I ran from Miss Colah’s house and commandeered the gardener’s bicycle. It was hardly the fastest mode of transport but as the British say, beggars can’t be choosers.
I cycled out of the drive and down the lane. As luck would have it, most of the journey was downhill and I picked up a decent turn of speed on the descent towards Chowpatty beach. At the crossroads there I came across a taxi rank. Skidding to a halt, I thanked the gods, ditched the cycle and ran for the nearest cab.
It was only once I was settled in the back and the taxi was speeding towards Pedder Road that I had the chance to take stock. Irani was, in actuality, Atchabahian. He had been hired by Section H, or at least by a rogue Section H officer: MacRae. His purpose? Playing both sides against the middle, funnelling clandestine British cash to both hardline Hindus and extremist Muslims, in an attempt, I assumed, to sway votes away from the more moderate parties in the forthcoming elections, or worse, in an attempt to trigger violence and provide a pretext for cancelling them altogether.
Set against that objective, the rationale for the murder of Mukherjee became clear. Atchabahian had lured Gulmohamed to Budge Budge on the pretence of meeting a wealthy donor. He’d then strangled Mukherjee, hoping to pin the blame on Gulmohamed and kill two birds with one stone. However, Gulmohamed had smelt a rat and fled the scene. I, on the other hand, had stumbled right in. I guessed Atchabahian had probably tipped off the local police in advance too, which explained why their officers had turned up on the scene so quickly.
Had his actions gone to plan, Mukherjee’s murder and Gulmohamed’s arrest would have been enough to light the touchpaper and set Hindus and Muslims across the whole of India at each other’s throats. As it was, Mukherjee’s death alone had led to Calcutta going up in flames, aided in no small part by the thousands of flyers which had been posted up overnight in both Hindu and Muslim areas, flyers which I now assumed Atchabahian had printed in advance and then distributed to extremists on both sides.
That the violence had failed to spread was probably due to Mukherjee’s second-tier rank among the Hindu radicals and the fact that Gulmohamed had not been implicated. Atchabahian, though, was now out to rectify his mistake. If the flyer translated by Miss Colah was to be believed, what Atchabahian had failed to do in Calcutta, he would set right in Bombay. He would kill Gulmohamed at the mosque and stir the Muslims of the subcontinent to rise. And that would play right into the hands of our British overlords. What better way to show the outside world that Indians weren’t fit to govern themselves. ‘Look!’ the British papers and their Indian surrogates would gleefully crow. ‘These people are at each other’s throats. We must continue to rule India if only to save the natives from themselves.’
It was a daring plan, and I had to remind myself that Atchabahian hadn’t hatched it. He was merely the tool. The plan had been British, or at least dreamt up by a rogue British agent.
Even now, I had trouble accepting it. My father’s words, uttered many times since I was a child, suddenly came to me.
‘Divide and rule. It has always been the British way. That is how they first enslaved us and that is how they even now keep us in our servitude. Yet should we blame them or ourselves? They only exploit our stupidity and prejudices.’
It should not have come as a shock, and yet it did. The British were the people I worked for, whose institutions I upheld. It struck me that they were also the same people who were currently seeking my capture and trial for a crime I hadn’t committed. Yet that was a matter for a different time. Right now I had to stop the chaos and carnage that would be triggered by the assassination of Farid Gulmohamed.
The car sped downhill until, in the distance, I saw the mosque appearing out of the sea like something from a dream. A dome and a single minaret floating serenely and gleaming white in the high sun.
I wondered where Sam was. With any luck he would have arrested Gulmohamed and taken him into custody. He would have done it for the wrong reasons but it might just save the politician’s life. That, however, seemed unlikely. Even Sam would surely recognise the folly of a lone Englishman, without a uniform, attempting to effect the arrest of a senior Muslim politician outside a mosque.
Just as I was beginning to feel I might reach there in time, the taxi ground to a halt, its progress stopped by a wall of men clad in white.
‘What is it?’ I asked in pidgin Hindi.
‘Masjid mein ek baithak hai,’ said the driver, which I took to mean that some sort of gathering was being held at the mosque. And if the crowds in our path were anything to go by, it was going to be a damn large gathering.
The note in Irani’s papers suddenly made sense. Haji Ali, twelve noon. What better place to assassinate the leader of a political party than in front of a thousand of his followers? I checked my watch. It was a quarter to twelve. I flung a rupee note at the driver and jumped out. From here it would be faster on foot. Throwing myself into the maelstrom, I began to push through the sea of bodies and fought my way forward towards the causeway.
From somewhere came the sound of commotion, voices raised in complaint. I turned to see the crowd ripple then part and there in front of me, as though spat out by the throng, stood Sam looking somewhat dishevelled.
‘What are you doing here?’ he said, limping over. ‘Anyway it doesn’t matter. I’m just glad to see you.’
‘Likewise,’ I said. ‘What happened?’
‘I tried to arrest Gulmohamed,’ he winced, ‘but that didn’t go down too well. I was right, though. Irani is here. I just saw him walk down the causeway. They’re in cahoots.’
‘No,’ I said. ‘We were wrong. Atchabahian isn’t here to meet Gulmohamed. He’s come to kill him.’
The look of relief vanished from his face.
‘What?’
‘There’s no time to explain,’ I said, turning towards the path. ‘We need to get after him.’
He put a hand to my shoulder and pulled me back. ‘It’s not that simple. I’ve already had a run-in with Gulmohamed’s bodyguards.’ He gestured towards two large men standing with arms folded at the entrance of the causeway. ‘I tried to force Gulmohamed to talk to me. They didn’t approve.’
That explained why he looked like he’d been in a fight. I sometimes wondered whether he had a death wish.
‘I’ll go alone, then,’ I said.
‘Wait,’ he said. ‘There’s more than one way to skin a cat. Come on. This way.’