My stomach lurched as the implications of that sank in. The political assassination of a prince was an endeavour that wouldn’t have been undertaken lightly. If Section H were behind this, it was a certainty that getting to the truth would be dangerous and nigh on impossible. Worse still, if Section H were involved, being on a train heading to Sambalpore would take me directly away from the answers rather than towards them.
I took another sip and watched the night slip by. My thoughts turned to the warning notes. They were written in Oriya and had been delivered to the prince inside his palace. Even if there was a British angle to the conspiracy, someone with a knowledge of the local language had still deduced enough about a plot to have tried to warn Adhir, and the chances were that that someone was in Sambalpore. Finding them had to be my first priority.
An hour later, Surrender-not knocked on my door. He was dressed in black tie and patent leather shoes with a shine that could have kept ships away from rocks.
‘Are you off to the opera?’ I asked.
‘I thought you wanted to go looking for the dining car, sir?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ I replied, ‘but we’re not attending a state dinner.’
‘It’s a state train.’ He shrugged. ‘Do you want me to change?’
‘No.’ I sighed. ‘Let’s go. I’m hungry.’
The sergeant opened the connecting door at the end of the carriage. The rain was still coming down and a torrent poured from the roof into the gap between the two bogeys. I jumped quickly across the space between the footplates and stumbled inside the next carriage with Surrender-not close behind.
The lounge car was dominated by a mirrored bar and a large black Steinway which no one was playing. In front of it were dotted a dozen or so armchairs finished in green leather, and small polished ivory side tables. Around one such table sat the Dewan and a silver-haired European gentleman, who, judging by the cut of his dinner jacket, was probably English. He looked around sixty, with the face of a field marshal and the manner of a banker. He examined me coldly, as a doctor might do a leper, then returned to his conversation, leaving Surrender-not and I to continue our progress through the train.
The dining car’s walls were panelled in dark, varnished wood and the windows were framed with thick curtains of purple velvet tied back with golden pelmets. It was empty, save for a jacketed waiter arranging cutlery and Colonel Arora sitting at one of a half-dozen tables draped in white napery, with a single orchid for company. His face set hard, Arora stared out of the window, concentrating on the blackness beyond. There was an intensity to his expression that suggested his thoughts weren’t particularly pleasant. As far as I was concerned, that was no bad thing. You can learn a lot by disturbing a man when he’s lost in introspection.
I called over to him.
‘Colonel.’
He turned and stared, and for a moment, there was anger visible in his eyes. I held his gaze, trying to fathom its meaning. He must have realised and immediately his expression changed – his emotions reined in.
He gave a curt nod. ‘Captain, Sergeant.’
‘You don’t mind if we join you?’
‘Of course,’ he replied politely, please do.’
The cutlery clinked softly as the train passed over a set of points.
The waiter broke off from his polishing and came over.
‘May I bring you an aperitif?’
It seemed rude to refuse.
He returned with two flutes of champagne on a silver tray.
‘I think there’s time for a spot of supper,’ said Arora, consulting his watch. He turned to the waiter. ‘What have we tonight?’
‘Pea and mint soup, wild boar pot roast, and for dessert: Eton mess.’
‘Good, good,’ said the colonel.
For the train of an Indian royal family, the food sounded decidedly English.
The waiter departed and I turned to the colonel.
‘Who’s the Englishman with the Dewan in the lounge car?’
‘That,’ replied Arora, ‘is Sir Ernest Fitzmaurice, board director of the Anglo-Indian Diamond Corporation and, so he tells us, firm friend of the kingdom of Sambalpore. We’ve had a long and florid relationship with Anglo-Indian,’ he continued. ‘The company is the purchaser of almost ninety per cent of our diamond production. When the East India Company was trying to strangle the state into submission, it was Anglo-Indian Diamond who broke the embargo, smuggling out our produce when no other English company would touch us. It’s Anglo-Indian’s money that’s paid for Sambalpore’s schools and clinics, not to mention the Maharaja’s cars.’
Possibly the wine, too, I thought, judging by the rather fine Gran Cabernet Franc that accompanied the meal and the velvet Jurançon served with dessert. The conversation was cordial, with the colonel reeling off tales of Sambalpore’s history and the resistance of its rulers to the invading Mughals. Eventually we rose to return to our compartments.
‘Don’t get too comfortable, Captain,’ said Arora. ‘In a few hours we shall reach Jharsugudah, where we shall have to change trains.’
‘The Sambalpore royal train doesn’t go to Sambalpore?’ I asked.
‘It can’t,’ replied the colonel. ‘You British do not allow broadgauge railway tracks to be laid in the native states. The India Office is scared that if it did, it might assist us in transporting troops and heavy guns, which we might then use against you.’
‘That’s absurd,’ I said.
‘Of course it is,’ he replied. ‘But it’s also a fact. So at Jharsugudah, we will change to another royal train on the narrow-gauge line, which will take us the last fifty miles to Sambalpore.’
Sure enough, two hours later, the train pulled into a cordoned-off platform at Jharsugudah railway station and I walked out into a stiflingly humid night. There was no rain, though, and the tracks looked dry. It seemed we’d outrun the monsoon.
The train that would take us on to Sambalpore was a miniaturised version of the one we’d just alighted from and we boarded it without ceremony or fanfare. Further down, the guards lowered the Yuvraj’s coffin and I watched as they carried it across, laying it to rest in the forward-most carriage before readying the prince for the final leg of his journey home.
ELEVEN
Sunday 20 June 1920
I gave up on sleep as the dawn rays pierced the slatted shutters of my compartment window. I knew from the atlas that our toy train was puffing its way across the Deccan, the high plateau that rises from the Gangetic plain and forms most of southern India. The carriage rocked gently and the temptation to lie abed would have been compelling had it not been for Surrender-not knocking on my cabin door.
‘Sir? Are you awake?’
I pulled myself off the banquette, flipped the latch on the compartment door and slid it open.
‘There you are,’ he said.
‘Where did you expect me to be?’
‘What?’
‘What is it, Sergeant?’ I asked, running a hand through my hair.
‘Colonel Arora says we’ll be arriving in Sambalpore within the hour. I thought you might appreciate the advance notice.’
‘What time is it?’ I yawned.
‘Almost half past five,’ he replied.
I walked over to the window and lifted the shutter fully. The dawn revealed a landscape starkly different from that of Bengal. In the space of a few hundred miles, verdant jungle had given way to an alien landscape of desiccated scrub and dusty brown earth.
Skinny trees passed by in the half-light, deciduous and dull and nothing like the tropical palms of Calcutta.
‘Shall I see you in the dining car?’ he asked brightly. ‘The chef is preparing a South Indian breakfast, idlis and what not.’
My stomach lurched. The natives seemed to consider it a mortal sin to serve any meal, even breakfast, without the addition of half a pound of spices. That was all well and good, but there are times when all an Englishman really wants is a slice of toast and a cup of tea.
&
nbsp; ‘You carry on,’ I said. ‘I’ll give it a miss.’
I closed the door and dressed, as outside the sky brightened and the parched land came into focus. The monsoon might have reached Calcutta, but Orissa was still as dry as a Baghdad summer.
At a quarter after six, the train pulled into Sambalpore, and into a station that looked like it had been transported from somewhere in the Cotswolds: golden sandstone walls, slate roof and a provincial calm. Even the clouds were grey enough to be English. Only the heat felt Indian.
We shuddered to a halt. Outside the window stood a line of stern-faced soldiers and sombre officials. I retrieved my suitcase, made my way out of the compartment, and headed down the narrow corridor, meeting Surrender-not, clad in full dress uniform, en route. We descended onto the platform in time to see a phalanx of guards board the carriage containing the Yuvraj’s coffin.
The Dewan stood nearby, flanked by the Englishman, Fitzmaurice. Both looked on as the coffin was brought down on the shoulders of the guards. Colonel Arora waited a distance apart and saluted as the body of his former master was carried along the platform towards the station concourse. There, behind a wooden barrier and among a crowd of natives, stood a pale, dark-haired man, busily scanning the faces coming off the train. That he was British was evident from his complexion and also his clothing: morning coat, tie and pinstripe trousers — the full regimental dress of the Foreign Office. His face brightened as he noticed Surrender-not’s uniform and he began to stride over.
‘You must be Sergeant Banerjee,’ he said rather stiffly, offering an outstretched hand.
‘That’s correct,’ replied Surrender-not, shaking it. ‘And may I present Captain Wyndham, also of the Imperial Police.’
A cloud of confusion passed across the Englishman’s face.
‘I’m sorry? The cable contained only the notification of your arrival. No mention was made of any British officer. There must be some mistake.’
‘There’s no mistake,’ I interjected. ‘I’m here in a personal capacity. To pay my respects. Does that present a problem?’
He looked me up and down and ran a hand through his hair.
‘No, no. Not at all,’ he replied with a haste that suggested the opposite. ‘It’s a pleasure. The name’s Carmichael. I’m the Resident here. His Majesty’s representative to the Court of Sambalpore.’
‘So you’re the ambassador?’ asked Surrender-not.
‘Oh, nothing quite so grand.’
‘Nevertheless,’ continued the sergeant, ‘it was good of you to come and meet us personally.’
‘Not especially,’ he replied. ‘There really isn’t anyone else.’
The crowd inside the station parted silently as the Yuvraj’s coffin was borne out towards a waiting carriage. A great collective groan, a noise like that of a wounded animal, came from outside. It sounded like half of Sambalpore had turned out to receive their dead prince.
‘We had better wait until things quieten down,’ counselled Carmichael. ‘It’s not far to the Residency, but the roads will be jammed. The journey here was nightmarish. If this is what it’s like today, I dread to think how many people are going to turn out for the funeral tomorrow.’
‘He was a popular man, then?’ I asked.
‘Oh, good gracious, yes,’ he replied. ‘All the royals are. Worshipped like gods. The whole town is in a state of shock.’ He scanned the concourse. ‘I say, there’s a tea stall over there. How about a cup while we wait?’
He led the way across the bustling concourse. The stall itself was little more than a wooden plank balanced atop what looked like two bicycles welded together and draped in garlands of orange marigolds. The counter was painted blue and on it stood a stack of small earthen cups and several metal utensils. To one side, atop a makeshift brick stove, sat a bashed tin kettle with a long curved spout, and behind that stood a crumpled old native in a red turban. He held an almost identical pot and was busy pouring steaming, caramel-coloured tea from one vessel to the other.
‘Teen chai,’ ordered Carmichael loudly, holding up three fingers of one hand for good measure. The old man nodded and retrieved three of the clay cups from the stack, setting them out carefully before pouring equal measures of the tea into each one.
Carmichael paid the chai wallah, who then handed us our cups with a care that suggested he were passing us the Holy Grail. I raised mine to my lips and sipped slowly. I noticed the Dewan and Fitzmaurice exit the station and climb into a waiting Rolls-Royce.
‘That chap, Fitzmaurice,’ I asked the Resident. ‘Do you know him?’
‘Yes indeed.’ Carmichael nodded, quickly swallowing his tea. ߢI’ve met him several times. Sir Ernest’s a very fine gentleman.’
‘He’s not staying at the Residency?’
Carmichael made a curious face. ‘Not these days. The last few times he’s stayed at the palace as a guest of the Maharaja.’
‘He comes here often, then?’ asked Banerjee.
‘Oh yes, quite often. At least he has done this year. Before that he tended to come once a year for the Maharaja’s annual shoot. A splendid affair that is. Even the Viceroy sometimes attends. Last year we bagged half a dozen tigers, a couple of black leopards and Lord knows how many chinkara.’
And recently?’ I asked.
‘What?’
‘You were saying that recently Sir Ernest has visited more often?’
‘That’s right. He’s been here several times over the past six months.’
‘Any idea why?’
Carmichael thought for a moment. ‘I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to say. Confidentiality, you understand?’
‘Well, unless he’s coming to take the air,’ I said, ‘I assume it has something to do with diamonds.’
‘Very astute of you.’ Carmichael grinned.
You didn’t have to be Sherlock Holmes to make the deduction. He was the director of a diamond company and the kingdom of Sambalpore appeared to have more diamonds than Ali Baba and his forty thieves.
The station emptied gradually. Finishing the tea, Carmichael led us out towards a waiting Austin that looked like it might have been the oldest car in India. A faded Union Jack hung limply from a metal rod on the bonnet. A native driver stood beside it, polishing the headlights with a grimy rag.
‘Apologies for the state of the transport,’ said Carmichael. ‘It’s no Rolls-Royce.’
‘I wouldn’t worry,’ I said. ‘The last journey the sergeant and I took in a Rolls didn’t exactly end well. Though I’d have thought the India Office would have provided you with one for appearances’ sake. Keeping up with the Joneses, and all that.’
‘Alas, no,’ said Carmichael ruefully. ‘The days of trying to impress the Maharaja and his ilk with displays of wealth went out with the East India Company. Since then we prefer to influence the princely states with displays of power. No point in buying fleets of Rolls-Royces when you can achieve the same effect with a few cannon and a crate of Lee Enfields. Which is fair enough, I suppose, though it does mean I have to be driven around in this thing.’
‘The price of Empire,’ said Banerjee, shaking his head as he took his seat next to the driver.
The journey through town was arduous, creeping along choked narrow lanes of nondescript houses. In the distance, upon a hill, sat the royal palace.
‘The Surya Mahal,’ said Carmichael. ‘The Palace of the Sun, seat of maharajas of Sambalpore since . . . well, not that long really. They only built it about sixty years ago. After the Mutiny, at any rate. Before that, the maharajas preferred the security of the old fort down by the river. This part of the world was a pretty dangerous place until the early eighteen hundreds. Local rulers, Mughals and Marathas all fighting each another and us, of course.
‘Luckily for Sambalpore, at the time of the ’fifty-seven Mutiny, the then ruler, the Rajah Veer Surendra Sai, was canny enough to see which way the wind was blowing. Unlike other native princes, he chose to back the East India Company – even sent some of his own
troops to aid in the relief of Lucknow – and very well he did out of it, too. Expanded lands, the title of Maharaja and the gratitude of the India Office. Of such things are dynasties created.’
The car finally approached the gates of the British Residency, a large walled compound, inside which stood a rather drab-looking two-storey building, with a balcony running the length of the upper floor and a bare flagpole on the roof.
‘No Union Jack?’ I asked.
Carmichael’s face reddened. ‘I’m afraid not. Moths, you see. We’ve requested a replacement from Calcutta, but, as I told you, we’re not high on the India Office’s list of priorities.’
‘I wouldn’t be so sure,’ I replied, thinking of the Viceroy’s designs for the Chamber of Princes. ‘From what I hear, all that might be about to change.’
The interior of the Residency was no less ordinary than the exterior. Indeed, there are town halls in the most unassuming corners of England that are more impressive than His Britannic Majesty’s Residency in Sambalpore. Still, be it ever so humble . . .
In the ill-lit, camphor-smelling entrance hall, Carmichael took his leave, entrusting us to the care of his manservant, a shifty-looking native dressed in a white shirt, loose, draw-string trousers and bare feet.
‘Munda will show you to your rooms,’ said Carmichael. ‘There’s a basin, soap and a bucket of clean water in each so that you can freshen up. Please be ready and down here in an hour as we have an audience with the Maharaja and it wouldn’t do to be late.’
The manservant led the way up a flight of stairs and along a corridor with bare, whitewashed walls. He opened a door and ushered me inside, then shuffled off down the corridor with Surrender-not in tow.
A Necessary Evil Page 8
