Death in the East

by Abir Mukherjee

  Surrender-not lapsed into a laboured silence, conserving his breath, and, I felt, to contemplate what he knew to be true: that even in India, where the deities could teach those on Mount Olympus a thing or two about capriciousness, there was no way a detective sergeant could ascribe a death to electrocution by a god.

  Back at the house, Surrender-not established his base of operations in the library. It was an elegantly appointed affair with book-lined shelves covering almost every inch of the walls, comfortable sofas situated around a fireplace, and through a set of French windows, the veranda and a view over the valley below.

  I helped him rearrange the furniture into a setting which we considered less convivial and more inquisitorial, placing two high-backed chairs opposite the low sofa next to the fireplace, which itself was somewhat of a novelty to both of us after years spent in the torpid heat of the Bengal plains.

  ‘We should light the fire.’

  Surrender-not fixed me with a stare. ‘Are you feeling the cold? You might be coming down with the flu or something.’

  ‘I’m fine,’ I said. ‘I want our guests to feel the heat. Let them sweat a bit. Heat helps to loosen men’s tongues.’

  Twenty minutes later, and with a fire blossoming in the grate, Constable Singh ushered the beatific figure of Mrs Emily Carter into the room. The bruises on her face had once more been expertly camouflaged with cosmetics, to the extent that one who hadn’t seen them would think they’d never existed. But her eyes were raw and red. The grief of a widow was a strange thing. She wasn’t the first woman I’d seen cry over the death of the man who’d beaten her. Surrender-not directed her to the sofa, then took his place on the chair beside mine. As he sat, Emily Carter shot me a look which suggested she found the notion of being questioned by an Indian rather curious.

  Surrender-not introduced himself, then for no reason other than nerves, also introduced me.

  ‘The captain and I are already acquainted,’ she said.

  Banerjee’s head bobbed vigorously.

  ‘As you may be cognisant, I have been entrusted by Superintendent Turner, the district chief of police, to examine the circumstances surrounding the unexpected passing of your lately deceased husband. You will therefore appreciate, no doubt, the requirement for myself and Captain Wyndham to ask of you several questions of an interrogatory nature, all of which will be most relevant and pertinent to the smooth and efficacious progress of this inquiry.’

  Emily Carter stared at him as though she suspected he’d recently swallowed a thesaurus.

  ‘Please, ask your questions.’

  From the pocket of his kurta, Surrender-not pulled a little notebook and pencil. ‘Please start by telling us, in your own words, the events around the discovery of your husband’s body this morning.’

  Emily Carter tugged distractedly at the cuff of her sleeve. ‘The first I knew anything was wrong was when I heard Captain Wyndham shouting at the front door. That must have been around six o’clock. I believe the maid let him in and took him up to Ronald’s room.’ She looked to me. ‘I heard the captain calling for my husband to open the door. That’s when I decided to see what was going on. I left my bedroom and came to find the captain kneeling and shouting through the keyhole. I asked him what he was doing, and he told me he was here to arrest Ronald.’

  ‘And what followed?’

  ‘The captain asked for the key to Ronald’s room. I told him I didn’t have one, and he proceeded to break down the door … or maybe he asked the Indian constable to do it … I’m afraid I don’t remember exactly who did what.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘The door was forced, and I remember Captain Wyndham rushing into the room. He said he thought Ronald might be trying to flee, but we found him in his bed …’ Her voice trailed off. ‘I think someone called for Dr Deakin – he’d stayed over last night. I think it was he who pronounced Ronald dead.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said the sergeant. ‘If I may, please could you tell me the happenings of the previous evening from the time you departed the Jatinga Club?’

  Mrs Carter eyed him curiously. ‘Is that relevant?’

  ‘Please indulge him,’ I said. ‘The sergeant can be quite persistent in his pursuit of information.’

  ‘It must have been sometime around eleven. The proceedings were winding up a little earlier than usual. That fortune teller had put rather a downer on things, and no one seemed much in the mood to stay on.’

  ‘Your husband included?’ asked Surrender-not.

  ‘Absolutely. He didn’t seem himself.’

  Surrender-not looked up from his notebook. ‘In what way?’

  ‘He seemed distracted. I suppose nobody likes to hear they’re going to die.’

  ‘And yet he still invited a group of guests to his home for drinks?’

  Mrs Carter nodded. ‘That was all arranged in advance, almost a little tradition. The Dewars live too far upcountry to make the journey home at that hour, and the doctor is an old friend. He lives about five miles away but often stays over after events at the club. Pastor Philips was a rather more recent addition. We only came to know him in the last year, and like the Dewars, he lives out towards Maibang, but Ronald invited him to the dinner and was insistent he stay the night.’

  Surrender-not scribbled the details. ‘So they were all good friends of your husband?’

  A faltering smile crept onto Mrs Carter’s lips, but she said nothing.

  ‘What about Charles Preston?’ I asked.

  Mrs Carter’s brow furrowed. ‘Now that was odd,’ she conceded. ‘Ronald never had much time for the likes of Preston. I honestly couldn’t tell you why he invited him last night. Maybe Mr Preston could enlighten you.’

  I already had rather a good notion of why Charlie Preston had been invited: namely to keep him away from his bungalow when Caine’s goondahs turned up to kill me.

  ‘So what happened once you returned to Highfield?’ asked the sergeant.

  ‘The usual,’ she replied. ‘We all sat around, in here as it happens, having a few drinks, most of the men outside by the French windows with their cigars, no doubt talking commerce, Celia Dewar and I on the sofa. Pastor Philips, I remember, was very keen to discuss preparations for Easter.’

  ‘And your husband?’ asked Banerjee. ‘How did he seem?’

  ‘Fine, I think. He was rather subdued at first. Maybe it was that fakir’s prophecy, or possibly some business matter playing on his mind. He left the room at one point, called out of the room by Thakur, our houseboy, to deal with something.’

  ‘At what time would that have been?’

  Emily Carter shrugged. ‘I can’t be sure. Probably before midnight.’

  ‘And do you know what it was regarding?’

  ‘As I say, I assumed it was a business matter, at least that’s what Ronald said when he returned.’

  ‘How long was he away for?’

  ‘Fifteen, maybe twenty minutes I should think.’

  ‘And no one else left the room?’

  ‘Not at that point.’ She hesitated. ‘Though now I think of it, I believe Deakin may have popped out for a few moments.’

  ‘The doctor?’ said Banerjee.

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘And how did your husband seem once he returned?’

  ‘I really can’t tell you,’ said Mrs Carter. ‘As I said, I was here on the sofa with Celia. Ronald was over there –’ she pointed to the French windows – ‘with the men. That was pretty much it till Mrs Dewar decided to retire for the night. After that, the party broke up and everyone drifted off to bed.’

  ‘And what time would that have been?’ asked Surrender-not.

  ‘One-ish, I think.’

  ‘Your husband included?’

  ‘I believe so. He had a drink while Ranjana and Thakur showed the guests to their rooms, then said he was heading up himself.’

  ‘And you?’ I asked.

  ‘Me?’ she said. ‘I waited for Thakur to come back down after seein
g to my husband, told him to tidy up and gave him instructions to pass to the cook for breakfast – she normally arrives at half past six – then went upstairs myself. Ranjana came up too, to help me out of my dress.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘Then I retired to bed, and the next thing I remember is waking to you and your constable banging on the front door.’

  ‘What about during the night? Did you hear anything untoward?’

  She closed her eyes in concentration. ‘Something did wake me. I assumed it was a thunderstorm. The weather up here is like that back home, it changes every ten minutes. I couldn’t tell you exactly when, but it was a few hours before you arrived.’

  Surrender-not ruminated for a moment. Then pivoted.

  ‘How was your relationship with your husband?’

  Emily Carter looked to me.

  ‘Tell him the truth,’ I said. ‘You’ve nothing to hide.’

  Emily Carter fidgeted with the ring around her finger.

  ‘My husband … was not a kind man. He was prone to fits of temper, which he often took out on others, sometimes violently.’

  Surrender-not listened intently. When he spoke, his voice was gentle.

  ‘Did he strike you?’

  ‘Occasionally.’

  ‘Were you ever in fear of your life?’

  Once more Emily Carter looked to me. Her eyes glistened.

  ‘I …’

  I gave her a nod of encouragement and received a look of bitterness in return.

  ‘I don’t wish to discuss this with a …’

  ‘A what?’ asked Surrender-not. ‘A policeman? Or do you mean an Indian? You find it distasteful?’

  Emily Carter checked herself.

  ‘Careful, Sergeant,’ I cautioned.

  Surrender-not repeated his question. ‘Were you ever in fear of your life, Mrs Carter?’

  This time she answered him.

  ‘There were times when I thought he might kill me. On one occasion … Ranjana was so concerned she tried to intervene. Ronald gave her a hiding for that.’

  Surrender-not swallowed back his distaste.

  ‘So on more than one occasion, you felt your husband might kill you? Did you never think to take steps to prevent him?’

  She stared at him incredulously, then turned in distress to me. ‘Sam. Please tell him to stop. I’ve just lost my husband.’

  I felt a sudden rush of blood. This was a woman in need. A woman who’d come to my aid when I was little more than a broken wreck. She was a victim here. She deserved respect and Surrender-not was treating her no better than he would a native washerwoman.

  ‘You’ll stop this line of questioning now, Sergeant.’

  Surrender-not looked over, a startled expression on his face, but he knew better than to protest. Instead he changed tack.

  ‘Did you ever mention your husband’s … violence to anyone else?’

  ‘Of course not, but certain people knew. Dr Deakin for one. He tended to me when Ronald once fractured my arm. I told him it was an accident, of course, but he saw the other bruises. I’m sure he knew the truth.’

  ‘Dr Deakin was physician to both you and your husband?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘And was your husband in good health?’

  ‘Generally speaking,’ she said, ‘for a man of his age. He suffered the occasional bout of arthritis, but nothing major.’

  ‘Was he taking any medication?’

  ‘Yes, but Dr Deakin would be better able to tell you exactly what.’

  ‘Specifically, was he taking any medication intravenously?’

  A shadow of doubt passed over Emily Carter’s face. ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘He means, was he injecting any medication, or other substances?’ I said.

  Mrs Carter scratched her earlobe, then stared as though struck by a revelation. ‘Dr Deakin had recently begun prescribing a dose of injections. Again you’d have to ask him exactly what they were. I think it was one every five days.’

  Surrender-not and I exchanged a glance.

  ‘And was it the doctor who administered these injections?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘When did he administer the last one?’

  She hesitated. ‘Three, maybe four days ago.’

  ‘So he didn’t inject your husband last night?’

  ‘I don’t think so. Why would he?’

  ‘That,’ said Surrender-not, ‘is a very good question.’

  ‘What the hell was that about?’ I asked as Constable Singh ushered Mrs Carter out of the room.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Your recreation of the Spanish Inquisition just now.’

  ‘She had a motive to kill her husband,’ said the sergeant calmly.

  ‘For Christ’s sake, so do I and half the people in this village, I’d wager. She’s a woman in shock. You can’t just accuse her of murder.’

  ‘I didn’t accuse her of anything. I merely asked her a few questions and she reacted badly because she felt it beneath her to be questioned in such a fashion by an Indian.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ I said, but I had no words to follow it up. Instead I rose and headed towards the French windows, hoping to draw a line under the conversation.

  I stared out at the vista beyond. Clouds had materialised as if from nowhere, shrouding the valley in their tendrils as the first drops of rain tapped against the windowpanes.

  I mulled over the exchange and came to the conclusion that I was right to admonish him. Admittedly, my feelings about Emily Carter were rather complex. She was the angelic figure who’d found me wandering that night at the ashram, shepherded me back and nursed me. She was also the person I’d become acquainted with yesterday morning, the beautiful, intelligent woman who could strip a truck engine or fix up a Bugatti. Reconciling that woman with the one bruised and abused by her husband was difficult, but whatever she was, I couldn’t see her as a killer. And even if I was wrong on that score, she could hardly have murdered him. She had no access to the room and no means with which to commit the deed.

  ‘I think Mrs Carter has been through a lot,’ I said.

  ‘Enough to make her contemplate killing her husband?’ said Surrender-not behind me.

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

  ‘You don’t think she’s capable?’

  ‘Of what? Persuading the gods to electrocute her husband?’

  ‘Maybe not.’

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘Persuading Dr Deakin to murder him instead.’

  The rain began to fall more heavily, like daggers upon the battered earth. I watched as Thakur, the houseboy, ran back towards the house from the barn, his shirt collar turned up against the squall.

  ‘Do you remember a thunderstorm last night?’ asked Surrender-not.

  ‘I can’t say I do,’ I said, ‘but then I spent the best part of the night driving to and from Haflong. It’s quite possible there was a thunderstorm here while I was gone. Does it matter?’

  ‘If there was a thunderstorm,’ he said, ‘there would have been lightning. And if there was lightning, there is a chance that …’

  ‘What? That the god Indra chucked a bolt through Carter’s shuttered window and knocked him off? Don’t start that again. If you want my opinion, I think you’d be better off preparing your questions about injections for the good doctor Deakin.’

  ‘Oh, don’t worry I will,’ he said, then called out to Constable Singh.

  ‘Tell the doctor I’ll see him now.’

  FIFTY-THREE

  I took a sip of sweet, tepid tea from a fine bone china cup.

  It was very much in keeping with our surroundings, but less so with the interrogation that was going on. On the sofa where Emily Carter had sat now rested Dr Timaeus Deakin, his face pink, his collar moist and his tea untouched on the table beside him.

  Leaning over the chair next to me, his hands on its back, stood Surrender-not, building up a nice little head of steam.

  ‘So you claim to have be
en a friend of Mr Carter’s for over fifteen years, is that correct?’

  ‘That’s right. Over fifteen years now,’ said the doctor, mopping at his brow with a handkerchief.

  ‘And yet, as his friend, you failed to mention to the officer who tasked you with examining his body anything about the puncture marks on his left arm.’

  ‘I’ve told you already,’ protested the doctor, ‘I didn’t mention it because it wasn’t relevant. Captain Wyndham asked me to look for anything suspicious. The puncture marks weren’t suspicious because I already knew what had caused them. As I’ve said, Carter suffered from rheumatoid arthritis, which in recent weeks had grown worse, causing him significant distress. I prescribed a course of morphine injections which helped relieve his pain, and I administered the injections myself.’

  As a detective, Surrender-not had long ago mastered the art of looking sceptical, even when confronted with what might realistically be regarded as the truth. In this case, his face suggested he didn’t believe a word of it.

  ‘And did you administer one of these injections last night?’

  Deakin shook his head. ‘No. I could hardly give the man a dose of morphine before the do at the club. He was the most important man there. All eyes would be on him.’

  ‘And when you came back here after dinner?’

  ‘In front of the likes of Pastor Philips and that fool Preston? Absolutely not. I administered one injection every five days. The next wasn’t due till tomorrow.’

  ‘Is your medical bag here, Doctor?’ I asked.

  The doctor looked up in surprise. ‘What?’

  ‘Did you bring it with you last night?’

  ‘I did. I knew I’d be staying up here last night and thought I’d take advantage and make a few house calls this morning while I was in Jatinga.’

  ‘And would you have a syringe in your bag?’

  ‘I’d assume so.’

  ‘And morphine?’

  The doctor shifted uncomfortably. ‘Absolutely not. I’d only carry medication I knew I needed today.’