A Rising Man

by Abir Mukherjee

‘Too hot?’

  ‘Too bitter,’ he said, adding a heap of sugar.

  ‘You remember the day we met?’ I said. ‘I asked you why you joined the police force.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘You told me it was because one day, you Indians would be in charge of your own affairs and when that day came, you’d need trained detectives, just as you’d need trained judges and army officers and engineers and everything else one needs to run a country.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And what has happened to change your mind?’

  Surrender-not spoke softly. ‘Until now, I had believed in British justice and sense of fair play. Obviously there are bad Englishmen just as there are bad Indians, nevertheless I always imagined the system was fair. It would punish the wrongdoers and afford justice to the victims. I see now that my father was right. When one English woman is attacked, innocent Indian men are forced to crawl on their bellies in front of her. Meanwhile, hundreds if not thousands of unarmed Indians – men, women and children – are massacred, and the perpetrator is treated as a hero. Does British justice mean justice only for the British?’

  What was I supposed to say? Tell him it was all lies and propaganda? That such an act would never have been sanctioned by a British officer? I could have said that. Maybe it’s what I should have said, but I knew enough of the goings-on in Ireland to realise that, despite what we liked to believe, the British Army wasn’t above committing the odd atrocity now and again.

  Or I could have told him that if such a massacre had been committed, the perpetrator was a mad man and justice would be done. At least that statement had the advantage of being partly true. You probably did have to be mad to give the order to open fire on a crowd of unarmed civilians, but in my experience, madness had never been a barrier to high rank in the army, much less so now, after a war that had made madmen out of a great many. I expected Dyer was probably one of them. He wouldn’t have seen the crowd of Indians as people, just as a problem to be solved.

  As for justice, the truth was that whatever had happened would officially be swept under the carpet for a very long time. Byrne had been right. Our rule depended on us showing ourselves to be morally superior to those whom we ruled. You couldn’t really do that if you admitted to shooting hundreds of women and children.

  But I wasn’t about to lie to the sergeant. He deserved better than that.

  We both did.

  The problem was, my investigation was heading the way of the Lusitania and I needed the young sergeant’s help if I was ever going to right the ship.

  ‘What’s happened in Amritsar,’ I said, ‘if it’s happened as you say, is, I admit, a crime. But you resigning won’t bring justice for those killed. If you stay, however, we can try to make a difference for at least one Indian.’

  ‘You mean Sen?’ He laughed bitterly and took a sip of coffee. ‘He’s already beyond help. They’re going to hang him no matter what we do.’

  ‘And your conscience could live with that? Knowing you’d given up on a man you knew to be innocent, just to protest something you can do nothing about?’

  He said nothing, so I pressed the advantage.

  ‘Sen doesn’t have long left. A few days at most. You were the one who first suggested he might be innocent. If you still believe it, you owe it to him to keep investigating.’

  The boy was wavering. I could see it in his eyes. It was time to offer him a compromise. ‘I need your help, Surrender-not. I can’t do this alone, and Digby would like nothing better than to see Sen hanged. After all, he’ll get a bloody promotion out of it. All I’m asking is that you hold off on any decision till we’ve got to the bottom of this case.’

  He drained his coffee cup.

  ‘Very well,’ he said finally, ‘I shall defer my decision until this case has come to a conclusion.’

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

  He smiled. ‘Besides you’re right, my conscience wouldn’t allow me to quit now.’

  ‘Good man,’ I said. ‘I’m sure Sen would appreciate your commitment.’

  ‘I’m not talking about Sen, sir,’ he replied. ‘I mean, I can hardly quit when there’s a chance Sub-inspector Digby might get promoted and possibly become your superior officer… sir.’

  We walked back to Lal Bazar amidst a frenzy of activity. Olive-green lorries loaded with soldiers sped past heading north, black smoke belching from their exhausts. Sepoys were moving into position around Dalhousie Square. Under the direction of a young British officer they were busy setting up checkpoints and laying sandbags around the entrances to Writers’ Building, the post office and the telephone exchange.

  Lal Bazar itself was practically deserted. Most of the uniformed officers and men had been dispatched to potential trouble spots and the administrative staff and the peons were the only ones left. Them and the detectives, of course. They’d only get involved after the balloon went up and people started dying. I left Surrender-not in my office and headed for the radio room. I wanted an update on the latest developments but, given his state of mind, taking the sergeant along didn’t seem like a good idea. He was still wavering and the last thing I needed was him seeing unexpurgated reports of what was unfolding across the country and deciding to resign again.

  As it happened, I didn’t need to read the latest dispatches to know things were worsening. Just looking out the windows on the third floor was enough. To the north and east, thick plumes of black smoke were rising, darkening the sky like fat monsoon rain clouds.

  It was almost midday now. The radio room was a furnace stoked by heat from the electrical devices. The shift had changed, the white officer and two native constables from earlier replaced by an identical team: another two natives and their white overseer. I read some of the more recent reports. Trouble was brewing in most of the major cities. From Delhi came confusion, the military authorities doubling down, praising Dyer as the saviour of the empire, the civilian authorities rather less vociferous. Mixed messages and the first hint of panic. From the Punjab, nothing. As if the province had simply disappeared.

  I was halfway through a report on the situation in Bombay when Surrender-not burst into the room. He was panting. A trickle of perspiration ran down the side of his face.

  ‘A message from Cossipore thana,’ he gasped, ‘from Sub-inspector Digby. It’s bad news.’

  TWENTY–EIGHT

  THE WOLSELEY WASN’T in the vehicle compound. Neither was anything else. All of the Imperial Police’s meagre stock of motorised vehicles had been dispatched to trouble spots around the city. There were a few horses left in the stables and I suggested we commandeer two. Surrender-not looked as though I’d just asked him to wrestle a bear.

  ‘It’s a trained police horse,’ I said, ‘not a wild bull.’

  ‘It’s not the horse’s competence I’m questioning, sir,’ he replied. ‘I don’t think the gods ever intended for Bengalis to ride horses.’

  I could have ordered him to mount up, but there was no point. He might break his neck trying, or worse try to resign again.

  ‘Have you got a better idea?’ I asked.

  It turned out he had, and ten minutes later we were on our way to Cossipore having hitched a lift on one of the military trucks heading north.

  The lorry dropped us at Cossipore thana, from where we walked, down deserted streets, past houses with shuttered windows and boarded doors. A uniformed constable, armed with a lathi, stood at the entrance to number 47 Maniktollah Lane. On the step next to him sat the old manservant, Ratan. He was dressed, as always, in a dhoti and vest and was busy haranguing the constable about something. A stream of invective flowed from his gums, then suddenly dried up as though he’d lost his train of thought. Not that it seemed to matter much to the constable, who did a pretty good imitation of one of the sentries outside Buckingham Palace, standing ramrod straight and studiously ignoring him.

  The interior echoed to the sound of officious voices. In a room at the end of the corridor,
someone was barking orders. A native constable was stood at the foot of the stairs and snapped to attention as we entered. I asked to see Digby.

  ‘Sub-inspector sahib upstairs,’ he said, gesticulating with one raised finger.

  Digby was on the first-floor landing, talking at a native constable.

  ‘Ah, there you are, old boy,’ he said. ‘You’d better come through.’

  He led the way down a corridor and stopped outside a room at the far end where another constable stood guard. Digby made a sweeping gesture with his arm.

  ‘After you.’

  The room was narrow and nondescript. Sparsely furnished – a bed and not much else, that is other than the body hanging from the ceiling. That would have been hard to miss even if there had been more furniture. It was the body of a girl, suspended from a cord attached to a hook on the ceiling. On the floor a few feet beneath her, an upturned chair. Her head was bent awkwardly to the side like a doll with its neck snapped, her features obscured by a mass of dishevelled black hair, but I didn’t need to see the face to know who it was. She was wearing the same pastel-coloured sari she’d had on yesterday.

  I touched her hand. The flesh was clammy. No sign yet of rigor.

  ‘What do we know?’ I asked Digby.

  ‘Looks like suicide. She was dead when we got here. It’s unclear exactly how long.’

  ‘Who found her?’

  ‘The maid,’ he said. ‘The lady of the house sent her to fetch the girl.’

  ‘When exactly?’

  ‘Just after we got here. Around eleven.’

  ‘No one checked on her before eleven o’clock?’

  ‘Working girls,’ said Digby. ‘It’s not unusual for them to sleep late.’

  ‘Where’s Mrs Bose?’

  ‘Downstairs. We’ve detained her in the drawing room.’

  I nodded, then pointed to Devi’s body. ‘Get someone in here to cut her down, then organise transport to the morgue.’

  Digby saluted and left the room. I took a closer look at the body hanging limp, then at the chair lying on the floor. There was something odd about it. I turned to Surrender-not. He too was staring intently up at the corpse.

  ‘What do you see, Sergeant?’ I asked.

  He looked shaken. ‘I’m not sure, sir,’ he said. ‘I’ve never seen a suicide before. It’s not what I expected. It reminds me of an execution I once witnessed at Central Jail. That was a proper gallows hanging, though. They even weighted the body. His head almost came clean off when he dropped.’

  He was right. It did look like a prison hanging. The problem was, it shouldn’t have.

  ‘I want a post-mortem carried out as soon as possible,’ I said. ‘Threaten the pathologist if you have to. I want to know the exact cause of death.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ he said, turning to leave.

  ‘One other thing,’ I said. ‘We need to find the man Devi confided in. With her dead, he could be our last hope of getting to the bottom of this. I want you to search every room. Make sure we haven’t missed anyone.’

  With that, I made my way downstairs. The drawing room was stuffy. Stiflingly hot. Mrs Bose was seated on the chaise longue, like a maharani holding court. Her maid and the other three girls stood close by. She looked up as I entered the room.

  ‘Captain Wyndham,’ she said, ‘I wish I could say it is a pleasure to see you again, but under the circumstances…’

  Her tone was measured. If she was distressed at the death of one of her girls, she betrayed no sign of it.

  ‘You will forgive me,’ she continued, ‘if you find me a less than gracious hostess but it is hard to be hospitable when one is under arrest.’

  ‘You’re not under arrest, Mrs Bose,’ I said. ‘Not yet, anyway. We simply want you to come to Lal Bazar and answer some questions. Unfortunately, things seem to have been complicated somewhat by the tragedy upstairs.’

  She remained silent.

  ‘You wouldn’t care to tell me what happened exactly?’

  Mrs Bose smiled. ‘I was hoping, Captain, that you might tell me. After all, I believe it was you she spoke to yesterday. What did you say to an impressionable young girl that would cause her to take her own life soon after? And what am I to tell her family?’

  ‘She told you we spoke yesterday?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Mrs Bose emphatically. She raised one bangled arm and moved a stray strand of hair from her face. ‘My girls keep no secrets from me.’

  ‘We’ll continue this at Lal Bazar,’ I said, and ordered Digby to take Mrs Bose into custody.

  I walked out to the front of the building and lit a cigarette. The old man, Ratan was now sat quietly in the shade on the other side of the alley. He looked like he might be asleep. A small crowd had gathered, drawn by the sight of policemen like flies to shit. I scanned the faces in the crowd. The usual mix of loafers, gawkers and gossipers. One or two looked familiar. They’d probably been in the crowd the morning we found MacAuley. Surrender-not came out to join me and I offered him a cigarette.

  ‘Any joy?’

  ‘No, sir. Other than those in the drawing room, the whole house is empty. It looks as though we’re back to square one.’

  He lit the cigarette and took a despondent drag.

  ‘Not quite,’ I said. ‘At least we know MacAuley was running girls for Buchan, that he was inside the brothel the night he was murdered and that he’d argued with Buchan earlier that night.’

  ‘There’s also the possibility,’ said Banerjee, ‘that the killer was white and that MacAuley knew him.’

  I had to admit, Devi’s death raised the question of whether she might actually have been telling the truth when she spoke to us the day before. The way forward lay through Mrs Bose. She knew far more than she was telling us, but I was under no illusions that getting the truth out of her would be one hell of a job. I finished my cigarette and flicked the butt into the open gutter.

  TWENTY–NINE

  WE WERE BACK at Lal Bazar, in the same cramped room where we’d questioned Sen. This time it was Mrs Bose who sat opposite us. As usual the room was too hot. The ceiling fan wheezed around slowly for a few minutes, then spluttered and died. Beside me, Digby was sweating like a miner. Not that I was exactly fragrant myself. I could have done with a hit of O or better still, a morphine tablet, but they were long gone, though for some reason I’d kept the empty bottle in my pocket like a talisman. Surrender-not sat fanning himself with the pad he should have been using to take notes. I’d have admonished him, but the breeze was welcome. The only one who didn’t seem affected was Mrs Bose who looked like she’d just arrived from taking tea with the Viceroy.

  ‘Tell me what happened to Devi,’ I asked.

  ‘You don’t mind if I trouble you for a glass of water first, do you, Captain? My throat is rather dry and if you’re planning on asking me many questions, it may prove to be an inconvenience later.’

  I nodded to Banerjee who stepped out and returned carrying a jug and glasses. He poured for Mrs Bose who thanked him, lifted it delicately to her lips and took the smallest of sips.

  I asked her about Devi again.

  ‘What can I tell you?’ She shrugged. ‘I returned home rather late last night. By the time I got back, Devi and the other girls were busy with clients. I expect she finished at around three or four in the morning. She would then have washed and eaten something before retiring to her bed.’

  ‘Is it usual for you to go to bed while your girls are still working?’

  ‘It happens from time to time. Especially if I’ve been out late. In those instances, my maid Meena oversees things. She wakes me if there is anything that needs my attention.’

  ‘And where were you yesterday?’

  Mrs Bose smiled. She clasped her hands together, then placed them on the battered metal table in front of her.

  ‘Some of my older, long-standing clients are rather set in their ways. They sometimes prefer a personal service.’

  ‘So you do house calls?’ I asked.<
br />
  ‘For certain clients. But don’t we all bend the rules if the price is right, Captain?’

  I ignored the question.

  ‘Did anyone else see Devi before she went to bed last night?’

  ‘I believe Saraswati saw her before she retired to her room.’

  ‘Do all your girls have their own bedrooms? Isn’t that a bit extravagant?’

  She smiled. ‘Obviously I can’t vouch for the sort of places you are used to, Captain, but I run an exclusive establishment for a select clientele of Calcutta’s finest gentlemen. My girls are the best, and they get the best. Let’s just say the economics are slightly different from any old two-rupee whore house. I can afford the extra overhead.’

  ‘Your girls are the best and they get the best?’ I repeated. ‘Any idea, then, why Devi would want to hang herself?’

  Mrs Bose winced.

  ‘As I told you, she seemed perfectly fine when I last saw her. But that was before she spoke to you.’

  ‘Do you think her death might be linked in some way to MacAuley’s murder?’

  ‘I don’t see how.’ She shrugged again.

  ‘So you think it’s all just a coincidence?’

  ‘I don’t know what to think, Captain. Maybe she killed herself because of something you said to her?’

  ‘I can assure you,’ I retorted, ‘what she said to me was far more interesting than anything I might have said to her.’ I was hoping for some sort of reaction but she just sat there like some stone goddess.

  I continued: ‘Would you care to guess what she told us?’

  Mrs Bose picked up the glass and took another sip of water. ‘Given the unfortunate circumstances I find your little guessing game rather distasteful, Captain. Why don’t you just tell me?’

  ‘She told us MacAuley had been in your little brothel the night he was killed. In fact, he was murdered almost immediately after leaving it. Now is that true or was the poor girl lying?’

  ‘It’s true that the gentleman had been on the premises earlier.’

  ‘And you didn’t see fit to tell us that?’