Death in the East

by Abir Mukherjee

  There was little to see below. The muddy courtyard contained a ramshackle outbuilding, a line of grey washing and the usual detritus of East End life: a graveyard of rusting prams, broken furniture and mounds of rubbish, all converted into a playground by a tribe of barefoot, half-naked children.

  From the window ledge, there was no way down to the ground other than a leap of faith and a drop of almost thirty feet. Too far to jump if you valued your limbs. Leaning further, I scanned the walls on either side: a facade of miserable brick, soot-covered and crumbling in places to reveal yellow sand beneath. Beyond were other window ledges, but all at a distance of ten or more feet – a leap too far for anyone save a suicidal trapeze artist.

  On one side, though, ran a drainpipe. Affixed to the rotting wall by ancient brackets, the thing had broken off about a foot below the level of the window, the wall immediately beneath it stained an algal green and damp from the trickle of water that dripped from it into a muddy cesspool below. The pipe was just about within arm’s reach. If a man stood on the ledge and had a decent head for heights, it was conceivable he could reach it. Scaling it downwards was impossible, but there was always up. I craned my neck skyward and followed the pipe’s path to the guttering along the roof. It passed within touching distance of a window ledge one floor up.

  I pulled myself back in and straightened up.

  ‘There’s no way down,’ I said, ‘but a man in good shape could conceivably have used the drainpipe to reach a window ledge directly above us, or possibly even the roof.’

  Gooch turned to Drummond. ‘Who has the room upstairs?’

  Drummond looked at the floor and slowly shook his head. ‘I should have bloody known.’

  ‘Known what?’

  ‘Vogel,’ said Drummond. ‘The Yid upstairs. He’s taken some sort of unhealthy fancy to Bessie. More than once I’ve caught the bastard staring.’

  Gooch looked to Sergeant Whitelaw, then to me. His expression told us everything we needed to know.

  A minute later, we were at the top of the stairs outside Vogel’s door. Sergeant Whitelaw tried the knob, then rapped loudly on the peeling paint.

  ‘Open up! Police!’

  From inside came silence.

  Whitelaw knocked again.

  He looked to Gooch. ‘Should I break it down, sir?’

  The inspector thought for a moment.

  ‘Do it.’

  Whitelaw braced and made ready to throw himself against the door.

  ‘Wait!’ I shouted. ‘There might be another way.’

  I returned with Tom Drummond to his room downstairs and instructed him to open the wardrobe door.

  ‘Bessie would have had keys to all the other rooms,’ I explained, ‘on account of her looking after the building on behalf of the landlord.’

  From under a pile of clothes, Drummond pulled out a small metal strongbox.

  ‘Is that where she kept the rent money?’ I asked.

  ‘That’s right,’ said Drummond.

  He took it over to the writing desk and opened the drawer under the desk top.

  ‘Here it is,’ he said, extracting a small key. I took it from him, unlocked the strong box and lifted the lid. As far as money was concerned, the thing was empty, save for a few shillings. I pushed the coins and a small notebook aside, before pulling out a set of keys on a ring.

  Closing the box, I passed it back to Drummond, who returned it to the wardrobe, and a moment later we headed back up the stairs to where Gooch and Whitelaw were waiting. I held the ring of keys aloft like a trophy.

  Gooch stopped me before I could try one in the lock.

  ‘Perhaps Mr Drummond should try the keys.’

  Drummond picked one, then slotted it into the lock and turned.

  There was a satisfying click as the bolt yielded, but before Drummond could turn the knob, Whitelaw placed a restraining arm across his chest.

  ‘If you don’t mind, Mr Drummond,’ he said. ‘This is police business now.’

  Inspector Gooch went first through the door and into a low-ceilinged room smaller and barer than the Drummonds’, with only a bed, a chest of drawers with a suitcase placed under it, a chair and a table, on which sat what looked like a vice and some metal tools.

  The first thing that struck me was the smell, a pungent, acrid, suffocating stench that hit you at the back of the throat like neat vodka. My eyes began to sting.

  Gooch gave a cough, then took his handkerchief from his pocket and held it to his face. I’d have done the same, only my handkerchief was in his pocket, wrapped round a key.

  ‘Blimey,’ said Whitelaw, ‘what the hell is that stink?’

  ‘Search me,’ said Drummond, holding a hand to his nose.

  ‘It’s nitric acid,’ said Gooch.

  ‘What’s this chap Vogel doing with nitric acid?’ asked Whitelaw.

  I walked over to the chest and pulled out the topmost of the set of three drawers. It contained little but odds and ends: a few letters marked with what I assumed were Russian postmarks, their contents written in an alien script, two whittling knives, a strop and other flotsam. Closing it, I moved on to the lower two. Though hardly brimming, these contained two shirts, one missing a button and both frayed at the cuffs, a pair of trousers, threadbare at the knees, a thin green cardigan and a few items of underwear. It might not have been much, but it was plenty for a man of Vogel’s means.

  Gooch, still with his hanky to his face, traversed the room and stood over the table, inspecting the tools. He knelt down and picked what looked like wood shavings from the floor. ‘What does the man do for a living?’

  ‘According to Bessie, he makes walking sticks, shafts for umbrellas, that sort of thing,’ said Drummond. ‘Used to work for another Yid, but got the sack a few weeks ago and decided to go into business for hisself. He even had the gall to ask Bessie for a loan.’

  Gooch raised an eyebrow. ‘She lent money to people?’

  ‘Sometimes she did. If she knew them well enough and thought she’d get her money back. With interest of course.’

  ‘She lend money to Vogel?’

  ‘No chance,’ said Drummond. ‘She’d have had to be off her rocker to do that. She told him to sling his hook.’

  ‘You were present when this occurred?’ asked Gooch.

  Drummond shifted nervously. ‘Not as such, but she told me. Said he was standin’ outside our door, just waitin’ for her. Said he made her nervous.’

  ‘And did you do anything about that?’

  ‘Damn right I did,’ said Drummond, suddenly on surer ground. ‘I came up here and told him to stay the hell away from my wife.’

  ‘Did you hit him?’ asked Gooch, but Drummond had no time to reply.

  ‘Inspector,’ interjected Whitelaw, kneeling beside the bed, ‘you better take a look at this.’

  FIFTEEN

  February 1922

  Assam

  Le Corbeau had turned up.

  The first I knew about it was Brother Shankar shaking me awake, wrenching me from a rather pleasant delirium where a woman who might have been Emily Carter or Annie Grant was soothing my fevered brow.

  He imparted the facts to me in rushed, hushed whispers, and then I was following him, sandal-shod and with drawstring trousers tightened, out of the dormitory door and then the ashram.

  We headed down the hillside, along the dirt track that led to Jatinga village, and then cutting onto a minor trail, a path of flattened grass, into the living forest. The air was heavy with the scent of new wood and the drone of insects flitting from chrysanthemum to cobra saffron. We kept walking, through the sun-dappled wood, towards the whistle of onrushing water. Finally, at a clearing, we came to a stream running cold and fast down the hillside. It would have been idyllic, were it not for the body lying face down in the water, its head resting on a rock as though asleep on a pillow.

  On the bank nearby stood another saffron-robed monk, his moon face expressionless. Beside him were two natives in shirts and shorts,
less sanguine and in animated conversation, and beside them, a European, dressed in a linen suit and a gold silk tie so bright it hurt the eyes, and who didn’t seem quite sure how to react.

  I pointed to the European, who instinctively ran a nervous hand through his hair. ‘Is that the chap who found him?’

  Shankar nodded. ‘His name’s Preston, one of the local engineer-wallahs. He’s chiefly concerned with drainage – irrigation and the like.’

  ‘Sounds fascinating.’

  Shankar turned to me. ‘He’s a good man, Captain, and a friend.’

  ‘Of course,’ I said.

  ‘He and his men were out surveying the area this morning and came across the body.’

  ‘It’s definitely Le Corbeau?’

  We moved closer. The body came into focus. Male, European, tall, dirty blond hair. From behind at least, it certainly looked like the Belgian.

  ‘It’s him,’ said Shankar.

  The monk stopped beside Preston and the two men wordlessly shook hands. I, meanwhile, descended the bank and slipped off my sandals. Stepping into stone-cold water, I walked over to the corpse. I turned and called out to the men on the bank.

  ‘He was found like this?’

  ‘That’s right,’ Preston replied. He pointed to his native helpers. ‘My men went to check if he was breathing, but once they realised he wasn’t … No one’s moved him.’

  Balancing precariously on a rock, I knelt down beside the body and felt uselessly for a pulse. Suddenly I wished Surrender-not was here. He was a damn clever lad and I could have used his insight into the situation. More importantly, I could have got him to stand in the river and check the body rather than getting my own feet wet. Rank has its privileges after all.

  The corpse was cold, chilled by death and the river. I tried to turn him over, but a dead man in waterlogged clothes weighs more than you’d imagine. In the process, I lost my footing, slipped and fell into the stream beside him. Two bodies, side by side. One dead, the other not quite … not yet. I clambered out as Preston’s two native assistants tried to stifle their amusement. I decided to help them with that and ordered them to retrieve Le Corbeau’s body and bring it onto the bank.

  They hauled the Belgian from the stream and lay him, face up, upon the grass. I took a closer look. There was a wound on his temple. A two-inch gash, crimson and purple, and puckered and grey at the edges.

  ‘He must have got lost,’ said Shankar. ‘Stumbled off the main track and down here. Then fell into the river, hit his head on the rock and drowned.’

  I stared at him, but the monk’s face suggested nothing other than sincerity.

  ‘Has this sort of thing happened before?’

  ‘You mean has anyone ever died like this? The answer’s no. As far as I know, we’ve never lost anyone before, certainly never a European.’

  ‘And Le Corbeau? Did he ever wander off before?’

  The monk nodded. ‘The second night after he’d arrived. But we stopped him. That’s not particularly uncommon. A lot of people find the first week difficult. Some try to make it to Jatinga in search of a hit, but …’ Shankar looked perplexed.

  ‘But?’

  ‘I know Philippe was having difficulties, but it’s rare for someone to try and leave a second time. Especially when they’re as far into the treatment as he was.’

  I got to my feet and pondered the situation. Le Corbeau, in agony from his withdrawal symptoms, finds a way out of the ashram and heads for Jatinga. In his delirium, he staggers from the main path, into the forest and ends up here, where he slips, falls and hits his head on a rock.

  It was possible.

  I turned to the engineer, Preston, who was staring down at Le Corbeau’s corpse. He looked in his early thirties, medium height, thick brown hair, and a pallid complexion that suggested he was close to throwing up.

  ‘What were you and your men doing up here?’

  He looked up. ‘What?’

  ‘Don’t tell me you just stumbled across him, out here in the middle of nowhere.’

  ‘We were surveying the stream,’ he said. ‘It flows through marshy ground further down which the owner wants to drain. We were moving uphill, mapping its course, assessing the feasibility of diverting it, and there he was, just lying there.’

  Preston turned a pastel shade of green, doubled over and vomited onto the grass.

  His explanation sounded plausible enough, and the vomiting certainly added a degree of credibility.

  ‘We need to move the body,’ I said. ‘Is there a hospital nearby?’

  ‘Nearest one’s in Lumding,’ said Preston. ‘Best part of a day away. But there’s Deakin, our local doctor. He has a clinic in Haflong.’

  ‘Do you have transport?’

  Preston shook his head. ‘No, but I know where we can borrow a car.’

  ‘Fine,’ I said. ‘Send someone for the doctor and the car.’

  Preston’s assistants now sat a safe distance away, squatting on their haunches, and watching our conversation. The engineer called over to one, summoning him with a bark in a language I didn’t understand. The man rose lethargically and ambled over. Preston barked at him some more and the man nodded, then turned and headed slowly for the path. A final shout from Preston, a verbal kick in the rear, caused him to up his pace, at least until he reached the treeline and disappeared from sight.

  The next hour passed slowly. More so as my cravings seemed to be returning. My muscles began to cramp and my head felt like someone was smashing rocks against it. I lay down on the grass a respectful distance from Le Corbeau’s body, closed my eyes and tried to block out the pain. Shankar and Preston sat close by, talking in hushed tones. It looked as though the monk was offering advice, or ablution, to the engineer.

  Finally the stillness was broken, rent asunder by the whine of an engine in low gear. I sat up. The note changed to a growl and grew gradually louder. A car horn blared and a flock of birds exploded from the trees. Suddenly a vehicle burst through the treeline and came to a halt further up the bank. The engine cut out and the silence of the forest descended once more. Preston’s assistant appeared, this time accompanied by a rotund gentleman with pink face, silver hair and a three-piece linen suit whose waistcoat buttons seemed to creak under the strain as he walked.

  ‘Dr Deakin,’ said Shankar, rising to meet him. He strode over and clasped the doctor’s ample right hand between his own. ‘I’m sorry to drag you out here without warning.’

  The monk led the doctor towards Le Corbeau’s body, the top half of which was now respectfully covered with a rough saffron-coloured shawl. I got to my feet and walked over as one of Preston’s assistants pulled back the cowl.

  Standing above it, the doctor appraised rather than examined the corpse, in the manner that an art critic might a painting, or a butcher a haunch of meat. Maybe he didn’t want to get his suit dirty, or maybe the physical act of kneeling and carrying out an examination was too strenuous. Either way, he stared down at the corpse, a look of weary disappointment on his face, as though the boy should have known better than to go getting himself killed in the middle of the night.

  ‘Dr Deakin,’ said Shankar, ‘may I introduce Captain Wyndham of the Calcutta police?’

  The doctor turned and stretched out a hand. ‘Captain.’

  ‘Doctor,’ I said, taking it.

  ‘Bit far from your usual beat, I’d presume?’

  ‘You could say that.’

  ‘Friend of yours?’

  I shook my head. ‘I just happened to be in the area.’

  Deakin exchanged a glance with Brother Shankar, then noticed Preston.

  ‘Yes, well,’ said the doctor, ‘where was he found?’

  I pointed to the spot in the stream. ‘There. Taking a bath with his head on that rock.’

  The doctor walked over to the bank, looked down, then wandered back and stared once more at Le Corbeau’s battered skull. ‘We’ll need to get the body back to the clinic.’ He turned to Preston. ‘Get you
r men to place him in the back of the car.’

  Preston nodded, then gave the order. The two Indians lifted the body, one taking its feet, the other grabbing under its arms, and carried it jerkily towards the vehicle.

  ‘Anything you can tell us now?’ I asked.

  Deakin snorted, as though the question itself was ridiculous, then pointed to the wound on the corpse’s head. ‘Looks to me like he slipped, fell and hit his head on that rock. The question is, was the blow enough to kill him or was he just knocked out and then drowned? We’ll be able to tell by the amount of water in his lungs. Either way, it’s a tragic accident.’

  With that, he turned and headed up the slope in the direction of the car. Shankar, Preston and I fell in behind him, following in silence like a funeral cortège.

  The driver opened the rear doors and slowly, awkwardly, Le Corbeau’s body was interred on the banquette. One of Preston’s assistants fumbled with the corpse’s feet, pushing them in so that they wouldn’t obstruct the door, and it was then that I noticed.

  ‘Wait!’ I shouted, as he went to close the rear door.

  The man looked over in shock and instinctively stepped back as I ran over. I bent down and began to examine Le Corbeau’s trousers, then the back of his calves. I cursed myself for not spotting it sooner. He was wearing monastery-issue grey drawstring trousers identical to mine. I estimated we’d both walked roughly the same route through the forest, we’d both fallen into the river, and we’d both spent the last hour or so lying on the grass. But the back of Le Corbeau’s trouser legs were brown and muddied, whereas mine were grey.

  Of course, in and of itself, that meant nothing. Le Corbeau might have taken a fall en route, or his trousers might have been muddied at some point earlier. So I examined his ankles and the back of his legs. There wasn’t much to see, nothing definitive at least, but there, on the back of the left ankle, just above the heel were a series of scratches. A picture began forming in my mind. Could it be that Le Corbeau had been accosted, hit over the head and then dragged to the stream to make it look like an accident? The scratches and the muddied trouser legs suggested that might be a possibility, but if so, why? Why would anyone kill an unknown Belgian out here in the middle of nowhere? The simplest answer would have been robbery, but Le Corbeau was dressed in the same monastery garb as I was. It would have been obvious he had no money on him. I thought back to the previous night, to my sojourn across the courtyard in the dead of night. The sense I’d had of someone else being there, watching me. Could that have been Le Corbeau? Or could it have been someone lying in wait for him?