Midnight at Malabar House (Inspector Wadia series)

by Khan, Vaseem

  A ceasefire was ordered only when the soldiers’ ammunition was spent.

  Almost a thousand men, women and children lay dead, including a six-week-old infant.

  The consequences of the massacre were far-reaching.

  Word spread throughout imperial India, inflaming anti-British passions. In Britain, Dyer was at first fêted, but later, as the truth began to filter through, faced political censure.

  ‘I understand,’ said Persis. ‘Maan Singh grew up to discover that the British had killed his father at Jallianwala Bagh. Sir James became the target for his rage.’

  But the woman was shaking her head. ‘You don’t understand,’ she said. ‘My husband’s father was not killed at Jallianwala Bagh. He is the one who did the killing.’

  Chapter 22

  The Golden Temple Hotel wasn’t shy of displaying its Raj-era sensibilities: a freshly painted maroon façade, shuttered French windows, and a chandelier the size of an inverted pyramid in the lobby. They had arrived at the hotel just over an hour after returning to their train in Amritsar following the visit to Singh’s home.

  Persis had called ahead to book two rooms.

  At the reception counter, the attendant, a thickset man in a dark suit and heavy moustache, eyed them with a look that she couldn’t quite fathom until Blackfinch leaned in and whispered, ‘He’s probably wondering why we’re in separate rooms. My guess is that this is one of those places where British sahibs entertained their Indian mistresses.’

  She shot him a look. A smile stretched his features. She scowled, and turned back to the attendant. ‘Tell me, have you been working here long?’

  ‘Twenty years, madam. My name is Ondha.’

  ‘Mr Ondha, I am a policewoman. My colleague is a detective from London. We are here to investigate the movements of a British gentleman I believe stayed here recently, a man named Sir James Herriot.’

  Ondha smiled. ‘Madam, Amritsar may be far from the centre now but we are no backwater. I know who you are.’ He paused. ‘It was my understanding that you had already concluded the investigation into Sir James’s death.’

  ‘We have,’ said Blackfinch firmly before Persis could reply. ‘We are merely tying up loose ends.’

  ‘Anything we can do to help, sir, we shall be most honoured.’

  ‘Do you recall Sir James?’ asked Persis.

  ‘Of course. He stayed with us for two nights. December 25th and 26th. He left on the 27th.’

  ‘Did he say why he was here?’

  ‘No, madam. But it was official business, I believe.’

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘The few Britishers who come here now are rarely here for tourism. If they are, it is because they wish to see the Golden Temple in nearby Amritsar or to participate in a hunt. Wild boar, nilgai, panther. Sir James expressed no such interest.’

  ‘What did he do?’

  ‘He requested a touring car. He wished to be driven into the surrounding villages.’

  ‘Do you know where he went?’

  ‘I am afraid not, madam.’

  She frowned, glanced at Blackfinch.

  ‘However, there is a way to find out,’ continued Ondha. He banged the bell atop the counter. Another man, slimmer and younger, with a clipped moustache and pockmarked cheeks, emerged from a door behind him. ‘This is our concierge, Prakash.’ He turned to the newcomer. ‘Do you remember Sir James?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘You procured a car for him during his stay here. Do you remember who the driver was?’

  ‘Yes. Kulraj Singh.’

  ‘Can you please locate him and bring him here?’

  ‘What should I tell him?’

  ‘Tell him that we have passengers for him.’

  ‘One more question,’ said Persis. ‘Did Sir James meet with anyone while he was here?’

  ‘In the hotel?’ Ondha considered this. ‘Yes. Now that I recall, there was someone. A local, by the looks of him. He came in very late on the evening of the 25th, after Sir James had returned from his day of touring. Refused to give his name. Just said that he had urgent business with Sir James. I called his room. They spoke on the phone, then Sir James told me to send him up. He came down an hour later.’

  ‘Do you know what they spoke about?’

  ‘I’m afraid not, madam.’

  The room was opulent, with a large bed, a carpeted floor and hand-carved teak furniture. She wondered how the hotel continued to survive. Partition had decimated commerce in the region; she suspected that tourism had been one of the hardest hit industries. Perhaps the evergreen popularity of the nearby Golden Temple had something to do with it.

  Next to the telephone was a notepad. She feathered her fingertips over the topmost sheet. It was headed with the legend: The Golden Temple Hotel. Just below it, the words: By a pool of nectar, at the shrine of the sixty-eight.

  Sir James had been here. He’d ripped a sheet from a pad like this and scribbled the name Bakshi on it, and a reference to what she believed was a plot of land. Had his mysterious visitor given him that name? Who was Bakshi? What did the enigmatic note mean?

  Persis stowed her luggage, then stepped into the shower.

  Fifteen minutes later, she stood in front of the room’s full-length mirror, wrapped in a towel, brushing her long dark hair. A worm of excitement stirred in her stomach. She hadn’t felt this free in a long time. Just being here, following in Herriot’s footsteps, felt like a small victory.

  She had already made progress. The revelation that Maan Singh’s father had been one of the men who had opened fire on civilians during the Amritsar Massacre had stunned her.

  Haridas Singh had been only twenty at the time, father to a one-year-old son – Maan Singh – and had no idea of the crushing judgement of history that awaited him. He had been trained to follow orders, unthinkingly, unquestioningly. But the aftermath of that bloody day at Jallianwala Bagh would haunt him for the remainder of his life.

  A year after the massacre he quit the Imperial Army, unable to live with the spectres of his fellow Sikhs; they had begun to follow him around, the men, women and children he had murdered at Dyer’s behest. In his neighbourhood, once it became known that he was one of the butchers of Jallianwala Bagh, he became a pariah. He was assaulted on numerous occasions. No one would employ him. He became a drunk. His children suffered. For Maan Singh, the humiliation was particularly brutal. Branded the son of a traitor, excluded from his community, something warped inside him as he grew to adulthood.

  Later, the army offered an escape. The irony was not lost on him. His father had killed men for the British. And now Singh would too. Yet it was a way out of the daily humiliation of life in Amritsar, and so he took it. He wanted to fight for something noble, to undo his father’s legacy.

  But he found no nobility in that war, only more confusion. He had thought the war would rid him of his past, but he had been wrong. The past found him, out in the jungle of Burma, and so he quit.

  Back home in Amritsar, the rage festered. Independence arrived, but it was bittersweet. He could take no solace from it, not with his father’s crime hanging over the future – his own and the future of his child.

  And then, one day, his old comrade-in-arms, Madan Lal, called, asking him to come to Bombay. To work for Sir James Herriot. An Englishman.

  It dawned on Persis that perhaps she had misjudged the situation, after all. Could it be that Singh was guilty of the murder? Certainly, his possible motive for killing Sir James had become clearer.

  A knock startled her out of her contemplation. Without thinking she strode to the door and swung it back, then realised too late that she should have put on a dressing gown.

  Blackfinch stood framed in the doorway. He too had showered and changed, his hair neatly swept back for once. He peered in at her and a momentary astonishment crossed his features.

  ‘Well,’ he said, his eyes passing quickly over her naked shoulders, her glistening hair, lingering on the tightly
wrapped towel around her.

  ‘I was just getting ready.’

  ‘Ondha called me. They’ve located the driver. He’s waiting for us in the lobby.’

  ‘I’ll be ready shortly.’

  ‘Right.’

  They stared at each other.

  ‘Right. I shall make my way downstairs.’

  The driver, Kulraj Singh, was a short, barrel-chested man with a white beard like a prophet’s, curling whiskers, and a red turban. His lower half was enveloped in a colourful green cotton lungi, his torso in a cream kurta. He smelled strongly of a spicy aftershave as powerful as mustard gas.

  ‘Do you speak English?’ asked Persis.

  ‘Most excellently, madam,’ replied Kulraj.

  ‘Do you remember Sir James?’ she asked.

  ‘Certainly.’

  ‘And do you recall exactly where you drove him to?’

  ‘I do. Sahib visited the local police thana here in Pandiala, and then he drove out to the village of Jalanpur.’

  She guessed that Herriot had visited the police station to discover the exact location of the Muslim landowner’s murder that had brought him out to Pandiala – it was what she would have done. Even if the investigation had not been based here, word would have reached sister stations in the region. Herriot’s enquiries must have led him to the village of Jalanpur.

  ‘Please take us there.’

  Kulraj gave a sort of half bow, then turned and led them out towards his waiting vehicle. Persis had been expecting a jeep of some description, but the car parked outside was a Buick Roadmaster, maroon with white-rimmed tyres. The spotless bonnet gleamed in the morning sun.

  Blackfinch gave a low whistle. ‘What a beauty!’

  ‘A gift from my late master,’ explained Kulraj. ‘When he left for Pakistan he gave me the car. She is the last memory I have of a good man.’

  Chapter 23

  The village of Jalanpur lay five miles to the west of Pandiala, practically on the Pakistan border. The road was rutted, marked by ancient piles of dung. The Buick bounced along in the late afternoon heat.

  They were forced to stop while a herd of goats crossed the road. A tall Sikh with a staff stared at Blackfinch, then spat into the dust.

  ‘What was that about?’ asked the Englishman.

  ‘Punjab has always been a volatile place,’ said their driver, accelerating into a bend at breakneck speed. ‘During the struggle, there were many competing interests here. Those who owned the land were loyal to the British – the Muslim, Hindu and even Sikh zamindars. They had everything to lose once the British left. But when they saw that independence was inevitable they began to fight among each other. The Muslims chose to stand behind the Muslim League. They were the majority here, so you can imagine how much trouble that caused.’

  They hummed along.

  ‘By rights Amritsar should be the capital of Punjab,’ continued Kulraj. ‘But Nehru will never let that happen. We are too close to the border. They call us Lahore’s twin – it’s only fifty miles away. We should never have let them have it. Amritsar is our religious heart; but Lahore was our cultural capital. One day we will get it back.’ He glanced in the mirror. ‘Do you know where our capital now lies?’

  Blackfinch shook his head.

  ‘In Shimla.’ This with an exhalation of disgust. ‘The British used Shimla as their summer capital and now the Congress administers Punjab from your old offices there.’

  ‘Cyril Radcliffe was given an impossible task,’ mused Blackfinch, speaking of the man who had drawn the Partition line. ‘He was just a civil servant, not a politician nor a cartographer. He had never even visited India before. They gave him a month to divide the country. I’ve always wondered what it must have been like, out here with the raging heat, the mosquitoes, the push and pull of a thousand factional voices, knowing that history was looking over his shoulder. It’s a wonder it didn’t drive him mad.’

  Persis glanced at him. The man seemed oblivious. She wondered if fear was something alien to him, another side effect of that strange quirk in his character. It occurred to her that he was probably in some danger. This wasn’t Bombay. She shouldn’t have brought him here.

  The scenery became increasingly agricultural, field after field of winter crops, broken up by earthen dividers. Oxen yoked to ploughs. Bullock carts. They crossed a muddy river, where a glossy water buffalo was submerged to the shoulder. A motorbike roared by, shattering the illusion of rural serenity.

  They drove into the heart of the village, a collection of low, whitewashed brick buildings bisected by dusty roads. Kulraj brought the Buick sedately to a stop outside a single-storey structure ornamented with a wooden sign that read: LAND REGISTRY OFFICE.

  ‘Sir James visited this place.’

  They got out and walked towards the building. The village quadrangle was deserted, but Persis caught eyes peering at them from the surrounding buildings. News would spread soon enough.

  The registry office housed three airless rooms. A peon dozed in a chair at the front, snoring loudly. Persis poked him in the shoulder and he awoke with a start. She explained that they wished to meet the man in charge. He stared at her, then ran off to fetch his superior.

  Ten minutes later, a slim man in a dhoti and white shirt arrived. He wore no turban, but his moustache was full and encroached over his lips. A sandalwood-paste caste mark was daubed between his eyebrows. He introduced himself as Nayar, the village patwari, a government functionary who acted as the record-keeper for rural hamlets such as Jalanpur. It was his duty to ensure that the land records were continually updated, the particulars of ownership and use of each plot within the village’s jurisdiction. With the impending land reform initiative under way, the position of patwari had become critical across the country. Her father had grimly forecast that the reality of enacting such reform could well cost Nehru his premiership. Untying the millennia-old knots of feudal landholding would take more than an edict from the centre. No doubt many poor tenants would feel the wrath of their landlords before the war was won.

  ‘Do you remember the Englishman, Sir James? He came here recently. He met with you.’

  Nayar was impassive. ‘He did.’

  ‘What did he want?’

  Nayar hesitated. He did not seem particularly impressed with her authority.

  Blackfinch stepped forward. ‘She asked you a question.’

  Nayar visibly shrank. ‘He wished to examine our land records, sahib.’

  Persis felt the heat of humiliation, the sting of being a woman in a society that was not only male dominated but that lacked even the basic notion of equality between the sexes. In this northern hinterland, her status as a celebrity police officer meant little. She realised, to her chagrin, that, if nothing else, having Blackfinch here would aid her task immeasurably. Without him, she doubted that she would get very far with men like Nayar.

  ‘We’d like to see those records,’ continued Blackfinch. ‘Now,’ he added sternly.

  The patwari hesitated, then nodded and vanished into the rear of the building, returning swiftly with a cloth-bound ledger, three field books and two large cloth maps. He unrolled them on to a wooden table. ‘These maps cover all the land within the jurisdiction of Jalanpur.’

  Persis scanned the maps, the jigsaw profusion of plot markings, annotations and numbers in red ink. ‘Who owns these plots?’

  ‘The majority of these landholdings belonged to the family of the Nawab Sikandar Ali Mumtaz. Unfortunately, the nawab died in a fire some years back. His line was ended there. Since then, the land has come under the governance of the village council. The government has yet to decide on its distribution.’

  Persis felt the tingle of revelation. This was the Partition crime that had been in the file, the crime that had drawn Herriot northwards. The murder of a Muslim landowner. And now she had a name. The Nawab Sikandar Ali Mumtaz.

  Nayar spoke in a mixture of English and Hindi that Blackfinch found difficult to follow. His head swivell
ed back and forth between them as if he were a spectator at a tennis match.

  ‘Tell me about the fire,’ said Persis. ‘My understanding is that it was started deliberately.’

  Nayar’s eyes widened but he said nothing.

  She referred to her notebook again to check the name and sequence that Herriot had scribbled on to the sheet of stationery he had taken from the Golden Temple Hotel.

  BAKSHI. PLT41/85ACRG11

  She now referred back to the maps and realised that in structure this number mirrored the annotations on them. Excitement fluttered inside her.

  ‘Show me the field books.’

  Nayar handed her the first of the three field books. She rifled through it, columns of entries in both English and Hindi, lists of names, acreage, plot use and status of the tenancy. The majority, as Nayar had said, were owned by the nawab’s family, and sharecropped by others, or rented by tenants. Each plot was given its own landholding number and a name that denoted the tenant or sharecropper.

  It took her just ten minutes to find the entry she was looking for. It might have gone swifter with the patwari’s help but she did not trust the man.

  And there it was. PLT41/85ACRG11. Herriot had been here, had made a note of this entry. Why?

  The plot – plot number 41 – was sizeable, one of the largest on the maps, eighty-five acres. The name in the field ledger was Vikas Bakshi.

  Bakshi.