I reached the gate on the heels of the military cortège. Our coolie was already there, remonstrating with a railway official. He pointed to me and eventually the guard deigned to let him through.
The Dewan was discussing something with the officer in charge of the pall bearers. He then spoke briefly to an assistant who nodded and led the cortège down the platform towards the fifth carriage.
‘Prime Minister Davé,’ I called out.
He turned and stared as though slapped in the face by my very presence.
‘Captain Wyndham? I was not informed that you would be accompanying us. I was under the impression that your colleague, Sergeant Banerjee, was to be the representative of the Imperial Police Force.’
‘That’s correct, sir,’ I said. ‘I’m attending in a personal capacity. I wished to pay my respects at the Yuvraj’s funeral.’
He eyed me suspiciously.
‘Very well,’ he said. ‘It is only fitting, I suppose. I understand you and Sergeant Banerjee were responsible for apprehending the Yuvraj’s killer. The Maharaja may wish to meet you.’
‘We tracked him down, at any rate,’ I replied. ‘He preferred to shoot himself rather than be apprehended.’
The Dewan forced an awkward smile. ‘I am informed that he was most likely a religious zealot of some kind. Who knows what goes through the mind of a man like that?’
I could have told him that in this case, the last thing was a bullet from a rather old revolver, but he didn’t seem the type to appreciate the insight.
He called to Colonel Arora, who was talking to a uniformed native who had descended from the train. The colonel broke off his conversation and marched smartly over.
‘Captain Wyndham,’ he said, ‘a pleasure to see you again.’
‘The captain will be travelling with us,’ said the Dewan. ‘Please arrange a berth for him.’
‘As you command, Dewan sahib,’ said the colonel. ‘Captain, if you’ll come with me.’
‘So you have decided to journey with us to Sambalpore,’ said Arora as I took my leave of the Dewan and accompanied him down the platform.
‘I thought I might like to see a genuine Indian maharaja in his native habitat, as it were.’
‘Really, Captain?’ He smiled. ‘I wouldn’t have pegged you for an anthropologist.’
‘I’m not,’ I replied. ‘Though I confess, I have recently discovered an interest in South Indian languages that I never knew I possessed. You might say I’m going to Sambalpore to indulge my curiosity in the written word.’
Arora kept his eyes trained firmly ahead. ‘Well, I hope your time with us is most productive,’ he replied.
The colonel stopped at the entrance to one of the carriages and gestured for me to board.
I climbed the iron steps into a walnut-panelled and thickly carpeted cocoon that seemed more like the lobby of some rather exclusive cinema than the vestibule of a railway carriage.
An impeccably tailored attendant in a green and gold uniform came over, his hands clasped together in pranaam.
‘Let’s find you a berth,’ said the colonel. He conversed briefly with the attendant, who, after a moment’s hesitation, turned to me.
‘Follow me please, sahib.’
I left the colonel and accompanied the man along the corridor, past several compartment doors polished to a shine.
‘You are liking our train, sahib?’ he asked.
‘It’s certainly better than the eight-fifteen to Paddington,’ I replied.
The attendant kept his opinion on that to himself and continued down the corridor.
‘This cabin is unoccupied, sahib,’ he said, stopping at one of the doors and sliding it open. ‘Do you require anything else?’
‘I assume my colleague, Sergeant Banerjee, also has a cabin in this carriage.’
‘Yes, sahib. The officer is in the next cabin.’
‘There may be a third person joining us,’ I said, ‘a woman. She’ll need a cabin too.’
‘I shall make the arrangements, sahib.’
‘And please tell the sergeant to join me once he is aboard.’
I entered and closed the door. The compartment smelled of rose oil. To one side, a bed – a real one not a bunk – was set against the wall. Beside it, a chair furnished in purple velvet and a rococo writing desk, with fluted flourishes giving the impression that it had melted slightly in the heat. Opposite the bed stood a walnut-lacquered wardrobe and a door that led to a water closet complete with marble basin and enough gold fittings to make the Orient Express look like a cattle transport.
Outside the window was a different world. On the platform opposite, a native family had set up temporary residence. The elder child, a girl of about five, her hair tied in pigtails, watched with rapt attention as a hawker played a tune on a tin whistle. The younger one, a half-naked boy of about two with a black string around his belly and kohl around his eyes, stared at me, then quickly hid his face in the anchal of his mother’s sari. I watched as the woman put her efforts into laying down some makeshift bedding on which the children would sleep. Meanwhile, her husband looked out forlornly at the rain tumbling from the platform roof onto the waterlogged tracks.
Slipping off my jacket, I threw it on the bed and went into the bathroom to wash my face. The water was cold, properly cold, which was something of a miracle in Calcutta, and the towel felt like a cloud of sandalwood.
There was a knock on the door and, after a suitable pause, Surrender-not entered looking like he’d just gone three rounds with Jack Dempsey. His left cheek was beginning to swell and his wire-framed spectacles sat awkwardly on his face.
‘Are you all right, Sergeant?’ I asked, directing him to the easy chair.
‘I think so, sir.’
‘Good work, by the way. Your distraction certainly did the trick. Dawson took off like a scalded dog when he realised you’d spotted him. I expect he hightailed it out of the station as soon as those goons accosted you.’
‘Yes, sir,’ he said ruefully. ‘Rather solid chaps.’
That was the thing about Section H’s native operatives. They tended to be soldiers in mufti, drawn from the ranks with promises of better pay and rapid promotion. The problem was, these six-foot bruisers from Chandigarh and Lahore didn’t exactly blend seamlessly with the Bengali population. It was like using wrestlers to infiltrate a gang of jockeys.
He removed his spectacles and began to bend them back into shape. Without them, his eyes looked curiously small. ‘Judging by the size of his minders, sir, I think you may have been correct in your supposition that the major was not off on holiday.’
‘I don’t think Dawson takes holidays,’ I said. ‘I doubt he even sleeps.’
‘You think his being here has something to do with the Yuvraj’s assassination?’
‘It’s possible,’ I said, ‘though if he was here in an official capacity, why not turn up in uniform? And why scarper so quickly?’
‘He might have been here for something else. Maybe they’re tracking terrorists?’
I considered this. Howrah station was the city’s gateway. Most people coming to Calcutta naturally passed through it.
‘Perhaps,’ I replied, ‘though it would have to be important for him to turn up in mufti. He’s hardly a field operative.’
A whistle blew on the platform outside. I glanced at my watch. Ten p.m. on the dot. Surrender-not replaced his spectacles.
‘You didn’t happen to see Miss Grant out there?’ I asked.
He seemed somewhat thrown by the question.
‘I wasn’t really looking, sir.’
‘Of course,’ I said, and something twisted in the pit of my stomach as I realised Annie wasn’t coming. I told myself it was probably for the best, that this way, I’d be able to concentrate on the case without distraction, but it was still a bitter pill to swallow.
With a gentle lurch the train shunted forward and out of the station, slipping into the night past the marshalling yards and rain-sodden houses of Howrah.
Surrender-not stirred.
‘If there’s nothing else, sir, I’ll make my way to my cabin.’
That suited me. I needed to think, to make sense of Dawson’s presence on the concourse, though that wasn’t the only reason I wanted some time to myself. After agreeing to meet in an hour to track down some supper, he left and I locked the door behind him.
The cabin was suddenly quiet. I took my suitcase and set it down on the bed. Snapping open the locks, I removed the shirts and other camouflage that sat on top, to reveal a varnished wooden case with a silver handle and delicate ivory detailing. Fashioned from a deep mahogany, it had a silver lock in the shape of a dragon’s head. The handle continued the motif. The case was a thing of beauty and I took a moment to admire it. But it was nothing when compared with its contents.
Extracting a small silver key from my pocket, I placed it in the lock and turned. The mechanism clicked softly and sent a slight shiver up my spine. I lifted the lid and stared: a lamp, a ceramic pipe bowl, a selection of thin needles and tools, and, of course, a shortened bamboo opium pipe with carved porcelain end pieces. All sat snugly on a red velvet bed. It was a travelling opium kit and I’d fallen in love as soon as I’d spotted it in an antique shop near Park Street. I knew I had to have it, for no other reason than that I’d never seen anything like it. I’d never entertained any thought of using it – that is until I’d spotted the ball of opium resin in the dead assassin’s knapsack. Even now, I wasn’t sure exactly why I’d brought it along. I’d never prepared my own opium pipe before. It was a complicated business that took a degree of skill and training and I certainly wasn’t about to master it on a moving train. What’s more, bringing it with me was a risk. What if my suitcase should be damaged and its contents revealed? It was a compromising possession for a police officer, even one who was technically on holiday.
I realised then that I’d packed it because I couldn’t bear to be parted from it. The recognition hit me like a punch in the face. I quickly closed the case and covered it with clothes, then took out a fresh shirt, trousers and the half-empty bottle of Glenfarclas I’d tucked in with them.
Changing out of my damp clothes, I poured a measure into a cut-glass tumbler that sat on the writing desk. I sat down and took a sip. Outside, the rain continued to lash down, and now and again a twinkling light in the window of a dwelling passed gently by.
This would be my first visit to a native state. In fact, it would be my first real trip anywhere in India. As journeys went, it wasn’t a bad start and if this train was anything to go by, Sambalpore seemed the sort of place I might get used to. And yet I felt uneasy. Annie’s no-show had dampened my spirits somewhat, and more importantly, the sight of Major Dawson on the concourse had unnerved me. I couldn’t shake the feeling that his presence was somehow linked to the Yuvraj’s assassination. Since we’d received the warning notes that had been sent to Adhir, I’d felt certain that the trail led to Sambalpore. But Dawson’s appearance on the platform had raised another possibility: that Section H or their masters were somehow involved. Sambalpore’s accession to the Chamber of Princes was, after all, a key part of the Viceroy’s plans. Was it possible that someone in the India Office had sanctioned the prince’s removal in the belief that his replacement would prove more amenable to the Viceroy’s wishes?
My stomach lurched as the implications of that sank in. The political assassination of a prince was an endeavour that wouldn’t have been undertaken lightly. If Section H were behind this, it was a certainty that getting to the truth would be dangerous and nigh on impossible. Worse still, if Section H were involved, being on a train heading to Sambalpore would take me directly away from the answers rather than towards them.
I took another sip and watched the night slip by. My thoughts turned to the warning notes. They were written in Oriya and had been delivered to the prince inside his palace. Even if there was a British angle to the conspiracy, someone with a knowledge of the local language had still deduced enough about a plot to have tried to warn Adhir, and the chances were that that someone was in Sambalpore. Finding them had to be my first priority.
An hour later, Surrender-not knocked on my door. He was dressed in black tie and patent leather shoes with a shine that could have kept ships away from rocks.
‘Are you off to the opera?’ I asked.
‘I thought you wanted to go looking for the dining car, sir?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ I replied, ‘but we’re not attending a state dinner.’
‘It’s a state train.’ He shrugged. ‘Do you want me to change?’
‘No.’ I sighed. ‘Let’s go. I’m hungry.’
The sergeant opened the connecting door at the end of the carriage. The rain was still coming down and a torrent poured from the roof into the gap between the two bogeys. I jumped quickly across the space between the footplates and stumbled inside the next carriage with Surrender-not close behind.
The lounge car was dominated by a mirrored bar and a large black Steinway which no one was playing. In front of it were dotted a dozen or so armchairs finished in green leather, and small polished ivory side tables. Around one such table sat the Dewan and a silver-haired European gentleman, who, judging by the cut of his dinner jacket, was probably English. He looked around sixty, with the face of a field marshal and the manner of a banker. He examined me coldly, as a doctor might do a leper, then returned to his conversation, leaving Surrender-not and I to continue our progress through the train.
The dining car’s walls were panelled in dark, varnished wood and the windows were framed with thick curtains of purple velvet tied back with golden pelmets. It was empty, save for a jacketed waiter arranging cutlery and Colonel Arora sitting at one of a half-dozen tables draped in white napery, with a single orchid for company. His face set hard, Arora stared out of the window, concentrating on the blackness beyond. There was an intensity to his expression that suggested his thoughts weren’t particularly pleasant. As far as I was concerned, that was no bad thing. You can learn a lot by disturbing a man when he’s lost in introspection.
I called over to him.
‘Colonel.’
He turned and stared, and for a moment, there was anger visible in his eyes. I held his gaze, trying to fathom its meaning. He must have realised and immediately his expression changed – his emotions reined in.
He gave a curt nod. ‘Captain, Sergeant.’
‘You don’t mind if we join you?’
‘Of course,’ he replied politely, please do.’
The cutlery clinked softly as the train passed over a set of points.
The waiter broke off from his polishing and came over.
‘May I bring you an aperitif?’
It seemed rude to refuse.
He returned with two flutes of champagne on a silver tray.
‘I think there’s time for a spot of supper,’ said Arora, consulting his watch. He turned to the waiter. ‘What have we tonight?’
‘Pea and mint soup, wild boar pot roast, and for dessert: Eton mess.’
‘Good, good,’ said the colonel.
For the train of an Indian royal family, the food sounded decidedly English.
The waiter departed and I turned to the colonel.
‘Who’s the Englishman with the Dewan in the lounge car?’
‘That,’ replied Arora, ‘is Sir Ernest Fitzmaurice, board director of the Anglo-Indian Diamond Corporation and, so he tells us, firm friend of the kingdom of Sambalpore. We’ve had a long and florid relationship with Anglo-Indian,’ he continued. ‘The company is the purchaser of almost ninety per cent of our diamond production. When the East India Company was trying to strangle the state into submission, it was Anglo-Indian Diamond who broke the embargo, smuggling out our produce when no other English company would touch us. It’s Anglo-Indian’s money that’s paid for Sambalpore’s schools and clinics, not to mention the Maharaja’s cars.’
Possibly the wine, too, I thought, judging by the rather fine Gran Cabernet Franc that accompanied the meal and the velvet Jurançon served with dessert. The conversation was cordial, with the colonel reeling off tales of Sambalpore’s history and the resistance of its rulers to the invading Mughals. Eventually we rose to return to our compartments.
‘Don’t get too comfortable, Captain,’ said Arora. ‘In a few hours we shall reach Jharsugudah, where we shall have to change trains.’
‘The Sambalpore royal train doesn’t go to Sambalpore?’ I asked.
‘It can’t,’ replied the colonel. ‘You British do not allow broadgauge railway tracks to be laid in the native states. The India Office is scared that if it did, it might assist us in transporting troops and heavy guns, which we might then use against you.’
‘That’s absurd,’ I said.
‘Of course it is,’ he replied. ‘But it’s also a fact. So at Jharsugudah, we will change to another royal train on the narrow-gauge line, which will take us the last fifty miles to Sambalpore.’
Sure enough, two hours later, the train pulled into a cordoned-off platform at Jharsugudah railway station and I walked out into a stiflingly humid night. There was no rain, though, and the tracks looked dry. It seemed we’d outrun the monsoon.
The train that would take us on to Sambalpore was a miniaturised version of the one we’d just alighted from and we boarded it without ceremony or fanfare. Further down, the guards lowered the Yuvraj’s coffin and I watched as they carried it across, laying it to rest in the forward-most carriage before readying the prince for the final leg of his journey home.