Midnight at Malabar House (Inspector Wadia series)

by Khan, Vaseem

  It was called 1984, by an English author she had never read before: George Orwell. She had found the premise intriguing. A future world where perpetual war reigned, and government had become little more than oppression. The concept of the Thought Police, in particular, bothered her, the idea that individualism and independent thinking might actually be considered a crime.

  She had only a few pages to go. She didn’t mind that the book was heading towards a bleak ending. What concerned her more was the capitulation of the character of Julia, Winston’s lover. Winston, the supposed hero, she had pegged as a coward halfway through the novel. Despite his rebellious thoughts, she had been certain that he would ultimately betray the ideals he claimed to harbour. But in Julia she had seen shades of herself. To have her fold to the Thought Police seemed a misstep by the author. She should have emerged as a heroine, or a martyr, at the least. One line, attributed to Julia, stayed with her – in her present situation it had taken on a new significance: ‘Sometimes they threaten you with something, something you can’t stand up to, can’t even think about. And then you say, “Don’t do it to me, do it to somebody else.” ’

  Her eyes became heavy in the afternoon heat, the train’s gentle rocking adding to the soporific effect. Her head lolled on her chest, and the book slipped to the floor.

  She awoke with a start. Rubbing the sleep from her eyes, she checked her watch. It was twenty past seven.

  Cursing, she rose from the bunk, excavated her make-up set from her suitcase, then went into the corridor to visit the bathroom.

  Fifteen minutes later, she found Blackfinch in the cramped dining compartment.

  ‘Fashionably late,’ he said, without rancour, as she slipped into the seat opposite.

  ‘My apologies,’ she said. ‘I – uh – became engrossed in some work.’

  ‘Well, no harm done. I have a bad habit of always being on time. In India, this has proven to be somewhat of a handicap. May I order you a drop of firewater?’

  ‘A whisky, please.’

  They drank in silence for a bit, the hubbub of conversation rising and falling around them.

  ‘It’s magnificent, isn’t it?’ said Blackfinch eventually. He had shed his sports jacket and rolled up the sleeves of his breezy white shirt. His face glowed with heat and good cheer. She wondered how many drinks he had already had.

  ‘What is?’

  ‘These old trains. There’s a sense of majesty, history. Decadence, dare I say. Makes one proud to be British.’

  ‘The British built these trains so that they could plunder the subcontinent. Tens of thousands of Indians died to build them. The rails are literally soaked in blood.’

  That strangled the conversation for a while.

  A waiter arrived and took their order. Outside the window, fields of yellow mustard made a bright splash of colour. They were somewhere between Surat and Indore, she guessed, a swathe of farmland bursting with winter crops.

  She noticed Blackfinch fiddling with the salt and pepper shakers, lining them up.

  ‘Why do you do that?’

  He hadn’t realised that she was watching him. He coloured and for a moment was lost for words. ‘I can’t help it,’ he finally said, as if confessing to a crime. ‘Ever since I was young I’ve had this compulsion for order, neatness. Straight lines. It used to drive my parents to distraction.’

  ‘It doesn’t sound like a bad thing.’

  ‘It does when you throw a fit just because your laces aren’t tied the right way, or because the number of peas on your plate isn’t precisely the same as the day before.’ He gave a brittle smile. ‘Therapy has helped me control those instincts to a great degree.’

  ‘You see a therapist?’ She couldn’t hide her astonishment.

  ‘Saw,’ he corrected. ‘I didn’t have much choice. My behaviour was a great source of shame for my father.’ He lifted his glass and gulped his whisky. ‘On the bright side, it has proved to be a useful trait career-wise. I have a rare ability to notice details, to parse facts from a tumult of raw data. I’m still not very good with people.’

  ‘You seem perfectly fine to me,’ she said, and then looked away.

  ‘Thank you. I must admit it’s unusual for me to be so comfortable around someone. I usually say or do something awkward that puts them off.’

  She realised she knew almost nothing about this man. She found herself asking questions, personal questions that, under normal circumstances, would have eluded her.

  ‘Ah. You want to know what makes me tick.’ He smiled good-naturedly. ‘Let me see . . . My childhood was unremarkable. I never had many friends – my, ah, manner put them off, I suppose. My closest friend was my older brother. Pythagoras. Though he insisted on us calling him Thad. Short for Thaddeus – his middle name. When my father passed away, it was Thad who gave the eulogy even though I was the one who’d followed in his footsteps. Into the sciences, I mean.

  ‘Thad is a farmer. A thousand head of cattle, some sheep, a few chickens. His wife is a no-nonsense country woman. They have twin girls, six years old, blue eyes and carrot-red curls, just like their mother. They adore me, of course. Uncle Archie, scientist and world-bestriding Colossus. I usually see them at Christmas.

  ‘What else is there to say? I play cricket – though not very well. I read – mainly science and ancient history. I’m a decent hand at poker. And my marriage failed for reasons that I can neither explain nor find myself overly concerned by.’ He smiled brightly. ‘I’m actually quite dull, when you think about it.’

  He asked about her. ‘What do you do when you’re not working?’

  The question caught her off guard. It wasn’t that she didn’t have other interests, but the fact was that her career had become all-consuming. Was she missing out on the life that Aunt Nussie claimed awaited her, a life of gaiety, romance, social acceptance?

  She didn’t think so. She was a policewoman because she believed in something greater than herself, greater than the ambitions that any legion of Aunt Nussies might have held for her. Justice. A precious flame – like the holy fire of Zoroastrianism – to be nurtured and shielded against the tyrannies of those who would subvert the fundamental rules of her world: equality, decency and fair play.

  As for what she did when she was not working . . . ‘I read,’ she said. ‘I swim. I practise martial arts. I visit museums. I listen to the radio. I sit with my father. I feed my cat.’

  Their food arrived. ‘So, tell me,’ he said, picking at his chicken ballotine, ‘how goes it with your beau?’

  ‘My beau?’

  ‘The chap who’s wooing you. Mr Benson and Pryce.’

  ‘Darius?’ She frowned. ‘He’s not my beau. He’s my cousin.’

  ‘Well, when has a little incest ever stopped anyone? Haven’t you ever heard the term “kissing cousins”?’

  ‘We have never kissed,’ she said hotly.

  He raised his fork in surrender. ‘I was just joking. Christ, you’re in a bum humour this evening.’

  She glared at him. ‘What about you?’

  ‘What about me?’

  ‘How was your lunch date?’

  He seemed mystified. ‘What lunch date?’

  ‘Yesterday. You left for a lunch date.’

  His face broadened into a smile. ‘Oh, that. Mrs Saunders.’

  She stiffened. ‘You had a lunch date with a married woman?’

  ‘There’s no law against it.’

  She set down her fork. ‘Is her husband still alive?’ She was not going to be caught out a second time.

  ‘I should hope so. I’m due to play bridge with him next week.’

  She looked astonished. ‘You maintain a friendship with him while – while going around with his wife?’ Her eyes smouldered. ‘Does he know of this?’

  ‘Of what?’

  ‘That you were having lunch with his wife!’

  ‘Well, I’m not sure if he knew of this specific instance of lunch. But the general concept of lunches? Yes, I’d say h
e was aware of them.’

  ‘And you will continue to see this woman?’

  ‘Mrs Saunders? Yes, of course. She’s an absolute riot. We have a lot of fun together.’

  ‘But it is immoral!’

  He sipped at his whisky, eyes lit with amusement. ‘Really? I had no idea. You have some funny old ways over here. In England, lunching with an old friend of the family is hardly considered a violation of the Ten Commandments.’

  ‘A friend of the family?’ she echoed.

  ‘Mrs Saunders is seventy-three. She’s a friend of my mother’s. She and her husband are wintering out here.’

  Persis was momentarily speechless. And then she felt a tug at the corners of her mouth. Against her will, she broke into a smile.

  ‘You see,’ he beamed at her. ‘It’s not that difficult.’

  ‘What isn’t that difficult?’

  ‘Enjoying yourself.’ His eyes twinkled at her above the glass.

  They discussed the case over dessert. She laid out everything she had discovered.

  The case had solidified around two sets of suspects. First, the Singh-Lal-Gupta nexus. And then there was Robert Campbell and his daughter.

  They threw around various theories about how Singh, Lal and Gupta might have conspired to murder Herriot, but nothing made sense. And why had Singh confessed? Without his confession, they would have had little proof that any of them had been directly involved in the murder.

  As for Campbell and his daughter . . . ‘I find it difficult to believe that Elizabeth had anything to do with Herriot’s death,’ said Blackfinch.

  ‘That doesn’t surprise me,’ she said woodenly.

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘Nothing,’ she muttered, flushing.

  He stared at her, then carried on. ‘If Elizabeth isn’t the woman Herriot slept with that night then who?’

  ‘I don’t know. I suspected Gupta, but she denies it.’

  He leaned back. ‘With so many suspects, one might ask why we are heading to Punjab. I mean, don’t get me wrong. I’m glad to be here, but Herriot’s trip to Pandiala may have had nothing to do with his death.’

  She hesitated. ‘You’re right. But as I told you, there’s another reason I wanted to go north.’

  ‘Ah. Yes. A visit to Maan Singh’s home. What do you hope to find?’

  ‘I really don’t know.’

  Night fell, and the train rattled onwards. They stopped around midnight at a rural station. Unable to sleep, she went to the nearest doorway, and was astonished to see a silent stream of locals clambering on to the roof of the train, some with bundles of clothing, one or two with battered old cases. They reminded her of langurs swarming over the ramparts of the Castella de Aguada, the old Portuguese fort in Bombay.

  A grey-faced man looked out at her sadly from the station-master’s office. A sign said: INDIAN RAILWAYS: SAFETY AND PUNCTUALITY.

  Already a lie, she thought, on two counts.

  Back in the corridor, she wondered if Blackfinch was still awake. She vacillated, contemplating the idea of knocking, but then turned and walked the few steps back to her cabin.

  A bat had flown in and settled into a comfortable corner above her bunk. She didn’t mind. She had no fear of bats.

  She read a little more, then turned out the light.

  The bat squeaked gently in the darkness.

  Chapter 21

  7 January 1950

  The train panted on through the morning, stopping for an hour at Delhi before continuing to Amritsar, arriving around 2 p.m. An hour’s rest stop was scheduled before the onward journey to Pandiala.

  They took a taxi into the city, the cab nosing its way out towards the periphery. ‘The home you are looking for is in one of the poorest sections of Amritsar,’ explained their driver. ‘Near the old Sultanwind Gate.’

  The roads gradually became narrower, the houses less well maintained.

  By the time he braked to a halt, they had entered a maze of rundown alleyways, whitewashed houses on either side, a thick stench hanging in the air from the open sewers. They stopped at the mouth of an alley. ‘It’s too narrow for the taxi, madam. I will wait for you here.’

  It took them a further five minutes to find Singh’s home.

  The door was open.

  Persis knocked and then ducked inside, Blackfinch close behind, into the sort of home common in the subcontinent: a bedroom, a living room-cum-kitchen, a bathroom. A woman in traditional shalwar kameez sat cross-legged in the corner, grinding wheat using a chakki – a flour mill fashioned from coarse stone.

  Her eyes widened as they entered and she scrambled to her feet. ‘Who are you?’ she asked, in Punjabi, placing her hands on her hips. She was a small but strong-looking woman, dusky, with a hard jaw and incongruously full lips.

  Persis had a crude grasp of the dialect – it was not so removed from Hindi that she could not follow it. She discovered that the woman was Maan Singh’s wife, Rano.

  It became immediately clear that Rano knew of her husband’s predicament – how could she not? It had been front page news.

  Quickly, Persis explained their presence. ‘I’m here to understand why Maan Singh did what he did.’

  The woman’s face slackened in astonishment. She stared at them, then turned away, racked with emotion. ‘How – how is he?’

  ‘He has confessed to murder. Unless he changes his story, he will be tried, convicted and hanged.’

  ‘I knew he would do something like this,’ whispered the woman.

  ‘What’s she saying?’ interrupted Blackfinch.

  ‘She’s his wife. She doesn’t speak English. You’ll have to be patient.’

  The Englishman subsided, a look of irritation shading his brow.

  ‘How long have you been married?’ asked Persis.

  ‘Five years. We were married when he came home from the army. We’ve known each other since we were young.’

  ‘Do you have children?’

  ‘Yes. Our son is three years old. He is out with his grandmother.’

  ‘Is he the reason you are here and not in Bombay?’

  She grimaced. ‘I called the prison. They spoke to him for me. His only message was that I forget him.’

  Persis considered her next question. ‘Why did he leave the army?’

  She did not answer; her gaze fell away.

  Persis tried another route. ‘What did he do when he returned from the war?’

  ‘Nothing.’ She hesitated. ‘I mean, he gets occasional work, as a labourer, a doorman, but he has no regular occupation. He’s too full of anger to last anywhere.’

  ‘That must have been difficult.’

  Rano did not reply.

  ‘Did your husband ever talk about his war years? Specifically, about his fellow soldiers in the last unit he served in? A man named Madan Lal and another named Duleep Gupta?’

  Recognition flared in her eyes, but she said nothing. There was something there; Persis could feel it. Lal and Singh had known each other from the war, yet neither man had mentioned that fact. Lal had hired Singh shortly before Herriot had been killed. By their own admission, they were the ones who had found the Englishman’s body.

  The smoke of conspiracy filtered into her nose.

  ‘Why would your husband leave his wife and a young child to go to Bombay?’

  Silence.

  Persis stepped closer towards her. ‘I’m not convinced that your husband murdered Sir James. At least not on his own. Help me to understand why he would confess to such a thing.’

  Rano searched the policewoman’s face, seeking a lie. Hope flickered in her eyes. ‘He received a call. From Madan Lal. Lal asked him to come to Bombay. He said he had a job for him.’

  ‘That couldn’t have been the only reason. I mean, he left you behind. Why?’

  The woman bit her lip.

  ‘Did it have something to do with his sister? She was married to Duleep Gupta, wasn’t she?’

  She nodded. ‘He
r name is Lalita. Unlike Maan, she studied hard in school. She went to Bombay to find work. That’s where she met Duleep. Lal used to invite Maan and Duleep back to his Bombay home while they were on leave from the army. Lalita and Duleep got to know one another. They were married shortly afterwards.’

  ‘And then Duleep died in the war.’

  She nodded again. ‘Lalita had a child by then. Maan told her to come back to Amritsar with him, but she refused. Bombay was her home. Life was difficult, but she was stubborn. Maan later told Lal, after he too had left the army. Lal contacted Lalita, convinced her to work for him.’

  ‘With Sir James Herriot.’ Persis pressed closer. ‘Why didn’t Lal find Maan Singh work with Sir James at the same time? Why, after all these years, did he call and offer Maan work?’

  Her fingers worked the edges of her kameez. ‘I don’t know. Perhaps he didn’t think Maan would accept. That’s why I couldn’t understand – why he agreed to work for an Englishman now. For as long as I have known him he has hated the British.’

  ‘Why?’

  She hesitated, then plunged on. ‘Before the war he tried to participate in the Quit India movement but they wouldn’t let him.’

  ‘What do you mean? Who wouldn’t let him?’

  ‘The people here. The ones who ran the local committees, the ones who organised the protests and the anti-British actions.’

  ‘I don’t understand. Why wouldn’t they want him to be involved?’

  ‘Because they could not forgive him.’

  ‘Forgive him for what?’

  ‘For his father.’

  Persis prompted the woman to expand.

  ‘His father was at Jallianwala Bagh,’ explained Rano.

  A light began to dawn. Jallianwala Bagh. The incident that had lit the touch-paper for Gandhi’s non-cooperation initiative and galvanised the independence movement.

  On 13 April 1919 close to a thousand locals had gathered at a walled garden in Amritsar known as Jallianwala Bagh. They had come to celebrate the Sikh festival of Baisakhi, and to peacefully protest against the continued presence of the British. Local British commander Acting Brigadier General Reginald Dyer, having got wind of the situation, and with the recently passed Rowlatt Act in mind – the ruling that banned seditious gatherings – assembled a troop of ninety soldiers from the 9th Gurkhas, the 54th Sikhs and the 59th Sind Rifles. Arriving at the Bagh with armoured vehicles, machine guns and a complement of .303 Lee Enfield bolt-action rifles, Dyer blocked the exits to the Bagh. He then ordered his troops to begin shooting – with no warning – at the densest section of the crowd, later explaining to the British House of Commons that his intent had ‘not been to disperse the meeting but to punish the Indians for their disobedience’.