CHAPTER TWO

 

“Let me clarify the situation for you, Mr. Aylesford, Mrs. Aylesford.”

Vikram didn’t consult papers; he didn’t need to. The facts of the case were all too familiar. The couple who sat opposite him in Mr. Glaister’s office were familiar types too. He was red-faced from years of Indian sun, she had clearly taken care to preserve her complexion with a parasol; neither was used to engaging with an Indian as an equal rather than a subordinate. Vikram was used to that; it was why he dressed with such formal perfection, and let his Oxford education show so clearly in his speech.

He looked from one to the other of the couple. “You engaged ‘Flora’ as an ayah fifteen years ago, in Calcutta. So beloved and invaluable was she that you had her accompany you back to England, at your request, on the agreement that you would pay her return passage to India. And now that your youngest child is at school and you have no more use for the woman who has cared for your offspring for fifteen years, you propose to abandon her, unwaged, unhelped, on the other side of the world from her home, because it no longer suits you to meet your obligations. A woman who took care of your children all their young lives, who crossed the world because, I quote from your own letter, Mrs Aylesford, you could not bear to make the journey without our dear Flora—and what? You will let her eke out a living in a foreign land, if she can, and die in the streets if she can’t?”

Mrs Aylesford stared rigidly ahead. Mr. Aylesford was bright red from embarrassment as well as sunburn. Their solicitor looked much as one might expect. Vikram was not making friends.

“There are homes for ayahs,” Mr. Aylesford mumbled.

“There is a home for ‘Flora’,” Vikram said. He couldn’t help emphasising the English name, doubtless bestowed on the ayah for the Aylesfords’ convenience. She used it herself, after fifteen years. He hated that. “It is in Calcutta, and you will pay her fare according to the offer you made her when you took her from there for your benefit.”

“You can’t prove we offered that,” Mr. Aylesford said. Mr. Glaister winced very slightly.

“No,” Vikram said. “I only have her word, and she is only a woman and only a servant and only an Indian. I dare say you thought it would be very easy to cheat her, under the circumstances.”

“I resent that remark,” Mr. Aylesford said. “I see no reason we should foot the bill for a passage to India when I have a family to provide for. Is a man forever responsible for every servant he may employ? ? She no longer has a position in my household and must make her own way.”

“You see no reason to foot the bill. Not honesty? Not British fair play? Not loyalty to a woman who has always been loyal to you? Then try this: I shall represent ‘Flora’ in court, pro bono, to sue you for her passage.” Vikram loved appearing in court; it was his greatest regret about his chosen path in life that he could only do so rarely. “I shall make her case,” he went on, slipping into courtroom tones, letting it build. “I shall read extracts from letters written by you; I shall tell the story of how she saved little George, just five years old, from a jackal’s jaws; I shall make the jury weep with the tale of her love and faithfulness. And then I shall tell them how you propose to reward it by throwing her on a dust heap, and perhaps I will not be able to take the cost of passage from you, but I promise that I will take your reputation. I will have reporters in court, ready to repeat every pathetic detail in tear-wringing fashion. I will make you the most reviled couple in London for your ingratitude.” He planted his knuckles on the desk and leaned in, ignoring the tears spilling over Mrs Aylesford’s cheeks. “So tell me. Can you afford that?”

 

***

 

“That display was hardly necessary, Mr. Pandey,” Mr. Glaister said, somewhat stiffly, once the Aylesfords had gone.

“On the contrary. I don’t have time to take every one of these miserly swine to court. Have you any idea how many of these women are left, abandoned—”

“I dare say it is very terrible, but your manner to a respectable couple was scarcely what one would expect of—if I may say so—a gentleman.”

“I give respect where it’s deserved,” Vikram said. “Is there anything else? I’ve work to do.”

Faced with public shame for their private greed, the Aylesfords had agreed to pay for a second-class passage to Calcutta. ‘Flora’ would go home, unlike the dozens of other ayahs abandoned in a foreign land. It was a small victory but he’d take it in the face of what too often felt like a struggle of overwhelming futility.

You can’t fight an empire! his father had shouted at him, during one of their many, many arguments, and Vikram had said, Yes I can. Perhaps I can’t beat it, but I can certainly fight.

It had sounded better then, when he’d been young and fiery and full of belief that India would one day be free of the British yoke. He’d be thirty in a couple of months, and he didn’t feel young any more.

Glaister’s chambers were in the Inns of Court, not far from his own rooms. He strode back—there was never time to dawdle—let himself in, greeted his clerk, and flopped down at his desk, with its piles of paper neatly squared and stacked for his attention, and the day’s post in the middle of the green leather top.

It was the usual mixture. Begging letters. Communications from the various societies he supported—slum improvements, hygiene, universal suffrage, divorce law reform, independence. Requests to speak, requests to give money, requests to give time.

And one scruffy, cheap envelope, addressed only to ‘Vikram Pandey’ (poorly formed letters but correctly spelled; many solicitors’ clerks did not do so well), evidently delivered by hand. Vikram opened it, and pulled out a single sheet of rough paper, inscribed in the same childish writing.

 

Dear Mr. Pandey

Please will you com my brother is gone away and ma and pa very sad please help us please. He is good boy but gone away.

sincerly

Arabella Gupta

 

There was an address in Shad Thames. Vikram put the letter down with an internal sigh. He offered legal advice, intervened with the parish and police, and otherwise supported the work of the Shad Thames Eastern Association House, which attempted to provide for Indians who washed up on Britain’s shores without the wealth that had smoothed his own path. Lascars, ayahs, visiting students, people attempting to survive as street performers, cooks or carpenters, people who wanted to stay, people who wanted to leave. The displaced, underpaid or homeless souls who gathered there saw him as a beacon of hope, an Indian who was as superior and educated and English as any Englishman, and a protector when the law or the parish came knocking. Vikram felt nothing but despair when he walked through its doors.

He was not an enquiry agent, or anything like, to go looking for missing boys, but this might fall within his purview. If the brother had gone for a lascar, working for a fraction of the pay given to white sailors in the hardest, dirtiest jobs on board ship, or had been caught in the meshes of the law, Vikram might be able to help.

He had a meeting in Shad Thames in any case, regarding Association House’s lease. So he scooped up the letter, and a few other documents, and set off east.

Some hours later, he was at Miss Gupta’s door, a poor, low, dark house on a poor, low, dark street. It would be a crowded home for six, and probably housed at least thirty.

He knocked at the door, and was annoyed to see that action left soot-stains on his knuckles. The white woman who opened it looked at him with a combination of hostility and apprehension. “Who’re you?”

“My name is Pandey.” He’d been told, often, that he ought to say I’m not with the police or I’m not here to cause trouble, be a little less towering in his manner and a little less book-learned in his speech. He might as well put on a dirty coat and a cockney accent. “I am looking for the Gupta family. Arabella Gupta. Is she here?”

“Couldn’t say,” the woman muttered, eyes skittering. “Best come back later.”

Vikram glared at her. It had been a long day and there was no sign of it ending soon. “She sent me a letter. I want to speak to the family.”

He pulled out the scrap of paper. The woman’s eyes moved over it without comprehension. Vikram sighed. “It’s from Arabella Gupta. She asked me to visit.”

“Asked you.”

Vikram didn’t know if the woman’s disbelief and distrust were due to his race or his class and didn’t care. The leasehold meeting had been exasperating beyond measure, attended almost entirely by dunderheads who couldn’t understand a simple legal document and dullards who wanted only to rehash the question of whether Association House was attracting unwanted sorts to an area that nobody wanted anyway. He wasn’t in the vein for any more negotiation. He drew a breath to say so, and almost choked as a piercing squeal came from right behind him.

“Oh, it’s you,” the woman said. “What’s this about inviting gentlemen?”

“Lay off, Meg,” said the small child who stood at Vikram’s elbow. “Sir, is you Mr. Pandey? Please, sir, come in, thank you. Get out the way, you sour-faced cow! In here please, sir. Pa!”

After a few moments of scuffling and shouting in whispers, during which a number of wide-eyed children scurried past, Vikram found himself in a room that was clearly the Gupta family’s home. It was small and dark but no worse than many, with a few sticks of furniture offering a little comfort, and as clean as was possible given the damp and the encroaching black mould on the walls. There were two chairs, one of which was offered to him; the other was occupied by a man either in his fifties or prematurely aged. One of his legs ended at the knee, and Vikram guessed he was or had been a lascar from his weatherbeaten look; he seemed decidedly alarmed. The girl who had escorted him in was, at his ill-informed guess, perhaps eight years old, brown haired, and much lighter skinned than her father.

“Sir, this is my pa, sir,” she announced. “And I’m Arabella and thank you for coming, only we don’t know what to do because my brother’s gone away and Pa says we can’t tell the peelers.”

Vikram inclined his head to the man, mostly because he had no idea how to speak to a child. “My name is Pandey. I’m a lawyer, I assist at Association House—”

“I know who you are, sir. My name is Anand Gupta, and I beg your pardon but we cannot pay a lawyer.”

“I won’t charge you anything,” Vikram said. As though he’d come to this hovel to seek fees. “Tell me about your son.”

“Sunil. He is sixteen, my son from my first marriage. My wife died when he was two years old, and I married Polly ten years ago. We have three children, she and I.”

“Six of you. And how do you live?”

“I sell sheep’s trotters, on the street. Polly makes trimmings for ladies’ hats, artificial flowers and such. Sunil...brought in what he could. He is a good boy.”

There was unquestionably an evasion there, masked by the non sequitur. Vikram marked it for later use. “And what has happened to him?”

“I don’t know. He did not always come back every night, but now he has not come back at all, or sent to us, for almost three weeks. He always brings money for the rent, the children. Always. He cares for his family.”

Vikram pressed a few questions, and got answers that were informative, if not particularly enlightening. Sunil had last been seen on the morning of the twenty-third of October, a Saturday. There had been no word since. He would sometimes spend two or three nights from home but had never been away so long before; he had not told any of his friends where he was going. He had not seemed distressed, or worried, or unusually excited; he had not spoken of plans or fantasies of escape. He had, according to father and daughter, been entirely as usual.

Their fear was obvious, and it was evident that Arabella adored her half-brother. Vikram well knew that was not always the case. “Do Mrs Gupta and Sunil get on well?”

“Very well. He might as well be her son.”

Vikram held Mr. Gupta’s gaze. “What do you think has happened to Sunil? Do you think he’s run away? Gone for a sailor?”

“No,” said father and daughter together, and Mr. Gupta went on, “He would not do that. I was a lascar. He means to do better for himself.”

“Was there an argument? Any family dispute? A girl, perhaps?” More sincere headshaking. “Then what do you think has happened?” Vikram pressed. “An accident? Have you asked at the hospitals? Have you contacted the police?” And there it was, the giveaway twitch. “Why have you not contacted the police?”

“I told him not to.” That was a woman’s voice, and Vikram twisted round to see a thin, worn-faced white woman entering the room with a darker infant on her hip. The child gazed at Vikram with huge, solemn eyes. “Bella, you take Joey and get outside. Off, now.”

“But Ma!”

“Out.”

The girl stood obediently, but as she passed Vikram she clutched at his sleeve with grubby hands. “You will help find Sunil, won’t you, sir? You’ll find him for us?”

“Out!” Mrs Gupta commanded again, and plonked the infant into the little girl’s thin arms, where it looked suddenly huge. The woman shut the door behind her daughter, then walked over and bobbed a curtsey. “You’ll be Mr. Pandey, sir. I’ve first to say, we didn’t know Bella was writing to you, not at all. She’s a foolish girl with a head full of ideas, and that’s the truth.”

“She acted with commendable initiative,” Vikram said, bristling in instinctive defence. “She is obviously a very bright girl and I trust you will continue her education.”

“Initiative is as may be,” Mrs Gupta said darkly. “I call it cheek. And as for her education...” She sagged suddenly. “It was Sunil made it so we could put her to school instead of piece work. The last year, he’s been bringing in good money and, well, with Gupta’s leg, we needed it.”

“And how was he making the money?” Vikram asked. “Is this the reason you have not gone to the police?”

“There’s no harm in it,” Mrs Gupta said, jaw setting. “None in the world. He does errands, for gentlemen.”

“Errands for gentlemen,” Vikram repeated.

Mrs Gupta’s eyes locked with his. Hers were light hazel, lined, tired, and defensive. “He’s brought in ten, twenty shillings a week sometimes. He’s been taught to speak nice and the gentlemen passed on some good clothes for Gupta, hardly worn. There’s no harm in it.”

There was certainly no novelty. Boys of the working classes traded their youth for coin as much as girls did. Discussion of that was usually shrouded in the sort of euphemism that Vikram found profoundly irritating in its imprecision, even if it was needful under the law.

It ought not to be. Prostitution and exploitation were words Vikram thought should be shouted aloud, along with poverty. Perhaps the Guptas knew exactly what Sunil did for his money; perhaps they merely suspected, or chose not to question. A growing family with a crippled father could not be expected to turn away the wages of sin when it paid at these rates, no matter what comfortably-off moralists would say. “Did Sunil dislike his way of living?”

“No, sir. He was always cheerful,” Mrs Gupta insisted. “He liked having money in his pocket, he was saving a little. He wanted—he wants—” Her face crumpled suddenly. Mr. Gupta put up his hand to hers, and she clutched it, work-worn fingers twining together. Her other hand was knotted in the grimy cloth of her apron. “I just want him to be safe.”

“Are you afraid for his life?” Vikram asked.

“We don’t know,” Mr. Gupta said. “We don’t know.”

But they feared to go to the police, as well they might. A foreign boy of the lowest class with such a tale was unlikely to be anyone’s priority and might even be arrested if he were still alive. A vindictive policeman might accuse his parents of living off immoral earnings. “Do you know his employer’s name?”

The Guptas both shook their heads. “He never said,” Mrs Gupta added. “I don’t know where he went.”

Well, what the devil would you have me do, then? Vikram bit back the angry words. They sprang from the tight knot in his stomach that he always felt when there was help he couldn’t give, a problem he couldn’t solve. There were so many of them. He understood why people went through life averting their eyes from everyone else’s suffering; when one noticed, it was unbearable.

“Please, sir,” Mrs Gupta said. “He’s Gupta’s eldest and Arabella loves him so and—please. Even if the news isn’t good. We have to know.”

Just say “I can’t help you.” Just say it. Don’t offer false promises.

He couldn’t make himself do it. Not this boy, this age. He’d lost one such himself, once. And if Sunil was lying dead somewhere in this sprawling city, if he had already been buried in a pauper’s grave for want of someone to claim him, Vikram might at least be able to find that out. He could spare a couple of shillings, send out someone to ask questions.

He pushed a hand through his hair. “I will send around to hospitals and mortuaries.” They both flinched. “Is there anything else you can tell me, any clue as to his employer or place of work? And I will need a full description.”

The pair exchanged glances. Mr. Gupta nodded. Mrs Gupta went to the corner and lifted the lid of a cheap, battered box. She came over and gave Vikram a framed photograph.

He blinked. Photography was not cheap, and this was a good, clear image in a well-made frame, far better than he’d expect this painfully poor family to own. It showed a handsome, smiling youth with a slight resemblance to Mr. Gupta, an incipient moustache that brought back Vikram’s memories of his own adolescence, and a cocky look. A happy, confident young man. “This is Sunil?”

“He gave it to us the Sunday before he vanished,” Mr. Gupta said. “He was working as an photographer’s model. It was a gift.”

Vikram turned over the picture. There was no indication of the studio or the photographer’s name. That in itself was suggestive of a photographer who didn’t want to be found, and if Sunil had been a ‘model’ for one of those...

It was, perhaps, a start.