A Rising Man

by Abir Mukherjee

  From an anteroom appeared a young, moon-faced oriental woman. Her lips and nails were painted blood red and she wore a dress as black and silken as the hair that flowed over her slender shoulders and onto her back. A slit ran up one side of the dress all the way to her thigh and made me think I might have been hasty in judging the place.

  ‘Please come with me, sahib,’ she said. It jarred hearing an Oriental use the Indian term. Like a Frenchman singing ‘God Save the King’. Nevertheless, I followed her to a charpoy, near the back of the dingy room.

  ‘Please make yourself comfortable,’ she said, gesturing to the rickety wooden cot. Comfortable would be an achievement, but I lay down on the low bed. She disappeared, returning moments later carrying a wooden tray on which stood a simple bamboo opium pipe, long stemmed and with a metal saddle which connected to a small ceramic pipe bowl. Beside it sat a spirit lamp, a long needle and finally a little black ball of opium resin, not much larger than a pea. She set the tray on the floor and, taking a candle that lay close by, proceeded to light the spirit lamp. Then, picking up the ball of opium, she deftly placed it on the end of the needle.

  ‘Bengal opium,’ she said. ‘Much better than Chinese opium. Gives more pleasure for sahib.’

  She took the needle and held it over the flame. The O swelled and turned from black to molten red. Working with the finesse of a glass blower, she teased it, first stretching it, then rolling it back into a ball. This went on, until finally, happy that the O was cooked, she once more rolled it up and quickly inserted it into the pipe bowl, before passing me the pipe with all the deference of a samurai handing over a sword. I took it and held the bowl close to the spirit lamp, close enough for a tongue of flame to lick the ball of O. I took a pull of the pipe, a long steady pull, and inhaled deeply the smooth, syrup scented smoke. I breathed it in until there was nothing left.

  And then at last I slept.

  I awoke some hours later. I checked my watch, but as usual it had stopped and read a quarter to two. It always stopped around that time, and as a rule was generally unreliable any time after nine p.m. It had been my father’s. He’d given it to me on my eighteenth birthday and it was about the only family heirloom I had. I’d worn it constantly since then, including the years in France. It had been problematic for some time now, ever since the Germans had tried to take my head off with a high-explosive shell at the Somme in ’16. I was thrown clear by the force of the blast and, by some miracle, survived unscathed. The watch, however, had been less fortunate. Its face was cracked and the casing dented. I’d had it patched up on my next leave, but, like many an old soldier, it had never been quite the same since. There was some problem with the mechanism, which meant that it would slow down and fail to keep proper time about twelve hours after winding. After the war I’d taken it to some of the finest horologists in Hatton Garden. They’d tinker with it and eventually proclaim success, but after a week it would always revert to type – regular as clockwork.

  I sat up on the charpoy, my shirt drenched with perspiration. The candles had burned out and were now nothing more than pools of melted wax, fossilised on the floor. By the light of the hurricane lamp, one or two other patrons were visible, lying on their sides, passed out on their cots. There was no sign of the girl. Slowly, I rose to my feet and staggered out, back up the stairs and out onto the street.

  An industrial fog had settled and the night air smelled foul and reminded me of London. It was only now that I pondered how to get back to the guest house. The chances of finding transport at this hour were slim. Walking was the only real option. Or at least it would have been, if I’d had any idea of where I actually was. I cursed myself for not having had the presence of mind to tell the rickshaw wallah to wait. Suddenly it occurred to me that MacAuley had met his end in a similarly unsavoury neighbourhood almost exactly twenty-four hours earlier. It would be ironic for the man charged with investigating his murder to himself be murdered in similar circumstances so soon after. Ironic and not particularly pleasant.

  I set off in the direction I hoped was north, groping my way towards a solitary light that in the mist was little more than an orange blur. From somewhere behind me there came a sound. I spun round and reached for my revolver, realising as I did so, that it was still slung over the back of the chair in my room. I cursed myself once again.

  ‘Who’s there?’ I called out, hoping to mask the fear in my voice.

  There was silence. A fat sewer rat scurried out of the gloom and into an open drain. I gave a sigh of relief. The city was making me jumpy.

  As I turned back, I felt something. Nothing tangible, just a change in the air and a shifting of shadows. I peered into the black, and, for an instant, thought I heard the faintest of whispers. A shiver ran down my spine. I told myself it was nothing, that I was being paranoid. People often thought they heard things after smoking O. In hindsight, I wished I’d just stayed at the Belvedere instead of venturing out into the middle of nowhere. But hindsight’s a commodity that’s generally in short supply when you’re craving a hit.

  Then came another noise. A metallic scraping, louder and closer. Without thinking I backed away and began to hurry in the opposite direction. I turned a corner and collided with a man, knocking him off his feet.

  ‘Sahib?’

  It was the young rickshaw wallah who’d brought me here.

  ‘Sahib,’ he said, struggling for breath, ‘I did not see you exit the premises.’ He smiled as I helped him to his feet, then pointed to his rickshaw, which lay close by.

  ‘Guest house?’

  I considered going back to investigate the noises, but decided against it. After all, discretion is the better part of valour. Doubly so when your gun is sitting in a room half a mile away.

  Fifteen minutes later we were back in Marcus Square. I got down outside the Belvedere, pulled a one-rupee note from my pocket and handed it to him. He brought out a battered leather purse and began to rummage for change. I stopped him and he looked perplexed.

  ‘Fare is only two annas, sahib.’

  ‘The rest is for waiting time,’ I said.

  He smiled, and pressed his palms together. ‘Thank you, sahib.’

  ‘What’s your name?’ I asked.

  ‘Salman.’

  ‘You’re a Mohammedan?’

  ‘Yes, sahib.’

  ‘Have you lived here all your life?’

  ‘No sahib, I originally am coming from Noakhali, in East Bengal. But many years now I am living in Calcutta.’

  ‘So you know the city well?’

  ‘Most certainly, sir,’ he said, shaking his head in the Indian fashion.

  ‘I need a good rickshaw wallah,’ I said. ‘One I can call on at short notice. Do you fancy the job?’

  ‘I am always here only,’ he said, pointing to the rickshaw stand at the corner of the square.

  ‘Good,’ I said, rummaging in my pocket, this time for a five-rupee note. I handed it to him. ‘Consider this a retainer.’

  I let myself back into the guest house and crept silently up to my room. Undressing in the dark, I sat on the bed and rested my back against the headboard. On the floor next to me sat the bottle of whisky and a tooth glass. I picked them up and poured out a measure. Just a nightcap, no more. Swirling the whisky gently round the glass, I let the antiseptic scent envelop me. Feeling calmer than I had in days, I sipped slowly and reflected on events. Only my second week in Calcutta and I already had my first murder. A high-profile one too.

  I wondered why Lord Taggart had given me the case. Surely there were a few seasoned inspectors in Calcutta to whom he could have turned? Was he testing me? The proverbial baptism of fire? I pondered the alternatives but made precious little progress in figuring out his motives. Instead, I finished the whisky, lay down and tried to think of other things. I succeeded too, finally falling asleep to the memory of Sarah on the Mile End omnibus.

  SIX

  Thursday, 10 April 1919

  SOMETIMES IT’S BETTER not to wake
up at all.

  But that’s impossible in Calcutta. The sun is up at five, heralding a cacophony of dogs, crows and cockerels, and just as the animals get tired, the muezzins kick off, their call to prayer emanating from every minaret in the city. With all the noise, the only Europeans not awake by five thirty are the ones entombed in the Park Street cemetery.

  Once more I awoke to the smell of fish. I’d slept fitfully, bothered by the high-pitched whine of a mosquito. Mrs Tebbit had assured me that none had ever crossed the threshold of the Belvedere, but I guess this one hadn’t received the memorandum. I rose, showered and shaved, before dressing and heading down to breakfast. The dining room was empty, save for the maidservant, so I sat down at the table and began to set my watch by the clock on the mantelpiece. Mrs Tebbit came in as I was winding it. She carried a plate of what I assumed was kedgeree, probably prepared from the wreckage of the previous night’s meal, and proceeded to place it in front of me with a degree of ceremony that the dish really didn’t warrant.

  ‘I’m going to have to give it a miss, I’m afraid, Mrs Tebbit,’ I said. ‘Bit of dicky tummy this morning.’ It was a conceit, but it was in a good cause.

  ‘Oh, that is a shame, Captain.’ She frowned. ‘Did it trouble you during the night?’

  ‘I’m afraid so.’

  ‘You poor dear! I thought I heard someone on the stairs last night. Was that you?’

  ‘Probably,’ I agreed. It was a perfectly good excuse; one I could use the next time I fancied a midnight sojourn to Tiretta Bazaar.

  I opted instead for a cup of black coffee and a glance at the morning’s Statesman, which lay on the table. It was folded so that only half the front page headline was visible, but it was enough to grab my attention. I unfolded it and read the top story:

  SENIOR GOVERNMENT OFFICIAL SLAIN IN COSSIPORE

  There followed a report on the crime scene and a description of the state of MacAuley’s body that might have caused some of the paper’s readers to choke on their morning kedgeree. It was a fulsome and florid report. Accurate, too. Right down to the detail of the bloody note found in his mouth. That he’d been found yards away from a brothel, however, had curiously been omitted. The piece was sure to enflame white opinion, as was the paper’s editorial, which had no doubts as to the perpetrators. Terrorists and revolutionaries! it screamed, out to overthrow the legitimate rule of law, and it demanded swift and merciless justice.

  That worried me. Of course the paper was entitled to its opinion, and to be honest I had no issue with the ‘merciless’ part. It was the ‘swift’ part that was the problem, as that depended on me and my team, and if yesterday was anything to go by, it didn’t look like we’d be achieving anything much in a hurry.

  They’d got hold of the story surprisingly quickly. So much for the L-G’s attempt to keep a lid on things by sending in military intelligence. Now that the lurid details of MacAuley’s death had been splashed all over the front page, the spotlight would be well and truly on us. Public opinion could always be relied upon to panic at the first hint of trouble. It would demand instant results. Though that wouldn’t be a bad thing if it forced the L-G to give me my crime scene back.

  An hour later I was at my desk looking across at Digby. I’d arrived to find him waiting for me, in a state of some excitement.

  ‘Wyndham!’ he’d said. ‘I think I may have a breakthrough!’

  I took Digby’s news on the chin, led him into my office and made myself comfortable while he paced the floor.

  ‘Tell me what you’ve got.’

  He leaned over the desk. ‘One of my informants has something. Says he’s heard things about who might have killed MacAuley. He claims he’s got a name.’

  ‘And you trust him?’

  ‘Of course not,’ he snorted, ‘he’s an Indian. But I pay him, and what he gives me is usually reliable.’

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘Up in Black Town. He’s a paan seller. Goes by the name of Vikram. He has a patch near Shyambazar.’

  ‘Okay,’ I said, ‘check out a motor car. We’ll head up there.’

  Digby smiled. ‘We can’t just stroll over there, old boy. Being seen talking to a couple of sahib police wallahs could have a severe impact on his usefulness, not to mention his life expectancy.’

  ‘So when then?’

  ‘Relax,’ he said, tapping his nose, ‘I’ve got it all arranged for this evening.’

  Sitting around all day waiting to speak to Digby’s snitch was not something I was keen on doing. It was unlikely to meet the Statesman’s definition of ‘swift and merciless justice’ and I doubted the Commissioner would be impressed either.

  ‘You can’t make it earlier?’

  ‘Trust me,’ he replied, ‘it’s safer under cover of darkness.’

  Grudgingly, I nodded my approval.

  ‘Great!’ said Digby, clapping his hands together. ‘Will there be anything else, old chap?’

  I told him to sit, then briefed him on my conversation with Miss Grant the previous afternoon.

  ‘Her take on MacAuley seems spot on to me,’ he said. ‘He always was a bit of an odd fish.’

  ‘You knew him pretty well, then?’ I asked. ‘Shouldn’t you have mentioned that before?’

  ‘Well, I never really knew him,’ he stammered. ‘I met him a few times, obviously, but that’s all. Calcutta’s a small place, and, well, you know how people talk. The chaps at the club would say he was a bit off, if you know what I mean.’

  I’d no idea what he meant, and told him so.

  He hesitated. ‘Well… he didn’t really mix with many people. Don’t get me wrong, I’m sure he was a good pen-pusher, kept the natives in their place and all that, but he wasn’t really… one of us. They say his father was a coal miner.’ His tone suggested that, in his eyes at least, it made the man little better than a coolie.

  ‘And what about this fellow Buchan?’ I asked. ‘Do you know him?’

  Digby paused. ‘Not well. I’ve met him once or twice at functions, but that’s about it.’

  ‘And would you say he is one of us?’

  He laughed. ‘He’s a millionaire. He can be one of us whenever he wants to be. Now if you don’t mind, old boy, I’d better get on with things.’

  He left, closing the door behind him. I considered my priorities. Waiting till nightfall to question Digby’s informant was hardly appealing. Instead, I decided to stick to my original plan. That meant interviewing Buchan, as well as some of MacAuley’s colleagues and servants, attending the post-mortem, sorting out a meeting with the L-G and tracking down the preacher Miss Grant had mentioned. Most importantly, I wanted to question the girl, Devi, again. There was something she wasn’t telling us and I needed to know what it was. To do that, though, I’d have to get her away from the formidable Mrs Bose.

  I telephoned the pit and asked to be put through to Banerjee. The desk sergeant shouted across the room and some moments later, Banerjee came on the line.

  ‘What have you got for me, Sergeant?’

  ‘Well, sir,’ he said in that cut-glass accent that made him sound like the Archbishop of Canterbury, ‘I placed a telephone call to Mr Buchan’s mill works in Serampore. His secretary informed me that Mr Buchan had not been in situ for several days and that he gave no indication of a date for his return. The secretary provided me with a telephone number for Mr Buchan’s residence. I tried that and was informed that Mr Buchan was down in Calcutta for the week, in residence at his club.’

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘The Bengal Club, sir. I took the liberty of telephoning the reception desk. The clerk informed me that Mr Buchan was indeed in residence, but that he had given instructions not to be disturbed before ten o’clock. He also mentioned that Mr Buchan usually takes a late breakfast at around eleven. We may be able to catch him then.’

  ‘Good,’ I said. ‘That saves us having to go upriver. See if you can requisition a car and driver. I want to catch our friend Buchan before he leaves the clu
b.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘What about the preacher?’ I asked. ‘Any luck tracking him down?’

  ‘Not at present, sir. I telephoned the thana at Dum Dum Cantonment. They informed me that there are several orphanages and Christian missions in the locale. They are making inquiries and will report to me post-haste.’

  ‘Anything else?’ I asked.

  ‘One final thing, sir,’ he said. ‘I’ve located an address for MacAuley, should you wish to interview his servants.’

  ‘Very good, Sergeant,’ I said, noting it down on a scrap of paper. ‘Let me know when you’ve organised the motor car.’

  No sooner had I replaced the receiver than the telephone rang again. I expected Banerjee had forgotten to tell me something, but instead was surprised to hear the voice of Daniels, the Commissioner’s secretary.

  ‘Wyndham,’ he said frantically, ‘please come to the Commissioner’s office at once. It’s urgent!’

  SEVEN

  ‘I CAN’T BELIEVE Taggart thinks this is a good use of our time,’ complained Digby, mopping the perspiration from his forehead with a sodden handkerchief. I had some sympathy with him, and not just because of the temperature, which was around a hundred and ten in the shade. Or at least, it would have been, had there been any.

  April wasn’t a pleasant month in Calcutta. Not many months are, but April was the start of summer and about as bad as it got. The land was smothered under a torrid blanket of heat, and both Englishman and native stewed during the interminable, exasperating wait for the monsoon rains still two months away.

  The three of us – Digby, Banerjee and I – were in the countryside an hour’s drive north of the city. Green fields stretched out on all sides. In the distance, time stood still, and men tilled the soil, leading bullock-drawn ploughs across rutted pastures. The driver had pulled over at the roadside and we were now clambering up a steep bank raised some twenty feet above the pastures, on which sat railway tracks. Ahead of us, a stationary train, a coal-black locomotive, beached atop the bank like a fat metallic slug. Behind it, eight carriages, a mix of passenger compartments and goods vans, all painted in the livery of the Eastern Bengal Railway Company. A number of native constables milled around, doing their best to stay out of the sun. They wore khaki uniforms, as did almost all of the officers and men of the Imperial Police Force throughout India. But Calcutta was different. Within the city, our uniforms were white.