A Necessary Evil

by Abir Mukherjee

  FORTY-THREE

  The journey took an age. Two hours into nowhere and two hundred years into the past. At points the dirt road was submerged under rivers of monsoon rainwater that had fallen upcountry. More than once, the driver was forced to detour around an unfordable stream that only yesterday had been dry river bed.

  Remunda, when it came, was little more than a huddle of mud and thatch huts clustered around a temple and a tube-well. As in Bengal, the hut walls were covered in round cakes of cow-dung, baking dry in the heat of the day before being used as fuel in the evenings. But the similarity stopped there. Unlike the villages in Bengal, with their bountiful groves of palm and banana and their emerald-green bathing and fishing pools, this place was dust brown and bone dry.

  Surrender-not ordered the driver to halt near the well. The engine died and a silence fell, broken only by the occasional cry of a mynah bird high up in a blackened tree. The village at first appeared abandoned to the heat. On closer inspection, though, you noticed the signs of life: a few scrawny chickens, their feathers coated in dust, pecking at the side of the road; a mongrel dog yawning lazily in the shade of a wall; a twitch at one of the darkened holes that passed for a window.

  Soft tinkling was coming from the direction of the small whitewashed temple. A ragged saffron flag hung limply from a bamboo stick atop its spire. I nodded to Surrender-not and we headed towards it. The sound was that of a small bell, the kind used by Hindus in their religious ceremonies, and its ring mingled with sonorous murmurings of priestly incantations.

  I waited at the threshold while Surrender-not entered to speak to the priest. Inside, three idols were visible, small and roughhewn, but unmistakable: the over-large eyes, the stubby arms and the absence of legs that signified the Lord Jagannath and his siblings.

  The chanting stopped. Surrender-not was speaking to the priest in what sounded like Hindi. I lit a cigarette and waited. When he came out, he turned to face the temple, touched his forehead and his chest with his right hand, just as Annie had done at the temple in Sambalpore a few days before.

  I passed him a cigarette, which he gratefully accepted. ‘Any joy?’ I asked, wiping perspiration from my forehead. He stuck the cigarette in a corner of his mouth and fished out a box of matches from his pocket.

  ‘Arora was right,’ he said. ‘There are no mines around here.’ He struck a match and it flared into life. ‘But there is a cave.’

  ‘A cave?’

  ‘Apparently so.’

  Inside, the bell began tinkling once again.

  ‘The priest says it’s about half a mile further up the road. There’s a turning off to the right which leads to a hill. He says there’s been a lot of activity up there recently. Outsiders. Men in lorries. It all stopped about a week ago, though.’

  ‘Any local men up there?’

  Surrender-not shook his head. ‘It’s unlikely, sir. This is farming country, if you can believe it,’ he said distastefully. ‘The village men would all be in the fields.’

  I stubbed my cigarette out on the side of a tree and began walking back towards the car. ‘Let’s go.’

  Ten minutes up the road from Remunda, a dirt path split from the main track and snaked its way northwards. We followed it for a short distance before spotting the hill.

  ‘That must be it,’ said Surrender-not, pointing to a rust-coloured mound of rock.

  As we neared it, the entrance to the cave became visible: a dark slit amidst reddish stone. Surrender-not ordered the driver to stop. We got out and walked over, picking our way through the dry scrub. The place was deserted. You might even have believed it had been untouched by human hands, had it not been for the wooden beams and scaffolds that had been inserted to expand and reinforce the natural fissure that formed the cave entrance.

  ‘What does this look like to you?’ I asked.

  ‘I’m no expert, sir,’ replied Surrender-not, ‘but it appears to be the entrance to a mine.’

  ‘Shall we see what’s inside?’

  Surrender-not shuddered.

  ‘You’re not scared of ghosts, are you, Sergeant?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes,’ he replied, ‘but that’s not the problem, sir.’

  ‘What then?’

  ‘Bats,’ he said. ‘That cave is bound to be teeming with them.’

  ‘It’s the middle of the day. We’ll need a torch, though. Check if there’s one in the car.’

  Duly equipped, we continued, only to be hit by the acrid stench of ammonia within a few feet of the entrance. I pulled out a handkerchief and covered my nose and mouth, but it made little difference.

  My eyes watered, but I pressed on, unsure of what I was looking for. The light from the entrance faded fast and behind me Surrender-not switched on the torch, illuminating a mound of what looked like brown rice grains, several feet high.

  ‘I told you, sir,’ said Surrender-not. ‘Bat droppings. There must be thousands of the creatures in here.’

  He passed me the torch and I swept it across the walls, outlining a rectangular shaft cut into the rock.

  ‘This way,’ I said and headed into a man-made tunnel.

  A gentle slope ran downwards and after a few minutes there seemed to be a slight change in air pressure. As we walked, the smell of guano gradually receded. Whatever else was down this shaft, it didn’t seem like there were bats.

  Deeper inside, I stumbled over broken rock, almost losing my footing. Pointing the torch at the floor, I discovered shining black rubble. I knelt down, picked up a piece, examined it briefly then pocketed it.

  ‘Exactly what are we looking for, sir?’ asked Surrender-not.

  ‘We’ll know when we see it,’ I replied. But even as I said the words, the answer became apparent. Surrender-not noticed it too. The faintest of smells.

  ‘Come on,’ I said, moving further into the tunnel. The odour grew stronger: that peculiar, putrid stench with a sickly sweet edge to it – unmistakable. There was a corpse nearby, and judging by the smell, it hadn’t been here particularly long.

  We hurried on over the uneven floor, and suddenly it was in front of us. A mangled heap of clothes and flesh that seemed to shimmer.

  Surrender-not balked. ‘Maggots,’ he said. ‘Most unsavoury.’

  ‘Is it Golding?’

  ‘It’s hard to tell, sir.’

  I shone the torch at the decomposing corpse. The clothes and hair looked European.

  Surrender-not bent down to take a closer look. It was brave of him. A year ago he’d have fainted at the sight of blood. Now he was poking around at a rotting body who knew how far underground. The torch beam reflected off something metallic. I knelt beside Surrender-not to better examine the object.

  ‘What is it?’ he asked.

  ‘Golding’s signet ring.’

  FORTY-FOUR

  The return to Sambalpore was an exercise in frustration. Two hours that felt as long as six. Each precious mile travelled felt like a journey in itself, purchased with the most valuable currency I had – time.

  I felt a gnawing unease in my bones. Finding Golding had offered succour of sorts. I’d discovered not just his body, but also, I thought, the reason for his murder. The pieces slotted into place. The Dewan had been siphoning off diamonds, either for himself or for others. He’d killed Golding because the accountant had discovered the fraud and refused to be bought off. And where better to dump his body than in a mine shaft in the middle of nowhere?

  Any exhilaration was tempered by cold reality: I may have worked it out, but there was damn all I could do about it. I thought I had the truth and, if the old Maharani, Shubhadra, was to be believed, I should be satisfied with that. It was all very high-minded, all very Indian. But I was British, and the thought of truth without justice rankled.

  Through the afternoon the sky had grown black beneath the monsoon clouds and, as the lights of the town came into view, the first drops of rain began to fall.

  Beside me Surrender-not smiled.

  ‘What’s so funny
, Sergeant?’

  ‘I was just thinking of the map in Golding’s office, sir. It seems that sometimes “X” does mark the spot.’

  ‘True,’ I said, ‘though it’s rarely the final resting place of the man who drew it on the map in the first place.’

  What was more, having visited the site, I finally had some idea of what that ‘X’ had meant. Colonel Arora had been adamant that there had never been diamond mines in that part of Sambalpore. It turned out he was right. I was no expert, but even I could recognise coal when I saw it.

  ‘We need to contact the colonel as soon as we reach town,’ I said, suddenly straining at the leash of my own impatience. I had decided I had a Dewan to confront.

  At the Rose Building, I jumped out into the rain before the car had even stopped and made for the stairs, taking them two at a time with Surrender-not close behind. I burst into Colonel Arora’s office, startling his diminutive secretary.

  ‘Where’s the colonel?’ I gasped.

  ‘He’s with His Highness, Prince Punit,’ said the man, rising from his chair.

  ‘Find him,’ I ordered, catching my breath. ‘And tell him Captain Wyndham needs to speak to him immediately.’

  The man looked out of the window. The expression on his face soured as he saw the downpour.

  ‘I’ll call the prince’s private secretary,’ he said, reaching for the telephone receiver on his desk. ‘That will be faster.’

  And drier.

  The secretary dialled a single-digit number, asked the operator for the connection, then waited. With each passing ring, he became increasingly nervous, probably worried that should no one answer, he’d have to make the journey to the palace after all. Finally there came a click. He smiled, then spoke quickly in Hindi. The reply came just as quickly, the secretary nodding all the while. Seconds passed, then finally he passed me the receiver.

  ‘What is it, Captain?’ came the familiar voice.

  ‘Just one moment, Colonel,’ I said.

  I turned to the secretary and asked him to leave the room. The man was about to protest, but thought better of it once Surrender-not had grabbed him rather forcefully by the arm and begun to escort him out the door.

  I turned back to the telephone. ‘We’ve found him.’

  ‘Golding?’

  ‘What’s left of him.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘In a mine shaft near Remunda.’

  ‘And you can link Davé to it?’

  ‘Golding met with Davé the morning he disappeared, and his report was found in Davé’s safe, along with a doctored version.’

  ‘It’s not conclusive.’

  ‘Does it need to be?’ I asked. ‘Even if we can’t prove Davé’s involvement in Golding’s murder, we can prove his involvement in the fraud. You’ll find all the evidence of that in Davé’s safe and among the papers in Golding’s office. As I see it, with the Maharaja incapacitated, it’ll be Prince Punit who’ll take the decisions round here in future. What with your little show last night, Punit obviously trusts you. I’m sure you could convince him to charge Davé on the latter point. And with him out of the way, the post of Dewan would be vacant. I think you’d be in line for a rather rapid promotion.’

  There was silence for a moment.

  ‘And what would be in it for you, Captain?’

  ‘I want to see Golding’s remains retrieved and given a proper, Christian burial, and I want Davé to answer for his crimes,’ I replied. ‘If I can bring him down for the fraud he’s perpetrated, I know that in Sambalpore he’d receive a fitting punishment for all his crimes. Especially if you were the new Dewan.’

  He gave a short laugh. ‘So, suddenly the concept of innocent till proven guilty no longer appeals to you? I can’t say I’m surprised.’

  ‘I’m a believer in justice,’ I said.

  He paused before replying.

  ‘Meet me outside the Maharaja’s office in an hour.’

  FORTY-FIVE

  I replaced the receiver.

  ‘What now, sir?’ asked Surrender-not.

  ‘Now, Sergeant, you’re going to pack your case.’

  ‘What about Davé? Is Arora going to arrest him?’

  ‘We’ll know in an hour. Whatever happens, we still have a train to catch.’

  He eyed me curiously. ‘You seem to be in a hurry to leave, sir.’

  He might have been right about that.

  ‘Nonsense,’ I said.

  We headed back down to the garages. The guest lodge was only a short walk away, but with the rain coming down in sheets, setting out on foot wasn’t a practical option, unless we wanted to swim. Instead, we found a driver and commandeered the old Mercedes Simplex.

  The car stopped under the lodge’s portico and Surrender-not got out.

  ‘You’re not coming?’ he asked.

  ‘There’s something I need to do first,’ I said.

  He nodded and headed into the building, and I ordered the driver to make for town.

  The lobby of the Beaumont was awash and a harassed-looking bellboy was on his hands and knees, mopping with a sodden rag. I made my way to the first floor and knocked on Annie’s door.

  This time the door opened almost immediately.

  ‘Sam,’ she said, you look like you’ve been for a swim.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ I replied, gesturing to the window behind her, ‘you’ll get a chance too, soon enough. The train to Jharsugudah leaves at ten. Will you be joining us?’

  ‘You’d better come in,’ she said.

  The look on her face worried me, but as I entered the room, I still clung to the hope that I might be wrong.

  The bouquets were still there, and another couple seemed to have arrived during the day.

  ‘You’re not bringing the flowers?’ I asked.

  She didn’t reply. Instead, she walked towards the window and busied herself with closing it. I felt sick. I must have cut a ridiculous figure standing there, smelling like a wet dog and dripping on her floor. There was no point in waiting for her to say it. It was better if I said it. It might even leave me with a shred of dignity.

  ‘You’re not coming, are you?’

  She turned around. ‘Punit’s asked me to stay on,’ she said. ‘It’s only for a few days. A week or so . . . There’s the end of the Jagannath festival tomorrow, and his investiture. There might even be a coronation.’

  And that was it. One small sentence that stripped away all hope.

  A week or so. It was good of her to try to sugar the pill, but her eyes betrayed her. She might actually return to Calcutta in a week but even if she did, the chances were she’d probably be back here soon afterwards. It looked like Punit had won. In truth, he was probably always going to win. He was a prince, after all, and one who was about to become a king. He only needed to raise his voice and the world bent to his whim. When I raised my voice all that happened was I grew hoarse. I should have realised I had no chance when I saw him do the Turkey Trot. Women can’t help falling for men who can dance.

  I thought about remonstrating, telling her that Punit was an unscrupulous, strutting peacock of a man; that he had given the order to execute two men in the most gruesome fashion last night. But there was no point. Anything I said would seem like jealousy, partly because it was. In any case, she was astute enough to make up her own mind, so I left it. Sometimes a man just has to admit defeat. There was no shame in losing, but losing to someone whose life I’d saved twenty-four hours earlier felt like a kick in the teeth.

  ‘Well,’ I said, glancing at my watch, ‘I had better get going. Surrender-not will be waiting for me.’

  I left Annie and dragged myself down the corridor.

  Twenty minutes later I was back in my room at the guest lodge. The wind was up and the shutters clattered noisily against the panes. A pool of water had gathered beneath the window. I locked the door, took off my wet shirt and lay face down on the bed. My limbs ached and the fog was beginning to descend inside my skull. A drink would have be
en good, a hit of ‘O’ would have been better, but I had neither. In my mind, I heard Annie’s voice: It’s only for a few days. But I was too old and too cynical to believe that.

  I reflected on the absurdity of it all, then realised I was feeling sorry for myself; and that would never do for an Englishman in India. I heaved myself off the bed, stripped off the rest of my wet clothes, and put on fresh ones. I threw my belongings into my suitcase, then went into the bathroom and splashed tepid water on my face. Five minutes later I was out the door, off to meet Surrender-not at the foot of the stairs.

  ‘Are you all right, sir?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m fine,’ I said. ‘Now let’s go see if we can’t arrest a Dewan.’

  FORTY-SIX

  The storm intensified. We were led through the palace to the study where we’d first been introduced to the Maharaja. This time it was his son Punit who sat behind the desk, with Arora at his right hand. The room was dimly lit, all the better to offer a view of the growing tempest beyond the French doors. A lightning flash illuminated the prince’s face, highlighting an expression in keeping with the maelstrom outside. Beside him, Arora stood with his own face held firmly in neutral.

  The prince looked over as we entered but made no effort to stand, nor to offer Surrender-not or me a seat.

  ‘It is true?’ he asked. ‘Has Davé been robbing us blind?’

  ‘All I can tell you,’ I said, ‘is that we found two versions of the report Mr Golding produced into the value of the diamond mines in the Dewan’s safe. We believe one is a fake, produced by Davé.’

  The reply seemed to irritate Punit. ‘Having two reports in his safe is hardly evidence of a conspiracy to defraud the kingdom,’ he snapped.

  ‘In and of itself, no,’ I replied, ‘but Golding had a meeting with him pencilled in his diary, and he disappeared immediately afterwards. We found Golding’s body at the bottom of a mine shaft a few hours ago.’

  The prince shook his head.

  ‘If I may, Your Highness,’ interjected Surrender-not, ‘there is one way of ascertaining whether the Dewan is involved in some sort of plot. Ask to see him and request him to bring Golding’s report with him. He’s made no secret of the fact that the report is in his possession. If he brings the real one, the one that corresponds with Golding’s papers, then he’s in the clear. If, however, he brings the other . . .’