I trailed Taggart’s ambulance to the hospital. As for his condition, the doctors wouldn’t say much more than that for now he was alive. I felt the best thing to do was to carry out the orders he’d given me before the attack, namely to find Gulmohamed and bring him in for questioning, and then to speak to Mukherjee’s family. Before I had the chance, however, I was accosted by a constable bearing a note recalling me to headquarters.
I made my way back to Lal Bazar, stopping off at a kiosk en route to pick up a copy of the Statesman and a new Bengali-language paper, the Ananda Bazar Patrika. The latter had launched a few months earlier and was already agitating for Indian independence. The translation of its contents would have to wait till I reached Lal Bazar, but the Statesman I scanned right there at the kerbside. There was no mention yet of the attack on the commissioner – it had happened too late for the morning editions – but that wasn’t what I was looking for. I scoured the headlines and bylines. There was nothing on the front page, or the next two, for that matter. But there, on page 4, I found it.
Blaze in Budge Budge kills prominent Hindu scholar
There was no mention of murder or the arrest of a serving officer. I breathed a tentative sigh of relief tempered by the knowledge that this was merely the British account of things. What mattered was the Bengali view, and specifically the Hindu view, reflected in their native papers, and something told me the news there wouldn’t be found as far back as page 4.
In the end I didn’t need to wait for the translation. The scene at Lal Bazar was enough to confirm my fears. Officers wore the grim expressions of men expecting bloodshed, and constables rushed in all directions like wasps departing a hive. The armoury was doing a brisk trade. A line had formed, men waiting for rifles like the faithful outside the temple at Dakshineshwar waiting to be blessed. A steady stream of olive-green trucks trundled into the central courtyard, filling the place with their bass growls and diesel fumes, waiting to be engorged with men before speeding off to the killing zones that were euphemistically called ‘flashpoints’ across the city.
I made my way to the situation room, a large office on the first floor staffed by a dozen men and with its walls and tables covered in maps of the city and its environs. In emergencies, it was here that reports from all over town arrived, by radio or by messenger, and from which a picture was built of what was happening. Judging by the frenzy, the situation was fluid.
Arrows on a large map marked the movements of a crowd, gathering in the northern suburbs and heading south. Every few minutes, an update would arrive and was marked on the map. A tidal wave, passing along Cossipore… then Upper Circular Road… to Harrison Road and Bow Bazar… washing up against the station at Sealdah… stopped by police at Dharmatola and funnelled along Lower Circular Road… At the same time, arrows from the south, from Kidderpore and Kalighat, heading north. All making for the Maidan.
It’s difficult to describe a Calcutta riot to one who hasn’t witnessed it first hand. I’ve seen riots in London, big men looting and pillaging down the Mile End Road like the last of the Vikings, but those chaps have nothing on the little folk of this city. It starts, as most riots do, as a protest – a march, a hartal, a sit-in – but then something happens. Some invisible force grabs hold and it escalates, intensifying from grievance to raw anger to collective madness like a bush fire whipped into an inferno by unseen winds, and the shadow of death descends as surely as the coming of the night.
There is, I believe, something in the Bengali psyche which is predisposed towards self-destruction. How else can one explain the actions of a people capable of reaching the highest pinnacles of art and poetry and philosophy and yet so quick to fall back into barbarity and the butchering of their own in the name of religion?
There was a summons waiting for me on my desk. The deputy commissioner – a man named Halifax – wanted to see me urgently.
Today was the sort of day when everything ended with that particular suffix, but Halifax was the type of man who had to stress the point for fear that otherwise the whole summons would be ignored. He wasn’t a bad officer, or a bad man, for that matter. Mild and inoffensive, I’d no doubt that he was a capable administrator; but as a leader, he was like a glass of milk: palatable but you’d prefer something stronger.
His office was on the same floor as Taggart’s, but there the similarities ended. The commissioner’s office was the size of a small banqueting hall and furnished in the fashion of a French aristocrat. Halifax’s room, by contrast, felt closer to classical Sparta than fin-de-siècle France. It was small, only slightly larger than the anteroom used by Taggart’s secretary, and stocked with little more than a desk, a few chairs, a filing cabinet and a large map of the city, parts of which I imagined might soon be burning to the ground.
Today he could have been forgiven for wanting a bit more space. I knocked and entered a room packed with uniforms and reeking of sweat and tobacco smoke. Four sets of eyes turned to greet me and a space cleared in front of Halifax’s desk. The deputy commissioner was seated behind it, looking like a man being forced to partake in a game of Russian roulette.
‘Wyndham,’ he said. ‘Thank God.’
It made a pleasant change from how Lord Taggart usually greeted me.
‘Gentlemen,’ he said to the assembled officers, ‘this is Captain Wyndham. He was with the commissioner when the attack took place.’
One of them, a moustachioed chap in a khaki uniform, addressed me.
‘How is he?’
The colour of his uniform and the quantity of silver on his epaulettes marked him out as a senior officer from somewhere outside the city’s boundaries. The rest of them, Halifax included, stared expectantly as though I were the prophet Isaiah come to issue a proclamation.
‘Alive,’ I said.
‘Is he going to pull through?’
‘The doctors couldn’t say.’
Then suddenly the dam broke and I was swamped by a deluge of questions, all of which were highly relevant and none of which I felt like answering.
Halifax looked queasy. ‘What happened exactly?’
I told him what I’d told Boyle from Section H: that I’d been too far away to see what had transpired. I knew a car had driven up and bombs had been thrown. Once more, I hoped to leave Banerjee’s name out of it, and once more that hope proved forlorn.
‘We should move on to the other matter,’ said Halifax. He looked up at one of the officers. ‘Superintendent Travers?’
The officer cleared his throat.
‘As you are aware,’ he said, ‘the Hindu theologian, Prashant Mukherjee, was murdered yesterday at a house in Budge Budge. Local officers received a report of suspicious persons in the vicinity of the premises. On arrival at the scene, my men apprehended a suspect committing an act of arson. The officers put out the blaze and arrested the individual. The fire had been restricted to two rooms on the ground floor. In one of those rooms were found Mukherjee’s charred remains. The body was burned but still identifiable. The arrested individual was taken to Budge Budge thana where he identified himself as Detective Sergeant Surendranath Banerjee, a serving officer here at Lal Bazar.’
The deputy commissioner looked at me.
‘I take it he means your chap, Surrender-not.’
I nodded.
‘Further to the arrest,’ continued Travers, ‘we understand that the suspect was subsequently released into the custody of Captain Wyndham upon the orders of Lord Taggart.’
‘And where is he now?’ asked Halifax.
‘At present, sir,’ I said, ‘his whereabouts are unknown.’
Taggart’s deputy blinked.
‘What?’
‘He was last seen pursuing Lord Taggart’s attackers.’
‘God’s teeth, Wyndham,’ said Halifax. ‘You mean he’s absconded?’
I felt the oppressive stares of the officers upon me. My pulse quickened and abruptly I became aware of the whirr of the ceiling fan, its blades hurtling along their circular course above my head. My throat felt dry.
‘It’s more complicated than that.’
‘Really,’ said Halifax. ‘Please, enlighten us.’
‘Banerjee was in Budge Budge on Lord Taggart’s orders. He was attacked outside a building, and when he came to, he stumbled inside in search of assistance. He hadn’t a clue whose house it was. When he wandered in, he found Mukherjee there, already dead. Of course he realised what that meant. News of Mukherjee’s murder might spark off a riot, and, he, in what I must say was a foolhardy act of misplaced selflessness, decided that the best course of action was to burn the place down, making it look like Mukherjee had fallen asleep while smoking and died accidentally.’
Travers gave a snort. ‘And he expected you to believe that?’
‘Lord Taggart believed it,’ I said. ‘He charged me with apprehending the real killer.’
‘And who would that be?’
I’d managed to keep that particular detail from the Section H operative Boyle earlier. I wasn’t keen on imparting it to these men either. I looked to Halifax for guidance. The deputy commissioner seemed surprised that I should even need it.
‘For God’s sake, man, tell him!’
‘A Muslim politician by the name of Farid Gulmohamed.’
Halifax stared, transfixed. Travers laughed in disbelief.
‘The Union of Islam chap from Bombay?’
‘That’s correct,’ I said. ‘Lord Taggart had tasked Banerjee with keeping tabs on him. He followed him to the house in Budge Budge.’
‘Is he even in Calcutta?’ asked Halifax.
‘Yes, sir,’ I said. ‘He arrived two nights ago.’
‘It’s preposterous,’ protested Halifax. ‘Why would Gulmohamed come a thousand miles across the country to murder a man like Mukherjee?’
‘Lord Taggart raised a similar concern,’ I said.
‘Wait,’ said Travers. ‘That may not be as far-fetched as it sounds. Gulmohamed is a Muslim politician. Mukherjee was a Hindu one. The two were natural enemies.’
It sounded as though the man was taking my side. It took me a moment to get over the surprise.
Halifax shook his head. ‘That’s hardly proof of anything. By that token, every Union of Islam supporter and politician in Calcutta could have killed Mukherjee instead and saved Gulmohamed the train fare.’
Travers raised a placatory hand. ‘I’m not saying I believe Wyndham’s story, merely that the concept isn’t as far-fetched as it might initially seem.’
‘It’s not my story,’ I said, ‘and it makes more sense than the alternative, that a police officer of five years’ loyal service is somehow responsible. Consider it: Banerjee is a Hindu. What possible motive could he have to murder Mukherjee, a co-religionist and man he’d probably never even met before?’
‘And the attack on Taggart?’ asked Travers. ‘It was just a coincidence then that your man Banerjee disappears along with the attackers?’
‘Believe me,’ I said, ‘there’s no way the sergeant could have been aware of it. He spent last night languishing in a prison cell. He had no idea that Taggart would ask me to bring him to his house rather than Lal Bazar.’
‘In my eyes he’s still a suspect,’ said Travers. ‘Maybe he and you were followed from Budge Budge to Taggart’s house by his accomplices? Maybe the bomb attack wasn’t an assassination attempt but a bid to free Banerjee? Maybe Taggart’s presence was, for them, a fortuitous extra?’
‘If they were there to rescue Banerjee,’ I said, ‘then why didn’t they take him with them? The truth is, they drove up, threw their bombs, fired their guns, and then drove off. Banerjee tried to stop them, not accompany them.’
Travers gave a thin smile. ‘And yet, Captain, he’s now nowhere to be found.’
‘Travers is right,’ said Halifax. ‘Our priorities are to find Banerjee and keep a lid on this Mukherjee situation. The family has requested the body back tout de suite – a request I’ve granted. There are already reports of rioting in Cossipore. Any insinuation that this was a religious murder needs to be nipped in the bud and it has to be done now.’
‘If I may,’ said Travers. ‘Section H are already conducting the investigation into the attack on Lord Taggart. As the issue of Mukherjee’s murder and the absconding of Sergeant Banerjee seem linked to it, would it not make sense for them to take charge of both of these matters?’
I made to protest but the deputy commissioner cut me short.
‘Be quiet, Wyndham. You’re to have no further involvement in any of this. You’re too close to the whole bloody mess anyway.’ He turned to Travers. ‘The Mukherjee situation I’ll try to pass to Section H. As for Banerjee… for now it’s better if we conduct the hunt for one of our own.’