Five o’clock. Christmas morning. It was supposed to be a day of joy; of hope and rebirth. Maybe it was. We now had the name of our killer – Lacchiman Gurung – and with that came the hope, however slender, of stopping him before he killed again.
To the east, the sky was beginning to lighten. We walked back down the steps from Anthea Dunlop’s residence to the car. Our driver sat dozing in his seat, his head resting against the glass, and it took a rap on his window from Surrender-not to jolt him from his slumber.
‘Fort William. Chalo!’ I said as we got in.
‘What did Dawson say when you telephoned him?’ I asked Surrender-not.
‘He said he’d alert the relevant authorities and commence a search among all military units in and around the city.’ Surrender-not smiled. ‘He was most grateful for the information. He even went as far as to say “thank you”.’
‘And you thought we wouldn’t live to see the day,’ I said. ‘If we’re lucky, Dawson’s men will track him down and arrest him before long and that’ll be an end to it.’ But even as I said the words, I doubted that capturing Rifleman Gurung was going to be quite that easy. For a start, nothing in Calcutta was ever easy; and for another thing, the man we were chasing just happened to be a battle-hardened Gurkha.
‘He had some news of his own,’ Surrender-not continued. ‘The two other English doctors in the photograph – Dunlop’s assistants; they both returned to England after the war. If Gurung is going after them, he’s going to need to make a boat trip.’
That left McGuire as the sole British member of the photograph so far unvisited by the Gurkha. The possibilities for murder were narrowing and I felt happier on that journey than I had done two hours earlier. I now knew my enemy, by name and by face, and more importantly, I understood his motive. There was still the imminent danger of him launching a gas attack that would lead to mass casualties, but we now stood a better chance of stopping him than we had done previously, even if the odds were still stacked against us.
The car sped westwards towards the river, across the Maidan along Outram Road, with the parade ground and Victoria Memorial to our left. Fort William loomed like a behemoth in the half-light. A bright-eyed sentry waved us briskly through the Chowringhee Gate and soon we pulled up outside the block that was home to Section H.
Dawson’s office was a frosted-glass and wood cubicle at the far end of a larger room on the second floor. Despite the hour, the place seemed as frenzied as Bow Bazar during the festival of the goddess Durga, with scores of uniformed men and women busy at their desks, on telephones, or rushing, paper-laden, from one room to another. Among the commotion, I spotted the familiar face of Marjorie Braithwaite, Dawson’s secretary.
Marjorie was a formidable-looking woman with a permanent scowl, the no-nonsense temperament of a headmistress and a reputation for being the most trustworthy secretary in Calcutta – all indispensable qualities for a woman who was assistant to one of the most feared secret policemen in India. The mere sound of her voice was known to put the fear of God into subordinates, to the extent that I suspected she’d attended at least some of the interrogation training courses that Section H officers were sent on. Surrender-not was terrified of her, but I quite liked her, and though her loyalty was always to her boss, she seemed to have a weary tolerance for me.
We made our way to her desk.
‘Marjorie,’ I said, ‘we’re here to see Torquemada. It’s urgent.’
She shook her head and sighed. ‘Go through, Captain Wyndham. He’s expecting you.’
I thanked her and headed for Dawson’s office.
‘And, Captain,’ she called. ‘You shouldn’t call him that. He doesn’t like it and I’d hate to see him pull out your fingernails on account of a little joke.’
I gave her a smile and knocked on the major’s door.
Dawson was seated behind his desk, his pipe clamped between his jaws and the telephone held to one ear. Less than forty-eight hours ago, he’d interrogated me in here and I’d vomited on his floor. Now he was rather less hostile, though I’d have been a fool to think that this was anything more than a truce: a pause in hostilities while we faced a more pressing foe. He gestured with a nod of his head towards the two chairs that faced him across the desk.
‘Any news?’ I said as he replaced the receiver.
He puffed vigorously on his pipe, sending a cloud of smoke ceilingward.
‘Rifleman Lacchiman Guring,’ he said, tapping a thin buff-coloured file on the desk in front of him. ‘Private, first class, of the 4th Regiment, the Prince of Wales Own Gurkhas. Age forty-two. Enlisted in 1897, saw active service on the Afghan border, then in France and Palestine during the war. A career soldier, he turned down the offer of demobilisation in 1920. Most recently, posted with his regiment to Calcutta last month, to this very base.’
‘Have you arrested him?’
Dawson took another puff on his pipe. His eyes were bloodshot.
‘Not yet. He went AWOL just over a week ago. At about the same time that the stocks of gas went missing.’
‘Any idea where he might be holed up?’
‘We’re checking for any known relatives he may have in the area and putting the word out among our operatives in the native parts of town. We’ll spot him if he surfaces.’
It was hollow bravado. Like me, Dawson was too long in the tooth to believe his own rhetoric. Gurung had gone to ground. The only way we’d catch him now was to pre-empt him: figure out where he was going, then get there first.
‘Your plan to use McGuire,’ I said. ‘Is that still on the cards?’
Dawson rubbed his forehead. ‘It has to be,’ he said. ‘There’s a Christmas fair in the grounds of Barrackpore cantonment in a few hours. Most personnel are being given the morning off in honour of the Prince of Wales’s visit. Colonel McGuire is going to spend his morning at the fair, being as conspicuous as possible.’
‘You think that’ll flush Gurung out?’
‘I hope so.’
‘Why don’t you just go ahead and paint a target on McGuire’s back?’
‘Believe me, I would do if I thought it would help.’ He removed the pipe from his mouth. ‘By the way, how did Mrs Dunlop know his name?’
‘Because she’d met him twice before. His son was a victim of the Rawalpindi experiments – she nursed him in the days before his death. He’d lost his sight and his lungs were burned. The father is out for revenge.’
‘Let’s hope, then,’ said Dawson, ‘that his desire for vengeance leads him to take chances going after McGuire.’
Twenty minutes later, having swallowed a cupful of black coffee in a nearby barracks mess hall, Surrender-not and I were back in the car, stuck somewhere along the Strand Road. In anticipation of the Prince of Wales’s imminent arrival, the quickest route back into town – along Red Road and up past Government House – had been closed and the traffic diverted along the riverfront. In the distance, the bridge across to Howrah was shrouded in early-morning mist. Dawn had broken, and with it, the city began waking to Christmas Day. The road was already choked, the carts of traders carrying fresh produce, jostling for entry into the city. This morning, though, the traffic was joined by another sort of crowd. White-clad, placard-carrying protesters streamed towards the shoreline, trying, presumably, to make for Howrah station.
Ahead of us, the traffic was stalled, the demonstrators corralled by a military ring of steel, holding them back from the bridge and the boulevards into town beyond. At the river ghats too, long queues had formed as soldiers restricted access to the ferry piers, questioning anyone who looked like they might be out to cause trouble.
‘So much for the Prince of Wales’s low-key entry to the city,’ said Surrender-not.
It wasn’t exactly a surprise. In India, even the best-kept secrets have a habit of slipping out and, as usual, the problem lay with the Indians themselves. It was a pity the country couldn’t function without them, not the bureaucracy, or the railways, or the forces of law and order; and wherever you had Indians in the system, whether it was a lowly peon or a fat babu pen-pusher, you had the risk that information would leak to the opponents of the Raj. People talked, and all it would have taken would have been a Congress-sympathising stationmaster’s assistant in Benares or Patna, or somewhere else along the route, to realise that the VIP on the special train passing through the station was His Royal Highness the Prince of Wales, and get a message to the local party cadre, and the news would reach Calcutta hours before the prince did.
A fleet of vehicles appeared on far side of the bridge: an olive-green armoured car led the way across, followed by two black saloons, one a Rolls, the other possibly a Crossley – it was hard to tell at this distance – both with their roofs up, with another military car bringing up the rear. After the cortège came a busload of what I presumed were the royal retinue, then another carrying the gentlemen of the press and a lorry with the newsreel technicians from Pathé who travelled with the circus.
The vehicles made their way briskly across the bridge, then past the gaggle of protesters and the stalled traffic on the bankside, before speeding off along Harrison Road. Surrender-not craned his neck, hoping to catch a glimpse of the prince, but it was pointless. At this distance, all that could be said was that Prince Edward could have been any one of several pale smudges in the rear of the Rolls that flew past.
‘Looks like it could be a while before they reopen the road,’ he said, settling down again. ‘We’re wasting time sitting here.’
‘Agreed.’ I nodded, then tapped the driver on the shoulder. ‘We’ll walk from here.’
Our destination was the domed structure of Government House. In the days when Calcutta had been the capital of the Raj, Government House had been the seat from which the viceroy administered this nation of several hundred million souls. Power might have shifted to Delhi, but the building itself was still among the grandest in the country, and, as such, was deemed a fitting residence for the visiting prince.
On Dawson’s orders, we were to liaise with the prince’s attachés and the military officers coordinating security during his stay.
We were met on the steps of the building by a tall India Office mandarin in spectacles, morning suit, cravat and pinstriped trousers, who introduced himself as Beaumont and who led us, in businesslike fashion, along marbled corridors.
‘The first time you speak to the prince, you are to address him as “Your Royal Highness”,’ he said, explaining protocol. ‘Thereafter you may call him “sir”.’
‘That all seems straightforward.’ I nodded.
We reached the East Wing, where he transferred us to the care of a familiar face – Dawson’s man, Allenby.
‘His Royal Highness will be at the briefing,’ said Allenby, leading us up a flight of stairs. ‘It’s senior officers only, so your sergeant is going to have to remain outside.’
I turned to Surrender-not. ‘Is that all right with you, Sergeant?’
‘I suppose so, sir.’
‘Good man,’ I said. ‘God forbid the prince should meet an actual Indian on his tour of the country.’
Allenby shot me an acid glance.
‘Does he know of the threat yet?’ I asked.
‘No,’ said Allenby, as we reached the top and began walking along a carpeted corridor. ‘And I’ll thank you not to mention it to him, either.’
‘Don’t you think he should be told?’
‘Told what, exactly? We’ve received no threats against him in particular. And Calcutta’s hardly Sarajevo.’
Geographically, at least, he was correct, but as for the threat, no one had considered Sarajevo particularly dangerous till the heir to the throne of one of the largest empires in Europe had been murdered there.
Depositing Surrender-not in an anteroom, we entered a large room dominated by a chandelier and a painting of the defeat of Tipu Sultan at the Battle of Mysore. French windows opened onto a balcony and offered what might generally be considered a pleasing aspect, but in a building like this, most aspects were likely to be pleasing.
In the centre of the room, seated on a chesterfield while those around him stood, was the prince. He sat with a drink in one hand and the other arm draped over the back of the sofa. He’d grown up in the five years since I’d last seen him. Now he was no longer a boy pretending to be an adult, but a man, relaxed in demeanour and with the looks and charm of a matinee idol.
Allenby bowed, then made the introductions. ‘Your Royal Highness, may I introduce Captain Wyndham of the Imperial Police Force? He will be acting as our liaison with the civilian authorities.’
The prince rose. ‘How do you do, Captain,’ he said, shaking my hand.
‘Your Royal Highness,’ I said. ‘We met once before, sir, back in France in ’17. You were visiting the troops.’
‘Really?’ he said. ‘You’ll forgive me if I don’t recall. I met a lot of men on those tours. I only hope the visits did some good.’
‘I’m sure they did,’ I lied.
The prince turned to one of his aides, an equerry in a naval officer’s uniform. ‘Archie here was just explaining for the umpteenth time the itinerary for today.’
The aide winced. ‘Sir, it’s imperative that things pass off smoothly,’ he said, as though explaining an unpleasant fact to a recalcitrant child.
‘I’m sure they’ll pass off perfectly,’ said the prince. ‘They loved me in Lucknow, didn’t they?’
‘With respect, sir,’ said the equerry, ‘Lucknow isn’t Calcutta.’
‘Come now, Archie. Ever since we started this tour, everyone’s been saying how awful things are in Calcutta, but it’s Christmas. How bad can it be? Besides, there’ll be plenty of troops to make sure things don’t get out of hand.’ He turned to one of the military officers, a stout chap with grey hair and clipped moustache. ‘Isn’t that so, General?’
‘We’ll keep things tight, sir,’ the officer replied. ‘We shall leave Government House at a quarter past noon precisely and follow an indirect route to the town hall, forgoing the open-top carriage for a closed limousine, and arriving at Esplanade Row approximately fifteen minutes later.’
‘The town hall fronts directly onto the road, and is flanked by taller buildings on both sides,’ I said. ‘His Royal Highness would have to walk from the car, and up the steps. While I’m sure security precautions have been taken, he would still be exposed for a few minutes. It might be preferable for the convoy to stop at the rear of the building. It would be easier to protect.’
A hush descended over the gathering. Archie, the prince’s equerry, gave an embarrassed cough. The silence was broken by the prince himself.
‘I’m the bloody Prince of Wales, for goodness’ sake,’ he said. ‘I’m certainly not going to skulk in through the back door, Captain, no matter what the risk.’
It might not have been the safest option, but I certainly couldn’t fault his bravery. Indeed, in his position, I’d have probably felt the same.
‘Very good, sir,’ I said.
Beside me, Allenby piped up.
‘The captain makes a useful point, however. There is a march planned by some Congress hotheads at the same time as your speech at the town hall. The roads may become choked. Should they do so, we shall have a car waiting at the back of the hall to bring you back here at the end of the function.’
It looked as though the prince was about to raise another objection, but then seemed to think better of it.
‘Your Royal Highness will be greeted on the steps of the town hall, by a flower-bearer,’ said Archie, ‘and then by the mayor and assorted local dignitaries. The mayor will lead you inside. Your speech is scheduled to commence at 1 p.m. and should last approximately thirty minutes, followed by photographs for the press. The whole thing should be over by 2 p.m., so that we return here by half past two, in time for the reception on the lawns at 3 p.m.’
‘When does that finish?’ asked the prince.
‘At 5 p.m., sir,’ said Archie, ‘followed at 8 p.m. by the dinner in your honour hosted by the Bengal Chamber of Commerce.’
‘Another dinner?’ said the prince. ‘Can’t we cancel it? Say I’m ill or something?’
‘Commerce is the city’s lifeblood, sir,’ said the equerry. ‘Some of the most influential men in the country will be there.’
‘But it’s Christmas Day, for goodness’ sake,’ the prince remonstrated. ‘Can’t I even have that one evening to myself?’
‘It’s the last official event of the tour, sir,’ said Archie. ‘Tomorrow you have the Boxing Day races, and the following day we set sail for home.’
Talk of the turf club seemed to mollify the prince.
‘What’s the going like out here? I don’t suppose it’s any good?’
‘I think you’ll be pleasantly surprised, sir,’ piped up another of the generals. ‘Some of the maharajahs have very fine stables.’
The meeting broke up with the arrival of a turbaned manservant in red-and-gold livery, who announced that the prince’s breakfast was waiting. The officers began to file out, and I was about to join them when the prince called out to me.
‘One moment, Captain.’ I turned. ‘Yes, sir?’
‘Where was it in France that we met?’
‘Ypres, sir,’ I said, making sure to pronounce the name properly. During the war, all us Tommies had pronounced it ‘Wipers’, like the contraptions on a car’s windscreen.
‘We took some terrible losses at Ypres,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘I assume you lost some friends.’
‘I did, sir,’ I said, though I could have added that by then I had very few friends left to lose.
I rejoined Surrender-not in the anteroom.
‘Come on,’ I said. ‘We need to head north.’
‘Where to?’ he asked.
‘Barrackpore.’
We made our way back down the stairs and along the corridor.
‘So what was the prince like?’ asked Surrender-not as we emerged out into daylight.
‘Not as bad as I expected,’ I said.
‘That’s high praise, coming from you, sir. Just as well. I suppose he’ll be king-emperor one day.’
‘That depends.’
‘On what?’
‘On whether he makes it through the day.’