A Rising Man

by Abir Mukherjee

  I thanked him for his candour and headed back to my office. The situation was grave, but as I saw it, we had one thing in our favour. The safes had been empty. That suggested Sen still hadn’t the funds to purchase the arms. It meant we had a window of opportunity. We just had to find him before he found the cash.

  SEVENTEEN

  ON THE RIVERBANK to the south of town sits Fort William. Home to the army’s eastern command, it’s also the headquarters of its intelligence function, Section H. I was sat with Banerjee in the back of a police car speeding towards it.

  ‘General Clive had it rebuilt after the Battle of Plassey,’ marvelled Banerjee, as we drove down a palm-lined avenue towards the Fort’s Treasury Gate. ‘Apparently at a cost of over two million pounds. What’s more, it’s never fired a shot in anger.’

  It was unlike any military base I’d seen before. For a start it had its own golf course, which might begin to explain why it had cost so much.

  ‘What do the natives make of Benoy Sen?’ I asked.

  ‘Well,’ said Banerjee hesitantly, ‘ever since the death of Bagha Jatin, Sen’s become a folk hero. There are reports of him turning up everywhere between Sylhet and the Sundarbans, preaching to villagers and putting the fear of God into corrupt officials. They call him “the Ghost”. Half Robin Hood, half Lord Krishna. The peasants love him. That’s how he’s managed to stay on the run for nearly four years despite a substantial reward for his capture.’

  ‘Any rumours of him being behind terrorist activities recently?’

  ‘Not to my knowledge, sir, though it’s not the sort of thing people would tell a policeman.’

  ‘What’s your impression of the man?’

  Banerjee thought for a moment.

  ‘I think, with the death of Jatin and the other leaders, the people have created a legend around Sen to serve their own purposes. For those who seek violent revolution, he’s the freedom fighter who’s managed to outsmart the British and galvanise the people. He’s a symbol that the struggle continues. They need him for their own dignity.

  ‘At the same time, for the British, at least for the Statesman and its readers, he’s a bogeyman. The embodiment of everything they’re scared of, a bloodthirsty communist who won’t be happy till every last Englishman has been killed or sent packing. He’s their justification for things like the Rowlatt Acts. My own opinion is that he’s probably neither.’

  We pulled up to the guardhouse at the Treasury Gate. Fort William was certainly impressive. A star-fort covering three square miles, it was a huge brick and mortar structure, housing thousands of troops and ancillary staff. It was also the site of the infamous Black Hole of Calcutta, well known to every English schoolboy as a symbol of eternal native perfidy.

  The driver presented our papers to a stiff sentry who made a show of scrutinising them before waving us through, past red walls several feet thick. Inside, we passed some three-storey buildings which I took to be barracks, then neat rows of officers’ bungalows, followed by a high street of shops, a post office and a cinema. At the centre sat St Peter’s Church, complete with towers and flying buttresses. Indeed, the whole place looked more like a Sussex village than a military garrison.

  I had a healthy distrust of the intelligence services, carefully honed over many years, starting with my time at Special Branch and then later during the war, when I was a cog in their machinery. True, they were smart, resourceful people, working, as they saw it, to defend the nation and the empire. But if the cause was noble, the means often weren’t. As a policeman, steeped in the rule of law, I often found their methods unsavoury, immoral and, worst of all, un-English. Nevertheless, it was a relief to be able to call on them now. Their resources would be vital if we really were looking at thwarting a concerted terrorist campaign.

  I briefed Banerjee on my theory that MacAuley’s murder and the attack on the Darjeeling Mail were linked, that Jugantor were behind both and that we were going to solicit whatever help we could from Section H in tracking Sen down.

  Banerjee’s face darkened.

  ‘Do you have a problem with that, Sergeant?’

  He shifted nervously in his seat.

  ‘May I speak freely, sir?’

  I nodded. ‘Please do.’

  ‘Are you honestly interested in getting to the truth behind this murder?’

  I was surprised by the question.

  ‘It’s our duty to get to the truth, without fear or favour,’ I replied, ‘and that’s exactly what we’re going to do.’

  ‘Forgive me,’ said Banerjee, ‘but if that really is your intention, then bringing Sen in for questioning would be vital. Is that not correct, sir?’

  ‘Obviously.’

  ‘In that case, sir, I would advocate caution in what you share with Section H. They have a reputation for being rather heavy handed.’

  ‘Are you suggesting I keep this information from Section H?’

  ‘I’m saying, sir, that if you want Sen alive, then it’s critical we find him before Section H does.’

  We pulled up outside a large admin block, Banerjee’s words still ringing in my head. Instinctively I shared his concern, but what he asked was impossible. I’d no option but to share everything with Section H. The stakes were too high. Besides, I’d already told Lord Taggart everything, and he’d be briefing the L-G. Anything I didn’t divulge, they’d find out anyway.

  That left me with the small headache of what to do with Banerjee. I’d planned on taking him with me to meet Colonel Dawson, but now I wasn’t so sure. Besides, Dawson might be more guarded in his conversation with me if there was a native in the room. In the end I got out, leaving Banerjee with the driver.

  Entering the building past two wilting sentries, I knocked on the first door I came across and asked a junior officer where I might find Colonel Dawson. He directed me to Room 207 on the second floor.

  The room turned out to be a large open-plan office, humming with activity. There were desks for a dozen officers and their assistants. Pinned to one wall were several large maps of India, Bengal and a city that I presumed was Calcutta. Each was covered with a variety of flags, crosses and circles. What with the din of voices and typewriters, no one took much notice of my entrance. I asked a pretty young secretary in a khaki uniform where I could find Dawson. She pointed to a cubicle with frosted-glass partitions in one corner of the room. I thanked her, walked over to the cubicle and knocked.

  ‘Enter,’ boomed a stentorian voice. I did as requested and found myself enveloped in a fog of pipe smoke.

  ‘Colonel Dawson?’ I asked, peering through the haze at a well-built, moustachioed officer with a pipe clamped between his jaws. He was about forty, I guessed, with coarse, copper-coloured skin and brown hair flecked grey at the temples. He looked up from reading a typed report.

  ‘Ah, Captain Wyndham,’ he said, rising to shake my hand. ‘Please, have a seat.’

  Obviously, he knew who I was. There was a certainty in his tone as though we’d met before. Not that it should have come as a surprise. The man worked in intelligence, after all.

  ‘Would you care for some refreshment?’ he asked, raising a thick, bronzed forearm and studying his watch. ‘Too early for a proper drink alas. How about a cup of tea? Miss Braithwaite!’ he thundered, without bothering to wait for a reply. A waspish woman with a face like a disgruntled horse stuck her head round the door. ‘Two teas please, Marjorie.’

  The woman nodded sourly and disappeared, closing the door heavily behind her.

  ‘Now, Captain,’ he continued, ‘I understand you’re new to Calcutta. How do you like our fair city?’

  I guessed he’d done his homework on me. Chances were he’d already seen my wartime personnel file. In which case he’d know of my wounding and discharge, and maybe personal details too. He probably knew more about me than even I cared to remember.

  ‘I like it just fine,’ I replied.

  ‘Good, good.’ He took a puff of his pipe. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve had much of
a chance to do any sightseeing as yet?’

  ‘I wasn’t aware there was much to see.’

  Dawson grinned. ‘That depends on your point of view. I’d recommend a visit to the temple at Dakhineshwar. It’s a Hindu shrine to the goddess Kali. They call her The Destroyer, and an interesting sight she is too. Black as night, her eyes bloodshot, garland of skulls round her throat and her tongue lolling out in an ecstasy of violence. The Bengalis revere her. That should tell you everything you need to know about the sort of people we’re dealing with. They make blood sacrifices to her. Goats and sheep these days, but they weren’t always quite so civilised. Some say the city takes its name from her. Calcutta, the city of Kali.’ He paused, smiling. ‘Ironic, isn’t it? Beneath our modern metropolis still beats the black heart of the heathen goddess of destruction.’ He seemed far away for a moment. ‘Anyway,’ he said, focusing, ‘I think you might appreciate it.’

  Miss Braithwaite returned carrying a tray. She set it down noisily, spilling some of the tea from the cups. Dawson glared at her and she glowered back, then left the room.

  ‘Milk and sugar, Captain?’

  ‘Black is fine,’ I replied, taking a cup from the tray, leaving a ring of liquid in its place.

  ‘So, Captain, I understand you saw a bit of action in the war.’

  I nodded. ‘I did my bit. Joined up in ’fifteen and made it in one piece through three years before the Hun got lucky and bounced a high-explosive shell off my head.’

  Dawson nodded as though I was merely confirming facts he already knew.

  ‘And what about you, Colonel?’ I asked. ‘Were you at the Front?’

  His expression soured. ‘No, Captain. I never had that honour. Unfortunately my duties kept me here in India for the duration.’

  He took a puff of his pipe and leaned forward.

  ‘So, how can I help you?’ he said, pouring some milk from a small porcelain jug and stirring it into his tea.

  ‘The MacAuley murder. I’d like an update on everything you’ve found at the crime scene.’

  ‘Of course,’ he said, laying the pipe on his desk and taking a sip of tea. ‘There’s not much to tell, I’m afraid. A lot of blood but not much else. It’s a shame the dogs got to the body before your men did. Which reminds me, we did manage to find one of his fingers. It’s been packed and sent to the morgue for you.’

  ‘Can I have a copy of your report?’

  ‘Of course, Captain,’ he said. ‘I’ll make sure a copy is sent to your office.’

  ‘And are your men still guarding the scene?’ I asked.

  ‘Naturally, and what’s more they’ll stay there until the Lieutenant Governor says otherwise. Don’t worry. They won’t let anyone tamper with the site.’

  ‘That’s most reassuring,’ I said. ‘If you don’t mind, I’d like some of my men to carry out a fingertip search of the alley. Maybe they’ll be able to find something that’s been missed.’

  Dawson’s avuncular manner evaporated.

  ‘I hope you don’t think my men aren’t competent enough to carry out such a search.’

  ‘Not at all,’ I replied. ‘It’s just that sometimes things are overlooked in the heat of the moment.’

  ‘Not by my men,’ he said brusquely. ‘Still, get your men to liaise with Marjorie. She’ll sort out access for them. Now, is there anything else I can help you with?’

  ‘There is one other matter.’

  ‘Oh yes?’ he replied, picking up the report he’d been reading when I’d entered.

  I told him about the meeting at the house of Amarnath Dutta, and Benoy Sen’s presence in Calcutta. I hoped the disclosure would allay any concerns he might have that I didn’t trust him, which I didn’t.

  The Colonel betrayed no emotion on hearing Sen’s name. He simply nodded and puffed away on his pipe.

  ‘There’s more,’ I said. ‘The Darjeeling Mail was attacked in the early hours of Thursday morning. Initial reports were of an attempted robbery by dacoits, but I fear it was the work of terrorists, specifically Sen. I think they were looking for cash to fund an arms deal. I expect I don’t need to tell you what that means.’

  Dawson suddenly looked as though I’d hit him in the face with a four iron. For the first time I felt I’d told him something he didn’t already know. It felt good.

  ‘This is more serious than I anticipated,’ he said finally. ‘What do you know of Sen, Captain?’

  ‘Not much,’ I confessed. ‘Our file on him is thin on detail. I was hoping you might grant me access to yours.’

  Dawson thought for a moment.

  ‘I regret that won’t be possible, but I will tell you this. Benoy Sen is an extremely dangerous individual. I take it you’ve read about his involvement in the German Conspiracy? What you won’t know is that a key part of that plot was to incite the native regiments of the Calcutta garrison to rise up against us. As I recall it was the 14th Jat regiment at the time. They were billeted here in the fort. If the revolt had succeeded, every white man here would likely have had his throat cut. Now Sen’s evaded us once already. I don’t intend to let him do it a second time.’

  ‘I trust we have your assistance in tracking him down?’

  ‘Oh, you can depend on that,’ said Dawson. ‘My men’ll get on it immediately.’

  ‘And you’ll inform me the minute you have something?’ I asked.

  Dawson gave a thin smile. ‘Of course, if it’s feasible. But I can’t guarantee we’ll be able to wait till we’ve informed you before we take action, especially if, as you surmise, he’s plotting a larger campaign. The man’s been on the run for four years and if we don’t get him while he’s still in Calcutta, we might lose him for another four.’

  ‘I understand,’ I said, painfully aware that the first notification I’d get from Dawson would be when Sen was either dead or in a military prison somewhere. Either way, if Section H got to him first, there’d be precious little chance of me questioning him.

  I thanked the Colonel for his time, finished the tea and took my leave.

  I walked back down and out into the sun. Surrender-not was standing in the shade of a large banyan tree, smoking a cigarette. On seeing me, he quickly stubbed it out and flicked the butt into the grass. He saluted and made his way over.

  ‘We’ve got a problem, Sergeant,’ I said, ‘and I’m going to need your help to sort it out.’

  ‘Of course, sir,’ he replied as I led him back towards the building.

  We climbed the stairs and headed back to Room 207.

  ‘Listen closely,’ I said, ‘I’m going to introduce you to a lovely lady called Marjorie Braithwaite. You’re going to sweet-talk her.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘You’re going to make small talk with Miss Braithwaite and while you’re chatting to her, I want you to get a good look at her boss. He’s the man in the office at the end of the room. And make sure he doesn’t notice you. D’you think you can manage that?’

  Banerjee swallowed hard. He looked queasy.

  ‘I’m not sure, sir,’ he said, tugging at the collar of his shirt. ‘I’ve never been particularly good at talking to English women.’

  ‘Come on, Surrender-not,’ I said. ‘It can’t be that different from talking to Indian women.’

  ‘To be honest, sir, I’m not particularly good at talking to them either.’ He looked like a man on his way to his own funeral. ‘In our culture, contact between the sexes is strictly limited. I never know quite what to say to women… unless they like cricket,’ he brightened, ‘in which case I don’t have a problem.’

  Miss Braithwaite didn’t look the type to be impressed by an explanation of the difference between short leg and silly point. ‘On second thoughts,’ I said, ‘just ask her about arranging access to the MacAuley murder site. D’you think you can manage that?’

  Banerjee nodded apprehensively.

  ‘That’s the spirit, Sergeant,’ I said.

  We entered Room 207. I looked over to Dawson’s office. The door
was closed, with only his silhouette visible through the frosted glass. I prodded Banerjee in the direction of Miss Braithwaite and made the introductions.

  ‘Pleased to meet your acquaintance,’ he stammered, before standing there, mouth open, staring alternately at me and Dawson’s closed door, like a goldfish at a tennis match.

  ‘Miss Braithwaite,’ I said, ‘I forgot to ask Colonel Dawson something. If you don’t mind, can you explain to the sergeant here what he needs to do to gain access to the MacAuley crime scene while I pop my head round the Colonel’s door for a minute?’

  Without waiting for a reply, I marched over to Dawson’s office, knocked and opened the door wide.

  ‘Sorry to bother you, Colonel,’ I said, ‘I’ve forgotten the name of that temple you mentioned.’

  He was on the telephone and didn’t look amused by the interruption.

  ‘The Kali temple at Dakhineshwar,’ he said, covering the mouthpiece of the receiver with one hand, ‘It’s on the road to Barrackpore. Your driver will know it.’

  I thanked him again and made to leave. I looked across the room to Surrender-not. He saw me and nodded and I closed Dawson’s door and rejoined him. Miss Braithwaite wrote something on a scrap of paper and handed it to him. Surrender-not smiled and thanked her.

  ‘Did you get a good look at the Colonel?’ I asked as we headed back down the stairs.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Good work, Sergeant. And was that her home telephone number I saw Miss Braithwaite pass you?’

  Banerjee blushed. ‘No, sir,’ he stammered, ‘it was an entry chit to show the guards at the crime scene.’

  ‘Good,’ I said, ‘though next time I task you with sweet-talking a woman, I expect you to at least obtain her telephone number, if not an actual date for dinner.’

  ‘Here’s what I need you to do, Sergeant,’ I began, as we sat in the back of the car. ‘That man you saw in the office is Colonel Dawson. He’s going to start his own search for our fugitive, and with his resources, there’s a damn good chance he’s going to beat us to Sen. That’s why I need you to tail him and let me know the minute you think he might have tracked Sen down.’