A Rising Man

by Abir Mukherjee

  THIRTY–ONE

  ‘I DON’T CARE how busy he is, Miss Grant, I need to see him now.’

  My tone was unnecessarily brusque. Much of it was for Banerjee’s benefit, but much was also down to the fact that I felt as worn out as a rickshaw wallah’s shoes.

  She looked tired too. No doubt today had been as manic at Writers’ Building as it had at Lal Bazar.

  ‘I’ll see what I can do, Captain.’ She rose and left the room, returning a few minutes later.

  ‘Mr Stevens will see you both now,’ she said, addressing her comments to Banerjee. It was a calculated snub and it needled me, though I couldn’t say exactly why. The psychoanalysis, however, would have to wait.

  We entered Stevens’ office, and this time it truly was his office, with all trace of MacAuley having been removed.

  ‘Make it quick, Captain,’ he said from behind his desk. ‘Things are extremely fraught. I’ve been in with the L-G’s people most of the morning and in twenty minutes I’ve got—’

  ‘Did you kill MacAuley?’

  His pen fell to the desk and rolled onto the floor.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I asked you if you murdered Alexander MacAuley.’

  ‘That’s outrageous!’ He was on his feet by now. ‘You think I killed the man for his job?’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘I think you killed him for money.’

  He laughed. ‘Seriously, Captain? I did it for a pay rise?’

  ‘I know about your business interests in Burma, and the parlous state of their finances.’

  That wiped the smile off his face as abruptly as if I’d slapped him.

  ‘You wanted to stop the imposition of the import duty on rubber, didn’t you? It would have pushed the fortunes of your wife’s plantation over the edge. When MacAuley rebuffed your attempts, you followed him to Cossipore and killed him. I’ll bet you’re already working on getting that tax shelved.’

  He slumped back into his chair. ‘Let me tell you something about Alexander MacAuley,’ he said bitterly. ‘He was a bastard. He engineered that bloody import tax just to get at me. When I arrived here from Rangoon, people warned me about him but I was too stupid to listen. My wife had just inherited the plantation, and in those days, due to the war, there was huge demand for rubber. The plantation was doing well and we weren’t short of money. Life in Calcutta was good and MacAuley seemed like a most affable chap. I thought it couldn’t hurt to be close to one’s boss, so I began to see him socially. One night at his club, though, he got me plastered, then proceeded to flatter me, told me how well I seemed to be doing, especially on my salary. I let slip about the plantation, told him I’d married into money. Six months later he started work on that blasted import duty legislation. It made no sense commercially. India needs far more rubber than it produces and it’s not as if Burma’s a foreign country. It’s British, for Christ’s sake. Of course, it’s going to hurt other producers, but I’m sure it was aimed at me.’

  I could have pointed out there was another possible motive, that MacAuley had done it at the behest of his patron, Buchan, who owned rubber plantations of his own in India. A duty on Burmese rubber would make his Indian produce vastly more profitable. That seemed a more likely motive than some vendetta against Stevens. After all, wasn’t that the sort of thing MacAuley had always done for Buchan? But MacAuley’s motives for the tax were beside the point. All that mattered was whether Stevens had killed him in order to shelve it.

  ‘Where were you between eleven p.m. last Tuesday and seven a.m. on Wednesday?’

  ‘At home.’

  ‘Can anyone corroborate that?’

  ‘ My wife and a half a dozen servants.’ He wiped his brow with a white handkerchief. ‘Look. You’re right. I’m not sorry he’s dead, and I’ll get that blasted tax repealed just as soon as I can, but I swear to you, I didn’t kill him.’

  ‘Well, Mr Stevens,’ I said, ‘we’ll check out your story. In the meantime, don’t plan on going anywhere.’

  THIRTY–TWO

  THERE WAS NOTHING about Amritsar in the evening papers, but that didn’t matter. The news had spread like a virus, and in the absence of hard facts the vacuum was filled by gossip and speculation. The rumours electrified Calcutta’s citizens, both white and black, and the residents of the Royal Belvedere Guest House were no exception. The atmosphere in Mrs Tebbit’s dining room that night resembled that of a crowd after a boxing match: levity, tinged with vindication and vindictiveness. Toasts were drunk to the gallant General Dyer, saviour of the Punjab and defender of the Raj.

  I had no stomach for the conversation and even less for the food. That I was out of morphine tablets hardly helped. I decided to retire before I said something a better man might regret. Making my excuses, I headed for the hallway but stopped at the foot of the stairs. Though I’d no appetite for Mrs Tebbit’s fare, I was still hungry. Maybe Annie would be free for a bite to eat? I turned and headed instead for the front door.

  ‘Are ye off out, Captain?’ called a voice from behind me. It was Byrne, coming down the stairs. ‘Sure, I don’t blame you. The conversation can get a bit monotonous at times.’

  He was smiling, which was a surprise. I’d thought him more sensible than the others in the house.

  ‘You seem to be in good spirits, Mr Byrne,’ I said.

  ‘Ah, yes,’ he said. ‘Good of you to notice. I’ve almost completed that big contract I was telling you about. All that’s left is a little paperwork. I should be done tomorrow, and then it’s off to pastures new. Much as I love Calcutta, I get itchy feet if I’m ever in one place for too long. What about you? Where’re you off to at this hour?’

  ‘I’ve work to do at the office,’ I lied.

  ‘Of course! That Sen feller. Any more luck gettin’ a confession out o’ the bastard?’

  ‘I’m afraid not.’

  ‘That’s a surprise,’ he said. ‘From what I’ve read in the papers, these revolutionary types are generally only too happy to boast about what they’ve done. They see their actions as noble. But that’s Bengalis for you. They’re only really revolutionary from the neck up. I don’t expect that Sen’s any exception, strutting around with his glasses and goatee, like a little brown Leon Trotsky.’

  ‘I really must be going,’ I said.

  ‘I quite understand, Captain,’ he said, ushering me to the door. ‘Please be on your way.’

  I shut the door behind me and walked to the street corner. Thankfully the rickshaw wallahs were back at their post. I called over to Salman who looked up, and after a few moments, picked up his rickshaw and began to trot reluctantly over.

  ‘Yes, sahib?’ he asked, studiously avoiding eye contact.

  ‘I need to go to Bow Barracks,’ I said. ‘Do you want to take me?’

  Salman blew his nose between two fingers and flicked the mucus into the gutter, before wiping his hand on the folds of his lunghi. With that he gave a slow nod, and lowered the rickshaw.

  As he silently navigated the quiet streets, I thought of Sen. It was true, he did look a lot like Leon Trotsky…

  ‘Hold it, Salman!’ I shouted. ‘Change of plan. Lal Bazar chalo. Jaldi, jaldi!’

  I told him to wait while I ran in and up to my office. I picked up the telephone and asked the operator to place a call through to Fort William.

  ‘I need to speak to Colonel Dawson,’ I said.

  Miss Braithwaite was on the other end of the line. ‘The Colonel isn’t here at the moment.’

  Frustration got the better of me as I uttered a few choice words I expected the prim Miss Braithwaite had probably never heard before, and even if she had, would never have admitted to. If she was shocked, though, there was no hint of it in her voice. I suppose keeping one’s thoughts to oneself was a skill that secretaries to secret policemen learned early in their careers.

  ‘Is there anything else I can do for you, Captain?’

  ‘Can you tell me where he is?’

  ‘I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to divul
ge that information.’

  ‘It’s imperative I speak to him.’

  ‘As you will appreciate, Captain, tonight of all nights, the Colonel is extremely busy.’

  There was no point in arguing with her. ‘Please let him know I called and ask him to contact me as soon as possible. Tell him it’s urgent.’

  I hung up the phone, then spent the next forty-five minutes wearing through the varnish on the floorboards, anxiously waiting for Dawson to telephone back. But no call came. I’ve never been particularly good at standing around doing bugger all, and the frustration of waiting, coupled with a hunger-induced nausea, was beginning to take its toll. At this rate, it wouldn’t matter when Dawson came back to me as I’d probably be asleep and miss the call. Though it went against my instincts, in the end I decided I needed a short break. I could have a very quick dinner with Annie and be back here, refreshed, within the hour to see if Dawson had responded.

  I returned to Salman in the courtyard.

  ‘Guest house, sahib?’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘Bow Barracks.’

  The streets were semi deserted and Salman made short work of the journey. I ordered him to pull up outside the grim, cement-grey two-storey building that housed Annie’s flat. A balcony, reached by an external staircase, ran along the length of the floor. A number of stout wooden doors dotted the façade of both the ground and upper level.

  I walked up the stairs and knocked on the door I thought was Annie’s. In hindsight, maybe I should have turned up with flowers or something. It would have been the gentlemanly thing to do. Fortunately, though, I had a ready excuse in that there were unlikely to be many florists open that night. They don’t tend to do much business during riots, though I expect their trade probably picks up again afterwards on the back of increased demand for wreaths.

  A skinny Anglo-Indian girl of about twenty opened the door. Her dark hair was tied up in rollers.

  ‘Can I help you?’ she asked.

  ‘I’m looking for Annie Grant,’ I said.

  She looked me up and down as though examining a fish that might be going off. ‘And who are you exactly?’ she sniffed.

  I gave her my name and rank, just like the army taught us to do when interrogated by the enemy. Her eyes widened.

  ‘Oh,’ she exclaimed, ‘so you’re Captain Wyndham.’ She smiled briefly before quickly regaining her comportment. ‘I’m afraid Annie’s out for the evening.’

  ‘She does know that half the city’s under lock-down?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh, I’m sure she’ll be fine,’ said the girl. ‘She’ll be back in a few hours.’

  There was a certainty in her voice that suggested it was nothing unusual for Annie to be out late. That didn’t surprise me. She was a good-looking girl. Other men obviously thought so too. I certainly wasn’t the first man to have taken her to dinner. I probably wasn’t even the first one this month. What bothered me, though, was the confidence the girl had that Annie would come to no harm despite what was going on in the city. Still I wasn’t about to ask her where Annie was or who she might be with. Instead, I said goodnight.

  The evening wasn’t going quite as I’d hoped. No one, it seemed, had much time for me. I considered heading back to Lal Bazar and trying Dawson again, but I doubted there was much point. He would surely contact me when he was ready.

  I turned and walked slowly back down the stairs, feeling like a child who’s had his sweets stolen. Salman was surprised to see me again so soon.

  ‘Back to guest house, sahib?’ he enquired.

  ‘Yes,’ I said, then had a better idea. ‘Wait. Take me to Tiretta Bazaar.’

  The opium den didn’t seem to have been affected by the rioting. The same squat Chinaman opened the door. He eyed me contemptuously before letting me in. It was still the warmest welcome I’d received that evening. I followed him down the stairs and waited until the same pretty girl from before showed me to a cot and lit my pipe. I closed my eyes and inhaled the smoke. A tableau of images soon filled my head: Annie, out somewhere in a deserted city, Sen in his cell beneath Fort William, Devi hanging lifeless from a hook in Cossipore, a massacre of innocents in a faraway city, and a white maharaja holding court in a palace upriver, entertaining American clients with Indian courtesans.

  I awoke some hours later. My watch said midnight, but that meant nothing. I sat up. The place was empty. Rising unsteadily, I made my way back up the stairs and out into the alley. I inhaled deeply and looked down the street for Salman. There was no sign of him. A noise came from behind me and I turned to see two men approaching. Indians. Labourers by the look of their clothes. Tough, solid-looking individuals, not skinny like most natives. I stared at them. Both averted their eyes, trying too hard to appear nonchalant. I’d seen the look before and it never ended well.

  I turned and started walking in the opposite direction. A few more yards and I’d be out of the alley and in the relative safety of the open street. Behind me I heard the men break into a run. I turned to see them rushing at me. Two against one, but I didn’t mind too much. I was actually quite happy to hit someone. I got the first punch in, striking the leader with a solid right hook to the side of the head. Even with the full force of my frustrations behind it, it still felt like punching a wall. That pain, though, was soon wildly superseded as, an instant later, the other thug delivered a punch to my injured left arm. My eyes watered. It might have been a lucky punch, but it felt as though he knew exactly where to hit me. There wasn’t time to consider it further on account of one of them punching me in the gut and knocking the wind out of me. I doubled over and fought for breath. Then came a blow to my head. A sharp crack and the world spun upwards to meet me. I hit the ground and tasted blood. A boot hit me in the ribs. I closed my eyes and tried to keep myself from passing out, but all I could think of was the absurdity of it all. From somewhere came the sound of bells. Small bells. Tinkling. First one, then others. Then voices. Shouts. I looked up in time to see my attackers turn and run.

  I was dragged to my feet. Two men, my arms over their shoulders, were carrying me. Gently, they lowered me onto the ground beside a rickshaw. I looked up and recognised Salman. I tried to speak, spat blood, and wiped my mouth with the back of my sleeve. Salman pulled out a battered tin hip flask from somewhere, unscrewed it and held it to my lips. The hooch, whatever it was, tasted disgusting, like raw alcohol. I choked, almost spitting it out. It burned as it went down.

  ‘You are all right, sahib?’

  Salman took a sip, then helped me to my feet. Unfortunately, my legs took their time receiving the message and I almost collapsed again. He caught me and helped me up on to the seat of the rickshaw. A searing pain ran through my ribs and I closed my eyes.

  The next thing I remember, the rickshaw was being pulled back through the silent streets. The roads looked familiar.

  ‘Where are we going?’ I asked.

  ‘Hospital, sahib,’ puffed Salman. He was moving at a fair clip.

  ‘No,’ I said, ‘no hospital.’ Hospitals were full of dreadful, well-meaning doctors who specialised in awkward questions. What were you doing in Tiretta Bazaar in the middle of the night? And tonight of all nights? I could make up some excuse, but a good doctor wouldn’t believe me. It wouldn’t take a genius to work out I’d been at an opium den, and then, a discreet word in the wrong ears and who knew what might happen? I wasn’t sure of the Imperial Police Force’s policy on opium addiction, but it was unlikely to include promotion.

  ‘Guest house?’ asked Salman.

  The one place worse than hospital was Mrs Tebbit’s guest house. I imagined the look on her face as I bled all over her precious Persian rugs. I’d rather have taken my chances with the thugs who attacked me.

  ‘No,’ I said.

  ‘Then where, sahib?’

  ‘Anywhere.’

  I closed my eyes and began to drift off again. The next thing I knew, we had stopped, and Salman was shaking me awake. I recognised the grey outline of Annie’s building. A light
shone on the first floor and a figure stood silhouetted in the doorway.

  ‘Come, sahib,’ said Salman. He helped me to my feet and supported me up the stairs.

  ‘My God, Sam. What the hell’s happened to you?’ asked Annie as she gently touched my face.

  ‘I fell off another elephant.’

  ‘You look like the elephant fell on you.’

  ‘I think it might have.’

  ‘Let’s get you inside and cleaned up.’

  Her housemate, the skinny girl with the stern face, stood in the corridor with her arms folded and her lips pursed tightly together, like a young Mrs Tebbit in training. One of the rollers in her hair had come loose. It was probably trying to escape from her head. I didn’t blame it.

  Annie led the way to a small bathroom. She took off my shirt, accidentally brushing the wound on my arm. I winced.

  She looked at me pityingly. ‘Is there anywhere on you that doesn’t hurt?’

  ‘My lips?’

  She smiled and poured some water from a large enamel jug into a basin, then took a cloth and began mopping the blood from my head. She left the room and returned with what looked like makeshift bandages.

  ‘I don’t think I need any,’ I said.

  ‘How about you let me do the thinking tonight, Captain Wyndham? You can remove them in the morning if you wish.’

  ‘I can’t stay here,’ I said. ‘I need to get back.’

  ‘You’re not going anywhere, Captain. Not without my say-so.’

  Suddenly I didn’t feel like arguing. She took my hand and led me to her room.

  ‘Now do you want to tell me what really happened?’

  ‘I had a slight disagreement with some people I bumped into,’ I said, collapsing onto the bed. ‘I’ll tell you about it in the morning.’

  THIRTY–THREE

  Tuesday, 15 April 1919

  I WOKE TO a blinding ache behind the eyes. Beside me, Annie lay sleeping, and to be honest, the sight of her helped ease the pain somewhat.