Death in the East

by Abir Mukherjee

  He stopped mid-sentence as his eyes fell on Surrender-not.

  ‘Who’s this?’

  ‘This is Sergeant Banerjee, of Calcutta CID,’ I said. ‘The district superintendent has charged him with investigating the circumstances of the death of the man you knew as Ronald Carter.’

  ‘But there’s nothing to investigate,’ blustered Deakin. ‘From what I can tell, the man died of natural causes. A heart attack probably.’

  ‘But, Doctor,’ I said, ‘it was you who pointed out the scorch marks on his chest.’

  Deakin ran a hand through his thinning white hair. ‘Yes, but I told you, that must have been a previous injury.’

  ‘Show me the marks, Doctor,’ said Surrender-not, his tone firm. The doctor stiffened almost imperceptibly.

  I couldn’t help but smile. In the four years I’d known him, Surrender-not had matured. The boy who wouldn’t say boo to a goose if it was British, now spoke to Englishmen with the authority that befitted his status as a police officer. I supposed that at least some of that change had come through sharing lodgings with me, the mystique of the ruling class fading in light of the mundane; but much of it was also down to the events that had transpired over the last eighteen months. Gandhi’s general strike had led to a polarisation of attitudes. Suddenly people – British as well as Indians – were forced to choose which side they were on, and even those like Surrender-not and me, who favoured the middle ground of mutual respect, were finding it difficult to resist hardening our behaviour.

  The doctor slowly pulled back the sheet, revealing Caine’s grey, lifeless face, then his torso, shorn now of his night clothes, before stopping a respectful distance from his navel. Surrender-not inched forward, his face an image of distaste. The marks were, if anything, clearer than when I’d seen them before: dark, almost charred welts against the yellowing white flesh of Caine’s corpse.

  ‘You have seen marks like this before, Doctor?’ he asked, his eyes fixed on Caine’s chest.

  ‘No … yes … which is to say, I’ve seen something similar.’

  ‘And the cause of those similar marks?’

  ‘Electrical burns,’ said the doctor, ‘but obviously that’s not possible here.’

  ‘You think these marks may have been caused earlier? I mean prior to the man’s death?’

  ‘I don’t know what to think,’ said the doctor. ‘Besides, where would the man come into contact with electricity?’

  The sergeant lapsed into a contemplative silence.

  ‘What about a lightning strike?’ he asked finally.

  The doctor dismissed the notion with a laugh. ‘Impossible. I don’t remember a lightning storm last night,’ he said. ‘Besides, the man was in bed in the middle of the room and the walls are two inches thick. If, by some miracle, a bolt of lightning were to strike, it would have to come through the windows. That would bring it into contact first with the wooden shutters, none of which show any scorch marks. Even if there was such a storm, which there wasn’t, the chances of Ronald Carter being killed by a lightning strike are a million to one.’

  ‘And yet the man is dead, with these marks on his chest.’

  The doctor raised his arms in a gesture of helplessness that suggested it was hardly fair for him to be held accountable for facts that defied a logical explanation.

  Surrender-not returned to his examination of the torso.

  ‘Please, Doctor, lower the sheet.’

  Deakin did so and the sergeant continued his observations. Slowly, methodically he inspected the corpse, stopping at Caine’s left arm.

  ‘Do you know whether the deceased was left-handed?’

  Deakin’s brow furrowed. ‘I believe he was, but I don’t see what –’

  ‘Captain Wyndham, would you mind asking Mrs Carter whether her husband was indeed left-handed?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ I said, thoroughly bemused by his antics.

  ‘And, Captain,’ he called from behind me, ‘please ask her for a list of everyone who was in the house last night.’

  I left the room, sought out the maid and followed her downstairs. ‘Memsahib is in the library,’ she said.

  ‘Mrs Carter?’ I said, as the maid showed me in. ‘I’m sorry to disturb you, but I need to ask you a question.’

  Emily Carter stood beside a set of French windows. She turned, and I noticed her make-up was smeared. The track marks of a tear ran down her right cheek, peeling a path through the powder which concealed her bruise. Suddenly the question seemed superfluous.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I repeated. ‘I can come back later.’

  Something sparked in those blue eyes, now moist and red.

  ‘No, no,’ she said. ‘Please, come in.’

  ‘You’re sure?’ I asked, more out of politeness than any genuine desire to give her a chance to rethink.

  ‘You wanted to ask me something?’

  ‘My colleague has asked for a list of everyone who was in the house last night.’

  She thought for a moment.

  ‘Other than Ronald and myself, there was Dr Deakin, Pastor Philips from the Baptist church in Haflong, Mr and Mrs Dewar – he runs one of Ronald’s companies upcountry somewhere – and your friend Charlie Preston. Oh, and the maid, Ranjana, and Thakur, our houseboy, of course.’

  ‘We’ll need to speak to you all in turn. Would you let them know, please?’

  ‘So it’s true, then?’ she said. ‘Ranjana mentioned an investigation had been launched. But she said you were in charge.’

  The maid had seen me and Surrender-not arrive together and naturally assumed that the Englishman would be in command.

  ‘Normally I would be, but the district superintendent decided that mightn’t be appropriate, given the events of the last few hours.’

  ‘But why is an investigation even required?’ she asked. ‘You saw for yourself. You found him dead in his bed.’

  ‘Superintendent Turner thought it best to err on the side of caution. After all, your husband was an important man. He had friends in high places, and no doubt some enemies too.’

  ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘Is there anything else?’

  ‘Just one more question for now,’ I said. ‘Was your husband left-handed?’

  She looked up. ‘It’s rather an odd question. Why d’you want to know?’

  ‘I can’t say. I’ve just been tasked with finding out.’

  She nodded. ‘The fingers of his left hand were always stained black or blue with ink. He’d smear it as he dragged his hand across the page as he wrote …’

  She caught me staring at the bruise on her face and gave a gallows laugh. ‘On occasion, some of it would end up on my face.’

  I felt the heat break out on my neck.

  ‘When did he do that to you?’

  ‘Three days ago. He was drunk and … well, it was hardly the first time.’

  I looked at her face. Gone was the well-heeled lady of the manor and in her place sat a girl, and I realised that those tears which stained her cheek might not be of grief, but of relief. I had a sudden desire to sweep her up in my arms and hold her, but Englishmen didn’t do that. Instead I opted for words of reassurance, stunning in their emptiness.

  ‘He’s gone now, he can’t hurt you any more.’ And even as I finished uttering the sentence, I knew it was a lie. Her face would heal, the bruises would disappear, but the mental scars … well, sometimes they never fade. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said, and turned to go.

  I left Emily Carter to come to terms with her loss and liberation and returned to give Surrender-not the good news.

  ‘Definitely left-handed. Mrs Carter confirms it.’

  The sergeant gave a nod, then turned to Deakin.

  ‘Thank you, Doctor. You are excused.’

  The doctor’s face reddened to a scowl, not that Surrender-not noticed, having already turned back to me. Receiving no purchase from Surrender-not, Deakin turned his scowl towards me, was met with the same disregard and then stalked out of the room in high dudge
on.

  ‘So? What’s your theory?’

  Surrender-not shook his head. ‘I haven’t got a theory.’

  ‘Then why the fuss about him being left-handed?’

  He walked up to Caine’s corpse and pointed at the man’s left arm. ‘Take a look.’

  I noticed the ink stains on the man’s fingers.

  ‘And now, further up,’ said Surrender-not.

  Then I saw them: a number of pinpricks of dried blood on the inside of the elbow, where the forearm met the bicep. I looked up at a grinning Surrender-not.

  ‘Drugs?’ I said. ‘Caine was injecting himself with something?’

  ‘Not injecting … he was being injected.’

  ‘Of course,’ I said. ‘If he was left-handed, it would have been easier for him to inject himself in his right arm.’

  ‘And our friend the doctor never mentioned the marks in his examination of the body.’

  ‘You think Deakin might be involved?’ I said. ‘That he might have administered some sort of overdose? But why? Let’s not forget it was the doctor who first suggested that Caine’s death might be something more than just natural causes. He was the one who drew attention to the marks on Caine’s chest. If he was responsible, why mention anything untoward?’

  Surrender-not shrugged. ‘I don’t know. But death by lethal overdose feels a lot more plausible than death by electrocution in a town without electricity.’

  ‘Did you question him about it?’

  ‘Not yet,’ he said. ‘Even if the cause were an overdose, we wouldn’t be able to prove it out here, not before the results of the post-mortem in Haflong, and I wouldn’t want to tip our hand to Deakin while the body’s still under this roof.’

  ‘Turner’s men should be here soon. We should pass on a note to the pathologist telling him to look for signs of overdose or poisoning. In the meantime, do you want to start questioning the others?’

  ‘That can wait,’ he said, smiling. ‘First there is someone else we need to speak to.’

  FIFTY-ONE

  The sun was high in a sky that, when you gazed at it, seemed as deep as an ocean.

  On the ground, a solitary chicken pecked at the dust outside the Maa Kali guest house, a single-storey building in the Indian settlement that rested precariously on its brick stilts and on one side overlooked a sheer drop of several hundred feet to the valley below.

  A simple enquiry at the Jatinga Club had elicited the information that the fakir had been put up for the night at the guest house.

  I leaned against a tree, smoking a cigarette, and watched the chicken while Surrender-not ventured inside, hurrying back soon afterwards with a face that suggested there was strenuous activity in store.

  ‘He’s gone,’ he said. ‘Left less than an hour ago. The owner thinks he was heading for the main road from where he could hitch a lift to Lumding. If we hurry, we can still catch him.’

  The road to Lumding intersected the path down from Jatinga at the foot of the valley, beside a concrete shed half submerged by the flora. There was no traffic, and no sign of the fakir.

  In Surrender-not’s eyes, the first flicker of doubt was beginning to supplant grim determination.

  ‘He must have already found a lift.’

  ‘You’re sure he’s making for the Lumding road?’

  ‘That’s what they said at the guest house,’ said the sergeant, doubling back and rechecking the area around the shed as though he might have somehow missed the fakir hiding in plain sight.

  I walked a few yards and peered along the road disappearing into the forest. Something caught my eye. High up in a tree, a scrap of saffron amid the field of green.

  ‘We should wait here,’ continued Surrender-not, ‘he might come back.’

  ‘We could do,’ I said. ‘Or we could try and do some investigating.’

  I pointed out the orange cloth among the leaves of the tree and Surrender-not immediately caught its significance. Any other colour and I’d have assumed it was just a rag that had been blown there, but saffron was the colour of the Hindus, and to them certain trees held a special place. All across India, the same small flag could be seen amid the branches of certain sacred trees, and at the foot of those trees often stood –

  ‘A shrine!’

  ‘What better for a fakir to pass the time than in a spot of prayer?’ I said.

  Surrender-not laughed as we set off down the track towards the tree.

  ‘How’s that for a piece of detective work for a man recovering from opium addiction?’

  ‘Not bad,’ he replied. ‘Especially for a Christian.’

  We smelled the incense first. The sweet scent of sandalwood floating in the air. The fakir sat cross-legged on the ground; before him the great tree with the saffron pennant in its branches, almost a hundred feet tall, its thick grey trunk gnarled with age, and at its foot a small red shrine containing an idol.

  The man rocked gently as he recited a mantra, his intonation a bass humming that reverberated across the forest around him and seemed to cause the very trees to vibrate.

  Something must have alerted him to our presence, as he stopped when we were still twenty feet away. Bringing his hands together in pranam, he touched his forehead three times, then stood and turned towards us, betraying no sign of surprise.

  ‘You are Ramaswamy?’ asked Surrender-not in an almost respectful tone.

  He looked even more like Rasputin than he had the previous night.

  The man smiled, white teeth standing like gravestones in the forest of his beard.

  ‘Hã baba. Kee chow?’

  ‘You were at the Jatinga Club last night?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You read the palm of a man called Carter,’ I said.

  His face darkened. ‘I read a man’s palm, that is correct. I do not remember his name.’

  ‘You said you saw death in his palm. What did you mean by that?’

  The man looked at me as though the question made no sense.

  ‘I meant exactly that. I saw death.’

  ‘How did you see it, this death?’ asked Surrender-not.

  The fakir laughed. ‘How can I explain it to you, baba? How do you explain water or a rock to someone who has no concept of these things? I see it because simply it is there.’

  ‘Whose death did you see?’

  ‘That I cannot say. It may have been the gentleman himself or it may have been someone else. All that can be said is that the man’s actions result in death, and as you are here, searching for me, I should think that such a death has already occurred.’

  His words were measured and clear and devoid of the pantomime accent and mannerisms which characterised his performance at the club.

  ‘The man whose palm you read died last night,’ said Surrender-not. ‘The circumstances are suspicious. Is there anything you can tell us which might be helpful?’

  ‘You are police?’ asked the man.

  ‘That’s correct.’ Surrender-not pulled out his warrant card and showed it to him.

  The fakir peered at it. ‘Sur-en-dra-nath Banerjee,’ he intoned. ‘Sar-gent? Baah! Khoob bhalo. How was he killed?’

  I interjected. ‘We don’t know for sure that he was killed. He might have died of natural causes.’

  The fakir shook his head. ‘No. The death I foresaw was not peaceful.’

  ‘He may have been poisoned,’ said Surrender-not, ‘or …’

  ‘Or?’ asked the fakir.

  Surrender-not turned to me as though seeking advice.

  ‘Don’t look at me,’ I said. ‘It’s your case. Tell him if you want to.’

  ‘His body shows signs of electrocution … but that would be impossible.’

  ‘Why impossible?’

  ‘Because for one thing,’ I said, ‘there’s no electricity within a hundred miles of Jatinga, and for another, the only door to his room was locked from the inside, and the window was shuttered.’

  The fakir ignored me and fixed his gaze on Surrender-not
.

  ‘I do not expect the sahib to understand, but you, baba, you should know better. Your name, after all, is Surendranath.’

  Surrender-not stared back, his brow knitted in consternation. ‘What does my name have to do with this?’

  ‘Sura – Indra – nath,’ said the fakir. ‘You are named after Lord Indra, king of the gods.’

  Surrender-not looked none the wiser.

  The fakir let out a laugh. ‘You have been living in the world of the sahibs too long, baba. Remember the story from the Rig Veda; remember how Indra slew the demon Vritra. Surely you must know the weapon of the god whom you are named for?’

  A sudden clarity seemed to hit Surrender-not like a slap in the face. He staggered backwards.

  ‘What is it?’ I asked.

  ‘The vajra?’ he said.

  ‘The what?’

  Surrender-not swallowed hard. ‘The god Indra,’ he said. ‘The vajra is the weapon he uses to strike down demons and evildoers …’

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘It is a thunderbolt, and it is unstoppable.’

  He turned back to the fakir. ‘You’re saying this man was struck down by the gods? But how is that possible?’

  ‘You do not believe it is possible? The gods work in their own ways. In this place birds fall from the sky to their deaths. If that is possible, why should not this man be slain by a thunderbolt from Lord Indra?’

  FIFTY-TWO

  ‘You don’t believe any of that rot?’ I asked as we puffed back up the hill.

  Surrender-not, however, seemed less than sure.

  ‘You said Caine was an evil man, that he killed his first wife by electrocution, and now he is found with the same marks in circumstances where it is impossible for those burns to have been created by the hand of man. Yet you discard the possibility of divine retribution?’

  ‘I admit there would be a poetic justice to it, but divine retribution?’

  I’d lived through enough horror in the trenches to know that retribution, if it came at all, was generally dictated by the hand of vengeful men rather than that of a just god.

  ‘Besides, what I believe is irrelevant,’ I said. ‘What matters is what we can prove. If you want to tell District Superintendent Turner that Caine’s death was caused by a thunderbolt from Lord Indra, then good luck to you.’