A Rising Man

by Abir Mukherjee

  I rapped on the bar top to attract his attention while Annie perched herself on one of the high barstools. The barman kept polishing for a second longer than necessary, then walked over. The brass badge on his shirt read Aziz.

  ‘Yes, sir?’

  I turned to Annie. ‘What’ll you have?’

  She made a show of examining the long line of bottles that sat on a mirrored shelf. ‘Gin sling,’ she said finally.

  I ordered it and added a Laphroaig for myself.

  The barman nodded curtly, poured out my whisky and sullenly set to work on Annie’s cocktail.

  ‘A warm welcome,’ I said.

  ‘Isn’t it just?’ she teased. ‘I bring all my men friends here. If Aziz likes you, you’ll get a second date.’

  ‘I didn’t realise he was a friend of yours,’ I said. ‘Maybe I should buy him a drink too?’

  ‘Not a good idea, Sam. It’s against his religion.’

  ‘Odd that he chooses to work in a bar.’

  ‘We all make odd choices sometimes,’ she said. ‘They tend to be for money.’

  Aziz returned with the gin sling, placing it on the counter without a word. I thanked him and he smiled sourly.

  Annie and I clinked glasses and moved to one of the empty booths.

  ‘So are you going to tell me what happened?’ she asked, pointing to the sling.

  ‘Would you believe I fell off an elephant?’

  She pouted, her red lips forming a delicate, exquisite ‘O’. ‘You poor man,’ she said. ‘Can’t the Imperial Police Force stretch to providing you with a motor car?’

  ‘I’m a new boy,’ I replied. ‘You need to be a senior before you get those sorts of perks. I was lucky they didn’t start me off on a donkey.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said, ‘it’s less of a fall from a donkey.’

  I sipped my whisky.

  ‘Seriously though, Sam,’ she continued, ‘I heard you were shot.’

  ‘You should see the other chap,’ I said. ‘He’s lying on a slab in the College Street morgue.’

  Her eyes opened wide. ‘You killed him?’

  ‘No, someone else did. I managed to get through last night without killing anyone. In fact, I didn’t even manage to shoot anybody.’

  ‘Well, I’m glad,’ she said, putting her hand on mine. ‘You don’t strike me as the trigger-happy type.’

  That much was true. I’d seen more than enough death in my life already. I’d be more than content if I could get through the rest of it without having to shoot anyone else. My throat felt suddenly dry and I downed the rest of the whisky.

  ‘Was anyone else hurt?’ she asked. ‘What about that English officer you work with?’

  ‘Digby? No, he’s fine. Got through it without a scratch. I didn’t realise you knew him?’

  ‘I don’t,’ she said, circling the rim of her glass with a manicured fingernail. ‘I just know of him through a friend.’

  She finished her drink and we headed to the restaurant for dinner.

  The dining room was how the banqueting hall of a sultan’s palace might look if it had been designed by a committee of Englishmen. The size of a ballroom, it was finished in white marble and gold leaf and split over two levels: a main floor and a raised terrace, separated by intricate golden railings. Despite its size, the place was packed. The string quartet was playing another Viennese waltz over the general noise. Several heads turned as the maître d’ led us towards a table in the middle of the throng. I knew better than to think they were looking at me. The maître d’ pulled out the chair for Annie and made a fuss over seating her. She thanked him and buried her head in the menu.

  I ordered the wine, a bottle of South African white which I’d developed a taste for during the war. There had been a glut of the stuff at the time and it was often the cheapest you could find. As for food, Annie recommended I try the hilsa fish.

  ‘Bengalis love fish,’ she said. ‘Hilsa’s a local delicacy.’

  I declined and ordered the steak. All I wanted was something straightforward with no surprises.

  ‘You’re brave,’ she said.

  I braced myself for bad news.

  ‘You know there’s a good chance your steak’s going to be buffalo rather than beef? Remember, the cow is holy to Hindus. Most kitchen staff won’t touch the stuff, and a lot of restaurants think it’s easier just to serve buffalo instead, especially nowadays what with all these cow protection societies springing up all over the place. Still, this is the Great Eastern; perhaps you’ll get lucky?’ She smiled and suddenly I didn’t care if my steak was buffalo or even baboon.

  The wine arrived and we drank a toast.

  She raised her glass. ‘To new beginnings. Speaking of which,’ she continued, ‘have you found a place to live yet?’

  ‘I haven’t had time to think about it. The guest house is comfortable enough for the moment, though the food might kill me. Anyway,’ I shrugged, ‘I’m not sure it matters where I live.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ she said. ‘You’re not in London now, Sam. Here it’s all about prestige. It won’t do for an officer of the Imperial Police Force, a pukka sahib, to live in a guest house. You need rooms of your own. A nice apartment near Park Street, with servants of course.’

  ‘How many servants?’

  ‘As many as possible. The more the merrier.’ She smiled.

  ‘That sounds rather ostentatious.’

  ‘Of course,’ she teased. ‘That’s a good thing.’

  ‘On my salary, I think I might be forced to opt for a rather truncated retinue.’

  ‘That’s not the Calcutta attitude, Sam. People here would rather sell their grandmother to the glue factory than part with a single member of the staff. What would people say if they found out Lady So-and-so had to get rid of a maid or two because of budgetary constraints? The scandal would be intolerable. Anyway, that’s the thing about India; people are cheaper than animals. You could have a manservant, a cook and a maid for less than it would cost you to keep a horse.’

  ‘In that case I’ll advertise for all three first thing tomorrow. After all, I wouldn’t know where to put a horse in an apartment.’

  The evening unfolded as I’d hoped it would. The band played and the wine flowed. We ate and talked: about England, about the war, about India and Indians. During a pause in the conversation, I looked around. An awful lot of pale young women appeared to be sitting at tables with men who looked twice their age. I pointed it out to Annie.

  ‘Those girls are the crew of what we call “the fishing fleet”,’ she laughed. ‘Every year, boat loads of young Englishwomen with skin the colour of turnips arrive in search of husbands. They’ve been coming out here for years, though there’s been a lot more of them since the war.’

  ‘That’s understandable,’ I said.

  ‘The system works well enough,’ she continued, taking a sip. She held on to the wine glass, waving it gently to make her point. ‘Something happens to nice English girls when they reach twenty-five. They get scared of being left on the shelf. So they get on a boat and come to India, where there are literally thousands of sahibs starved of home comforts who’ll marry the first English rose they come across. It doesn’t matter how plain or peculiar she might be, if she’s got the right pedigree, she’ll find a husband out here. It’s the men I feel sorry for, the civil servants especially. Poor devils, they’re expected to live like monks. You know it’s still frowned upon for them to wed before thirty. And marrying a non-white would be career suicide.’ Her tone grew harsh, steeled with what seemed the bitterness of a lifetime. The wine had loosened her tongue. ‘The odd dalliance can be tolerated,’ she continued, ‘but marriage?’ She waved one finger in the air. ‘That’s a no no.’

  ‘What was his name?’

  She looked at me in surprise. ‘Who?’

  ‘You know who.’

  ‘His name’s not important. Besides, it’s ancient history now.’ She took a sip of wine and I let the silence hang. I could see s
he wanted to unburden herself of the pain she carried, and sometimes the best thing a man can do for a woman is to listen.

  ‘He was a clerk at Writers’,’ she continued. ‘I met him when I was twenty-one. He’d just come out from England. Swept me off my feet. We were together for nearly a year. He promised to marry me.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘What always happens. India happened. The empire happened. It changes Englishmen. Stifles them. They come out here, wide eyed and full of good intentions. Soon enough, though, they become cynical and closed minded. They learn from the older hands and start to believe all the nonsense about British superiority and not consorting with racial inferiors. They begin to despise the natives. Anyone non-white is beneath them. The empire destroys good men, Sam.’ She took another sip of wine. ‘Mark my words, it’ll happen to you too.’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ I said. ‘I’ve had my fill of British superiority.’

  She laughed bitterly. ‘Let’s see how you feel in six months.’

  She might have been right. The words had sounded hollow as soon as I’d said them. It was seductively easy to fall into the casual racism upon which the whole place seemed built. I’d done it myself only a few hours earlier. It was insidious. But I could be better than that: I could learn from this woman, this beautiful, intelligent woman, who saw through all the pretence and the hypocrisy.

  ‘I’m serious,’ I said, as much to convince myself, as her.

  ‘Of course, Sam. You’re not like all the others. You’re different.’ She drained her glass.

  What was I supposed to say? Protest that I really was different? I feared I mightn’t be that different anyway. For want of anything worthwhile to say, I just kept quiet and topped up her glass.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘You didn’t deserve that. It’s just that I’ve seen it happen. Nice middle-class chaps from the Shires, they come out here and the power and the privilege go to their heads. All of a sudden they’re being waited on hand and foot and being dressed by a manservant. They start to feel entitled.’

  ‘Maybe I should forget about hiring the staff and just get the horse instead?’

  She smiled. A beautiful, disarming smile that made me question how any man could put his career above a woman like her.

  ‘So are you going to tell me what happened yesterday?’ she asked.

  ‘Like I said, there’s not much to tell. We tracked down a suspect. He resisted arrest. I just did my job.’

  ‘Do you think he killed MacAuley?’

  I hesitated, then shook my head. ‘I can’t say any more, Annie. I wish I could.’

  She smiled and brushed my hand gently with her own. ‘I’m sorry. That was naughty of me.’

  As she spoke, there was a commotion near the front of the room. The general conversation became hushed and eyes turned towards the door. A party of four entered, with the L-G at its head. He was dressed immaculately in black tie and starched white shirt and collar. Behind him trooped a portly gentleman in military uniform, a general, judging by his lapels, and two older ladies. The maître d’ rushed over to intercept them. He bowed so low and long that I feared for his ability to get back up. When he did finally surface, he addressed the L-G with animation. From this distance I couldn’t hear what was said but the oily smiles and exaggerated gestures suggested he wasn’t exactly protesting against government policy.

  The maître d’ led the party in our direction between the mass of tables. They were heading for an empty table in a far corner, set apart from the others and offering a degree of privacy. They made halting progress, the L-G stopping at several tables as diners stood to greet him. A few quick words here, a handshake there. He spotted Annie, recognised her at once, and made a beeline for our table. We stood to meet him, just as the others at previous tables en route had done.

  ‘Miss Grant,’ he said, in that nasal tone that made him sound like an Edinburgh stock broker.

  ‘Your Honour.’

  ‘I just wanted to tell you how appalled I was to hear about what happened to poor MacAuley. Rest assured the perpetrators will face justice very soon.’

  ‘Thank you, Your Honour,’ she replied, lowering her gaze. ‘That’s most reassuring.’

  ‘Tell me, my dear, how are you bearing up?’

  She smiled weakly. ‘I’m fine, thank you, though it took a little time for the shock to pass.’

  ‘That’s the spirit, my dear. Stiff upper lip and all that.’

  Annie turned to introduce me. ‘This is Captain Sam Wyndham, Your Honour. Recently—’

  ‘Oh, I’ve already had the pleasure, my dear!’ he said, interrupting her. He proffered me a hand. ‘My dear boy, you’re the hero of the hour. I understand we have you to thank for the apprehension of our old friend Benoy Sen.’

  ‘I can’t take the credit, sir,’ I replied. ‘It was a large operation.’

  ‘Yes, so I hear. Have you got a confession out of him?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  He wrinkled his nose. ‘Well, I can’t say I’m surprised. You must hand him over to military intelligence. They have experience of dealing with customers like Sen.’

  I nodded and told him we’d be transferring Sen in the morning.

  He looked satisfied. ‘In that case, I’ll not take up any more of your evening. Miss Grant, Captain Wyndham.’

  A curt nod to each of us and he was gone, back en route to his table. I sat down, took a sip of wine and turned to Annie.

  ‘You never told me you were best friends with the L-G,’ I said. ‘What does Aziz the barman make of him?’

  ‘He’s hardly my friend, Sam. I met him a couple of times accompanying MacAuley to Government House. More importantly, is it true? Did you really arrest Benoy Sen?’

  I kept quiet and smiled. When a woman’s impressed with something she thinks you’ve done, the best course of action is often just to let her think what she wants and not spoil it with facts.

  ‘That’s quite a coup,’ she gushed. ‘He’s been on the run for years.’

  ‘You know I can’t talk about the investigation,’ I said.

  ‘Oh, come on, Sam. The L-G himself has let the cat out of the bag. You’ve simply got to tell me now.’

  I mulled it over. Drink always weakened my resolve, and I’d already had a skin full. What was the harm in telling her? It would probably be on the front page of the Statesman in a few hours anyway. Besides, the boy in me wanted to impress her. I raised one hand in a gesture of surrender.

  ‘Okay,’ I said, ‘what do you want to know?’

  ‘Everything!’ she exclaimed. ‘How you tracked him down, how you caught him, what he’s like. Everything!’

  ‘It’s really not that interesting.’

  ‘Of course it is,’ she trilled. ‘The gallant Captain Wyndham, in Calcutta for less than a fortnight and he captures one of the most wanted men in the country.’

  ‘Like I told your friend the L-G, it wasn’t just me. There were a lot of people involved.’

  ‘But the L-G said you were the hero.’

  I shook my head. ‘I was just the one who arrested him.’

  ‘And got yourself wounded in the process.’

  ‘This?’ I said, pointing to the sling. ‘I told you, I got this falling off an elephant.’

  I took out my cigarette case and offered her one. She gratefully accepted. I took one for myself and lit us both up.

  ‘So why did he kill MacAuley?’ she asked.

  ‘That’s just it,’ I replied, ‘I’m not sure he did.’

  ‘Well, that is a surprise,’ she said, wide eyed, ‘and you didn’t think to tell the L-G?’

  I shook my head. ‘It wouldn’t make a difference. They’d still hang him. Sen’s just a pawn in a bigger game.’

  I could have told her I suspected I was too.

  I expected her to be indignant. To ask me why I was letting a man wrongly accused go to the gallows. On some level I wanted her to be indignant, to be outraged that I could allow suc
h a thing to happen. I wanted her to hold me to account and play the role my own conscience had abrogated. I was surprised when she said nothing. Surprised and slightly disappointed.

  ‘You shouldn’t feel bad about it, Sam,’ she said, reading my thoughts. ‘From what I hear, that man’s a monster. He deserves everything he gets, whether he killed MacAuley or not.’

  ‘I wish it were that simple,’ I said.

  She thought for a while. ‘If you don’t think Sen killed him, then who did?’

  ‘I’m going to find out.’

  ‘But if the L-G orders you to charge Sen, won’t that mean the case is closed?’

  ‘It won’t matter. I’ll do my job. Keep investigating. I didn’t come to Calcutta to be anyone’s lapdog.’

  ‘So why did you come here, Sam?’

  ‘To meet you, of course.’

  She smiled and I felt like a schoolboy with a crush.

  ‘Have you come to rescue me from this godforsaken place?’ she asked. ‘Because if you have, I feel I ought to warn you, I don’t need rescuing.’ She leaned forward and took a drag of her cigarette. ‘Maybe you’re here because it’s you who needs rescuing?’

  We left around eleven as the Great Eastern was disgorging its revellers. They gathered on the pavement outside, inebriated little groups of boisterous men and giggling women. The ladies of the fishing fleet seemed to have made a good catch.

  The white constable was still there, trying to keep a low profile and wearing an expression that said, Please God, don’t let the bastards kick up a scene on my watch. It was the same look his comrades wore half a world away in Mayfair and Chelsea on a Saturday night. After all, how does a poor working-class copper deal with a drunken mob of his social betters?

  Heads turned as Annie and I walked past. I wasn’t surprised. She was a beautiful girl, after all. The men stared, drinking her in. It didn’t bother me. I’ve never been the jealous type. Jealousy is just the manifestation of insecurity, and a confident man has no truck with such things. In fact, it gave me an odd satisfaction. It’s one of life’s pleasures to see men look in envy at the girl on your arm. As they did so, their women cast malicious glances, their faces like sour milk. What were they thinking? Were they scandalised at the sight of a white man with a half-caste? Was it anger at their menfolk for staring at this chee-chee? Or were they just jealous? I guessed at a combination of all three and smiled to myself. Those men could keep their pure-bred English roses. I was more than happy being with Annie.