SIXTEEN

The light was failing and the humidity clung like sackcloth. The car stopped at the gates of the Residency.

‘I’ll pick you up at nine tomorrow,’ said the colonel, then gave his driver the order to move off without bothering to wait for a reply.

I turned to Surrender-not.

‘Come on.’

We trudged back into the compound, past a native lowering a faded Union Jack, the rusted metal pulley creaking as he pulled on the halyard rope. As for the flag itself, the thing had more holes than a golf course. I guessed Carmichael had decided that flying a moth-eaten flag was preferable to flying no flag at all. I wasn’t sure I agreed.

There was no sign of the Austin so I assumed our host was out somewhere. In any case, the front door was open and we made our way inside and up to our rooms.

I closed the door, peeled off my shirt and wiped at the perspiration on my chest with a gamcha, the thin cotton towel favoured by the natives and which is, to all intents and purposes, practically useless for soaking up anything. After managing merely to smear the sweat over my body, I gave up and instead splashed tepid water from the basin onto my face.

The familiar ache had started. For now it was restricted to my upper arms, but it wouldn’t be long before it spread – first to the muscles of my back, then my chest and thighs, and finally into my bones. Behind it would come the fog – descending at first like a fine mist on my synapses, then swelling, congealing, solidifying, its grip tightening like a fist inside my skull which would eventually crowd out all thoughts but one. Opium.

The process from initial symptoms to full-blown withdrawal would take a while – days, probably – but once it had started, the only real way to stop it was a hit of O. For now, though, it was important to make use of what time I still had. I lay down on the creaking bed, then got back up and fished a crumpled packet of Capstans from my trouser pocket. Lighting a cigarette, I returned to the bed. An old newspaper advertisement extolling the virtues of tobacco on the intellectual process came to mind. Smoke Ogden’s to stimulate the brain. That was good, because I needed to think things through and was grateful for all the help I could get — but I smoked the thing down to the fag end without any noticeable uptick in my cognitive processes. Still, cigarettes were only the first weapon in my armoury. Maybe it was time to bring out some heavier artillery. The suitcase was sat on a small chest in one corner of the room. I brought it back to the bed, snapped open the locks and lifted the lid. Instinctively, my eyes were drawn to where the opium travelling kit lay sleeping under its blanket of shirts, but I ignored it, instead pulling out the half-empty bottle of Glenfarclas. The supply would need to be managed carefully. There was precious little of the stuff available in Calcutta, and from what I’d seen of Carmichael’s budget, I doubted decent malt of any description had made it to the Residency since before the Mutiny.

Taking a glass from beside the wash basin, I poured myself a single measure, took it back to the bed and sipped. The conversation with Miss Bidika troubled me. She’d assumed I was a representative of the Anglo-Indian Diamond Corporation. Was that simply because I was a sahib, or was there something more to it?

There were other things, too. Nothing significant, just odd. The first was Major Bhardwaj’s reaction to the photograph of the dead assassin. The man had reminded him of a dead priest, he’d said. Then, when I’d asked him who would decide Miss Bidika’s fate, the major had demurred – a Cabinet decision, taking into account the royal family’s opinion. But the Maharaja was a god to his people, and in my experience, gods don’t tend to delegate such decisions to committees.

When further sips didn’t help, I knocked back the rest and poured another. A single measure of whisky is generally a false economy. It’s better to start off with a double and save yourself the trouble of a refill. The second glass proved more useful. It occurred to me that Prince Adhir’s brother, Prince Punit, would, as the new Yuvraj, have a say in the running of things. It stood to reason that the Maharaja, at his age, might seek the opinion of his second son. Was that what Major Bhardwaj had been alluding to?

That particular deduction deserved a celebratory third measure, and I’d have poured it, had it not been for a knock at the door.

I opened it, to find Surrender-not standing at the threshold.

‘What do you think they’ll do to her?’ he asked. He looked like a pint-sized Atlas with the burdens of the world on his shoulders.

‘Who?’

‘Miss Bidika.’

‘Come in,’ I said and sighed.

‘I’m not disturbing you, am I?’ he asked, walking in.

‘Bit late to worry about that now.’

I pointed him to the chair next to the desk. ‘I was about to have a drink, as it happens. You want one?’

‘No, thank you.’ He eyed me suspiciously. ‘Your first one of the evening?’

I checked my watch. It had just gone six o’clock. Technically speaking, the first two had therefore been consumed while it was still afternoon.

‘Yes,’ I said with the conviction of the righteous.

He ignored the chair and continued to stand. ‘Do you think they’re going to charge her with complicity in Adhir’s assassination?’

I poured myself that whisky.

‘It certainly looks that way. She seems to be a thorn in the side of the royal family and I fear dissent is about as welcome here as leprosy. Whether she’s guilty or not, I’d imagine it suits their purpose to charge and convict her.’

‘And then what? Execute her?’

‘They can’t, not legally, anyway. I expect they’ll lock her up, but I wouldn’t put money on her coming out any time soon.’

He fell silent, but it didn’t take a clairvoyant to work out what was going on in his head. He was a hopeless romantic and Miss Bidika was a damsel in need of assistance. Rescuing her was the sort of thing he dreamed of, even if speaking to her afterward might prove a challenge.

‘Do you think she’s guilty, sir?’

‘I doubt it. And the Maharaja doubts it too. He wants the real culprit caught. Why else would he agree to our involvement over the objections of his Dewan?’

Surrender-not nodded solemnly.

‘So, Sergeant,’ I continued, ‘where should we begin?’

‘You’re the senior officer, sir.’

‘I’m on holiday, remember? And seeing as you’re the one on the clock, you may as well earn your pay.’

He extracted his notepad and pencil from the breast pocket of his shirt. ‘I suppose we return to first principles.’

‘Absolutely,’ I said, taking a sip of whisky. ‘And that means?’

‘Motive,’ he said. ‘Who stood to gain from having the Yuvraj murdered?’

‘Leaving aside Miss Bidika and her group of malcontents, who else could stand to gain?’

‘Religious hot-heads?’ he replied. ‘The assassin was dressed as a sadhu, a Hindu holy man. Maybe the prince was murdered as retribution for something he’d done to offend them?’

‘It’s possible,’ I replied. That the assassin took his own life suggested a degree of fanaticism which, outside of the Balkans, tended to be the preserve of the overly religious. But what exactly might Adhir have done? ‘We should ask Colonel Arora about that.’

Surrender-not scribbled down the point in his notebook.

‘Now, who else?’ I asked. ‘Anyone closer to home?’

He tapped the pencil lightly against his teeth. ‘The most obvious beneficiary is his brother, Prince Punit. With Adhir out of the way, Punit becomes Yuvraj and next in line to the throne.’

‘Do you know him at all?’ I asked.

Surrender-not shook his head. ‘No, he wasn’t schooled in England. Second-son syndrome. His father sent him to Mayo College in Rajasthan. They call it the Harrow of India.’

‘We should interview him as soon as possible. Anyone else?’

‘Not that I can think of.’

‘What about us?’ I asked.

Surrender-not looked at me blankly. ‘We didn’t kill him, sir. I’d have remembered.’

‘No, us as in the British government. Dawson was on the concourse at Howrah. Maybe Section H got rid of Adhir, hoping it would smooth the path to Sambalpore’s accession to the Viceroy’s new talking shop?’

He looked sceptical. ‘Would the Viceroy sanction such a thing?’

It was a fair question. The Viceroy was, after all, about as dynamic as last week’s lettuce. Yet the fact remained that Major Dawson had been at the station last night, and I doubted he was there to greet his mother.

I walked over to the window and rested my glass on the sill.

‘Back in Calcutta, you suggested the Yuvraj might have developed a rather jaundiced view of the British from his time at school. What was behind that?’

Surrender-not rubbed his chin. His words, when they came, were guarded. I sensed he wanted to tell me everything but was conscious that what he had to say might give offence to an Englishman. Indians often did that, walking a conversational tightrope between speaking the truth and what they thought we wanted to hear.

‘Well,’ he began, of course there were the usual things, the name-calling and such, but I think what he really objected to was the fagging duties. He was a prince and saw himself as above all of that. I think the English boys knew this and made it worse for him.’

I had some sympathy for the dead prince’s point of view. Having to warm a frozen toilet seat for some stuck-up sixth-former every morning could, I imagine, very easily lead to a hatred of everything English for the rest of one’s life.

‘And do you know if he ever acted on this anti-British sentiment?’

He shook his head. ‘I’ve no idea. I hadn’t seen him in years until two days ago.’

The conversation was interrupted by a knock at the door.

‘Captain Wyndham?’ It was Carmichael’s voice.

The door opened slightly and the Resident put his head round.

‘I don’t want to disturb you. I just wanted to say that dinner will be served in an hour. We have some other guests joining us tonight.’

‘Including that Fitzmaurice chap from Anglo-Indian Diamond?’ I asked.

Carmichael gave an embarrassed laugh. ‘No, no. I believe he’s dining at the palace tonight. No, our guests are of a different sort, but interesting nonetheless. The first is a Mr Golding, the kingdom’s chief accountant. If there’s one man who can give you chapter and verse on Sambalpore, it’s him. Fabulous chap. Very keen on crosswords. He has me save copies of the Statesman for him, just so he can have a crack at the cryptic.

‘And the other is a gentleman called Portelli. An anthropologist, and rather well regarded in those circles, apparently . . .’ He tailed off. ‘Right then, I’ll see you both in an hour.’ He closed the door behind him. Banerjee and I listened as his footsteps faded down the corridor.

Surrender-not looked grave, still probably preoccupied with the fate of Miss Bidika. I attempted to lighten the mood.

‘Have you ever met an anthropologist before?’

‘Not since Cambridge, sir.’

‘I knew one once,’ I said. An old fellow by the name of Hogg who’d spent years living with a tribe in the Amazon. He gave a talk at a Salvation Army Hall in Whitechapel, illustrated it with a dozen odd photographs of tribal women looking like day-trippers from the Garden of Eden. There was only one photograph of the men of the tribe. It made me question the motivation for why certain men decide to enter the field.’

‘I best go get dressed,’ said Surrender-not.

‘That’s the spirit,’ I said, patting him on the shoulder.

I closed the door behind him and considered another drink. In the end I decided against. There were a lot of questions about Sambalpore that I wanted to ask over dinner and it was best to keep a clear head. The clock was ticking, after all. Unless we could find out who really was responsible for Adhir’s murder, I feared Miss Bidika’s fate could well be worse than the picture I’d painted for Surrender-not.