There was a large, red Hispano-Suiza parked at the end of Annie’s drive. It wasn’t a car you often saw on the streets of Calcutta, partly because it was Spanish, and partly because it cost more than a Rolls-Royce; and while I’d never seen it before, its presence felt as unnerving as discovering a shark in the Serpentine.
I wasn’t entirely sure why I was back here. Maybe it was a desire to make sure she was all right, but then again, maybe it was hope that seeing her might cleanse my mind of the sight I’d just witnessed, of Gurkhas falling on unarmed civilians.
The front door had been repainted and workmen were busy traipsing through the house, I assumed putting the finishing touches to the repair of the broken window. Once more Annie’s maid, Anju, led me through to the drawing room; she seemed in better spirits than the previous day.
‘Whose car is that?’ I asked as we traversed the hallway.
‘Mr Schmidt, sahib,’ she said breathlessly, as though he were the pope.
I didn’t like the sound of that.
‘German?’ I asked.
‘No, no, American.’ She beamed.
‘Even worse.’
She opened the door to the drawing room and ushered me in. At the window stood a tall, blond chap with a moustache on his face and a drink in his hand. He wore khaki trousers with turn-ups and creases that looked sharp enough to slice bread, and a shirt the whiteness of which was matched only by that of his ridiculously perfect teeth.
‘Memsahib will be down shortly,’ said Anju.
Preceded by his cologne, the man walked over and proferred a manicured hand.
‘Schmidt,’ he said by way of an answer to a question I hadn’t asked. ‘Stephen Schmidt. And you are?’
‘Wyndham,’ I said, warily shaking his hand. ‘Captain Wyndham.’
‘Pleased to make your acquaintance, Wyndham. Miss Grant’s mentioned you.’
‘She has?’
‘Yep. Said you were a policeman. I’m glad you’re here. I wanna know what you’re doing about the attack on the lady.’
‘You mean the broken window?’
‘That’s right. I hope you’re here with good news.’
‘Not exactly.’
Schmidt shook his head as though I’d disappointed him on some fundamental level. Or maybe it was that I’d simply confirmed his low expectations of me.
‘You need to catch those responsible and throw the book at them. I want them prosecuted to the full extent of the law.’
The truth was that I’d done very little – actually nothing – about the attack on Annie’s house. After she’d turned down my ill-considered offer of posting a constable at her door, I’d had more pressing matters to deal with – not that I was about to tell Schmidt that.
‘We’re on the case,’ I said. ‘And rest assured, we shall throw the book at the guilty party. Maybe even two books.’
‘Good,’ he said, pulling out an engraved silver cigarette case. ‘Make sure you do.’ He opened it and offered me one.
‘What brings you to Calcutta?’ I asked, accepting it.
‘Business,’ he said, extracting a lighter.
‘And what business would that be?’
‘Tea,’ he said with a flourish. ‘I supply two-fifths of all the tea consumed in the northern Midwest.’
‘Is that a lot?’ I asked. ‘I’d rather been under the impression that you Americans preferred dumping the stuff in Boston harbour to drinking it.’
‘You better believe it.’
‘And you plan on staying long?’
The door opened and in walked Annie. She wore a blue silk dress and an ornate diamond-studded silver necklace hung from her neck. It looked like she was preparing to go out for the evening.
‘That’s a good question,’ she said. ‘How long do you plan on staying, Stephen?’
‘For the foreseeable.’ He smiled.
That was rather longer than I’d been hoping.
Annie looked from him to me. ‘I see you’re both getting along.’
‘Absolutely,’ said Schmidt.
‘Like a church on fire,’ I said.
‘Can I get you a drink, Sam?’ she asked. ‘Stephen’s drinking bourbon.’
‘No thank you,’ I said stiffly. ‘I’m on duty.’
‘So what brings you here, Sam?’ she said as she walked over to the drinks cabinet and prepared what I assumed was a pink gin. ‘Have you caught the vandals who attacked my house?’
‘I was just telling Mr Smith here –’
‘Schmidt,’ he corrected me.
‘My apologies – Mr Schmidt here that we’re working on it. I came round to see that everything was in order.’
‘Everything’s fine, Sam,’ she said, turning and taking a sip of her drink. ‘Thank you for your concern.’
‘Are you planning on going in to town tonight?’ I asked. ‘Only, you might want to reschedule. The roads are blocked.’
‘Really?’ said Schmidt. ‘What is it this time?’
‘Another protest.’
‘Don’t these Indians ever get tired of it?’
‘They want to be rid of the King of England,’ I said. ‘I’d have thought that as an American you’d be appreciative of that.’
Schmidt shook his head. ‘Not if it means missing a dinner date with Miss Grant here.’ He knocked back the last of his bourbon. ‘Come now, Annie,’ he said. ‘If Wyndham’s right and the roads are a mess, we should probably leave a little early.’
It wasn’t what I’d meant. Instead of ‘reschedule’ I should have said ‘cancel’.
Annie turned to me. ‘You don’t mind, do you, Sam?’
‘I just need a little of your time.’ I turned to Schmidt. ‘You don’t mind if I speak to Miss Grant privately? I need to apprise her of certain developments,’ I lied.
Schmidt eyed me dubiously, then looked to Annie.
‘We have dinner reservations,’ he said.
‘I’m sure whatever the captain has to tell me will only take a few minutes,’ she replied, before walking towards the door.
‘Absolutely,’ I said, making to follow her. ‘Five at most.’
‘Dinner reservations,’ I said, when we were out of earshot, back in the hall. ‘I hope you’re making him take you somewhere expensive.’
‘What is it you wanted to tell me?’ she said, ignoring the comment.
‘There’s been an attack,’ I said, ‘over in Rishra. A Goanese Christian woman was murdered. The commissioner believes Indian radicals might have been responsible.’
She looked at me blankly. ‘What has that got to do with me?’
I was asking myself the same question. The truth was, very little, and possibly none at all, but after the attack on her house and the violent dispersal of the crowd at Das’s demonstration, I couldn’t help but feel a dread that things were spiralling out of control. As an Anglo-Indian, Annie was already a target, and maybe I feared that if the worst happened, I’d fail to save her. Just as I’d failed to save my wife, Sarah.
‘Things are turning ugly,’ I said. ‘Gandhi’s proclamation of independence by the end of the year has people from both sides on edge, and this bloody visit by the Prince of Wales is hardly helping matters. I don’t want you at risk if the bullets start to fly.’
She touched my arm gently. ‘Don’t be so melodramatic, Sam.’
‘I’m serious,’ I said.
She was silent for a moment. With one hand she pulled at the lobe of one her diamond encrusted ears.
‘If there’s nothing else, Sam, I’d better get back to Stephen.’
‘Are you sure about him?’ I said.
‘What?’ she asked.
‘Is he really a chai-wallah? Everyone knows the Yanks don’t know the first thing about tea. My gut tells me he’s probably a bootlegger, in town to purchase distillation equipment.’
She looked at me incredulously. ‘Not your famous gut again, Sam. Stephen’s a tea merchant, not some American mobster. You just need to look at him to see he’s about as innocent as any man that’s ever turned up in Calcutta. In fact, that’s one of the things I like about him: he isn’t cynical about every bloody thing. He actually enjoys life. Not like you. You see it as some sort of penance, as though you’re constantly atoning for the sins of a past life like some bloody Hindu mystic.’
Our voices must have travelled, as suddenly Schmidt was in the hallway.
‘Is everything all right?’ he asked.
‘Perfectly,’ Annie replied. ‘Captain Wyndham was just leaving.’
‘I need to get back to headquarters,’ I added for good measure.
‘At this time of evening?’ he asked.
‘I’ve work to do,’ I said. ‘The Prince of Wales is arriving in two days.’
Schmidt’s eyes lit up. ‘You’re involved with that?’
‘Yes,’ I lied. ‘The security measures need to be finalised. And more importantly, I need to arrest the vandal who broke Miss Grant’s window.’