SOUTH CALCUTTA. THE heart of White Town.
Leafy suburbs sped past, wide avenues and whitewashed villas hidden behind high hedgerows. Hardly a native in sight, other than the durwans, of course, the surly Indian gatekeepers who controlled all access to their masters’ houses. Occasionally, through gaps in iron gates, there was a fleeting glimpse of a gardener or two, hard at work tending emerald lawns.
South Calcutta, the preserve of first-rate men from second-rate towns like Guildford and Croydon. The home of colonial administrators, military officers and merchants made good. South Calcutta, with its endless rounds of golf and garden parties, its gymkhanas and gin on the veranda. It was a good life. Certainly better than Croydon.
On towards Alipore and Lord Taggart’s residence. The driver slowed and turned into a wide gravel driveway, at the end of which stood a sprawling three-storey house set amidst flower beds and lawns. Only in Calcutta would such a mansion be called a bungalow.
The car pulled up gently under the portico at the entrance to the house. Green vines spiralled up the whitewashed columns. A uniformed constable ran up and swung open the door.
‘Captain Wyndham to see Lord Taggart.’
‘Of course, sir,’ he replied. ‘His Lordship is in the south garden. He’s asked that you join him there. Please follow me.’
With a nod, he turned and set off across a pristine lawn. The scent of English flowers hung in the air. Roses and foxgloves, truly England in a corner of a foreign field, though more than just a corner, an acre or two at least. As we walked, I noticed armed troops discreetly positioned around the building. They were invisible from the road and unobtrusive from the house.
Taggart was enjoying the balmy weather. He was seated at a small cane table, shirt open at the neck, reviewing some papers. He looked up and greeted me with a smile.
‘Hello, Sam. Good to see you, my boy.’ His tone was as warm as the afternoon air. ‘Have a seat,’ he said, gesturing to a chair. ‘What’s your poison? Gin? Whisky?’
‘Whisky, please.’
He summoned a manservant with the wave of a hand. ‘A whisky for the Captain.’ He turned to me. ‘How do you take it?’
‘Just a splash of water.’
‘And a whisky and soda for me,’ said Taggart.
The servant strode off and soon returned with the drinks.
We toasted each other’s health.
The whisky was sweet and smooth. Not my usual choice, mainly because I couldn’t afford it.
‘What news, Sam?’ he asked. ‘Both the L-G and Section H are straining at the leash for us to hand Sen over. I’m not sure we can hold out much longer. Tell me you’ve got something out of the bastard so we can get it over with.’
I hesitated. I’d spent the journey from Lal Bazar wrestling with the dilemma of what to tell him, and what I was about to say would probably bring about a swift end to my short time in Calcutta. Maybe that wasn’t such a bad thing. I took another sip, then bit the bullet.
‘I don’t think he killed MacAuley.’
My words hung in the air. I took another sip of whisky, a long one this time. If Taggart was about to kick me out, it would be a shame to let the stuff go to waste.
‘What about the attack on the train?’
I shook my head. ‘We’ve got nothing linking him to it.’
Seconds ticked by. In the distance, a green parrot in a pipal tree squawked loudly. Taggart’s reply, when it came, was unexpected.
‘I thought as much.’
That was it. No anger, no threats, no lecture. Of all possible responses, I’d never considered that Taggart might actually agree with me.
‘Sir?’ I said. ‘You think he might be innocent too?’
‘Hardly. He may not have killed MacAuley, but he certainly isn’t innocent. And he’ll be hanged for his crimes too. It’s just that he’ll take the blame for this one as well. In any case, the more pressing issue is the attack on the train. If it wasn’t Sen and his men, then who?’
I was confused.
‘You want me to charge Sen with the attacks even though someone else is probably responsible?’
‘I want you to be smart, Sam. Have you actually found any evidence to support the theory that both crimes were committed by the same people?’
I thought about it. There was none. It had been clumsy presumption on my part. I’d assumed a single, monolithic enemy but there was little to justify it. Taggart sensed as much.
‘There’s nothing to say that the two crimes are linked,’ he continued. ‘So I want you to charge Sen only with MacAuley’s death and hand him over to Section H. Hopefully that’ll get them off your back. Tell them you don’t think he was responsible for the train attack. Get them to hunt for the perpetrators. It’s the sort of thing they’re good at. Once their attention is elsewhere, I want you to keep investigating MacAuley’s death. There’s something odd going on there and I want to know what it is.’
‘And the fact they’ll hang Sen for something he didn’t do doesn’t bother you?’
Taggart sighed. ‘We fight the battles we can win, Sam. I brought you out to Calcutta for a reason. The force is corrupt and it leaks like a bloody sieve. Most of the native men are on the take and half the white officers aren’t much better. I need a man I can trust to help me clean things up. A professional, not beholden to anyone. I can’t have you becoming a casualty in this whole affair. I need you, Sam.’
It wasn’t much of a proposition. Sending an innocent man to the gallows was not what I’d define as a successful outcome, but at this point I had no other option but to accede to Taggart’s request. At least it meant I could continue investigating.
‘Okay,’ I said, fighting down the bile. ‘I’ll do as you say.’
‘Good man. But remember, Sam: Calcutta’s a dangerous place. It’s not just the terrorists you need to be wary of. There are influential people who’d think nothing of destroying you if they feel you threaten their interests. You’ll need my protection to do your job, but I can only protect you so far. That’s why you need to tread lightly. You’ve already made some powerful enemies within the military. Colonel Dawson’s after your head. Another stunt like the one you pulled in Kona last night is out of the question.’
‘What about my officers? Can I trust Digby?’
Taggart sipped his drink. ‘I should think so. There’s no love lost between him and Dawson. Back during the war, Digby wrote a report critical of the conduct of a policing action Dawson and his men carried out somewhere up north. Somehow, Section H got hold of it. They even have their spies within the police force. They put the report in front of the L-G. Made a case that it gave succour to the enemy during time of war. The L-G took their side, tore a strip off the previous commissioner, and made sure there was a black mark on Digby’s permanent file. It’s held back the poor bugger ever since. A man of his experience should have been a DCI by now.’
That was interesting. Maybe it wasn’t just his general ill will towards all things Indian that blinded Digby to the possibility of Sen’s innocence. Maybe he was scared to cross Section H again? After all, he’d done it once and been hung out to dry. As they say, once bitten, twice shy. There was a lesson in there for me too. As he’d already intimated, Taggart would only fight the battles he could win.
‘There’s something more you should know about Sen,’ I said. ‘He claims to have renounced violence.’
‘Really?’ said Taggart. He was about to take a sip of whisky, but stopped, his glass in mid-air.
‘He says he did a lot of thinking while he was in hiding. Came to the conclusion that violent struggle was self-defeating.’
‘Do you believe him?’
‘He didn’t strike me as a man who was lying. He says that’s why he came back to Calcutta. Claims he was preaching the gospel of peaceful non-cooperation. Seems to have espoused it with all the zeal of St Paul post Damascus.’
Taggart took a long sip and reflected.
‘Do our friends over at Section H know this?’
‘I don’t think so, but it won’t take them long to find out after we hand him over.’
‘Now that is interesting…’
It was half past seven and I was stood under the colonnaded arcade in front of the Great Eastern Hotel, choking on diesel fumes and watching the trams trundle by. I was dressed for dinner. Black tie, tux and a sling. Darkness had descended some time ago but the evening was still uncomfortably sticky. After the meeting with Taggart, I’d returned to the office and sought out Digby. I didn’t tell him too much, just that Taggart had ordered Sen be charged and handed over to Section H. I told him to deal with the logistics. He’d looked relieved and assured me it was the right thing to do. I held off telling him that I was going to continue the investigation. After all, tomorrow was Sunday, his day off. Why spoil it? The news could wait till Monday. I could manage without him for twenty-four hours.
Banerjee was a different matter. He was more than happy to give up his Sunday for the cause. No surprise there. Besides, as a Hindu, he’d explained, Sunday held no special meaning for him. I’d agreed to meet him at ten the next morning. We’d sort out Sen and then set off for Dum Dum to track down the Reverend Gunn. But Dum Dum was the last thing on my mind now, as I watched Annie Grant slip between the traffic as she crossed the road. She wore a simple blue dress that came down to her knees and afforded me a view of those calves that I so admired.
The street was busy. Chock full of couples out for a Saturday night on the town. Judging by the red hair and redder faces, a fair few of them might have been from Dundee. Annie stood searching the crowd for me. I waved and she broke into a smile, then noticed my arm in a sling and the smile turned to consternation.
‘Sam!’ she exclaimed. ‘What have you done to yourself? You said on the telephone that you weren’t hurt.’
‘It’s nothing,’ I said. ‘I was just doing my duty. Besides, someone has to keep the good women of Calcutta safe.’
She kissed me tenderly on the cheek. ‘That’s just a little thank-you on behalf of the women of Calcutta,’ she said, taking my arm and leading me towards the hotel.
Outside the entrance a British constable stood directing traffic.
‘Isn’t that odd?’ I said. ‘What’s a white officer doing on traffic duty?’
Annie smiled. ‘This is the Great Eastern, Sam, the finest hotel this side of Suez. This is where the cream of white society come out to play. It would hardly be proper for them to have to be cautioned by a native when they come out of the hotel roaring drunk now, would it? Just think of the scandal.’
We entered a foyer not much smaller than a cathedral. The room sparkled, decorated with crystal chandeliers and more marble than the Taj Mahal. Annie was right, the cream of Calcutta society had come out to play. Military officers in dress uniform, businessmen, fashionable young ladies in silk and satin. The room buzzed with the sound of conversation as a dozen native hotel staff fluttered around the distinguished guests, like those little fish that tend to sharks. Impeccably turned out in starched white uniforms, they waited discreetly, ready to be summoned to freshen a glass or refill a plate before fading once more into the background. Somewhere close by, a string quartet was playing some Viennese rubbish.
‘How about a drink before dinner?’ Annie asked.
‘Why not?’ I said. ‘It might help get the taste of petrol out of my throat.’
I followed her down a glittering corridor, past hotel boutiques, a barbers and what looked like the entrance to Harrods department store boxed up, miniaturised and packed off to the tropics. At the end stood a set of swing doors, beside a brass plaque with the legend Wilson’s affixed on the wall. We entered the bar. Like the Red Elephant, it was dark and subdued like a cellar. In one corner, a native dressed in black tie sat behind a grand piano and played softly. A long bar stretched the length of the room and at the far end stood an emaciated barman in a uniform that looked as though it belonged to someone a few sizes bigger. There weren’t many patrons to keep him busy, just a few barflies nursing their drinks. In the shadows of a velvet-lined booth, a young couple whispered sweet nothings to each other. The barman made a show of cleaning a glass with a checked cloth, studiously ignoring us as we approached.
I rapped on the bar top to attract his attention while Annie perched herself on one of the high barstools. The barman kept polishing for a second longer than necessary, then walked over. The brass badge on his shirt read Aziz.
‘Yes, sir?’
I turned to Annie. ‘What’ll you have?’
She made a show of examining the long line of bottles that sat on a mirrored shelf. ‘Gin sling,’ she said finally.
I ordered it and added a Laphroaig for myself.
The barman nodded curtly, poured out my whisky and sullenly set to work on Annie’s cocktail.
‘A warm welcome,’ I said.
‘Isn’t it just?’ she teased. ‘I bring all my men friends here. If Aziz likes you, you’ll get a second date.’
‘I didn’t realise he was a friend of yours,’ I said. ‘Maybe I should buy him a drink too?’
‘Not a good idea, Sam. It’s against his religion.’
‘Odd that he chooses to work in a bar.’
‘We all make odd choices sometimes,’ she said. ‘They tend to be for money.’
Aziz returned with the gin sling, placing it on the counter without a word. I thanked him and he smiled sourly.
Annie and I clinked glasses and moved to one of the empty booths.
‘So are you going to tell me what happened?’ she asked, pointing to the sling.
‘Would you believe I fell off an elephant?’
She pouted, her red lips forming a delicate, exquisite ‘O’. ‘You poor man,’ she said. ‘Can’t the Imperial Police Force stretch to providing you with a motor car?’
‘I’m a new boy,’ I replied. ‘You need to be a senior before you get those sorts of perks. I was lucky they didn’t start me off on a donkey.’
‘I don’t know,’ she said, ‘it’s less of a fall from a donkey.’
I sipped my whisky.
‘Seriously though, Sam,’ she continued, ‘I heard you were shot.’
‘You should see the other chap,’ I said. ‘He’s lying on a slab in the College Street morgue.’
Her eyes opened wide. ‘You killed him?’
‘No, someone else did. I managed to get through last night without killing anyone. In fact, I didn’t even manage to shoot anybody.’
‘Well, I’m glad,’ she said, putting her hand on mine. ‘You don’t strike me as the trigger-happy type.’
That much was true. I’d seen more than enough death in my life already. I’d be more than content if I could get through the rest of it without having to shoot anyone else. My throat felt suddenly dry and I downed the rest of the whisky.
‘Was anyone else hurt?’ she asked. ‘What about that English officer you work with?’
‘Digby? No, he’s fine. Got through it without a scratch. I didn’t realise you knew him?’
‘I don’t,’ she said, circling the rim of her glass with a manicured fingernail. ‘I just know of him through a friend.’
She finished her drink and we headed to the restaurant for dinner.
The dining room was how the banqueting hall of a sultan’s palace might look if it had been designed by a committee of Englishmen. The size of a ballroom, it was finished in white marble and gold leaf and split over two levels: a main floor and a raised terrace, separated by intricate golden railings. Despite its size, the place was packed. The string quartet was playing another Viennese waltz over the general noise. Several heads turned as the maître d’ led us towards a table in the middle of the throng. I knew better than to think they were looking at me. The maître d’ pulled out the chair for Annie and made a fuss over seating her. She thanked him and buried her head in the menu.
I ordered the wine, a bottle of South African white which I’d developed a taste for during the war. There had been a glut of the stuff at the time and it was often the cheapest you could find. As for food, Annie recommended I try the hilsa fish.
‘Bengalis love fish,’ she said. ‘Hilsa’s a local delicacy.’
I declined and ordered the steak. All I wanted was something straightforward with no surprises.
‘You’re brave,’ she said.
I braced myself for bad news.
‘You know there’s a good chance your steak’s going to be buffalo rather than beef? Remember, the cow is holy to Hindus. Most kitchen staff won’t touch the stuff, and a lot of restaurants think it’s easier just to serve buffalo instead, especially nowadays what with all these cow protection societies springing up all over the place. Still, this is the Great Eastern; perhaps you’ll get lucky?’ She smiled and suddenly I didn’t care if my steak was buffalo or even baboon.
The wine arrived and we drank a toast.
She raised her glass. ‘To new beginnings. Speaking of which,’ she continued, ‘have you found a place to live yet?’
‘I haven’t had time to think about it. The guest house is comfortable enough for the moment, though the food might kill me. Anyway,’ I shrugged, ‘I’m not sure it matters where I live.’
‘Nonsense,’ she said. ‘You’re not in London now, Sam. Here it’s all about prestige. It won’t do for an officer of the Imperial Police Force, a pukka sahib, to live in a guest house. You need rooms of your own. A nice apartment near Park Street, with servants of course.’
‘How many servants?’
‘As many as possible. The more the merrier.’ She smiled.
‘That sounds rather ostentatious.’
‘Of course,’ she teased. ‘That’s a good thing.’
‘On my salary, I think I might be forced to opt for a rather truncated retinue.’
‘That’s not the Calcutta attitude, Sam. People here would rather sell their grandmother to the glue factory than part with a single member of the staff. What would people say if they found out Lady So-and-so had to get rid of a maid or two because of budgetary constraints? The scandal would be intolerable. Anyway, that’s the thing about India; people are cheaper than animals. You could have a manservant, a cook and a maid for less than it would cost you to keep a horse.’
‘In that case I’ll advertise for all three first thing tomorrow. After all, I wouldn’t know where to put a horse in an apartment.’
The evening unfolded as I’d hoped it would. The band played and the wine flowed. We ate and talked: about England, about the war, about India and Indians. During a pause in the conversation, I looked around. An awful lot of pale young women appeared to be sitting at tables with men who looked twice their age. I pointed it out to Annie.
‘Those girls are the crew of what we call “the fishing fleet”,’ she laughed. ‘Every year, boat loads of young Englishwomen with skin the colour of turnips arrive in search of husbands. They’ve been coming out here for years, though there’s been a lot more of them since the war.’
‘That’s understandable,’ I said.
‘The system works well enough,’ she continued, taking a sip. She held on to the wine glass, waving it gently to make her point. ‘Something happens to nice English girls when they reach twenty-five. They get scared of being left on the shelf. So they get on a boat and come to India, where there are literally thousands of sahibs starved of home comforts who’ll marry the first English rose they come across. It doesn’t matter how plain or peculiar she might be, if she’s got the right pedigree, she’ll find a husband out here. It’s the men I feel sorry for, the civil servants especially. Poor devils, they’re expected to live like monks. You know it’s still frowned upon for them to wed before thirty. And marrying a non-white would be career suicide.’ Her tone grew harsh, steeled with what seemed the bitterness of a lifetime. The wine had loosened her tongue. ‘The odd dalliance can be tolerated,’ she continued, ‘but marriage?’ She waved one finger in the air. ‘That’s a no no.’
‘What was his name?’
She looked at me in surprise. ‘Who?’
‘You know who.’
‘His name’s not important. Besides, it’s ancient history now.’ She took a sip of wine and I let the silence hang. I could see she wanted to unburden herself of the pain she carried, and sometimes the best thing a man can do for a woman is to listen.
‘He was a clerk at Writers’,’ she continued. ‘I met him when I was twenty-one. He’d just come out from England. Swept me off my feet. We were together for nearly a year. He promised to marry me.’
‘What happened?’
‘What always happens. India happened. The empire happened. It changes Englishmen. Stifles them. They come out here, wide eyed and full of good intentions. Soon enough, though, they become cynical and closed minded. They learn from the older hands and start to believe all the nonsense about British superiority and not consorting with racial inferiors. They begin to despise the natives. Anyone non-white is beneath them. The empire destroys good men, Sam.’ She took another sip of wine. ‘Mark my words, it’ll happen to you too.’
‘I don’t think so,’ I said. ‘I’ve had my fill of British superiority.’
She laughed bitterly. ‘Let’s see how you feel in six months.’
She might have been right. The words had sounded hollow as soon as I’d said them. It was seductively easy to fall into the casual racism upon which the whole place seemed built. I’d done it myself only a few hours earlier. It was insidious. But I could be better than that: I could learn from this woman, this beautiful, intelligent woman, who saw through all the pretence and the hypocrisy.
‘I’m serious,’ I said, as much to convince myself, as her.
‘Of course, Sam. You’re not like all the others. You’re different.’ She drained her glass.
What was I supposed to say? Protest that I really was different? I feared I mightn’t be that different anyway. For want of anything worthwhile to say, I just kept quiet and topped up her glass.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘You didn’t deserve that. It’s just that I’ve seen it happen. Nice middle-class chaps from the Shires, they come out here and the power and the privilege go to their heads. All of a sudden they’re being waited on hand and foot and being dressed by a manservant. They start to feel entitled.’
‘Maybe I should forget about hiring the staff and just get the horse instead?’
She smiled. A beautiful, disarming smile that made me question how any man could put his career above a woman like her.
‘So are you going to tell me what happened yesterday?’ she asked.
‘Like I said, there’s not much to tell. We tracked down a suspect. He resisted arrest. I just did my job.’
‘Do you think he killed MacAuley?’
I hesitated, then shook my head. ‘I can’t say any more, Annie. I wish I could.’
She smiled and brushed my hand gently with her own. ‘I’m sorry. That was naughty of me.’
As she spoke, there was a commotion near the front of the room. The general conversation became hushed and eyes turned towards the door. A party of four entered, with the L-G at its head. He was dressed immaculately in black tie and starched white shirt and collar. Behind him trooped a portly gentleman in military uniform, a general, judging by his lapels, and two older ladies. The maître d’ rushed over to intercept them. He bowed so low and long that I feared for his ability to get back up. When he did finally surface, he addressed the L-G with animation. From this distance I couldn’t hear what was said but the oily smiles and exaggerated gestures suggested he wasn’t exactly protesting against government policy.
The maître d’ led the party in our direction between the mass of tables. They were heading for an empty table in a far corner, set apart from the others and offering a degree of privacy. They made halting progress, the L-G stopping at several tables as diners stood to greet him. A few quick words here, a handshake there. He spotted Annie, recognised her at once, and made a beeline for our table. We stood to meet him, just as the others at previous tables en route had done.
‘Miss Grant,’ he said, in that nasal tone that made him sound like an Edinburgh stock broker.
‘Your Honour.’
‘I just wanted to tell you how appalled I was to hear about what happened to poor MacAuley. Rest assured the perpetrators will face justice very soon.’
‘Thank you, Your Honour,’ she replied, lowering her gaze. ‘That’s most reassuring.’
‘Tell me, my dear, how are you bearing up?’
She smiled weakly. ‘I’m fine, thank you, though it took a little time for the shock to pass.’
‘That’s the spirit, my dear. Stiff upper lip and all that.’
Annie turned to introduce me. ‘This is Captain Sam Wyndham, Your Honour. Recently—’
‘Oh, I’ve already had the pleasure, my dear!’ he said, interrupting her. He proffered me a hand. ‘My dear boy, you’re the hero of the hour. I understand we have you to thank for the apprehension of our old friend Benoy Sen.’
‘I can’t take the credit, sir,’ I replied. ‘It was a large operation.’
‘Yes, so I hear. Have you got a confession out of him?’
‘Not yet.’
He wrinkled his nose. ‘Well, I can’t say I’m surprised. You must hand him over to military intelligence. They have experience of dealing with customers like Sen.’
I nodded and told him we’d be transferring Sen in the morning.
He looked satisfied. ‘In that case, I’ll not take up any more of your evening. Miss Grant, Captain Wyndham.’
A curt nod to each of us and he was gone, back en route to his table. I sat down, took a sip of wine and turned to Annie.
‘You never told me you were best friends with the L-G,’ I said. ‘What does Aziz the barman make of him?’
‘He’s hardly my friend, Sam. I met him a couple of times accompanying MacAuley to Government House. More importantly, is it true? Did you really arrest Benoy Sen?’
I kept quiet and smiled. When a woman’s impressed with something she thinks you’ve done, the best course of action is often just to let her think what she wants and not spoil it with facts.
‘That’s quite a coup,’ she gushed. ‘He’s been on the run for years.’
‘You know I can’t talk about the investigation,’ I said.
‘Oh, come on, Sam. The L-G himself has let the cat out of the bag. You’ve simply got to tell me now.’
I mulled it over. Drink always weakened my resolve, and I’d already had a skin full. What was the harm in telling her? It would probably be on the front page of the Statesman in a few hours anyway. Besides, the boy in me wanted to impress her. I raised one hand in a gesture of surrender.
‘Okay,’ I said, ‘what do you want to know?’
‘Everything!’ she exclaimed. ‘How you tracked him down, how you caught him, what he’s like. Everything!’
‘It’s really not that interesting.’
‘Of course it is,’ she trilled. ‘The gallant Captain Wyndham, in Calcutta for less than a fortnight and he captures one of the most wanted men in the country.’
‘Like I told your friend the L-G, it wasn’t just me. There were a lot of people involved.’
‘But the L-G said you were the hero.’
I shook my head. ‘I was just the one who arrested him.’
‘And got yourself wounded in the process.’
‘This?’ I said, pointing to the sling. ‘I told you, I got this falling off an elephant.’
I took out my cigarette case and offered her one. She gratefully accepted. I took one for myself and lit us both up.
‘So why did he kill MacAuley?’ she asked.
‘That’s just it,’ I replied, ‘I’m not sure he did.’
‘Well, that is a surprise,’ she said, wide eyed, ‘and you didn’t think to tell the L-G?’
I shook my head. ‘It wouldn’t make a difference. They’d still hang him. Sen’s just a pawn in a bigger game.’
I could have told her I suspected I was too.
I expected her to be indignant. To ask me why I was letting a man wrongly accused go to the gallows. On some level I wanted her to be indignant, to be outraged that I could allow such a thing to happen. I wanted her to hold me to account and play the role my own conscience had abrogated. I was surprised when she said nothing. Surprised and slightly disappointed.
‘You shouldn’t feel bad about it, Sam,’ she said, reading my thoughts. ‘From what I hear, that man’s a monster. He deserves everything he gets, whether he killed MacAuley or not.’
‘I wish it were that simple,’ I said.
She thought for a while. ‘If you don’t think Sen killed him, then who did?’
‘I’m going to find out.’
‘But if the L-G orders you to charge Sen, won’t that mean the case is closed?’
‘It won’t matter. I’ll do my job. Keep investigating. I didn’t come to Calcutta to be anyone’s lapdog.’
‘So why did you come here, Sam?’
‘To meet you, of course.’
She smiled and I felt like a schoolboy with a crush.
‘Have you come to rescue me from this godforsaken place?’ she asked. ‘Because if you have, I feel I ought to warn you, I don’t need rescuing.’ She leaned forward and took a drag of her cigarette. ‘Maybe you’re here because it’s you who needs rescuing?’
We left around eleven as the Great Eastern was disgorging its revellers. They gathered on the pavement outside, inebriated little groups of boisterous men and giggling women. The ladies of the fishing fleet seemed to have made a good catch.
The white constable was still there, trying to keep a low profile and wearing an expression that said, Please God, don’t let the bastards kick up a scene on my watch. It was the same look his comrades wore half a world away in Mayfair and Chelsea on a Saturday night. After all, how does a poor working-class copper deal with a drunken mob of his social betters?
Heads turned as Annie and I walked past. I wasn’t surprised. She was a beautiful girl, after all. The men stared, drinking her in. It didn’t bother me. I’ve never been the jealous type. Jealousy is just the manifestation of insecurity, and a confident man has no truck with such things. In fact, it gave me an odd satisfaction. It’s one of life’s pleasures to see men look in envy at the girl on your arm. As they did so, their women cast malicious glances, their faces like sour milk. What were they thinking? Were they scandalised at the sight of a white man with a half-caste? Was it anger at their menfolk for staring at this chee-chee? Or were they just jealous? I guessed at a combination of all three and smiled to myself. Those men could keep their pure-bred English roses. I was more than happy being with Annie.
The night was cool. A pleasant breeze blew in off the river and a yellow moon hung low in the sky. She threaded her arm through mine. Ignoring the line of waiting hackney carriages we started walking, with no real purpose, in the direction of the Maidan, the large open space that sits between Fort William and Chowringhee. We passed the gates of Government House with its lion standing atop the archway. It was an odd-looking beast, a touch fat and ponderous with three of its four stumpy legs planted firmly on its plinth. If anything, it looked a bit tired, as though it could do with a sit down after standing up there for so many years. A few lights still blazed from windows in the palace beyond, though whether it was the masters of the Raj burning the midnight oil or simply the servants, I couldn’t tell.
Ahead of us, street lamps glowed, stretching like pearls across the desiccated Maidan. The musky scent of marigolds wafted over. In the distance, illuminated by a dozen powerful arc lights, sat the vast white bulk of the Victoria Memorial, looking like some monstrous wedding cake that no one had the stomach to eat.
‘I like Calcutta at this hour,’ she said, ‘it’s almost beautiful.’
‘The City of Palaces. Isn’t that what they say?’
She laughed. ‘Only people who don’t live here. Or the people who actually live in palaces – people like Buchan and the L-G. Mind you, sometimes I don’t think I could ever leave Calcutta. And why would I?’ She smiled. ‘All human life is here.’
‘I confess, the place is starting to grow on me,’ I said, ‘though maybe that’s down to the company I’m keeping.’
‘Or maybe it’s down to all the drink inside you?’
‘Unlikely,’ I said. ‘I drank plenty in London and it never made me feel good about the place.’
She stopped and turned to face me, looking into my eyes as though searching for something. ‘You’re a curious man, Sam. In spite of everything you’ve been through, you’re still an innocent, aren’t you? I think maybe you have come to Calcutta to be saved. I—’
Before she could go any further, I held her and kissed her. That first kiss, unfamiliar, exquisite, like the first drops of autumn rain. The smell of her hair. The taste of her mouth.
The alcohol might not have changed my views of Calcutta, but it had helped me in other ways. Sometimes it takes a bit of Dutch courage to liberate an Englishman from himself. I looked at her now, seeing her as if for the first time. She took my face in her hands and kissed me back. There was a force to her kiss, an urgency. My breathing slowed. That second kiss was different, more important than the first. It seemed a release for both of us.
I hailed a hackney carriage.
‘Where to, sahib?’
I looked at Annie. For an instant, I considered ordering the driver to take us to Marcus Square, but immediately my conscience rebelled. Besides, I doubted Miss Grant, for all her cosmopolitan talk, would have agreed any way.
‘Bow Barracks,’ I said to the driver, as I helped Annie up.
Annie said nothing, she just held my hand and rested her head on my good shoulder. I closed my eyes and breathed in the scent of her. The carriage stopped at the entrance to her lodgings, a flat in a grim, two-storey building, and I helped her out. She looked at me, then kissed me on the cheek and was gone without a word. I was too tired to make sense of any of it. Instead, I got back into the hackney and ordered the driver to take me to the Belvedere.