I AWOKE TO what’s euphemistically called birdsong. It was more of a bloody racket, nine parts screeching to one part singing. In England the dawn chorus is genteel and melodious and inspires poets to wax lyrical about sparrows and larks ascending. It’s blessedly short too. The poor creatures, demoralised by the damp and cold, sing a few bars to prove they’re still alive then pack it in and get on with the day. Things are different in Calcutta. There are no larks here, just big, fat greasy crows that start squawking at first light and go on for hours without a break. Nobody will ever write poetry about them.
My whole body hurt, the smallest movement resulting in a crescendo of pain. I reached down for the bottle of whisky on the floor but merely managed to knock it over. I cursed as it rolled under the bed. Lying back, I sighed and closed my eyes, hoping to placate whoever was using my skull for batting practice, and gave serious consideration to just lying there and not moving all day. It wouldn’t have been a bad option if the crows would just shut up.
But there was Sen to consider, lying in a cell at Lal Bazar. I hauled myself up and stumbled to the sink, splashed tepid water on my head, then looked at the tramp with the crumpled face staring at me from the mirror.
I bathed, then reapplied the ointment and bandaged the wound as best I could. What was left of my uniform still lay in a heap on the floor. I didn’t have a spare. A new one wouldn’t be cheap, though I’d been told of a tailor on Park Street who did a special on officers’ uniforms. In the meantime, I dressed in civvies like a proper CID man: a pair of trousers and a shirt that could have done with a wash. Fumbling with the sling, I eventually managed to adjust it so that my arm ached as little as possible.
Downstairs, the maid was already up and about, rushing around, preparing things before Ma Tebbit appeared.
‘Morning,’ I said. She gave a little shriek of surprise. Maybe she hadn’t heard me come in. More likely she was just shocked at the state of me.
‘Please, sir,’ she said, ‘breakfast is not served till half past six.’ I must have looked a particularly wretched sight as she seemed to have a change of heart. She looked towards the clock on the mantelpiece, then at the door behind me. ‘Come through,’ she said. ‘I can make you some toast and tea?’
‘Is Mrs Tebbit awake yet?’ I asked.
She shook her head. ‘Memsahib will not come down for another half an hour, sir.’
‘In that case, I’d very much appreciate some toast and tea.’
I wolfed down the toast, partly through hunger and partly from a desire to be out of there before Mrs Tebbit made an entrance. I managed it too, exiting the premises just as I heard her footsteps on the first-floor landing. Salman was at the corner of the square, sharing a smoke with a few of his rickshaw wallah chums. I called over to him. He nodded and took a final drag of his bidi before sauntering over with his rickshaw. He noticed my arm in the sling, looked like he was about to say something but then seemed to think better of it. Instead, he lowered the rickshaw and helped me up.
‘Police station, sahib?’
The streets were still quiet, with few Europeans about. At this hour, it was the menial workers of the Calcutta City Council who predominated, clearing gutters and washing down pavements. We went along in silence. You get precious little in the way of conversation from a rickshaw wallah. That’s understandable. It’s not easy making small talk while you’re pulling twice your own body weight.
On reaching Lal Bazar, I went straight down to the holding
cells. To my surprise, Surrender-not lay snoring on a bench in the corridor outside. He was dressed only in a thin cotton vest and a pair of shorts, his shirt rolled up under his head. Around his body hung a thin cotton string: the sacred thread, symbol of the priestly, Brahmin caste. It looked like he’d been there all night. I considered waking him, just to see his reaction to being roused by a sahib officer while dressed in his underwear, but I feared the shock might have killed him. Instead, better angels persuaded me to let him sleep a little longer and I continued on to the holding cells.
Fifteen feet by ten, with barred doors fronting onto both sides of a long corridor, the cells weren’t quite the Ritz, though they did boast en suite facilities in the form of a bucket in the corner. Sen was lying on a cot in a cell at the far end, a police blanket pulled up around his chin. The doctor assigned to monitor him dozed quiet-
ly on a chair outside. Not far away the duty officer, a pot-bellied Indian, sat slumbering behind a desk, fat arms folded over a vast gut, his head resting on his chest. I walked up and rapped loudly on the desk, waking both him and the doctor. Startled, he heaved his bulk onto his feet and in a single deft movement, raised one chubby arm, wiped the dribble from his chin and saluted. It was surprisingly graceful for a fat man.
I walked over to the cell and gestured to the duty officer, who rushed over with a ring of large iron keys. He unlocked the door and it swung open with a metallic clang. Sen turned to face me. A slight smile appeared at the corners of his mouth. He tried to sit up, but the effort was too much. The strain showed in his face and the doctor, who’d followed me in, forced him to lie back down.
‘How is he?’ I asked.
The doctor’s reply was acerbic.
‘As comfortable as can be expected for someone who’s spent a night in a cell, hours after surgery.’
‘I need him to answer some questions.’
He looked at me in horror. ‘This man almost died last night. He’s in no state to be interrogated.’
Sen raised a hand and beckoned us closer. The doctor and I broke off our conversation.
‘May I have some water?’
His voice was just a whisper. I nodded to the guard who left the cell and returned with a jug and a battered enamel mug. The doctor helped Sen to sit up, then took the mug from the guard and held it gently to Sen’s lips. The prisoner took small, shallow sips, then nodded his thanks.
‘Please,’ he whispered, ‘can you tell me where I am?’
‘You’re in a holding cell at Lal Bazar,’ I said.
‘Not Fort William, then? A pity. I’ve always wanted to see the inside of Fort William.’ He gave a small laugh, which ended in a fit of coughs and caused the doctor to rush to support him.
‘Don’t worry,’ I said, ‘there’s a good chance you’ll get to see it before too long.’
The doctor turned angrily towards me.
‘This man is obviously not fit to answer any questions now. Please leave.’
I admired his determination, but the man he was protecting was a terrorist, and an Indian one at that. He was about to go down for the murder of an Englishman. The idea that this doctor could keep me from questioning him was laughable. Still, I preferred to wait till Digby and Surrender-not were present, and there was no point in antagonising the man needlessly.
‘He can rest for a few hours more, Doctor,’ I said, ‘but I will question him later this morning.’
I left the cells and returned to the corridor. Banerjee was no longer on the bench but as I stood there he returned, his face and hair wet. He still wore only his vest and shorts.
‘Not in uniform today, Surrender-not?’ I asked.
He might have asked me the same question, but instead he froze on the spot, water dripping from his head onto his vest.
‘Sorry, sir,’ he stammered. ‘I was just washing my face.’
‘Have you been here all night?’
‘Yes, sir. I thought it best. In case there was some deterioration in Sen’s condition.’
‘So you’re a doctor now?’
‘No, sir. What I mean to say is that I thought I should be close by in case there was any emergency. You yourself stressed the importance of questioning him quickly.’
‘Good,’ I said, ‘because I don’t need you showing concern for the man. What with the attitude of the doctor in the cell there with him, to say nothing of the medical staff last night, I’m beginning to think we’ve arrested the Dalai Lama rather than a terrorist. I trust I don’t need to remind you that this man most likely murdered a British civil servant, to say nothing of his other crimes?’
His face fell. ‘No, sir.’
It was harsh of me, and, I quickly realised, unwarranted. I hadn’t meant to tear a strip off the sergeant, but I was dog tired. I’d had precious little sleep since the night I’d visited the opium den and it was affecting my mood. Getting shot probably hadn’t helped either.
That reminded me of something.
‘Sergeant,’ I asked, ‘you remember when I was climbing up the back of that house last night? When one of Sen’s accomplices was about to fire at me from the window?
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Was it you or Digby who shot them?’
Surrender-not fiddled with the cotton thread hanging from his shoulder.
‘It was me, sir. I was the one with the rifle. I’m sure the Sub-inspector would have done the same, but he only had his pistol and that wouldn’t have been as accurate.’
‘Well,’ I said briskly, ‘I’m glad you paid attention during training. Get some rest now. We’ve got a few hours before we question Sen.’
I felt embarrassed. I was indebted to him, but somehow found it hard to say ‘thank you’. That was the thing about India. It’s difficult for an Englishman to thank an Indian. Of course, it’s easy enough to thank them when they do something menial, like fetch a drink or clean your boots, but when it comes to more important matters, such as when one of them saves your life, it’s different. The thought left a bitter taste in my mouth.
I walked wearily up the stairs to my office and dropped into my chair. The pain was getting worse. Fishing out the bottle of morphine tablets, I placed them on the desk and contemplated the worst of trade-offs. The pain in my shoulder was intense, yet I needed to keep a clear head. Lal Bazar wasn’t Scotland Yard, but even here, interrogating a suspect while out of your head on morphine was probably frowned upon. Reluctantly, I returned the bottle to my pocket and instead telephoned Daniels to arrange a meeting with the Commissioner. He answered on the second ring and went out of his way to be helpful, so much so that I thought I might have dialled the wrong number.
‘Lord Taggart is expected in at eight o’clock, Captain Wyndham. I’ve put you in his diary and I’ll inform you as soon as he’s ready.’
I thanked him and replaced the receiver. My stock was rising. News of the previous night’s arrest must have reached the secretary. I afforded myself a dry smile. With luck, we might get a confession out of Sen and I’d be able to close the case. Even if the bastard didn’t confess, the testimony from Digby’s snitch, together with Sen’s attempt to evade capture, would be enough for me to bring charges. It might have been too flimsy a case for an English jury, but under the Rowlett Acts there was no need for one. Terrorists like Sen were supposed to feel the full force of British justice. Building a case beyond reasonable doubt would merely complicate things.
Once he’d been charged, the matter would be out of my hands and what happened afterwards wasn’t my concern. Taggart would most likely hand him over to Section H. They’d extract whatever other information he possessed, like squeezing the juice out of a lemon, and then would come a jury-less trial and a swift execution. All in all, a nice efficient process.
I leaned back in my chair and closed my eyes. The lack of sleep must have caught up with me as the next thing I knew, Digby was shaking me awake.
‘Come on, old boy, we’ve got to get a move on. Taggart’s waiting for us.’
‘What time is it?’ I asked, groggy with sleep.
‘Just gone eight thirty.’
‘I thought Daniels was going to telephone me?’ I said, shaking the cobwebs from my head.
‘He tried, but you didn’t pick up. So he telephoned me. By the way, old boy, you do realise you’re in civvies?’
‘I only had the one uniform,’ I said, ‘and there’s not much left of it. I haven’t had time to get any more made yet.’
‘It’s probably best if you borrow one of mine, then. I’ll get you a spare jacket from my office. By the way, there’s a good tailor in Park Street that’ll do you a special.’
I followed him out of the room and down the corridor. He ducked into his own office, reappearing with his spare jacket, which he helped me put on over the sling.
Daniels was waiting in the corridor outside his anteroom. He gave me a nod as we approached.
‘The Commissioner’s waiting for you,’ he said, leading us through to Taggart’s office. The Commissioner had his back to us, staring out of the French windows, but when he turned to greet us, there was a broad smile on his face. He ushered me to a Chesterfield.
‘How’s the arm, Sam?’ he asked.
‘Not too bad, sir.’
‘That’s good to hear, my boy. You were lucky last night. You’re not planning to make these sort of heroics a regular occurrence, are you?’
‘No, sir.’
‘I hope so, for your sake. This isn’t England, Sam. There are a lot more guns here. Us, the military, the terrorists – everyone’s got them. Stunts like the one you pulled last night could very easily end up with you being killed, if not by the terrorists then very possibly by our friends in Section H. I dare say you’re not their favourite policeman right now.’
‘I’ll watch my step, sir.’
‘Make sure you do, Captain. I didn’t bring you all the way out here just so you could get yourself killed within a fortnight. You’re no use to me dead.’
‘Yes, sir. I’d not wish to cause you any inconvenience, sir.’
He eyed me for a moment before letting the comment pass. ‘Right then,’ he continued, ‘let’s get down to business. That was some good work by you both yesterday.’ He turned to Digby, ‘I haven’t forgotten it was your informant who put us on Sen’s trail in the first place.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ said Digby with a nod of acknowledgement.
‘As for putting a tail on Colonel Dawson,’ Taggart continued, ‘that was a rather inspired course of action.’
‘We got lucky, that’s all,’ I replied.
‘Never underestimate the value of luck, Sam. I’d rather have a lucky officer than a brilliant one. The lucky ones tend to live longer. Be that as it may, I don’t think we should advertise the fact that you put a tail on a senior Section H officer. The L-G might not approve. You’ll need to come up with a more acceptable explanation for how you just happened to come up on the scene so quickly.’
‘We could tell them that we learned of Sen’s location from a tip-off from one of our own snitches,’ I said. ‘After all, it must be how Section H found him. Hopefully it’ll make them think more highly of our own network of informants.’
Taggart took a handkerchief from his pocket and slowly cleaned his glasses.
‘All right,’ he said, ‘that’ll work. All the same, the next time you consider putting a tail on a high-ranking military officer, please let me know beforehand.’
I nodded.
‘So where are we with Sen?’ he continued.
‘He was taken to the Medical College Hospital,’ said Digby. ‘They patched him up last night.’
‘When can we move him from the hospital?’
‘He’s already here,’ I replied. Both men stared at me in surprise. ‘He’s in the cells downstairs. We moved him last night.’
‘How did you manage that?’ asked Taggart. ‘I’d have thought the doctors would have screamed bloody murder if you tried to shift one of their patients into a cell so soon after an operation.’
‘I appealed to their common sense.’
‘Well, that’s a relief,’ said Taggart, ‘the last thing we needed was for a potential stand-off at the hospital with Section H. If they want him now, they’ll have to go through the L-G.’
‘How long do you think we have, sir?’ I asked.
Taggart shook his head. ‘Hard to say. I expect Dawson would have spoken to his superiors last night; they’d be on the telephone to the L-G first thing this morning. The L-G will probably check with his advisers. If they think we should hand Sen over, we’ll probably get an order some time this afternoon. We can probably stall them for a while. I’ll speak to Daniels, make myself “uncontactable” for the day, but we’ll have to hand him over by tomorrow morning at the latest. You should work from the assumption that you’ve got twenty-four hours at most.’
‘I plan on questioning him as soon as we’ve finished here,’ I said.
‘Good. I want him charged by tonight. Get him to cooperate if possible. Tell him that if he doesn’t, we’ll hand him straight over to Section H. It’ll happen anyway, of course, but he doesn’t need to know that. Is there anything else, gentlemen?’
‘Sir,’ said Digby, ‘what should we tell the press? By now they’ll have got wind of last night’s fireworks. They’ll want us to comment.’
‘If they ask, tell them that we’re progressing with our inquiries and that we’ll have a fuller statement soon. I don’t want anything specific getting out until we’ve charged Sen. Now, gentlemen,’ he said, rising from his chair, ‘if there’s nothing further, I’m going to have to make preparations to “disappear” for the rest of the day. Let Daniels know if you need to speak to me urgently. Otherwise, I’ll contact you for a progress report at six p.m. sharp.’
‘Interview commencing at ten o’clock, 12th April 1919.’
The room was small and airless and twenty degrees too hot. Five of us were crammed into a space better suited to two and the tang of sweat punctuated the air. Sen, his doctor beside him, sat staring at the floor. I was flanked by Digby. Between us, a battered metal table. Banerjee, with a yellow pad and a fountain pen in his hands, sat to one side.
The introductions were entered into the record: Interview led by Detective Inspector Captain Samuel Wyndham. Detective Sub-inspector John Digby and Sergeant S. Banerjee, assisting.
Lack of sleep and a hole in my arm were not exactly ideal preparation for an interrogation. If there was a consolation, it was that Sen looked worse. He was dressed in the standard-issue prison clothes, loose draw-string trousers and shirt. Khaki with black markings. His hands were manacled in his lap.
‘Please state your name for the record.’
‘Sen,’ he said, ‘Benoy Sen.’ He sounded tired.
‘Do you know why you’ve been arrested?’
‘Do you need a reason?’
‘You have been arrested on suspicion of murder.’
Sen didn’t flinch.
‘When did you return to Calcutta?’
No response.
‘Can you explain your movements on the night of 8th April last?’
Again silence.
I didn’t have the time or the inclination to indulge him.
‘Look, Sen,’ I said, ‘maybe you don’t appreciate your good fortune. You’ve been lucky enough to be arrested by the police rather than the military. That means you get to be questioned in these pleasant surroundings with a doctor by your side and everything is written down for the record. If you don’t afford us some cooperation, I may as well turn you over to our friends at Fort William and they’re somewhat less keen on playing by the rules the way we do.’
Sen raised his eyes from the floor and gave a snort of derision.
‘You talk of rules, Captain. Tell me, why don’t your rules apply to them?’
‘You’re not asking the questions here, Sen.’
He smiled.
‘I’ll ask you again, when did you return to Calcutta?’
He stared at me, as though sizing me up, then raised his hands and rested them on the table. There was a soft scrape as metal hit metal. ‘I arrived in the city last Monday.’
I nodded.
‘And why did you return?’
‘I am a Bengali, born and raised in Calcutta. It is my home. Why should I need a reason to return?’
I wasn’t interested in polemics. ‘Just tell me why you came back. Why now?’
‘I returned because I was invited.’
‘Invited by whom? And for what purpose?’
‘I’m sorry, Captain. I will not divulge the names of other patriots.’
‘We know you gave a speech at the house of a Mr Amarnath Dutta.’
That shook him up. ‘You must congratulate your spies,’ he replied. ‘I admit that I did indeed give a speech. I spoke to an assembly of forward-thinking men about the need for independence.’
‘And you are aware that such an assembly is illegal?’ I asked.
‘I am aware that under your law such an assembly is illegal and such a speech is labelled seditious. Under this law, Indians are banned from meeting in their own homes to discuss their desire for freedom in their own country. It was passed by Englishmen without the consent of the Indians to whom it applies. Wouldn’t you agree that such a law is unjust? Or do you believe that an Indian, unlike a European, should not have the right to determine his own destiny?’
‘This isn’t a political discussion,’ I said. ‘Just answer the question.’
Sen laughed, thumping his hands down on the table. ‘But it is, Captain! How could it not be? You are a police officer. I am an Indian. You are a defender of a system that keeps my people in subjugation. I am a man who seeks freedom. The only type of discussion we could have is a political one.’
God, I hated politicals. Give me a psychopath or a mass murderer any day. Compared to a political, interrogating them was refreshingly straightforward. They were generally all too eager to confess their crimes. Politicals, on the other hand, almost always felt the need to obfuscate, to justify their actions, convince you that they worked for justice and the greater good and that you couldn’t make an omelette without breaking heads.
‘The rights and wrongs of the political system are not my concern, Sen. My job is to investigate a murder. That is all I am interested in doing. Tell me, what was the content of your speech at Mr Dutta’s house?’
Sen thought for a moment. ‘I stressed the need for unity. And the need for a new course of action.’
‘And what was this “new course of action” to be?’
‘Are you sure you want to hear, Captain? You might think I’m trying to engage you in a political discussion.’
‘Watch yourself, Sen!’ interjected Digby. ‘We’re not interested in a lecture from a bloody babu!’
Sen ignored him and kept his eyes firmly locked on mine.
‘Carry on,’ I said.
‘As you are no doubt aware, Inspector, until I returned to Calcutta, I had been keeping a low profile for several years. During that period, I had plenty of time to reflect on matters. It became clear to me that though we fought for the freedom of all Indians, in over twenty-five years of struggle we had made precious little progress. I began to consider the reasons for this failure.
‘Of course there were the obvious explanations: the peasants, so ground down by toil and daily survival that they lack all political consciousness; the infighting between our many groups, which you and your lackeys ruthlessly exploit; the fact that your spies are able to infiltrate our organisations, compromising our plans; but always I came back to one fundamental question: if our cause is just, why do the people not rally to us? Why do your spies not realise that we fight in their interests as well as our own? This was the question that vexed me and which I spent many hours a day contemplating.
‘When you are in hiding, one thing you have plenty of is time. I read widely. As much as I could. Books, newspaper cuttings, anything I could find on freedom struggles across the world. The fight to abolish slavery in America, the struggle for Indian rights in South Africa. I read the writings of M. K. Gandhi especially closely. He posed a different question. He asked, “If our cause is just, why do our oppressors not realise it?” He argued that once the oppressor, in his heart of hearts, admits to himself that he is wrong, he will lose the will to continue his oppression.
‘At first I laughed at the notion. By his logic, all we had to do was to point out to you the evil of your actions and you would recoil in horror, repent and go home. To my jaundiced eye, it was nothing more than the delusions of a hopeless naif. If only we appealed to your better natures, you yourselves would see the error of your ways!’ He laughed at the absurdity, then continued, ‘For one thing, I didn’t believe you even had better natures.
‘I’d watched as your troops butchered my friends. In my eyes, you were all soulless demons. But time and solitude have a way of making one see reason. As my period in hiding continued, my anger subsided. I thought more on what Gandhi and men like him were advocating. Then one day, it struck me; I still remember the moment, I was pumping water from a tube well. The process was monotonous and my mind wandered. That’s when I realised. I was guilty of the very actions that I ascribed to the British. If I accused you of treating the Indian as inferior, then it must follow that I cannot adjudge the Indian to be superior to the Englishman. We must be equal. And if we are equal, I must ascribe to you the same dignity I ascribe to Indians. If I believe that Indians have a conscience and a moral compass, in essence that we are good, then I must equally accept that most Englishmen are also good. Once that is accepted, it follows that at least some Englishmen will be open to see the error of their ways, if only they can be pointed out to them.
‘I realised then, that our actions – the actions of Jugantor and other groups – only served to justify your repression. Every bomb blast, every bullet, provides you with an excuse to tighten your control over us. I came to see that the only way to end British rule in India was to strip away these excuses and reveal to you the true nature of your occupation of my country. That was the message I had come back to deliver; that only through unity, among all Indians, and by reaching out to the better nature of our oppressors through non-violent non-cooperation, can we hope to gain our freedom.’
Digby leaned back in his chair and snorted. ‘Fine words, Sen. If there’s one thing this country is not short of, it’s Bengalis making speeches. You people are never at a loss for words, are you? Always happy to argue black is white and day is night.’ He turned to me. ‘We have a saying in these parts, Captain: God save us from the fury of the Afghan and the rhetoric of the Bengali!’
Once again Sen ignored Digby and directed his words at me.
‘May I ask, Captain, which of the two the sub-inspector here believes is worse?’
Digby turned red. By talking only to me, Sen was goading him expertly.
‘This isn’t a debate, Sen,’ said Digby angrily, ‘but since you ask, the uppity Bengali is far worse!’
Sen smiled. ‘It has been my experience, Captain, that many of your kinsmen reserve a special dislike for Bengalis, more so than they do for other Indians. I profess I am at a loss to say precisely why. Maybe the sub-inspector here could enlighten me?’
‘Maybe it’s because you all talk so bloody much?’ Digby retorted.
‘In that case,’ said Sen, ‘we truly are all in trouble. For over a century now we Bengalis have been told how lucky we are that you British were good enough to bestow upon us the wonderful English language and your vaunted western education, first here in our land before the rest of India. But having learned at your feet for all these years, when we avail ourselves of your gifts, we are accused of thinking and talking too much. Maybe, that western education was not such a good idea after all? Maybe it has given us “uppity Bengalis” ideas above our station? It seems the sub-inspector here believes that the only good Indians are ones that know their place.’
I cut in before Digby had a chance to formulate anything coherent. Time was running out and I needed to get answers from Sen.
‘If you’d come to preach the gospel of non-violence,’ I asked, ‘why didn’t you just surrender when it was obvious you were surrounded last night?’
‘I considered it. I even tried to persuade my comrades to do just that. But I was in a minority.’
‘But you were their leader, Sen. Are you telling me they wouldn’t listen to you? You’re a persuasive man. You tell us you came back to persuade people towards the path of non-violence, yet you expect me to believe you couldn’t even persuade your own men?’
‘Have you been present at a raid carried out by your colleagues in military intelligence before?’ he asked. ‘If so, you might be aware of their reputation for being rather trigger happy. Things happen in the dark. There have been many cases where men trying to surrender have been gunned down. My comrades decided it was better to die like men than like dogs.’
‘And you expect me to believe that?’
Sen sat back and sighed. He stared into my eyes. ‘I have no way of convincing you, Captain.’
‘I think you’re lying,’ I said. ‘I think your “new course of action” was to instigate a terror campaign starting with the assassination of a high-ranking British official.’
‘Why do you continue with this farce, Captain? Your spies had obviously infiltrated the meeting. They must have confirmed everything I’ve told you.’
‘Our informants have reported on your meeting,’ said Digby. ‘They made no mention of your miraculous conversion on the road from Dacca.’
‘What time did your meeting at Dutta’s house finish?’ I asked.
‘Just after midnight.’
‘And what did you do then?’
‘I talked with Mr Dutta for about half an hour. Then I left for the safe house in Kona.’
‘Did anyone go with you?’
‘I was accompanied by a comrade. Your troops killed him last night.’
‘And you went straight there?’
‘Yes.’
I banged my fist down on the table – it was a stupid thing to do – sending a jolt of pain stabbing through my wounded arm. ‘Do you take me for a fool?’ I shouted. ‘I know you left Dutta’s house with an accomplice. I know you found MacAuley wandering the streets, I know you killed him and stuffed a note in his mouth. What I want to know is whether you specifically targeted him that night or whether he was just the first white man who had the misfortune to cross your path?’
Sen’s doctor was on his feet. ‘Captain, I must protest! This man is recovering from surgery. His health is in a delicate position. Please stop this interrogation now!’
Sen waved him to sit. ‘Thank you, Doctor, but I am willing to continue this conversation.’ He turned to me and smiled. ‘I think I may have been rather naive. You’re not interested in the truth, are you? This is about being able to say you’ve caught a terrorist who killed a government official and that the streets are safe once again for the good citizens of Calcutta – the white ones, at any rate. You don’t give a damn about finding the real killer. All you want is a scapegoat. And who better than a freedom fighter? It gives you the justification to continue your repression.’
I turned to Banerjee. ‘Sergeant, please pass me exhibit A.’
From a buff-coloured box file on the floor beside him, Banerjee removed the bloodstained note that had been found stuffed in MacAuley’s mouth. He flattened it out and passed it to me.
The ink had run somewhat and the stains had turned reddish brown, but the words were still clear. I laid the note flat on the table in front of Sen.
‘Do you recognise this? It was found in the mouth of the deceased.’
Sen looked at it, then laughed bitterly. ‘This is your evidence, Captain? This scrap of paper?’ He nodded towards Banerjee. ‘Has your lackey read it?’
I realised that I hadn’t shared it with Surrender-not. It had been stupid of me not to, but I hadn’t met the sergeant when I’d found it and, with all that had happened since, I’d neglected to share it with him afterward.
Sen read the look on my face. ‘No? I didn’t think so. Maybe you should show it to him? He’ll tell you that I wouldn’t have written that note – unless he’s totally craven, of course.’
Behind me, Banerjee drew a sharp intake of breath. I held out a hand before he had a chance to rise further to the bait. I wasn’t about to let Sen dictate the terms of the interview, and I certainly wasn’t about to admit to him that Banerjee hadn’t seen the note.
‘Why did you write the note, Sen?’ I asked.
‘You must know that I didn’t. I shouldn’t think any Bengali wrote that note. It was obviously written by your people in an attempt to frame me.’
‘I can assure you that’s not the case. I found the note myself.’
Sen sighed. ‘Then we have a problem, Captain. You claim not to believe me when I tell you I didn’t write that note. And I cannot believe you when you say your men didn’t write it to implicate an innocent Indian. We are back to our fundamental problem, a lack of trust. We both believe the other to be lying. Maybe one of us is, but then again, it is possible we are both telling the truth. It falls to one of us to believe in the better nature of the other.
‘Let me ask you a question, Captain. If, as you say, I wrote that note as a warning to the British, why would I write it in Bengali?’ He pointed to Digby. ‘As so vexed the sub-inspector here, I have had the benefit of an English education. Why wouldn’t I write it in English?’
‘It’s obvious, isn’t it?’ Digby interjected. ‘To cast doubt on your guilt should you be captured.’
Sen shook his head as though disappointed with a particularly obtuse child. He turned to me. ‘Really, Captain, is it plausible that I would do such a thing in the hope that, should I be caught, it might sow doubt in the minds of my accusers? What good would that do me? Am I to appeal to the great British sense of fair play? Will I get to plead my case in front of a jury? Of course not! All I will get is a mockery of a trial followed by a bullet or the hangman’s noose. But I’m not afraid to die, Captain. I resigned myself to a martyr’s death long ago. I just ask to be martyred for my own actions rather than as a scapegoat for someone else’s.’
I sat back. The interview was going nowhere. Any expectation on my part of a speedy confession had been desperately naive.
‘Tell me about the attack on the Darjeeling Mail,’ I said. ‘What exactly were you looking for?’
Sen stared. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘So you know nothing about the attack on that train in the early hours of Thursday morning?’
‘Are you going to try to pin all your unsolved crimes on me?’ he asked. ‘As I’ve told you, I returned to spread the message of non-violence. Neither the assassination of the Englishman nor the attack on this train you mentioned have anything to do with me or my associates.’
I checked my watch. We had been at this for almost an hour. It was time to try a change of tack. I took out a packet of Capstans and offered one to Sen. He accepted it with a shaking hand. Banerjee brought out a box of matches, lit one and offered it to him. Sen stared at him in disgust and laid the cigarette down. The match burned down to Banerjee’s thumb. He shook it, extinguishing the flame.
Sen turned to me. ‘I’m sorry, I won’t accept anything from someone I consider a traitor to his people.’
‘But you’ll accept a cigarette from me?’
‘You and I are on opposite sides,’ he said. ‘We may have our differences, but I acknowledge your right to defend your principles. Just as you should acknowledge my right to stand up for what I believe is right. He, on the other hand,’ he gestured towards Banerjee, ‘is an accessory to the enslavement of his own people. I will not accept anything from him.’
Banerjee flinched. I saw his fists clench, and though he held his tongue, there was the first spark of anger in his eyes.
‘Surely,’ I said, ‘given your new mantra of tolerance and understanding, you should consider the sergeant’s reasons for joining the police force before you condemn him? I should also tell you that if it wasn’t for him, both you and I would probably have died last night.’
Sen paused. Finally he picked up the cigarette and held it out towards Banerjee. ‘Forgive me, Sergeant. Old habits die hard. It was wrong of me to condemn you without proof. I only hope that your Captain here follows the same principle.’
Sen smoked, slowly savouring each drag. When a man has little left to live for, he takes his time over what few pleasures remain. I indulged him. In his position I’d have done the same. Once he’d finished, we started again; the same questions, the same replies. Again Sen denied any knowledge of MacAuley’s murder or the attack on the mail train. Again he attested his new-found commitment to peaceful change, arguing with the passion of a convert. His logic was seductively appealing. More than once I was forced to remember I was dealing with a self-confessed terrorist whose organisation had maimed and killed both Englishmen and Indians, military and civilian. His supposed transformation to a man of peace was too convenient.
I felt sure he was capable of lying, telling me whatever would sow doubt in my mind. I was, after all, his enemy, the embodiment of everything he’d dedicated his life to overthrowing. And yet I was beginning to have doubts. Whether or not his story was true, there were some things that seemed odd, most obviously the note found in MacAuley’s mouth. Why would Sen have written it in Bengali when he spoke and wrote English as well as anyone? And why was he so adamant that I show the note to Banerjee?
Then there was the paper itself. In the days after the murder, I’d not had the chance to examine it closely, but now, seeing it again raised questions. I’d forgotten its quality – it was luxurious, heavy, with a rich smoothness to it. The kind you’d find in the bedroom of a five-star hotel. From what I’d seen in Calcutta so far, such paper wasn’t common. The paper used by Indians was generally flimsy and coarse. Even the paper used by the police was of a quality worse than back in England. Where then would a fugitive who’d been in hiding for four years get such paper? And why would he crush it into a ball and stuff it in his victim’s mouth?
I called a halt to the interrogation. A guard led Sen and his doctor back down to the cells. Once they’d left, I turned to Digby and Surrender-not. Digby was shaking his head while Surrender-not just sat there wearing that hang-dog expression he always seemed to wear when upset.
‘Well?’ I asked.
‘I’ll say one thing for him,’ said Digby, rising to his feet, ‘he’s got some imagination. All that rubbish about non-violence. You’d think we’d arrested a saint rather than a terrorist mastermind.’
‘What about you?’ I asked Banerjee.
He looked up from his thoughts. ‘I’m not sure what to think, sir.’
‘You should be under no doubts, Sergeant,’ said Digby. ‘I’ve seen his sort before and believe me, sonny, he’d as happily slit your throat as a white man’s if he got the chance.’
Banerjee made no reply. Whatever he was thinking, he knew enough to keep his own counsel. The box file was on the table in front of me. I opened it, took out the bloodstained note, and passed it to him.
‘I should have shown you this earlier, Sergeant. Digby tells me it’s a note warning the British to quit India. Read it and tell me what you make of it.’
Banerjee examined the note.
‘Sub-inspector Digby is correct.’
‘There, you see!’ said Digby.
‘It’s rather odd, though.’
‘How exactly?’
‘Well, sir, it’s hard to explain to someone who doesn’t speak Bengali. There are really two different types of Bengali. There is spoken Bengali and there is formal Bengali, similar to your notion of the King’s English, but far more formulaic and excessively polite. This note is not written in standard, colloquial Bengali. It’s formal Bengali.’
‘Is that significant?’ I asked.
Banerjee hesitated. ‘Well… it would be like writing a note in English using “thou” and “thee” instead of “you”. It’s not wrong, just unusual. Especially when you’re writing a threat.’
Digby continued to pace the room. ‘Sen’s an educated man. Maybe he prefers formal Bengali? I don’t see why it should matter.’
‘Maybe I’m not explaining it very well,’ said Banerjee. ‘If the note was written as a threat, it’s the politest threat you could possibly send. What it literally says is: “I must apologise for there will be no further exhortations. The blood of those from overseas will flow in the streets. Kindly take your leave of India.” I don’t understand why Sen would have written that.’
Digby turned to me for reassurance.
‘Look, Sen’s a known terrorist, responsible for countless attacks. He shows up after four years in hiding. On his first night in town, he gives a speech calling for action against the British. On the same night, not ten minutes away from where he gives this speech, MacAuley is murdered. The next night, there’s an attack on a train, which, by your own deduction, was a terrorist raid. You don’t seriously think all of that is just a coincidence, do you? So the man writes an odd note. What of it? The fact is, the note is a threat, a warning of more violence to come. It’s what Sen’s dedicated his life to. The man is guilty. Whether he admits it or not is irrelevant.’
In one sense he was correct. Whether Sen admitted it or not was irrelevant. He would be pronounced guilty and hanged. Too many people had too much resting on his guilt for the verdict to be anything else. The press were up in arms. To them the murder was a direct attack on British authority in India. That put pressure on the L-G. He had to respond with an iron will; show the natives that such an act would be met with savage and public retribution. What better way to demonstrate British power than the swift arrest and execution of a terrorist? Section H wanted Sen dead to make up for the embarrassment of letting him escape when the rest of the Jugantor leadership were liquidated back in 1915. Even we in the Imperial Police Force had reason to see Sen convicted, for the simple fact that we were under pressure to close the case quickly and we had no other suspects.
There was only one problem. I couldn’t be sure he’d done it.
It wasn’t just concerns about the note. I still had no idea what MacAuley had been doing outside a brothel in Black Town in the first place. No one else, from the L-G to MacAuley’s friend Buchan, knew or seemed to care much about that. I realised also that I’d been uneasy since the beginning. It was as though I was always two steps behind, following a trail of crumbs laid by someone else. Unfortunately Digby was right. How would I explain to Taggart that I had doubts about the guilt of a wanted terrorist who was in the vicinity of the crime on the night of the murder, just because of a rather eccentric note left at the scene? He would laugh me out of his office.
There was something else, though. A fear forming at the back of my mind. If Sen wasn’t guilty of the attacks, then it meant that the perpetrators were still out there. If so, the threat of a full-blown terrorist insurrection was still very real and time was running out. I tried to put the thought out of my mind. Sen was guilty. I just had to prove it.
‘Sir?’ asked Banerjee. ‘What are your orders?’
I told him to get his notes typed up. I wanted them ready so I could review them before I gave the Commissioner a progress report later on.
‘What about Sen?’ asked Digby. ‘Do you want to have another go at him?’
‘Do you think there’s much point?’ I asked.
‘If it were up to me, I’d hand him over to Section H today. See what they can get out of him. They can be very persuasive when they want to.’
‘Section H will get their hands on him soon enough,’ I said. ‘But in the meantime, I plan on holding on to him for as long as I can.’