I AWOKE AT dawn, feeling better than I had in quite a long while. My head was clear, the pain in my arm had dulled and everything had a warm glow. Even the crows outside sounded melodious. Odd how a kiss from a woman can change your perspective.
I lay there for some time, savouring the memory of the previous evening. Then my thoughts turned to Sen and the pleasant feelings evaporated. Twenty-four hours ago I thought I’d caught MacAuley’s killer and averted a terrorist campaign. Twenty-four hours ago I was a bloody hero. Most people still thought I was, including the L-G. But life, my life at least, has never been quite so neat. The truth was I’d solved nothing and now time was running out. I had to decide what was more important: saving an innocent man’s life or finding the real terrorists.
I got up, bathed, shaved and applied the ointment and dressing to my wound. I considered putting on the sling, but decided against it. The pain had lessened and I had a certain determination in my step. And if at some point that determination began to ebb, there were always the morphine tablets.
The dining room was busy with the sound of conversation. The Colonel was up. It was the first time I’d seen him at breakfast. He wore a starched collar and tie, and an irascible expression on his jowls. Across from him sat Mrs Tebbit, dressed in her Sunday best, and between them, Byrne and a young man whom I hadn’t seen before.
‘Here he is!’ cried Mrs Tebbit rather too enthusiastically as I entered the room. ‘Our Captain Wyndham!’
Our Captain Wyndham? I thought. Did she plan on adopting me?
‘Captain,’ she gushed, ‘please come and sit, there’s space here next to me.’
I did as ordered, taking a seat between her and the door.
‘We’ve been reading about your exploits in the paper this morning,’ she said, proudly brandishing a copy of the Statesman. The front page headline read:
MACAULEY MURDER: TERRORIST
SEN APPREHENDED
‘It’s all there,’ chimed the Colonel, ‘about how you shot and captured that wretched coolie. I dare say you taught him some manners.’
‘I didn’t shoot anyone, Colonel,’ I said tiredly.
‘Gave him what for, no doubt,’ he chuckled. ‘I’m sure you only did what you had to, my boy.’
I read the article, which, sure enough, mentioned me by name.
As the maid came over with my breakfast, the residents of the Royal Belvedere continued the inquisition.
‘Tell us, Captain,’ said Mrs Tebbit, ‘has he confessed yet?’
‘I can’t comment on that, Mrs Tebbit.’
‘I’ll bet he hasn’t,’ she continued. ‘Those people never do. They don’t have the guts to admit their crimes and face justice. I’ll bet he’s been pleading for mercy. But you must be firm, Captain. Firmness is the only language these people understand. Give them an inch and they’ll take a mile.’ She looked at her husband. ‘That’s what the Colonel always says, isn’t it, dear?’
The old man seemed not to hear a word of it.
I made a start on my omelette. It was cold and rubbery and a vast improvement on previous dishes that had came out the purgatory that was Mrs Tebbit’s kitchen. I wolfed it down with the fervour of a Calvinist on Judgement Day and looked across at Byrne. He hadn’t said a word since I’d arrived. Maybe he was just struggling with his meal. Or maybe the Tebbits hadn’t let him get a word in edgeways.
‘Where’s Peters?’ I asked him.
‘Went back to Lucknow yesterday,’ he replied, chewing on a mouthful of something. ‘His case ended on Friday.’ He took a sip of tea. ‘So you caught the Ghost, did you, Captain? That’s impressive. Sure, he’s been on the run for years now.’
‘Four years,’ chimed Mrs Tebbit. ‘Four years he’s been on the run and they couldn’t catch him. And now, our Captain Wyndham arrests him in less than a fortnight. I always said it wouldn’t take long for a real Englishman to catch him. Ever since they started recruiting natives into senior ranks, the police force has gone to the dogs.’
‘Like everything else,’ snorted the Colonel.
I finished my breakfast and made my excuses.
‘Of course, Captain,’ said Mrs Tebbit. ‘We quite understand. You have your work to do.’ She turned to her husband. ‘I can’t wait to tell the vicar all about our Captain Wyndham shooting that wretched terrorist.’
Leaving them to their conversation, I made my way out to the street. The air was close. A storm was coming. Salman was sat with the other rickshaw wallahs gathered at the corner of the square. I called to him. He spoke briefly to his comrades before picking up his vehicle and heading over.
‘Good morning, sahib,’ he said, looking nervously skywards. He too seemed to have noticed the change in the air. He lowered the rickshaw and touched his forehead with his hand.
I nodded and got on.
‘Lal Bazar, chalo.’
Surrender-not was waiting outside my office. Lost in thought, he leaned against the wall and tapped the floor with his lathi.
‘Morning, Sergeant,’ I said.
He quickly straightened up and saluted.
‘Good morning, sir,’ he said. He followed me in and hovered next to the door. Another yellow note was waiting on the desk. This time it was from Digby. I sat down and read it. It was dated the previous evening. He’d made arrangements with Section H for Sen’s transfer. Their officers would arrive at nine a.m. to take custody of the prisoner. I crushed the note into a ball, threw it at the waste-paper bin and watched as it bounced off the rim and landed on the floor.
‘Is everything all right, sir?’ asked Surrender-not.
‘Everything’s fine,’ I said. After all, it wasn’t unexpected. Section H were always going to get their hands on Sen. But that didn’t mean I had to like it. ‘Military intelligence will be taking charge of Sen this morning,’ I said. ‘Let’s go and break the news to him.’
We walked down to the basement. Overnight the cells had taken on an international flavour. A motley assortment of foreign sailors had joined the rag-bag of natives, and the stench of vomit and excrement was now all pervasive. The cells were packed. Calcutta is a port city, and that meant sailors on shore leave with nothing better to do than piss away their back pay on drink and whores. Europeans, Africans, even a few Orientals, all lay hung-over on the stone floors.
Sen, though, was a special case. As a political, he had a cell to himself. He lay awake on the plank bed and looked better than he’d done the day before. The colour had returned to his skin. With some difficulty, he dragged himself up onto his elbows.
‘Good morning, gentlemen,’ he said, a wry smile on his angular face. ‘To what do I owe the pleasure?’
‘You’re to be transferred into the custody of military intelligence this morning,’ I said. ‘Looks like you’ll be getting your wish to see Fort William.’
He accepted the news stoically. ‘It is of no great consequence. Am I being charged with the murder of Mr MacAuley?’
‘Final charges will be brought once you’ve been interviewed by Section H, but yes, provisionally that is one of the charges.’
He looked me in the eye. ‘I understand, Captain.’
I left Banerjee with the guard to prepare Sen for the transfer and went off in search of a cup of coffee.
I didn’t find it.
Instead, I was collared by a peon. It seemed Dawson and his men had arrived an hour early. Whatever else I felt towards them, I couldn’t fault their enthusiasm. I made my way to the lobby where the Colonel was waiting with what appeared to be a whole platoon of gurkhas.
‘I see you’re not taking any chances,’ I said. ‘Trust me, he’s really not that dangerous, so long as you don’t let him make a speech.’
Dawson ignored the remark and handed me some type-written sheets.
‘Transfer papers for the prisoner Benoy Sen.’
I made a show of reading every word, not that I doubted they were perfectly in order.
‘Fine,’ I said eventually. ‘He’s in the holding cells downstairs.’ I called over to a constable and asked him to show Dawson’s men the way. ‘I’m afraid, though, I’m going to need a few minutes of your time, Colonel.’
‘What?’ He looked at me as though he suspected me of trying to trick him out of his prize, then gave his men the order to continue without him.
‘Well?’ he said as the soldiers trooped off.
‘That train attack I mentioned the other day. I don’t think Sen and his men were responsible.’
‘You think it was dacoits now?’
‘No. I just don’t think it was Sen’s gang.’
He stared at me, as though sizing me up.
‘There’s something you should know,’ he said. ‘There was an attack last night on a branch of the Bengal Burma Bank. Quite sophisticated: the perpetrators kidnapped the manager’s wife, then forced him to open up the safe.’
‘How much did they get away with?’
‘Over two hundred thousand rupees.’
‘Enough to fund an arms purchase.’
‘And a lot more besides: training, printing presses, recruitment… Given the right climate, enough to fund a revolution.’
I swallowed hard as the full weight of his words sunk in. With the funds in their hands, it was only a matter of time before the terrorists would have the weapons to begin their campaign. Our only hope now lay in stopping them before they took delivery. But from the look on Dawson’s face it seemed that even the vaunted Section H didn’t know where to begin. Without a lead, it would be like looking for shadows in a darkened room.
One thing, however, was clear. It couldn’t have been Jugantor. There was no way they could have mounted such an operation the day after their leader had been captured and his closest comrades dispatched.
‘Have you any idea who was behind it?’ I asked.
Dawson shrugged. ‘Anyone from communists to Hindu nationalists. You can take your pick. Rest assured, we’ll find out soon enough.’
His tone, though, was ambivalent.
‘What can I do to help?’ I asked.
The question seemed to hit him in the gut. ‘What?’ he said disgustedly. ‘I’m not telling you this because I want your help, Captain. I’m telling you so that you know not to stick your nose where it’s not wanted. This is a military matter. Remember that before you decide to do anything foolish.’
Half an hour later, Surrender-not knocked on my door.
‘All done?’ I asked.
‘Yes, sir. They left about five minutes ago.’
’Take a seat, Sergeant.’
I passed him a sheet of paper on which I’d written a number of bullet points.
‘What’s the connection?’ I asked.
Surrender-not stared hard at the paper then looked up.
‘I’m sorry, sir. I can’t see any.’
‘That’s a shame,’ I said, ‘neither can I. It looks like we’re going to have to do this the old-fashioned way. Is the motor car ready?’
‘The driver is waiting downstairs.’
‘Right,’ I said, ‘let’s get going.’
I rose from the chair, grabbed Digby’s jacket and headed for the door.
Six miles to the north-west of the city centre lies Dum Dum, a shabby, nondescript suburb in a part of town not short of shabby, nondescript suburbs. It took an hour to make the journey from Lal Bazar, first up to the heaving streets of Shyambazar, then across the canal and along the train tracks at Belgachia, and finally on to the Jessore Road, lined with labourers in loin cloths, digging the new route out to the aerodrome.
The sky looked grim. It reflected my mood. I’d achieved nothing and time was fast running out. The attack on the Bengal Burma Bank suggested a fully-fledged terrorist campaign was imminent. Meanwhile, Sen was in the hands of Section H and MacAuley’s killer was still at large. At the same time, I felt strangely empowered. I was conducting the inquiry the way I wanted to, not just chasing ghosts, and it was with a sense of anticipation that we approached our destination.
St Andrew’s Church was a handsome, whitewashed chapel complete with bell tower and octagonal spire. It sat on one side of a leafy park, not far from the Central Jail. The driver pulled to a stop at the kerbside, attracting the attention of a group of urchins who were playing on the church steps. Their faces lit up at the sight of the car as they abandoned their game and ran over to examine the curious contraption. Leaving the driver to fend for himself, Surrender-not and I headed towards the church.
From inside came the sounds of the Sunday-morning service; English voices busy mangling some poor hymn. I imagined it was the same in every outpost of the empire, from Auckland to Vancouver. Each Sunday, that peculiarly dispiriting sound of piano or pipe-organ accompanying flat, discordant voices murdering the same songs resonated across the world. It was both depressing and oddly reassuring.
We entered through oversized wooden doors and sat in the last row of pews. I tried to remember the last time I’d been in a church other than for a funeral. Probably not since my wedding. Heads turned in our direction, then turned back and continued the business of singing ‘Onward Christian Soldiers’.
I took in the surroundings. Scots like their churches austere. Arched windows set in bare walls, a dozen rows of wooden pews on either side of a central aisle. To the left, a small wooden staircase curved up to a raised pulpit in which stood the minister, a bull of a man with a thick neck, ruddy features and iron-grey hair. Above his black cassock, a clerical collar and a pair of starched white preaching tabs.
The music died and the congregation returned to their seats. The minister leaned forward in the pulpit, opened a large Bible which sat on a wooden lectern, and began reading. It was some Old Testament text, the days when God seemed more motivated by revenge than forgiveness. His voice, heavy with a Scots accent, echoed through the room like a thunderstorm.
‘… They provoked Him to jealousy with strange gods, with abominations provoked they him to anger.
‘They sacrificed unto devils, not to God…’
‘Is that our man?’ I whispered to Surrender-not.
‘I don’t know, sir, though the officer at the local thana said the minister generally gives the Sunday-morning sermon.’
‘… I will heap mischiefs upon them; I will spend mine arrows upon them.
‘They shall be burned with hunger, and devoured with burning heat, and with bitter destruction!’
You had to hand it to the Scots. They did fire and brimstone particularly well. Indeed, many of their clergy seemed fixated by the subject of hell. Maybe it was envy? After all, hell was a lot warmer than Scotland.
He came to the end of the reading and after a theatrical pause, started on his sermon, his voice rumbling like waves crashing on a beach. It grew louder, and if anything, deeper. Stewing in the torrid heat, my mind wandered back to countless other Sunday sermons. I had little time for God these days. If He couldn’t be bothered to turn up at my wife’s bedside when she needed Him, I didn’t see any reason why I should have to turn up at His house every Sunday.
I stopped listening but the gist was clear. We were fallen creatures, saved only from the fires of hell by a merciful God.
There was no breeze from the windows and the congregation wilted in their buttoned-down Sunday best. Finally, the sermon drew to a close and a palpable wave of relief passed over the congregation as the minister called on them to stand in prayer. He ended with a final, ‘Go in peace,’ as most of his flock turned and headed straight for the exit. He descended from his pulpit to bid them farewell and I waited until the pews had cleared before walking over to him.
‘Ah, a new face,’ he said as he broke out in a broad smile. ‘It’s always a pleasure to see new folk in the congregation.’
I introduced myself.
‘A pleasure to meet you, laddie,’ he said, taking my hand. ‘The name’s Gunn. I hope ye enjoyed this morning’s sermon.’
‘It made quite an impression.’
‘Good, good,’ he mused. ‘I expect you’ve just been posted to Calcutta, Captain. Well, we’re a small kirk but I’m sure you’ll be very happy here.’
He sensed my confusion.
‘The congregation,’ he explained. ‘It’s no’ large, but we’re very welcoming of newcomers.’
‘I’m sorry, Reverend,’ I said, ‘I’m here on official business.’
‘I see,’ he said, his expression sobering. ‘That’s a pity. We can always do with new blood.’ He gestured to Surrender-not. ‘I don’t suppose your native friend there would care to join?’
‘I doubt it.’
‘Aye, that’s generally the case with the natives. It’s always the Catholics that get them,’ he said ruefully. ‘I expect it’s the theatricality of Catholicism that appeals to them. That and the incense. How am I supposed to save superstitious heathen souls for the true church, armed only with “Amazing Grace” and the King James Bible when the Catholics keep trotting out the bones of St Francis Xavier and new sightings of the Virgin Mary every other week?’
The true church. I wondered whether he meant all protestants or just the Church of Scotland? Judging by his sermon, it was probably the latter. If true, it raised the possibility that ninety-nine per cent of the people in heaven would be Scots. Suddenly hell didn’t seem such a bad option.
‘If I may, Reverend…’
‘Oh, I’m sorry, son,’ he said. ‘Tell me, what can I do for you?’
‘We have a few questions we’d like to ask you.’
‘Of course. You don’t mind if we continue this conversation while we walk? I’m needed at the orphanage in half an hour. It’s just down the road.’
I’d no objection.
‘I need to help out with the children’s tiffin,’ he said, striding towards the rear of the churchyard. He led the way across a dusty courtyard and into a small scrubby garden of yellow grass and a few tinder-dry shrubs.
‘So how can I help you, Captain?’
‘It concerns Mr Alexander MacAuley,’ I said. ‘I understand he was a friend of yours.’
‘That’s right,’ he said, moving briskly, ‘a good friend.’
‘When did you see him last?’
‘A few weeks ago, I think. Why? Is something wrong?’
‘Mr MacAuley was murdered five nights ago.’
Gunn stopped in his tracks.
‘I didn’t know.’ He stared at the ground. ‘May the Lord have mercy on his soul.’