A Rising Man

by Abir Mukherjee

  ‘You make it sound as if we are irredeemably evil,’ I said.

  He shook his head. ‘No, Captain. If we were irredeemably evil, we’d have no need for the hypocrisy. We wouldn’t even bother trying to justify our presence as masters in someone else’s house. It’s precisely because we seek redemption that we convince ourselves that we’re here as benefactors. But the Lord is our salvation, Captain. He has made us redeemable, and our consciences urge us to be on the side of the angels. When we find we’re not, we hate ourselves for it.’

  He read my expression.

  ‘You don’t believe me? Tell me honestly, Captain. Other than the missionaries, how many of your countrymen have you met out here that are actually happy? They curse the natives and the climate and live out gin-soaked days in splendid isolation at their clubs, and why? So that they can live with the conceit that they’re here for the good of the natives. It’s all a lie, Captain. And it’s ourselves we’re lying to more than the Indians.’ He pointed to Banerjee. ‘The educated among them see us for what we are, and, when they seek Home Rule, we pretend we can’t understand how they can be so ungrateful.’

  The reverend, his face reddening, was straying into matters that I told myself were none of my concern, and which I hadn’t the time for. Nevertheless, it struck a chord with something I’d picked up on over the last few days. I thanked him and asked to take our leave.

  ‘Of course,’ he said, calming somewhat. ‘I hope I’ve been of some help to you. By the way, has the funeral taken place yet?’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘Alec’s funeral. Has it occurred yet?’

  It was a good question. The body should have been released to the next of kin soon after the post-mortem, but that would have been tricky seeing as how the man had none. For all I knew the body was still lying in a drawer at the Medical College morgue.

  ‘If nothing’s been arranged,’ said Gunn, ‘I’d like to organise the funeral.’

  I nodded. ‘We’ll check on the situation and let you know.’

  TWENTY–SIX

  THE RAIN CONTINUED to pour as we drove back towards town. The workmen on the Jessore road had downed tools and were sheltering under makeshift awnings of palm fronds, their excavations reduced to waterlogged pits of thick black mud that brought back memories of France. We headed for Cossipore. Back to Mrs Bose’s high-class whore house.

  The downpour had choked the sewers and transformed the roads into canals, turning Black Town into a poor-man’s Venice, though with fewer gondolas and more drowned rats. The traffic had slowed to a crawl, only the natives didn’t seem to mind. If anything, the rain seemed to energise them.

  Maniktollah Lane was too narrow for cars, so Banerjee ordered the driver to stop in a street close by.

  ‘We’ll have to walk the rest of the way,’ he said.

  Walking was fine. I was just concerned we might have to swim. Black water reached well past my ankles. My shoes and socks were sodden and my trousers wet to the knees. Beside me, Surrender-not was having a better time of it. He held his shoes and socks in his hand and grinned like a child out for a paddle on Brighton beach. Wet trousers weren’t a problem for him on account of the fact that he wasn’t wearing any: regulations stipulated that native officers wear shorts rather than trousers, like junior boys at some prep school.

  Wading up to the front of number 47, Surrender-not rapped loudly on the rickety wood. Eventually there came the shuffling of the manservant making his way to the door.

  ‘Kè?’

  ‘Police!’ shouted Surrender-not. ‘Dorja kholo!’

  ‘Wait. Wait,’ the old man replied as he unbolted the door.

  ‘Ha?’

  He didn’t recognise us, either because his eyes or his brain were cloudy. Surrender-not addressed him roughly. I guessed he was asking to see Mrs Bose.

  ‘Madam bari-the nei.’

  ‘He says Madam is out.’

  ‘When will she be back?’

  ‘Madam kokhon firbè?’ asked the sergeant.

  The old man cupped his hand to his ear.

  ‘Kee?’

  Surrender-not shouted louder and the old man mumbled something in reply.

  ‘He says not till late tonight.’

  ‘What about Devi? Is she here?’

  ‘He says she’s out too.’

  ‘Tell him we’ll wait inside.’

  The message didn’t seem to go down well. The old man, still smiling, shook his head vehemently. Surrender-not raised his voice, maybe to intimidate the old man, or maybe just to make himself understood. Either way, the result was underwhelming.

  ‘He says he’s been instructed not to let in anyone he doesn’t know. I could order him, sir?’

  There was no point in that. Mrs Bose wouldn’t be predisposed to assist us as it was. Finding us dripping on her drawing-room floor was unlikely to help her mood.

  ‘Leave it,’ I said. ‘We’ll come back later.’

  We stepped back into the submerged lane and waded cautiously back towards the car. At the corner, Surrender-not pointed to a native woman approaching down the street. As she came closer, her features became clear. It was Devi. She’d turned one end of her sari into a makeshift bag, which she was using to carry something. She looked carefree, taking no notice of the rain. Then she saw us and her face fell. She stopped, and looked around frantically as though searching for an alternate route, but save for turning around, there was nowhere else for her to go. Before she could act, Surrender-not had set off in her direction. The girl stood there as if caught in a spotlight and waited for him.

  Soon the three of us were sat in a dimly lit tea stall that opened on to the street. It was raised on stone blocks, just high enough to prevent the water from flooding in. It might even have been effective if the rain wasn’t also seeping in through a ceiling that seemed more hole than roof. The place was empty save for the proprietor, a pot-bellied native in a moth-eaten vest and a blue checked lunghi, who sat on a stool and stared sullenly out at the rain, probably wondering how long we planned on staying. It was unlikely many other patrons would frequent his establishment while two policemen were in there drinking sweet tea.

  We sat on benches around a rough wooden table, on which the girl had placed the vegetables she’d unwrapped from the folds of her sari. Surrender-not was speaking softly to her in her native tongue. Her responses were hesitant. She took a sip of cha from the small red clay cup in front of her. The hot tea seemed to help put her at ease. I sat back and let Surrender-not get on with it. Whatever he was saying, it looked to be working and eventually the girl smiled shyly.

  Surrender-not broke off and turned towards me. ‘She’s agreed to answer some questions.’

  ‘Ask her if she saw anything the night MacAuley was killed.’

  Surrender-not repeated the question. The girl hesitated, but he pressed her gently. She nodded, stared down at the table and started to answer.

  ‘She was between clients,’ said Banerjee. ‘She was at the window on her way back from the washroom and saw the whole thing.’

  ‘Ask her what happened.’

  ‘She says she saw MacAuley leave the house. As he turned to go, he was called into the alley by another sahib.’

  ‘A white man?’

  ‘Apparently.’

  ‘She’s certain?’

  He asked her again. ‘Yes. She says the sahib had been loitering. She thinks he was waiting for MacAuley. They talked for a few minutes then started arguing.’

  So MacAuley had been in the brothel that night. He’d come out and, according to the girl, met someone who’d been waiting for him and who then killed him. If she was right and it was a sahib, that would put Sen in the clear, something he was sure to appreciate when they hanged him.

  ‘What did they talk about?’

  ‘She doesn’t know. She says they were speaking in the language of the firangi. They argued for about five minutes.’

  ‘Then what happened?’

  Devi hesitate
d once again. When she answered, there were tears in her eyes. Banerjee translated as she spoke.

  ‘She says the man who was killed, he made to end the conversation. He pushed away the other man and tried to leave. The other man pulled something from his pocket, she thinks it was a knife, grabbed MacAuley from behind and put it to his throat.’

  ‘She’s sure it was a knife?’

  Banerjee translated and the girl nodded.

  ‘Where did he get it from?’

  ‘She thinks he pulled it from his coat.’

  ‘Then what happened?’

  ’MacAuley stopped struggling. The other man released him and he fell to the ground. The man then stood there for some moments then put away the knife, wiped his hands on his trousers and ran off.’

  ‘Ran off?’ I asked. ‘He didn’t stab MacAuley in the chest? What about the note in MacAuley’s mouth?’

  Surrender-not asked the questions. The girl looked at him blankly, then answered.

  ‘She says she didn’t see him write any note or touch the body again. He just ran off.’

  ‘And she’s sure about that?’

  ‘Positive,’ said Banerjee.

  I felt nauseous. It seemed this girl, my last best hope for ever getting to the truth of who killed MacAuley, was flatly contradicting the facts of the murder. I was tempted to hit my head against the wall, but if the roof was anything to go by, the damn thing would probably have collapsed. Instead, I persevered with the questions.

  ‘Ask her if MacAuley was a regular at the brothel.’

  The girl shook her head.

  ‘She says she’d only seen him once before, but that she’s new to Calcutta. She’d only been here a few weeks when she witnessed MacAuley’s murder.’

  ‘What about the killer? Did she get a look at him? Would she recognise him again?’

  ‘She says it was dark. She didn’t get much of a look at him, but she got the impression that he was no stranger to MacAuley.’

  ‘Has she told anyone else what she saw?’

  The girl looked worried, then replied slowly. Banerjee translated her reply.

  ‘One person.’

  ‘Mrs Bose?’

  The girl shook her head.

  ‘One of the other girls?’

  She shook her head once more.

  ‘Who then?’

  ‘She won’t say.’

  ‘Ask her again.’

  Surrender-not pressed her for an answer. Tears began to trickle down her cheeks.

  ‘She won’t tell us without first speaking to him. Apparently he’s been kind to her.’

  ‘A man? What, the old manservant?’ That was great. The person she’d confided in, the only one who could corroborate her story, was half deaf and wholly senile.

  ‘She says it’s not him, it was another man who was also in the house when we went round the following morning. She assumed we’d already talked to him as he wasn’t in the room when we questioned her and the others.’

  ‘Did he also witness the murder?’

  The girl trembled suddenly. She stood up quickly and said something to Banerjee. Before he could stop her, she’d gathered her vegetables, wrapped them in her sari, and run out into the street.

  Another of the girls from the brothel was approaching in the distance. Devi wiped her face and walked hurriedly in her direction.

  ‘She said she’s been gone too long,’ said Banerjee. ’One of the other girls has come to look for her and she’s scared to be seen talking to us.’

  I sipped cold tea.

  ‘Do you think she’s telling the truth?’

  ‘Why would she lie, sir?’

  ‘I don’t know, but her story doesn’t fit the facts.’

  ‘You mean the stabbing and the threat? She was adamant the killer left no note. I suppose it’s possible he went back later and left it.’

  ‘But why? Why take the risk of going back and being caught? And why stab the body after he’d already killed the man?’

  Surrender-not shrugged.

  None of it made any sense.

  ‘What about this man she confided in? You couldn’t get a feel for who she might have meant?’

  The sergeant had his hang-dog expression on again. ‘I’m sorry, sir,’ he replied. ‘I should have pressed her harder.’

  ‘Forget it,’ I said. ‘You did pretty well for a man who can’t talk to women.’

  A half-hour later, I sent Surrender-not back to number 47 to see if Mrs Bose had returned. He came back shaking his head. We had another cup of tea to raise our spirits and then, in the gathering gloom, headed back to the car to keep a half-hearted watch on Maniktollah Lane. I wasn’t sure what I hoped to see, maybe Mrs Bose riding home on a tandem bicycle with the man who was Devi’s confidante on the back? Unfortunately Calcutta didn’t seem to work that way. Instead, we sat through two hours of nothing before calling it a day. There was still no sign of the elusive Mrs Bose and, other than a dim light at one of the upstairs windows, the house looked dead. Besides, my arm was aching and my feet were sopping wet. Mrs Bose was going to have to wait till tomorrow.

  The rain was still pissing down as I gave the order to head back to town.

  The driver made for Shyambazar, home apparently to Calcutta’s Bengali elite: the Boses, Banerjees, Chatterjees and Chukerbuttys. To British ears, at least, it seemed the higher the caste, the more comical the surname. There was nothing comical about their houses, though, many of which could give the best of White Town a run for their money. The Banerjee house, if indeed you could call a residence four storeys tall and several hundred yards wide a house, could hold its own against any of them. Surrender-not seemed embarrassed by the place. In my experience, the very rich and the very poor were often embarrassed by their dwellings. It was probably the only thing they had in common. The sergeant took great pains to explain that it was home to a whole extended family of cousins, aunts and uncles. Still, it hardly fitted my definition of living cheek by jowl.

  ‘You have my sympathies,’ I said. ‘It must be hell having just the one wing to yourself.’

  He smiled, got out of the car and walked to the front gate. A uniformed durwan promptly opened it and saluted as Surrender-not disappeared inside, his shoes and socks still in his hand.

  It was after seven by the time the driver dropped me outside the Belvedere. The rain had stopped and in its wake, a curious chill hung in the air. The square was empty, with even the rickshaw wallahs absent from their normal spot. Inside, the lights were on in the parlour, though the door was mercifully closed. My luck held and I made it all the way to my room without anyone accosting me on the stairs and questioning the state of my footwear. Closing the door, I took off my wet clothes, changed for dinner, steeled myself and headed back down.

  There was a festive air in the dining room that night, not that it seemed to have improved the food, which was the usual tussle between the bland and the inedible. Mrs Tebbit had ordered the cook to make a roast, it being Sunday, with real beef on account of my heroic actions as reported in the papers. It had the potential to be great, in much the same way that a frog has the potential to be a prince if kissed appropriately. The meat had been cooked to within an inch of its life, then cooked for several inches more and the Yorkshire puddings tasted as though they’d come from Yorkshire, though shipped to India the long way round. At least the wine was good. Better still, there was quite a lot of it. Toasts were drunk, many of them to my heroism and single-handed saving of the empire, and after a couple of bottles, who was I to disabuse them?

  Little did I know that a mere twenty-four hours later we’d be toasting another British officer for exactly the same reason, and on just as fraudulent grounds.

  After dinner, the party adjourned to the parlour for cigars and brandy. The Colonel held court, recounting tales of the second Afghan War. The way the old man told it, he’d been present at all the key battles, from Ali Masjid in ’78 to Kandahar in ’80, even turning up at battles when the rest of his regiment we
re a couple of hundred miles away. You couldn’t fault his dedication. Indeed, if he was to be believed, we were damn lucky to have had him on our side.

  He did well for a while, then started mixing up his Afghans. Was it Sher Ali Khan or Ayub Khan at the battle of Fatehabad? Mohammed Yakub Khan or Gazi Mohammed Jan Khan at the Siege of Sherpur? The saga tailed off into a confusion of Khans and soon the Colonel was snoring peacefully in his chair.

  Mrs Tebbit was busy haranguing the new chap I’d seen at breakfast that morning. His name was Horace Meek, recently arrived from Mandalay, and he’d just committed the capital offence of spilling wine on one of Mrs Tebbit’s rugs. When she did eventually notice the Colonel snoozing, she let out a shriek at a pitch most women emit when confronted by a murderer or a mouse, then rose and shooed her husband off to bed. Meek looked shell-shocked and Byrne tried to console him.

  ‘Don’t worry, son,’ he said, ‘she says they’re Persian, but sure, I know they’re made by a bunch of Biharis in a factory over in Howrah. The closest thing to Persian about them is the old Afghan trader she bought them off at the Hogg Market, and he’s lived in Bengal his whole life. The old sod can’t even speak Pashto.’

  Meek, though, was taking no chances. He drained his glass and all but ran off to his room, just in case the lady of the house returned for another piece of him.

  That left Byrne and me. On his own he could be pleasant company, at least when you got him away from talk of textiles. His cigar had gone out and I helped relight it from mine.

  He seemed in better spirits than when I’d last spoken with him, though that may have been down to the wine.

  ‘So,’ I asked, ‘how’s business?’

  ‘Oh, just grand.’ He smiled. ‘I should be out of here by Wednesday. Tell me, has your man confessed, yet?’

  I decided to indulge him.

  ‘No. Not to MacAuley’s murder, at any rate. He’s confessed to pretty much everything else, though.’

  ‘Well, isn’t that odd? That he should hold out on MacAuley while confessin’ to all the other stuff?’