A Rising Man

by Abir Mukherjee

  ‘Did he hear any of what they were talking about?’

  ‘Unfortunately not, sir. He says the doors were closed and he had no business listening anyway.’

  ‘What about Buchan’s telephone call?’

  ‘Again, no, sir.’

  That was unfortunate, though what the sergeant had discovered was still interesting. Curious that Buchan should neglect to mention his last conversation with MacAuley.

  I turned to Banerjee. ‘I’ve got one more task for you, Sergeant.’

  ‘Yes, sir?’

  ‘I want you to hang around here for a little while longer. Speak to your new friend again and find out if Buchan himself left the club at any time after the party the other night. Also, try to question some more of the staff, especially that chap at reception. That telephone call Buchan made – see if you can find out if anyone placed it for him. I want to know who he called.’

  Banerjee nodded, before jogging back in the direction we’d just come. I joined Digby in the car.

  ‘Did the sergeant find out anything useful?’ he asked.

  I gave him a summary, telling him about MacAuley’s departure from the party at around eleven p.m., and his private conversation with Buchan.

  ‘So at this point,’ I said, ‘that makes Buchan the last person to see him alive.’

  NINE

  THE TRAFFIC ROUND the Esplanade was at a standstill. A bullock cart, loaded with vegetables, had overturned, shedding its cargo and blocking the road. Buses and cars stood gridlocked, their drivers blowing their horns impotently. A decent-sized crowd of natives had gathered to gawk at the spectacle and a couple of street urchins were taking the opportunity to liberate some cauliflowers from the stricken cart while its owner’s attention was elsewhere. Even the rickshaws were stuck, but their passengers simply got out and walked. The rickshaw wallahs seemed to take it quite philosophically, which was more than I was doing.

  It had been over thirty hours since we’d found the body, and in that time all I’d achieved was to rack up a series of unanswered questions. Of these, why Buchan had omitted to mention his late-night chat with MacAuley was just the latest. It was in good company. I still wanted to know how the L-G had found out about MacAuley’s murder so quickly, and why he’d ordered Section H to take over the crime scene. Then there was the small matter of what the prostitute was concealing from us. On top of it all, I now had the added headache of figuring out why dacoits would hit a train, kill a man and not bother to steal anything. The more I thought about it, the muddier it all got.

  I punched the seat in frustration. I’m not exactly a patient man these days, my full measure of restraint having been expended sitting in a trench for several years acting as target practice for German artillery. Luckily I had an idea. I pulled out the scrap of paper with the address that Surrender-not had given me earlier.

  ‘Where’s Princep Street?’ I asked Digby.

  ‘Not far from here, old boy, just off Bentinck Street.’

  I ordered him back to headquarters while I got out and set off for MacAuley’s lodgings. I headed along the Esplanade and turned left onto Bentinck Street, past venerable old office buildings, homes to the merchant houses that had built Calcutta. On the right stood Chowringhee Square, dominated by the grand offices of the Statesman, with its circular portico. As I approached, I was surprised to see Annie Grant emerge through the building’s revolving doors. She was preoccupied, otherwise she’d have seen me as she turned and walked briskly in the direction of Writers’ Building.

  I cautioned myself against jumping to any conclusions. For all I knew she might have been there for any number of reasons, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that her visit had something to do with MacAuley’s murder. The Statesman had got hold of the story pretty damn quickly and published a surprisingly accurate account. What better source than the victim’s secretary? I thought about confronting her but that was a hare-brained idea. What was I going to do? Accuse her of selling information to the press? Even if I was right, she’d probably deny it and I couldn’t prove a thing. And it wasn’t a crime to talk to the press. At least, I didn’t think so. It wasn’t clear to me just how far the Rowlatt Acts went. If I was wrong, she might think I was following her. Either way, it would kill any chance I had of getting to know her better. So I left it, and continued to Princep Street.

  MacAuley’s flat was located in a grey mansion block opposite a park. The entrance was manned by a surly durwan who directed me to the third floor. The stairwell smelled of respectability. In truth, it smelled of disinfectant, but in Calcutta that’s pretty much the same thing. I knocked on the door of number seven and it was opened by an anxious-looking native, dressed neatly in shirt and trousers. He eyed me cautiously.

  ‘Can I help you, sir?’

  ‘You are Mr MacAuley’s manservant?’

  The man nodded watchfully.

  I introduced myself and told him I had some questions about his erstwhile employer. He seemed somewhat surprised.

  ‘But I already have spoken yesterday to police.’ He pronounced the word ‘pooleesh’.

  ‘Well, I need you to answer some more questions for me,’ I replied.

  He nodded, then led the way down a darkened hallway and into an austere lounge, which contained a threadbare sofa, some chairs, a dining table and a nondescript view out of the window. It was the living room of a man who mostly lived elsewhere. On the table sat a pile of files tied together with red ribbons.

  ‘Cha, sahib? ’

  I declined, took a seat on one of the chairs and beckoned the manservant to the sofa.

  ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Sandesh,’ he answered nervously.

  ‘How long have you worked for Mr MacAuley?’

  He thought for a moment. ‘Almost fifteen years I have been working for Master sahib. Since before he is moving to these lodgings.’

  ‘And how did you come to be in his employment?’

  ‘Excuse me, sahib?’

  ‘How did you get the job?’

  ‘I was given recommendation by the manservant of one of Master sahib’s former colleagues.’

  ‘And was MacAuley sahib a good employer?’

  He smiled. ‘Most definitely. He was very fair and scrupulous man. Always he is upstanding in his dealings with me and also other staff.’

  ‘Other staff?’

  ‘There is also a cook and a maid in Master sahib’s employ.’

  ‘Are they here?’

  ‘No, sahib. Maid only comes three times per week. Cook is here in mornings, but I tell him yesterday he is no longer required. No one else is here to cook for.’

  ‘MacAuley lived here alone?’

  ‘Yes, sahib,’ he nodded, ‘always Master sahib is living alone. Though I am having quarters behind the kitchen.’

  ‘Did he have any family in Calcutta?’

  He shook his head. ‘No family. Not only in Calcutta, sahib, but also no family elsewhere. He is having one nephew, son of his deceased brother, but nephew is being killed in war, two years previous. Nephew’s death is causing Master sahib much distress. Master sahib now last of family line and he is having no issue, so family name dying out upon passing of himself.’

  ‘Issue?’ I asked.

  He looked puzzled. ‘Issue is not correct English word, sahib? I am told it is meaning, eh, childrens?’

  I guessed he was probably correct. Something I was beginning to learn about Calcutta – the Indians, other than Surrender-not with his twenty-four-carat diction, generally favoured a form of English that seemed an odd mix of Victorian expressions and a perpetual present tense.

  ‘What about friends?’ I asked. ‘Did he have many visitors?’

  ‘Again no, sahib. Visitors are calling here most rarely.’

  ‘And women? Did he have any particular lady friends?’

  He laughed awkwardly. ‘Master sahib is never having the lady callers. Only lady who is coming occasionally is his secretary, Miss Grant. Memsahib is coming
for work purposes.’ He pointed to the files on the table. ‘She is coming again last evening only, and is removing certain files and documentations.’

  ‘Do you know what files she took?’

  ‘I am sorry, sahib. These matters are outwith my purview.’

  That was interesting. Once again Miss Grant had unexpectedly entered the picture. It may have been innocent coincidence, but I’m not a man who generally believes in them. She hadn’t mentioned anything about needing to go to MacAuley’s flat when I’d interviewed her. But then again, why would she?

  ‘Did MacAuley sahib have any enemies?’

  ‘Master sahib is most upstanding person,’ he retorted, ‘admired by all.’

  I pressed him. ‘Was there anyone he didn’t like?’

  The servant thought for a moment. ‘Stevens sahib,’ he said, ‘number two to Master sahib in office. I am overhearing Master sahib often saying that Stevens sahib is no good rascal. Master sahib always keeping close eye on machinations of Stevens sahib. He is saying Stevens sahib is covetous of Master sahib’s good standing with L-G sahib.’

  ‘Did you notice anything unusual in MacAuley sahib’s behaviour recently?’

  The servant paused and rubbed the skin on the back of his neck.

  ‘I do not wish to speak ill of Master sahib.’

  I changed my tone. Sometimes it helps to take a stronger line. ‘Your employer was murdered and this is a police investigation. Now answer the question.’

  The man flinched, then his story trickled out.

  ‘For last three-four months,’ he said, ‘Master sahib is behaving in most unorthodox fashion. He is making late-night trips, returning at all hours. First he is eschewing all liquor, then in last month he is once again partaking most heavily.’

  ‘Do you have any idea what might have caused the changes in his behaviour?’

  He shook his head. ‘That I am sadly not knowing, sahib.’

  ‘And when was the last time you saw MacAuley?’

  He thought for a moment. ‘Tuesday, in the evening. Before he is going to Bengal Club.’

  ‘And did he tell you what time he expected to return?’

  ‘No, sahib. Unless he is wanting me to make preparations for him, Master sahib is usually not sharing with me his timings.’

  ‘Did he say he was planning to go up to Cossipore that night?’

  ‘Absolutely no, sahib.’

  There was something about the vehemence of the denial that made me wonder.

  ‘Did he ever go up there?’

  The guarded look was back. Behind his eyes the shutters had come down. ‘I don’t know,’ he said emphatically. ‘Already I am telling all this to the inspector sahib who came yesterday.’

  A sahib? When, at the door, he’d said he’d already spoken to the police, I’d assumed he’d meant the native constables who’d have come to inform him of the death of his employer. I’d certainly not dispatched any sahib officer to the scene, and other than Lord Taggart, I couldn’t think of anyone else who would.

  ‘What was the inspector’s name?’ I asked.

  ‘I do not know, sahib.’

  ‘Can you describe him?’

  ‘He is looking like you, tall and having same colour hair but he is sporting moustaches. Also he is wearing uniform much like yours.’

  Could it have been Digby? It was possible, but no one would have said he looked like me. Then again, to Indian eyes, maybe we all looked the same?

  ‘What did the inspector ask you?’

  The servant hesitated. ‘He is asking mainly about Master sahib and Cossipore. He is being most insistent but I am telling him I know nothing of such things. Eventually he is accepting my protestations. Then he is searching through Master sahib’s files,’ he pointed once more to the table, ‘and also his personal papers.’

  ‘Where are these personal papers?’ I asked.

  ‘In Master sahib’s study.’

  He led me through to a windowless room, little bigger than a walk-in wardrobe. Most of the space was taken up by a wooden desk and shelves. Files and papers were strewn haphazardly on the desk.

  ‘I have not had chance to replace files after inspector sahib’s examination,’ he apologised.

  I looked through some of the papers on the desk. Most appeared to be correspondence of a business nature: appeals to MacAuley from a variety of people to intervene in land deals, tax issues and the like. The names of the appellants were unfamiliar to me. On the shelf above the desk, however, were several buff-coloured files, all titled ‘Buchan’.

  I pulled one of the files down and flipped through it. The correspondence dated from 1915; mainly letters from James Buchan, some typed, others handwritten, and copies of MacAuley’s replies, all in that curious black charcoal that comes from carbon paper. As far as I could tell, they too dealt with business matters: a strike at one of Buchan’s jute mills, riverine transportation problems Buchan was facing in getting the rubber out of one of his plantations in East Bengal, nothing that appeared incriminating. Then again, I didn’t know what I was looking for.

  ‘Did the inspector take any files away?’ I asked.

  The servant nodded. ‘Yes, sahib. Three files, all from that shelf.’

  ‘Were they also marked “Buchan”?’

  ‘I do not recall, sahib. Maybe you can be asking him?’

  I’d have loved to, if I’d known who the hell he was.

  ‘I need to ensure the inspector sahib took all the relevant files,’ I lied. ‘Did he review them thoroughly?’

  ‘No, sahib. He is picking up those particular files without opening them. Then he is looking though all remaining correspondences. He is also examining files in dining room and also searching Master sahib’s bedroom, but he is taking no other documentations.’

  ‘Did he arrive before Miss Grant?’

  ‘No, sahib. He is arriving much later. After eight o’clock in evening. Grant memsahib, she is coming six o’clock.’

  I recreated the events in my mind. My meeting with Miss Grant, during which she’d made no mention of needing to go to MacAuley’s apartment, had ended at around five p.m. An hour later she was here, removing a file. If she was simply taking government documents back to the office, why not take all the files that were on the table? Why take just one?

  Two hours later, a uniformed Englishman turns up claiming to be a police inspector, asks questions about Cossipore and goes through MacAuley’s papers. He takes three files, all from a shelf where the remaining files are correspondence with James Buchan. That he went on to search the bedroom suggested he might not have found everything he was looking for. Maybe he was searching for the file that Miss Grant had removed? That was just speculation, but there were enough unanswered questions to justify me speaking to Miss Grant again. And the prospect of that made me happier than it should have done.

  ‘Show me MacAuley sahib’s bedroom,’ I said, returning to the matter in hand.

  The room was littered with crates half filled with the clothes and other possessions that had given colour to MacAuley’s life. It was the only room in the flat that seemed to have any real imprint of him. On a dresser, a framed photograph of MacAuley and a lady. It was the same woman as in the picture I’d removed from his wallet.

  ‘What will happen to his possessions?’ I asked.

  The servant shrugged. ‘I do not know, sahib. I am packing only.’

  A wave of depression descended on me. Admittedly, the use of O had started to affect my mood, but this felt different. I picked up the photograph, sat down on the bed and stared at it.

  Two days ago, MacAuley had been one of the most important men in Bengal; respected and feared, it seemed, in equal measure. Now his memory was already halfway to being erased. All that was left of him, the sum total of a life of fifty-odd years, was wrapped in yesterday’s newspaper, ready to be packed away and forgotten about.

  The thought scared me. After all, what was left of any of us after death? A special few might be immortali
sed in bronze or stone or in the pages of history, but for the rest of us, what trace remains other than in the memories of loved ones, a few sepia-toned photographs and some paltry possessions we may have amassed? What was left of Sarah? My memories could never do justice to her intellect, nor the photographs honour her beauty. And yet, at least she did live on in my memory. If I died, who would remember me? The parallel with MacAuley was too obvious to ignore.

  ‘Pack everything into the crates,’ I said, ‘including the files in the study. I’ll have some constables come and take possession of it all. They may contain evidence.’

  It was an odd thing to do, and even at the time I wasn’t sure exactly why I’d ordered it. Whatever evidence there might have been had likely already been removed by the sahib who’d come round last night. The truth was there was probably no evidence left to safeguard. What I was doing, I realised, was protecting the memory of a dead man, a man I’d never even met – at least, not while he was alive. And why? Was it that his past echoed mine? It didn’t matter. I wasn’t going to let his memory fade away quite so easily. My homage would be to find his killer.

  I thanked the manservant who showed me back through the hall.

  ‘What will you do now you no longer have an employer?’ I asked.

  He smiled weakly. ‘Who knows? If I am fortunate I may get new position. Otherwise I will be forced to return to my native place.’ He pointed upwards. ‘It is in the hands of the gods.’

  TEN

  BACK AT LAL Bazar I found another note from Daniels on my desk. Lord Taggart probably wanted an update. There wasn’t much to tell him yet, and I didn’t fancy the thought of Daniels coming down looking for me. Over the years, though, I’d learned that the best way to deal with such a situation was to ignore it and head for lunch. The problem was I didn’t know where to go. This wasn’t London. Here in the tropics, where an Englishman could come down with dysentery by so much as looking the wrong way at a sandwich, the choice of eating establishment was potentially a matter of life and death.