of the house between seven and eight.’
Mrs Feldman piped up again. Rebecca turned to her.
‘She’s asking if you have any further need of her or her husband.’
Whitelaw gave a brief, sardonic laugh. ‘No, you tell them they’re all right, love. T
ell them they’ve been very helpful.’
‘In that case, do you think we might leave their room?’
‘The noise is bothering Mr Feldman, is it?’ he said acerbically.
Rebecca Kravitz seemed unamused.
Old man Feldman flashed us a hollow, toothless grin as we left. I closed their door, then continued with the questions.
‘When he came back with his guest, did Drummond go up to see his wife?’
The girl scratched her earlobe. ‘I didn’t see him, but I expect so.’
‘Why?’
‘Because that’s what he usually does when he can’t find work. He comes home and scrounges what he can from Bessie before going off to the pub.’
‘Do you know what time they left, Drummond and this man in the brown coat?’
Rebecca shrugged.
‘I don’t. I was in my room, but I came down to the kitchen around nine. They were gone by then.’
‘Did you see Bessie after Drummond left?’ I asked.
‘You mean before we found her … in her room?’
I nodded.
She shook her head. ‘No. The last time I saw her was at around six o’clock, when I went to the kitchen. She had the kettle on the stove, boiling water for tea.’
‘Did anyone else see her this morning?’
She pondered the question. ‘I can’t be sure. Certainly not the Feldmans, or my parents.’
‘Who else lives in the building?’
‘There’s Mrs Rosen. She’s a widow. Rents the room next to ours on the ground floor. She’s an apothecary’s assistant on the Whitechapel Road. And there’s the man who has the attic room, Israel Vogel. I haven’t seen him this morning.’
‘So for now, as far as we know Drummond was the last person to see his wife before she was attacked?’ asked Whitelaw.
‘Where’s Drummond now?’ I asked.
The girl stared back blankly. ‘I don’t know.’
‘I could hazard a guess,’ said Whitelaw. ‘If, as the girl says, he’s gone to a boozer, five’ll get you ten he’s in the Bleeding Hart, drinking himself silly.’
‘We should get down there,’ I said, heading for the stairs.
‘Not so fast, lad,’ said Whitelaw. ‘I’ll post a constable here. Then we should inform CID. Mark my words, this’ll end up a murder case.’
I wasn’t about to accept that. ‘Surely the doctors will save her.’
Whitelaw’s face was suddenly grave. Slowly he shook his head. ‘Son,’ he said, his voice little more than a whisper, ‘the Lord Himself would have a hard time saving her. She’s not coming back.’
TEN
February 1922
Assam
It was late afternoon. In India, the time of daily rebirth after the stupefying heat of midday. The time when men and women re-emerged from huts, dogs came out from the shadows, and birds took wing.
I lay on my bunk in the dormitory having woken from another sweat-soaked nightmare: again I was running – a frenzied chase, this time through the alleys of east London, pursued once more by that same unseen menace as in the dream at Lumding station. I tried to keep still as every movement triggered stark needles of pain to shoot through my shivering frame and into my skull.
The door opened. Brother Shankar entered and walked over.
‘Are you able to sit?’
I croaked a response, then pulled myself up, resting my back against the wood of the wall.
Brother Shankar smiled, like Francis of Assisi from a Sunday-school storybook, come to life and clad in saffron.
‘We should talk about your treatment.’
He sat on the corner of my bed.
‘How are you feeling?’
‘I’ve been better. Though I don’t actually remember when.’
He listened and nodded, like a doctor administering palliative care.
‘Well, the good news is, we’ll be commencing your treatment in about an hour.’
‘And the bad news? On second thoughts, ignore that. I don’t really want to know.’
The monk smiled. ‘The cure consists of a broth, brewed and consecrated by Devraha Swami. It’s different from the herbal tea you’ve been having so far, in that you won’t be keeping this in your stomach. The key is to drink it down quickly, then vomit it back up.’ He pointed to my ashram uniform. ‘I suggest you come bare-chested, and it’s probably best if you don’t eat anything in advance. I’ve seen men eat a full meal beforehand, and believe me, it’s not a pleasant sight when it comes back up.’
An hour later, the gong sounded.
I unwrapped my cocoon of blankets and slowly rose from my bunk. Around me, most of the others did likewise. Only Adler remained in his cot. He put down his book.
‘Good luck,’ he said. ‘The next hour will not be easy, but remember that in the war to rid yourself of your addiction, this is the start of the last battle, and it will be won in ten days.’
The inmates gathered in the compound in front of the idol of the goddess Kali, where roll call had been taken that morning. This time we were divided differently, split between the shirtless and the shirted: those undergoing treatment, and those who had completed their ten days and moved on to recuperation.
The monks then divided those of us without shirts into smaller groups, lining us up in front of long wooden troughs on which sat a row of steel buckets, each filled to the brim with water. Hooked to the side of each was a metal cup.
Brother Shankar walked over.
‘This way,’ he said, separating me from my dorm-mates and directing me to the first row of troughs close to the idol of the goddess. ‘New initiates at the front.’
On either side of the idol stood a monk, each carrying a double-sided Indian drum called a dhol. As we took our places, the monks began to beat out a steady rhythm. From the ashram a red-robed figure appeared. Small, fragile as a bird, and flanked by two more monks, he walked slowly out into the courtyard and I surmised that this must be the fabled Devraha Swami. Shaven-headed, his skin looked parchment-thin – almost translucent – and for a moment I wondered if maybe he really was as old as Dr Chatterjee had stated. His face, though, was smooth, and soft-featured, and under the lines of ash on his forehead, his eyes were clear and focused.
He passed along the line, sharing a few words with each initiate until he reached me. Brother Shankar made the introductions. ‘Swami-ji,’ he said, in tones that another man might have used to address the king, ‘we are honoured by your presence.’ The old man smiled up at him, then at me, and for a moment I felt strangely at peace, as though all that it would take to cure me of my opium addiction was for this man to lay his hands upon me.
But nothing was ever that simple.
Instead the swami turned to one of the monks behind him and took a large glass bottle, filled with a greenish liquid that looked like river water. Suddenly the drums stopped. There was silence. Utter and disconcerting. Not even the wind blew. The swami pulled the cork out of the bottle. The monk held out a small glass vessel and the swami poured out a measure. Taking the glass, he held it out to me.
‘Drink.’
A sea of faces stared at me.
‘Bottoms up,’ I said, and downed the cocktail.
A sharp, bitter taste spread through my mouth, before the liquid hit the back of my throat like a bullet and buried its way down to my gut.
The drums began to beat again. Faster. Louder.
My head spun.
I felt Brother Shankar beside me. ‘Hold your body straight.’
I’d imagined I’d start to vomit the instant the liquid hit my stomach – it was, after all, a vomiting potion – but as the seconds ticked by, nothing happened.
‘Here,’ said Shankar, taking the metal cup from the bucket and filling it with water. ‘Drink. All of it.’
I did as he ordered, gulping down the water till the cup was empty, then handed it back.
‘Again,’ he said, refilling it. ‘Keep drinking until you can’t drink any more.’
<
br /> I stared at him in confusion, and suddenly it was Francis of Assisi who was smiling back.
‘Trust me.’
So I drank. I drank until my stomach began to distend and I couldn’t face another drop.
By now, Devraha Swami had dispensed his potion to all of the front row. The drums were beating and the onlookers were shouting encouragement. Around me, others were already retching, their bodies doubled over the trough.
I stood there, punch-drunk, a boxer out on his feet and looking to my corner for the towel. I struggled to hear Brother Shankar above the noise.
‘Put your fingers down your throat!’
I followed the order without question, and then it began – the first fitful heaves – and suddenly I was gagging: retching, vomiting, expelling great tides of greenish water. On and on it went, a wave of rhythmic, involuntary heaving, as with each ejection I was reduced further to a crumpled, groaning mess, my face streaming with tears and mucus.
At some point the vomiting ceased, replaced by dry heaves. Collapsing to the ground, I wiped a hand across my mouth and tried to catch my breath. As my body convulsed in pain, I looked around. The drums were still beating, the crowd still shouting, but I could hear none of it. Beside and behind me, others continued to retch. St Francis was changing back into Brother Shankar, and suddenly I was struck by a deep clarity: a chain of events that had begun that day in 1918 when I was blown up by a German shell; which had continued with the death of my wife, and my decision to leave England for India and opium; all of it led to and culminated here, in this moment, with me lying collapsed and wretched in the dust of a monastery courtyard under the pitying gaze of the goddess Kali.
ELEVEN
February 1905
East London
Whitelaw was right.
By the time we made it to Leman Street, word had reached that Bessie hadn’t survived the journey to the London Hospital.
The news hit me like a howitzer shell and I felt the world spin out of control. I walked back outside, and gripping the iron railing in front of the station house, I fought for a lungful of air.
Death in the East Page 7