AT 18 LAL BAZAR Street sits a solid-looking mansion that dates back to the glory days of the East India Company, a time when any old Englishman armed with enough brains and an eye for opportunity could turn up penniless in Bengal and, if he played his cards right, end up as rich as a prince. Of course, it also helped if he wasn’t too fussy about how he did it. They say it was built by just such a fellow who’d come here with nothing, made a fortune but then lost it all. He’d sold it to someone, who’d sold it someone, who’d sold it to the government and now it’s the headquarters of the Imperial Police Force (Bengal Division).
It was built in the style we like to call colonial neo-classic – all columns and cornices and shuttered windows. And it was painted maroon. If the Raj has a colour, it’s maroon. Most government buildings, from police stations to post offices, are painted maroon. I expect there’s a fat industrialist somewhere, Manchester or Birmingham probably, who got rich off the contract to produce a sea of maroon paint for all the buildings of the Raj.
Surrender-not and I passed between two saluting sentries, into a bustling foyer and made for the stairs, past walls covered in the plaques, photographs and other assorted memorabilia of a hundred years of colonial law enforcement.
Lord Taggart’s office was on the third floor and accessed by a small anteroom. There sat his personal secretary, a diminutive fellow by the name of Daniels, whose sole purpose in life seemed to be to serve his master, a task he performed with the dedication of a besotted cocker spaniel. I knocked and entered, with Surrender-not trailing two paces behind. Daniels rose from behind his desk. He looked like secretaries to important men always do: pale, unthreatening and several inches shorter than his boss.
‘This way please, Captain Wyndham,’ he said, leading me towards a set of double doors. ‘The Commissioner’s expecting you.’
I walked in. Surrender-not stopped at the threshold.
‘Come on, Sergeant,’ I said, ‘let’s not keep the Commissioner waiting.’
He took a deep breath and followed me into a room the size of a small Zeppelin hangar. Light streamed in through French windows and reflected off chandeliers hanging from a high ceiling. It was an impressive office for a policeman. Still, I guessed the chief guardian of law and order in such a prominent, yet problematic outpost of empire probably deserved such an office. At the far end of the room, behind a desk the size of a rowing boat and under a life-size portrait of George V, sat the Commissioner. Digby was sat opposite him. I made my way over to join the three of them, Surrender-not a half-step behind me, doing my best to hide my surprise.
‘Take a seat, Sam,’ said the Commissioner without rising from his chair.
I did as ordered and took the chair next to Digby. There were only two, which just served to exacerbate Surrender-not’s nerves. He frantically scanned the room. It was a look I’d seen before on the faces of men stranded under fire in no man’s land.
Digby turned crimson. ‘Where do you think you are, Sergeant, Howrah station? This is no place for the likes of—’
‘Wait,’ said Taggart, raising a hand, ‘the sergeant should stay. I think it appropriate that at least one Indian be present.’ He turned towards the door and called out.
‘Daniels! Fetch a chair for the sergeant.’
The secretary stood and stared like a startled rabbit. Then without a word, he nodded and left the room, returning with a chair which he placed next to mine, before exiting once again, barely acknowledging the sergeant’s words of thanks. Surrender-not sat down and concentrated on staring at the floor. Digby looked like he might be having a seizure.
I turned my attention to Lord Taggart. He was a tall man in his fifties, with the benevolent face of a priest and the devil’s charm.
‘Now, Sam,’ he said, rising from his chair and pacing, ‘this MacAuley business. I’ve already had the Lieutenant Governor on the telephone. He wants to know what we’re doing about it.’
‘News travels fast,’ I said, glancing at Digby whose face was set in a rictus stare. ‘We only found the body a few hours ago.’
Digby shrugged.
‘Something you should know about Calcutta, Sam,’ the Commissioner continued, ‘we aren’t the only force of law and order.’ He lowered his voice and continued, ‘The L-G has his own sources, shall we say.’
‘You mean a secret police?’
The Commissioner winced. Returning to his seat, he picked up a lacquered fountain pen and tapped it distractedly on the desk. ‘Let’s just call them alternative channels.’
I couldn’t help smiling. A secret police was something only other nations employed. We British used alternative channels.
‘Whatever they’ve told him has got him extremely worried,’ Taggart went on. ‘When news gets out that a senior British civil servant – one of his closest aides, no less – has been murdered, the situation is likely to be explosive. The revolutionaries will have a field day. Who knows what they’ll be emboldened to do next? I’ve had the background from Digby, but I want your assessment.’
There wasn’t much to tell him. ‘The investigation is at an early stage, sir,’ I said, ‘but I concur with Sub-inspector Digby. It looks like a political act.’
The Commissioner rubbed a hand across his chin. ‘Any witnesses?’
‘None as yet, but we’re following up certain leads.’
‘And how do you propose to proceed?’
‘The usual,’ I said. ‘We’ll start with a fingertip search of the locus, talk to witnesses, then to people who knew him. I want to find out more about MacAuley: when he was last seen, and what he was doing up in Black Town last night dressed like he was off to the opera. I’d also like to talk to his boss, the Lieutenant Governor.’
Digby snorted.
‘That might be difficult, Sam.’ The Commissioner sighed. ‘The L-G and his staff are preparing to ship out to Darjeeling in less than a fortnight. We may struggle to fit you into his schedule. Leave it with me, though. Given the delicate nature of the situation, he might spare you fifteen minutes. In the meantime, you should pursue other avenues.’
‘In that case, we’ll start with MacAuley’s secretary, assuming he had one.’
‘No doubt,’ said Digby. ‘Probably some pen-pusher over at Writers’.’
‘Very good,’ said the Commissioner. ‘Carry on, and keep me posted, Sam. Digby, speak to your people in Black Town. See if they’ve heard anything. I want all the stops pulled out on this one, gentlemen.’
‘Very good, sir,’ I replied.
‘One last thing,’ said the Commissioner. He turned towards Surrender-not. ‘What’s your name, Sergeant?’
‘Banerjee, sir,’ replied the sergeant. He looked at me. ‘Surrender-not Banerjee.’
I left the office with Digby and Surrender-not in tow, all the while ruminating on the conversation with the Commissioner. Something didn’t sit right.
‘What do you think?’ I asked Digby.
‘Looks like we’ve landed ourselves a real hot potato, old boy.’
In terms of analysis, it was hardly piercing.
‘Start talking to your informants. See if any of them have heard anything.’
He opened his mouth as if to speak, then thought better of it.
‘You’ve a better idea?’ I asked.
‘Not at all, old boy.’ He smiled. ‘You’re the ex-Scotland Yard man. Let’s do it your way.’
I dismissed him and watched as he strode off towards his office, then ordered Banerjee to get an update from the crime scene. The sergeant saluted and set off in the direction of the ‘pit’ where he and the other native officers sat. In the meantime, I needed space to think.
I walked out of the building and made for the courtyard between the main block and an annexe that held the stables, garage and some of the administrative departments. Here stood the Imperial Police Garden, a patch of grass and a few wooden benches surrounded by flower beds and a handful of scrawny trees. It was a grand title for such a small patch of scrub, but it was still a garden, and that was good enough for me.
For me, gardens recalled memories of happier times. For three years I’d sat in the trenches and remembered the days I’d spent wandering the parks of London with Sarah. I dreamed of being with her again, just looking out over grass and flowers. That dream was dead, but gardens still brought me joy. I am an Englishman, after all.
I sat on a bench and ordered my thoughts. The Commissioner had dragged us back from a crime scene only to impress upon us the importance of the case. That in itself was odd. It was like interrupting a surgeon in the middle of an operation, simply to stress how vital it was that he save the patient.
Something else bothered me. How had the Lieutenant Governor’s people got wind of the murder so soon? The peon had only found the body at around seven o’clock. It would have taken him about fifteen minutes to make it to the nearest thana and raise the alarm. By the time the local constables had arrived on the scene, realised that the peon wasn’t mad and that there really was a dead sahib in dress shirt and dickie bow lying in a gutter with his eye pecked out, it would have been at least seven thirty. It was almost eight thirty by the time we arrived, and Digby didn’t even identify the body as MacAuley’s for another fifteen minutes after that. And yet, only an hour later, a constable arrives and summons us back to Lal Bazar. Assuming it took him the best part of fifteen minutes to cycle over from the local thana, that would mean that within forty-five minutes of us identifying the body, the L-G’s office knew about it, had contacted the Commissioner and told him something that spooked him so much that he immediately called the investigating officers back from the crime scene. Like West Ham winning the league, it was possible… just not particularly plausible.
I considered the options: one of the constables on the investigating team was working for the L-G’s secret police and had got a message to them while Banerjee and I were at the brothel questioning Mrs Bose and her staff. That was conceivable. Even in the short time I’d been here, it was clear that in terms of corruption at least, the men of the Imperial Police Force could give the boys of the Met a good run for their money.
There was, though, another possibility: that the L-G’s operatives had known about the murder before the peon had even found the body. That would explain how the L-G came to know so quickly. But it too raised questions. Were the operatives tailing MacAuley? If so, why didn’t they intervene when they saw he was in trouble? He was a senior British administrator, after all. If they weren’t going to intervene when a burra sahib was attacked, then we might all as well just pack our bags, shut up shop and hand the keys back to the Indians.
On the other hand, the L-G’s men may have simply found MacAuley’s body after he’d been murdered. That seemed more likely, but if so, why leave it and wait for someone else to find the body? Why not raise the alarm themselves? Better still, why not just tidy up the mess without anyone knowing? It wouldn’t be the first time a high-profile death had been hushed up. I remembered the case of a South American ambassador to the Court of St James we’d found asphyxiated in a room above a pub in the Shepherd Market wearing nothing but a noose round his neck and a smile on his face. It was later reported that his Excellency had passed away peacefully, asleep in his own bed.
I was going round in circles. None of the possibilities made much sense. It wasn’t an especially auspicious start to my first case in Calcutta, a case which, I was beginning to realise, was as unique as any I’d dealt with before. It wasn’t just the murder of a white man in a black suburb. This appeared to be the assassination of a senior British official by native terrorists. The stakes didn’t come much higher.
My mind wandered to thoughts of Sarah. What would she have made of me sitting here, thousands of miles from home, leading such an investigation? I hoped she’d be proud of me. God, I missed her.
I must have sat there for some time for the next thing I knew, the sun had shifted, my shade had disappeared and I was sweating. Focusing on the task in hand was becoming increasingly difficult. At that moment I’d gladly have given a month’s pay for a shot of morphine or a hit of ‘O’, but I had a murder to solve. And I didn’t yet have a month’s pay.
I stalked back up to my office. Surrender-not was sat on a chair in the corridor outside, lost in his own thoughts.
‘I hope I’m not disturbing you, Sergeant?’
Startled, he jumped up and saluted, knocking his chair over in the process. He didn’t seem to have much luck with chairs.
‘No, sir. Sorry, sir,’ he said, before trailing after me into my office. The look on his face suggested he had bad news and wasn’t sure if I was the type to shoot the messenger. I could have assured him I wasn’t, mainly because the alternative would have left me well short of subordinates by now.
‘Out with it, Sergeant,’ I said.
Surrender-not looked at his feet. ‘We’ve had a call from Cossipore thana. It’s the crime scene, sir. It’s been taken over by the military.’
‘What?’ I asked. ‘This is a civilian matter. What’s it got to do with the military?’
‘It’s military intelligence, sir, not military police,’ he said, wringing his hands. ‘I’ve seen it happen before, sir. Last year, we were in attendance at the scene of an explosive detonation. Nationalists had blown up the railway lines north of Howrah. A truck load of military personnel turned up and the whole investigation was taken out of our hands within a few hours. We were ordered not to mention a word to anyone, on pain of disciplinary action.’
‘Well, I’m glad you told me,’ I said sincerely. ‘What else do you know about them?’
‘Not much, I’m afraid. Those sorts of things are not really shared with people of my… rank, but it’s common knowledge, inside Lal Bazar at least, that there’s a unit within military intelligence – “Section H”, I believe it’s called – which reports directly to the L-G. Anything he considers a political crime falls under their jurisdiction.’
‘And there’s a law to that effect?’
Banerjee smiled ruefully. ‘I doubt very much that there is, sir, but that is irrelevant. One might say that the Lieutenant Governor has certain broad, discretionary powers that he is free to exercise in furtherance of the good governance of His Majesty’s colonial territories of the Bengal Presidency.’
‘You mean he can do whatever the hell he likes?’
He gave an embarrassed smile. ‘I suppose so, sir.’
I was unsure where that left my investigation. But there was one way to find out. Sometimes, in a new job, it’s important to set out the ground rules early. What you will put up with and what you won’t. What people call ‘Red Lines’. I’ve found that in the early days, at least, your superior is as likely to cut you some slack as reprimand you, especially if he’s the man who hired you.
Leaving the sergeant standing where he was, I calmly rose, walked out the door and back up the stairs. Ignoring the protestations of a startled Daniels, I barged straight into Taggart’s office.
The Commissioner looked up from his desk. He didn’t seem surprised.
‘I know what you’re going to say, Sam.’
‘Am I off the MacAuley case?’
Taggart calmly beckoned me over to a chair while the stricken Daniels looked on.
‘With the greatest respect,’ I said, ‘what the hell’s going on, sir? An hour ago you tell me to pull out all the stops and now I find out it’s someone else’s case.’
Taggart removed his spectacles and cleaned them with a small handkerchief. ‘Calm down, Sam.’ He sighed. ‘I’ve just found out myself. Look, it’s still your case. The L-G simply felt that the crime scene itself should be secured by the military. The last thing we need is the terrorists exploiting the situation any further. The whole area is under curfew. I’ll do what I can to ensure the military don’t get in the way of your investigation.’
‘I need access to the crime scene,’ I said. ‘We haven’t found a murder weapon yet.’
‘I’ll see what I can do,’ said Taggart, ‘but it might take a day or so.’
In a day or so, my crime scene wouldn’t be worth a tin rupee. Anything of interest would be in the hands of military intelligence, and if they were anything like their counterparts in wartime France, they were unlikely to share. The bile was rising in my throat. I tried to swallow it down. There wasn’t much else to say, so I took my leave and headed back down the stairs. At least for now, it was still my case.
Surrender-not was waiting in my office. In my haste to confront Taggart, I’d forgotten to dismiss him. I wondered just how long he would have stayed there had I not returned. Hours possibly.
Now, though, I had work for him to do. The priority was to secure MacAuley’s body. Assuming we still had it.