Death in the East

by Abir Mukherjee

  When the verdict came, they sat, like the rest of us, in anticipation on the edge of their benches, even though there was no real doubt.

  The foreman read out the verdict. ‘Guilty.’

  The Jews up in the gallery received it with sighs of the downtrodden. In the streets outside, it was met with the cheers of the mob.

  It fell to the judge to pronounce Vogel’s fate in stock phrases set out, if not in statute, then surely in the laws of tradition, which in England were often just as binding.

  ‘And the sentence of this court is that you be taken from here to a place of execution, that you be there hanged by the neck till you are dead, and that you be buried within the precincts of the prison in which you shall have been last confined – and may the Lord have mercy on your soul.’

  Vogel listened to the translation with the same indifference he’d shown through the rest of the proceedings. I suspect he’d known his fate from the moment I’d collared him at the bathhouse on Brick Lane. The sentence was a given that followed on as naturally as night followed day, and he seemed to me like a man who’d already made his peace with his god.

  He was taken back to Pentonville, to his cell, and I returned to Whitechapel, to backslapping and to celebratory drinks down the pub. Yet I felt hollow, a gnawing in the pit of my stomach that couldn’t be stemmed with food or, for that matter, alcohol.

  My misgivings, which had ebbed so easily in the lead-up to the trial, had returned during it, and then hit me like a kick to the ribs when the verdict was read out. Now I sat cradling a pint, alone among a sea of friends and fellow officers, thinking of Vogel, of Bessie Drummond and the sin of perhaps failing her twice. After my third pint, I made my excuses, not that anyone seemed to care, and left.

  The night was wet, as most of them invariably are in Whitechapel in early spring, but not as cold as it had been, and the rain fell only in an insipid, half-hearted manner. In a fog, I walked north, then east, until the sign above the Bleeding Hart loomed out of the darkness, and caught my attention like the beam from a lighthouse.

  I walked through the doors and into the fug of an East End Friday night. The place was rammed and roaring and stank of male sweat, stale beer and old fags. Over the mass of noise and bodies came the notes of a tune played on a piano. Somewhere, someone was singing ‘My Old Dutch’ in a high-pitched falsetto I guessed was meant to amuse. I dug my way through to the bar, ordered a pint, and unable to move anywhere else, stood there, drank it and ordered another.

  It was my first visit to the establishment since the night the Spiller brothers had provided me with the gen to track down Vogel. I’d not seen either of them since, and even though this was their pub, I was already five pints down tonight and the Spillers weren’t exactly uppermost in my mind. So it came as more of a shock than it should have when I received a tap on the shoulder and turned to see the yellow teeth and grinning face of Archibald Finlay.

  ‘All right, Constable Wyndham? What an unexpected pleasure it is to see you ’ere if I do say so. May I ask what brings you?’

  I tried to think of a suitably acerbic response, but it’s a special man who can do so after five pints. Any more than three and my wit walks out the door.

  ‘What business is it of yours?’ I said, turning back to the bar.

  Finlay squeezed his bony frame nose first through a non-existent space and positioned himself beside me.

  ‘It’s not, of course. Quite right you are too.’ The smile suddenly dropped from his face. ‘Only it’s not me who’s askin’. It’s Mr Martin an’ he’s requestin’ your company in the back room.’

  I looked around. There must have been close to a hundred men in the pub, all of them probably in hoc to the Spillers in some way or other. And it suddenly struck me that I was now no different.

  I downed the dregs of my pint and turned to Finlay.

  ‘Let’s go.’

  Martin Spiller lounged across the velvet-trimmed seats of a booth in the back room like a medieval baron. He looked up and smiled.

  ‘Constable Wyndham,’ he said, rising from his seat, ‘what a pleasure it is to see you again. Come and join me. You’ll have a drink, yes?’ He looked to Finlay. ‘Archie, a bottle of whisky.’

  I sat down as Finlay headed over to the bar and fetched a bottle. In the dim light I made out the powerful figure of Wesley sitting on a stool and propping up the counter with another couple of men.

  Finlay returned with the whisky and filled two glasses, then turned to leave. He opened the door to the front room and there came a momentary crescendo of noise which faded once more as he closed the door behind him.

  ‘You’re quite the rising star,’ said Spiller, a smile the size of the Severn gorge plastered across his face. ‘Didn’t I say you would be?’

  I sipped the whisky and felt the medicinal stab at the back of my throat before it burned its way south.

  ‘They’re going to hang him,’ I said. ‘They’re going to hang Vogel.’

  ‘Aye, that they will. An’ it’s all thanks to you.’

  The words dripped like acid sarcasm.

  I looked at the big man on the other side of the table, the hands wrapped round the whisky glass as though it were a child’s toy, hands that could crush the life out of a man and probably had. This man knew everything that happened in Whitechapel. Everything that happened …

  ‘He didn’t do it, did he?’

  Spiller gave a black snigger. ‘He was found guilty, lad. By a judge and jury.’

  And in that moment, I realised I’d been used.

  ‘Who did kill her? Was it Tom Drummond?’

  Spiller shook his head. ‘Justice has been done, lad, and you’re a hero. That’s what matters. Now drink up. Enjoy yourself tonight, and remember, I might need a favour from you some day.’

  I finished the whisky, stood up on unsteady legs, and staggered towards the door, my head soaked in alcohol. The heat and the stench of the front room hit me like a boot to the gut. I lunged between the bodies, flung myself out into the street and vomited into the gutter.

  With my sleeve, I wiped the remnants of sick and saliva from my face, then tried to stand. The night air helped to clear my senses. I thought about heading home, but there would be nothing there except a cold bed and more demons. Instead I turned round and walked back into the Bleeding Hart.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  I stayed until they threw us out, and only partly because I had nowhere better to be. When I’d gone back in, I’d noticed Tom Drummond propping up a wall with a pint in his hand and a look of death on his face. I fought the urge to walk over and punch him in the mouth, partly because if I did, I was pretty sure half a dozen of his mates would return the favour and then some, but mainly because in my present condition, I wasn’t sure I’d be able to hit him without falling over myself.

  Instead I ordered another pint and shepherded it frugally, all the while watching Drummond across the room. If he saw me, he showed no sign of recognition; instead he spent the next few hours drinking himself into oblivion.

  The pub was still full when the barman called last orders and didn’t begin to empty until, taking the brass bell in one meaty forearm, he rang closing time. Then the exodus began and the punters went off into the night, heading for homes and hearths or the whorehouses of Stepney.

  I watched Tom Drummond as he staggered out, then walked over to the counter, showed the barman my warrant card, told him I was a friend of the Spillers and made him sell me a bottle of gin, before hurrying to the door.

  Outside Drummond and his friends were still on the kerbside, bidding each other adieu in the lurching, staggering, bear-hugging fashion of drunk men everywhere. From there, he headed off down the street in the direction of the Commercial Road, and I followed at a discreet distance.

  It was only as he turned into Brick Lane that I picked up the pace and caught up with him.

  ‘Drummond!’ I shouted.

  He stopped, looked slowly over his shoulder and grunted.
/>   I walked up to him. ‘I need to speak to you.’

  ‘I got nothin’ to say to you.’ A gob of spittle formed at the corner of his lips.

  I took out the bottle of gin from my coat and held it in front of his face.

  ‘Not even over a drink?’

  We sat in the kitchen of 42 Fashion Street. Drummond had fetched two chipped enamel mugs and placed them on the table. I pulled out the stopper of the gin, poured two generous measures and set the bottle down in front of him.

  ‘So what did you want to talk about?’ he asked, hoisting one of the mugs to his mouth.

  ‘I want to talk about Bessie, and what really happened to her.’

  Drummond snorted. ‘That bastard, Vogel, killed her.’

  I looked into his eyes. The alcohol, and maybe remorse, had made him careless, and in that moment, I knew he didn’t believe that. He raised the mug to his lips again and drained it.

  I lifted the bottle and poured him another.

  ‘They’re going to hang him.’

  ‘Ain’t you the one who arrested him?’

  ‘I did. And if he’s innocent and goes to the gallows, then there’ll be blood on my hands. Yours too.’

  Drummond took a long sip of gin, then placed the mug on the table. A tear trickled down the side of his face.

  ‘Who killed her?’ I asked softly. ‘Who killed Bessie?’

  Drummond shook his head. ‘She was special, you know. Never met a woman like her in me life. Yeah, we fought like cat and dog, but I loved her.’

  ‘Who was it, Drummond?’

  ‘He’ll kill me too,’ he said, staring at the bottle of gin.

  ‘Who?’

  He looked up from the table, eyes red, moist with tears.

  ‘Caine.’

  I almost fell off my chair. ‘Jeremiah Caine killed Bessie?’

  ‘It must’ve been him. Bessie was all but dead by the time Finlay an’ I got here.’

  ‘Why would Caine kill Bessie?’

  Drummond shrugged. ‘Maybe she was stealin’ from him. I’ll tell ya’ summink else: Finlay knew about it too.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Finlay knew she’d been attacked. He were sent to clean up the mess. That mornin’, when I was down the docks, Finlay sidles up and tells me he’s got a message from the Spillers: they want to speak to Bessie. Says they told him to give her a message. I said he should tell me, an’ I’d give it her.

  ‘ “Nothin’ doin’,” he says, “orders from the guvnor,” he says, to tell her in person and in private. So I brought him to the ’ouse. Like you, he had a bottle on him. Told me to have a drink and wait in the kitchen while he went up to speak to Bessie.’

  He gulped down his gin and poured himself another.

  ‘Well, he was up there a while, an’ I was gettin’ concerned, like. So I went up to see what was goin’ on.’

  Drummond took a breath, then downed his drink. ‘The door were locked. An’ then I sees Finlay comin’ down the stairs –’

  ‘From Vogel’s room?’

  ‘Tha’s right. I knew something was wrong … knew it the minute I saw his ugly face. He said it was all fine, an’ that we should leave. I said I wanted to check on Bessie, but he said there was no time. That the Spillers wanted to see me. I told him I’d only be a minute. It was then he got ugly. Pushed me up against the wall an’ told me that I’d stop wastin’ time if I knew what was good for me. Pressed a pound note in me fist for me trouble.’

  ‘What happened then?’

  ‘We left. I went with him, up to the Bleedin’ ’Art. He took me straight through to the back room. Martin was waitin’ for me. Big Wes too. They told me Bessie’d been causin’ trouble, stickin’ her nose where it weren’t wanted. That someone had dealt with her. Of course, I went mad, tried to get up and punch him, but Wes shoved me back in me seat and Martin passed a tenner across the table. Said there’d be another ten if I kept me mouth shut. They said they’d been keepin’ an eye on the place, that Finlay had sorted it so that you lot would think it had been a break-in by the Yid who lived upstairs.’

  I went through it in my head. ‘Caine killed Bessie? But the door was locked from the inside. How did he get out of the room?’

  Drummond looked at me as though I was stupid.

  ‘He’s the landlord. He’s got keys to all the rooms.’

  ‘And the weapon?’

  ‘I expect he brought it with him, then left it there. The Spillers sent Finlay to tidy up. They must have been in on it from the start.’

  A picture formed: Caine attacking Bessie, leaving her for dead, then locking the door behind him with his spare key; Caine then passing the key and that to Vogel’s room to the Spillers; the Spillers ordering Finlay to tidy up, to make it look like Vogel had been the one to attack Bessie and make sure Tom Drummond kept his mouth shut.

  ‘Why would the Spillers want to help Caine?’

  Drummond looked me in the eye. ‘All of his stuff that goes through the docks, some of it comes out tax-free so to speak. He’s one of their biggest customers.’

  I thought for a moment. ‘I’m going to need a statement from you, confirming all this.’

  Drummond shook his head. ‘You’ll get nothin’ more from me. You know what the Spillers do to people who snitch? It ain’t pretty.’

  ‘A man’s life is at stake.’

  ‘And now so’s mine. I’ve told you what happened. What you do with it is up to you.’

  THIRTY-FIVE

  February 1922

  Assam

  ‘This isn’t Calcutta, Captain,’ said Preston. ‘You don’t need to wear black tie to dinner. Lounge suits are perfectly acceptable.’

  Sullenly, I took his word for it and borrowed his least garish tie and a brown suit. I’d have preferred something darker – navy blue perhaps, but brown was as dark as Preston went. We were, fortunately or otherwise, the same height; however, the jacket was tight around the arms and the trousers too loose at the waist, precipitating the need for a pair of braces to keep them from falling to half-mast. It felt like an ensemble fit for a scarecrow, especially the tie, which in itself could have frightened the life out of a murder of crows. For his part, Preston had donned a yellow ascot and velvet smoking jacket, with a silk handkerchief hanging from the breast pocket.

  It was dark by the time we set off for the club, a moonless night, with the first breath of rain in the air. Further down the hillside, light from the myriad fires of the native village twinkled in a diaphanous shroud of mist. The gravel crunched underfoot as we climbed the forest road to the chirp of crickets and the croak of bullfrogs. Turning the final corner, the Jatinga Club rose before us, lit up like a birthday cake, its veranda encrusted with candles, an oasis of British civility in the midst of nowhere.

  I caught the strains of violins as they floated over on the breeze.

  ‘Don’t tell me you’ve a string quartet up here.’

  ‘Hardly,’ Preston replied. ‘Alas, nothing quite so genteel. What we have is a bunch of planters from the Scottish Highlands. Their fiddles are quite harmonious, but once they’ve had a few drinks and toasted the old country, they’ll bring out the accordions and the tin whistles and things’ll go downhill at a fair rate of knots.’

  ‘Doesn’t sound so bad.’

  ‘It gets worse. Wait till they turn maudlin, unpack the bagpipes and start reciting Scotch poetry. You’re just lucky you didn’t turn up on Burns Night. That’s when they bring out the curried haggis. Their celebrations are an affront to the senses.’

  ‘Is there likely to be a large turnout?’

  ‘Oh yes. It’s the highlight of the season,’ he said, patting me on the arm. ‘Don’t worry though, the lovely Mrs Carter will definitely be here.’

  I made to protest but he cut me off.

  ‘I daresay most of the locals will turn out. Thirty or forty souls, probably. Almost every ex-pat within a ten-mile radius tends to put in an appearance. You see, there’s bugger all else to do round here. If it
wasn’t for the club and the terrible plays that Miss Campbell puts on down at the schoolhouse, I do believe half the Brits in Jatinga would have gone positively doolally by now. And as for the other half, they’d have shacked up with the natives.’

  As we climbed the stairs to the veranda, a couple of men leaning on the balustrade nodded to Preston, then exchanged a look.

  ‘A drink?’ asked Preston.

  ‘Whisky,’ I said. ‘I don’t suppose any single malt makes its way up here?’

  Preston looked at me as though I were mad. ‘We’re not barbarians, Captain. We might not have electricity, but we’ve taken care of the essentials.’

  I followed him through the hallway towards the bar, past an elderly couple, she jewel-clad and wearing a tiara like a lost Romanov and he displaying a shrivelled chestful of ribbons on a scarlet dress uniform.

  ‘Colonel and Mrs Montgomery,’ Preston informed me. ‘They’ve been here since practically the dawn of time. The old chuffer claims to have discovered this place – probably got lost from his regiment. Before him there was nothing here but trees and tribesmen.’

  The saloon was large, dotted with square tables and dominated by an altar of a long bar at one end. A worshipful crowd, wreathed in an incense haze of cigarette smoke, had already gathered in front of it, and Preston, greeting some with a smile and others with a wave or a pat on the elbow, steered a path between them, arriving at the broad sweep of polished mahogany like the royal yacht Alexandra pulling into port.

  ‘Munshi!’ he said, attracting the attention of a native barman clad in a white jacket with the club’s initials embroidered in blue on the lapels. ‘Munshi, this is Captain Wyndham, of His Majesty’s Inspector of Spirits. He’s come all the way from Calcutta to test the quality of your single malts. You’d better give him your best as I’d hate for him to have to shut you down.’

  The barman smiled the forced smile of a man compelled to do so and I wondered just how many times Preston had uttered that particular witticism.