Tired of appearing in uniform and duly bathed, he dressed in plain clothes and sat down to an enormous breakfast. Government House, clearly suspended in an Edwardian vision of what such things should be, had provided egg, bacon, coffee, a rack of toast and – to crown everything – a plate of well-made porridge. He might have been breakfasting in Oxford in the nineties.
When he had worked through this and, lighting a cigarette, had stepped out on to the balcony, the khitmutgar appeared, salaaming.
‘The memsahib asks that you will visit her as soon as you are able to do so,’ he said. ‘And there is an individual downstairs to see you.’
‘An individual? What sort of individual?’
‘It is a Sikh havildar of police,’ he replied, managing to convey that a Sikh havjjdar of police waits until he is sent for.
Joe’s instinct was to say, ‘Show him up,’ but he decided that this would be a breach of protocol and asked that his visitor might be shown into an office where he could later come down and interview him after he had been announced to the memsahib.
Nancy greeted him with a beaming smile and, with a quick look round to assure herself that, for once, they were truly alone, advanced and put her arms round his neck. She kissed him firmly and said, ‘Good morning, Holmes. I see that Mrs Hudson has served you with one of Baker Street ’s best as well as me. Now tell me – what are your plans for today?’
‘Well,’ said Joe, ‘they were first to come and see how you are. No problem about that – you look absolutely blooming! How extraordinary! You’re supposed to look pale and woebegone – “Now by my morning sickness I have lost my virtue to this rude and rammish clown.” You know, all that sort of thing.’
‘Can’t be bothered,’ said Nancy. ‘You’re quite conceited enough already so I’ll merely say – you were wonderful! It was wonderful! I was wonderful – wasn’t I?’
‘Yes,’ said Joe.
And there was a washed and dewy freshness about her face that he had never seen before.
‘I’ll answer your question though as to what we’re doing today. Good Naurung awaits us downstairs.’
Suitably escorted they followed the khitmutgar down through the house, through the company rooms, through a discreet door into the offices at that early hour busy with Bengali clerks scribbling, chattering and bowing politely as they passed through.
Naurung greeted them with his usual self-sufficient deference. ‘I had thought, sahib,’ he began, ‘that we should speak to my father. He doesn’t have much to tell you but he was concerned – as a policeman, you understand – with the deaths of two of the ladies. Of Mrs Forbes and Mrs Simms-Warburton.’
‘Can you bring him to us?’ asked Joe.
‘I can certainly bring him to you but better, perhaps, that we should go to him. It is not far. He works outside the Law Courts. He is a letter-writer now that he has retired from the police. The letter-writers all talk to each other. It is what I think you would call a trade union. They know a lot.’
Joe turned to Nancy. ‘Shall we? Not too fatigued to attempt a little walk?’
Nancy gave him a repressive look and they set off into the mounting heat of the day to walk westwards along the Esplanade towards the red-brick gothic splendour of the Law Court building.
Naurung’s father was easily recognisable amongst the line of scribbling or tapping figures seated under the arcade. A Sikh turban marked him out from the rest and, given only the disparity of years, Naurung senior looked exactly like his son. He was at work. Joe paused for a while and watched. The old man’s client squatting on his heels in front of the smart new Remington typewriter leaned over and whispered urgently and volubly. Naurung listened and replied, obviously rephrasing what he had just heard, and then proceeded to tap out an agreed statement on his typewriter. Coming to the end of the letter, he wound the sheet out, read out what he had typed and handed it to his customer. Grateful thanks and a handful of coins were politely accepted and before the next client could shuffle forward, Naurung hailed his father and led them to him. He made the introductions in English and the old man turned to greet them in the same language.
‘I am honoured.’ he said, ‘that the police sahib from the Scotland Yard visits me in my humble place of business.’
‘I am honoured,’ said Joe, ‘that the renowned retired officer of police should set aside important concerns and spare a little time to illuminate the past for a London policeman but it has seemed to your son and it has seemed to me too that there may be thoughts that it would be sensible for us to share.’
‘I am of that opinion. But this is not a seemly place for such a discussion. Will you allow me a few minutes and I will be at your service?’
Naurung senior closed and locked his typewriter. He turned to the man on his left and addressed him at length. ‘He is an ignorant man and a humble man but he is honest and I will leave my typewriter and my place under his protection. Now, perhaps the sahib and the memsahib will follow me?’
Walking with Joe while Nancy and his son fell in behind, the old man led them north round two corners into a backstreet and to a staircase above which there was an inscription in Hindustani. ‘This,’ he said, ‘is a Sikh establishment and it is run by friends and relations of mine. Here we will be private.’ And he led them up a narrow staircase to a wide room from which arcaded windows led to a balcony and in which tea and a dish of sweetmeats appeared. It was clear to Joe that they had been expected. He sat down with Nancy at a table and Naurung’s father sat down opposite. Naurung himself took up a sentry-like stance at his father’s side and the old man listened with the closest attention to everything that Joe had to say but it was clear at intervals that he had lost the thread and when this happened Nancy intervened in translation and occasionally Naurung did the same. The conversation proceeded in English with intervals of Hindustani.
‘My son has told me all he knows of your investigation and I add this to the knowledge of the affair I have derived from my own experience when working with Bulstrode Sahib at Panikhat,’ the old man began. Joe thought he caught the ghost of an expression at the name Bulstrode, an expression he had seen many times on the face of the younger Naurung. Dislike? No – disdain. ‘I am aware of a disturbing implication,’ he said.
Nancy stumbled over the word and after a short debate Naurung supplied it.
‘I will explain. I think, outwardly, in Bengal all is calm. Money was made during the war and people – though not all people – are prosperous but the burra sahib – your uncle – is not a fool. He looks under the surface. He did not invite the distinguished police commander…’ He bowed to Joe. ‘He did not invite you, sir, for nothing, or just – excuse me – just to humour his niece. He has a long memory. He thinks of the past and he also thinks of the future. The decision to move the capital of India from Calcutta to Delhi is resented by educated people in Bengal. And there is much resentment still about the war. The English talk always of the gallantry of Indian soldiers in France and there are gallant legends. What we know is that of the “gallant” band who set off to France a very great number did not return. Look, if you do not believe me, at the casualty returns amongst Bateman’s Horse. It is believed that valuable Indian lives were squandered.’