A Rising Man

by Abir Mukherjee

  ‘Let’s say you’re right, old boy,’ said Digby sceptically, ‘and these fellows weren’t just petty dacoits hoping to get lucky. If they’d planned things so exceedingly well, why didn’t they know the safes on the train would be empty last night? It seems rather a huge oversight.’

  It was a good question. One I didn’t have an answer for.

  ‘Maybe there should have been something in them?’ said Banerjee.

  Digby snorted. ‘Fine. Let’s assume they expect to find something in the safes, but don’t. Why not just take the mail sacks? If they’re not illiterate peasants, they’d know there was value in the mail. You can’t have it both ways. You want me to believe they were a sophisticated gang who, in all their detailed planning, managed to bungle the operation by hitting the train on a night when what they were looking for wasn’t there and when it’s running an hour late. Then they fail to take the mail sacks or rob the passengers and finally end up accidentally killing a guard.’

  He turned to me. ‘You’re overthinking this, Wyndham. It’s not your fault. You’re probably used to cases in England where the villains are a lot smarter than they are here. Trust me, this is just a random robbery gone wrong.’

  He was probably right, but I didn’t appreciate being lectured.

  ‘There’s one way to find out,’ I said. ‘Sergeant, get down to Sealdah station. Speak to the station master. I want the baggage manifest for last night’s train. Find out if there was anything that should have been on the train that wasn’t. And find out the reason for the delay in its departure.’

  Banerjee nodded and scribbled the instructions down into his little pad. As he did, the telephone rang. I answered it and was asked by the switchboard operator to hold while the connection was made to Annie Grant at Writers’ Building. Something jumped in the pit of my stomach. I told her to wait while I hastily dismissed my officers: Digby to set up a meeting with Dawson of Section H, and Banerjee to Sealdah station by way of posting the guard at MacAuley’s flat.

  ‘Yes, Miss Grant?’ I asked after the door had closed behind them.

  ‘Captain Wyndham,’ she said, her tone bearing none of the warmth it had over lunch. ‘You requested a meeting with Mr Stevens. I’m afraid things are still quite chaotic here. Mr Stevens apologises but he will not be able to see you today.’

  I guessed he was in the room with her. He might even have been standing over her shoulder.

  ‘How about tomorrow?’ I asked.

  There was a pause. ‘He has an opening at one o’clock. Would that suit you?’

  ‘That’s fine,’ I said. ‘Good day to you, Miss Grant.’

  ‘Good day, Captain Wyndham.’

  I replaced the receiver, then picked it up a second later, asked to be put through to the car pool and requested a vehicle and driver be made ready for a trip to Cossipore. It was time to have a proper chat with Devi the prostitute.

  Just as I strapped on my cross-belt and gathered my cap, the door to my office flew open and in charged Lord Taggart’s secretary, Daniels, looking like he’d been pursued by a bear.

  ‘Wyndham,’ he puffed, ‘thank goodness.’

  ‘Is there a fire, Daniels?’

  ‘What? No. Didn’t you get my messages? The Commissioner’s organised a meeting for you with the L-G.’

  ‘That’s good news,’ I said. ‘When?’

  ‘Ten minutes ago.’

  THIRTEEN

  GOVERNMENT HOUSE. IN the City of Palaces, this one was the biggest. Four vast wings around a central core, a symphony of columns and cornices, topped by a silver dome. All very impressive, and if the sight of it didn’t take your breath away, climbing the stairs to the entrance probably would.

  Its occupier was the most important man this side of Delhi. More powerful than any maharaja. He was also a civil servant.

  I was met on the stairs by a pale-looking chap attired in morning suit and cravat. I assumed he was some mid-level functionary, maybe even upper-mid level, given the cravat. He didn’t give me his name, which was fine as I’d only have forgotten it.

  Instead, he led me inside towards the administrative wing. We passed the throne room, where once the King Emperor would sit with his local satraps in attendance. Now that the capital had moved to Delhi, it was doubtful the throne would ever be sat in much again, at least not by a royal posterior.

  ‘His Honour will see you in the Blue Drawing Room,’ said the functionary as we passed through one of several sets of double doors, each opened by a pair of turbaned flunkies in red and gold livery. I nodded, as though well versed in the colours of the rooms of the L-G’s inner sanctum.

  The room itself was about twice the size of Lord Taggart’s office back at Lal Bazar and smaller than I’d expected. Behind a desk the size of a rowing boat sat Sir Stewart Campbell, the Lieutenant-Governor of the Bengal Presidency, pen in hand and poring over documents. Beside him stood another functionary in morning suit and cravat. As we entered, the functionary whispered something to him. The L-G looked up. He had a hard face, not brutal, but severe. The face of a man accustomed to power, used to governing countless masses for their own good. A beak of a nose, pinched features and eyes that showed a businesslike determination. Together they gave him a look of mild irritation, as though there was some noxious odour in the room and he was the only one who could smell it.

  ‘Captain Wyndham,’ he said, betraying a curiously nasal accent, ‘you’re late.’

  I walked across an acre of polished floor to the desk and took a seat opposite him. He looked slightly surprised.

  ‘I was under the impression there would be two of you?’

  ‘I’m afraid my colleague had to be elsewhere,’ I said.

  ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘I understand you’re new to Calcutta.’ It was a statement rather than a question. ‘I’d have expected a seasoned hand for a case such as this, but Taggart assures me you’re ex-Scotland Yard and the right man for the job.’ Again, I said nothing, which was fine as the man didn’t seem to want an answer. ‘The Viceroy himself has been informed of the regrettable incident of two nights ago,’ he continued. ‘He’s deemed it a matter of imperial importance that the criminals be apprehended swiftly and without further disruption to the organs of state. Anything you need, you will have.’

  I thanked him. ‘If I may, Your Honour, I’d like to ask you a few questions about MacAuley and his role in the administration here.’

  The L-G smiled. ‘Of course. MacAuley was indispensable to the government here.’ He paused, then corrected himself. ‘No, that’s not quite true. No man is “indispensable” but he was an important and integral part of the machinery of government in Bengal.’

  ‘What exactly was his role?’

  ‘Technically he was in charge of government finances, but in reality, his remit was far wider and covered many things, from planning to policy execution.’

  ‘I assume it was a high-pressure role.’

  ‘Very much so. But MacAuley was well used to it.’

  ‘And do you know if he was under any unusual strain recently?’

  ‘Tell me, Captain,’ the L-G said, ‘did you ever happen to see a German P.O.W. camp during the war?’

  I wondered where this was going. ‘I was lucky enough to avoid such a fate, sir.’

  ‘No matter,’ he said. ‘I once met the commandant of one of them. He told me the Boche liked to use Alsatians as guard dogs in their camps… all except for the one he ran, that is. He preferred Rottweilers. You see he didn’t trust Alsatians. Good dogs they undoubtedly are, but they have a better nature. If they’re treated with kindness, over time they’ll reciprocate. Rottweilers, on the other hand, have no better natures. They’re fiercely loyal to their masters and will obey every command, no matter what. MacAuley was this administration’s Rottweiler. He wasn’t the type to succumb to strain, unusual or otherwise.’

  ‘I expect that made him quite a few enemies,’ I said.

  ‘Oh undoubtedly,’ he said, ‘zamindars and babus bu
t they’re not the sort to have done this kind of thing. Are you familiar with the term “bhadralok”?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘It’s a Bengali word. It means “the civilised people”, what we’d call “gentlemen”. It refers mainly to the upper-caste Hindus who hold prominence among the natives. They’re all soft and fat. It’s just not in their nature to commit this sort of act.’

  ‘What about whites? Someone with a grudge against MacAuley personally?’

  ‘You’re not serious, are you?’ he said, a thin smile forming on his grey lips. ‘This isn’t the 1750s when sahibs conducted duels on the Maidan. We certainly don’t solve our disputes by knocking one another off. No, it’s inconceivable. This is clearly the work of terrorists. I believe there was a note found on MacAuley’s person confirming as much. That is where you must concentrate your efforts.’

  ‘Do you have any idea why he might have been up in Cossipore on the night he was murdered?’

  The L-G scratched distractedly at one ear. ‘None whatsoever. I wouldn’t have imagined any European would venture up there after dark.’

  ‘He wasn’t up there in an official capacity, then?’

  ‘Not that I know of.’ He shrugged. ‘It’s possible, though highly unlikely. Nevertheless, do check with his colleagues at Writers’ Building.’

  ‘I will do. It’s a rather delicate matter, though.’

  ‘How so?’

  I hesitated. ‘You do know his body was found behind a brothel? It might just be a coincidence but…’ I trailed off.

  ‘Do you have a question to ask, Captain?’

  ‘No, sir,’ I said. ‘I was merely thinking aloud.’

  ‘Good. Remember, Captain, the man those terrorists assassinated was a British official, not some moral degenerate. Speculation to the contrary would reflect terribly badly upon us all.’

  I could have pointed out that the two weren’t exactly mutually exclusive, but instead I opted to change tack. ‘Did you attend Mr Buchan’s function at the Bengal Club on Tuesday night?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘I was wondering whether you attended Mr Buchan’s function. MacAuley had been there earlier that night. We think he may have gone to Cossipore straight from the club.’

  The L-G stepped his bony fingers together and touched them to his lips.

  ‘No, I did not. He may be one of our great captains of industry, but there are some matters more pressing to the interests of His Majesty’s administration than assisting Mr Buchan in closing yet another contract.’

  There was a knock at the door and another secretary entered. The L-G rose from his chair. ‘Unfortunately we will have to end our conversation there. Humphries here will see you out.’

  I thanked him for his time.

  ‘This case is your top priority, Captain,’ he said. ‘Solve it quickly.’

  I checked my watch as I followed the secretary back down the corridor. Exactly fifteen minutes since I’d entered the room. It’s what Taggart told me I could expect. Still, the precision was impressive.

  Back outside, I lit a cigarette and considered what I’d learned. MacAuley was a hundred per cent loyal. A Rottweiler. Well, the L-G was wrong about one thing: Rottweilers do have better natures. And if Miss Grant was correct about him finding God, so too it seemed, did MacAuley. There was only one man who could tell me if that was true. I needed to speak to the Reverend Gunn.

  FOURTEEN

  THE SMELL OF wood fires burning reminded me of home. The thick, silver smoke that rises from village hearths on crisp winter nights, fills your nostrils, dries your throat and all but calls out for a whisky to clear the soot from your gullet. Here, though, in the warmth of a moonlit Bengal night, it came not from chimneys but from the fires of a thousand native cooking stoves.

  Black Town seemed to come alive in the evenings. Just as the avenues of White Town emptied, its citizens repairing to their clubs or retreating behind high, whitewashed walls, the inhabitants of Black Town took to the streets, flocking to pavement tea stalls or gathering on verandas to smoke and discuss politics. At least the men did.

  Digby, Banerjee and I were in mufti, dressed in native clothes and sandals, walking silently along a lane near the Bagbazar road.

  We’d met up at Lal Bazar, where Banerjee had given me more bad news. The baggage manifest for last night’s Darjeeling Mail was missing. Of the two copies, one had been on the train and had probably been taken by the attackers. The other should have been filed at Sealdah station but couldn’t be located. He’d been assured that these things often took a few days to be entered into the filing system and that the station master would pull out all the stops to locate it.

  From Lal Bazar, Digby had driven us to Grey Street, half a mile away. There weren’t many cars in this part of town and driving any further would have drawn attention, so we continued on foot through the busy, ill-lit streets. Digby and I had our heads covered with hooded cloaks over rudimentary turbans which one of the Sikh constables back at Lal Bazar had tied, much to the amusement of his colleagues. I drew the cowl close over my head. The sight of a couple of sahibs wandering through Bagbazar at this time of night would have generated as much unwanted interest as the car, possibly more. So we moved surreptitiously, taking advantage of the darkness. Or rather Digby and I did. Surrender-not, without the need to mask his appearance, walked comfortably in plain sight a few paces ahead of us, making sure the path was clear. I could have sworn the sergeant was taking some perverse pleasure in being able to walk freely in the street while we Englishmen were forced to skulk in the shadows.

  We turned into an alley, not much different from the one MacAuley had been found in. A pack of stray dogs lay dozing across our path. One of them eyed Banerjee and yawned lazily. Carefully, the sergeant began to pick a path between them. As he did so, two bicycles suddenly turned the corner into the alley a few yards away. Distracted by the dogs, Banerjee must have failed to hear them approach and noticed them too late to warn us. Digby grew nervous as the glow from their lights drew closer. The two men would soon be right on top of us.

  ‘How close are we to the safe house?’ I whispered.

  ‘Too close to risk being seen,’ muttered Digby. ‘We’ll have to abort.’

  It was a scenario we’d discussed in advance. Being spotted and identified as sahibs in the vicinity of the safe house carried with it the risk that Digby’s informant’s cover might be blown, a risk Digby wasn’t willing to take. There was a good chance the two men would just cycle past without paying us the slightest attention, but Digby had made it quite clear that when it came to the natives, nothing could be assumed and no one could be trusted. In the current climate, two sahibs in the wrong part of town could make a tempting target for anything from a robbery to a lynching. If spotted, we’d have to turn back, at least for a couple of hours. In keeping with protocol, though, the informant would only remain at the safe house for an hour. Any longer was considered too risky. If we aborted now, we’d have to wait another twenty-four hours before trying again and I’d be damned if I was going to sacrifice another day. Frantically I scoured for cover, but there was nowhere to hide.

  The bicycles came closer, almost in line with Banerjee. Just before they drew level with him, the sergeant seemed to have an idea. He raised a foot and stamped it down heavily on the tail of one of the dogs. The animal let out a shriek of pain and bolted down the lane as if electrocuted, straight into the path of the oncoming cyclists. He hit one at full pelt, knocking the rider a clean ten feet across his handlebars. The other dogs, roused by their comrade’s howls, immediately rushed forward, surrounding the riders and barking furiously. While Banerjee went to the aid of the stricken fellows, Digby and I took advantage of the ensuing chaos to hurry past unnoticed. We stopped a little further ahead and waited for Banerjee to catch up. Digby bent down, as if fiddling with the buckle of his sandal while I turned towards the wall and pretended to relieve myself into the open gutter. Finally, Banerjee sauntered over to us, grin
ning like a dervish.

  ‘Good show, Sergeant,’ I whispered.

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ he replied. ‘It would seem that sometimes, it is better not to let sleeping dogs lie.’

  Minutes later we were stood in the shadows of a dilapidated house while Digby quietly undid a rusty padlock and chain that fastened the two halves of its front door. He ushered us in to the pitch-black interior before barring the doors with a wooden beam. I guessed he’d been here before as he had no trouble locating the beam in the darkness. He extracted a book of matches and lit one. It flared briefly before subsiding to a gentle glow that dimly illuminated a decrepit, dust-filled room that smelled of mould. Digby wasted no time and led the way through to the back of the building where he unlocked another door, this one old and worn and held shut by a flimsy latch. He stepped out into a walled compound and made for the far end.

  ‘Wait here,’ he whispered as we reached the wall. He went off to one side and began rummaging in the waist-high grass, returning momentarily with a wooden crate. Banerjee helped him place the crate beside the wall. He climbed onto it, then pulled himself over the wall, beckoning Banerjee and me to follow. We landed in another walled garden, at the far end of which stood a door lit from above by a hurricane lamp suspended from a crooked nail. Digby silently crossed the yard and knocked on the door. It opened a crack and a wary eye examined us before opening the door further, scraping it along the ground.

  It was now that I caught sight of our host, a balding, middle-

  aged native with hard, black eyes set in a fat head, like spots on a potato. He was smoking a bidi, a rolled leaf filled with tobacco and tied with string at one end. A poor man’s cigarette.