A Necessary Evil

by Abir Mukherjee

  Surrender-not’s face fell.

  ‘What?’ I said. ‘Which part of it don’t you like?’

  ‘It’s not that I don’t like it, sir,’ he protested, ‘I just have some questions.’

  ‘How many questions?’

  ‘Four.’

  Four?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  I stopped pacing and sat down in the chair opposite him.

  ‘Prince Adhir was no fan of the British,’ he began. ‘I doubt he’d be happy with them having a hold over assets that are effectively Sambalpore’s financial lifeblood.’

  ‘Very well,’ I said. ‘So someone else persuaded the Maharaja to sell the mines. It didn’t necessarily have to be Adhir.’

  ‘Then why have Adhir assassinated? I would have thought that if the Dewan was trying to scupper the sale of the mines, Adhir would have been one of his closest allies.’

  It was a fair point, but as I thought it through, I realised it wasn’t fatal to my theory.

  ‘I guess he might have been at first,’ I said, ‘but when Adhir sanctioned the preparation of Golding’s report, he would have sealed the Dewan’s fate. He had Adhir killed so he could get his hands on the report, assuming that in Adhir’s absence, it would automatically come to him. He must also have anticipated that he could then change the report and buy Golding’s silence. I’m guessing Golding refused to be bought.’

  ‘Very well.’ Surrender-not blinked. ‘That leads to my second question: if the Dewan is responsible for Adhir’s assassination, why would he also try to kill Prince Punit today?’

  ‘You answered that one yourself earlier,’ I said. ‘The two assassination attempts aren’t necessarily linked. Maybe Colonel Arora is behind the attempt on Punit because he suspects Punit had Adhir assassinated. The Dewan might have nothing to do with it.’

  The sergeant considered this, then nodded.

  ‘Question three?’ I asked.

  ‘If Golding was such a fastidious accountant, why hadn’t he discovered the fraud at the mines before? If, as Colonel Arora claims, he accounted for every penny spent by the royal household, it beggars belief that he wouldn’t know what was going on at the diamond mines. They were the kingdom’s chief source of revenue, and the size of the discrepancy suggests that any fraud must have been going on for years. How could he not have known?’

  I didn’t have an answer to that.

  ‘Let’s come back to that one.’ I sighed. ‘What’s the fourth question?’

  ‘As I mentioned,’ said Surrender-not, ‘the discrepancy is huge, hundreds of crores of rupees. That’s millions of Pounds—’

  ‘I know how much it is,’ I interjected, unwilling to admit I didn’t know just how many millions.

  ‘Well, I was wondering, sir . . . any man who had embezzled that much wealth would himself be almost as rich as a maharaja. If he realised the game was up, why not simply disappear and enjoy his wealth somewhere? Why bother staying on here as Dewan?’

  I cursed. I had no plausible answer for this question either. The problem seemed intractable. I knew Davé was connected to Golding’s disappearance. I just needed time to work out exactly how.

  ‘Go through the two reports closely,’ I said, ‘then tell me what the differences are.’

  He placed the reports side by side.

  ‘This could take some time, sir.’

  ‘You’ve got all night,’ I replied.

  ‘You’re not going to stay?’

  ‘Would it help?’

  ‘No.’

  I threw him the keys to the door and the safe and he caught them in one hand.

  ‘Then I’ll get back to the party,’ I said.

  I headed back down the stairs and into the night. Across the gardens the palace, its lights blazing, shimmered like a mirage in the desert. Strains of American music floated over on the breeze, and the thought of having to go back in and watch Punit carrying on with Annie was suddenly more than I could stomach.

  I leaned against a tree and lit a cigarette. The investigation was spiralling out of control. Punit, who’d had the clearest motive just twelve hours ago, had become the likely target of an assassination attempt and was now trying to woo Annie with the unwitting assistance of Al Jolson. Meanwhile, Colonel Arora, the closest thing I thought I had to an ally in this benighted place, looked like he might have been behind that particular plot. Then there was Surrender-not’s theory that I, and not the prince, had been the intended victim, not to mention Fitzmaurice’s fear that his life too was under threat. Maybe both were paranoia, but one Englishman was already missing, and Sambalpore, with its whispered plots and intrigue, seemed to be the sort of place where a healthy dose of paranoia might just help keep you alive.

  I thought about Golding’s disappearance and the role of the Dewan, Davé. I was sure the two had met on the morning the accountant vanished. Just how did Davé fit into the whole picture? At least we now had Golding’s report. Indeed, we had not just one, but two versions of it.

  In truth, all I had was a series of unending questions. I needed answers, and my best chance of getting them lay with questioning a man sitting in a cell a hundred yards away. I turned round and started walking in the direction of the guardhouse. It was time to end this.

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  The barracks was busy with off-duty soldiers. They lounged outside in the warmth of the night, smoking bidis and playing cards, and eyed me as I walked past.

  The dimly lit cell block was silent, save for the rustling of a newspaper that the duty officer was reading by a hurricane lamp.

  ‘I want to see the prisoner,’ I said.

  The man’s face was pockmarked like a pineapple, his features dull.

  He shook his head. ‘Not possible, sahib. Prisoner transferred.’

  ‘What?’ I said. ‘To where? The infirmary?’

  ‘No, sahib. To fort.’

  ‘When?’ I asked. ‘And on whose orders?’

  ‘Ten minutes only. Order is here.’ He brandished a chitty in front of me. It bore the Maharaja’s personal seal and beside it a scrawl of a signature.

  ‘Has Colonel Arora seen this?’ I asked.

  The man shook his head. ‘I don’t know, sahib’.

  I left him sitting there and, taking his paperwork with me, ran out of the barracks and across the gardens, back towards the palace.

  Punit’s soirée was still in full swing, and Colonel Arora stood in one corner sipping a whisky.

  I hurried over and grabbed his arm.

  ‘I need to speak to you,’ I said. ‘Urgently.’

  Out in the hallway, I waved the transfer document at him.

  ‘Did you order this?’

  He looked at me in bewilderment. ‘What is it?’

  ‘A letter authorising the transfer of the prisoner to Major Bhardwaj at the fort. It was delivered twenty minutes ago.’

  ‘What?’ he said, snatching the paper from me. ‘On whose orders?’

  ‘I was hoping you’d be able to tell me.’

  He stared at the chitty. ‘It’s the Maharaja’s seal, but I don’t recognise the signature.’

  He crumpled the paper into a ball and stuffed it into a pocket. ‘Come with me,’ he said.

  He led the way down the corridor to a study, where he picked up the telephone.

  ‘Who are you calling?’

  ‘Bhardwaj.’

  The colonel spoke rapidly to someone on the other end. The line went silent before the voice replied. The colonel’s expression darkened as he listened.

  He smashed the receiver back onto its cradle. ‘No prisoner has been transferred there this evening. What’s more, they have received no orders instructing them to expect any. When was the prisoner taken?’

  ‘About fifteen minutes ago now,’ I said.

  The colonel picked up the telephone again. From his questions, I gathered he’d dialled through to the barracks.

  ‘Who took custody of the prisoner?’ he barked. ‘What?’

  He hung up
and looked at me.

  ‘Who took him?’ I asked,

  ‘One of the eunuchs.’

  ‘A eunuch?’

  My mind raced.

  Suddenly I recalled the image of Sayeed Ali, silhouetted against the first-floor window above the courtyard within the zenana, in conversation with . . . But it couldn’t be.

  ‘Come-on!’ I said, making for the door. ‘We need to get to the Rose Building.’

  We ran back across the lawns, covering the distance in a matter of minutes. Arora instinctively headed for the front entrance.

  ‘No!’ I shouted. ‘We need the garages.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I need to check something.’

  We ran round to the rear and pushed open the garage doors. The place was in darkness. The colonel switched on the lights and my stomach lurched.

  ‘You need to set up roadblocks on all routes out of town,’ I said, ‘as quickly as possible.’

  ‘Why?’ he asked.

  I pointed to the one empty spot. ‘Because the purdah car is missing.’

  Arora stared at the space where the car should have been. He shook his head. ‘I don’t understand.’

  I wasn’t sure I did either. All I had was a theory.

  ‘What if it’s Devika?’ I said. ‘The Third Maharani.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘What if she’s behind the attempt on Punit’s life? What if she’s trying to put her own son on the throne?’

  Arora struggled to take in my words. ‘Prince Alok? She couldn’t . . . And yet, why else would the eunuch be involved? She must have ordered him to hire the assassin, and now she’s helping him escape. Who else could so easily get hold of the Maharaja’s seal?’

  Suddenly his expression changed. ‘But that would mean . . . she’s responsible for Adhir’s death, too.’

  There was a flash of something in his eyes. He turned and ran towards a telephone that hung on the far wall.

  ‘Wait!’ I shouted. ‘It’s just a theory.’

  ‘Yes,’ he called back, ‘a theory that fits the facts.’ And a moment later he was shouting down the line in Hindi. He returned five minutes later.

  ‘It’s done, I’ve informed Punit,’ he said, making his way towards the Alfa. ‘Now I must go into town to coordinate the roadblocks.’

  ‘I’ll come with you,’ I said.

  ‘There’s no need, Captain,’ he replied. ‘I’ll inform you of developments.’

  ‘I want to be there,’ I said firmly.

  He looked at me and considered it. ‘You don’t want to inform Sergeant Banerjee?’

  ‘He’s busy with something else.’

  The colonel raised an eyebrow. ‘You found Golding’s report?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘We found two of them.’

  Colonel Arora hammered the Alfa down the road, headlights cutting through the gloom. His face was set hard, impassive as stone. He’d been all but mute since his exchange with Punit, replacing the conviviality of our previous night’s journey with a determined silence. The brakes squealed as he threw the car energetically round a bend in the road, then on towards the centre of town.

  ‘Something on your mind?’ I asked.

  He glanced at me. ‘You mean, other than the escape of our prisoner?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He ignored the question and brought the car skidding to a halt outside the Beaumont Hotel.

  ‘This is the tallest building in a central location,’ he said. ‘We should set up camp on the roof.’

  We rushed into the lobby, startling the receptionist. Arora growled at him in Hindi, then headed for the stairs. It seemed best to follow him. Four flights later, he flung open a door and walked out onto the roof. From the parapet I could see his men, silhouetted in the glow of the amber street lamps, moving into position.

  The receptionist appeared behind us. He ran over and handed the colonel a note.

  ‘Forgive me, Captain,’ said Arora as he read it, ‘I need to make a telephone call. I’ll be back shortly.’

  As he headed down the stairs, I returned to the parapet and looked out over the sleeping city. Somewhere down there, our prisoner was being bundled out of town in the back of the purdah car, assisted in his escape by a eunuch from the royal court. Was it possible that a mere girl was responsible for it all? The notion still seemed fantastical.

  To my surprise I heard the Alfa’s engine burst into life and dashed over to the other side of the roof in time to see Arora speed off. Sprinting to the stairs, I ran down to the lobby and out into the street, but the car was long gone.

  I hurried back inside and rushed up to the desk. The clerk had his head buried in a book. I knocked it out of his hand, grabbed him by his shirt and pulled him halfway across the counter.

  ‘What was in the note you gave to Colonel Arora?’ I asked.

  The man’s eyes darted from side to side like a cornered lizard. Jurisdiction or no jurisdiction, it was good to see I could still put the fear of God into someone.

  ‘Nothing, sahib!’ he pleaded. I felt his sour breath on my face.

  ‘What do you mean, nothing?’

  ‘When you entered, Colonel sahib told me to wait five minutes, then come up to roof and hand him paper.’

  I let go of his shirt and he stumbled backwards onto a chair. I cursed myself for my stupidity. Surrender-not had warned me not to trust the colonel but I hadn’t listened, and as a result, I was stuck here, marooned at the Beaumont while Arora was off doing . . . Well, I had no idea what he was doing.

  I considered my options. I could requisition some form of transport and make my way back to the palace or I could scour the streets in search of Arora. Neither seemed particularly fruitful. Instead, I settled on a third option.

  ‘Is the bar open?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ the receptionist said, his face a confusion. He gestured with one arm. ‘That door.’

  I headed for it, then stopped and checked my watch. It was late but I had nothing to lose. I walked back to the reception desk.

  ‘Please send a message up to Miss Pemberley in room fifteen. Tell her that Captain Wyndham apologises for disturbing her so late in the evening, but that he is in the bar and, if she’s free, would request her company.’

  ‘Yes, sahib’. He nodded as he scribbled the note onto a piece of paper.

  The bar was empty save for a suited European slumped over a glass in a corner. I chose a table by the window and was nursing a Laphroaig when Miss Pemberley walked in, dressed in a white blouse and black skirt, her hair falling loosely over her shoulders. I stood up.

  ‘I’m surprised to see you here, Captain.’

  ‘Miss Pemberley,’ I said, ‘I apologise for the lateness of the hour, but I was in the vicinity and I have a few more questions . . .’ My voice trailed off.

  ‘You’re lucky to have caught me,’ she said. ‘I’ve been out saying my goodbyes. I’m leaving tomorrow.’

  ‘May I offer you a drink?’

  ‘Tonic water.’

  I gestured to the barman and ordered her tonic and another whisky.

  ‘How’s your investigation coming along?’ she asked.

  ‘It’s progressing.’

  The barman brought over the drinks. ‘So,’ she said, ‘you had some questions for me?’

  ‘I wanted to ask your opinion of the Dewan.’

  ‘Mr Davé?’ she asked, sipping softly at her tonic water. ‘I’m not sure I have one,’ she said, ‘though. Adi didn’t particularly like him.’

  ‘Do you think Adhir would have had him replaced, once he became Maharaja?’

  ‘He mentioned it once or twice, but he’d no idea who to replace him with.’ She suddenly sat upright. ‘You don’t think he had anything to do with Adi’s murder, do you?’

  ‘I’m considering all the options,’ I replied.

  She shook her head in consternation. ‘You and I both know his brother Punit’s responsible.’ Her tone had an edge to it. ‘Rather than considering al
l the options, Captain, I’d have thought your time would be better spent finding the evidence to prove it.’

  ‘Believe me, Miss Pemberley,’ I replied, ‘nothing would make me happier, but I’d be doing Adhir a disservice if I didn’t investigate all avenues as thoroughly as possible.’

  She took another sip, then stared out of the window into the darkness. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘It’s just that . . .’

  ‘It’s fine, Miss Pemberley,’ I said. ‘I understand your frustration, but I promise you this: I will find whoever is behind Adhir’s murder.’

  Even as I said the words, I realised they were more in hope than conviction: words to assuage her concerns and salve my conscience. Things seemed to be spinning out of control. Before she could respond, the stillness of the night was shattered by staccato shouts and the sound of glass smashing. I looked out of the window. Men were running through the streets. Some carried torches, others makeshift weapons.

  ‘What’s going on?’ asked Miss Pemberley.

  As more men gathered, I was reminded of another crowd I’d witnessed running through the streets in the dead of night. That had been in Wapping, in 1914, and they were converging on a shop because they thought the owners were German. In some respects, it seemed East India was little different from East London. I downed my drink and stood up.

  ‘I think you should get back to your room,’ I said. ‘And lock the door.’

  ‘Where are you going?’ she asked.

  I nodded to the window. ‘Out there.’

  I ran through streets and alleys that were bursting to life. Lights flickered in the houses and doors opened to disgorge more men -some bemused onlookers, others, like me, running towards the confusion. The news of a commotion was spreading. How many of these men knew what was happening? Very few, I suspected. They had got caught up in the maelstrom: wanting to be part of something bigger; to feel the excitement and the emancipation that comes from being part of the mob.

  In the distance, half-obscured by a building, something was glowing. A burning car had ploughed headlong into a telegraph pole beside a makeshift roadblock of sandbags and barbed wire, its bonnet a shambles of contorted, mangled metal. I drew level with the wrecked vehicle. Its windows were shattered and a door, torn from twisted hinges, lay battered in the dirt. The stench of burning rubber and charred flesh caught at my throat.