A Rising Man

by Abir Mukherjee

  CONTENTS

  Cover

  About the Book

  About the Author

  Maps

  Dedication

  Title Page

  Epigraph

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  Copyright

  ABOUT THE BOOK

  The winner of the Harvill Secker/Daily Telegraph crime writing competition.

  Captain Sam Wyndham, former Scotland Yard detective, is a new arrival to Calcutta. Desperately seeking a fresh start after his experiences during the Great War, Wyndham has been recruited to head up a new post in the police force. But with barely a moment to acclimatise to his new life or to deal with the ghosts which still haunt him, Wyndham is caught up in a murder investigation that will take him into the dark underbelly of the British Raj.

  A senior official has been murdered, and a note left in his mouth warns the British to quit India: or else. With rising political dissent and the stability of the Raj under threat, Wyndham and his team – arrogant Inspector Digby and British-educated, but Indian-born Sergeant Surrender-not Banerjee – embark on an investigation that will take them from the luxurious parlours of wealthy British traders to the seedy opium dens of the city.

  A Rising Man marks the start of an atmospheric and enticing new historical crime series.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Abir Mukherjee was born in London, but spent most of his childhood in Glasgow. A graduate of the LSE, he currently works in finance in the City. In 2014 he won the Harvill Secker/Daily Telegraph crime writing competition with the first 5,000 words of A Rising Man.

  In loving memory of my father,

  Satyendra Mohan Mukherjee

  A

  RISING

  MAN

  Abir Mukherjee

  Calcutta seems full of ‘rising men’.

  RUDYARD KIPLING,

  ‘CITY OF DREADFUL NIGHT’

  ONE

  Wednesday, 9 April 1919

  AT LEAST HE was well dressed. Black tie, tux, the works. If you’re going to get yourself killed, you may as well look your best.

  I coughed as the stench clawed at my throat. In a few hours the smell would be unbearable; strong enough to turn the stomach of a Calcutta fishmonger. I pulled out a packet of Capstans, tapped out a cigarette, lit it and inhaled, letting the sweet smoke purge my lungs. Death smells worse in the tropics. Most things do.

  He’d been discovered by a skinny little peon out on his rounds. Almost scared the life out of the poor bugger. An hour later and he was still shaking. He’d found him lying in a dark dead-end alley, what the natives call a gullee: hemmed in on three sides by ramshackle buildings with the sky only visible if you craned your neck and looked straight up. The boy must have had good eyes to spot him in the gloom. Then again, he’d probably just followed his nose.

  The body lay twisted, face up and half submerged in an open sewer. Throat cut, limbs at unnatural angles, and a large brown bloodstain on a starched white dress shirt. Some fingers were missing from one mangled hand and an eye had been pecked out of its socket – this final indignity the work of the hulking black crows who even now kept angry vigil from the rooftops above. All in all, not a very dignified end for a burra sahib.

  Still, I’d seen worse.

  Finally there was the note. A bloodstained scrap of paper, balled up and forced into his mouth like a cork in a bottle. That was an interesting touch, and a new one to me. When you think you’ve seen it all, it’s nice to find that a killer can still surprise you.

  A crowd of natives had gathered. A motley collection of gawkers, hawkers and housewives. They jostled and pushed ever closer, eager to catch a glimpse of the corpse. Word had spread quickly. It always does. Murder is good entertainment the world over, and here in Black Town you could sell tickets to see a dead sahib. I looked on as Digby barked at some native constables to set up a cordon. They in turn shouted at the crowd and foreign voices jeered and hurled insults back. The constables cursed, raised their bamboo lathis and struck out left and right, gradually forcing back the rabble.

  The shirt clung to my back. Not yet nine o’clock but the heat was already oppressive, even in the shade of the alley. I knelt beside the body and patted it down. The inside breast pocket of the dinner jacket bulged and I reached in and pulled out the contents: a black leather wallet, some keys and loose change. I placed the keys and coins in an evidence bag and turned my attention to the wallet. It was old and soft and worn and had probably cost a fair amount when new. Inside, creased and dog eared from years of handling, a photograph of a woman. She looked young, in her twenties probably, wearing clothes whose style suggested the picture had been taken a while back. I turned it over. The words Ferries & Sons, Sauchiehall St., Glasgow were stamped on the reverse. I slipped it into my pocket. Otherwise the wallet was pretty much empty. No cash, no business cards, just a few receipts. Nothing to point to the man’s identity. Closing it, I put it with the other items in the bag and then moved on to the ball of paper in the victim’s mouth. I pulled at it gently, so as not to disturb the body any more than necessary. It came out easily. Good quality paper. Heavy, like the sort you find in an up-market hotel. I flattened it out. Three lines were scrawled on one side. Black ink. Eastern script.

  I called to Digby. He was a lean, blond son of the empire; all military moustache and the air of one born to rule. He was also my subordinate, not that you could always tell. A ten-year veteran of the Imperial Police Force and, by his own reckoning at least, well versed in dealing with the natives. He came over, wiping the sweat from his palms on his tunic.

  ‘Unusual for a sahib to be found murdered in this part of town,’ he said.

  ‘I’d have thought it unusual for a sahib to be found murdered anywhere in Calcutta.’

  He shrugged. ‘You’d be surprised, old boy.’

  I handed him the scrap of paper. ‘What do you make of this?’

  He made a show of examining both sides before answering. ‘Looks like Bengali to me… sir.’

  He spat out the final word. It was understandable. Being passed over for promotion is never easy. Having that promotion taken by an outsider, fresh off the boat from London, probably made it worse. But that was his problem. Not mine.

  ‘Can you read it?’ I asked.

  ‘Of course I can read it. It says: “No more warnings. English blood will run in the streets. Quit India!” ’

  He handed back the note. ‘Looks like the work of terrorists,’ he said. ‘But this is bold, even for them.’

  He was probably right, for all I knew, but I wanted facts before jumping to conclusions. And more importantly I didn’t like his tone.

  ‘I want a full search of the area,’ I said. ‘And I want to know who this is.’

  ‘Oh, I know who this is,’ he replied. ‘His name’s MacAuley. Ale
xander MacAuley. He’s a big noise over at Writers’.’

  ‘Where?’

  Digby looked like he’d just swallowed something unpleasant. ‘Writers’ Building, sir, is the administrative seat of government for Bengal and a good part of the rest of India. MacAuley is, or rather was, one of the top men there. An aide to the Lieutenant Governor, no less. Makes it look even more like a political killing, doesn’t it, old boy?’

  ‘Just get on with the search,’ I sighed.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ he replied, saluting. He surveyed the scene, and sought out a young native sergeant. The Indian was staring intently up at a window overlooking the alley. ‘Sergeant Banerjee!’ Digby shouted. ‘Over here please.’

  The Indian turned and snapped to attention, then hurried over and saluted.

  ‘Captain Wyndham,’ said Digby, ‘may I present Sergeant Surrender-not Banerjee. He is, apparently, one of the finest new additions to His Majesty’s Imperial Police Force and the first Indian to post in the top three in the entrance examinations.’

  ‘Impressive,’ I said, partly because it was, and partly because Digby’s tone suggested he thought otherwise. The sergeant just looked embarrassed.

  ‘He and his ilk,’ continued Digby, ‘are the fruits of this government’s policy of increasing the number of natives in every branch of the administration, God help us.’

  I turned to Banerjee. He was a thin, fine-featured little chap, with the sort of face that would look adolescent even in his forties. Not at all the mug you’d expect on a copper. He looked at once both earnest and full of nerves, and his slick, black hair parted neatly on one side and round, steel-framed spectacles gave him a bookish air, more poet than policeman.

  ‘Sergeant,’ I said, ‘I want a fingertip search implemented.’

  ‘Of course, sir,’ he replied in an accent straight off a Surrey golf course. He sounded more English than I did. ‘Will there be anything else, sir?’

  ‘Just one thing,’ I said. ‘What were you staring at up there?’

  ‘I saw a woman, sir.’ He blinked. ‘She was watching us.’

  ‘Banerjee,’ said Digby, stabbing a thumb in the direction of the crowd, ‘there are a hundred bloody people watching us.’

  ‘Yes, sir, but this lady was scared. She froze when she saw me, then disappeared inside.’

  ‘Okay,’ I said. ‘Once you’ve got the search underway, you and I will go over there and see if we can’t have a chat with your lady friend.’

  ‘I’m not sure that would be such a good idea, old boy,’ said Digby. ‘There are some things you should know about the natives and their customs. They can be very funny about us questioning their lady-folk. You go barging over there to interrogate some woman and before you know it you’ll have a riot on your hands. It might be better if I handled it.’

  Banerjee squirmed.

  Digby’s face darkened. ‘Is there something you wish to say, Sergeant?’

  ‘No, sir,’ said Banerjee apologetically. ‘It’s just that I don’t think anyone will start a riot if we go in there.’

  Digby’s voice quivered. ‘And what makes you so certain of that?’

  ‘Well, sir,’ said Banerjee, ‘I’m fairly sure that house is a brothel.’

  An hour later, Banerjee and I stood outside the entrance to number 47 Maniktollah Lane. It was a dilapidated two-storey building. If there was one thing Black Town wasn’t short of it was dilapidated buildings. The whole place seemed to consist of these decaying, overcrowded dwellings, which crawled with humanity. Digby had made some remark about native squalor but the truth was they possessed a vibrant, wretched beauty not dissimilar to Whitechapel or Stepney.

  The house had, at one time, been painted a cheerful bright blue, but the paint had long ago lost the battle against unrelenting sun and monsoon rain. Now only a few pale traces lingered, streaks of watery blue on mould-covered grey-green plaster a fading testimony to more prosperous times. In places the plaster had fallen away, exposing crumbling orange brickwork and weeds sprouted from cracks. Above, the remains of a balcony jutted out like broken teeth, its iron railings strangled by foliage.

  The front door was little more than a few gnarled, ill-fitting planks. Here too the paint had faded, revealing dark, worm-eaten wood beneath.

  Banerjee raised his lathi and rapped loudly.

  No sound came from inside.

  He looked at me.

  I nodded.

  He rapped on the door again. ‘Police! Open up!’

  Finally a muffled voice came from inside.

  ‘Aschee, aschee! Wait!’

  Sounds. Feet shuffling towards us; then someone fiddling with a padlock. The thin wooden door rattled and finally opened a crack. A shrivelled old native with a shock of untidy silver hair stood stooped like a question mark in front of us. Tanned skin, parchment thin, hung off his stick-like frame, so that he looked like some fragile caged bird. The old man looked up at Banerjee and smiled a toothless grin.

  ‘Ha, Baba, what do you want?’

  Banerjee looked to me. ‘Sir, it may be easier if I explain to him in Bengali.’

  I nodded.

  Banerjee spoke but the old man appeared not to hear. The sergeant repeated himself, this time louder. The old man’s thin brows knit tightly together in confusion. Gradually his expression changed and the smile returned. He disappeared and moments later the door opened fully. ‘Ashoon! ’ he said to Banerjee and then, turning to me, ‘Come, sahib. Come. Come!’

  He led the way, shuffling down a long, darkened hallway, the air cool and heavy with the scent of incense. We followed, our boots echoing on polished marble. The interior was tasteful, almost opulent, and a stark contrast to the building’s shabby exterior. Like walking through a Mile End doorway and finding yourself in a Mayfair townhouse.

  The old man stopped at the end of the corridor and ushered us into a large, well-appointed drawing room. Elegant rococo sofas were interspersed with oriental silk reclining cushions. On the far wall, above a chaise longue upholstered in red velvet, a bejewelled Indian prince on a white charger stared out stoically from a framed painting. A large green punkah, the size of a dining table, hung stiffly from the ceiling and light streamed in from a courtyard outside.

  The old man gestured for us to wait, then quietly disappeared.

  A clock ticked in another room. I was glad for the respite. It had been over a week, but it still felt like I was acclimatising. It wasn’t just the heat. There was something more. Something amorphous and indefinable. A nervousness that manifested itself as an ache at the back of my head and a queasiness in the pit of my stomach. Calcutta itself seemed to be taking its toll on me.

  A few minutes later, the door opened and a middle-aged Indian woman entered, the old man following behind her like a faithful pet. Banerjee and I stood up. The woman was handsome for her age. Twenty years ago she’d have been considered a beauty. A full figure, coffee-coloured skin and brown eyes tinged with kohl. Her hair was parted in the middle and tied tightly in a bun. On her forehead a smudge of vermillion. She wore a bright green silk sari, its border embroidered with golden birds. Beneath it a blouse of green silk above a bare midriff. Her arms were adorned with several golden bangles and from her neck hung an ornate gold necklace, studded with small green stones.

  ‘Namaskar, gentlemen,’ she said, pressing her hands together in greeting. Her bangles clinked softly. ‘Please sit.’

  I shot Banerjee an enquiring look. Was this the woman he’d seen at the window? He shook his head.

  She introduced herself as Mrs Bose, the owner of the house.

  ‘My manservant tells me you have some questions?’

  She walked over and reclined elegantly on the chaise longue. As if on cue, the punkah on the ceiling started swaying, delivering a welcome staccato breeze. Mrs Bose pressed a small brass button on the wall next to her. A maid appeared silently at the door.

  ‘You will have some tea, yes?’ Mrs Bose enquired. Without waiting for a reply, she turned to the
maid and ordered.

  ‘Meena, cha.’

  The maid left as silently as she’d arrived.

  ‘Now,’ continued Mrs Bose, ‘how can I help you, gentlemen?’

  ‘My name is Captain Wyndham,’ I said, ‘and this is Sergeant Banerjee. I take it you’re aware that there has been an incident in the alley next door?’

  She smiled politely. ‘From the noise your constables are making, I should think the whole para is aware that there has been “an incident”, as you call it. Perhaps you could enlighten me as to what’s actually happened?’

  ‘A man has been murdered.’

  ‘Murdered?’ she said, deadpan. ‘How very shocking.’

  I’d seen English women need a dose of smelling salts at the mere mention of murder, but Mrs Bose seemed made of stronger stuff.

  ‘Forgive me, gentlemen,’ she went on, ‘but people are killed in this part of the city every day. I don’t remember ever seeing half the Calcutta police force turn up and close down a street before, let alone an English officer take an interest. Normally, the unfortunate wretch is simply carted off to the morgue and that’s the end of it. Why all the fuss this time?’

  The fuss was because it was an Englishman who’d been murdered. But I got the sense she already knew that.

  ‘I need to ask you, madam, did you see or hear anything untoward in the alley last night?’

  She shook her head. ‘I hear untoward noises coming from that alley every night. Drunkards fighting, dogs howling, but if you’re asking if I heard a man being murdered, then the answer is no.’

  Her answer was emphatic, which struck me as odd. In my experience, middle-class, middle-aged women were generally all too keen to help in a murder investigation. It added excitement to their lives. Some were so zealous in their wish to be of assistance that they’d happily recount gossip and hearsay as if it were the Gospel of St John. Her behaviour didn’t seem normal for a woman who’d just been informed of a murder ten feet from her home. I suspected she was hiding something. But that didn’t necessarily mean it was related to the murder. The authorities had banned so many things recently that it was perfectly possible she was covering up something completely different.