Inspector Ghote, His Life and Crimes. H. R. f. Keating
and your precious Dr James Walsingham. You and your precious eye-surgeon who cured the whole of your village, was it, when you were a boy? Your hero, Inspector. On an island, Inspector. Somewhere in a river nobody ever goes to, Inspector. The River Man, Inspector, your Dr James Walsingham.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Ghote said.
Could it be true? Surely Dr Walsingham, that benefactor, must be dead? Yet he had not heard that he was, and if he had been he would certainly have known. A man who had meant so much to him as a boy. Someone he had – how could he have done? – even mentioned so often to DSP Samant that he had been marked down for it? But it was certainly possible Dr Walsingham was still alive. After all, he had looked hale and hearty in newspaper pictures, with that neat beard no more than grey, some twenty years ago. So he could well be alive. A man of perhaps eighty or more. Alive and well.
Or not well …
‘Sir, you have said destitute, sir. Is he not well, sir? Sir, a man like Dr Walsingham – oh, sir, a public benefactor, not too much to say a saint, sir – ought not to be left alone and ill.’
‘Precisely, Inspector. The point, of course, that Dr Kumaramangalam made to his friend the Commissioner. And that the Commissioner made to me. Only …’
‘Only, DSP sahib?’
‘Only this man, this River Man, is he truly Dr James Walsingham, Inspector? Because he certainly appears to take pains not to own to that name, to any name. And that is creating a certain difficulty.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Ghote said.
Later that day Ghote, propelling forward with difficulty a commandeered fisherman’s boat, little more than a hollowed-out log, felt himself becoming more and more perturbed by the problem that the identity of the River Man presented. He had seen him already, a figure that could have been no one else, prowling haggardly about the tiny island out in the wide river mouth. With DSP Samant he had watched him through binoculars for some considerable time. But the gaunt, long-bearded emaciated old man he had seen at that distance was nothing at all like the trim Dr Walsingham he had followed through the village when he had come there to carry out eye operations on the afflicted brought from miles around.
He looked mad, the old River Man. There could be no doubt about it. They had seen him through the glasses muttering to himself. While ‘Valsingham Doctor’ – as the non-English speakers among the poor always called him – had been far from mad. A dynamo of concentrated energy, selfless, tireless, working all the hours of light and falling asleep exhausted almost as soon as darkness had come. A powerhouse of good-doing, giving everything, asking nothing.
Except for Garibaldi biscuits.
Ghote glanced down at his feet. There on the rough-hacked bottom of their lumbering boat was a super-smart shiny packet of Garibaldi biscuits. DSP Samant had ordered him to get them – and a fearful chase he had had to find any – because he had remembered that once Ghote had mentioned the great healer’s touching liking for just this sweet, currant-filled biscuit. A gift of this kind would perhaps ensure their welcome in what might be extremely difficult circumstances.
‘There. Make for that tree.’
The DSP pointed. Ghote plunged his crude paddle into the swirling brown water and pushed with all his might. Their heavy craft swayed alarmingly and Ghote almost hurled the paddle at the water on the other side. The boat, which hitherto had moved no faster than a buffalo watering in some pond, suddenly surged forward and plunged suckingly on to a submerged bank of mud two full yards clear of the slimey-rooted tree.
‘Idiot,’ said the DSP. Ghote back-paddled desperately, sweat pouring down him. The log-like boat remained exactly where it was.
‘Damn it,’ the DSP shouted. ‘I cannot remain here all afternoon.’
He stood up, eyed the firm platform of the tree’s exposed roots and jumped.
The force of his departure did what Ghote’s paddling had been unable to do. The heavy boat slid sharply off the mud bank. Deprived at the last instant of a firm footing, the DSP landed with a splash and a long slow squelch about half-way between boat and bank.
He forced his way to dry land in terrible silence, then turned.
‘Get that boat to where I ordered,’ he exploded. ‘Get it there. And then come to join me. And do not come barging in when I am talking. This is a matter that requires discretion. Discretion, Ghote. Discretion.’
He marched off. His trousers, till now immaculate and wonderfully smart, were up to the knees black as sin.
For ten dispiriting minutes Ghote manoeuvred his intractable craft in and out, splashing and cursing, sweating from head to foot and sometimes feeling near to tears. But at last he got it right up to the tree the DSP had indicated and tied the sopping rope at its prow to one of the roots. He got himself carefully ashore and set off cautiously across the little island towards the sole building on it, a tumbledown hut of palm leaves.
He had hardly set out, however, when he heard the DSP’s voice. And as he neared the wretched hovel the words came more and more clearly to his ears.
‘… cannot go on saying nothing, man. What is your name? Come on, you must have a name. You must. Now, answer up. Answer up.’
The voice rang all about the tiny, densely overgrown island.
Discretion, Ghote thought. Oh, DSP sahib.
But the fury apparently produced no answer. After a little, the DSP began again.
‘Very well, I will go over the whole thing once more. Just once. Yes? Yes?’
Again he seemed to receive no answer. Ghote stood where he was in the shade of a stubby banana palm. Insects hummed and whined in his ears. In a moment he heard the DSP’s voice once more.
‘Oh, very well then. But listen to me. Acting on information received, I came to this disgraceful shack on this island in the middle of nowhere and I find one inhabitant, aged approximately eighty years, apparently of European extraction, not in a good state of health or of cleanliness, wearing a pair of old khaki shorts only, lying upon a charpoy which is in a state of disintegration. I put it to this individual “You are Dr James Walsingham?” And what does he do? He refuses to make answer.’
The DSP’s voice paused … and then resumed on a note of rising indignation.
‘I put a perfectly polite question. Are you or are you not Dr James Walsingham? It is perfectly easy to answer. Yes, I am. Or no, I am not. Whichever applies. But you refuse to answer. Why is that? What in God’s name, man, can there be in such a question that you refuse altogether to make any answer whatsoever?’
Another pause. Shorter this time. Then again.
‘The days of the British Raj are over. The Angrezi Sarkar is no more. I am an officer of police duly authorised to question. I am DSP Samant, Bombay CID. And you are committing an offence. Under Section 179 Indian Penal Code. So answer up. Answer up.’
The voice rang and rang, but not the faintest murmur of reply followed. Silence stretched. Ghote heard, down in the river, the heavy plop of a fish rising.
‘Oh, very well then,’ the DSP’s voice had a note of familiar sarcasm in it now. ‘Oh, very well. But I am not finished yet. I have something still that you have not at all thought about.’
And then with total abruptness the voice changed.
‘Ghote. Ghote. Inspector Ghote.’
The shouts rang out.
‘Yes, DSP. Coming, DSP. Here, DSP sahib.’
Ghote ran towards the sagging palm-leaf hut. He tripped over the root of a tree, staggered, righted himself and arrived, panting, at the dark entrance.
‘Yes, DSP? Can I be of assistance, sir?’
It was yet darker in the hut and he could make out little beyond the DSP who was standing just inside. Only down near ground level the glint of