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In loving memory of my father-in-law,

Manharlal Devjeebhai Mistry,

Bapu

For Sonal,

for everything

You can’t make an omelette without breaking heads.

ONE

Friday 18 June 1920

It’s not often you see a man with a diamond in his beard. But when a prince runs out of space on his ears, fingers and clothes, I suppose the whiskers on his chin are as good a place as any.

The massive mahogany doors of Government House had opened on the stroke of midday and out they’d glided: a menagerie of maharajas, nizams, nawabs and others; all twenty of them draped in silk, gold, precious gems and enough pearls to sink a squadron of dowager countesses. One or two claimed descent from the sun or the moon; others from one of a hundred Hindu deities. We just lumped them all together and called them the princes.

These twenty were from the kingdoms closest to Calcutta. Across India there were more than five hundred of them, and together they were rulers of two fifths of the country. At least that’s what they told themselves, and it was a fiction we were only too happy to endorse, just so long as they all sang ‘Rule Britannia’ and swore allegiance to the King Emperor across the seas.

They processed like gods, in strict order of precedence, with the Viceroy at their head, into the blistering heat and towards the shade of a dozen silk parasols. On one side, behind a solid red line of turbaned soldiers of the Viceregal bodyguard, stood a scrum of royal advisers, civil servants and assorted hangers-on. And behind all of them stood Surrender-not and me.

A sudden burst of cannon fire – a salute from the guns on the lawn – sent a murder of crows shrieking from the palm trees. I counted the blasts: thirty-one in total, an honour reserved solely for the Viceroy – no native prince ever merited more than twenty-one. It served to underline the point that in India, this particular British civil servant outranked any native, even one descended from the sun.

Like the cannons, the session the princes had just attended was purely for show. The real work would be done later by their ministers and the men of the Indian Civil Service. For the government of the Raj, the important thing was that the princes were here, on the lawn, for the group photograph.

The Viceroy, Lord Chelmsford, shuffled along in full ceremonial regalia. He never seemed quite comfortable in it, and it made him look like the doorman at Claridge’s. For a man who normally resembled a malnourished undertaker, he’d scrubbed up pretty well, but next to the princes he appeared as drab as a pigeon in a field full of peacocks.

‘That one,’ Surrender-not replied, nodding towards a tall, fine-featured individual in a pink silk turban. The prince we were here to see had been third down the stairs and was first in line to the throne of a kingdom tucked away in the wilds of Orissa, somewhere to the south-west of Bengal. His Serene Highness the Crown Prince Adhir Singh Sai of Sambalpore had requested our presence – or rather, Surrender-not’s presence. They’d been at Harrow together. I was here only because I’d been ordered to attend. It was a direct command from Lord Taggart, the Commissioner of Police, who claimed it was a request from the Viceroy himself. ‘These talks are of paramount importance to the government of the Raj,’ he’d intoned, ‘and Sambalpore’s agreement is vital to their success.’

It was hard to believe Sambalpore could be vital to anything. Even finding it on a map – obscured as it was under the ‘R’ of ‘ORISSA’ – took a magnifying glass and a degree of patience that I seemed to lack these days. The place was tiny, the size of the Isle of Wight, with a population to match. And yet here I was, about to eavesdrop on a chat between its crown prince and Surrender-not because the Government of India had deemed it a matter of imperial importance.

The princes took their places around the Viceroy for the official photograph. The most important were seated on gilded chairs, with the lesser figures standing behind them on a bench. Prince Adhir was seated to the Viceroy’s right. The princes made uncomfortable small talk as the furniture was adjusted. A few tried to slip away but were shepherded back into position by harassed-looking civil servants. Eventually the photographer called for attention. The princes duly ceased their chatter and faced forwards: flashbulbs popped, capturing the scene for posterity, and finally they were given their freedom.

There was a spark of recognition as Crown Prince Adhir spotted Surrender-not. He extricated himself from a conversation with a rotund maharaja wearing the contents of a bank vault on his person and a tiger skin on his shoulder, and made his way over. He was tall and fair skinned for an Indian, with the bearing of a cavalry officer or a polo player. By the standards of the princes around him, he was dressed rather plainly: a pale blue silk tunic studded with diamond buttons and tied at the waist by a golden cummerbund, white silk trousers and black Oxford brogues, polished to a shine. His turban was held in place with a clip studded with emeralds and a sapphire the size of a goose egg.

If Lord Taggart was to be believed, the prince’s father, the Maharaja, was the fifth richest man in India. And everyone knew that the richest man in India was also the richest man in the world.

‘Bunty Banerjee!’ he exclaimed, his arms held wide. ‘How long has it been?’

Bunty – I’d never heard anyone call Surrender-not that before, and I’d shared lodgings with him for a year. He’d kept that particular nom de guerre a secret, and I didn’t blame him. If anyone at school had seen fit to christen me Bunty, I’d hardly be advertising the fact myself. Of course Surrender-not wasn’t his real name either. It had been bestowed upon him by a colleague when he’d joined the Imperial Police Force. His parents had named him Surendranath: it meant king of the gods; and while I could make a fair stab at the correct Bengali pronunciation, I never could get it quite right. He’d told me it wasn’t my fault. He’d said the English language just didn’t possess the right consonants – it lacked a soft ‘d’, apparently. According to him, the English language lacked a great many things.

‘An honour to see you again, Your Highness,’ said Surrender-not with a slight nod.

The prince looked pained, the way the aristocracy often do when they pretend they want you to treat them like ordinary folk. ‘Come now, Bunty, I think we can dispense with the formalities. And who is this?’ he asked, proffering me a jewel-encrusted hand.

‘Allow me to introduce Captain Wyndham,’ said Banerjee, ‘formerly of Scotland Yard.’

‘Wyndham?’ the prince repeated. ‘The fellow who captured that terrorist, Sen, last year? You must be the Viceroy’s favourite policeman.’

Sen was an Indian revolutionary who’d been on the run from the authorities for four years. I’d arrested him for the murder of a British official and been all but declared a hero of the Raj. The truth was rather more complex, but I had neither the time nor the will to correct the story. More importantly, I didn’t have the permission of the Viceroy, who’d declared the whole matter subject to the Official Secrets Act of 1911. Instead, I smiled and shook the prince’s hand.

‘Please,’ he said affably, ‘call me Adi. All my friends do.’ He thought for a moment. ‘Actually, I’m rather glad you’re here. There’s a matter of some delicacy that I wished to discuss with Bunty, and the opinion of a man with your credentials could prove most valuable. Just the ticket, in fact.’ His face brightened. ‘Your presence must be divinely inspired.’

I could have told him it was inspired more by the Viceroy than by God, but in British India that was pretty much the next best thing. If the prince wanted to talk to me, it at least saved me from hanging around eavesdropping like an Indian mother on the night of her son’s wedding.

With a click of his fingers, he summoned a gentleman who stood close by. The man was bald, bespectacled and nervous – like a librarian lost in a dangerous part of town – and though finely dressed, he lacked the swagger, not to mention the jewellery, of a prince.

‘Alas, this isn’t an appropriate juncture for such a discussion,’ said the prince as the man hurried over. ‘Maybe you and Bunty would care to accompany me back to the Grand where we can discuss matters more comfortably.’

It didn’t sound like a question. I suspected many of the prince’s orders were similarly framed. The bald man performed a low bow before him.

‘Oh good,’ said the prince wearily, ‘Captain Wyndham, Bunty, I’m pleased to introduce Harish Chandra Davé, the Dewan of Sambalpore.’

Dewan means prime minister, pronounced by the Indians as divan, like the sofa.

‘Your Highness,’ said the Dewan, grinning obsequiously as he straightened up. He was sweating; we all were, except, it seemed, the prince. The Dewan glanced quickly at Banerjee and me. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a red cotton handkerchief and proceeded to mop his glistening forehead. ‘If I may have a word in private, I—’

‘If this is about my decision, Davé,’ said the prince testily, ‘I’m afraid it is final.’

The Dewan gave an embarrassed shake of his head. ‘If I may, Your Highness, I very much doubt that would be in alignment with His Highness your father’s intentions.’

The prince sighed. ‘And I very much doubt my father would give two figs about the whole show. What’s more, my father isn’t here. Unless he or the Viceroy has seen fit to elevate you to the position of Yuvraj, I suggest you follow my wishes and get to work.’

The Dewan mopped his brow once again and bowed low before backing away like a whipped dog.

‘Bloody bureaucrat,’ the prince muttered under his breath. He turned to Surrender-not, ‘He’s a Gujarati, would you believe, Bunty, and he thinks he’s smarter than everyone else.’

The prince afforded him a wry smile. ‘Well, in terms of these talks, and for his own sake, I hope he sticks to my orders.’

From the precious little I’d gleaned from Lord Taggart, the talks related to the establishment of something called the Chamber of Princes. It might have sounded like the title of a Gilbert and Sullivan opera, but the Chamber of Princes was His Majesty’s Government’s latest bright idea to assuage the growing clamour from the natives for Home Rule. It was billed as an Indian House of Lords – a powerful Indian voice in Indian matters – and all the native princes were being invited, in the strongest terms, to join. I could see a certain twisted logic to it. After all, if there was one group in India more out of touch with the popular mood among the natives than us, it was five hundred or so fat and feckless princes. If indeed there were any natives who were on our side, it was probably them.

The prince laughed coolly. ‘Absolute eyewash, the whole bally lot of it. It’ll be nothing more than a talking shop. The people will see right through it.’

‘On the contrary,’ he smiled, ‘I expect it’ll sail through and be up and running by next year. Of course, the big boys – Hyderabad, Gwalior and the like – won’t join. It would compromise the fiction that they are real countries, and I’ll be damned if Sambalpore signs up. But the others, the little fellows – Cooch Behar, the smaller Rajputs and the northern states – they’ll practically beg for entry. Anything to aggrandise their own positions. I’ll say one thing for you British,’ he continued, ‘you certainly know how to appeal to our vanity. We’ve surrendered this land to you and for what? A few fine words, fancy titles and scraps from your table over which we bicker like bald men fighting over a comb.’

‘What about the other eastern principalities?’ asked Surrender-not. ‘From what I understand, they tend to follow Sambalpore’s lead in most things.’

‘That’s true,’ the prince responded, ‘and quite possibly they will this time too, but only because we bankroll them. Given the choice, though, I expect they’d all be in favour.’

On the far side of the gardens the military band started up and, as the familiar strains of ‘God Save the King’ drifted across the lawns, princes and commoners alike stood and turned to face the band. Many began to sing, though not the prince, who for the first time looked somewhat less serene than his title suggested.

‘Time to beat a retreat, I think,’ he said. ‘From the look of it, the Viceroy’s winding up to give one of his celebrated speeches and I for one don’t plan on wasting any more of this fine day listening to him … Unless you’d rather stay?’

I had no objections. The Viceroy had all the charisma of a wet rag. Earlier in the year I’d had the pleasure of sitting through one of his speeches at a passing-out parade for new officers, and I had no great desire to repeat the experience.

‘It’s settled then,’ said the prince. ‘We’ll stay for the rest of the song and then be on our merry way.’

The final notes of the anthem faded away and the guests returned to their conversations as the Viceroy strode towards a dais that had been erected on the grass.

‘Now’s the hour,’ the prince exclaimed. ‘Let’s go while there’s still time.’ He turned and headed up the path, back towards the building, with Surrender-not at his side and me bringing up the rear. Several civil service heads turned towards us in consternation as the Viceroy commenced his address, but the prince paid them as much attention as the proverbial elephant does a pack of jackals.

He seemed to know his way around the maze that was Government House and after passing through serried ranks of turbaned attendants manning several sets of doors, we exited the residence, this time down the red carpet on the main stairs at the front of the building.

Our premature departure seemed to have taken the prince’s retinue by surprise. There was a flurry of activity as a bull of a man dressed in a scarlet tunic and black trousers frantically barked orders at several flunkeys. From his uniform, bearing and the decibels emanating from his throat, the man might have easily been mistaken for a colonel of the Scots Guards. If he hadn’t been sporting a turban, that is.

The man was built like the north face of Kanchenjunga and sported an expression that was just as icy. His skin was bronzed and weathered and his eyes were a startling greyish green. Together they pointed to a man of the mountains, a man with at least some Afghan blood in his veins. Most striking, though, was his facial hair, which he wore in the style of the Indian warriors of old: his beard close cropped and his moustache short, waxed and turned up at the ends.

‘The car has been summoned, Your Highness,’ he said in a clipped tone. ‘It will be here shortly.’

‘Good.’ The prince nodded. ‘I’ve the devil’s own thirst. The sooner we get back to the Grand, the better.’

A silver open-topped Rolls-Royce pulled up and a liveried footman ran over and opened the door. There was a moment’s hesitation. There were five of us including the chauffeur – one too many. In normal circumstances we could have managed three in the back and two in the front, but the prince didn’t seem the type who dealt much with normal circumstances. In any case, this was hardly the sort of car for such an unseemly crush. The prince himself suggested the solution.

The hulking ADC clicked his heels and made his way round to the driver’s side.

‘You can sit back here with me, Bunty,’ said the prince as he made himself comfortable on the red leather banquette. ‘The captain can sit up front with Shekar.’

Surrender-not and I both did as requested and the car immediately set off, up the long gravel driveway between the rows of palms and manicured lawns.

The Grand Hotel was situated mere minutes from the East Gate of the residence, but for security reasons, only the North Gate was currently open. The car sailed through and almost immediately came to a halt: the roads east from there were closed. Instead, the ADC reversed and headed down Government Place and onto Esplanade West.

I turned around in my seat to better face Banerjee and the prince. I wasn’t used to sitting in the front. The prince seemed to read my thoughts.

‘Take the three of us,’ he said, ‘a prince, a police inspector and a sergeant. On the face of it, our relative positions in the pecking order seem clear. But things are rarely that simple.’

He pointed towards the gates of the Bengal Club, which we were passing on our left. ‘I may be a prince, but the colour of my skin precludes me from entering that august institution, and the same goes for Bunty here. You, though, an Englishman, would have no such problem. In Calcutta all doors are open to you. Suddenly our hierarchy has changed somewhat, no?’

‘But that’s not the end of it,’ he continued. ‘Our friend Bunty is a Brahmin. As a member of the priestly caste, he outranks even a prince, let alone, I fear, a casteless English policeman.’ The prince smiled. ‘Once more our hierarchy changes, and who is to say which of the three is most legitimate?’

‘A prince, a priest and a policeman drive past the Bengal Club in a Rolls-Royce …’ I said. ‘It sounds like the opening to a not very amusing joke.’

‘On the contrary,’ said the prince. ‘If you think about it, it is actually most amusing.’

I turned my attention to the road. The route we were taking was in completely the opposite direction to that of the Grand Hotel. I’d no idea how well the ADC knew the streets of Calcutta, but first impressions suggested about as well as I knew the boulevards of Timbuktu.

‘I do,’ he said. ‘Unfortunately the roads towards Chowringhee are closed for a religious procession. We are therefore required to take an alternative route through the Maidan.’

Though this seemed an odd choice, it was a pleasant day and there were worse ways of spending it than cruising through the park in a Rolls-Royce. In the rear, Surrender-not was in conversation with the prince.

‘I’ve received some letters,’ he said, fiddling with the diamond collar button on his silk tunic. ‘It’s probably nothing, but when I heard from your brother that you’re now a detective sergeant, I thought I might seek your advice.’

‘To be honest, calling them letters affords them an importance they hardly deserve. They’re just notes.’

‘They’re in my suite,’ said the prince. ‘You’ll see them soon enough. Although why aren’t we there yet?’ He turned irritably to his ADC. ‘What’s going on, Shekar?’

‘And how did you receive them? I take it that one doesn’t just post a letter to the Crown Prince of Sambalpore, care of the royal palace?’

‘That’s the curious thing,’ replied the prince. ‘Both had been left in my rooms: the first under the pillows in my bed; the second in the pocket of a suit. And both said the same thing …’

The car slowed as we approached the sharp left turn onto Chowringhee. From out of nowhere, a man in the saffron robes of a Hindu priest leaped out into our path. He was little more than an orange blur. The car came shuddering to a halt and he seemed to have disappeared under the front axle.

‘Did we hit him?’ asked the prince, rising from his position on the back seat. The ADC cursed, flung open his door and jumped out. He hurried round to the front and I saw him kneel over the prone man. Then came a thud, the sickening sound of something heavy connecting with flesh and bone, and the ADC seemed to collapse.

‘My God!’ exclaimed the prince. From his standing position, he had a better view of the situation. I threw open my door, but before I could move, the man in saffron had stood up. He had wild eyes between dirty, matted hair, an unkempt beard and what looked like streaks of ash smeared vertically on his forehead. In his hand an object glinted and my insides turned to ice.

‘Get down!’ I shouted to the prince while fumbling with the button on my holster, but he was like a rabbit hypnotised by a cobra. The attacker raised his revolver and fired. The first shot hit the car’s windscreen with a crack, shattering the glass. I turned to see Surrender-not desperately grabbing at the prince, trying to pull him down.

As the next two shots rang out, I knew they would find their mark. Both hit the prince squarely in the chest. For a few seconds he just stood there, as though he really was divine and the bullets had passed straight through him. Then blotches of bright crimson blood began to soak through the silk of his tunic and he crumpled, like a paper cup in the monsoon.

TWO

My first thought was to tend to the prince, but there was no time, not while there were still bullets left in the assassin’s gun.

I rolled out of my seat and onto the roadside just as he fired a fourth shot. I couldn’t say where the bullet ended up, only that it hadn’t passed through me. I dived back behind the Rolls’s open door as the assailant fired once more. The bullet struck the car just in front of my face. I’ve seen bullets rip through sheet metal as if it was no more than tissue paper, so it seemed a miracle when this one failed to penetrate the door. Later, I’d learn that the prince’s Rolls was plated with solid silver. Money well spent.

I shifted position, expecting a sixth shot, but instead came the wonderful click of an empty gun. That suggested a revolver with only five chambers or an assassin with only five bullets, and though the former was rare, the latter was unheard of. I’d never yet met a professional killer who skimped on ammunition. Taking my chance, I pulled my Webley from its holster, rose, fired, and missed, the bullet splintering the trunk of a nearby tree. The attacker was already running.

On the back seat, Surrender-not was kneeling over the prince, trying to staunch the flow of blood from the man’s chest with his shirt. At the front of the car, Colonel Arora rose unsteadily to his feet and put one hand to his bloodied scalp. He’d been lucky. His turban seemed to have absorbed much of the blow. Without it, he might not have got up quite so quickly – or at all.

‘Get the prince to a hospital!’ I shouted to him, as I sprinted after the attacker. The man had a head start of about twenty-five yards and had already made it to the far side of Chowringhee.

He’d chosen the location of his attack well. Chowringhee was an odd street. The opposite pavement was one of the busiest thoroughfares in town, its boutiques, hotels and colonnaded arcade packed with pedestrians. This side, however, open to the sun and bordered only by the open expanse of the Maidan, was generally deserted. The only people on this side of the road were a couple of coolies, and they weren’t exactly the sort who came running to help at the sound of gunshots.

I chased after the assassin, narrowly avoiding several cars as I raced across the four lanes of traffic. I’d have lost him in the throng outside the whitewashed walls of the Indian Museum if it hadn’t been for his bright orange robes. Firing into the crowd was too dangerous. In any case, taking a shot at someone dressed as a Hindu holy man in front of so many people would have been madness. I had enough to worry about without instigating a religious riot.

The assassin dived into the maze of lanes that ran off to the east of Chowringhee. He was in good shape, or at least better shape than I was, and if anything, the distance between us was lengthening. I reached the top of the lane, tried to catch my breath and shouted at him to stop. I didn’t hold out any real hope – it’s not often that an assassin armed with a gun and a good head start does the decent thing and heeds such a request, but to my surprise, the man did just that. He stopped, spun round, raised his gun and fired. He must have reloaded on the run. Pretty impressive. I threw myself to the ground in time to hear the bullet explode into the wall beside me, sending shards of brick and powder into the air. I scrambled to my feet and returned fire, again hitting nothing more than air. The man turned and fled into the labyrinth of streets. He turned left into an alley and I lost sight of him. I kept running. From ahead of me came a strange rumble: the sound of massed voices and the rhythmic beating of drums. Emerging from the lane, I turned the corner onto Dharmatollah Street and came to a dead stop. The wide thoroughfare was jammed with people, natives to a man. The roar was deafening. Voices were chanting in time with the drums. Towards the head of the throng was a monstrous wheeled contraption, three storeys tall and resembling a Hindu temple. The thing was moving slowly, pulled along by a mass of men hauling ropes a hundred feet long. I searched frantically for the assassin, but it was no use. The scrum was too thick and too many of them wore saffron shirts. The man had disappeared.

THREE

‘How the hell am I supposed to explain this to the Viceroy?’ roared Lord Taggart, slamming his fist down on his desk. ‘The crown prince of a sovereign state is gunned down in broad daylight while in the presence of two of my officers, who not only fail to stop it, but also allow the assassin to escape scot-free!’ The vein in his left temple looked ready to burst. ‘I’d suspend the pair of you if the situation weren’t so serious.’

Surrender-not and I were seated in the Commissioner’s ample office on the third floor of police headquarters at Lal Bazar. I held Taggart’s gaze while Surrender-not concentrated on his shoes. The room felt uncomfortably hot, partly due to the roasting the Commissioner was handing out.

It wasn’t often he lost his rag, but I couldn’t blame him. Surrender-not and I had been working together for over a year now, and it was fair to say this wasn’t exactly our finest hour. Surrender-not was probably in shock from witnessing the death of his friend. And as for me, I was suffering from what felt like the onset of influenza, but which I knew heralded something quite different.

After losing the assassin, I’d made my way back to the Maidan to find the Rolls gone. Other than tyre marks on the concrete and some broken glass, there was precious little sign that anything had taken place. I’d scoured the grass verge, though, and found two shell casings. Pocketing them, I’d hailed a taxi and set off for the Medical College Hospital on College Street. It was the closest medical facility to the scene and the best in Calcutta. Surrender-not would have been sure to take the prince there.

It was all over by the time I arrived. The doctors had tried frantically to stabilise him, but the moment the bullets struck, the prince was as good as dead. There was little else to do but return to Lal Bazar and break the news to the Commissioner.

‘I chased him from Chowringhee,’ I replied, ‘through the back streets as far as Dharmatollah. I couldn’t shoot at him there on account of the crowds. Once in the alleys, I loosed off a shot or two.’

‘For Christ’s sake, Wyndham!’ he erupted. ‘You spent four years in the army. Surely you must have learned to shoot straight?’

I could have pointed out that I’d spent half of that time in military intelligence reporting directly to him. For most of the rest of the time I’d sat in a trench and done my damnedest to avoid being blown up by German shells that came out of nowhere. The truth was that in almost four years, I’d hardly shot anyone.

‘He continued running towards Dharmatollah Street,’ I replied, ‘where I lost him in some religious procession – thousands of people pulling some monstrous contraption.’

‘The procession that Captain Wyndham got caught up in, sir. It’s the Rath Yatra – the progress of the chariot of the Hindu deity, Lord Jagannath. Each year his chariot is pulled through the streets by thousands of devotees. At some point, the British confused the name of the god with his chariot. It’s from him that we derive the English word juggernaut.’

‘Lean, medium height, dark skin,’ I said. ‘Bearded, with long, matted hair that looked as though it hadn’t been washed in months. And he had some strange markings on his forehead: two lines of white ash, joined at the bridge of the nose, on either side of a thinner, red line.’

‘Does that mean anything to you, Sergeant?’ asked Taggart. When it came to native idiosyncrasies, the Commissioner, like me, had long since learned that it was best to ask one of their own.

‘It has a religious significance,’ replied Surrender-not. ‘Priests often wear such markings.’

‘Do you think the assassin might have something to do with that religious procession?’ asked Taggart.

‘It’s possible, sir,’ replied Surrender-not. ‘It may have been more than simple coincidence that he ran straight into the crowd on Dharmatollah.’

‘He was wearing saffron-coloured robes,’ I added. ‘There were a lot of them wearing saffron in the crowd.’

‘So this might have been a religious attack?’ surmised Taggart. He seemed almost relieved. ‘God, I hope so. Anything’s better than a political motive.’

‘But why would a religious extremist want to kill the Crown Prince of Sambalpore?’ asked Surrender-not. ‘In the time I knew him, I’d hardly have described him as religious.’

‘That’s for you and the captain here to find out,’ said Taggart. ‘And let’s not discount the religious angle. The Viceroy would prefer to hear that this is a religious attack and has nothing to do with his precious talks. Sambalpore brings with it almost a dozen other princely states and the Viceroy hopes this momentum will persuade some of the more recalcitrant middle-ranking kingdoms to sign up.’ He took off his spectacles, wiped them with a handkerchief and replaced them gently onto his face.

‘In the meantime, you two are going to catch this assassin and you’re going to do it in double-quick time. The last thing we need is a bunch of these maharajas and nabobs leaving town on the pretext that we can’t guarantee their safety.

‘The prince had received some letters that seemed to be troubling him. That’s why he wanted to meet Sergeant Banerjee today.’

‘No, sir. Though the prince informed us that he had them at his suite at the Grand Hotel.’

‘I’d like to interview the prince’s ADC and also the Dewan of Sambalpore, a chap called Davé. It looked like there might have been some tension between him and the prince. And I want to get a sketch of the attacker made up. We can get it in to tomorrow morning’s papers, both English and native. If he’s still in the city, hopefully someone will know where he is.’

At the opposite end of the corridor from Taggart’s office was a room that, it was rumoured, had the best views south over the city. It should have been occupied by a senior officer, but on account of the good light, it had been allocated to a civilian, the police force’s resident sketch artist, a diminutive Scotsman by the name of Wilson.

I knocked and entered to see a picture window and walls covered in pencil-sketches, the vast majority of them head-and-shoulders portraits of individuals, mostly men and mostly native. In the centre of the room, in front of an inclined desk, sat Wilson. He was a grizzled chap, with the pugnacious attitude of a terrier and a passion for beer and the Bible, indulging in the latter on a Sunday and devoting most other evenings to the former. Indeed, it was the coming together of the two that had led him to Calcutta in the first place. And after a round or three, he’d happily tell you his life story: of how, in his younger days, his ambition had been to drink his way from one end of the bar to the other in the Bon Accord public house in Glasgow, something he never quite managed without being hospitalised. In hospital he’d found God, and God, in what I presumed must have been a joke, had told him to come to Calcutta as a missionary, a task for which he was temperamentally unsuited, his eagerness for a punch-up being rather at odds with the missionary ethos, and in the end he’d parted ways with the brethren and somehow ended up sketching for the Bengal Police.

‘It’s no’ often we see you up here, Captain Wyndham,’ he said, with a grin on his face. He rose to his feet. ‘And the ever-faithful Sergeant Banerjee too! What a pleasure this is. Have ye come tae admire the view?’

‘We’ve come in search of a good artist,’ I said. ‘Do you know of any?’

‘You’re in luck, boys,’ he said. ‘Indian chaps are my forté. What’s your man done, by the way?’

‘That’s quite serious.’ He nodded sagely. ‘So where’s your eye-witness?’

He raised an eyebrow, then laughed. ‘You two? You were on the scene when the big cheese got knocked off?’

‘And you let the shooter get away? Christ almighty, Wyndham, a wee bit careless that, no? What did old Taggart have to say about it?’

‘Aye, I’ll bet he was. I’m sure he had some choice philosophical words for you. Swears like a docker does that one when he’s angry.’

‘His office is down the corridor, man. I can hear him! Christ, call yourself a detective? I’m surprised he’s no’ got the two of you on traffic duty, checkin’ the licences of rickshaw wallahs. Anyway, ye better get on wi’ describin’ the chap. I’ve got better things tae do, even if the two o’ you huvnae.’

I started on the description, the beard, the ash on the forehead. Eventually Wilson shook his head. ‘So you got given the slip by a priest? Good show, gentlemen. I wish I’d been there tae see it.’

‘Aye, and so was yer boss, here,’ he replied, pointing a charcoal-smeared finger at me.

In between the running commentary, Wilson sketched away, adjusting the subject’s hair or eyes in response to our comments. Finally I was satisfied.

‘I want both English and Bengali,’ I said, ‘and see if there are any Orissa papers published in town.’

‘I’m an artist, remember? You two clowns are meant tae be the detectives. You find out about the Orissa papers. In the meantime, I’ll get this out tae the usual suspects.’

‘Good luck, Wyndham,’ he said. ‘And Sergeant Banerjee, you really should stop hanging’ around wi’ the likes of the captain here. It’d be a shame tae see a talent like yours wasted on inspecting bullock carts.’

Surrender-not was silent as we sat in the back of a police car on the short journey from Lal Bazar to the Grand Hotel, his face as long as the bar at the Bengal Club. Not that I was much in the mood for conversation myself. Failing to prevent an assassination doesn’t naturally lend itself to pleasant discourse.

‘Well enough,’ replied Surrender-not. ‘He was in my brother’s year at Harrow, a few years senior to me. I caught up with him some time later when we were both up at Cambridge.’

‘Not particularly, though at school all the Indian boys gravitated to one another to some degree. Safety in numbers and all that. Adi may have been a prince, but to the English schoolboys he was just another darkie. I fear that those days made a deep impression on him.’

‘I was a decent bowler,’ he mused. ‘Boys tend to look past the colour of your skin if you can deliver a good off-cutter against Eton.’

The car passed under the colonnaded facade of the Grand Hotel and came to a stop in the courtyard outside the main entrance. A turbaned footman came smartly over and opened the door.

We made our way along an avenue of miniature palms, and into a glittering marble lobby smelling faintly of frangipani and furniture polish. At the far end of the spotless floor stood a mahogany desk manned by a native receptionist in morning coat and moustache. I showed him my warrant card and asked for the prince’s room.

‘It doesn’t have a room number, sir,’ he replied. ‘It’s a suite, sir. The Sambalpore Suite. It is permanently occupied by the State of Sambalpore.’

I couldn’t read his expression, what with his nose being so far in the air, but I got the impression he thought me an idiot. It’s always galling when a native talks down to you, but rather than remonstrate, I bit my tongue, thanked him and passed him a ten-rupee note. It paid to be on good terms with the staff at the best hotels in town. You never knew, one day one of them might feed you some useful information.

With Surrender-not in tow, I headed for the stairs, wondering exactly how much it might cost to permanently rent a suite at the Grand.

‘Captain Wyndham and Sergeant Banerjee to see Prime Minister Davé,’ I said.

The servant nodded, then led us towards a sitting room located at the far end of a long hallway.

The Sambalpore Suite was even more opulent than I’d imagined, finished in gold leaf and the white marble that seemed as common in Calcutta as red bricks are in London, its walls decorated with oriental artwork and tapestries. The whole exuded an elegance you didn’t often find in a hotel room, or at least not the type that I frequented.

Half a dozen doors led off the hallway, which suggested that the Sambalpore Suite was significantly larger than my lodgings. The rent was probably steeper too.

Leaving us at the entrance to the sitting room, the manservant retreated and went in search of the Dewan. Surrender-not took a seat on a gilded sofa embroidered in golden silk, one of those French ones, a Louis XIV or whatever, that are better appreciated from a distance than by sitting on them. I walked over to the windows and took in the view across the Maidan to the river beyond. To the south-west, only a few hundred yards from the hotel, I had a clear view of the spot where the crown prince had met his end. Mayo Road had been closed, the area roped off and a couple of native constables posted as sentries. Meanwhile, other officers were on their hands and knees, carrying out the fingertip search I’d ordered earlier, though I doubted there’d be much to add to the two shell casings I already had. I was no expert, but I’d seen my share of shell casings and I’d not come across this type before. They looked old. Probably pre war. Possibly pre twentieth century.

Surrender-not was mute on the sofa behind me. He was never exactly talkative – that was one of the things I liked about him – but there are various sorts of silence, and when you know someone well enough, you learn to discern the differences between them. He was still young, and though he’d killed a few people himself, some of them in order to save my own hide, he’d not yet experienced the trauma of seeing a friend gunned down before his eyes; of having to look on impotently as their lifeblood slowly drains away.

I, however, had experienced it far too many times and as a consequence, felt nothing.

From the corridor came the sound of raised voices. They grew louder then stopped abruptly. Moments later the door opened and the Dewan, his face ashen, walked into the room. Surrender-not stood to meet him.

‘Gentlemen,’ he said, ‘you don’t mind if we dispense with the pleasantries. As you can imagine, today’s events have been most … trying. I would be grateful for any assistance you could offer in terms of the repatriation of His Highness Prince Adhir’s remains.’

‘I’m afraid that’s not something we’ll be able to help with,’ I said. ‘Though I’m sure the prince’s body will be released to you as soon as is practicable.’

That didn’t seem to go down well with the Dewan, though it did bring some of the colour back to his cheeks.

‘His Highness the Maharaja has been informed of the tragic news and his orders are that his son’s remains be repatriated to Sambalpore without delay. There is to be no post-mortem and on no account should his body be further desecrated. The request has already been forwarded to the Viceroy and is non-negotiable.’

He seemed a different man from the lackey who’d been introduced to us at Government House earlier. Somewhere between then and now, he’d found time to grow a spine.

‘Naturally,’ he continued, ‘His Highness is anxious that the perpetrator or perpetrators of this heinous act are apprehended and punished with the utmost haste, and, in the interests of Anglo-Sambalpori relations, we ask to be kept fully informed of the progress of your investigation. A note to this effect has already been dispatched to the Viceroy and will no doubt be communicated to your superiors.’

‘With regard to the investigation,’ I interrupted, ‘there are some matters on which we would appreciate your help.’

‘Your disagreement with the crown prince this afternoon. What was it about?’

‘It’s the Hindi term for crown prince, sir,’ volunteered Surrender-not. ‘Technically he was the Yuvraj Adhir Singh Sai of Sambalpore.’

‘With respect, Prime Minister,’ I continued, ‘both the sergeant and I witnessed the altercation. There was clearly a disagreement over some aspect of the negotiations with the Viceroy.’

‘He was the Yuvraj,’ the Dewan sighed, ‘and I am a mere functionary, employed to enact the wishes of the royal family.’

‘But in your capacity as Prime Minister, surely you are also an adviser to the royal family? It appeared that your advice was at odds with the prince’s views.’

He smiled awkwardly. ‘The Yuvraj was a young man, Captain. And young men are often headstrong – a prince more than most. He was opposed to Sambalpore acceding to the Viceroy’s request to join the Chamber of Princes.’

‘If age affords us one gift,’ he continued, ‘it is a degree of wisdom. Sambalpore is a small state, blessed by the gods with a certain natural bounty, which means it has often been the subject of covetous glances from others. Let us not forget our history. Your own East India Company tried, on more than one occasion, to annex our kingdom. A state such as Sambalpore needs friends, and a voice at the top table. A seat in the Chamber of Princes would afford us such a voice.’

The Dewan pondered the question. ‘Obviously we will withdraw temporarily from the talks. Then, after a suitable period of mourning, I will discuss the matter once more with the Maharaja and,’ there was an almost imperceptible pause, ‘his other advisers.’

‘Certainly,’ he replied. ‘Those leftist radicals: troublemakers in league with the Congress Party. They would do anything to undermine the royal family’s hold on Sambalpore. The chief of the Sambalpore militia has been ordered to arrest the ringleaders.’

‘Did the prince mention to you that he had received certain letters recently?’

‘We don’t know,’ said Surrender-not, ‘but they seem to have unnerved him.’

‘In that case,’ replied the Dewan, ‘it is a matter for the colonel to explain.’

He pressed a brass button on the wall beside him. A bell sounded and the manservant returned.

Moments later, the door opened and in strode the ADC. He wore a fresh turban and sported a purple bruise the size of a hand grenade on the side of his head. He looked less formidable than before, as though the assassination of his master had physically knocked a couple of inches off him.

He raised a large hand to his swollen face. ‘The doctors do not believe there has been any fracturing of the skull,’ he said in a measured tone.

The Sikh glowered at him, before regaining his composure. ‘How can I help you, gentlemen?’

‘We need to ask you some questions about the attack,’ I said, directing him to a sofa.

It seemed, though, that the colonel preferred to stand. ‘You were there,’ he replied. ‘You saw everything I did.’

‘For the record,’ added Surrender-not by way of explanation, pulling out a yellow notebook and pencil from his breast pocket.

‘Let’s start from the beginning,’ I said. ‘When we left Government House, why did you choose that particular route back to the hotel? It was hardly the most direct.’

The ADC paused and licked his thin lips before answering. ‘The direct roads were all closed for the Rath Yatra. You saw as much.’

ALSO BY ABIR MUKHERJEE

A NECESSARY EVIL

Abir Mukherjee

ONE

Friday 18 June 1920

TWO

THREE