A Necessary Evil

by Abir Mukherjee

Surrender-not nodded slowly and took the list from the colonel.

  ‘Very well,’ said the colonel, ‘I’ll arrange for these girls to come to your office, one by one. I expect you’ll also need a translator. Most of them won’t speak anything other than Oriya.’

  ‘That’s what we’re counting on,’ I said.

  TWENTY-TWO

  An hour later, Surrender-not and I were seated in a gilded, open-topped carriage pulled by half a dozen horses, each of whom looked like a potential Derby winner. They were held tightly in check by a turbaned coachman decked out in emerald and gold. It would have been an impressive sight by itself, but it was only one of twenty or more, a convoy of carriages relaying the members of the royal court.

  Ahead of the procession walked a garlanded elephant, its tusks sheathed in silver. On its back, in a golden howdah, sat two natives blowing kombus, the large trumpets that produce an odd, high-pitched wail. Behind it came a phalanx of warriors in full ceremonial dress. They pulled a gun carriage, on which lay the mortal remains of the Yuvraj Adhir Singh Sai. There was no coffin, just his body wrapped to the neck in cloth and draped in the Sambalpori flag and myriad garlands of yellow and orange marigolds.

  The procession wound its way through lanes choked with mourners. The streets were packed with men and boys, while small children perched in the branches of trees and women thronged the balconies and windows of the houses that lined the route. Flowers rained down from the rooftops.

  Colonel Arora sat across from me.

  ‘I have some good news for you,’ he said, leaning forward to make himself heard over the noise of the crowd.

  ‘Good news isn’t something we’re used to,’ I replied, ‘I suppose it’ll make an interesting change.’

  ‘I mentioned to His Highness your request to cut Carmichael off from the outside world. I’m pleased to say he found the idea most droll. He’s agreed to the temporary severing of the telephone and telegraph lines for the next few days. In fact, he’s considering implementing it more often. He says just seeing the look on the face of our dear Resident would be worth the inconvenience.’ ‘That’s a relief,’ I said. ‘It just leaves us with the problem of Carmichael kicking us out of the Residency.’

  ‘So you’re homeless?’

  ‘Unless you can secure us accommodation at the Beaumont?’

  The colonel grinned. ‘Oh, I think I can do better than that.’

  The procession reached the edge of town and began crossing the bridge over the Mahanadi. The far bank of the river was less built up and the flowers no longer fell from above. With the crowds at the roadside stood a platoon of elephants, their ears painted and their flanks adorned in silks. As the gun carriage passed, a command rang out from a mahout and the elephants knelt in unison.

  ‘Look, sir!’ Surrender-not exclaimed, pointing. ‘I swear that elephant is crying.’

  I was about to laugh, but sure enough, the big grey beast did seem to have a tear in its eye.

  ‘You are surprised?’ asked Colonel Arora. ‘When a Son of Heaven returns home, why should the animals not also mourn?’ The cortège wound its way south along the riverbank. In the distance, the temple I’d spied from Shreya Bidika’s prison cell came into view, its white marble tower rising high above.

  As we drew closer, I saw that the edifice was embellished with the most graphic of carvings, gods and mortals intertwined in the sort of positions that your local vicar would probably never have imagined, let alone countenanced plastering all over the front of his church. And yet a vicar would be perfectly happy with gargoyles or stained-glass depictions of the damned burning in hellfire. It made me think. Why was it that we Christians seemed so squeamish about portraying scenes of love? What were our cardinals and archbishops so afraid of?

  The procession came to rest at the gates of the temple compound. There, a guard of honour stood to attention like an exotic row of tin soldiers, their rifles held in front of them, and their golden turbans glinting in the sun. Beside them . . . the funeral pyre. It was larger than I’d expected, a pile of wood that could probably have been reassembled in the form of the Cutty Sark.

  The dignitaries began descending from their carriages. Old men in white caps and white kurtas sombrely removed the garlands from the Yuvraj’s body, placing them to one side with the reverence that priests show to holy relics. Then the soldiers lifted him from the gun carriage and gently carried him to the funeral pyre.

  The Maharaja was helped down from the lead carriage by two attendants, while another held a large black parasol above his head. A throne of sorts – a raised dais, finished in red velvet and covered with cushions – had been placed before the pyre. Beside it stood a shaven-headed priest in a coarse saffron robe. His forehead was marked with two white lines, joined at the bottom, around a thinner red stripe: the mark of the followers of Vishnu.

  The attendants held the Maharaja’s hand and carefully assisted him to the dais, while the man with the parasol ensured no shaft of sunlight fell upon the royal head. The old man sat down, and another attendant with a large feathered fan began to wave a breeze for him.

  The priest knelt and spoke a few words with the Maharaja. His Highness looked around, then pointed to a man dressed in white, who bore a striking resemblance to the dead prince. I guessed this was Punit, Adhir’s younger brother, and that he would be performing his brother’s funeral rites.

  The congregation stood as the priest led Prince Punit over to one side, where a wood fire burned. Next to it was a small sack-cloth bag. The prince sat cross-legged before the fire as the priest lifted the bag and removed a silver vessel, into which he poured water from an earthen jug. I looked to Surrender-not for enlightenment.

  ‘Do you know what’s going on?’

  ‘Vaguely.’

  ‘You’re a Brahmin, for God’s sake. Shouldn’t your understanding be a bit more than just vague? What would your father say?’

  ‘Not much, sir. He’s an atheist. My mother, on the other hand—’

  ‘Forget it.’ I sighed. ‘Just explain as best you can.’

  ‘Very well,’ he continued. ‘We don’t believe in the resurrection of the body. It is but the earthly shell for the soul, which must be released to continue its journey. For that to happen, the soul requires to be fed. They are preparing the meal – a mixture of rice and sesame seeds.’

  The prince held the steel pot above the flames while the priest prodded at the fire with a bamboo stick. A thick white smoke curled from the end it. The priest took the pot from Punit then whispered something to him. The prince stood and began to walk slowly around the funeral pyre while the priest chanted a mantra, stopping every so often and waiting for Punit to repeat the words. The prayer complete, Punit returned to the priest’s side. He took a handful of rice and sesame from the pot, fashioned it into a small ball and placed it on his dead brother’s lips. The priest then passed him a sprig of wood. Punit dipped it in a pot of water and, reciting another prayer, he began to sprinkle water onto Adhir’s body.

  Taking a pot of ghee, the priest dipped his finger and drew three lines on Adhir’s forehead. Three lines, I thought: just like the man who’d killed him, and the one who now administered his last rites.

  The priest returned to the fire and began chanting, then lit a wooden torch and handed it to Punit, who walked over and held it to the funeral pyre. The pyre caught quickly, presumably brushed with something flammable beforehand, and as the flames spread, the priest’s chants grew louder. I looked over at the dais. Tears glistened on the face of the Maharaja. Punit, though, betrayed no emotion. Chanting in a low murmur, he processed around the flames, soon followed by a procession of other mourners.

  The scent of charred sandalwood filled my nostrils, as black smoke stung my eyes and the chants reverberated around my fragile head. I turned away and caught sight of a white woman in the crowd. She wasn’t the only one in attendance: there were cooks, nannies, engineers and other staff from the palace, all dressed in sombre black. But this woman wa
s different. She stood apart from the others, among the Indians, and she wore a white sari. The crowds parted. Momentarily I caught a glimpse of her face and my heart stopped. She looked so much like Sarah, my wife, that for a moment I thought I was looking at a ghost. She’d died back in 1918, but in that instant, the loss felt raw, as though it had only been weeks and not years. I tried to catch my breath.

  ‘Who’s that woman?’ I asked Colonel Arora, pointing her out.

  Arora nodded solemnly. ‘That, Captain,’ he replied, ‘is the Yuvraj’s mistress, Miss Katherine Pemberley.’

  The priest’s chants grew louder and a great sigh went up from the crowd. They surged forward and I lost sight of her.

  I turned back in time to see Punit strike his dead brother’s head with a stave. The colonel caught my surprise.

  ‘He’s piercing Adhir’s skull,’ he said.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘So that his soul can be released.’

  The flames began to ebb. The mourners continued to circle the pyre with Punit at their head. The priest approached and sprinkled water onto the dying embers. Then he pored over the charred remains, sifting them with his bamboo staff. Suddenly, he bent over and with thumb and forefinger picked a small, blackened object out of the ashes.

  ‘The nabhi,’ explained Surrender-not. ‘The navel. We believe it has a special significance. In the womb it connects us to the umbilical cord and to our mothers, and at death, at temperatures hot enough to turn flesh and bone to ash, for some reason the navel doesn’t burn. It really is quite curious. We believe it contains our essence and must be returned to the earth.’

  I watched as the priest took the navel, packed it in clay and placed it in an earthenware pot. He handed it to Punit, who took it and walked from the pyre to the river. The prince waded in till the waters reached his midriff and submerged the pot in the waters. A cry went up from the mourners. When he returned to the shore, he made for the dais, then joined a number of dignitaries, taking a vacant chair next to Fitzmaurice. If that came as a surprise, it was nothing compared to what I saw next.

  In the row immediately behind, next to Emily Carmichael, sat Annie.

  TWENTY-THREE

  I left Surrender-not and began to run through the crowd towards her. The service over, the dignitaries had started to make their way to the waiting carriages, sharing in the muted small talk that follows a funeral no matter where in the world or what religion.

  Punit was still talking to Fitzmaurice. I searched desperately for Annie’s face, but there was no sign of her.

  A trickle of sweat ran down to my collar. I stopped and cursed myself as a black fear enveloped me, a realisation that I might be seeing things that weren’t there. First, mistaking Adhir’s lover for my dead wife and now seeing Annie when I knew her to be in Calcutta.

  But then I spotted her walking towards a car.

  I breathed a sigh of relief and ran again without thinking. The car door was held open by a uniformed chauffeur.

  I shouted after her. ‘Miss Grant!’

  She turned, saw me and half-smiled. There was a spark in her eyes, and that defiance in her demeanour that had always fascinated me.

  ‘Captain Wyndham.’

  ‘What are you doing here?’ I asked.

  ‘The same thing as you, I’d imagine. Paying my respects.’

  ‘When you didn’t show up at Howrah station, I assumed . .

  She seemed to bridle. ‘You assumed what, Captain?’

  ‘That you weren’t coming.’

  ‘Why? Because I didn’t simply drop everything and come here with you? Did you honestly think I would?’

  ‘And yet here you are.’

  It was a stupid remark, born of frustration and relief and of who knew what else, and I regretted it as soon as I’d said it.

  ‘I’m here because I was invited by the family, not because of you. Now if you’ll excuse me.’

  She turned.

  ‘Wait,’ I said, reaching for her arm. ‘I hadn’t meant . . . It was just a surprise to see you. A pleasant surprise.’

  Her eyes softened a little.

  ‘How’s your investigation going?’ she asked, quietly.

  ‘Badly. The Viceroy’s trying to order me back to Calcutta and the Maharaja won’t let me interview a key witness.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because she’s a lady of the royal court and I’m a man. The trouble is, I’m convinced the plot to murder Adhir was hatched here in Sambalpore.’

  She pondered my words, her expression suggesting she was unsure whether or not to offer me her sympathies, as though my investigation was as dead as Adhir.

  ‘Maybe I can help?’ she said.

  I almost laughed.

  ‘How?’

  ‘You might not be able to question this woman, but I could. And I’ve met the Maharaja before. He might see things differently if it were me asking the questions.’

  ‘Are you serious?’ I asked.

  The look on her face answered the question.

  ‘Do you want my help or not?’

  Ten minutes later, I was in the back of a car with her, en route to the Beaumont Hotel. In the meantime, I’d tasked Surrender-not to return to the palace with the colonel and start interviewing the maids.

  It turned out that by the time I’d telephoned her, Annie had already sent a telegram to the royal family, expressing her condolences. And they in turn had invited her to attend Adhir’s funeral. Her arrival in Sambalpore had been even more noteworthy than my own, for if there was one thing that trumped the royal train, it was probably the royal plane. She’d flown in at the behest of Prince Punit, and had arrived that morning from Calcutta.

  Annie applied powder to her face from a small, mirrored compact. ‘So, Sam, what have you discovered?’

  ‘Precious little.’

  She snapped it shut. ‘Come now, if you want my help, you’re going to have to be slightly more forthcoming than that.’

  I decided to be honest with her. Not just because she’d asked me to, but because a part of me wanted to tell her, and wanted her to be impressed. Though there wasn’t anything particularly impressive in what I’d managed to piece together so far.

  ‘Someone at court sent Adhir at least three notes warning him his life was in danger. And the local authorities have arrested a woman who’s about as guilty of the crime as you are.’

  ‘Have you any leads?’

  ‘I thought I had, but a man I needed to speak to seems to have disappeared and his house looks like it was visited by a couple of angry Japanese samurai.’

  For a moment she was lost in her own thoughts.

  ‘So who do you need me to speak to?’

  ‘If you get permission from the Maharaja, you mean?’

  ‘Let me worry about that, Captain Wyndham,’ she said. ‘Besides, I can hardly get permission if you don’t tell me who it is we need to interview.’

  ‘Princess Gitanjali,’ I said. ‘Adhir’s widow.’

  The whitewashed Beaumont Hotel was an ocean liner of a building that seemed to have beached itself a hundred miles inland. I helped Annie from the car and walked into the lobby. Tiled floor, bare walls, and in one corner a table and chairs that had seen better days. On the table slept a rather neglected-looking cat.

  ‘Thank you for the company, Sam,’ she said. ‘I should be seeing the Maharaja this evening. I’ll try to have a quiet word with him. Is there somewhere I can contact you?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Where are you staying?’

  ‘To be honest,’ I replied, ‘I’m not sure. It’s best if you leave a message for me care of Colonel Arora at the palace.’

  We said goodbye and I watched as she walked up the stairs. Then a thought struck me.

  The reception was unattended so I rang the small brass bell on the desk. A native in a white shirt and bow tie appeared and flashed me a lopsided smile.

  ‘May I be of assistance, sahib?’

  ‘I’ve an appointment
to see Miss Pemberley,’ I lied.

  ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘If you don’t mind, I’ll send up a boy to inform her of your arrival.’

  I slipped a five-rupee note over the counter. ‘Just tell me which room she’s in and I’ll make my own way up.’

  The man looked around. The lobby was empty save for the pair of us and the cat.

  ‘Room fifteen,’ he said, pocketing the note. ‘First floor.’

  I thanked him and headed for the stairs.

  I knocked on a thin wooden door, rattling it on its hinges. A moment later it was opened and Miss Pemberley stood there, still dressed in her white sari. I took a sharp breath: the resemblance with Sarah was uncanny. Miss Pemberley’s eyes were red rimmed and her blonde hair, so neatly tied back at the funeral, now hung loose.

  ‘Miss Pemberley?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes?’

  She seemed somewhat distracted. It was understandable, given the circumstances.

  ‘My name’s Captain Wyndham. I’m from the Imperial Police Force in Calcutta. Would you mind if I asked you a few questions?’

  ‘Why do you want to talk to me?’ There was a defensiveness to her tone. But then many people were unnerved by the thought of being questioned by a policeman.

  ‘I’m assisting with the investigation into the late Prince Adhir’s assassination. I understand that you and he were close. I was hoping you might be able to help me.’

  She hesitated for a moment, uncertain. I guessed she was still in shock. The cremation was probably the first time she’d seen the prince’s body since he’d been murdered and doubtless the magnitude of it all was only now beginning to sink in.

  ‘May I come in, Miss Pemberley?’

  Her attention snapped back to the present.

  ‘Of course,’ she said, standing to one side.

  The room was a mess. Half-filled suitcases sat on the bed, and garments and other belongings spilled from a trunk which sat open on the floor. She must have noticed my reaction.

  ‘Please excuse the state of the place,’ she said apologetically.