THREE

‘How the hell am I supposed to explain this to the Viceroy?’ roared Lord Taggart, slamming his fist down on his desk. ‘The crown prince of a sovereign state is gunned down in broad daylight while in the presence of two of my officers, who not only fail to stop it, but also allow the assassin to escape scot-free!’ The vein in his left temple looked ready to burst. ‘I’d suspend the pair of you if the situation weren’t so serious.’

Surrender-not and I were seated in the Commissioner’s ample office on the third floor of police headquarters at Lal Bazar. I held Taggart’s gaze while Surrender-not concentrated on his shoes. The room felt uncomfortably hot, partly due to the roasting the Commissioner was handing out.

It wasn’t often he lost his rag, but I couldn’t blame him. Surrender-not and I had been working together for over a year now, and it was fair to say this wasn’t exactly our finest hour. Surrender-not was probably in shock from witnessing the death of his friend. And as for me, I was suffering from what felt like the onset of influenza, but which I knew heralded something quite different.

After losing the assassin, I’d made my way back to the Maidan to find the Rolls gone. Other than tyre marks on the concrete and some broken glass, there was precious little sign that anything had taken place. I’d scoured the grass verge, though, and found two shell casings. Pocketing them, I’d hailed a taxi and set off for the Medical College Hospital on College Street. It was the closest medical facility to the scene and the best in Calcutta. Surrender-not would have been sure to take the prince there.

It was all over by the time I arrived. The doctors had tried frantically to stabilise him, but the moment the bullets struck, the prince was as good as dead. There was little else to do but return to Lal Bazar and break the news to the Commissioner.

‘Tell me again how you lost him.’

‘I chased him from Chowringhee,’ I replied, ‘through the back streets as far as Dharmatollah. I couldn’t shoot at him there on account of the crowds. Once in the alleys, I loosed off a shot or two.’

‘And you missed?’

It was an odd question given that he already knew the answer.

‘Yes, sir.’

Taggart looked incredulous.

‘For Christ’s sake, Wyndham!’ he erupted. ‘You spent four years in the army. Surely you must have learned to shoot straight?’

I could have pointed out that I’d spent half of that time in military intelligence reporting directly to him. For most of the rest of the time I’d sat in a trench and done my damnedest to avoid being blown up by German shells that came out of nowhere. The truth was that in almost four years, I’d hardly shot anyone.

Taggart regained his composure somewhat. ‘Then what happened?’

‘He continued running towards Dharmatollah Street,’ I replied, ‘where I lost him in some religious procession – thousands of people pulling some monstrous contraption.’

‘The Juggernaut, sir,’ said Surrender-not.

‘What?’ asked Taggart.

‘The procession that Captain Wyndham got caught up in, sir. It’s the Rath Yatra – the progress of the chariot of the Hindu deity, Lord Jagannath. Each year his chariot is pulled through the streets by thousands of devotees. At some point, the British confused the name of the god with his chariot. It’s from him that we derive the English word juggernaut’.

‘What did he look like?’ asked Taggart.

Surrender-not looked perplexed. ‘Lord Jagannath?’

‘The assassin, Sergeant, not the deity.’

‘Lean, medium height, dark skin,’ I said. ‘Bearded, with long, matted hair that looked as though it hadn’t been washed in months. And he had some strange markings on his forehead: two lines of white ash, joined at the bridge of the nose, on either side of a thinner, red line.’

‘Does that mean anything to you, Sergeant?’ asked Taggart. When it came to native idiosyncrasies, the Commissioner, like me, had long since learned that it was best to ask one of their own.

‘It has a religious significance,’ replied Surrender-not. ‘Priests often wear such markings.’

‘Do you think the assassin might have something to do with that religious procession?’ asked Taggart.

‘It’s possible, sir,’ replied Surrender-not. ‘It may have been more than simple coincidence that he ran straight into the crowd on Dharmatollah.’

‘He was wearing saffron-coloured robes,’ I added. ‘There were a lot of them wearing saffron in the crowd.’

‘So this might have been a religious attack?’ surmised Taggart. He seemed almost relieved. ‘God, I hope so. Anything’s better than a political motive.’

‘Then again, the robes may have been a disguise,’ I cautioned.

‘But why would a religious extremist want to kill the Crown Prince of Sambalpore?’ asked Surrender-not. ‘In the time I knew him, I’d hardly have described him as religious.’

‘That’s for you and the captain here to find out,’ said Taggart. ‘And let’s not discount the religious angle. The Viceroy would prefer to hear that this is a religious attack and has nothing to do with his precious talks. Sambalpore brings with it almost a dozen other princely states and the Viceroy hopes this momentum will persuade some of the more recalcitrant middle-ranking kingdoms to sign up.’ He took off his spectacles, wiped them with a handkerchief and replaced them gently onto his face.

‘In the meantime, you two are going to catch this assassin and you’re going to do it in double-quick time. The last thing we need is a bunch of these maharajas and nabobs leaving town on the pretext that we can’t guarantee their safety.

‘Now if that’s all, gentlemen,’ he said, rising from behind his desk.

‘There’s something else you should know, sir,’ I said.

He looked at me wearily.

‘What should I know, Sam?’

‘The prince had received some letters that seemed to be troubling him. That’s why he wanted to meet Sergeant Banerjee today.’

His face fell. ‘You’ve seen these letters?’

‘No, sir. Though the prince informed us that he had them at his suite at the Grand Hotel.’

‘Well, you’d better get over there and retrieve them then, hadn’t you?’

‘I was planning on doing so immediately after briefing you, sir.’

‘And what else are you planning on doing, Captain?’ he said tersely.

‘I’d like to interview the prince’s ADC and also the Dewan of Sambalpore, a chap called Davé. It looked like there might have been some tension between him and the prince. And I want to get a sketch of the attacker made up. We can get it in to tomorrow morning’s papers, both English and native. If he’s still in the city, hopefully someone will know where he is.’

Taggart paused, then pointed to the door.

‘Very well,’ he said. ‘What are you waiting for?’

At the opposite end of the corridor from Taggart’s office was a room that, it was rumoured, had the best views south over the city. It should have been occupied by a senior officer, but on account of the good light, it had been allocated to a civilian, the police force’s resident sketch artist, a diminutive Scotsman by the name of Wilson.

I knocked and entered to see a picture window and walls covered in pencil-sketches, the vast majority of them head-and-shoulders portraits of individuals, mostly men and mostly native. In the centre of the room, in front of an inclined desk, sat Wilson. He was a grizzled chap, with the pugnacious attitude of a terrier and a passion for beer and the Bible, indulging in the latter on a Sunday and devoting most other evenings to the former. Indeed, it was the coming together of the two that had led him to Calcutta in the first place. And after a round or three, he’d happily tell you his life story: of how, in his younger days, his ambition had been to drink his way from one end of the bar to the other in the Bon Accord public house in Glasgow, something he never quite managed without being hospitalised. In hospital he’d found God, and God, in what I presumed must have been a joke, had told him to come to Calcutta as a missionary, a task for which he was temperamentally unsuited, his eagerness for a punch-up being rather at odds with the missionary ethos, and in the end he’d parted ways with the brethren and somehow ended up sketching for the Bengal Police.

‘It’s no’ often we see you up here, Captain Wyndham,’ he said, with a grin on his face. He rose to his feet. ‘And the ever-faithful Sergeant Banerjee too! What a pleasure this is. Have ye come tae admire the view?’

‘We’ve come in search of a good artist,’ I said. ‘Do you know of any?’

‘Aye, very funny. Now tell me what ye want.’

‘We need a sketch done. An Indian chap, and we need it urgently.’

‘You’re in luck, boys,’ he said. ‘Indian chaps are my forté. What’s your man done, by the way?’

‘He shot a prince,’ said Surrender-not.

‘That’s quite serious.’ He nodded sagely. ‘So where’s your eye-witness?’

‘You’re looking at them,’ I said.

He raised an eyebrow, then laughed. ‘You two? You were on the scene when the big cheese got knocked off?’

I nodded.

And you let the shooter get away? My word, Wyndham, a wee bit careless that, no? What did old Taggart have to say about it?’

‘He was philosophical.’

Aye, I’ll bet he was. I’m sure he had some choice philosophical words for you. Swears like a docker does that one when he’s angry.’

And how would you know?’ I asked.

‘His office is down the corridor, man. I can hear him! Call yourself a detective, man? I’m surprised he’s no’ got the two of you on traffic duty, checkin’ the licences of rickshaw wallahs. Anyway, ye better get on wi’ describin’ the chap. I’ve got better things tae do, even if the two o’ you huvnae.’

I started on the description, the beard, the ash on the forehead. Eventually Wilson shook his head. ‘So you got given the slip by a priest? Good show, gentlemen. I wish I’d been there tae see it.’

‘The man was armed,’ said Surrender-not loyally.

‘Aye, and so was yer boss, here,’ he replied, pointing a charcoal-smeared finger at me.

In between the running commentary, Wilson sketched away, adjusting the subject’s hair or eyes in response to our comments. Finally I was satisfied.

‘That’s not bad,’ I said.

‘Right,’ he nodded, ‘I’ll get this tae the papers.’

‘I want both English and Bengali,’ I said, ‘and see if there are any Orissa papers published in town.’

Wilson’s face soured.

‘I’m an artist, remember? You two clowns are meant tae be the detectives. You find out about the Orissa papers. In the meantime, I’ll get this out tae the usual suspects.’

‘Thank you,’ I said and turned for the door.

‘Good luck, Wyndham,’ he said. ‘And Sergeant Banerjee, you really should stop hanging’ around wi’ the likes of the captain here. It’d be a shame tae see a talent like yours wasted on inspecting bullock carts.’

Surrender-not was silent as we sat in the back of a police car on the short journey from Lal Bazar to the Grand Hotel, his face as long as the bar at the Bengal Club. Not that I was much in the mood for conversation myself. Failing to prevent an assassination doesn’t naturally lend itself to pleasant discourse.

‘How well did you know the prince?’ I asked eventually.

‘Well enough,’ replied Surrender-not. ‘He was in my brother’s year at Harrow, a few years senior to me. I caught up with him some time later when we were both up at Cambridge.’

‘Were you close?’

‘Not particularly, though at school all the Indian boys gravitated to one another to some degree. Safety in numbers and all that. Adi may have been a prince, but to the English schoolboys he was just another darkie. I fear that those days made a deep impression on him.’

‘You don’t seem to have been scarred by the experience.’

‘I was a decent bowler,’ he mused. ‘Boys tend to look past the colour of your skin if you can deliver a good off-cutter against Eton.’

‘Any idea why someone might want to kill him?’

The sergeant shook his head. ‘I’m afraid not, sir.’

The car passed under the colonnaded facade of the Grand Hotel and came to a stop in the courtyard outside the main entrance. A turbaned footman came smartly over and opened the door.

We made our way along an avenue of miniature palms, and into a glittering marble lobby smelling faintly of frangipani and furniture polish. At the far end of the spotless floor stood a mahogany desk manned by a native receptionist in morning coat and moustache. I showed him my warrant card and asked for the prince’s room.

‘The Sambalpore Suite, sir. Third floor.’

And what’s the room number?’

‘It doesn’t have a room number, sir,’ he replied. ‘It’s a suite, sir. The Sambalpore Suite. It is permanently occupied by the State of Sambalpore.’

I couldn’t read his expression, what with his nose being so far in the air, but I got the impression he thought me an idiot. It’s always galling when a native talks down to you, but rather than remonstrate, I bit my tongue, thanked him and passed him a ten-rupee note. It paid to be on good terms with the staff at the best hotels in town. You never knew, one day one of them might feed you some useful information.

With Surrender-not in tow, I headed for the stairs, wondering exactly how much it might cost to permanently rent a suite at the Grand.

The door was opened by a manservant in an emerald and gold uniform.

‘Captain Wyndham and Sergeant Banerjee to see Prime Minister Davé,’ I said.

The servant nodded, then led us towards a sitting room located at the far end of a long hallway.

The Sambalpore Suite was even more opulent than I’d imagined, finished in gold leaf and the white marble that seemed as common in Calcutta as red bricks are in London, its walls decorated with oriental artwork and tapestries. The whole exuded an elegance you didn’t often find in a hotel room, or at least not the type that I frequented.

Half a dozen doors led off the hallway, which suggested that the Sambalpore Suite was significantly larger than my lodgings. The rent was probably steeper too.

Leaving us at the entrance to the sitting room, the manservant retreated and went in search of the Dewan. Surrender-not took a seat on a gilded sofa embroidered in golden silk, one of those French ones, a Louis XIV or whatever, that are better appreciated from a distance than by sitting on them. I walked over to the windows and took in the view across the Maidan to the river beyond. To the south-west, only a few hundred yards from the hotel, I had a clear view of the spot where the crown prince had met his end. Mayo Road had been closed, the area roped off and a couple of native constables posted as sentries. Meanwhile, other officers were on their hands and knees, carrying out the fingertip search I’d ordered earlier, though I doubted there’d be much to add to the two shell casings I already had. I was no expert, but I’d seen my share of shell casings and I’d not come across this type before. They looked old. Probably pre war. Possibly pre twentieth century.

Surrender-not was mute on the sofa behind me. He was never exactly talkative – that was one of the things I liked about him – but there are various sorts of silence, and when you know someone well enough, you learn to discern the differences between them. He was still young, and though he’d killed a few people himself, some of them in order to save my own hide, he’d not yet experienced the trauma of seeing a friend gunned down before his eyes; of having to look on impotently as their lifeblood slowly drains away.

I, however, had experienced it far too many times and as a consequence, felt nothing.

‘Are you all right, Sergeant?’ I asked.

‘Sir?’

‘Would you like a cigarette?’

‘No. Thank you, sir.’

From the corridor came the sound of raised voices. They grew louder then stopped abruptly. Moments later the door opened and the Dewan, his face ashen, walked into the room. Surrender-not stood to meet him.

‘Gentlemen,’ he said, ‘you don’t mind if we dispense with the pleasantries. As you can imagine, today’s events have been most . . . trying. I would be grateful for any assistance you could offer in terms of the repatriation of His Highness Prince Adhir’s remains.’

Surrender-not and I exchanged glances.

‘I’m afraid that’s not something we’ll be able to help with,’ I said. ‘Though I’m sure the prince’s body will be released to you as soon as is practicable.’

That didn’t seem to go down well with the Dewan, though it did bring some of the colour back to his cheeks.

‘His Highness the Maharaja has been informed of the tragic news and his orders are that his son’s remains be repatriated to Sambalpore without delay. There is to be no post-mortem and on no account should his body be further desecrated. The request has already been forwarded to the Viceroy and is non-negotiable.’

He seemed a different man from the lackey who’d been introduced to us at Government House earlier. Somewhere between then and now, he’d found time to grow a spine.

‘Naturally,’ he continued, ‘His Highness is anxious that the perpetrator or perpetrators of this heinous act are apprehended and punished with the utmost haste, and, in the interests of Anglo-Sambalpori relations, we ask to be kept fully informed of the progress of your investigation. A note to this effect has already been dispatched to the Viceroy and will no doubt be communicated to your superiors.’

‘With regard to the investigation,’ I interrupted, ‘there are some matters on which we would appreciate your help.’

The Dewan directed us to the sofa, while he took a nearby chair.

‘Please,’ he said, ‘carry on.’

‘Your disagreement with the crown prince this afternoon. What was it about?’

A shadow passed across his features, then vanished in an instant.

‘I had no disagreement with the Yuvraj.’

‘The Yuvraj?’ I asked.

‘It’s the Hindi term for crown prince, sir,’ volunteered Surrender-not. ‘Technically he was the Yuvraj Adhir Singh Sai of Sambalpore.’

‘With respect, Prime Minister,’ I continued, ‘both the sergeant and I witnessed the altercation. There was clearly a disagreement over some aspect of the negotiations with the Viceroy.’

‘He was the Yuvraj,’ the Dewan sighed, ‘and I am a mere functionary, employed to enact the wishes of the royal family.’

‘But in your capacity as Prime Minister, surely you are also an adviser to the royal family? It appeared that your advice was at odds with the prince’s views.’

He smiled awkwardly. ‘The Yuvraj was a young man, Captain. And young men are often headstrong – a prince more than most. He was opposed to Sambalpore acceding to the Viceroy’s request to join the Chamber of Princes.’

‘And you disagreed with him?’

‘If age affords us one gift,’ he continued, ‘it is a degree of wisdom. Sambalpore is a small state, blessed by the gods with a certain natural bounty, which means it has often been the subject of covetous glances from others. Let us not forget our history. Your own East India Company tried, on more than one occasion, to annex our kingdom. A state such as Sambalpore needs friends, and a voice at the top table. A seat in the Chamber of Princes would afford us such a voice.’

And what will happen now?’

The Dewan pondered the question. ‘Obviously we will withdraw temporarily from the talks. Then, after a suitable period of mourning, I will discuss the matter once more with the Maharaja and,’ there was an almost imperceptible pause, ‘his other advisers.’

‘Have you any idea who might want to assassinate the Yuvraj?’

‘Certainly,’ he replied. ‘Those leftist radicals: troublemakers in league with the Congress Party. They would do anything to undermine the royal family’s hold on Sambalpore. The chief of the Sambalpore militia has been ordered to arrest the ringleaders.’

‘Did the prince mention to you that he had received certain letters recently?’

The Dewan’s brow creased. ‘What sort of letters?’

‘We don’t know,’ said Surrender-not, ‘but they seem to have unnerved him.’

‘He never mentioned any letters to me.’

‘He mentioned them to Colonel Arora,’ I said.

‘In that case,’ replied the Dewan, ‘it is a matter for the colonel to explain.’

He pressed a brass button on the wall beside him. A bell sounded and the manservant returned.

‘Arora sahib ko bulaane,’ said the Dewan.

The servant nodded and left the room.

Moments later, the door opened and in strode the ADC. He wore a fresh turban and sported a purple bruise the size of a hand grenade on the side of his head. He looked less formidable than before, as though the assassination of his master had physically knocked a couple of inches off him.

‘Sir,’ he said.

‘How’s the head?’ I asked.

He raised a large hand to his swollen face. ‘The doctors do not believe there has been any fracturing of the skull,’ he said in a measured tone.

‘That’s something to be thankful for,’ said Surrender-not.

The Sikh glowered at him, before regaining his composure. ‘How can I help you, gentlemen?’

‘We need to ask you some questions about the attack,’ I said, directing him to a sofa.

It seemed, though, that the colonel preferred to stand. ‘You were there,’ he replied. ‘You saw everything I did.’

‘Still. We need your version of events.’

‘For the record,’ added Surrender-not by way of explanation, pulling out a yellow notebook and pencil from his breast pocket.

‘What would you like to know?’

‘Let’s start from the beginning,’ I said. ‘When we left Government House, why did you choose that particular route back to the hotel? It was hardly the most direct.’

The ADC paused and licked his thin lips before answering. ‘The direct roads were all closed for the Rath Yatra. You saw as much.’

‘But why go through the Maidan?’

‘It was a route I am familiar with. The Yuvraj and I have driven it many times before. He liked to drive through the park.’

‘And what happened as you reached the end of Mayo Road and the turning onto Chowringhee? When did you first notice the assassin?’

The colonel tensed. ‘I only saw him as he stepped onto the road in front of the car. He must have been hiding behind one of the trees. Naturally, I braked as quickly as I could. I didn’t think the car had struck the fellow but he went down so I assumed we had hit him. Now I only wish I had accelerated and run the swine over.’

‘Then what happened?’

‘As you saw, I got out of the car to check if he was hurt. He was lying prone beneath the car’s radiator. I bent down to see if he was all right. That’s when he turned and struck me. The next thing I remember is hearing the shots.’

‘Did you see what he hit you with?’

He shook his head. ‘It was something solid, at any rate.’

‘We didn’t find any object left at the scene,’ I said.

The colonel fixed me with a stare. ‘I assume he took it with him.’

‘Did you recognise the attacker?’

‘I had never seen him before,’ he growled. ‘Rest assured, though, I shall never forget that face. I will take his image to my funeral pyre.’

His face coloured. I felt some sympathy for him. The shame of what had transpired would live with him for the rest of his life, and possibly into his next one.

‘Now, Arora,’ said the Dewan, ‘the captain mentioned some letters that the Yuvraj claimed to have received recently. Do you know anything about them?’

‘Sorry?’ He looked distracted. Maybe he was still reliving the events of earlier in the day.

‘The notes he mentioned in the car,’ I clarified.

‘Yes. He showed them to me.’

‘Do you have them?’

He shook his head. ‘His Highness kept them.’

‘What did they say, exactly?’ I asked.

‘I don’t know. I couldn’t read them. They were written in Oriya. Neither the Yuvraj nor I speak Oriya. Few people at court do. Business is conducted in English or sometimes in Hindi, but Oriya? Never.’

‘But it’s the language of the local area, is it not?’ asked Surrender-not.

‘Yes,’ he replied, ‘but it’s not the language of court.’

‘Didn’t the prince ask you to have them translated?’ I asked.

The colonel shook his head. ‘He did not, and I had forgotten about them until he mentioned them in the car earlier today.’

‘He seems to have obtained a translation from someone,’ I said.

‘Yes,’ agreed the ADC, ‘but not through me.’

‘Could it have been someone at the palace?’ I asked.

He smiled thinly and looked to the Dewan before turning his gaze back to me. ‘Discretion is a quality in short supply at the palace.’

‘Have you any idea who might want the Yuvraj dead?’ I asked.

The ADC stroked his neatly trimmed beard. ‘I would not wish to speculate. That may be a question more suitable for the Dewan to answer.’

‘Mr Davé has already given us his thoughts,’ I said. ‘I asked you.’

He shook his head. ‘I cannot think of anyone.’

‘I take it you’ll be returning to Sambalpore?’

The Sikh looked out of the window and nodded slowly. ‘I have been so ordered.’ He turned to me. ‘I must answer for failing in my duty to the Yuvraj.’

‘Captain Wyndham, you will appreciate that we both have urgent matters to attend to,’ interjected the Dewan. ‘If there’s nothing further . . .’

‘I’d like to search the prince’s rooms, if I may.’

The Dewan looked at me as though I was mad. ‘That is out of the question,’ he said firmly.

It isn’t often that an Indian has the nerve to decline the request of a British police officer, and I didn’t have time for such games.

‘If you prefer, Mr Davé, I can be back here in an hour with two warrants,’ I said. ‘One granting permission to turn this whole suite upside down, and the other for your arrest on a charge of obstruction.’

The Dewan looked down and shook his head. ‘Feel free to do your damnedest, Captain,’ he replied in measured tones. ‘For one thing, you will find that this suite is officially recognised as the sovereign territory of Sambalpore. And as for arresting me, may I suggest you speak to the Viceroy before you take actions that may result in a premature and regrettable conclusion to your career.’