A Necessary Evil

by Abir Mukherjee

  Carmichael gave me a nod, then turned and trudged off, looking like a man with all the cares of the empire on his shoulders.

  ‘So. Where would you care to start?’ asked the ADC.

  ‘Perhaps you could tell us about this Major Bhardwaj whom the Dewan mentioned,’ I said.

  ‘He’s the head of the local militia,’ he replied dismissively, ‘essentially our chief of police. But don’t be fooled by the rank, Captain. The man has no military training.’

  ‘Is he good at his job?’

  ‘He’s good at arresting people. Whether they’re the correct people is a matter of conjecture.’

  ‘We’ll need an office,’ I said as I pondered his response, ‘somewhere private to work from. Preferably in a different building from Major Bhardwaj and his men; and close to the palace, too, if possible.’

  ‘That should not present any difficulties,’ he replied. ‘In Sambalpore, nothing of any importance is far from the palace . . . except, of course, the diamond mines. They’re about thirty miles upcountry. Come, we should be able to find you a billet that meets your specifications.’

  He led the way through the palace and out into an immaculately landscaped garden that would have looked at home in Versailles. Arora made for a gravel path that bisected the sweeping lawns. ‘The Gulaab Bhavan, the government administrative building,’ he said, ‘is located on the other side of the palace gardens. It’s a short walk.’

  The gardens seemed a popular venue. A number of English women, matronly types in starched uniforms and sensible shoes, walked the greens, each with several small Indian children in tow. Others sat on benches, primly reading to their charges. Still more ambled along the paths, each accompanied by a male attendant immaculately turned out in an emerald-green uniform and stiff fanned turban, and each pushing a large pram.

  ‘The royal offspring,’ explained Arora. ‘At the last count, His Highness has sired two hundred and fifty-eight children, not including his three heirs.’

  ‘Mr Carmichael seemed to think the number was two hundred and fifty-six,’ queried Surrender-not.

  The colonel smiled. ‘Two more have been born since the last accounts.’

  ‘That’s a lot of children,’ I said.

  ‘His Highness has always shown great interest in sexual theory and practice.’

  ‘It appears he certainly hasn’t neglected the latter,’ I said.

  ‘That much is true. I understand the kingdom of Sambalpore is the largest single customer of your Dunley Perambulator Company. In the last year alone, I believe we have purchased over two dozen of their contraptions.’

  ‘How does a military man like yourself come across that sort of information?’ asked Banerjee.

  ‘Oh, it’s all in the accounts,’ replied the colonel nonchalantly. ‘We may be a sovereign state, but the India Office babus in Delhi require us to keep very detailed records. You’ll be surprised at what’s in there.’

  The Gulaab Bhavan, or Rose Building, turned out to be a rather handsome three-storey residence with a pink stucco exterior and vines creeping up its facade. The rear of the building was not quite as pretty as the front, dominated as it was by several sets of garage doors, some open to reveal a surfeit of headlights, polished metal and chrome bodywork.

  ‘The ground floor houses the royal fleet of cars, an engine shop and accommodation for the engineers and chauffeurs,’ explained Arora. ‘Each car has its own designated team, and His Highness insists that the chauffeurs are all Italian. He believes them to be the best drivers in the world. Our offices are on the upper floors.’

  Outside, two natives, stripped to the waist, were busy buffing a dark blue Rolls-Royce to a shine. It was a special model: the passengers would sit in an enclosed compartment and the driver up front in the open. As if the separate compartment didn’t afford privacy enough, there were thick blue curtains drawn over the windows.

  ‘The purdah car,’ explained the colonel. ‘It’s used by the maharanis. The windows are covered to protect their modesty.’

  ‘They’re allowed to leave the harem?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh yes,’ he replied matter-of-factly. ‘The maharanis have quite busy lives. Even the concubines are allowed to use it occasionally.’

  ‘Where do they go?’

  ‘All sorts of places: picnics up in the hills or trips to bathe in the river – the Mahanadi, which runs through Sambalpore, is considered holy. The Lord Jagannath is said to have taken the form of a log and travelled along it, down to Puri on the coast. And of course, the First Maharani uses it most mornings when she goes to the temple for her prayers.’

  Beside an open doorway sat a rotund sentry who paid us not the slightest notice as we passed. The interior was cool and quiet. It may have lacked the grandeur of the palace, but it was elegant enough, with marble floors and whitewashed walls dotted with photographs of the maharaja in a multitude of poses: His Highness on a grand throne; His Highness sitting on an elephant that appeared to have been dipped in a vat of gemstones; His Highness taking tea with King George; even one of him sitting on a scale, literally assessing his weight in gold.

  ‘The majority of the kingdom’s affairs are administered from this building,’ said Arora. ‘The Dewan’s office is on the first floor, along with the Cabinet room and the other advisers’ offices. They used to be scattered all over town but His Highness decreed that they all move here, for the sake of efficiency, though most of the advisers can’t stand each other. Almost all of them still run their affairs from town and just keep vacant offices here. Other than the Dewan and his retinue, the place is generally empty unless there’s a Cabinet meeting. We should have little trouble finding you an office.’

  The man was as good as his word. He led us up to the second floor where he opened the first door we came upon, craned his neck and peered inside.

  ‘Is this acceptable?’ he asked, opening the door wider.

  The room was significantly larger than my office at Lal Bazar, with more than enough space for the two leather-topped desks it contained, and possibly a tennis court besides. It was plusher than my office, too, in that the walls were freshly painted and chairs upholstered. The rug on the floor just seemed excessive.

  I looked at Surrender-not. ‘It’ll do,’ I said. ‘But before we get too settled, I’d like to interview the man your Major Bhardwaj has arrested. As soon as possible.’

  The colonel thought for a moment, then gave the sort of curt, sharp nod that military men specialise in. ‘Very well. Give me some time to speak to him and I’ll arrange it.’

  Arora took his leave while I took in the view from the window. Velvet lawns and an avenue of trees led down to the banks of a wide river which I presumed was the Mahanadi, though no gods or other logs seemed to be floating past today.

  ‘Well, this is rather nice,’ said Surrender-not from behind me. I turned to see him making himself comfortable behind one of the desks.

  ‘Best not get too cosy, Sergeant,’ I said. ‘I’ve a feeling we’re going to find ourselves kept quite busy while we’re here.’

  ‘Not if this suspect they’ve arrested really is the brains behind the assassination,’ he replied.

  ‘And on what basis do you think they’ve arrested him?’ I asked.

  He straightened in his chair. ‘Pardon, sir?’

  ‘Think about it. What proof do you think they could have? The assassination took place in Calcutta. The assassin killed himself there. Any evidence he had of a link to Sambalpore probably went up in flames back in his hotel room. Hell, we’re only here on a hunch. Now given all that, I must say I’m looking forward to understanding exactly how the good Major Bhardwaj has cracked the case so quickly.’

  FIFTEEN

  The old fort stood on a rocky outcrop overlooking the Mahanadi, separated from the Surya Mahal by several miles and a thousand years. Its austere stone walls and pockmarked battlements were a stark rebuke to the light, playful architecture of the palace.

  We were seated in the back o
f an old Mercedes Simplex, with Colonel Arora and his driver up front. The colonel had apologised for the car. It was almost ten years old and the suspension creaked. Even so, it was considerably more comfortable than Carmichael’s Austin.

  ‘I had hoped for something more modern,’ the colonel had said, ‘but His Highness insisted we use the Mercedes. He believes it to be a lucky car. Do you know what Mercedes means?’ he asked.

  I hadn’t a clue. But then I hadn’t gone to Cambridge.

  ‘It’s Spanish,’ replied Surrender-not. ‘Commonly used as a girls’ name.’

  ‘Very good,’ the colonel nodded, ‘but it literally means godsend. His Highness believes you to have been sent here by god.’

  I recalled his son, the Yuvraj, saying something similar when we’d first met. Half an hour later he was dead.

  ‘They say the old fort is haunted by the ghost of a Mughal general,’ continued the colonel, twisting in his seat. ‘We used to have a lot of bother with the Mughals a few hundred years ago. The general was captured and held prisoner in the fort’s dungeon before being blinded and put to death. On nights when the wind is blowing from the east, his soul is reputed to walk the corridors, searching for a way home.’

  As the car approached the gates, Arora pointed to a small window, high up in the fort’s walls. ‘Our prisoner is being held up there, I believe.’

  ‘Not in the dungeon?’ I asked.

  He threw me a disappointed look. ‘We aren’t barbarians, Captain. What did you expect – the Black Hole of Calcutta?’

  The driver brought the car to a halt in a dusty inner courtyard. Leaving Arora, we were taken inside by a soldier and led up three flights of a narrow spiral staircase into a small, sparsely furnished chamber. In one wall was a slit of a window, through which fell a shaft of light. The soldier went to find Major Bhardwaj.

  From the window two temples were visible on the opposite bank of the river. Set inside a walled compound, the first was a large, white, marbled structure with a shikara, the sculpted steeple common to Hindu temples, two storeys high and covered in carvings. A distance away stood the ruins of a smaller, simpler edifice. As I watched, the blue Rolls-Royce with the covered windows approached the larger temple and came to a stop outside its walls. Before I could see anything more, the door behind me opened and in walked Major Bhardwaj.

  The major was rather heavy set, with a military moustache and a demeanour as jolly as a mortuary. He certainly didn’t seem overjoyed to see us.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ he said curtly. ‘Colonel Arora has informed me of your credentials. I understand you wish to interview the prisoner.’

  ‘The Maharaja also wishes it,’ I clarified.

  ‘Very well,’ said the major sourly. ‘This way please.’

  Bhardwaj led us to a solid wooden door partway along a stone corridor and gestured with a nod to the guard who stood outside it. Retrieving a large iron key from a ring on his belt, the man proceeded to unlock the door and hold it open for us. Colonel Arora had been right. They certainly weren’t barbarians. The room was clean and comfortable and even sported a view out across the river. It could have been a decent hotel room if it wasn’t for the bars on the window and the guard at the door. If that was the first surprise, the second was arguably greater.

  A young woman in her twenties, her hair cut short, turned and rose from her seat at the desk where she had been writing. She was dressed in a plain blue kurti and white churidaar trousers, and she stared at Surrender-not quizzically through eyes tinged with kohl. She didn’t much look like a hardened terrorist. If anything, she looked like a princess. Or at least she might have done had she some jewellery on her.

  ‘Are we in the right room?’ I asked.

  Major Bhardwaj gave a slight laugh. ‘Oh yes, you can be assured of that. This woman has caused more trouble in the kingdom than anyone since the time of the Mughals.’

  ‘And does she have a name?’

  ‘I have a name,’ she responded sharply, ‘though I fail to see what concern it is of yours.’ She turned towards the major before continuing. ‘Or have matters reached such a stage where the officers of the Anglo-Indian Diamond Company are now allowed to interrogate a subject of Sambalpore?’

  ‘I assure you, miss,’ I replied, ‘I’ve nothing to do with the Anglo-Indian Diamond Company.’

  ‘And what about your friend?’ she said, gesturing towards Surrender-not. ‘Why is he dressed like he’s just stepped off a steamship?’

  I looked over at Surrender-not in his dress uniform. He had that look on his face – the one he always got when introduced to a beautiful woman – or any woman really – a cross between a new-born puppy and a frightened child. There was something about women that left him as mute as a fish. Not exactly an ideal state of affairs given we were here to question the girl.

  ‘His name is Banerjee and he’s a policeman,’ I replied. ‘And he has nothing to do with them either.’

  She stared hard at me, as though trying to divine my intentions. ‘And you? Who are you?’ she asked.

  ‘My name is Sam Wyndham,’ I said, ‘and I’m on holiday. Now I think it’s only fair that you tell me your name.’

  She remained silent.

  ‘Her name is Bidika,’ replied Major Bhardwaj. ‘Shreya Bidika. She is a teacher at a school in Sambalpore, but do not be fooled, she is also one of the leading agitators against the Maharaja.’

  ‘A pleasure to meet you, Miss Bidika,’ I said.

  She ignored the pleasantry.

  ‘So if you are not here on behalf of Anglo-Indian Diamond,’ she said, ‘what business have you with me? Let me guess – you’re a lawyer that the Dewan has invited to our little kingdom to ensure that everything is above board and that justice is done.’

  ‘Not quite,’ I said. ‘I’m a detective. The sergeant and I have some experience with murder cases and His Highness the Maharaja thought it might be nice if we checked in on you.’

  ‘Yes, the father of our nation can be quite caring in that way,’ she said acerbically.

  ‘I’m told most of his subjects are quite happy.’

  ‘Most of his subjects were raised to revere him as a god. How are they supposed to voice displeasure with a deity?’

  ‘You don’t seem to have a problem with it. Don’t you regard him as a deity?’

  ‘Well,’ she smiled thinly, ‘his venality is certainly godlike; however, gods don’t suffer from senility.’

  ‘And your Congress friends think Sambalpore would be better without him? Is that it?’

  ‘I’m not a Congress-woman,’ she said vehemently. ‘The Congress Party has a policy of non-interference in the governance of the princely states.’

  ‘So does the British government,’ I replied, ‘and yet, here I am and here you are too. Maybe both parties have a rather elastic definition of what constitutes non-interference?’

  She smiled, and I noticed a slight relaxation of her shoulders. I sat down on the bed and gestured for her to resume her seat. Surrender-not remained standing awkwardly near the door.

  ‘Do you know why you’ve been arrested?’

  ‘Not officially.’

  ‘But you have a fair idea?’

  ‘I would imagine it has something to do with the assassination of the Yuvraj in Calcutta.’

  ‘And do you have any knowledge of that crime?’

  ‘None at all.’

  ‘But you don’t deny that you’d like to see the back of the royal family.’

  ‘Not at all, but that cause is hardly going to be furthered by the death of the Yuvraj.’

  ‘No?’ I asked, genuinely surprised.

  ‘Of course not. If you had any knowledge of Sambalpore, you would know that. Besides, it can only happen when the people wake up. When they are educated.’

  ‘Educated?’ scoffed Major Bhardwaj. And how, Miss Schoolmistress, do you educate the people with your lies?’

  ‘We speak the truth,’ she retorted. ‘We open the people’s eyes.’

/>   ‘How?’ spat the major. ‘By pouring poison into their hearts? Believe me, you and your kind will get what’s coming to you.’

  Miss Bidika turned back to me. ‘As you see, Mr Wyndham, dissent is tolerated here about as much as it is in British India.’ The corners of her mouth turned up in a bitter smile. ‘At least there you have the semblance of due process. How ironic that we should be oppressed more by our own kind than by you.’

  ‘Is that why you had the crown prince murdered?’ I asked. A blow against oppression?’

  ‘I told you. I had nothing to do with his murder.’

  ‘Well, unless you can prove it, I fear for your chances,’ I said. ‘I understand the kingdom of Sambalpore isn’t particularly sold on the merits of habeas corpus.’

  She shook her head and sighed. ‘What would we have to gain from the Yuvraj’s death? Whatever his faults, he was still a far better prospect as maharaja than his father. He, at least, knew things had to change. He might not have liked what we had to say, but he would listen. Now what do we have to look forward to? The continuing rule of an enfeebled old man who every day becomes more in thrall to his priests and astrologers? And when he dies, the accession of his second son, a man made in his father’s image who spends most of his time hunting or womanising.’ She paused to remove a stray strand of hair from her face. ‘Believe me, Mr Wyndham, whoever murdered the Yuvraj has set back the cause of progress in Sambalpore by many, many years.’

  That came as a shock. Revolutionaries were supposed to view the assassination of royalty as rather a good thing. The history books tended to be quite clear on that point. I didn’t remember reading of Cromwell shedding a tear over the severed head of Charles I, or Lenin lamenting the freshly murdered Romanovs. Nevertheless, I had to keep going. I pulled a mortuary photograph of the assassin from my jacket pocket and showed it to Miss Bidika.

  ‘Do you recognise this man?’

  She shook her head.

  I looked at her. ‘You’re positive?’

  ‘Yes.’