The vehicles made their way briskly across the bridge, then past the gaggle of protesters and the stalled traffic on the bankside, before speeding off along Harrison Road. Surrender-not craned his neck, hoping to catch a glimpse of the prince, but it was pointless. At this distance, all that could be said was that Prince Edward could have been any one of several pale smudges in the rear of the Rolls that flew past.
‘Looks like it could be a while before they reopen the road,’ he said, settling down again. ‘We’re wasting time sitting here.’
‘Agreed.’ I nodded, then tapped the driver on the shoulder. ‘We’ll walk from here.’
Our destination was the domed structure of Government House. In the days when Calcutta had been the capital of the Raj, Government House had been the seat from which the viceroy administered this nation of several hundred million souls. Power might have shifted to Delhi, but the building itself was still among the grandest in the country, and, as such, was deemed a fitting residence for the visiting prince.
On Dawson’s orders, we were to liaise with the prince’s attachés and the military officers coordinating security during his stay.
We were met on the steps of the building by a tall India Office mandarin in spectacles, morning suit, cravat and pinstriped trousers, who introduced himself as Beaumont and who led us, in businesslike fashion, along marbled corridors.
‘The first time you speak to the prince, you are to address him as “Your Royal Highness”,’ he said, explaining protocol. ‘Thereafter you may call him “sir”.’
‘That all seems straightforward.’ I nodded.
We reached the East Wing, where he transferred us to the care of a familiar face – Dawson’s man, Allenby.
‘His Royal Highness will be at the briefing,’ said Allenby, leading us up a flight of stairs. ‘It’s senior officers only, so your sergeant is going to have to remain outside.’
I turned to Surrender-not. ‘Is that all right with you, Sergeant?’
‘I suppose so, sir.’
‘Good man,’ I said. ‘God forbid the prince should meet an actual Indian on his tour of the country.’
Allenby shot me an acid glance.
‘Does he know of the threat yet?’ I asked.
‘No,’ said Allenby, as we reached the top and began walking along a carpeted corridor. ‘And I’ll thank you not to mention it to him, either.’
‘Don’t you think he should be told?’
‘Told what, exactly? We’ve received no threats against him in particular. And Calcutta’s hardly Sarajevo.’
Geographically, at least, he was correct, but as for the threat, no one had considered Sarajevo particularly dangerous till the heir to the throne of one of the largest empires in Europe had been murdered there.
Depositing Surrender-not in an anteroom, we entered a large room dominated by a chandelier and a painting of the defeat of Tipu Sultan at the Battle of Mysore. French windows opened onto a balcony and offered what might generally be considered a pleasing aspect, but in a building like this, most aspects were likely to be pleasing.
In the centre of the room, seated on a chesterfield while those around him stood, was the prince. He sat with a drink in one hand and the other arm draped over the back of the sofa. He’d grown up in the five years since I’d last seen him. Now he was no longer a boy pretending to be an adult, but a man, relaxed in demeanour and with the looks and charm of a matinee idol.
Allenby bowed, then made the introductions. ‘Your Royal Highness, may I introduce Captain Wyndham of the Imperial Police Force? He will be acting as our liaison with the civilian authorities.’
The prince rose. ‘How do you do, Captain,’ he said, shaking my hand.
‘Your Royal Highness,’ I said. ‘We met once before, sir, back in France in ’17. You were visiting the troops.’
‘Really?’ he said. ‘You’ll forgive me if I don’t recall. I met a lot of men on those tours. I only hope the visits did some good.’
‘I’m sure they did,’ I lied.
The prince turned to one of his aides, an equerry in a naval officer’s uniform. ‘Archie here was just explaining for the umpteenth time the itinerary for today.’
The aide winced. ‘Sir, it’s imperative that things pass off smoothly,’ he said, as though explaining an unpleasant fact to a recalcitrant child.
‘I’m sure they’ll pass off perfectly,’ said the prince. ‘They loved me in Lucknow, didn’t they?’
‘With respect, sir,’ said the equerry, ‘Lucknow isn’t Calcutta.’
‘Come now, Archie. Ever since we started this tour, everyone’s been saying how awful things are in Calcutta, but it’s Christmas. How bad can it be? Besides, there’ll be plenty of troops to make sure things don’t get out of hand.’ He turned to one of the military officers, a stout chap with grey hair and clipped moustache. ‘Isn’t that so, General?’
‘We’ll keep things tight, sir,’ the officer replied. ‘We shall leave Government House at a quarter past noon precisely and follow an indirect route to the town hall, forgoing the open-top carriage for a closed limousine, and arriving at Esplanade Row approximately fifteen minutes later.’
‘The town hall fronts directly onto the road, and is flanked by taller buildings on both sides,’ I said. ‘His Royal Highness would have to walk from the car, and up the steps. While I’m sure security precautions have been taken, he would still be exposed for a few minutes. It might be preferable for the convoy to stop at the rear of the building. It would be easier to protect.’
A hush descended over the gathering. Archie, the prince’s equerry, gave an embarrassed cough. The silence was broken by the prince himself.
‘I’m the bloody Prince of Wales, for goodness’ sake,’ he said. ‘I’m certainly not going to skulk in through the back door, Captain, no matter what the risk.’
It might not have been the safest option, but I certainly couldn’t fault his bravery. Indeed, in his position, I’d have probably felt the same.
‘Very good, sir,’ I said.
Beside me, Allenby piped up.
‘The captain makes a useful point, however. There is a march planned by some Congress hotheads at the same time as your speech at the town hall. The roads may become choked. Should they do so, we shall have a car waiting at the back of the hall to bring you back here at the end of the function.’
It looked as though the prince was about to raise another objection, but then seemed to think better of it.
‘Your Royal Highness will be greeted on the steps of the town hall, by a flower-bearer,’ said Archie, ‘and then by the mayor and assorted local dignitaries. The mayor will lead you inside. Your speech is scheduled to commence at 1 p.m. and should last approximately thirty minutes, followed by photographs for the press. The whole thing should be over by 2 p.m., so that we return here by half past two, in time for the reception on the lawns at 3 p.m.’
‘When does that finish?’ asked the prince.
‘At 5 p.m., sir,’ said Archie, ‘followed at 8 p.m. by the dinner in your honour hosted by the Bengal Chamber of Commerce.’
‘Another dinner?’ said the prince. ‘Can’t we cancel it? Say I’m ill or something?’
‘Commerce is the city’s lifeblood, sir,’ said the equerry. ‘Some of the most influential men in the country will be there.’
‘But it’s Christmas Day, for goodness’ sake,’ the prince remonstrated. ‘Can’t I even have that one evening to myself?’
‘It’s the last official event of the tour, sir,’ said Archie. ‘Tomorrow you have the Boxing Day races, and the following day we set sail for home.’
Talk of the turf club seemed to mollify the prince.
‘What’s the going like out here? I don’t suppose it’s any good?’
‘I think you’ll be pleasantly surprised, sir,’ piped up another of the generals. ‘Some of the maharajahs have very fine stables.’
The meeting broke up with the arrival of a turbaned manservant in red-and-go
ld livery, who announced that the prince’s breakfast was waiting. The officers began to file out, and I was about to join them when the prince called out to me.
‘One moment, Captain.’ I turned. ‘Yes, sir?’
‘Where was it in France that we met?’
‘Ypres, sir,’ I said, making sure to pronounce the name properly. During the war, all us Tommies had pronounced it ‘Wipers’, like the contraptions on a car’s windscreen.
‘We took some terrible losses at Ypres,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘I assume you lost some friends.’
‘I did, sir,’ I said, though I could have added that by then I had very few friends left to lose.
I rejoined Surrender-not in the anteroom.
‘Come on,’ I said. ‘We need to head north.’
‘Where to?’ he asked.
‘Barrackpore.’
We made our way back down the stairs and along the corridor.
‘So what was the prince like?’ asked Surrender-not as we emerged out into daylight.
‘Not as bad as I expected,’ I said.
‘That’s high praise, coming from you, sir. Just as well. I suppose he’ll be king-emperor one day.’
‘That depends.’
‘On what?’
‘On whether he makes it through the day.’
THIRTY-TWO
Colonel McGuire’s bungalow sat on the edge of Barrackpore, an innocuous whitewashed house no different to those on either side of it, with green shutters framing the windows and potted begonias on the veranda. To the rear, a garden sloped gently down to the riverbank, and to the front, a path bisected pristine lawns. It was, in some ways, the epitome of the dream of British India: neat, ordered and, servants aside, devoid of natives.
McGuire was seated on a sofa in a drawing room that appeared to have been furnished from the flora of a Burmese jungle, with heavy furniture and floorboards made of dark, varnished teak. Next to him sat a woman in a Harris-tweed skirt and sensible shoes. Middle-aged, with straight, greying hair and the bronzed skin that told of an English life lived too long in the sun, she seemed in some distress, intermittently dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief. Beside them sat a Section H man, one of their thicker-set officers to be sure, the type usually more useful with his fists than his wits, and whether he was there for McGuire’s protection or to stop him making a beeline for the exit and the first steamer back to Britain, was debatable. From the look on the colonel’s pallid face and the dark patches under the armpits of his shirt, you might have got decent odds on the latter.
Across from them sat Dawson, who in contrast seemed a study in composure, that is until we walked in, at which point he began to look as though afflicted by the onset of severe indigestion. It was the welcome he normally reserved for me but it was still a surprise, because I thought he might actually want us here.
He appeared to be in two minds about whether to deal with us or finish his conversation with McGuire first. In the end, he decided bolstering McGuire’s collapsing confidence was the more pressing concern.
‘You’ll be under constant surveillance,’ said Dawson. ‘Our men will be stationed among the crowds. At no time will one be more than a few feet away from you. The risk to you will be negligible.’ He neglected to mention the gas, but then, why would he? McGuire would not know of its theft and there was no need to worry him further.
Dawson’s tone implied that the matter was not up for debate. Of course, McGuire, though a doctor, was also a military officer, so I supposed debate had never been an issue. Whatever he might have thought of the plan, McGuire was a soldier honour-bound to obey orders.
He swallowed and reached for his wife’s hand.
‘If you’ll excuse me for a moment,’ said Dawson. Leaving the McGuires with their minder, he ushered Surrender-not and me into the hallway.
‘You’re no longer needed here, Wyndham,’ he said, herding us towards the front door.
I stopped and turned towards him.
‘So you’ve caught him, have you?’ I said. ‘Because the look on McGuire’s face would suggest otherwise.’
Dawson reached into his pocket, extracted a sheet of paper and unfolded it. ‘No, we haven’t caught him, yet, but after you furnished us with his name and regiment, we brought in some of his senior officers and had this sketch prepared. It’s been distributed to all our people and to the guards at the entrances to the base.’
I looked at the drawing, sniffed, then handed it to Surrender-not. In truth, it wasn’t a bad likeness, but I wasn’t about to tell Dawson that.
‘What do you think, Sergeant?’ I asked.
Surrender-not made a show of examining the picture. ‘This could be anyone,’ he said. ‘Any Gurkha, at least.’
‘Exactly,’ I said, taking the sheet from him and tossing it back to Dawson. ‘Good luck finding him with that. I’m guessing you got some English sketch artist to knock it up – someone who probably couldn’t tell the difference between a Nepalese and a Chinaman. With respect, Major, this cantonment is the size of a small town. If Gurung decides to show up here, you’ll need more than a few Section H officers and sentries armed with a hashed scribble of a portrait to stop him. You need men who’ve seen him recently, and close up, and unless I’m mistaken, Sergeant Banerjee and I are the only such witnesses you’ve got.’
A pained expression came over Dawson’s face not dissimilar from the one he’d worn just after I’d vomited in his office a few nights earlier.
‘Don’t try to be clever, Wyndham,’ he said. ‘It doesn’t suit you. You might be able to identify Gurung, but he’s seen you too. If he catches sight of you or your sergeant here before you spot him, he’ll make a run for it and we’ll have lost him. This is our last chance to stop him before … who knows what happens. I don’t want you ruining it.’
Then it dawned on me.
‘All those fine words you just spouted to McGuire and his wife about there being no real danger – it’s hogwash, isn’t it? You know the only way you’re going to stop Gurung is if you catch him in the physical act of attacking McGuire. You don’t really care if the colonel lives or dies, just so long as you catch Gurung.’
Dawson’s face darkened. ‘McGuire’s a serving officer. He knows what that entails, and yes, I’d gladly sacrifice him if it means we stop Gurung from using the mustard gas he’s stolen.’
‘And what if he uses the gas here?’ I asked. ‘In Barrackpore?’
‘If we can’t stop him using it, then I’d much rather he used it here than on the crowds in central Calcutta. This is a military cantonment. Most of the people at the fair will be soldiers or their families, there are gas masks aplenty and, most importantly, the fair is on open ground. The chances are, most would escape without serious injury. But I fear Gurung is smart enough to know that too. The casualties accruing from him unleashing the gas on five hundred people in an open space pale in comparison to releasing it in streets jammed with fifty times that number.’
It seemed heartless, even by Dawson’s standards.
‘You’re willing to sacrifice all these people?’ I asked.
‘For the greater good?’ he replied. ‘Wouldn’t you?’
Suddenly Surrender-not piped up. ‘If I may, Major Dawson. I expect you will be commanding operations from somewhere.’
Dawson fixed him with a stare. ‘What’s that got to do with anything?’
‘I-I assume,’ stammered Surrender-not, ‘that it is probably somewhere which affords a view of the fair?’
‘It’s on the top floor of the admin block overlooking the sports fields.’
‘Maybe, the captain and I could join you there?’
The major took his time considering it. I suspected he wasn’t used to Indians utilising independent thought, at least not Indians on our side.
‘Give us a couple of pairs of binoculars and let us sit on the roof,’ I said. ‘We’ll be out of sight and still have a good chance of spotting him before he gets close to McGuire.’
�
�Very well,’ he said finally. ‘You’d better come with me.’
An airy tune emanated from a mechanical Verbeeck fairground organ and floated up to our perch on the roof of the cantonment’s administration block, its artificial cheerfulness feeling as out of place as the contraption itself, which would have been more at home on the promenade in Brighton than in the middle of Bengal.
Indeed, it brought back memories of a few stolen days spent with Sarah on furlough in Eastbourne. It must have been July ’16 or maybe August. In those few days, life had seemed more real, more urgent than it had ever done before, or since. The days were etched in my mind, painted with an intensity that still burned bright.
We’d been married the year before, and a fortnight later, I’d gone to war. Those days in Eastbourne were as close to the joys of newly wedded bliss that we ever got to share, the joys that, until the war, most husbands and wives probably took for granted. We looked forward to the day when the fighting would end and we could be husband and wife, but it never turned out that way, and the anger I felt at her loss had never subsided. The memories were bitter-sweet now and I forced them from my mind as I peered through a pair of field glasses down at the fairground attractions that had been set up on the sports fields below.
I’d said it half in jest, but Dawson had taken the suggestion seriously, and rather than have us in his command post on the second floor, he’d placed Surrender-not and me on the roof of the admin building with one set of binoculars between us. That last act of pettiness was a statement – on a base this size, it shouldn’t have been beyond the wit of man to find another pair – but I guessed it was his way of showing who was in charge. I didn’t argue. After the previous night’s run-in with Rifleman Gurung, the whole affair had become personal, for both me and Surrender-not, and it was enough of a victory that we were sitting on this roof, still actively involved in the case.
As the morning warmed up, the crowds below began to grow. Servicemen – British, Indian and a fair few Nepalese – together with wives and children, ambled between the stalls and the rides. I focused in on McGuire. He and his wife had stopped to take in the routine of a monkey dressed in a red waistcoat, dancing in time to a tune played on a shenai by his owner, an emaciated-looking native with mahogany skin and a pencil moustache and who wore a waistcoat matching his monkey’s. Around the animal’s neck was tied a wire rope, the other end of which was held by the thin man and which glinted in the sunlight. McGuire looked nervous, his eyes searching the faces of the crowd around him.
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