by Mark McKay
Chapter 4
Kolkata
By the time the plane touched down, Rebecca was having doubts about her sanity. Perhaps she could put it down to a lack of sleep during the first eight hours of the flight. She’d never been good at sleeping on planes and the enormity of the decision she’d made to drop everything and come to India had only added to her inability to relax enough to drift off. She had managed two hours of blissful unconsciousness in the transit lounge in Mumbai, before boarding the internal flight to Kolkata. She might still have been there if a fellow traveller hadn’t shaken her awake as the boarding was announced.
Had she taken leave of her senses? Possibly. She knew that Simon’s death and his trip to India must be connected and that following in his footsteps would at best be rash, and at worst dangerous. But after DCI Severance’s visit she had felt the stirring of some at first unidentifiable emotion, which over the ensuing days grew in intensity until she realised what it was - sheer rage. Rage that a friend and colleague had been murdered, for no other reason than he might have uncovered some anomaly in the existing version of the history of the Mauryan Empire. What could be so important about a long dead King’s hitherto unknown child and his burial place that meant Simon had to be silenced?
What she hadn’t revealed to Nick Severance was the full content of Simon’s last email to her, when he said he was “onto something.” As the plane taxied to the terminal, she closed her eyes and replayed that story one more time.
On his third week in Kolkata, Simon hired a four wheel drive and did the nine hour drive up to Patna, where he set up base in a small hotel. From there he began exploring the area six miles south, looking for existing stupas and any land formations that might conceivably be covering one as yet undiscovered. If the tomb did exist, his money was on it being somewhere directly south of Patna, so he restricted the search area to a two mile radius of a village named Chipra. As the landscape of Bihar is predominantly flat there were no obvious hilly protuberances that might cover a stupa, at least none visible from the road. And he knew that in the last two thousand years the topography might have shifted a bit and what would have once been visible for miles, could now be buried. The roads around Chipra were more like pathways, so he left the jeep in the village and started wandering across the land on foot. He figured he could certainly cover all of the two mile radius that way in a few days.
He did the area to the east of Chipra in two days and found nothing remarkable. It consisted mainly of fields, planted with rice and wheat. The local people in this small village must have thought him remarkable though, or just plain eccentric. It was surely unusual to see a Westerner traipsing around their fields with no apparent purpose. He was subjected to a few curious stares and the occasional smile, but that was all. Until the afternoon of that second day, when he wandered into a store looking for bottled water.
The man behind the counter, who was thin, dark and elderly with a deeply lined face and piercing dark eyes, took one look at Simon and called to someone out of sight at the rear of the shop. A moment later a younger and plumper version of the shopkeeper emerged, smiled and then addressed Simon in a Northern English accent.
‘You’re a bit off the beaten track. What can we do for you?’
Simon couldn’t hide his surprise. ‘You sound like you’re off the beaten track, yourself. I’d like some water, if you have any.’
‘Two litre bottles, in a pack of six. Over there.’
Simon followed his gaze. ‘Oh yes, thanks.’ It was the only pack of water in sight, perhaps they didn’t sell much locally. He wondered how long it had been there.
‘My grandfather’s shop,’ said the man, by way of explanation. ‘I come over from Newcastle once a year, to check on him. But what are you doing here? There’s nothing for tourists in Chipra.’
Simon fetched the water and placed it on the counter. ‘I was told there were some ruins down here that were worth looking at.’
‘Not that I know about. Wait a moment.’ He turned to his grandfather and they spoke for a while in what Simon assumed was either Hindi or Urdu. When they finished, the old man wore a stern expression.
‘He says all you English want to do is find buried treasure. There’s some debris you might call ruins, about a mile in that direction.’ He pointed westward.
‘Can your grandfather give me directions?’
The two Indians resumed their dialogue and then the younger man produced a sheet of paper and a pencil from under the counter and sketched out a map.
‘You can’t drive it and it takes about half an hour to walk. And there’s nothing there, according to him,’ he said, nodding at his grandfather. ‘No treasure, just broken statues.’
‘In the fields?’
‘Looks that way. You’ll see.’
Simon paid for the water and returned to the jeep. He took one bottle from the pack and put the rest on the back seat and then he set off westward, as directed. He thought he should have two more hours of daylight, that should do it.
Half an hour later there seemed to be no end to the fields, nothing but flat green land in all directions. He had been following a path as per the map and now he took the only turning available to the right, still following instructions. He was wondering if the old man had simply invented the ruins to amuse himself when he realised that the ground was sloping into a gradual depression and he was suddenly there.
It was like a meteor crater, about fifty feet in diameter and four feet deep. There was no grass covering the ground here, just sandy white grit all the way across. And strewn throughout there were bits of broken statuary, as promised. He felt his pulse quicken. There was a lion’s head resting on its side. The ear and eye facing upwards were worn away with God knew how many years of erosion, but still distinguishable. He couldn’t see the body anywhere, but there was a foot and part of a leg not far away, in an attitude suggesting that the beast had been sitting on its haunches once upon a time. He saw another lion’s head about twenty feet from the first and then his attention was caught by a circular object, right in the centre of the crater.
It was a stone dharma wheel, the eight spokes extending from the hub and supported by the outer stone circle; Ashoka’s calling card. This had to be the place. This wasn’t a golden dharma wheel as mentioned in the text, though. If that had once been here, then it had no doubt been removed long ago, perhaps by invading Muslim armies. Was there anything left to find here? The tomb was supposed to be beneath the stupa and he was standing in what must have been the space occupied by that structure, the white gritty remains were testament to that. If you just thought it was another stupa you wouldn’t look for anything else, unless you knew there was anything else to look for.
He took a long draught of water and tried not to let the excitement get to him. He needed to get a team to this spot as soon as possible. He took some photos with his phone and realised the light was fading. Time to get back. He would get all this to Rebecca in London and ask Alexander Marsh at the India Society to assist him in talking to the Archaeological Survey of India people. They were the official body that would organise the dig. If anything of significance was found, it would be Simon Wood who would take the kudos. He took one more astonished look around, grinned wider than a Cheshire cat and then took the path back to Chipra.
Rebecca had seen the photos attached to the email and had been just as excited. She had sent off an enthusiastic reply, agreeing that he might well be onto something and asking what he was going to do next, but she got nothing back. By then she knew his time was up and assumed they would meet and talk the whole thing through when he returned. She also knew that any dig could only be undertaken with the blessing of the Archaeological Survey of India, and that Alexander Marsh was the obvious liaison person. She hadn’t contacted him before leaving either, she just wanted to get out to Kolkata and see the site for herself. And here she was, about to leave the plane as a first time solo woman traveller in India, with no clear plan
of action.
She sighed. The other passengers were standing and extracting their various bits of hand luggage from the overhead compartments. She was tense and excited, in equal measure. Given her profession as a researcher of Indian antiquity, a trip to India was long overdue. Whatever happened, she would take in some sites of interest. And she did have a hotel booked. They were going to pick her up from the airport, too. The queue of passengers began to move towards the exit. She stayed in her window seat until most of them had made their way forward and then stood and collected her own hand luggage and joined the procession to the terminal building.
It was late afternoon when she arrived at the Green Street hotel. It was a colonial style building with a white stucco facade and emerald green shuttered windows, set in a mini-jungle of potted plants and trees. After checking in, she took the stairs to the second level and walked along a verandah that formed a long rectangle overlooking a courtyard, which was dotted with yet more plants and seating arrangements. The room was basic but clean and spacious, and the air-con worked. She sat down on the bed and kicked off her shoes. There was a ceiling fan, so she turned the air conditioning off and switched the fan on. She lay back, watching as each swishing revolution of the blades stirred the languid air into life. She thought she should really turn her phone on now she was here and see if there were any messages, but right now she was too sleepy to worry about it. She would just take a short nap and deal with all that in an hour or two.
She slept right through and woke up ravenous. Something had intruded on her dreams, then she heard it again. A clattering noise that sounded like tiny feet on the roof. She was mystified, until she heard some high pitched chatter and realised there were monkeys up there. Then the noise receded and they were gone. She smiled. Welcome to India. She stretched and then got up and looked at herself in the mirror next to the bed, wondering what the locals would make of her purple streaked hair. Perhaps she should find a sari to match. She had decided to be as conservative as possible and cover up, the last thing she wanted to do was present herself as an “easy” Western woman. There must be somewhere nearby where she could buy a salwar kameez outfit, but for now a long sleeved cotton blouse and jeans would have to do. What she needed to do next was have breakfast and find out exactly where the India Society was located.
The hotel served an English breakfast and she was joined by a middle aged American man with long greying hair, who told her she had to try Bengali food as soon as possible and offered to chaperone her while she did so. He had been travelling India for the last six months and writing articles, which were then emailed to various travel websites in the States. His name was Ross.
‘All just an excuse to stay here in India a bit longer,’ he said, in a broad Texan drawl. ‘Renewed my visa only last week. What’s your story?’
‘Oh, I work as a historical researcher in London. This is kind of a working holiday really. Seeing the sites, if you’ll excuse the pun.’
He laughed. ‘You’re spoilt for choice. Do you have some kind of itinerary then?’
‘Haven’t worked it out really. Thought I’d go up to Bihar first. See Bodh Gaya, where the Buddha was enlightened, that kind of thing. I’m working it out as I go.’
‘Have dinner with me tonight. I can recommend a few places you might like to see.’
Rebecca considered the idea. He seemed OK. And it might be wise to be accompanied by someone until she got used to the place. ‘OK, let’s do that. By the way, do you know the way to the India Society? I know it’s quite close.’
‘Sure. Go out of here, turn left and walk for about ten minutes. It’s a big brown building, just past the Indian Museum. On Park Street.’
She found it easily enough. She walked up to the reception desk and asked for Alexander Marsh.
‘Do you have an appointment?’ asked the sari clad matron on the desk, with a polite smile.
‘No, is he available?’ She knew she should have arranged this in advance, but for some reason she hadn’t thought about it. ‘I’m Rebecca Slade from the School of Oriental and African Studies in London. Mr Marsh met a colleague of mine here recently.’
‘Let me check. He’s been in and out a lot lately. Best to make an appointment if you can, you know.’ She gave Rebecca an admonishing look and picked up the phone. After a short wait, a few words were spoken and she replaced the receiver. ‘You’re in luck. He’s coming down.’
He appeared five minutes later. Dressed in a lightweight blue suit without tie, he was a slightly rotund sixty-something with a full head of swept back white hair framing a florid, smiling face. His eyes seemed a little bloodshot. Perhaps he was out on the tiles last night, thought Rebecca. She smiled back.
‘Thank you for seeing me,’ she said.
‘Another one from SOAS,’ he replied, offering his hand. ‘You’re like London buses. Is Mr Wood with you?’
Rebecca’s face fell and her hand slipped limply from his grasp. He looked at her in surprise.
‘What is it? Did I say something wrong?’
She pulled herself together. ‘Can we talk somewhere?’
‘Let’s go upstairs. You look like you could use a drink.’
Bit early for that, she thought, but you might be right. She followed him up the stairs.
He led her into a large office, wooden panelled with studded leather sofas and a huge desk.
‘Take a seat. Can I get you anything?’
‘No, it’s fine,’ she replied.
Marsh sat behind the desk, looking concerned. ‘Where is Mr Wood? I expected to hear from him when he got back to London.’
Rebecca took a deep breath and then shared the details of Simon’s death. When she’d finished Marsh stood up and turned to look out the window. He appeared to have nothing to say. There was a good view of the Maidan, the big green park that dominates the centre of Kolkata, from where he was standing, but she was in no mood to appreciate it and she thought he must have seen it a thousand times.
‘How did he leave things with you?’ she asked.
He turned back to face her. ‘Sorry, just taking it in. You have my condolences.’ He resumed his seat. ‘He wanted me to organise a team to excavate the site.’
‘Were you able to do that?’
Marsh stared at the desk, lost in thought. Then he recovered himself. ‘I did, actually. I sent some people up there right away. I’m afraid they came up empty handed. There’s nothing there.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Quite sure.’
She thought his tone was a little aggressive. ‘How long were they on site?’ she asked, keeping her voice level.
‘Long enough to sink test shafts across the entire area. If there was a tomb beneath the stupa as Mr Wood thought, we would have detected a difference in soil texture. We would expect there to be a stone slab marking the entrance, but nothing to indicate a slab was found.’
‘I see.’
‘I’m sorry to disappoint you, Ms Slade. We don’t have the resources to back a full scale excavation. And to be blunt, the evidence for the existence of such a tomb is flimsy, to say the least. As far as I’m concerned, the matter is closed.’
‘What a shame.’ She thought for a moment. ‘It doesn’t add up.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘To be equally blunt, it seems that Simon was murdered by someone who allegedly had more to tell him about the manuscript or the tomb, or both. The evidence may not be as flimsy as you think.’
Marsh leaned back, with a resigned expression. ‘I can’t comment on that. I know you’ve come a long way and I’m sorry it’s been a wasted journey. Were you intending to visit the site?’
‘I was, of course I was. But given what you’ve told me, there’s no point is there?’
He looked relieved. ‘There are plenty of other things to see while you’re here. Don’t waste any more of your time on this business.’
She stood up. ‘I won’t. I’ll go to Bihar and see som
e of the existing rock edicts instead.’
He smiled. ‘We’ve got one here in the museum, if you want to see it.’ Then he stood. ‘If there is anything I can do to help, don’t hesitate to ask. Here’s my card.’
He walked her downstairs. She skipped the museum. There was something not right about Alexander Marsh. She felt he was being economical with the truth, though why this should be the case she had no idea. Surely the chance to unearth a tomb containing lions of “great splendour” would have had the Archaeological Survey of India salivating. It could even be privately funded if public money was short. And it hadn’t taken long to declare the site a waste of time. The whole business had a distinct smell of rat about it, and she decided that today she would book a flight to Patna and spend tomorrow checking the site out for herself.
