- A Mystery Calls
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The Imperial Press, London
My first encounter with Mr. Mohammad Ali Jinnah was in a pub in London, where to my astonishment I watched as he convinced three Englishmen their time would be better spent trying to defeat him at a game of darts than engaging in fisticuffs. They had just threatened us, a promise of violence inspired by our presence on their hallowed drinking grounds, which they expressed in the roughest of language.
“We are not Hindus good sir, although I have many a friend who is Hindu and none have a taste for your bootheel either,” Jinnah had said in reply to their rancour.
I do confess at that moment to considering running out the door, being quite sure that the three heavily muscled men could easily make short work of my thin-framed lawyer acquaintance, my own diminutive stature not being up to the task of providing him with much useful support. However, before I had a chance to act upon my cowardice, he proceeded to stop them in their tracks with naught but observation.
“Surely good hard working men like yourself would much rather rest after such a long day labouring in Spitalfields,” he said. “Is the second floor of the home fully constructed yet?”
The memory of their collective befuddlement is one I would take greater satisfaction in if I haven’t myself similarly worn it on many an occasion since.
“Your boots, sirs,” said Mr. Jinnah, still carelessly swirling his glass of whiskey as if making idle chit chat in a safe and comfortable lounge room. “They’re stained with a particularly ochre coloured mud, which is found only in the Spitalfields area, particularly where the ground has been churned up by extensive activity. To get so much so thickly over your footwear would mean you were pressing upon the earth with great force and regularity, perhaps ascending and descending a heavy ladder, I would think. A ladder, placed on one of the many houses I saw being raised there on a walk just a few days past.”
It was always once he was done ejaculating his explanation that I found the logic to be so obvious and clear.
The aggression in the pub deflated and very soon Mr. Jinnah was being clapped resoundingly on the back for defeating his opponents so handily at darts. He returned to our table, finely tailoured suit still precisely buttoned and unperturbed by his exertions.
“My sincerest apologies, I do believe time has run away from us and I have another pressing appointment I need to attend to. What exactly were you seeking to discuss with me,” he asked, finishing the splash of copper in his glass.
“I had hoped to find a place of residence when I return to Delhi next week,” I said. “A mutual acquaintance informed me that you were also departing for there tomorrow and might be in need of a lodger to share the cost of a flat with?”
“Yes, that will actually work quite nicely. The rent is Ninety rupees fortnightly, I keep odd hours, play the violin regularly and often have visitors that I would prefer you not notice.”
He handed me a piece of paper on which the Delhi address was written: 221 Delhi-Mathura road. “Good day Mr. Khan,” he then said. “Floreat Exon.” With that he was gone, leaving me with rather surly looking labourers still to contend with, were I to stay there much longer. I could not even inquire as to how he knew I had attended Exeter College at Oxford, whose motto was indeed Latin for “Let Exeter Flourish”. I did forget to ask him on our subsequent meetings, although I do not doubt his explanation would make me feel foolish for wondering in the first place, a sensation I’m keen to avoid at the best of times.
So, it was through these circumstances that I found myself living with Mr. Muhammad Ali Jinnah, a lawyer by training and the world’s first and only “consulting detective” by practice. I did attempt over the years to maintain my own legal career, but found myself more and more drawn into the peculiarities of his endeavours, the most recent of which I have now undertaken to chronicle here. To be honest, I do not know why I have done so. Perhaps it is because even as imperceptive as I am when compared to my intellectual friend, I cannot deny that this mystery we found ourselves wrestling with was unlike any we’d seen before, and will lead to a disruption in the world heretofore unseen.
It began with a guest whose arrival Jinnah had predicted just minutes before, based on some particular shift in the cacophonic sounds of the Delhi morning outside our window. All I had heard was the clatter of tongas, their carriages being noisily pulled by pairs of horses, the braying of donkeys laden with their own burdens and the din of a thousand, thousand voices speaking in English, Hindi, Urdu, Gujrati, Marathi, and so many other languages. Jinnah told our manservant to lay out an extra cup of chai and some biscuits to go with it as Inspector Nehru would be up soon. Sure enough, before the chai had even begun to cool, up strode the good police inspector, his white cap threatening to slide off his sweat slick head as he ascended the last of the steps.
“I’m sure the search for the Koh-i-Noor diamond can wait a few minutes while you have a cup of tea to calm your nerves my good inspector,” Jinnah said, still immersed in his newspaper.
“My goodness!” Nehru exclaimed. “Please tell me word has not already gotten out! We cannot afford the panic it will cause.”
“No word that I have heard of from any lips but yours. However, it has been public knowledge that the diamond was to go on display in a few days and the security of said diamond is no doubt your highest priority and challenge these days. Yet, here you are rushing up to my meagre lodgings instead of supervising the ongoing safety of the most valuable jewel in the world, which leads me to assume—correctly, of course—that the diamond is no longer where it was intended to be.”
Nehru collapsed in a chair across from where I was seated with my own copy of The Times of India, where I had just begun to read the story of a ghostly, glowing tiger savaging villagers in Bihar. He attempted to sip his chai but found his hands were shaking just a little too much to lift the cup without splashing its contents, and instead settled back and closed his eyes to calm his nerves.
“The diamond was at the Governor-General’s house under the strictest of guard, of course. My best men were assigned to the task. Yet, this morning we discovered it missing and a dead body in its place. I do not need to tell you, Jinnah, just how much of a problem this would be for the Raj. A symbol of their rule taken from under their very noses. It might lead to riots and violence that we can scarcely afford.”
“Then it’s there we should go. Coming Khan,” asked Jinnah, newspaper tossed aside and already reaching for his characteristic Karakul hat; its rich, velvety texture and distinctive conical shape bestowing upon its wearer an air of distinguished elegance. He was, of course, right in this as well like all other things. With such a mystery afoot, where else would I be but by his side.
- The room without a view
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“Here begins the Great Game, the grandest adventure of them all.”
The Koh-i-Noor diamond was kept in the centre of the grand palace that was Viceroy House. The journey there took the better part of our morning and the midday heat had begun to fog the streets with the smell of sweat and spices by the time we arrived at our destination.
Jinnah, in his precisely tailoured suit, was as unperturbed by the heat as he was by all other external elements, while both the good inspector and I had begun to sweat through our respective sherwanis, the long coats worn over our respective Shalwar Kameezs being a sartorial commitment to gentility over practicality. Even the Governor General Lord Mountbatten, who I was astonished to see as soon as I alighted from our tonga, was wiping his brown with a sodden handkerchief. He was standing at the base of the steps that rose up into the vast domed structure where he both held office and resided with his wife, the Lady Edwina, Mountbatten standing by his side now.
“It is good to see you Jinnah,” said Lord Mountbatten, quite clearly not meaning it. The enthusiasm was entirely limited to his wife, who clapped her hands together and said, “I told Dickie we must call upon the great detective’s aid immediately. Surely you’ll be able to solve this mystery as efficiently as you have so many others in the past. Then, when Mr. Khan writes it up in the next periodical, we can all read how incredibly clever you were in saving the Raj.”
Lord Mountbatten stifled whatever concerns he had brewing and instead directed Inspector Nehru to take us to the safe room and give us all the resources we need. “I do not need to impress upon you the importance of discretion here,” he sniffed. “We need this bloody diamond found quickly and quietly. There have been enough rumblings of discontent ever since that ugly business in Amritsar and I will not have her majesty’s patience tested any further.” Then, without even a “Khuda hafiz” he was marching off to his next appointment. Lady Edwina lingered a moment and thanked Nehru for his speedy service and reiterated the availability of any resources we might need, then trailed off after her husband.
The room itself was located on the basement floor; a heavy sealed door at the end of a long corridor, heavily guarded and when opened leading into the a spacious interior where the walls had no allowance for any light. The only illumination offered was by electric bulbs buzzing on the wall casting long jagged shadows as we filed in. In the centre should have been a glass cage containing the diamond, cordoned off by a velvet rope squared around it. Instead, the glass was shattered, uncountable shards glinting on the floor and the velvet rope was coiled like a python around the neck of a man who lay face down, very clearly dead. Next to him, as if carefully placed there in his final act, was a lotus flower made of folded blood red paper.
Jinnah motioned for the rest of us to stay back as he circled the body, at times bending slightly to closer inspect it, once even sniffing inquisitively at the rising stench of decay. After a full series of circumambulations as if he were performing the holy Hajj, he stooped down and gently picked up the paper flower by one of its petals. With a “tsk” he unfolded it, scanned it once, then reached out for me to take it from him. I did and read the words inscribed in calligraphic Urdu script.
“Why, it’s nonsense,” I said, and indeed it was. The script was composed entirely of Urdu letters, written cleanly and with some care, but none of them composed a single coherent word. There were many words, nearly twenty in all by my count, but they were all unpronounceable gobbledegook. Inspector Nehru snatched it from me, nearly tearing the paper in his eagerness to survey its contents, and surfaced with the same quizzical expression I no doubt wore.
“Indeed. Nonsense,” said Jinnah, squatting down now and gingerly poking the velvet rope tied so tightly around the corpse’s neck. “Tell me Inspector, were you aware that a master counterfeiter was in your city?”
“Who,” groaned Inspector Nehru, visibly tired of always being so many steps behind Jinnah. It was a condition I was particularly sympathetic to.
Jinnah straightened and walked over, taking the paper and holding it up to the light. “That man right there is a Mr. Augustus Milverton, a most notorious criminal. He’s been the scourge of English nobility for many years now, and I’ve often been invited to London to see if I may aid in his apprehension by your counterpart at Scotland Yard, a Mr. Lestrade. He has your slow grasp of obvious details no doubt, Nehru. Milverton is also, along with being an unrepentant and ruthless black mailer, also a master at forgery. I’ve even heard him described as the second greatest forger in the world. No doubt, he was here to attempt to create a copy of the diamond and pocket the original for himself. However, it seems someone else was here first and killed him for getting in their way.”
“If all that is true and I do not see how you learned the identity of the dead man without even rolling him over to see his face, that still doesn’t explain how he got in and who killed him,” sighed Inspector Nehru.
“I know the name of the man because on the index finger of his right hand was a ring. It must have been of the shiniest gold because whomever killed him has also pulled it off. On the inside of that ring, the proud but deceased Mr. Milverton had inscribed his full name. In death his hand swelled, indeed getting the ring off must have been quite an endeavour. It was done recently, however, not by the killer. The bruising around the finger is fresh, as are the shoe prints in the dusted glass near the body. I would inspect the two guards outside, Nehru. The one to the left of the door has the same size shoes as the print here. My theory is they saw the gold ring and thought no one would notice their theft, distracted as anyone else might be by the corpse and missing diamond. What they were too distracted to note, however, was that the swelling caused the inscription to imprint on the flesh of the finger, an imprint that I just read.
“As to how he got in and who killed him when he reached here, well I do believe that is a mystery that I shall not be able to solve.”
Had the roof of the room burst open and a horde of elephants dressed as dancing fakirs descended on us from the heavens, I would likely have been less astonished than I was after what Jinnah had just said. Even Nehru could barely stammer out a series of confused sounds.
“Are you … my dear Jinnah … are you saying you’re stumped”, I asked finally.
“I suppose I am,” said the most brilliant man I’d ever known to live, and that was then the most frightening thing I’d ever heard said.
“But what now,” Inspector Nehru stammered out.
“I do not know. My advice is you conduct a search for the diamond as best you can. Look at the railway stations. Inspect anyone you think is suspicious there. Whoever took it will no doubt attempt to leave the city, perhaps head towards Karachi or Bombay from where they can depart on the first ship. Try not to let word get out for as long as you can, convince the Governor-General to do his best to appease the locals so that they might think on him more favourably when the news does eventually reveal itself. For now, other than us and his Lordship and his wife, no one knows. Oh, and those guards, but they will soon be keeping each other company in a cell somewhere, no doubt. Nor do I doubt you’ll impress on Lady Edwina to keep her silence when next you meet in private. Oh, do not look at me that way Jawaharlal, I’ve known you long enough to have met your wife on several occasions and that particular perfume still lingering around you is not one the unfortunate Mrs. Nehru can afford on your salary. It was, however, worn in abundance by Lord Mountbatten’s wife when we met her upstairs. Do not worry, your secret, like so many others that we must keep today, is safe with me. Now come along Khan, if we leave right away we might still avoid all the rush of Maghrib traffic.”
- The Spun Wheel
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“Under Clive, for Empire and Order!”
A tonga carried us up King’s Way, Viceroy House receding behind us. The canopy provided some relief from the heat and we sat back and observed Delhi pass us by as we trotted towards our flat on the distant Delhi-Mathura Road. King’s Way itself was mostly desolate; manicured lawns tended by devoted maalis and the odd English officer strolling along. Once we turned towards Connaught Place, named after the Queen’s third son himself, the crush of Delhi began to present itself. What felt like every man, woman and child in all this teeming city was on the streets, sweating and swearing, chatting and careening through stalls, bazaars, offices and homes that seemed so closely pressed together it was a wonder the entire thing did not collapse in on itself in a jumbled heap of colour and confusion.
To the untrained observer the chaos of the Delhi could indeed be overwhelming, I have heard it described as a hundred London’s pressed together with turmeric paste. However, in my time with my peculiar friend I had learned to observe things with a certain impassive distance and so to me certain trends began to present themselves, much like seeing a map of a city from above, rather than being immersed in its thronging masses. There were streams and eddies of traffic, I noted; the visibly Muslim diverting their path to avoid the visibly not so, Hindus and Sikhs doing the same to each other too, none seemingly conscious of their prejudicial behaviour. This was not the India I remembered, where each and every adherent of a creed not just tolerated but embraced their others. There was also, I could not help but feel, a tangible fear and hostility towards the Englishman. Every now and then the odd gora sahib or goree sahibah would appear in the crowds and unite all the others in their conscious avoidance of them, each one becoming a pale island around which the crowds would course, eyes downcast and mistrust barely concealed. It had been this way since the massacre in Amritsar and seeing it now with the awareness of the missing diamond, I could clearly imagine how such a revered symbol of Indian greatness being lost by the English was much like groping for a lost torch in a room full of gunpowder. I turned to make this observation to Jinnah when I was astonished to find him closely examining the red sheet of paper that we had found folded like a lotus flower.
“Jinnah! How did you get that letter”, I asked, trying to whisper and yet be heard over the roar of clacking hooves and bazaar hawkers angrily negotiating prices.
“I quite obviously stole it from the crime scene,” he replied, still immersed in deep study of what I knew was gibberish.
“But why? I thought you said the mystery could not be solved.”
“Indeed, it is what I said to Inspector Nehru. But there is no such thing as an unsolvable mystery. It’s just that this time I would prefer to solve it without having to keep him abreast of my discoveries. Policing the railways should keep him occupied for the next day or so while I try to find the perpetrator of this crime who so clearly wants me to find him.”
By now I could not contain my excitement and so found myself speaking a great deal louder than even Delhi’s din required me to. “So you know who did it? You know who stole the diamond and who killed the forger?”
Jinnah sighed, handed me the paper and massaged his temple as if dealing with the burdensome inquiries of an exhausting child.
“Of course. This was done by the man known only by the title conferred to him in the darkest of dens of villainy and corruption. They call him the ‘Samudragupta of Crime’ and I am one to concur.”
Samudragupta. The great ancient emperor of the Guptas, a man so efficient in his ability to wage war and so calculating in this skill with administration, that it’s said even the European military leader Napoleon aspired to be like him. If a criminal is named after him, then I could only imagine how fearsome he might be.
“I knew it was him the moment I saw the lotus letter,” said Jinnah. “It’s not nonsense as you so observantly noted, but a mostly forgotten Mughal cypher known as the ‘The Lotus Cypher’. This criminal mastermind is known for leaving cryptic clues that are near indecipherable, although I have personally found them not to be as challenging as he might wish they were. This one is simple. The emperor Aurangzeb used the same code to send letters of love to his concubine when he feared the jealousy of his two wives. The Lotus flower is often depicted with eight petals, which is as many as this one had when folded. Therefore, to understand the words on the paper we must move back eight spaces in the alphabet for each letter written down. And before you injure yourself with the effort, I have just finished doing so.”
“By Allah’s grace man, what does it read,” I exclaimed.
“Within the threads of our history, the next truth spins. Seek the wheel that weaves the roots of independence,” recited Jinnah. “It is in Farsi, not Urdu, which confirms my suspicions that the man we seek is also a Polyglot. Clearly we’re being led on a merry chase and I am confident our next clue will lead to yet another after. Please instruct our driver to take us to the museum.”
“Of course,” I said, slapping my forehead. “The threads of our history! The Indus Valley Civilisation exhibit at the Delhi museum begun today. That is most clever indeed, Jinnah.”
My compliment was shrugged away as a casual inevitability and as our carriage turned sharply in another direction, Jinnah closed his eyes and seemed to recede into himself. It was a relaxation I’d seen him often do after an act of deduction was completed, as if the very energies required by him to accomplish his level of thinking physically depleted him.
The museum sat up Queensway, a modern building only recently constructed in an architectural style that would make it a perfect but smaller facsimile of London’s British Museum. Inside was its first prominent exhibit, a display of the excavations conducted at the ruins of ancient Mohenjo-Daro by the famed archaeologist John Marshall. I had intended on seeing it myself in the coming days and so will admit to being a tad excited at the prospect of an early visit. We arrived just as the first attendees of the exhibit were awaiting their own carriages to depart, the museum about to close as evening darkened the skies above us. Some of Delhi’s most prominent and well-heeled figures were milling about outside and I became aware of how simply I was clad in just a plain sherwani. Jinnah, of course, was still utterly immaculate in his Saville Row tailoring, as if he had specifically dressed for company of this stature when leaving our home this morning.
As we climbed out of the tonga, instructing the driver to wait our return, we were approached by a portly gentleman with a strong Parsi chin and nose.
“My dear Jinnah, what a delight to see you,” said Sir Dinshaw Petit, the second baronet of his name. Their family was known to all who should know of such things for being highly esteemed in the Queen’s court, having built the first cotton mills in India. Jinnah and he were clearly well aquatinted, although this was my first introduction to one of the wealthiest men in all Delhi. They shook hands and Sir Petit inquired after our arrival. “Surely you’re too late to see the exhibit, it’s just closing now,” he said.
“I’m sure we can convince the administration to allow us a short visit if we promise not to break anything,” said Jinnah.
“Do you enjoy history so much then? I had not known it to be in your area of interest. If you do, you must meet my daughter, she’s a most devoted enthusiast of all things historical,” said the baronet. With that he stepped to the side and from behind him appeared the most elegant and loveliest young lady, smiling with the confident radiance of one unblemished by modesty.
“A pleasure to meet you Mr. Jinnah. I’m Rattanbai, although most call me Ruttie,” she said, lifting her hand up for him to kiss. “Tell me, do you prefer these bronze age civilisations or those closer to our own time like the grand Mauryans. Personally, I could spend all day amongst the relics of times gone by, regardless of what era they may belong to. The past is just so enchanting, don’t you think?”
I do not exaggerate when I say that I had never seen my friend so flustered. It took Jinnah, the most intellectual and confident man I’ve ever known a full minute to recover himself enough to actually kiss the hand that was proffered and then another full minute to release it from his own. In all that time, he did not actually manage a single sentence, simply stammered and stuttered as if in the throes of some severe conniptions. Eventually, the silence between them stretched so long that the baronet filled it with oblivious conversation.
“It’s a marvellous exhibit. But don’t just spend your time looking at dusty artifacts. Do take the opportunity to enjoy the charkha I just had installed there myself.”
That woke Jinnah from his reverie. “A spinning wheel you say? Why did you bring that here,” he asked.
“Oh, it’s most mysterious,” said Ruttie, her hand still held by Jinnah. “My father received a telegram some weeks ago from an unknown source. It informed him of a sizeable payment that had been made to his accounts in exchange for the construction of a charkha built to specific instructions that were also sent over. It was then to be placed here on display. However, when we brought it here today, the museum said they had no knowledge of it and had no place for it. How peculiar, don’t you think?”
“Yes, most peculiar. However, I’m sure it won’t be anything other than some confusion not worth distressing yourself over,” said Jinnah. “It has been a delight to meet you Miss Petit, now if you’ll excuse us, we must go inside before the doors lock us out.”
At the door was a guard who was indeed reluctant to allow us entrance until offered a small amount of money to go and refresh himself with a cup of tea, while Jinnah and I assured him we would not touch anything inside we were not supposed to. The foyer of the museum was dark by then, the only source of light being the moon shining through the windows above, casting the columns around us in bone. Jinnah strode past the exhibition of ancient clay sculptures that I yearned to dwell on and instead made his way to a set of doors at the rear of the building. From the large crates and boxes in the room beyond it was clear we were in some sort of storage area, in the centre of which was a contraption of simple yet intricate design, lit by the faint glow of meagre moonlight. The device consisted of a small, horizontal frame, crafted from polished wood. The central spindle, supported by two compact wheels, were built for spinning raw cotton into fine thread. A drive belt, a loop of cotton itself, connected these wheels to a larger one, operated by a hand-crank which was evidently designed for tireless human toil.
Beside the charkha lay a bundle of cotton, fluffy and white as an old lady’s hair, as if awaiting the skilled hands of its operator to transform it into something far greater than its humble beginnings. Jinnah studied it, then began stretching the cotton around the spindle, his hands moving with a rhythm as if honed by years of practice with this very device. As the wheel spun, his fingers deftly twisted and drew the fibres, until from them a piece of cloth began to form and on it a series of words, woven through as if by a master tailor. “Seek the voice of the people where the waters divide,” the threads whispered as they intertwined.
His task completed, Jinnah stood and wiped sweat from his brow with a silken handkerchief. “It seems we must pack our bags and prepare for a train journey, my dear Khan. We’re travelling to Allahbad, to the place where the Ganges and Yamuna rivers meet.”
- The march of salt
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The Delhi to Allahbad train journey took a little over eight hours and during that time I occupied myself with remembering what I could of the history of the Koh-i-Noor diamond. Cut from the peacock throne of Shah Jehan by the Persian King Nader Shah, the diamond was believed to be the largest and most wonderous in the world, yet seems to have brought nothing but misery to any man who dare possess it. Something Augustus Milverton would no doubt agree as plausible were he still capable. It has therefore been gifted to the Queen Regent, believed to be protected by her femininity from its accursed influence, although even she would rather place it permanently in the Tower of London than wear it upon her person. I remember reading this and other vague details of how the English acquired it by trading for it as one would for a horse in a marketplace and if I was to be fully honest, it did entice in me an anger with the lack of value given to our heritage and symbols of greatness by our supposed overseers. It was a kind of political thinking I did not often lend myself to, although the temptation to do so seemed more present these days.
“We are being followed,” Jinnah said, breaking my reverie.
I looked around our cabin, occupied by just me and him. As far as I could tell he had only been staring out the window at the passing countryside for the last few hours so could not understand where these followers might be located.
“I have been watching the reflection of our cabin door in this window and the same man has passed by three times in the last two hours. He has yet to look inside, even though everyone else who passes does so out of natural inquisitiveness.”
“What do we do,” I asked, knowing there was no point in arguing with my friend. He was never wrong about these things.
“You shall do nothing,” he said. “I shall return.” Then he exited the cabin door.
An hour later, I was startled to hear what sounded like a loud thump above me then looking out the window saw two men tumbling down the valley streaming below us before disappearing from view. A few minutes later Jinnah returned, his sleeve torn at two places and a welt blooming on his cheek. He settled on the cabin bench and asked me to retrieve some gauze from his suitcase in the overhead storage. I obliged and waited for him to recover himself enough to explain.
“It seems our enemy is keen on ensuring we reach him,” he said.
“But those two men, weren’t they trying to stop you?”
“Yes, but not very hard. In fact, they put up just enough of a fight for it to seem like their intent, but not enough to actually do anything other than confirm we are on the right path.”
“Allah Akbar Jinnah, did you have to throw them off the side of the train then,” I said, incredulously.
“I think our esteemed opponent would have been disappointed with anything less,” he said. Then, refusing to elaborate further, he slept the rest of the way.
Allahbad was much smaller than Delhi and although the locals would be offended by my saying this, I do believe it to be much less cosmopolitan. There is a great deal more spiritual and religious display there, a city not yet altered by the influence of modern commerce. Hindu gurujis chanted their way down main streets, the traffic subservient to the speeds set by their followers. Sufis seemed more common than beggars. Incense was thick in the air and all around there were temples and shrines, mosques and mandirs. The place seemed to rankle Jinnah’s sensibilities and he could scarcely hide his displeasure with so much that failed to conform to his strict adherence to rationalism and scientific logic.
We exited the train station and hired a tonga to carry us to Sangam, the pointed end of the land that jutted into the confluence of two rivers. If one stood at the right spot in the sand they would see the rich green Ganges running parallel to the dark blue Yumna, the waters from both pressed together yet somehow not blending until much further downstream.
“It’s quite a remarkable sight, sirs,” said our driver, a bald man dressed in a simple lunghi, a length white cotton wrapped around his waist and up into a shawl high on his bony shoulders. “Is this your first journey to the sacred rivers?”
Jinnah would normally ignore such simple conversation but to my surprise he indulged the driver. I attributed it to his seeming exhaustion, clearly tired out by the earlier fisticuffs and current distaste for having to leave our home and journey so far in the chase of some mysterious assailant.
“What makes the rivers sacred? Surely they are no more sacred than water running from a faucet,” he said, not without some mirth.
“The sir is making a jest,” cackled the driver, tugging the reigns to direct the horse dragging our cart up some narrow street. “No doubt you would have heard that the two rivers meeting is no different than two hands pressed together in prayer. Individually neither hand is particularly holy. But by joining as they do, they become holy in their devotion to a higher purpose. It is the same with the rivers. Individually they are but sources of water. But here their joining shows us an India that is also brought together to become something greater.”
Jinnah contemplated this wisdom from the driver as we left the city behind, our journey taking us down an empty dark road, the evening sun drowning in the sky ahead.
I admit to having nodded off by the time we reached our destination, my senses dulled by the rhythmic clatter of hooves on hard earth. There was a dream in that sleep but all I remember was it being shapeless, a jumble of images; a diamond large as an egg, cracking to reveal itself full of blood; a train full of corpses; a body split into two, then split into three; a park where a crowd is silence by the thunder clap of a gunshot. That last image woke me with a start.
“Ah, I was just about to wake you from what looked like a fairly wretched nightmare Khan. We’re here.”
Indeed we were. The wedge of land ended at a point ahead of us and past that, as if in defiance of each other, two rivers of distinct colours poured forward towards the horizon. In the setting darkness their colours had deepened so the Ganges was the green of a forest canopy, while the Yumna was a black storm rolling alongside it. On the vast flat, sandy plain there were a near hundred Hindu devotees, praying all around us, but none paid us any heed at all as Jinnah and I climbed off the tonga, instructing the driver to stay until we returned, and began trekking through towards the water.
“Are we looking for something in particular,” I asked, shouting to be heard over the roaring of the waters.
“We’re waiting,” said Jinnah, then turned around and looked expectantly at the tonga driver. “Well? What will it be then? Are these followers of yours going to try to kill us or are you going to make an appeal to my sense of patriotism?”
The tonga driver clapped his hands once and the Hindu worshippers, who just moments before had been deep in prayer, as one stopped whatever they were doing. The turned in unison to face us, then reached down and from the sand pulled long wooden sticks. When they rushed forward with their sticks in hand, held aloft the intention to strike us clear on their many faces, I cried out in surprise and quickly raised my fists in preparation, knowing my capacity to administer violence was quite minimal in the most ideal of circumstances. To my side, Jinnah did not even flinch, his hands still in his pockets as he observed the man I’d thought just moments before to be a simple cart driver. With a loud clacking that drowned out the growl of the rivers the sticks were all aimed at us, my friend and I the hub around which this many spokes of threatening violence circled.
“Jinnah! We seem to be outnumbered by quite a great deal,” I cried out in alarm, the closest stick end jabbing the air inches from my face.
“I knew I fooled you as little as you would have fooled me were our circumstances reversed,” aid the driver, walking up to us with a confidence previously belied by the stooped and humble façade he’d presented. The mob around us parted to allow him unimpeded passage, until he stood at the periphery of the circle inside which we were contained. Then, he nodded and his weaponised devotees lowered their staffs. Another nod and they stepped back in unison as smartly the finest regiment. He motioned for us to walk with him, leading us through the crowd of men who now smiled and made way, bowing their heads in reverence as he passed. We were led away from the river towards a small, low rock wall, jutting from the earth like a rotten tooth. As the roaring diminished behind us we were able to converse without shouting ourselves hoarse.
“The lotus cypher, the woven message spun by a specially designed charkha, you clearly wanted my attention. There isn’t anyone else in all of India capable of solving the clues, as well you know. So, here I am. What is to be done next? Surely nothing so boorish as a fight to the death,” said Jinnah. I had known him long enough now to know that what most considered a rude attitude of dismissal was in fact a chronic boredom with the world around him. My friend was like a Cheetah forced to spend its life walking slowly, so rarely was he afforded a true challenge. Now, however, his eyes glinted with a hungry excitement I had not ever seen before.
“I’m sure killing you would not be so easy,” said the man I’d thought was our driver and was now realising was the Samudragupta of crime we had been tracking all along. “No, I would much rather have a conversation.”
We had reached the rock wall, as high as a man and just a few feet across. Our guide took out a pouch from inside the folds of his lunghi and tilted it, fine sand pouring out into his cupped hand. After emptying out enough sand to form a small hill in his grip, he pressed a brick on the wall. It pushed out, a divot cut into its centre. He filled that with sand and then pushed it back into place. There was a rumble, the earth beneath us shifting as if by a tremor, and then the sand beneath our feet began to drain away as a hole appeared next to where we stood. It was just large enough for a grown man to climb down it, and sure enough there were stairs visible inside. Without a word our guide descended into the darkness and before I could voice my protest, Jinnah had followed him down.
There were torches burning on the wall at intervals, casting enough light for us to easily descend as the entrance above slid closed. The stairs ended after a single curve of a spiral and opened onto a large room, at the centre of which was a single table covered with maps. A man stood reading them, his back towards us.
“Ah, Nehru, I wondered whether you would be here,” said Jinnah, and at that moment the man did indeed turn around to reveal himself as our dear friend Inspector Nehru.
“Oh, this is all too ludicrous,” I exclaimed. “Next you’ll say the Queen herself is going to attend this meeting! What is going on Jinnah, I insist you explain.”
Jinnah glanced at the maps, sniffed, then turned towards me, a degree of sympathy visible in his eyes.
“When I said the theft of the Koh-i-Noor was a mystery I would not be able to solve, I was not lying,” said Jinnah. “However, I was playing you a bit false and I apologise my dear Khan. You see, it wasn’t a mystery at all is what I meant. There was nothing to solve. Only one man could access that room easily enough to steal the diamond, our good friend Inspector Nehru, the very man put in charge of protecting it. He stole the diamond.”
At this, Inspector Nehru lifted a bag from under the table and pulled out from it a cloth-wrapped shape as large as my fist. He unwrapped it carefully and the diamond that emerged from within caught every errant ray of light cast by the flaming torches and reflected them in hues of purple and blue all around us, so it felt like we were standing in a blizzard of crystalline rainbow. There was a moment of silent awe shared by everyone around the table.
“But what about that man,” I finally managed to ask. “Augustus Milverton. What was he doing there? Who killed him?”
“Nehru, of course. Despite the high collars of his sherwani, you can see the bruises around his neck where Mr. Milverton was trying so hard to strangle our friend before he himself was strangled in turn.”
“It was terrible,” said Inspector Nehru. “I had gone there to steal the diamond on behalf of my colleague here.” At that he nodded in the direction of the tonga driver. “However, Mr. Milverton was already in the room about to do the same. We scuffled and I barely managed to get the better of him. I had not wanted to kill the man, but had I not he would have likely killed me.”
“Yes, but who sent him then,” I asked.
“That would be Lord Mountbatten,” Jinnah said. “No doubt also intending to steal the diamond, or rather have it replaced with a counterfeit while he spirited it away to England to add to his personal collection, I deduce. What I do not know, however, is why I was enticed here.”
At this the tonga driver stepped forward, perching a pair of spectacles atop his thick nose. “The tragedy of the man you killed my good inspector is regrettable. I abhor violence and even in this grand task would like to see it not be used unless absolutely necessary. The truth is what I prefer as a weapon, Mr. Jinnah.”
“And what is the truth,” asked Jinnah.
“That the English will not leave unless made to do so. The good Inspector Nehru here has been aiding me for some time now in my quest to see their departure. He has been witness to too many of their cruelties. It was my idea to place him in such a trusted role as the Police Inspector, where he could provide me with the information I need to continually undermine Her Majesty’s government in our Hindustan.”
“And now you need my aid to continue in your plans,” said Jinnah. “Was that the purpose of the merry chase you’ve led me on? And what if I say no? What if I say I do not believe the removal of the English will be enough? That the divisions between us are now too many for a utopian ideal of a single land for a multiple of peoples to be a likely outcome. Instead, what I see is violence and bloodshed and death on a scale we have not yet experienced.”
“Damn it Jinnah that is inevitable,” yelled Nehru. “Our people are being killed by gunshot and by famine under the British. At least let us be free first. After, we can see to the peace of our lands.”
Jinnah stood in silence for some moments, then he turned to me. “What do you think, Khan?” It was the first time I could ever remember him asking for my opinion. I considered the astonishing discussion I had just witnessed, measuring it against my own observations.
“I think they are correct, Jinnah. It is becoming clear that the British have no intention of leaving. But we must not forget they weren’t always here. The Mughals, as we’ve been reminded, were here before them. As were the more ancient empires of this land that stretch back thousands of years. If the English came here, that means there could be a time when they leave again. What I do not understand is what all this has to do with the diamond? And you?”
“These men hope to ransom the Koh-i-Noor to the English, in exchange for concessions towards Indian self-rule. Or rather, they hope to ransom an expert forgery back, and keep the original here where it belongs. Remember I’d said Augustus Milverton was the second greatest forger in the known world,” said Mr. Jinnah. “I happen to be slightly more skilled at it than he was even.”
He turned to the other two men, a slight smile briefly appearing on his face. “Very well then. It seems a great game is afoot. If we are to be accomplices, then I would prefer to have your name,” he said to the tonga driver.
“Most call me Karamchand,” said the bald man, his own smile showing he was clearly Jinnah’s equal in intellect and cunning, and what a fearsome team that would make them. “However, I prefer the use of my last name by those I trust. So please, my dear Muhammad Ali Jinnah. Call me Gandhi.”
There, then, leaning over the table, their long shadows stretching like titans, bisected by the blades of light thrown by the diamond in the centre, I saw three incredible men plot the future of our freedom, and in that moment I wondered why instead of elation, I felt only dread.
———————-
Liaquat A. Khan
Delhi, British India.