The night was cool. A pleasant breeze blew in off the river and a yellow moon hung low in the sky. She threaded her arm through mine. Ignoring the line of waiting hackney carriages we started walking, with no real purpose, in the direction of the Maidan, the large open space that sits between Fort William and Chowringhee. We passed the gates of Government House with its lion standing atop the archway. It was an odd-looking beast, a touch fat and ponderous with three of its four stumpy legs planted firmly on its plinth. If anything, it looked a bit tired, as though it could do with a sit down after standing up there for so many years. A few lights still blazed from windows in the palace beyond, though whether it was the masters of the Raj burning the midnight oil or simply the servants, I couldn’t tell.
Ahead of us, street lamps glowed, stretching like pearls across the desiccated Maidan. The musky scent of marigolds wafted over. In the distance, illuminated by a dozen powerful arc lights, sat the vast white bulk of the Victoria Memorial, looking like some monstrous wedding cake that no one had the stomach to eat.
‘I like Calcutta at this hour,’ she said, ‘it’s almost beautiful.’
‘The City of Palaces. Isn’t that what they say?’
She laughed. ‘Only people who don’t live here. Or the people who actually live in palaces – people like Buchan and the L-G. Mind you, sometimes I don’t think I could ever leave Calcutta. And why would I?’ She smiled. ‘All human life is here.’
‘I confess, the place is starting to grow on me,’ I said, ‘though maybe that’s down to the company I’m keeping.’
‘Or maybe it’s down to all the drink inside you?’
‘Unlikely,’ I said. ‘I drank plenty in London and it never made me feel good about the place.’
She stopped and turned to face me, looking into my eyes as though searching for something. ‘You’re a curious man, Sam. In spite of everything you’ve been through, you’re still an innocent, aren’t you? I think maybe you have come to Calcutta to be saved. I—’
Before she could go any further, I held her and kissed her. That first kiss, unfamiliar, exquisite, like the first drops of autumn rain. The smell of her hair. The taste of her mouth.
The alcohol might not have changed my views of Calcutta, but it had helped me in other ways. Sometimes it takes a bit of Dutch courage to liberate an Englishman from himself. I looked at her now, seeing her as if for the first time. She took my face in her hands and kissed me back. There was a force to her kiss, an urgency. My breathing slowed. That second kiss was different, more important than the first. It seemed a release for both of us.
I hailed a hackney carriage.
‘Where to, sahib?’
I looked at Annie. For an instant, I considered ordering the driver to take us to Marcus Square, but immediately my conscience rebelled. Besides, I doubted Miss Grant, for all her cosmopolitan talk, would have agreed any way.
‘Bow Barracks,’ I said to the driver, as I helped Annie up.
Annie said nothing, she just held my hand and rested her head on my good shoulder. I closed my eyes and breathed in the scent of her. The carriage stopped at the entrance to her lodgings, a flat in a grim, two-storey building, and I helped her out. She looked at me, then kissed me on the cheek and was gone without a word. I was too tired to make sense of any of it. Instead, I got back into the hackney and ordered the driver to take me to the Belvedere.
TWENTY–FOUR
Sunday, 13 April 1919
I AWOKE AT dawn, feeling better than I had in quite a long while. My head was clear, the pain in my arm had dulled and everything had a warm glow. Even the crows outside sounded melodious. Odd how a kiss from a woman can change your perspective.
I lay there for some time, savouring the memory of the previous evening. Then my thoughts turned to Sen and the pleasant feelings evaporated. Twenty-four hours ago I thought I’d caught MacAuley’s killer and averted a terrorist campaign. Twenty-four hours ago I was a bloody hero. Most people still thought I was, including the L-G. But life, my life at least, has never been quite so neat. The truth was I’d solved nothing and now time was running out. I had to decide what was more important: saving an innocent man’s life or finding the real terrorists.
I got up, bathed, shaved and applied the ointment and dressing to my wound. I considered putting on the sling, but decided against it. The pain had lessened and I had a certain determination in my step. And if at some point that determination began to ebb, there were always the morphine tablets.
The dining room was busy with the sound of conversation. The Colonel was up. It was the first time I’d seen him at breakfast. He wore a starched collar and tie, and an irascible expression on his jowls. Across from him sat Mrs Tebbit, dressed in her Sunday best, and between them, Byrne and a young man whom I hadn’t seen before.
‘Here he is!’ cried Mrs Tebbit rather too enthusiastically as I entered the room. ‘Our Captain Wyndham!’
Our Captain Wyndham? I thought. Did she plan on adopting me?
‘Captain,’ she gushed, ‘please come and sit, there’s space here next to me.’
I did as ordered, taking a seat between her and the door.
‘We’ve been reading about your exploits in the paper this morning,’ she said, proudly brandishing a copy of the Statesman. The front page headline read:
MACAULEY MURDER: TERRORIST
SEN APPREHENDED
‘It’s all there,’ chimed the Colonel, ‘about how you shot and captured that wretched coolie. I dare say you taught him some manners.’
‘I didn’t shoot anyone, Colonel,’ I said tiredly.
‘Gave him what for, no doubt,’ he chuckled. ‘I’m sure you only did what you had to, my boy.’
I read the article, which, sure enough, mentioned me by name.
As the maid came over with my breakfast, the residents of the Royal Belvedere continued the inquisition.
‘Tell us, Captain,’ said Mrs Tebbit, ‘has he confessed yet?’
‘I can’t comment on that, Mrs Tebbit.’
‘I’ll bet he hasn’t,’ she continued. ‘Those people never do. They don’t have the guts to admit their crimes and face justice. I’ll bet he’s been pleading for mercy. But you must be firm, Captain. Firmness is the only language these people understand. Give them an inch and they’ll take a mile.’ She looked at her husband. ‘That’s what the Colonel always says, isn’t it, dear?’
The old man seemed not to hear a word of it.
I made a start on my omelette. It was cold and rubbery and a vast improvement on previous dishes that had came out the purgatory that was Mrs Tebbit’s kitchen. I wolfed it down with the fervour of a Calvinist on Judgement Day and looked across at Byrne. He hadn’t said a word since I’d arrived. Maybe he was just struggling with his meal. Or maybe the Tebbits hadn’t let him get a word in edgeways.
‘Where’s Peters?’ I asked him.
‘Went back to Lucknow yesterday,’ he replied, chewing on a mouthful of something. ‘His case ended on Friday.’ He took a sip of tea. ‘So you caught the Ghost, did you, Captain? That’s impressive. Sure, he’s been on the run for years now.’
‘Four years,’ chimed Mrs Tebbit. ‘Four years he’s been on the run and they couldn’t catch him. And now, our Captain Wyndham arrests him in less than a fortnight. I always said it wouldn’t take long for a real Englishman to catch him. Ever since they started recruiting natives into senior ranks, the police force has gone to the dogs.’
‘Like everything else,’ snorted the Colonel.
I finished my breakfast and made my excuses.
‘Of course, Captain,’ said Mrs Tebbit. ‘We quite understand. You have your work to do.’ She turned to her husband. ‘I can’t wait to tell the vicar all about our Captain Wyndham shooting that wretched terrorist.’
Leaving them to their conversation, I made my way out to the street. The air was close. A storm was coming. Salman was sat with the other rickshaw wallahs gathered at the corner of the square. I called to him. He spoke
briefly to his comrades before picking up his vehicle and heading over.
‘Good morning, sahib,’ he said, looking nervously skywards. He too seemed to have noticed the change in the air. He lowered the rickshaw and touched his forehead with his hand.
I nodded and got on.
‘Lal Bazar, chalo.’
Surrender-not was waiting outside my office. Lost in thought, he leaned against the wall and tapped the floor with his lathi.
‘Morning, Sergeant,’ I said.
He quickly straightened up and saluted.
‘Good morning, sir,’ he said. He followed me in and hovered next to the door. Another yellow note was waiting on the desk. This time it was from Digby. I sat down and read it. It was dated the previous evening. He’d made arrangements with Section H for Sen’s transfer. Their officers would arrive at nine a.m. to take custody of the prisoner. I crushed the note into a ball, threw it at the waste-paper bin and watched as it bounced off the rim and landed on the floor.
‘Is everything all right, sir?’ asked Surrender-not.
‘Everything’s fine,’ I said. After all, it wasn’t unexpected. Section H were always going to get their hands on Sen. But that didn’t mean I had to like it. ‘Military intelligence will be taking charge of Sen this morning,’ I said. ‘Let’s go and break the news to him.’
We walked down to the basement. Overnight the cells had taken on an international flavour. A motley assortment of foreign sailors had joined the rag-bag of natives, and the stench of vomit and excrement was now all pervasive. The cells were packed. Calcutta is a port city, and that meant sailors on shore leave with nothing better to do than piss away their back pay on drink and whores. Europeans, Africans, even a few Orientals, all lay hung-over on the stone floors.
Sen, though, was a special case. As a political, he had a cell to himself. He lay awake on the plank bed and looked better than he’d done the day before. The colour had returned to his skin. With some difficulty, he dragged himself up onto his elbows.
‘Good morning, gentlemen,’ he said, a wry smile on his angular face. ‘To what do I owe the pleasure?’
‘You’re to be transferred into the custody of military intelligence this morning,’ I said. ‘Looks like you’ll be getting your wish to see Fort William.’
He accepted the news stoically. ‘It is of no great consequence. Am I being charged with the murder of Mr MacAuley?’
‘Final charges will be brought once you’ve been interviewed by Section H, but yes, provisionally that is one of the charges.’
He looked me in the eye. ‘I understand, Captain.’
I left Banerjee with the guard to prepare Sen for the transfer and went off in search of a cup of coffee.
I didn’t find it.
Instead, I was collared by a peon. It seemed Dawson and his men had arrived an hour early. Whatever else I felt towards them, I couldn’t fault their enthusiasm. I made my way to the lobby where the Colonel was waiting with what appeared to be a whole platoon of gurkhas.
‘I see you’re not taking any chances,’ I said. ‘Trust me, he’s really not that dangerous, so long as you don’t let him make a speech.’
Dawson ignored the remark and handed me some type-written sheets.
‘Transfer papers for the prisoner Benoy Sen.’
I made a show of reading every word, not that I doubted they were perfectly in order.
‘Fine,’ I said eventually. ‘He’s in the holding cells downstairs.’ I called over to a constable and asked him to show Dawson’s men the way. ‘I’m afraid, though, I’m going to need a few minutes of your time, Colonel.’
‘What?’ He looked at me as though he suspected me of trying to trick him out of his prize, then gave his men the order to continue without him.
‘Well?’ he said as the soldiers trooped off.
‘That train attack I mentioned the other day. I don’t think Sen and his men were responsible.’
‘You think it was dacoits now?’
‘No. I just don’t think it was Sen’s gang.’
He stared at me, as though sizing me up.
‘There’s something you should know,’ he said. ‘There was an attack last night on a branch of the Bengal Burma Bank. Quite sophisticated: the perpetrators kidnapped the manager’s wife, then forced him to open up the safe.’
‘How much did they get away with?’
‘Over two hundred thousand rupees.’
‘Enough to fund an arms purchase.’
‘And a lot more besides: training, printing presses, recruitment… Given the right climate, enough to fund a revolution.’
I swallowed hard as the full weight of his words sunk in. With the funds in their hands, it was only a matter of time before the terrorists would have the weapons to begin their campaign. Our only hope now lay in stopping them before they took delivery. But from the look on Dawson’s face it seemed that even the vaunted Section H didn’t know where to begin. Without a lead, it would be like looking for shadows in a darkened room.
One thing, however, was clear. It couldn’t have been Jugantor. There was no way they could have mounted such an operation the day after their leader had been captured and his closest comrades dispatched.
‘Have you any idea who was behind it?’ I asked.
Dawson shrugged. ‘Anyone from communists to Hindu nationalists. You can take your pick. Rest assured, we’ll find out soon enough.’
His tone, though, was ambivalent.
‘What can I do to help?’ I asked.
The question seemed to hit him in the gut. ‘What?’ he said disgustedly. ‘I’m not telling you this because I want your help, Captain. I’m telling you so that you know not to stick your nose where it’s not wanted. This is a military matter. Remember that before you decide to do anything foolish.’
Half an hour later, Surrender-not knocked on my door.
‘All done?’ I asked.
‘Yes, sir. They left about five minutes ago.’
’Take a seat, Sergeant.’
I passed him a sheet of paper on which I’d written a number of bullet points.
MACAULEY
SEN
DEVI
MRS BOSE
BUCHAN
STEVENS
ATTACK ON DARJEELING MAIL
BENGAL BURMA BANK ROBBERY
‘What’s the connection?’ I asked.
Surrender-not stared hard at the paper then looked up.
‘I’m sorry, sir. I can’t see any.’
‘That’s a shame,’ I said, ‘neither can I. It looks like we’re going to have to do this the old-fashioned way. Is the motor car ready?’
‘The driver is waiting downstairs.’
‘Right,’ I said, ‘let’s get going.’
I rose from the chair, grabbed Digby’s jacket and headed for the door.
Six miles to the north-west of the city centre lies Dum Dum, a shabby, nondescript suburb in a part of town not short of shabby, nondescript suburbs. It took an hour to make the journey from Lal Bazar, first up to the heaving streets of Shyambazar, then across the canal and along the train tracks at Belgachia, and finally on to the Jessore Road, lined with labourers in loin cloths, digging the new route out to the aerodrome.
The sky looked grim. It reflected my mood. I’d achieved nothing and time was fast running out. The attack on the Bengal Burma Bank suggested a fully-fledged terrorist campaign was imminent. Meanwhile, Sen was in the hands of Section H and MacAuley’s killer was still at large. At the same time, I felt strangely empowered. I was conducting the inquiry the way I wanted to, not just chasing ghosts, and it was with a sense of anticipation that we approached our destination.
St Andrew’s Church was a handsome, whitewashed chapel complete with bell tower and octagonal spire. It sat on one side of a leafy park, not far from the Central Jail. The driver pulled to a stop at the kerbside, attracting the attention of a group of urchins who were playing on the church steps. Their faces lit up at the sight of the car as the
y abandoned their game and ran over to examine the curious contraption. Leaving the driver to fend for himself, Surrender-not and I headed towards the church.
From inside came the sounds of the Sunday-morning service; English voices busy mangling some poor hymn. I imagined it was the same in every outpost of the empire, from Auckland to Vancouver. Each Sunday, that peculiarly dispiriting sound of piano or pipe-organ accompanying flat, discordant voices murdering the same songs resonated across the world. It was both depressing and oddly reassuring.
We entered through oversized wooden doors and sat in the last row of pews. I tried to remember the last time I’d been in a church other than for a funeral. Probably not since my wedding. Heads turned in our direction, then turned back and continued the business of singing ‘Onward Christian Soldiers’.
I took in the surroundings. Scots like their churches austere. Arched windows set in bare walls, a dozen rows of wooden pews on either side of a central aisle. To the left, a small wooden staircase curved up to a raised pulpit in which stood the minister, a bull of a man with a thick neck, ruddy features and iron-grey hair. Above his black cassock, a clerical collar and a pair of starched white preaching tabs.
The music died and the congregation returned to their seats. The minister leaned forward in the pulpit, opened a large Bible which sat on a wooden lectern, and began reading. It was some Old Testament text, the days when God seemed more motivated by revenge than forgiveness. His voice, heavy with a Scots accent, echoed through the room like a thunderstorm.
‘… They provoked Him to jealousy with strange gods, with abominations provoked they him to anger.
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