Death in the East

by Abir Mukherjee

  ‘What are they?’ I asked. ‘Bruises?’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ said the doctor.

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘I’m not sure. It’s almost as though the skin here has been burned.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I don’t quite understand it. I’ve never seen anything like it before.’

  Suddenly I recalled the words from Bessie’s witness statement that had been torn from a coroner’s report years before.

  ‘Her skin was cold, with what looked like burn marks on her chest.’

  ‘If I didn’t know better,’ continued the doctor, ‘I’d say the marks are consistent with –’

  ‘Electrocution,’ I said, finishing his sentence.

  FORTY-EIGHT

  ‘Impossible,’ said the doctor. ‘There’s no electricity within several hundred miles. The marks must have been caused by something else. They’re probably older injuries.’

  I left him to finish his work, deposited Emily Carter into the care of her maid, put Constable Singh in charge of the other members and guests of the house, and with my head spinning, left for the Jatinga Club in time for breakfast before District Superintendent Turner showed up.

  I wasn’t sure what I was going to tell him. I’d dragged him across seventy miles of harsh terrain to arrest a man I’d accused of attempted murder and who was now lying dead in his own bedchamber with strange marks on his chest that suggested he might have been electrocuted in a locked room a few hundred miles away from the nearest source of electricity. It was a state of affairs so bizarre that even suggesting it would make me sound mad.

  Yet I’d have to tell him something.

  It was past eight by the time I wearily climbed the stairs to the club’s veranda and took a seat at the same table I’d had the morning before and stared out at the view. It was unchanged since the previous day and yet also utterly different. Where yesterday this had been a picturesque valley dotted with handsome colonial bungalows, today it was a malevolent place where birds came to die in their thousands and at whose heart stood a mansion that a murderer had made his lair, and where now he himself lay cold, his death foretold by a Hindu mystic.

  A waiter approached and I ordered black coffee and a plate of eggs, then set to work on a story for Superintendent Turner. Half an hour later, I was on a second cup when the waiter reappeared.

  ‘There’s a gentleman here to see you, sahib.’

  I checked my watch. I hadn’t expected Turner to arrive before nine. It seemed he’d made excellent time.

  ‘Show him over.’

  The waiter shuffled nervously. ‘I’m afraid that is not being possible, sahib. He is one Indian gentleman.’

  My first thought was that my visitor must be my erstwhile attacker and now new-found friend, Bogoram Deori. I assumed he’d something more to tell me and had tracked me down to the club. Of course Indians weren’t allowed within its premises unless they worked there, and so the man had been kept waiting at the entrance.

  Placing my napkin on the table, I stood up and followed the waiter towards the front entrance. There, to my surprise, I found not Deori, but a bespectacled young chap dressed in a white cotton kurta and matching dhoti. I couldn’t help but smile.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ I said. ‘You’re a sight for sore eyes!’

  ‘I brought the whisky,’ said Surrender-not. ‘Now what’s the emergency?’

  I let out a laugh, as much at his attire as at his words.

  ‘You’re looking well,’ I said, beaming as I walked down the stairs. It was only the second time I’d seen him in native dress. ‘What’s with the outfit? Don’t tell me you’re joining Gandhi’s resistance.’

  ‘Not quite,’ he said, ‘but I have been thinking. Given that I am Indian, I should at least try to dress as one … when I’m off duty of course. Besides,’ he said, pointing to the building behind me, ‘even if I dressed in a Savile Row suit, they still wouldn’t let me in there.’

  I might have hugged him if I didn’t think he’d be mortified by the gesture. Instead I settled for a handshake and a clap on the back.

  ‘You’ve lost weight,’ he said, smiling.

  ‘I’ve spent a fair part of the last fortnight eating nothing but rice and dal and vomiting.’

  ‘I’m glad,’ he said. ‘You were beginning to get fat.’

  ‘Laugh while you can,’ I said. ‘Remember, you’ve got the body of a Bengali babu. In a few years your mother’ll marry you off to some girl who’ll feed you till your belly is as big as your mouth.’

  ‘And I’ll be proud of it too!’

  ‘How was the treatment?’ he asked as we walked down the road towards the tea stall where I’d tried the potato curry the day before. ‘Are you free from … addiction?’

  ‘Haven’t touched an ounce in two weeks.’

  He turned and stared at me. ‘And no cravings?’

  ‘Nothing I haven’t been able to handle.’

  ‘I am very glad to hear that.’

  ‘And you? How was Dacca?’

  ‘Fine. Dacca is like Calcutta in a coma: recognisably Bengali, but nothing much ever really happens.’

  ‘You got bored?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘It was wonderful.’

  The stall was open, the woman once more squatting on the ground, tending to her stove. This morning it was luchi she cooked, lighter and greasier than the rotis of the day before, and a staple of Bengali breakfasts. Surrender-not ordered two teas, and a stack of luchis and potato curry for himself.

  ‘So what have you been up to?’ he asked, scooping up a mouthful of curry. ‘Is recuperation agreeing with you?’

  ‘It’s complicated,’ I said, checking my watch.

  ‘Have you somewhere to be?’

  ‘I need to get back up to the club for nine.’

  ‘Are you meeting a lady?’

  ‘I wish,’ I said. ‘If you must know, I’m meeting the district superintendent. Someone who tried to kill me died last night.’

  He looked up from his meal, a scrap of luchi all but dangling from his lip.

  ‘It’s a long story,’ I sighed.

  ‘Well, you better start telling me now because I want to hear it before this DS arrives and it’s already a quarter to nine.’

  ‘Very well,’ I said, ‘but you won’t thank me for it.’

  I took a breath and started on the tale of the murders of Helena Caine and Bessie Drummond in 1905 and all the subsequent events that culminated with birds falling from the sky and the mysterious death a few hours ago of the man I once knew as Jeremiah Caine.

  FORTY-NINE

  ‘I have noticed,’ said Surrender-not as we walked back up the hill towards the club, ‘that wherever you go, people tend to die.’

  ‘That’s nonsense.’

  ‘What about that railway sub-inspector out near Bandel last year? You ask him for a railway timetable and twenty minutes later he’s dead.’

  ‘He was hit by a train,’ I said. ‘I don’t see how that was my fault.’

  ‘I didn’t say it was your fault. Just that people seem to die around you. Remember my paternal grandmother? She died two days after she met you.’

  ‘She was eighty-nine years old.’

  ‘And now this fellow, Carter or Caine or whatever his name is. He sees you after seventeen years, and five minutes later he too is dead. You have to admit, it’s curious. I’m thinking I should introduce you to my uncle Pankaj. I’ve never liked him.’

  A dust-covered Vauxhall was parked outside the club, its driver, a native, stood close by, idling in the shade of a tree. With a nod of the head, Surrender-not gestured to the veranda.

  ‘That must be your superintendent.’

  A tall Englishman with a moustache like a walrus and a khaki uniform with enough silver on his epaulettes to start a small bank stood with his arms folded, having a conversation with one of the club’s waiters.

  ‘Come on,’ I said. ‘Let’s go and meet the chap.’

  �
�You know I’m not allowed up there,’ said Surrender-not.

  ‘You are in your capacity as a police officer, and a crime may have been committed.’

  ‘Has a crime been committed?’ he said nervously, trying to keep up as I strode towards the stairs.

  ‘Lord, I hope not,’ I said.

  ‘Superintendent Turner?’

  The man turned. ‘You must be Wyndham.’

  The look on his face suggested that my presence here was as pleasing to him as a dose of the clap.

  ‘That’s correct, sir. Captain Wyndham of Calcutta CID, and this is Sergeant Banerjee.’

  Turner scrutinised Surrender-not with much the same displeasure as he had me, which was refreshingly egalitarian.

  ‘Why’s he dressed like a bloody coolie?’

  ‘He just got here,’ I said. ‘He’s been on holiday.’

  ‘If he’s on holiday, then he’s no business walking into this club. Tell him to wait outside.’

  ‘Sir, if I may –’

  ‘Now look here, Wyndham. What’s all this nonsense about you filing an FIR against Ronald Carter? The man’s a respected businessman. Now I don’t know what you’re doing out here, but I suggest you leave as soon as possible. I don’t care if you’re Calcutta CID or the aide-de-bloody-camp to the viceroy, you can’t simply turn up here and start causing trouble.’

  ‘His real name’s Caine, sir, not Carter,’ I said, ‘but I’ll withdraw the FIR.’

  He raised a wary eyebrow.

  ‘Well, good, but I don’t know what the devil you think you’re playing at, dragging me –’

  ‘I’m withdrawing it because he’s dead.’

  The colour drained from Turner’s face.

  ‘What?’

  ‘He died, sometime during the night.’

  ‘And you know this, how?’

  ‘Because I was the one who found him. I went to arrest him two hours ago. The maidservant knocked on his bedroom door. When she couldn’t rouse him, I broke the door down. He was dead in his bed.’

  The superintendent turned away and gazed out over the valley.

  ‘Natural causes?’ he asked, his back still towards me.

  ‘I … It’s not clear.’

  Turner spun round. ‘What do you mean, not clear?’

  ‘There was a doctor in the house. He performed a cursory examination. He found some odd marks on Carter’s chest.’

  ‘Odd, how?’

  ‘Burn marks.’ I could have elaborated, but I doubted that would help. The man wasn’t exactly enamoured of me dragging him out here in the first place, and telling him that the marks were consistent with electrocution in a place devoid of electricity would merely confirm his suspicions that I might have a screw loose.

  ‘I left the doctor to carry out a more detailed observation.’

  Turner rubbed a meaty hand across the back of his neck and sighed.

  ‘I’ll arrange for the body to be taken to our facilities in Haflong for a post-mortem. Carter was an important man in these parts. People will ask questions, especially when it gets out that his body was found by a policeman from out of town who’d come to arrest him. Those questions will end up at my door and I can’t afford for there to be any room for doubt. I want to know how he died, and if there was foul play I want to know who’s responsible.’

  I stared at him incredulously. ‘You want me to investigate?’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘That would hardly be appropriate. Your sergeant there –’ he nodded towards Surrender-not who stood at the bottom of the steps – ‘I take it he’s not wrapped up in any of this?’

  ‘He’s not.’

  ‘And is he CID too?’

  ‘Yes, but –’

  ‘Then he’s more qualified to handle this than any man at my disposal.’ He turned to Banerjee. ‘You. Sergeant. Get up here.’

  Surrender-not flicked his cigarette to the ground and made haste up the stairs.

  ‘Right,’ said Turner, ‘Sergeant …?’

  ‘Banerjee, sir.’

  ‘Has your captain filled you in about the tragic circumstances?’

  ‘He’s told me that a man died last night.’

  ‘That man just happened to be rather important. I’m charging you with investigating the circumstances around his death.’

  Surrender-not stared, eyes like saucers. ‘Me, sir?’

  ‘That’s right. Captain Wyndham tells me you’re a CID man.’

  ‘That’s correct, sir.’

  ‘Well, then. There’s nothing more to be said. If there’s even a hint that Carter’s death isn’t from natural causes, I want to know about it. And I’ll want to know who’s responsible.’

  ‘Is there a hotel in town?’ asked Surrender-not.

  Turner shook his head.

  ‘Then you won’t mind me using this place for lodgings.’

  Five minutes later, Turner was gone, his Vauxhall throwing up a cloud of dust as it sped away. Surrender-not and I stood watching from the veranda of the Jatinga Club.

  ‘Well done,’ I said. ‘Fifteen minutes ago, that man wouldn’t even let you up the steps of this club. Now he’s got you staying here and running a possible murder investigation.’

  ‘Is it too early to open that bottle of whisky?’

  ‘Probably,’ I said, ‘but I don’t really understand Assam time. The sun comes up in the middle of the night, so who knows?’

  ‘Odd, don’t you think?’ said Surrender-not. ‘Putting an Indian in charge. Still, it’s worth it, if only to be able to sit and have a cup of tea in an Englishman’s club.’

  FIFTY

  ‘So, boss,’ I said. ‘Where’d you want to start?’

  ‘A bath and a nap would be nice,’ said Surrender-not. ‘I was up half the night on the train to Lumding.’

  ‘How about you settle for a tour of the scene of the crime and a look at the dead man before Turner has him shipped off to Haflong?’

  ‘You mean potential crime. I thought we were hoping he died of natural causes.’

  ‘Indeed,’ I said. ‘That would be best for all concerned.’

  ‘I suppose the scene of the potential crime would be traditional.’

  ‘Right you are. Scene of the potential crime it is.’

  We walked out and back towards Highfield.

  ‘This fakir chap,’ said Surrender-not, ‘the one that read this man Carter’s palm last night. Is he a genuine prognosticator?’

  ‘What do you mean by genuine?’

  ‘Is he real or is he a fraud?’

  ‘Aren’t they all frauds?’

  ‘Maybe in England,’ said Surrender-not. ‘Not in India.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous. How could he possibly know the man’s fate by simply looking at his palm?’

  ‘And yet he did, didn’t he? He said your friend Carter would die, and that’s exactly what happened.’

  ‘His real name was Caine, not Carter,’ I said, becoming irritated with the way the conversation was going, ‘and he wasn’t my friend.’

  ‘Apologies,’ said the sergeant. ‘The fact is, though, he predicted the death of this man. Your sworn enemy.’

  ‘I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself,’ I said. ‘Carry on like that and I’ll have you on traffic duty when we get home. I’m sure you’ll find that just as amusing.’

  The shutters had been opened at Highfield. Constable Singh had tried to confine the guests to their rooms but, in the way of a brown man giving orders to white folk, had been ignored. He had let them out but drawn the line at them leaving the confines of the house, which some of them had interpreted to include its generous grounds.

  Charlie Preston was out taking a stroll. As Surrender-not and I approached, he halted, then made a beeline for us, a thin smile on his face.

  ‘I say, Wyndham, what the jolly hell’s going on? Why are we being kept here like prisoners?’

  ‘You’re not prisoners,’ I said, ‘you’re helping with inquiries. What were you doing here last night, anyway? I though
t you said Carter was no friend of yours.’

  ‘Yes, well,’ he stammered, ‘when the man asks you to his house, you don’t say no.’

  ‘Well, I’m also someone you don’t say no to. So make sure you get back inside and wait there till my friend Sergeant Banerjee here decides whether or not he wants to interview you.’

  Preston looked Surrender-not up and down.

  ‘If he’s a policeman, why’s he dressed like that? Shouldn’t he be in uniform or something?’

  ‘My uniform’s in Calcutta,’ said the sergeant. ‘I can have it sent for, but it would mean keeping you prisoner for longer.’

  Dr Deakin had finished his further examination of Jeremiah Caine, covered the body with a white sheet and retired to his room. With the sun now high, the bedchamber was flooded with light and dust motes danced in the eddies from the draught as we entered.

  I’d sent the maid off to fetch Deakin while Surrender-not circled the bed as though it were a beast that needed a wide berth.

  ‘You’re not going to look at the body?’

  ‘I’ll wait for the doctor.’

  ‘It’s a dead body,’ I said. ‘It won’t bite you.’

  ‘Probably not. Still, better to be safe than sorry.’ He walked around the room, taking in the scene from all angles like a little brown Sherlock Holmes. ‘Interesting bed.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The bed.’

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘Well, it’s brass.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘I haven’t seen one of these since my time at Cambridge.’

  He had a point. Most beds in this part of the world, at least those used by Europeans, were wooden and of the four-poster variety, not necessarily from notions of grandeur, but because it was easier to hang a mosquito net over a bed with four posts than over one with none.

  ‘Look at this house,’ I said. ‘Caine was hardly short of a few bob. I’m guessing he liked spending it on shiny things.’

  There was a perfunctory knock at the door and Deakin entered the room.

  ‘You called for me, W—’