WE TOOK THE launch back to Calcutta where Surrender-not and I parted ways, he hailing a cab to Lal Bazar while I commandeered the motor car and driver and set off for Cossipore.
It was late afternoon by the time I made it to Maniktollah Lane. Adrenalin coursed through my veins and I felt that sense of exhilaration that I always did when my instincts told me I was on to something. With a sense of nervous anticipation, I rapped loudly on the door of number 47. The old man Ratan opened it far more quickly than on the previous occasions. He looked out expectantly, but his face fell when he saw me there alone.
‘Ha, sahib?’
‘I need to speak to the man who operates the punkah.’
The old man strained to hear.
‘Eh? Pankaj? No Pankaj here, sahib. This Mrs Bose house.’
‘I want to speak to the punkah wallah,’ I said, then for good measure shouted ‘Punkah wallah!’ again, loud enough to wake the mongrel dogs that were asleep in the alley.
The old man’s face broke into a toothless smile. ‘Oh, punkah wallah! Ha yes! Come, sahib. Come, come.’
I followed as he led the way to the now familiar drawing room. The house seemed deserted, with no sign of the maid or the girls. I waited while he left to fetch the man I’d come to see, the man who was my last hope to get to the bottom of things before Sen was hanged. I looked up at the punkah hanging limp from the ceiling. A rope ran from it along the ceiling, then disappeared through a small grate high up on the wall and out into the courtyard beyond.
The door opened and a stocky, dark-skinned native stood in the doorway, with Ratan trying to peer round from behind him. He was powerfully built and reeked of sweat in the way only a working man can. I realised I’d seen him before: outside the house when we’d removed Devi’s body.
‘You speak English?’
The man nodded warily.
‘What’s your name?’
‘Das.’
‘Well, Das, you’re not in any trouble. I just want to ask you some questions. Understand?’
The man stood there, mute.
‘The girl, Devi. She was a friend of yours?’
‘Her name not “Devi”, sahib. That only her work name. Her real name Anjali.’
‘Before she died, she told me you could help me. I need to know about MacAuley, the burra sahib who was killed in the alley last week. Did you know him?’
‘I know MacAuley sahib. He comes many times.’
‘Why did he come here that last time? Devi… Anjali said that he didn’t come to lay with the girls.’
Das nodded. ‘Sahib come to pay money. He come every month to pay money.’
‘To pay Mrs Bose for the girls?’
He smiled and shook his head. ‘No, sahib. For that he pays on day of use. He pays this money for family of different girl. Girl who died. She die in…’ He struggled to find the right word. ‘Operation. Operation to take out baby.’
Haltingly and through broken English, Das began to paint a picture. Some time the previous year, one of the girls had fallen pregnant. The father was some big-shot sahib, a most pukka gentleman and one of Mrs Bose’s most eminent clients. Das had never seen the man. He was too important to come to the house. Instead, the girls would always go to him. MacAuley was the go-between who made all the arrangements. The pregnancy came as a shock. It wasn’t supposed to happen. Mrs Bose took care to prevent girls working at that particular time in their cycle, but clients can be demanding, and mistakes happen. The girl, her name was Parvati, was special, the client’s favourite. Mrs Bose had reported the news to MacAuley, who’d come back and insisted the girl have an abortion. Das had taken the girl to some back-alley surgeon near the railway lines in Chitpore, as he’d done before with another of Mrs Bose’s girls. This time, though, the operation was botched. Both girl and baby died and it was MacAuley, ever the fixer, who’d disposed of the bodies. Das didn’t know what he’d done with them, but since then, MacAuley had shown up, once a month, with money for the girl’s family.
Suddenly everything clicked into place. The client was Buchan. MacAuley had been his trusted man for over twenty years, but the deaths of mother and child echoed his own loss many years before. Most likely he’d struggled with his conscience, the reunion with his old friend, the Reverend Gunn, no doubt adding to his compunction. Over time, something inside him snapped. He couldn’t do it any more. I guessed he confronted Buchan at the Bengal Club that night, told him he wanted out and that he was going to come clean. It was one thing to consort with prostitutes, but in race-obsessed Calcutta, I guessed siring a half-caste bastard child might be quite another. And if that was too much for his reputation, how much worse would it be if the world were to learn of his involvement in the death of the child and its mother? So MacAuley had to be silenced. But Buchan had an alibi. He’d been in the Bengal Club at the time of the murder…
‘Did you see the man who killed MacAuley sahib?’
Das shook his head. ‘Only Anjali saw. She told me.’
It didn’t matter. My suspicions about Buchan had been right. I now finally had the motive. As for who’d carried it out, well, I had my suspicions about that too.
I thanked Das and all but ran out of the house and back to the car. It was five p.m. and darkness was closing in. I ordered the driver to make for Cossipore thana. From there I placed a telephone call to Surrender-not at Lal Bazar. The line crackled as I waited an eternity while the desk sergeant tracked him down. Eventually Surrender-not came on the line.
‘What news, Sergeant?’
‘The results of the post-mortem are back, sir. They confirm that death was caused by the snapping of the neck, thus severing the spinal column.’
‘Where’s Digby?’
‘He’s not here, sir, but he left a message for you. He needs to see you urgently at the safe house in Bagh Bazaar. He claims to have received information that proves Sen’s innocence. He says you should come as soon as it’s dark.’
‘Fine,’ I said, ‘I’ll head straight there. You join me as soon as you can. And, Surrender-not, bring a gun.’
‘There’s one more thing, sir,’ said Surrender-not.
‘Let me guess,’ I said, ‘Mrs Bose has been transferred to Section H.’
‘How did you know?’ he said. ‘The paperwork came in from Government House a few hours ago.’