The rain began to fall more rapidly: a growing percussion on the rooftops as the wind picked up, swaying the trees in the street and carrying the scent of marigolds on its breath.
How does one explain the monsoon to someone who’s never experienced it? As we left our lodgings it fell as a curtain, a sheer veil of water that dropped suddenly and continued for hours. It took only seconds to be soaked to the raw.
Surrender-not looked heavenward. ‘It’s auspicious to commence a journey during the rain,’ he said. ‘At least that’s what my father thinks. He’d say the gods are smiling on us.’
‘You’re sure they’re not laughing at us?’ I asked. ‘Anyway, I thought you said he wasn’t religious?’
‘He’s not,’ he replied, somewhat enigmatically.
The short trip between the veranda and the waiting taxi was enough to leave us drenched.
‘Howrah station,’ I ordered the driver.
‘Hā, sahib,’ he said, nodding. He started the engine and began to navigate his way through the tempest in the direction of the river.
The approaches to Howrah Bridge were bad at the best of times. Tonight the scene resembled one of those paintings of Napoleon’s retreat from Moscow. Men, animals and vehicles jammed the narrow artery. There were bullock wagons laden with sodden goods, rain-lashed, lunghi-clad farmers, their baskets balanced precariously on their heads, and semi-naked coolies pushing old carts overloaded with produce, all competing for space with trucks and omnibuses. All were headed towards the same destination – the huge building on the far shore, lit up by arc lamps and looking more like a Roman fort than a railway station.
Our taxi inched across the bridge as the lightning flashed ever closer. On both sides, a flotilla of small boats and steamers plied the channel between the Armenian ghat and the ferry terminal on the opposite shore.
We reached the Howrah side as the clock on one of the station’s towers struck half past nine. The taxi pulled to a halt and a red-shirted coolie hurried over and flung open the door. His face was creased and grey with stubble, and on his head sat a dirty white turban.
‘I carry your luggages, sahib?’
‘How much?’
‘Eight annas.’
‘Too much,’ I replied. ‘Four.’
‘Six,’ he shot back, wrestling the case from my hand. ‘Kon platfrom?’ he asked.
‘Platform one,’ said Surrender-not, emerging from the cab.
‘Platfrom one, very good, sahib,’ said the coolie as he turned and plunged into the crowd of commuters with our cases on his head.
Walking into Howrah station was akin to entering Babel before the Lord took issue with their construction plans. All the peoples of the world, gathered under the station’s soot-stained glass roof. White, native, oriental, African; all jostled for space in the crowded ticket hall, as farmers, pilgrims, soldiers and salarymen fought their way to the platforms in the hope of passage to their desired destinations. Whatever else it might be, Howrah station was not for the faint hearted.
A white man could, should he choose to, spend his days in Calcutta living in pretty much splendid isolation, without ever having to deal with any natives other than his servants. But Howrah station was like a watering hole in the savannah, where all animals from the highest to the lowest were forced to congregate cheek by jowl, the one place in the city where an Englishman, by necessity, had to confront India at its rawest.
The place smelled of fish, fresh produce and damp clothes. Underpinning it all was the smell of smoke from the engines, and the constant chorus of the hawkers touting their wares. Cries of ‘Komla Lebu’ and ‘Gorrom Cha’ competed with the continuous announcements from the station Tannoy-vital information intoned in English and Bengali, and incomprehensible in both.
Platform one, often reserved for VIP trains, was situated on the far left of the concourse: cordoned off by velvet ropes and brass stands, it was an oasis of calm in the maelstrom. Waiting there stood a handsome locomotive and train of six carriages, each painted in green and gold and embossed with the Royal Seal of Sambalpore, a leaping tiger under a crown.
Back on the concourse, to the sound of barked orders, a cortège of sepoys in dress uniform, with an English officer at their side and a coffin on their shoulders, progressed solemnly through the crowd. The casket was draped in the Union flag and garlands of flowers and was flanked by the Dewan and Colonel Arora.
A hush descended as the cortège passed by and people touched their hands to their foreheads in reverence for the dead. As the crowds parted, I caught sight of a man in civilian clothes and my blood froze. He might have been out of uniform but the moustache and the pipe clamped firmly at the corner of his mouth were unmistakable. Major Dawson, chief of Section H and head of the military’s intelligence operation in Bengal. At least I assumed he was the head. It’s hard to be sure exactly who is in charge when you’re dealing with secret policemen. As far as I could tell, Dawson ran the show, which made it all the more surprising to see him here, watching the cortège of a dead man pass by.
He hadn’t spotted me, which was just as well. Our relationship was somewhat fractious. He suspected me of meddling in Section H’s affairs and I suspected him of having tried to kill me at least once. If he spotted me boarding the train, it was a pretty safe bet that the Viceroy would know about it before bedtime, and that might present some problems for Lord Taggart, given how fastidiously he’d avoided mentioning my participation in this little jaunt to Sambalpore in his report.
I crouched down and pulled at Surrender-not’s shirt. He spun round angrily, probably thinking that someone was trying to pick his pockets. It was a fair assumption to make. More money was stolen from pockets in Howrah station every day than went missing from Calcutta’s banks in a year. His expression changed when he saw me, though.
‘Are you all right, sir?’
‘Dawson,’ I whispered, gesturing towards the intelligence officer.
Surrender-not looked over, then dropped to a crouch. ‘What’s he doing here?’
‘Good question.’
‘He’s not in uniform. Do you think he might be going somewhere?’
‘I doubt he’s off on his holidays, Sergeant,’ I said, ‘but whatever he’s up to, it could make things rather uncomfortable if he sees me here. You’ll need to distract him while I slip on to the train.’
‘What should I say to him?’
‘I’m sure you’ll think of something.’
Surrender-not swallowed hard. ‘Very well.’ He nodded, stood up and made his way through the crowd towards the major. Soon he was within ten feet of the man and trying to attract his attention.
‘I say, Major Daws—’
He was cut off in mid sentence as a farmer the size of a barn barged into him, sending him flying. As if on cue, another gorilla of a man hurried over. Both men positioned themselves squarely between Surrender-not and the major and made a rather splendid show of helping the sergeant back on to his feet. I turned to see Dawson’s reaction, but he’d gone, disappeared into the crowd. I didn’t hang about trying to find him. Instead, I stood up and rushed towards platform one.
TEN
I reached the gate on the heels of the military cortège. Our coolie was already there, remonstrating with a railway official. He pointed to me and eventually the guard deigned to let him through.
The Dewan was discussing something with the officer in charge of the pall bearers. He then spoke briefly to an assistant who nodded and led the cortège down the platform towards the fifth carriage.
‘Prime Minister Davé,’ I called out.
He turned and stared as though slapped in the face by my very presence.
‘Captain Wyndham? I was not informed that you would be accompanying us. I was under the impression that your colleague, Sergeant Banerjee, was to be the representative of the Imperial Police Force.’
‘That’s correct, sir,’ I said. ‘I’m attending in a personal capacity. I wished to pay my respects at the Yuvraj’s funeral.’
He eyed me suspiciously.
‘Very well,’ he said. ‘It is only fitting, I suppose. I understand you and Sergeant Banerjee were responsible for apprehending the Yuvraj’s killer. The Maharaja may wish to meet you.’
‘We tracked him down, at any rate,’ I replied. ‘He preferred to shoot himself rather than be apprehended.’
The Dewan forced an awkward smile. ‘I am informed that he was most likely a religious zealot of some kind. Who knows what goes through the mind of a man like that?’
I could have told him that in this case, the last thing was a bullet from a rather old revolver, but he didn’t seem the type to appreciate the insight.
He called to Colonel Arora, who was talking to a uniformed native who had descended from the train. The colonel broke off his conversation and marched smartly over.
‘Captain Wyndham,’ he said, ‘a pleasure to see you again.’
‘The captain will be travelling with us,’ said the Dewan. ‘Please arrange a berth for him.’
‘As you command, Dewan sahib,’ said the colonel. ‘Captain, if you’ll come with me.’
‘So you have decided to journey with us to Sambalpore,’ said Arora as I took my leave of the Dewan and accompanied him down the platform.
‘I thought I might like to see a genuine Indian maharaja in his native habitat, as it were.’
‘Really, Captain?’ He smiled. ‘I wouldn’t have pegged you for an anthropologist.’
‘I’m not,’ I replied. ‘Though I confess, I have recently discovered an interest in South Indian languages that I never knew I possessed. You might say I’m going to Sambalpore to indulge my curiosity in the written word.’
Arora kept his eyes trained firmly ahead. ‘Well, I hope your time with us is most productive,’ he replied.
The colonel stopped at the entrance to one of the carriages and gestured for me to board.
I climbed the iron steps into a walnut-panelled and thickly carpeted cocoon that seemed more like the lobby of some rather exclusive cinema than the vestibule of a railway carriage.
An impeccably tailored attendant in a green and gold uniform came over, his hands clasped together in pranaam.
‘Let’s find you a berth,’ said the colonel. He conversed briefly with the attendant, who, after a moment’s hesitation, turned to me.
‘Follow me please, sahib.’
I left the colonel and accompanied the man along the corridor, past several compartment doors polished to a shine.
‘You are liking our train, sahib?’ he asked.
‘It’s certainly better than the eight-fifteen to Paddington,’ I replied.
The attendant kept his opinion on that to himself and continued down the corridor.
‘This cabin is unoccupied, sahib,’ he said, stopping at one of the doors and sliding it open. ‘Do you require anything else?’
‘I assume my colleague, Sergeant Banerjee, also has a cabin in this carriage.’
‘Yes, sahib. The officer is in the next cabin.’
‘There may be a third person joining us,’ I said, ‘a woman. She’ll need a cabin too.’
‘I shall make the arrangements, sahib.’
‘And please tell the sergeant to join me once he is aboard.’
I entered and closed the door. The compartment smelled of rose oil. To one side, a bed – a real one not a bunk – was set against the wall. Beside it, a chair furnished in purple velvet and a rococo writing desk, with fluted flourishes giving the impression that it had melted slightly in the heat. Opposite the bed stood a walnut-lacquered wardrobe and a door that led to a water closet complete with marble basin and enough gold fittings to make the Orient Express look like a cattle transport.
Outside the window was a different world. On the platform opposite, a native family had set up temporary residence. The elder child, a girl of about five, her hair tied in pigtails, watched with rapt attention as a hawker played a tune on a tin whistle. The younger one, a half-naked boy of about two with a black string around his belly and kohl around his eyes, stared at me, then quickly hid his face in the anchal of his mother’s sari. I watched as the woman put her efforts into laying down some makeshift bedding on which the children would sleep. Meanwhile, her husband looked out forlornly at the rain tumbling from the platform roof onto the waterlogged tracks.
Slipping off my jacket, I threw it on the bed and went into the bathroom to wash my face. The water was cold, properly cold, which was something of a miracle in Calcutta, and the towel felt like a cloud of sandalwood.
There was a knock on the door and, after a suitable pause, Surrender-not entered looking like he’d just gone three rounds with Jack Dempsey. His left cheek was beginning to swell and his wire-framed spectacles sat awkwardly on his face.
‘Are you all right, Sergeant?’ I asked, directing him to the easy chair.
‘I think so, sir.’
‘Good work, by the way. Your distraction certainly did the trick. Dawson took off like a scalded dog when he realised you’d spotted him. I expect he hightailed it out of the station as soon as those goons accosted you.’
‘Yes, sir,’ he said ruefully. ‘Rather solid chaps.’
That was the thing about Section H’s native operatives. They tended to be soldiers in mufti, drawn from the ranks with promises of better pay and rapid promotion. The problem was, these six-foot bruisers from Chandigarh and Lahore didn’t exactly blend seamlessly with the Bengali population. It was like using wrestlers to infiltrate a gang of jockeys.
He removed his spectacles and began to bend them back into shape. Without them, his eyes looked curiously small. ‘Judging by the size of his minders, sir, I think you may have been correct in your supposition that the major was not off on holiday.’
‘I don’t think Dawson takes holidays,’ I said. ‘I doubt he even sleeps.’
‘You think his being here has something to do with the Yuvraj’s assassination?’
‘It’s possible,’ I said, ‘though if he was here in an official capacity, why not turn up in uniform? And why scarper so quickly?’
‘He might have been here for something else. Maybe they’re tracking terrorists?’
I considered this. Howrah station was the city’s gateway. Most people coming to Calcutta naturally passed through it.
‘Perhaps,’ I replied, ‘though it would have to be important for him to turn up in mufti. He’s hardly a field operative.’
A whistle blew on the platform outside. I glanced at my watch. Ten p.m. on the dot. Surrender-not replaced his spectacles.
‘You didn’t happen to see Miss Grant out there?’ I asked.
He seemed somewhat thrown by the question.
‘I wasn’t really looking, sir.’
‘Of course,’ I said, and something twisted in the pit of my stomach as I realised Annie wasn’t coming. I told myself it was probably for the best, that this way, I’d be able to concentrate on the case without distraction, but it was still a bitter pill to swallow.
With a gentle lurch the train shunted forward and out of the station, slipping into the night past the marshalling yards and rain-sodden houses of Howrah.
Surrender-not stirred.
‘If there’s nothing else, sir, I’ll make my way to my cabin.’
That suited me. I needed to think, to make sense of Dawson’s presence on the concourse, though that wasn’t the only reason I wanted some time to myself. After agreeing to meet in an hour to track down some supper, he left and I locked the door behind him.
The cabin was suddenly quiet. I took my suitcase and set it down on the bed. Snapping open the locks, I removed the shirts and other camouflage that sat on top, to reveal a varnished wooden case with a silver handle and delicate ivory detailing. Fashioned from a deep mahogany, it had a silver lock in the shape of a dragon’s head. The handle continued the motif. The case was a thing of beauty and I took a moment to admire it. But it was nothing when compared with its contents.
Extracting a small silv
er key from my pocket, I placed it in the lock and turned. The mechanism clicked softly and sent a slight shiver up my spine. I lifted the lid and stared: a lamp, a ceramic pipe bowl, a selection of thin needles and tools, and, of course, a shortened bamboo opium pipe with carved porcelain end pieces. All sat snugly on a red velvet bed. It was a travelling opium kit and I’d fallen in love as soon as I’d spotted it in an antique shop near Park Street. I knew I had to have it, for no other reason than that I’d never seen anything like it. I’d never entertained any thought of using it – that is until I’d spotted the ball of opium resin in the dead assassin’s knapsack. Even now, I wasn’t sure exactly why I’d brought it along. I’d never prepared my own opium pipe before. It was a complicated business that took a degree of skill and training and I certainly wasn’t about to master it on a moving train. What’s more, bringing it with me was a risk. What if my suitcase should be damaged and its contents revealed? It was a compromising possession for a police officer, even one who was technically on holiday.
I realised then that I’d packed it because I couldn’t bear to be parted from it. The recognition hit me like a punch in the face. I quickly closed the case and covered it with clothes, then took out a fresh shirt, trousers and the half-empty bottle of Glenfarclas I’d tucked in with them.
Changing out of my damp clothes, I poured a measure into a cut-glass tumbler that sat on the writing desk. I sat down and took a sip. Outside, the rain continued to lash down, and now and again a twinkling light in the window of a dwelling passed gently by.
This would be my first visit to a native state. In fact, it would be my first real trip anywhere in India. As journeys went, it wasn’t a bad start and if this train was anything to go by, Sambalpore seemed the sort of place I might get used to. And yet I felt uneasy. Annie’s no-show had dampened my spirits somewhat, and more importantly, the sight of Major Dawson on the concourse had unnerved me. I couldn’t shake the feeling that his presence was somehow linked to the Yuvraj’s assassination. Since we’d received the warning notes that had been sent to Adhir, I’d felt certain that the trail led to Sambalpore. But Dawson’s appearance on the platform had raised another possibility: that Section H or their masters were somehow involved. Sambalpore’s accession to the Chamber of Princes was, after all, a key part of the Viceroy’s plans. Was it possible that someone in the India Office had sanctioned the prince’s removal in the belief that his replacement would prove more amenable to the Viceroy’s wishes?
A Necessary Evil Page 7
