Murder has arrived in India. But Captain Wyndham is on its tail.
Abir Mukherjee
Abir Mukherjee is the bestselling author of the award-winning Wyndham & Banerjee series of crime novels set in 1920s India. His thriller Hunted was shortlisted for the McIlvanney Prize and he is beloved by crime writers and critics alike. He also co-hosts the popular Red Hot Chilli Writers podcast which opens up the world of books, writing and the creative arts. Abir grew up in Scotland and now lives in Surrey with his wife and two sons.
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A Quick Reads Abridgement
This book is set in the 1920s, during British rule in India. Some characters use language that is nowadays considered offensive or inappropriate, but which is used here to help us to understand this period of history.
Wednesday, 9 April 1919
At least he was well dressed. Black tie, the works. If you’re going to get yourself killed, you may as well look your best.
In a few hours the smell would be unbearable; strong enough to turn the stomach of a Calcutta fishmonger.
He’d been discovered by a skinny little labourer out on his rounds. He’d found him lying in a dark dead-end alley.
Throat cut, limbs at unnatural angles, and a large brown bloodstain on a starched white shirt. An eye had been pecked out of its socket – the work of the large black crows who even now kept angry watch from the rooftops above.
Finally, there was the note. A bloodstained scrap of paper, balled up and forced into his mouth like a cork in a bottle.
A crowd of natives had gathered. Murder is good entertainment the world over. Here in Black Town you could sell tickets to see a dead white
man, or what the locals called a sahib. I looked on as Digby barked at some native constables to set up a cordon.
I knelt beside the body and patted it down. The inside breast pocket of the dinner jacket bulged and I reached in and pulled out a black leather wallet. Inside the wallet, creased from years of handling, there was a photograph of a young woman. I moved on to the ball of paper in the victim’s mouth. I pulled it out gently. Three lines were scrawled on one side. Black ink. Eastern lettering.
I called to Digby. He was a lean, blond son of the Empire; all military moustache and the air of one born to rule. He was also a lower rank than me, not that you could always tell.
‘Unusual for a sahib to be found murdered in this part of town,’ he said.
I handed him the scrap of paper. ‘What do you make of this?’
‘Looks like it’s in Bengali to me . . . sir.’
He spat out the final word. Being passed over for promotion is never easy. Having that promotion taken by an outsider, fresh off the boat from London, probably made it worse.
‘Can you read it?’ I asked.
‘It says: “No more warnings. English blood will run in the streets. Quit India!” ’
He handed back the note. ‘Looks like the work of terrorists,’ he said.
I wanted facts before jumping to conclusions. ‘I want a full search of the area,’ I said. ‘And I want to know who this is.’
‘Oh, I know who this is,’ he replied. ‘His name’s Alexander MacAuley. He’s an important person over at Writers’.’
‘Where?’
‘Writers’ Building, sir, is the Bengali seat of government. MacAuley is, or rather was, an aide to the Lieutenant Governor, no less. Makes it look even more like a political killing, doesn’t it, old boy?’
‘Just get on with the search,’ I sighed.
‘Yes, sir,’ he replied, saluting. He surveyed the scene, and went to find a young native sergeant. The Indian was staring intently up at a window overlooking the alley. ‘Sergeant Banerjee!’ Digby shouted. ‘Over here, please.’
The Indian hurried over and saluted.
‘Captain Wyndham,’ said Digby, ‘may I present Sergeant Surrender-not Banerjee. He and his ilk are the result of this government’s policy of increasing the number of natives in every branch of the administration, God help us.’
Banerjee looked at once both earnest and full of nerves, more like a poet than a policeman.
‘Sergeant,’ I said, ‘I want you to organise a fingertip search.’
‘Of course, sir,’ he replied in an accent straight off a Surrey golf course.
‘What were you staring at up there?’
‘I saw a woman watching us, sir.’ He blinked.
‘Banerjee,’ said Digby, stabbing a thumb in the direction of the crowd, ‘there are a hundred bloody people watching us.’
‘Yes, sir, but this lady froze when she saw me, then disappeared inside.’
‘Okay,’ I said. ‘Once you’ve got the search underway, you and I will go over there and see if we can’t have a chat with your lady friend.’
‘You go barging over there to interrogate some woman and before you know it, you’ll have a riot on your hands,’ said Digby.
Banerjee squirmed.
Digby’s face darkened. ‘Is there something you wish to say, Sergeant?’
‘It’s just that I don’t think anyone will start a riot if we go in there. I’m fairly sure that house is a brothel.’
An hour later, Banerjee and I stood outside the entrance to number 47 Maniktollah Lane.
Banerjee rapped loudly. ‘Police! Open up!’
The thin wooden door finally opened a crack.
A shrivelled old native led us down a long, darkened hallway. The air was cool and heavy with the scent of incense.
We were shown into a large, well-appointed drawing room. A large green punkah fan hung stiffly from the ceiling and light streamed in from a courtyard outside.
A few minutes later, the door opened and a middle-aged Indian woman entered. Twenty years ago she’d have been considered a beauty. A full figure, coffee-coloured skin and made-up brown eyes.
‘Namaskar, gentlemen,’ she said, pressing her hands together in greeting. ‘Please sit.’
She introduced herself as Mrs Bose, the owner of the house.
‘My manservant tells me you have some questions?’
She walked over and reclined elegantly on the sofa. As if on cue, the punkah ceiling fan started swaying, delivering a welcome breeze.
‘You will have some tea, yes?’ Mrs Bose enquired. ‘Now, how can I help you, gentlemen?’
‘My name is Captain Wyndham,’ I said, ‘and this is Sergeant Banerjee. I take it you’re aware that there has been an incident in the alley next door?’
She smiled politely. ‘Perhaps you could enlighten me as to what’s actually happened?’
‘A man has been murdered.’
‘Murdered?’ she said, blankly. ‘Forgive me, gentlemen,’ she went on, ‘but people are killed in this part of the city every day. Why all the fuss this time?’
The fuss was because it was an Englishman who’d been murdered.
‘Madam, did you see or hear anything strange in the alley last night?’
She shook her head. ‘I hear strange noises coming from that alley every night. But if you’re asking if I heard a man being murdered, then the answer is no.’
I suspected she was hiding something.
‘Have there been any gatherings in the neighbourhood by people looking to cause trouble?’ I asked.
‘Quite possibly, Captain. This is Calcutta, after all. A city of a million Bengalis with nothing better to do than talk about revolution. But to answer your question, no, I am not aware of any revolutionary gatherings.’
Mrs Bose rose. ‘I’m sorry, gentlemen, I really can’t help you.’
‘You might wish to reconsider, Mrs Bose,’ I said. ‘The sergeant has told me what sort of place you run here.’
She chose her next words carefully. ‘Captain
Wyndham, I am perfectly happy to help you in any way I can. But I honestly didn’t see or hear anything unusual last night.’
‘In that case,’ I said, ‘you won’t mind us questioning anyone else who was in the house at the time?’
The maid entered with a silver tray.
Mrs Bose poured tea into three cups. ‘You may speak to whomever you wish.’
She pressed the brass button on the wall. The door opened and four slim young girls entered the room.
‘Captain Wyndham,’ said Mrs Bose, ‘allow me to introduce my household to you.’ She gestured towards the girls. ‘Saraswati, Lakshmi, Devi and Sita.’
‘Mrs Bose,’ I said, ‘please ask them if they saw or heard any disturbance in the alley last night.’
Mrs Bose put the question to them. I looked at Banerjee. He was staring fixedly at Devi.
One by one, each of them said no: ‘Nahin.’
I wasn’t convinced. They would have been up most of the night with clients.
I turned to Banerjee. ‘Sergeant, please repeat the question to each of the four girls in turn.’
I watched the girls as they replied. Saraswati, Lakshmi and Sita answered ‘ nahin ’. Devi hesitated for a second, looked away, but then
also answered ‘nahin’. The hesitation was all I needed.
Devi was the one we needed to talk to. But not now. We’d have to speak to her alone.
‘Unfortunately, it seems we cannot help you, Captain,’ said Mrs Bose.
‘It would appear so,’ I replied, rising from the sofa. Banerjee followed my lead. If Mrs Bose was relieved, she hid it well. Calm as a lotus flower on a lake.
We left the house and returned to the blazing heat. The body was still there, covered by a dirty sheet, but I could see an olive-green ambulance truck threading its way towards us. A constable was shouting for the crowd to clear the way.
He saluted. ‘Captain Wyndham, sir?’ I nodded.
‘Sir, your presence is requested immediately by Commissioner Taggart.’
By now, the ambulance had stopped at the cordon and two Indian orderlies lifted the body onto a stretcher and loaded it into the ambulance.
I asked Banerjee to join me as I headed back to the car.
‘How’d you know that house was a brothel, Sergeant?’
‘I asked a few of the locals about the surrounding buildings.’
‘And the woman you saw at the window?’
‘It was the one she called Devi.’
‘You don’t think it was her real name?’
‘It’s possible sir, but I understand it’s not unusual for such girls to work under fake names.’
‘True enough, Sergeant,’ I said, adding drily, ‘I congratulate you on your knowledge of whores.’
The young man’s ears reddened.
‘Do you think she saw something?’
‘She denied it, sir. But I think she’s lying and, if I may give my opinion, sir, I think you do too. What I don’t understand is why you didn’t question her further?’
‘Patience, Sergeant,’ I said.
By now we were on the outskirts of White Town. Wide avenues were bordered by imposing mansions. These were the homes of merchant princes made rich from trade in everything from cotton to opium.
‘Unusual name, “Surrender-not”,’ I said.
‘My real name is Surendranath, sir,’ replied Banerjee. ‘Unfortunately Sub-inspector Digby found the pronunciation beyond him.’
I asked him about himself.
His father was a Calcutta lawyer who had wanted his son to pursue a career in the Indian