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The Pallampur Predicament

Crime Wave Press

Flat D, 11^th Fl. Liberty Mansion

26E Jordan Road

Yau Ma Tei, Hong Kong

http://www.crimewavepress.com

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without written permission from the publisher.

ISBN 978 988 13510 3 6

This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters,

and other elements of the story are either the

product of the author’s imagination

or else are used only fictitiously.

Any resemblance to real characters,

alive or dead, or to real incidents

is entirely coincidental.

Cover Design by Hans Kemp

One

Le Fanu wondered how this Madras day could be any worse. The weather was its only saving grace. This close to Christmas (an odd celebration in India, he thought) it was bearable, seventy-five degrees Fahrenheit with little humidity, by local standards anyway. Just as well, wearing full dress uniform on parade like this was torture. He had arrived in Madras seventeen years earlier, in 1905, to begin his Indian Police Service career. In the hottest weather back then, recruits “called” on the martinet wives of senior officers to be received into “society.” It was laughable, but serious. A “calling” faux pas blighted several careers because some of those women were far more frightening than their husbands. Most recruits fainted at some point, dressed in full morning suit and top hat while waiting outside a suburban gate to be received as the temperature climbed well past one hundred.

“Parade, Atten-SHUN!”

The command snapped him back. This display of police force along the Marina Beach front near Fort St. George was more about reminding the populace who was in control than honouring the troops being inspected by the Governor. The war years aside, 1922 was the most difficult Le Fanu had experienced since that first one. Indian National Congress leaders in the Madras Presidency followed Mahatma Gandhi’s Non Co-Operation campaign to the letter. Police, military and civil service personnel faced boycotts, demonstrations and withdrawal of services for months. Le Fanu’s barber of fifteen years refused to cut his hair, until a local Congress leader’s slight prompted the resumption of normal service.

Even now, corralled behind a military cordon but not bored let alone cowed after months of demonstrations, thousands of Madrasis and countryside recruits chanted slogans and waved placards at the police parade, and especially at the Governor:

“LEAVE INDIA!”

“INDIA FOR THE INDIANS”

“LONG LIVE MAHATMAJI”

“GO HOME!”

Dressed mostly in the simple, homespun cotton cloth Gandhi made the symbol of India’s struggle, they had arrived at the ground from all over the city and surrounding towns hours before the police. Wandering snack vendors kept up a steady supply for those needing food. Here and there, speakers addressed smaller groups, stirring opposition to the British presence. Street musicians boosted their meagre incomes. The assembled throng, growing by the minute, produced constant noise so that parade members could scarcely follow their commander’s shouted instructions. Le Fanu knew this crowd would remain for a long time. British rule in India faced its toughest challenge yet as demands grew for independence and self-rule.

Superintendent Christian Jolyon Brenton Le Fanu, MC, stood reluctantly in the parade’s front rank alongside Deputy Inspectors-General, the Commissioner and Assistant Commissioners. Trim enough; he was sturdy and six feet tall, fit from playing a lot of golf in the past two years because his empty house was especially unwelcoming at weekends. Under the police cap the hair remained fair if sporadically grey-flecked. His skin had not yet worn from the Indian climate. The grey eyes remained curious. As head of the innovative Crime Unit he was tolerated by most police officers, but despised by several, particularly the rotund, sweating figure accompanying the Governor around the ranks.

Inspector-General Arthur Jepson had once been Le Fanu’s district boss, and that had ended badly. A couple of years ago he was then the surprise, compromise choice as Commissioner of Police for the city. He clashed again with Le Fanu, himself appointed by the previous I-G, Sir Maurice Wilson, to head the Crime Unit that used investigation methods created by the Austrian criminologist, Hans Gross. Jepson hated the idea, the unit, the methods and Le Fanu, not necessarily in that order. However, the unit’s continuing success blunted Jepson’s attack. He tolerated Le Fanu’s team, but with ill will and constant threats of closure. Adding to Le Fanu’s pain, Jepson somehow became I-G. Wilson was forced to retire, taking blame for shooting deaths caused by Jepson’s incompetence at a demonstration. Le Fanu and Jepson had sparred regularly since.

Jepson and the Governor walked slowly along the first rank as crowd noise escalated further. When the pair reached Le Fanu, the Governor stopped.

“Morning, Le Fanu. All well?”

“Your Excellency. Yes, thank you, sir.”

“Good man, your unit’s doing excellent work. Pity Special Branch wasn’t doing likewise. We’d have less of that racket if it was.” He gestured towards the demonstrators now straining to breach the cordon of police and military personnel holding them back.

Le Fanu watched Jepson’s legendary temper rise to the imagined personal cut. The Governor spoke his mind. Since arriving in Madras four years earlier, Willingdon had constantly derided the Presidency’s conservative civil service and its opposition to political reform.

“Jepson,” continued the Governor, peering from underneath the curved black velvet hat topped with ostrich plumes that crowned the ostentatious uniform, “please spare Le Fanu immediately after this little display. I need his advice. Le Fanu, could you come to Government House at, say, eleven this morning?”

They all knew it was command rather than request, Jepson livid at being excluded. He held back as the Governor moved on.

“Le Fanu, as soon as you leave that meeting, you report to me. That clear?”

As Humpty Dumpty already fallen stomped away, fuming, Le Fanu sensed the arrival of a case complicated more by internal dispute and suspicion than by external villainy. If the Governor was involved, that was inevitable.

After another half hour of preening, the parade was dismissed. The Governor was driven off in a recently purchased Rolls Royce. That, thought Le Fanu, summed up the British image problem. The Government announced serious economic woes for the Presidency and prospective cuts to services at exactly the time the car turned up. Its cost would keep several villages, perhaps even a district or two going for a decade or more. It gave the local Congress yet another opportunity to castigate British rule as insensitive, uncaring and unwelcome.

Crowds streamed along the road and the sands, reinforcing the unwelcome message to departing police. Placards were waved vigorously, noise levels raised even further. Looking on nervously, armed guards awaited their own orders to retire, alert to any sign of a surge among the demonstrators. The human wall was holding, just. Tension rose, nerves were tested. Several recent demonstrations had ended in gunfire, and deaths. One untimely move and the same could happen here.

Le Fanu ran his fingers inside the stiff collar, trying to ease chafing caused by the sweat worked up even on this mild day. He removed his officer’s cap, clamped it under his arm and used his free hand to brush back the still-thick hair. At his fortieth birthday three months ago, he found himself staring into the mirror, wondering how he looked and what he was doing with his life.

That introspection passed, but some reflections remained. A parade started any day poorly, let alone one when a messy problem had already thumped on to his desk. Was this what he wanted to do for the next ten or fifteen years, even if the politics allowed? He was still considering that and other options when up rolled a squat, dark, beaming uniformed man with a flourishing beard and short, black, brushed back hair.

“Good morning, sir. Did you enjoy the parade?”

Le Fanu laughed. “Good morning Habi. Of course not. Did you?”

“Not at all, sir. We might’ve been off catching criminals.”

Sergeant Mohammad Habibullah had joined Le Fanu at the Crime Unit when it had started and he, too, was despised by Jepson and other conservatives. Not only was Habi Indian but Muslim to boot, and in Jepson’s narrow view unfit for positions best held by British personnel. To make it worse, Habi was a brilliant and therefore untouchable detective. He had spent two years at a minor English public school before the war and had developed perfect, idiomatic English to match his fluent Hindi, Telugu and Tamil. By rights, thought Le Fanu, Habi should be an officer already but that would not happen while Jepson was I-G, even though the sergeant had solved several difficult cases.

“I see you had an audience with the Governor, sir.” The smile widened.

“Very observant, Habi. I’m bidden to see him at GH shortly.”

“And I’m assuming the I-G stayed just that little bit longer to instruct you to report to him immediately at the conclusion of said audience?”

Le Fanu appreciated shrewdness, it made Habi an excellent policeman. When India gained independence, people like Habi would make it work. Le Fanu was in a Madras minority, of one he sometimes thought: Europeans who thought India should gain autonomy soon and full independence eventually. Its people were ready and the British bereft of ideas. That view ensured his unpopularity. Too many Europeans considered his support for Indian colleagues as a betrayal of the British cause, whatever that was now. His unpopularity was greater still within the small European civil community clinging doggedly to a rapidly fading way of life. Indians no longer obeyed the British unquestionably. More and more asked questions the British rarely had answers for. That added numbers and momentum to Gandhi’s movement and prompted further political debate.

“Right again, Habi. He’s angry about not being invited to the meeting, of course.”

“Any idea what it’s about?”

“None at all. So far as I know, His Excellency has no direct interest in any of our cases. Do you know of anything?”

“Not really, sir. There’s that up-country embezzlement matter, but it’s so low level I doubt it would interest him.”

One current investigation involved a European merchant living in one of the northern districts. Financially pressed because of poor trading in wake of a crop failure, he siphoned drought relief funds away from local peasants. District officials uncovered the story, the nationalist press found out and published it as further evidence of British perfidy. But it was a small storm in a tiny teacup, and the Governor rarely touched that sort of crockery.

“I agree, Habi. There must be something else we don’t know about. He did mention in Jepson’s presence he was unhappy about Special Branch’s poor performance, but I doubt he’d discuss that with me.”

“He might want you to take over SB, sir.”

These moments often made Le Fanu think he was being made fun of. Habi’s sense of humour was wicked.

“He may think a pro-Indian would make a better fist of it, sir,” Habi continued, straight-faced.

Yes, he was being teased. “Quite so, Habi, the force and the European Association would be thrilled if I ran Special Branch.”

They laughed, knowing European and service conservatism was growing rather than shrinking, a dangerous turn.

Le Fanu’s driver bowled them south along the Marina towards police headquarters opposite the beach at the Elliot’s Road corner. Le Fanu never tired of the sea view. It reinforced him against the daily pressures. Solving crimes was tough enough without doing it amidst internal dissent, bickering and enmity from above and below.

The distinctive white, two storied headquarters building came into view. Madras had its first policeman in 1659, and this had been headquarters since 1865. It was overcrowded because business had grown, dramatically so in recent years. Le Fanu thought it symbolic that the building was originally a Masonic Lodge. They still ran the city, and he was not a member.

Two

Looking into his office he thought, not for the first time, he should tidy up. Papers and files elided off over-packed shelves into tottering columns of other papers and files. The desk was lost under a paper avalanche. He was not sure how things had reached this point. Jepson increased the caseload at a ridiculous rate to try and break his bete noire. Maintaining the bookwork was impossible but, even so, the chaos was not Le Fanu’s style. Jepson’s pressure might have created a psychological reaction, but Le Fanu knew he must change this look because it denied the ordered, logical police work mandated by Hans Gross. Any gap between illusion and reality would only advantage Jepson.

Le Fanu spied the latest addition to his desk mountain, this morning’s arrivant file. Its first few pages suggested that if any of this was proved and became public knowledge, the Government would look bad at an especially inopportune moment. And now having responsibility for the matter, Le Fanu would-be the convenient scapegoat in any Jepson blame deflection game.

Superficially, it looked simple. Ramsheed was a Telugu-speaking district in the Presidency’s north. Its Collector, the district’s principal Indian Civil Service officer responsible for about two million people, was charged with taking a substantial bribe from a local landowner. The landowner was a supporter of the Indian National Congress whose leaders had organised this morning’s demonstration. If the story was correct, chaos wasn’t far off.

The ICS was the “Steel Frame” around which India’s administration had rebuilt after the 1857 Mutiny shock. In south India, Collectors gained huge powers over districts like Ramsheed, which was amongst India’s largest. The Collector was well-titled. He collected land and other taxes that allowed Britain to run the country. In the years following the Mutiny, senior Madras administrators had rooted out district deal-making. No ICS man had been charged for corruption since the 1870s. If the Collector of Ramsheed was guilty, Congress had gained another propaganda tool.

Then there was the alleged bribe-giver, the Rajah of Pallampur. South India had fewer wealthy landlord princes than other Indian regions. The nearest was the Nizam of Hyderabad, one of the richest people in the world. Le Fanu thought immediately of Roisin McPhedren, now in Hyderabad running the household for an English general serving the Nizam. Two years ago she was Le Fanu’s lover and housekeeper. Ro had left Madras, thinking her Anglo-Indian heritage would wreck his career if their affair became public. Conservative Europeans despised mixed race people more than they despised Indians. She now sent him a weekly letter. Each one reinforced his guilty thought that he should have been stronger and kept her in Madras. For that reason, he replied rarely. Gutless, he knew.

However, the Presidency had substantial landlords, none more important than the Rajah of Pallampur. He ruled over some three hundred square miles and 400,000 people northwest of Madras. The Rajah had attended school in England, followed by one year’s Sandhurst military training before inheriting the fiefdom from his father who promptly retired to the Riviera without his consort whom he replaced with a younger French model. That sequence of events saw the-then Governor of Madras castigated by London’s India Office bureaucrats who feared anything remotely radical. The Governor devolved as much criticism as possible to his underlings, and Le Fanu remembered highly qualified and capable people banished to dry, barren station districts.

The new Rajah was an odd mixture, able but quixotic so far as Members of the Board of Revenue and senior Secretariat officers were concerned. These days he was the only subject on which those two perennial rivals agreed. One wag had suggested the Rajah had achieved something unique in three hundred years of British rule in Madras; he had created Government unity. The only problem was that the unity was entirely against him. Neither camp trusted him. Despite his British training and upbringing, he now entertained senior Congress leaders, and a Special Branch report detailed his secret meetings with M.K. Gandhi, the Mahatma. That enraged Government leaders for whom Gandhi was unfathomable. One board man memorably had described the Mahatma as a “disgraceful, snivelling, ungrateful little turd.” That was diplomatically unsound, but it did indicate the level of fear Gandhi raised in the administration.

The Rajah upset the establishment even more by marrying a foreigner. And it was not even an Englishwoman who might have been just barely acceptable. While in Australia buying horses, he had spied another filly whom he had married within a year. Charlotte Lacey was a Sydney lawyer’s daughter, and a Roman Catholic. There was scarcely one of those in senior Madras ranks, or junior ones for that matter. The Rajah was pilloried. New Delhi and London barraged Madras with ideas on how to manage the maverick, but he proved unmanageable.

Le Fanu anticipated a publicity nightmare. If the file was correct, an ICS officer was corruptly in the pay of a local noble supporting Indian independence. Newspapers across India and around the world would relish that. The Madras Government would look like it had lost control of its service and leading supporters. That would bring untold wrath from London and New Delhi. Carnage would cascade through the Madras ranks.

This rats’ nest was delivered personally from the office of the Chief Secretary, Sir Charles Whitney. He was the archetypal ICS man who had smoothly risen to the top. Essentially a law and order man, he was not fond of political reform. But, oddly, he was also one of Le Fanu’s few local supporters. His support had followed Le Fanu’s successful handling of an earlier case, the murder of a visiting Englishwoman. The Crime Unit had identified the murderer and had uncovered a local drug ring led by the city’s leading businessman. Whitney had been grateful that Le Fanu kept the investigation at a discreet level amidst the drama of Gandhi’s passive resistance campaign. They had kept in touch ever since.

The envelope also contained a personal note asking Le Fanu to telephone and make arrangements to meet at Whitney’s Nungambakkam home. That meant Whitney was worried. By meeting there instead of the Secretariat, this would be “off the books.” That troubled Le Fanu because with the Chief Secretary keeping matters confidential, Le Fanu would have to advise the I-G selectively. That would feed Jepson’s paranoia. Originally, Le Fanu reported directly to the Commissioner of Police for Madras. But when Jepson became I-G he changed that report line, so anxious was he to control Le Fanu. Their relationship was poisonous.

Le Fanu dialled Whitney’s private number. “Good morning, Sir Charles, I’ve looked over that file. I see why you want to meet.”

“Thanks for looking at it so quickly, L.F., I know you had other matters to deal with today. The parade go well?” A chuckle came down the line. Le Fanu imagined the dapper little man sitting behind his desk, large cigar alight.

“Hardly, Sir Charles. It was so bad it makes even this file look simple. That should tell you something.”

The chuckle continued. “I hear you’re to meet the Governor later this morning.”

“Is it about this file?”

“That’ll be part of it, I imagine, but there’ll be other things of interest as well.”

“Any clues?”

“Could well be some other confidential matters the Governor’s bothered about.” Le Fanu knew he would get no more over the telephone. They would meet at six that evening.

He looked over the file more carefully. A “secret source” suggested the Rajah of Pallampur bribed the Collector, James Westshire, to overlook legal indiscretions committed by the Rajah’s principal administrator. Thugs in the administrator’s pay had handed out beatings to rival crooks in what seemed a dispute over protection money. The source suggested Westshire overlooked the beatings in exchange for a substantial payment to relieve debts he’d racked up in a private business selling mineral deposits. If this was correct, Westshire was in double trouble. Since the nineteenth century scandals, ICS rules banned officers from running private businesses.

The reliability of the secret source was an immediate issue. It could be someone trying to discredit the Collector, the Government of Madras, or the Rajah of Pallampur, or all of the above. That was the first question to put to Whitney. Who was the source and what was known about the person?

He looked at his watch, nearly time to set off for the Willingdon meeting. Le Fanu left his second floor office at the back of the building, descended the outside stairs and entered what were once the stables. He kept his motorbike there now, something else that stood him out from his colleagues. The 1,000 cc Indian Powerplus had come back from the war with him, and most Madras Europeans looked at it sideways. It was “too American,” and too individualist.

He wheeled it out, kicked it into life and roared out the gate, up onto the Marina and turned right, heading eventually for Luz Church Road that led towards his Mylapore home, but only after enjoying the cool breeze and salt air drifting off the Bay of Bengal. He would reach home, park the bike and have his driver take him to Government House, no sense drawing undue attention to himself with the bike there.

Three

He reached the Governor’s outer office just before eleven, still wondering what was in store. When Willingdon had first arrived in Madras he had preferred the Governor’s residence out at Adyar, so given the travel distance, meetings were time-consuming. As political strife had grown, he’d decamped to the Government complex residence on the lower reaches of the Cooum River, opposite the island with its Gymkhana Club golf course. It was easier to meet quickly at the main Government House. Major roads leading into the complex were now sealed off by police and army contingents so the Governor was not hemmed in by demonstrators. Madras clearly was not its pre-war relaxed self.

Willingdon’s office door opened, the Principal Secretary showed Le Fanu into the cavernous room having taken his order for tea. The Governor advanced, hand out in greeting.

“Good morning again, LF, and thanks for coming over.” He steered the superintendent towards a small table with two chairs set against a window looking over an expansive lawn. “Good show this morning but it won’t produce any benefits for us. And no need to be on your guard, nothing’ll be reported back. Getting on any better with Jepson?”

Willingdon was tall, angular, a military man with a presence, and he was well-informed.

“I think you know the answer, sir. You’ll also know I think we’re not handling this Gandhi campaign to our best advantage. The repression is losing us public support.”

“Yes, I know your views, LF, and see some sense in them. Not sure I agree totally, though one or two people in Delhi do. The real point, I think, is that we’ve never faced anything like this so the brain’s trust is stretched.”

The tea arrived along with snacks. Willingdon looked tired, Le Fanu thought. Dealing with this at local level while trying to keep Delhi happy would test any leader.

“But I didn’t get you here to talk about this, well, at least not directly,” the Governor continued.

Le Fanu wondered if the Special Branch offer was about to arrive.

“You’ll have seen the Pallampur file Whitney sent you this morning?”

“I have, sir, Sir Charles and I will discuss that this afternoon.”

“Good, I know we’ll get a sensible view out of you, and the Chief Secretary will ask you to do some digging. Even if he’s innocent, Westshire’s been a bloody fool, and we know the Rajah of Pallampur for an even bigger one.”

Le Fanu said nothing, wondering where this was going.

“There’s another dimension, though,” Willingdon continued. “We have information suggesting that the Rajah or his employees are running an extortion racket. The funds raised are used to buy arms and ammunition. If that’s so, the Rajah’s dalliance with Gandhi makes some of us even more nervous. Gandhi’s bad enough, but if some of these chaps get armed it’ll be even worse.”

“But, sir, all Gandhi’s messages stress non-violence. He’s appalled when things get out of hand.”

Willingdon thought for a moment. “That’s true, LF, but he can’t control everybody. And we know some of the northern radicals want an armed movement. Nothing like that down here so far as we know, and I want it kept that way.” He took some more tea.

“Indeed, sir, I agree, the situation’s bad enough without a flood of arms reaching the wrong places.”

“And one of those wrong places is not far from the Rajah’s home turf.”

Le Fanu got the reference immediately. A few months earlier, tribal communities in the north around Rampa had begun protesting their restricted access to forests. Rampa was on the edge of Pallampur’s territory. The rebels had killed several officials, policemen and soldiers. Affronted, Willingdon had appointed a tough New Zealander to stop the uprising, but that had proven difficult. If more arms reached this gang then the rebellion could spread.

“The problem, LF,” Willingdon continued, “is that Special Branch is more useless than ever. I’ve spoken with Jepson and mentioned your name. No secrets here, you know, he hates your guts. So I don’t want you to take over Special Branch, but I’ve insisted this matter gets switched to your unit. Hope you don’t mind.”

There was no choice, of course. “Not at all, sir, we’ll do our best. When will the files get transferred?”

“They’re on their way now. Unfortunately, though, that’s not all. What do you know about this merchant corruption case up in Changarore?”

Now Le Fanu was surprised. Like Habi, he doubted the Governor would know or care about that case. Perhaps he had missed something.

“Pretty low level matter, sir. Gerald Taylor runs a grain trading business there. The crop returns were low this year, and he was already under financial pressure following some poor commercial decisions. When drought relief measures began, local traders got preference to help spread funds around. Taylor had the bright idea of short weighting his sacks, so received about thirty per cent more funds than he warranted. A smart local clerk weighed a couple of sacks on impulse, found the shortage. The local police were called in, there was a leak so the news got to the press, and we know what happened then.”

Willingdon nodded. “Yes, that’s all so. But what do you know about Taylor?

“Not much, sir. The matter’s petty theft, really, so we haven’t dug too deeply. He’s been in Changarore about five years, has his family with him, doesn’t come to Madras much, and has nothing else on his record.”

“Could you do some more checking, please, LF? I know this seems a minor issue and an odd request, but Taylor might not be all that he seems.”

“Of course, sir, but it might help if you gave me some more clues.”

“I’m told he’s well connected back in England, and that the political strand might become an issue. That’s all I have, but given the present situation I don’t need any more surprises.”

“Does London have anything more on him, sir?”

“Oddly enough, no, and I don’t want to push too much in case his connections are as good as I’m told they are.”

Le Fanu left, concerned. The Pallampur issue was dangerous and significant, yet Willingdon was more bothered by the Changarore case. And he had not revealed his source on Taylor. The murk was mounting and they had scarcely started.

When he reached the office, Le Fanu and Habi set up their investigation blackboards for the two separate cases, Pallampur (with separate boards for the Rajah and James Westshire) and Changarore, chalking up the currently minimal information.

Habi was sceptical. “This Changarore matter will fizzle out. Taylor’s a petty thief who ran short of funds and saw the Government as an easy solution. We’ll throw the book at him, he’ll get a short prison term, then be told to leave India, unofficially of course.”

“You’re probably right, Habi, but the Governor’s interest gives it an edge I don’t like. We’ll need to keep alert. Pallampur will be the difficult one, but we’ll run the two concurrently for now. Have the Pallampur files reached us from Special Branch yet?”

“Yes, came in shortly before you arrived back from the Governor’s. He didn’t waste any time there, did he? The Special Branch delivery man looked most unhappy.”

“I can imagine. We won’t have any friends there now, if we had any before. Special Branch being Jepson’s favourite outfit makes it worse. Anyway, you look through those files and I’ll go back over the Taylor details to see if there’s anything we’ve missed. Then I’ll draw up some additional questions. Also, we’d better make sure those SB files are secure. Put them in the safe, and we’ll sign them in and out. That way we’re covered.”

Habi left for his office, Le Fanu sat down to the Changarore file. Thinking the matter closed, he had ignored the papers for several days. There was little to read, really. Looking over the file and remembering Willingdon’s comments, Le Fanu realised they knew precious little about Taylor’s life, background, connections or business affairs. Perhaps they had assumed too much. If so, he and Habi had better re-read Hans Gross’ Criminal Investigation as well as the file. Sir Maurice Wilson had read the Indian edition of Gross when it had first appeared and established the Crime Unit to follow its principles. So far they had been successful, despite the opposition to modern investigative approaches raised by many force members, led by Jepson. At any time, the smallest mistake could see the unit terminated. So if they had assumed too much in the Taylor case, they must fix that.

Le Fanu constructed some questions he thought they should now ask about Taylor, and reached for the current edition of the Asylum Press Almanack. Though less detailed than in the old days, the Almanack remained the starting point for assembling any biography because it listed all Europeans and “leading” Indians in the Presidency.

Taylor’s entry was brief, conveying little about his United Kingdom background and education. That was unusual. Le Fanu was surprised he had not realised that earlier. Taylor had arrived in 1915. He did not serve in the war. Interesting. Neither age nor birth date was listed, but he had two school age children so must have been technically eligible for service. That produced another question, or two: why had Taylor not served, and why had he come to Madras while the war was on? Taylor had gone on to Changarore almost immediately he had reached Madras. Two more questions: why Madras, then why Changarore? Taylor had started his trading business as soon as he had arrived in Changarore. Further questions: how had that been financed and where was the paperwork?

Le Fanu enjoyed the analytical work, and drew heavily on the Gross principles. It was a pity others in the force were not as curious and open to new ideas, he thought. If anything, as political demonstrations grew police minds shut ever more tightly. That promised an unhappy future.

So did a meeting with Jepson but he could not delay it. Doing so in the past had produced considerable grief. Le Fanu called his driver who steered the car between, around and sometimes almost over pedestrians, cyclists, bullock carts, noisy trucks and the few pony carts still in the city as they crossed towards Egmore. Le Fanu wondered if all the new cars and trucks helped India. Probably not but it was inevitable, like Jepson’s foul mood in every meeting with his least favourite person. After the usual long and deliberate wait, Le Fanu was shown in. The Commissioner was pacing up and down, thrashing his polished boots with a riding crop. As the man grew more portly, the force’s “Jockey” nickname became more ironic.

“Well, Le Fanu, what d’you have to say for your bloody self?”

Yet another good start.

“About what, sir?” Le Fanu could not help himself, a fault, he knew.

“That fucking meeting with the Governor, of course.”

“Yes sir, of course, sir. His Excellency wanted to discuss the Pallampur case, and the Changarore matter.”

“What in particular?”

“His Excellency wants me to do more checking into both matters, sir”

“Why?”

“Not sure, sir, probably just wants to keep on top of things.”

“Is that all? He asked you over there for that?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You know, Le Fanu, if you’re concealing things I’ll have your balls cut off and made into earrings for my wife. Be warned.”

Le Fanu thought it an odd gift idea, but realised Jepson was on another ill-tempered and vituperative campaign. He must be even more on guard than normal.

“Very good, sir, I’ll keep that in mind, sir.”

He escaped under a fusillade of insults from the Commissioner, found the car and headed back to police HQ.

Four

During mid-afternoon, he and Habi updated the investigation boards and reviewed available information. Not nearly enough, as usual. Le Fanu suggested they had assumed too much about the Changarore case, and chalked up his new questions about Gerald Taylor.

Habi recounted the Pallampur story. There was little beyond what they knew already, but Habi had details on some points mentioned by the Governor. The Rajah’s thugs were thought to have set up an arms smuggling operation, coming into the Presidency on small ships that landed at unpatrolled fishing villages up and down the coast north and south of Madras. Given the extensive coastline, smuggling was a regular activity the authorities could not stem. Goods came in from around India and further afield like the Straits Settlements on the other side of the Bay of Bengal. That trade was mainly in food, liquor, cigarettes and, occasionally, people needing to enter India unofficially. They were usually Indians with criminal records or European vagrants likely to be turned back at immigration. Arms and ammunition were not normally part of the trade so the Pallampur initiative, coinciding with the Rampa rebellion, alarmed the senior officials in the know.

The source of the arms was unclear, and there were no confirmed destinations even if the suspicion was Rampa. Special Branch reports suggested rifles, revolvers, ammunition and even grenades were being stockpiled. Again, the reasons were unclear, but the unstated assumption was that the arms would aggravate an already agitated political situation. Le Fanu confronted that new assumption. They were mounting up.

“Habi, does that make any sense to you?”

“Not really, sir. The Mahatma doesn’t want violence and neither does the Congress. A violent movement’s too hard to control. It would damage the nationalist cause here and abroad. There’s sympathy for Congress in countries like America, but if the movement turned to guns and violence that support would decline.”

“That’s what makes me wonder why this suggestion has arisen. There’s no direct evidence the arms are here, just suggestions they’ve been smuggled in. The Governor ‘s worried about Special Branch, and I understand why if this is the best it can do. There’s more rumour than fact. It almost looks like the idea’s been planted deliberately for some reason. Who wrote the report, Habi?”

“There’s no name on it, but I’ll find out.”

“Good. Let’s list this on the Pallampur board as a rumour until we get firmer evidence. You spend the rest of the day on this, then later we’ll decide whether to concentrate more on Pallampur or Changarore.”

Le Fanu worried about the obscure nature of this report coinciding with a similarly obscure one about Westshire. It could be coincidence, or not. Then there was the so-far secret nature of Willingdon’s source on Gerald Taylor. It seemed unlikely, but these disparate developments had a similar feel to them.

Habi went off in search of more information. Le Fanu prepared for Nungambakkam and his private audience with the Chief Secretary. He understood Whitney’s concern about the Collector of Ramsheed but was bothered by the prospect of this meeting. Too much was left unstated in the files.

He filled in time feebly attempting to reduce his paper mountains, gathered the files for his meeting, put them in a battered briefcase, and called for the car.

Le Fanu had the driver take a circuitous route, partly to time his arrival but mainly to cover his tracks. Secrecy seemed paramount, and that put him on another collision course with Jepson. The usual direct route to Whitney’s would register his presence there around official circles within minutes. So they left headquarters by the back gate onto Elliott’s Road, turned left and wended their way through the maze of streets leading into Triplicane before crossing over Mount Road near the Thousand Lights mosque. That led into the meandering, dusty wide streets of Nungambakkam with its large houses, spacious grounds and quiet prosperity. These were the mansions of senior administrators, wealthy landowners, business magnates (especially old money ones), and local legal luminaries.

They arrived at Whitney’s ten minutes before six so Le Fanu had the driver continue through the area to check they were not being observed. Finally, they drove through a high gate adjoined by an even higher hedge towards a large house set behind wide lawns on which several servants squatted, removing weeds and clipping errant grass strands. Le Fanu had been here before, but was still struck by how most senior administrators cut themselves off from the India they governed. Whitney was good at his job, but it was a long time and a big mental distance from when he last experienced the hurley-burley of ordinary daily life and people. This oasis kept the Chief Secretary away from what was happening on the streets of Madras. His neighbours shared that rarefied world. Whitney was no drone, though.

Le Fanu was met at the front steps by a uniformed servant who showed him into a waiting room inside the front door. It was small, lined with pictures of the King and Queen and the previous Viceroy, Lord Chelmsford, who initiated the Indianisation so loathed by the Madras ranks. Whitney and his wife appeared in other photographs with Willingdon and earlier Madras Governors. There was a picture of the Chief Secretary with the Duke of Connaught who visited Madras the year before in an unsuccessful attempt to boost Raj morale and impress the locals. The furniture was simple but Le Fanu noticed three tables bearing medieval bronzes of Hindu deities notably Ganesh, the remover of obstacles. Whitney was not all he appeared to be, Le Fanu knew that, but this was new. And Ganesh might well come in handy.

Sir Charles Whitney walked in, still dressed crisply after a full day at the office. His suit was dark and double-breasted. Le Fanu wondered if by dressing that way Whitney was defiantly drawing attention to his short stature. The wing collared white shirt was immaculate, as was the knotted dark silk tie that could nearly be seen reflected in the black shoes. They were as highly polished as a Horse Guards officer’s boots. The pince nez dangled off the right lapel at the end of a dark silk ribbon, and Whitney gripped a newly-lit large cigar in his right hand. Le Fanu had never seen the Chief Secretary without one.

“Hello there, LF, thanks for coming. I lit a new one knowing it was no use waiting for you.”

He waved the cigar about. The voice was warm but controlled. Whitney had run the Presidency for seven years, a long time for a Chief Secretary yet he was still comparatively young. Gossip had him soon being lifted into a senior position in Delhi. That was rare for someone from Madras whose administration was reputed elsewhere in India to be conservative, negative, incompetent and truculent. Whitney had none of those attributes.

“Thank you, sir, quite right.” Le Fanu was a non-smoker, almost the only virtue he brought back from the war, he sometimes thought.

“Let’s go outside, I’ve had a table set. That way we won’t be disturbed.”

Whitney walked into the corridor then through a door onto a verandah, down some steps and off to a secluded small garden under old trees with shading branches. A small table, a bottle of Glenmorangie, two glasses and a water jug awaited, along with a plate of vadas and mint flavoured yoghurt. Le Fanu had been astonished a couple of years earlier to find that Whitney preferred local food to the grim English fare clung to in most official houses. The man was a paradox.

“Sorry if this seems mysterious, LF, but we’ve a problem you might help sort out.” He sat, poured two whiskeys and handed one to Le Fanu. Neither man used the water jug.

“Quite alright, sir. You’ll know I met the Governor earlier and he has us looking into the arms issue, but we don’t think the report makes any sense. I have Habi checking on who wrote it and whatever evidence the claims might be based on.”

“Good, I don’t like that bit myself. The Rajah of Pallampur’s an idiot, but not that much of one. I’m more bothered by the Westshire thing.”

Le Fanu felt disadvantaged, there was obviously something else he did not know. “We’ve had a look at the file already, Sir Charles, and will report back as soon as possible. It shouldn’t be too difficult to establish the real facts.”

Whitney did not look reassured. “Oh, I’m sure you will, LF, but that isn’t the real problem. What do you know about Westshire?”

“I’ve read his personnel file, and the entry for him in the Almanack. Heard a few things around the Club, mostly good. Seems a good man, more a district type than a Headquarters one, and has done a good job in tough posts.”

“Seen his Personal Conduct Register?”

In Madras a small, secretive office kept a personal dossier on each ICS officer. The file recorded performance issues, career histories, difficulties encountered with other officers or superiors, and family details as well as other information the powers that be thought relevant. That register was a millstone for colourful and outspoken officers, marking them out for non-promotion. The PCR often condemned them to punishment postings as they creaked towards retirement. The existence of the registers was not well-known and their location (a secret safe in Whitney’s office) advised to only a few.

“Well, no, sir, I’d need your permission for that, and this early in the case I hadn’t thought it necessary.”

“Well, you have my permission now.”

Whitney reached under his chair, retrieving a thick file in a brown folder tied up with scarlet ribbon top to bottom and across. He handed it to Le Fanu. “Hold onto it for the moment but no-one else is to know, apart from Habi. I know you trust him. So do I.”

Given Le Fanu’s earlier recitation on what he knew of Westshire, the file was thicker than anticipated. This was the file of a renegade, a troublemaker who irritated senior people.

Whitney smiled. “That’s surprised you, LF, eh?”

“Ah, yes, sir, not what I anticipated. Can you give me an outline?”

“You’ll read it and get the full flavour, but Westshire’s been a standout from the start. For one thing, he’s even more pro-Indian than you are.” Whitney paused, eyes sparkling, a smile lurking. Le Fanu said nothing.

“Sorry, LF, I’m being provocative, a little.” Le Fanu’s more crass enemies in the police and civil service painted him as a radical, a deserter of his own kind who championed Indians and independence. Smart seniors like Whitney knew the story was more complicated, but the crass version prevailed.

“As soon as he arrived in Madras in 1900,” Whitney continued, “Westshire favoured transferring some power to Indians, and seemed to oppose all aspects of the Raj and the Empire generally. Made people wonder why he bothered joining the ICS at all. In one spectacular piece of stupidity, he wrote a piece anonymously for the Madras Mail