A Necessary Evil

by Abir Mukherjee

But I couldn’t just forget about them; they would lodge in my brain like stones in a shoe. I fretted over them with the compulsion of an alcoholic going after his next drink. Because to me they represented truth untold and, by extension, justice denied.

  I was keen on justice. Always had been, but more so these days after the war. One thing it had taught me was that there was precious little justice to be found in this world, and anything I could do to further its ends was probably a good thing.

  ‘Right,’ I said, taking my seat. ‘The man wants something tangible. So let’s give it to him.’

  From my desk drawer, I pulled out a folder and extracted the scrap of newspaper and the pamphlet Surrender-not suspected was a religious text.

  ‘We need to get these translated,’ I said.

  Surrender-not was peering at the scrap of paper – the side with the picture and the English characters ‘NGER 99K’.

  ‘May I see that, sir?’

  I handed him the scrap and he examined it.

  ‘I know what this is!’ he exclaimed, beaming like a Frenchman in a wine cellar. ‘I was sure I had seen it before.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘It’s an advertisement for a sewing machine, sir. A SINGER 99K, to be precise.’ Then his face fell. ‘I’m not sure that takes us any further forward, though.’

  I thought for a moment. ‘Maybe it does—’

  Before I could continue, there was a knock at the door. Surrender-not rose to open it. In front of him stood our peon, Ram Lal. He was an old bird of about sixty, with grey hair, stubble, and the kind of pronounced stoop that comes from a life spent sitting on a stool, waiting for messages to deliver. Despite his years of service, Ram Lal had never quite managed to master English, and my conversations with him generally descended into a quagmire of pidgin Bengali, sign language and a fair degree of shouting and pointing.

  ‘Inspector Captain sahib,’ he said, saluting. ‘One chitee is coming.’ He handed me a small white envelope. There was no stamp or postmark. I ripped it open. Inside were two sheets of paper with a few lines scrawled in blue ink. The script was foreign, unintelligible to me, but I knew where I’d seen it before: the scrap of paper with the Singer advertisement.

  I passed them to Surrender-not. ‘You know what these are?’

  A smile broke out on his face. ‘The warning notes sent to Prince Adhir? Maybe the gods are smiling on us.’

  ‘Who gave you this?’ I asked the peon.

  ‘Kee?’

  ‘I don’t have time for this,’ I said. ‘Surrender-not, ask him in Bengali.’

  ‘Ke tomaké eita dilo?’

  ‘Desk sar-gent.’

  ‘Get down there and speak to the desk sergeant,’ I said to Surrender-not. ‘Find out who delivered this.’

  The sergeant nodded and headed for the door with the peon at his heels.

  I picked up the scrap of paper with the sewing machine advertisement again, then lifted the telephone receiver. It took a few calls to obtain the number I was looking for, but I had a hunch, and with a bit of luck, this scrap of paper, together with what I assumed were the letters the crown prince had received before his death, might just be enough to convince the Commissioner to keep open the case.

  Surrender-not returned ten minutes later with a native constable in tow. The man had a nest of wiry black hair and a toothbrush moustache.

  ‘That’s not the desk sergeant,’ I said.

  ‘No, sir. The desk sergeant was of little help. The letter was delivered by a street urchin, probably paid a few annas for his trouble. This is Constable Biswal,’ he continued, originally from Bhubaneswar. I thought he might be able to help decipher our letters, sir.’

  ‘Very well,’ I said, passing the envelope to the constable. The man extracted the two sheets, read them quickly, then nodded.

  ‘Oriya,’ he said.

  ‘The language of Orissa,’ Surrender-not added. ‘It’s what most people in Sambalpore would speak.’

  ‘Most people?’ I asked.

  ‘The common folk,’ he said. ‘As Colonel Arora confirmed, they don’t speak it at the royal court.’

  ‘Can you translate them?’ I asked the constable.

  ‘Yes, sir.’ He smiled. ‘They both bear the same message: Your life is in danger, leave Sambalpore before the twenty-seventh day of Ashadal.’

  ‘When is that?’ I asked.

  ‘Yesterday,’ replied Surrender-not.

  I was alone in the office when the telephone rang. It was the call I’d been waiting for – a lady by the name of Miss Cavendish from Singer Sewing Machines’ Calcutta office. I thanked her for returning my call, then asked what I needed to know.

  ‘Can you tell me in which Orissan-language newspapers you most recently placed advertisements?’

  ‘That’s a most obscure question, Captain Wyndham,’ she said in prim and matronly tones. You could almost smell the talcum powder down the telephone line. ‘I would need to telephone our representative office in Cuttack. May I call you back?’

  ‘Of course,’ I said. ‘I look forward to it.’

  Next I summoned Ram Lal from his stool in the corridor.

  ‘Find Banerjee,’ I said. ‘Tell him to come to my office.’

  He smiled, displaying a few remaining teeth, then nodded his head in that curiously Indian fashion. ‘Many Banerjees is downstairs, sahib. Which one you want?’

  ‘Surrender-not Banerjee. The sergeant.’

  ‘Ah, Surendranath babu.’ He grinned. ‘Thik āchē.’

  Surrender-not arrived just as Miss Cavendish called back.

  ‘Captain Wyndham? I have that information for you. It appears we only place advertisements in two Orissan-language newspapers. I’m afraid, however, that the pronunciation of their names is quite beyond me. If it helps, I can spell them for you.’

  ‘Please do,’ I said, grabbing a pen and notepad as she slowly spelled out the names. The first was titled the Dainik Asha. It was the second, though, that brought a smile to my face. The Sambalpore Hiteishini.

  ‘When were the advertisements last placed?’ I asked.

  ‘They’re weekly papers,’ she replied. ‘The most recent issues would have gone out last Monday.’

  I thanked her and replaced the receiver, then passed the notepad over to Surrender-not.

  He read it and grinned. ‘So there’s a chance the assassin was dispatched from Sambalpore.’

  ‘It looks that way,’ I said, ‘but we need to be sure. At the moment, all we really have is conjecture. A piece of newsprint, which we think was used to wrap what we believe was the murder weapon, which likely came from a newspaper printed in Orissa, possibly in Sambalpore.’

  ‘But taken in conjunction with the warning letters to the Yuvraj, surely it points to a connection to Sambalpore?’

  ‘I want copies of last Monday’s editions of both papers,’ I said. ‘Find that advertisement and, more importantly, match the writing on the other side. Then find out the radius of the paper’s circulation. Start with the Samhalpore whatever-it-is.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ He nodded.

  ‘In the meantime,’ I said, picking up the letters, ‘I’m going to speak to Lord Taggart again. Let’s give him what we’ve got.’

  EIGHT

  ‘So what do you propose to do now?’

  Lord Taggart was staring out of the French windows of his office at a sky the colour of a dreadnought.

  ‘I want to go to Sambalpore,’ I replied.

  ‘Out of the question, Sam,’ he said as he turned to face me. ‘It’s not British territory. We have no jurisdiction there.’

  ‘But the crime was committed on British territory, sir. We have a duty to follow the trail. If it led to France, you’d have no hesitation in dispatching me to Paris, expecting at least some cooperation from the Sûreté.’

  ‘Sambalpore isn’t France, Sam. It’s worse, if anything.’

  ‘I appreciate that, sir,’ I said, ‘but it’s a tiny feudal kingdom whose heir to the throne has just
been assassinated. I’d have thought they’d welcome our assistance.’

  ‘Look, Sam,’ sighed Taggart, ‘if it were up to me, I’d let you go. In fact, I’d bloody order you to go. But there’s the Viceroy to consider. With all the brouhaha over the new Chamber of Princes, this case had become a political issue. All he wants is to chalk it down to fanatics and sweep it under the carpet.’

  That was understandable. The Viceroy might be the most powerful man in India, overlord to hundreds of millions, but in the grand scheme of things, he was just a functionary who took his orders from Whitehall. All he was really interested in was keeping his nose clean and serving out his time as Governor-General without the Raj collapsing around him. With any luck he’d be relieved in a few years and then posted to a billet where the natives were less troublesome. That was the thing about viceroys, they might assume the mantle of demigods, but in truth, since the time of Lord Curzon, the only thing that’s really mattered to any of them is to keep the plates spinning until they can move on. No one wants to be remembered as the man in charge when the music stopped – the man who lost India. But that wasn’t my concern. Everyone has their own priorities. The Viceroy’s was the avoidance of anything that might rock the ship of state; mine was getting to the truth, and I wasn’t about to give up on this case now, just because the Viceroy might deem the results unpalatable.

  ‘There might be another way, sir . . .’

  There was a knock on the doors of the Commissioner’s office and Surrender-not was shown into the room, looking like an errant schoolboy summoned to the headmaster’s office.

  The Commissioner looked up, lifting his spectacles from the desk.

  ‘Sergeant Banerjee, reporting as ordered.’

  ‘Good, good,’ said Taggart, peering at Surrender-not over the top of his spectacles. ‘Well, come in, lad.’ He gestured to the chair next to me. ‘Now, Sergeant . . .’ Taggart made a show of reading some papers on his desk. ‘I understand that you were a close friend of the late Crown Prince of Sambalpore.’

  ‘I wouldn’t say we were close, sir. He was my brother’s friend.’

  ‘No, Sergeant,’ continued Taggart, ‘you were close friends. Very close friends. Indeed, that is why I think it appropriate that you accompany the prince’s body back to Sambalpore as a representative of the Imperial Police Force.’

  ‘Me, sir?’ spluttered Surrender-not.

  ‘Yes. Captain Wyndham informs me that he wishes to accompany you, though he will be going in an unofficial capacity.’

  ‘I’ll be on holiday,’ I said.

  ‘It’s only fitting,’ continued the Commissioner, ‘seeing as you both were instrumental in hunting down his attacker. But you, and not the captain, are the official representative. You should note that you are there solely to pay our respects at his funeral, and, let me stress, not in any investigative capacity. Is that clear, Sergeant?’

  The sergeant swallowed hard.

  ‘Captain Wyndham is the senior officer, sir. Shouldn’t he be the representative?’

  ‘As I said, you were the prince’s friend, you should be our representative. Besides, I have more faith in you obeying my orders than I do the captain. And I repeat: you are in no way to treat this as an extension of the inquiry into the prince’s murder. Do I make myself clear, Sergeant?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Absolutely, sir.’

  ‘So you’re on holiday?’ said Surrender-not.

  We were back in my office, me sitting behind the desk, him pacing the floor like an expectant father.

  ‘I’ve always wanted to see Sambalpore,’ I replied.

  ‘But you hadn’t heard of the place two days ago, sir. You looked it up in the atlas.’

  ‘Now now, Surrender-not,’ I said. ‘Just because I didn’t go to Cambridge doesn’t mean I don’t know my geography. Anyway, I hope you’re looking forward to your role as the official representative of the Imperial Police Force.’

  ‘Official representative . . Surrender-not rolled the words around his tongue as though trying them out. ‘Official representative,’ he repeated, then shook his head.

  ‘It’s a great honour,’ I said. ‘Your mother will be proud. Maybe I should telephone and tell her the good news? I’d have thought a son who’s an official representative should be able to attract a much better calibre of girl than a mere sergeant, not to mention commanding a significantly larger dowry. You play your cards right and you may never have to work again . . . Not that you need to work now.’

  He stared at me.

  ‘I still don’t understand why the Commissioner would choose me,’ he queried. His look turned to one of consternation. ‘You are all right with this, aren’t you, sir?’

  ‘Of course I am,’ I replied.

  Taggart would have to make a report to the Viceroy, and after the fallout from the Sen case, it was fair to say that the man wasn’t entirely convinced that I was pulling wholeheartedly for the side. Any mention that I was off to Sambalpore might set alarm bells ringing. This way, Taggart could truthfully tell him that Surrender-not had been dispatched as the emissary of the police force, conveniently leaving out any mention of my name.

  ‘You deserve it,’ I said.

  ‘Right,’ he said. ‘I suppose I should liaise with the Yuvraj’s ADC and find out the plans for the repatriation of his body.’

  ‘And quickly too,’ I added. ‘I rather formed the impression that the Dewan wasn’t keen on wasting any time getting it back to Sambalpore.’

  ‘I take it you intend to keep investigating while we’re down there, in spite of what the Commissioner had to say?’

  ‘All I heard was him order you not to investigate. He didn’t say anything about me. Besides, I’m going to have to do something to keep myself occupied while you’re off hobnobbing with the Maharaja.’

  ‘You could always invite Miss Grant along, sir,’ he said.

  ‘I hardly think that would be appropriate, Sergeant,’ I replied, ‘inviting an unmarried woman on holiday.’

  His ears turned a nice shade of crimson. ‘I didn’t mean to imply . . . I mean, I . . . you did say that she knew the family and wanted to pay her respects, sir.’

  When I thought about it, though, it wasn’t such a terrible idea. And it would also get Annie away from old Charlie Peal for a few days, not that Surrender-not needed to know any of that.

  ‘I think you’ve got enough to do without worrying about Miss Grant and her social calendar,’ I said. ‘Now get to work, Sergeant.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Sorry, sir,’ he said as he turned to leave.

  ‘And Surrender-not,’ I called after him, ‘don’t forget to follow up on the ballistics test on the revolver and identifying which of the two newspapers that scrap was torn from. You might be the official representative to the court of Sambalpore, but you still have your day job.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ he said and smiled.

  I waited till he’d left, then picked up the receiver and dialled Annie’s telephone number. The maid answered after an inordinately long delay, only to tell me that the memsahib of the house was out.

  ‘Tell her Captain Wyndham telephoned and please ask her to call me back before six p.m.’ I left my number and hung up.

  Soon after, Surrender-not stuck his head round the door.

  ‘It appears the Yuvraj’s body is being repatriated tonight on the ten p.m. train,’ he said, before disappearing once more.

  As it transpired, Annie called back within the hour.

  ‘What can I do for you, Sam?’ she said.

  There was no point in procrastinating. ‘I was calling to invite you to Sambalpore for a few days. You said you wanted to pay your respects to the prince’s family, and Surrender-not is attending the funeral as the police force’s representative.’

  ‘And you?’

  ‘I’m visiting in a personal capacity. I just thought it might be nice to take a break from Calcutta,’ I said. ‘I’ve never seen a maharaja’s palace before. I hear some of them are quite fancy.’


  ‘And your visit wouldn’t have anything to do with the investigation into Adhir’s assassination, would it?’

  ‘I’ve no authority down there.’

  ‘That’s not an answer, Sam.’

  ‘Yes it is.’

  There was silence, punctuated only by the crackling of the line and the sound of traffic in the street below my window. I found myself sweating, and not just from the humidity.

  ‘So you want me to accompany you to Sambalpore?’ she asked finally. ‘Isn’t that rather forward?’

  ‘You wouldn’t be accompanying me,’ I said. ‘You’re a friend of the family and you’d be going for your own reasons. We’d just be making the trip down together. What do you say?’

  ‘When do you leave?’

  ‘The prince’s body is being repatriated tonight. The train leaves Howrah at ten o’clock.’

  ‘You don’t give a girl much notice, do you, Sam?’

  ‘I’d have thought that after hanging around with the likes of Charlie Peal, you might appreciate a bit of spontaneity,’ I replied. ‘No doubt he’d have given you two weeks’ notice and requested a written response in triplicate.’

  ‘Very funny, Sam,’ she said.

  ‘So you’ll come?’

  Once again there was silence and I felt my heart thumping in my chest.

  ‘You’ll just have to wait and see, won’t you, Captain Wyndham? But a word of advice . . .’

  ‘Yes?’ I said.

  ‘Don’t hold your breath.’

  NINE

  The first fat droplets fell that evening from low scudding clouds. Flashes of lightning scarred the sky.

  The monsoon. Far more than just rain, it sustained life, brought forth the promise of new birth, broke the heat and vanquished drought. It was the country’s saviour, India’s true god.

  It had been building for some time now. The staccato showers that always preceded it had come and gone, and the barometer, thermometer and anemometer all pointed to this being the real thing. The natives at least were in no doubt. They rushed out into streets and turned their heads skyward.