Knowing her father would expect her to report on every detail of the situation, Perveen had asked to stay. It was a nervy thing to do, and Perveen had been surprised that the sub-inspector had allowed her to linger. As the fingerprinting continued, she realized her presence gave the sub-inspector a chance to show off. After all, his boss hadn’t yet arrived, and she was the first female lawyer he’d ever met.
Sub-Inspector Singh had swiftly dispersed the thick black powder over everything: the marble floor, the walls, and the furniture. He was making a mess of this elegant old house, but she supposed it couldn’t be avoided. She studied the junior police officer, who wore a neatly trimmed beard and had an impressively large dark-green turban. Unlike ordinary Indian constables, who wore blue tunics with pantaloons, the sub-inspector wore the crisp white uniform of jacket and trousers of the Imperial Police.
The golden-brown bridle-leather briefcase, which had originally been underneath Mr. Mukri’s body, now lay blackened with powder. She eyed it, wondering how she’d be able to convince the sub-inspector to return it. As one of very few Indians in police administration, he would probably not want to give the impression he would cut another Indian a favor.
“Are you finding many impressions?” Perveen asked in a friendly tone.
He gave her a supercilious look. “I was trained in Calcutta in the Henry Fingerprint Classification System. I don’t suppose you know that fingerprinting science began in India?”
“I didn’t know,” she said honestly. “About how many fingerprints are on file in Bombay?”
“Over forty-five thousand,” he said with pride. “In these times, whenever a man is arrested, his fingerprints are taken.”
“Are there only criminals’ fingerprints on record?”
“Not exactly. Almost every sweeper and guard is requested to let us take impressions. We saw no guard at the gate. That is already suspicious. My inspector, Mr. R. H. Vaughan, will certainly pursue him.”
Feeling jittery, Perveen tried not to concentrate on her private suppositions that at least one of the women on the other side of the screen might have been involved with Mukri’s death. She was supposed to defend them, not throw them to the wolves.
Perveen studied the hallway, wondering if she might notice something important. She surveyed everything: the floral mosaics on the walls that bore splatters of the blood, the velvet stool that was knocked over, and the open door to a bedroom.
Perhaps this was where Mr. Mukri had slept. As Sub-Inspector Singh kept dusting, she got up and entered the room. The handsome bed was neatly made with a red silk quilt; on marble-topped tables on either side, there were crystal goblets.
A slight hissing sound caught her attention. She followed it to a closed door, which she pushed open to discover that behind it was a bathroom with a marble tub. She’d heard the faint noise of taps not closed all the way, judging from the moisture beading up on a long rust stain inside the tub.
“Where have you gone?” Sub-Inspector Singh’s voice was sharp and close behind her.
Perveen felt like a child in trouble. “I’m sorry. I did not know this was off-limits.”
“Touching the door ruins fingerprints! There may be evidence here.”
Perveen looked at the trickling tap. She could have pointed it out to him. However, she was not legally obligated to assist; and if she became involved in the defense of anyone within the household, tipping the detective about anything could have disastrous implications. Still, she wanted to foster a good relationship; there were many things a lawyer could learn from the police. This was why her father—the next person she’d telephoned after she’d rung the police—was downstairs with the two constables.
“My inspector will want to know what was taken,” Sub-Inspector Singh said. “This will be difficult indeed, since the three widows live on the other side. What can they tell us?”
Perveen was pleased to have a way to redeem herself. “Our law firm has a written record of some of the household’s most important assets. I believe we can share such information to assist in your investigation.”
Singh looked appraisingly at her. “When can you give it?”
“Perhaps tomorrow. But I’ll need my briefcase. It’s the one lying against the wall—”
“You own a man’s briefcase?” He looked disbelievingly from her to the case.
“It’s mine!” she bleated, feeling desperate. “I can tell you that it was manufactured by Swaine Adeney of England and has my initials stamped on it. PJM.”
He shuffled over to the briefcase and lifted it up for inspection. “Why would your briefcase be with the deceased?”
Perveen took a deep breath. If she wasn’t careful, she could turn his suspicion on herself. “I misplaced it when I was visiting earlier today. I’d come on a routine visit that dealt with the estate settlement. The late Omar Farid was originally my father’s client, and now I’m helping, because the wives will speak to me.”
Sub-Inspector Singh handed her the case. “You may have it, then. But will you tell me if anything’s missing?”
“Thank you. I’ll look right now.”
Perveen shook off her worries about being considered culpable along with the black dust covering the case. Her notebook, a Bombay street guide, three pens, twenty rupees, and some odd paisa coins were still inside. The mahr and wakf papers showed signs of rifling. Mr. Mukri had looked. Not that it mattered anymore.
“Nothing’s been taken. Not even the small amount of money I always carry,” she said.
“Any thief would have taken the case. It looks expensive—” He broke off at the sound of Jamshedji’s voice booming from downstairs.
“My apologies, madam, but this area is not open for visitation! It is under police protection.”
“Is that so?” drawled a recognizable female voice. “Then what about your presence, sir? You’re too nattily dressed to be a constable.”
Sub-Inspector Singh gave Perveen a comradely glance and muttered, “Those Angrez. Everywhere they should not be.”
“It sounds like my father needs help.” Briefcase in hand, Perveen hurried down the main staircase.
Alice was dressed in a white linen frock that was not only creased but also stained with red dust. She goggled at the sight of Perveen. “Perveen! How did you get here?”
“I’ll ask the same of you!” She laughed, trying to sound amused—although she wasn’t. It was an inconvenient time for Alice to blunder in.
“I was coming back from sightseeing on Elephanta Island when I saw the hubbub. The whole street’s up in arms.”
“Even so, that is no reason to enter another person’s property,” Jamshedji said icily.
“Pappa, she is my closest college friend, Alice Hobson-Jones,” Perveen interjected because as annoyed as she was about the interruption, she didn’t want Alice to feel rejected. “She lives just around the corner.”
“So you’re the famous Jamshedji Mistry, Esquire!” Alice beamed as if she was intent on ignoring his unfriendly reception. “Perveen has told me loads about you. Actually, I only came because of the commotion. Our guards said a police cart went by—the kind that is used to carry bodies.”
“I regret to say that the information is correct,” Jamshedji said stiffly as he shook Alice’s outstretched hand. “A gentleman from this house has passed away.”
Alice gasped. “But I thought the nawab died some time ago!”
Father and daughter exchanged glances. At Jamshedji’s nod of permission, Perveen spoke. “Alice, you are correct that the householder, Mr. Omar Farid, died last month—although he was a businessman, not a nawab. The gentleman who died today was the family’s household agent and guardian.”
“How ghastly,” Alice said. “Was he killed defending the widows and children? What a hero he must have been!”
“We don’t know specifics,” Jamshedji sa
id in the patient voice he employed with foreigners. “That is a matter for police deduction. And now, Miss Hobson-Jones, if you don’t mind—”
“But Mr. Mistry, can you tell me, were the ladies and children harmed?” Alice persisted.
“They’re fine,” Perveen said. “I’ve been inside the zenana section to check on them.” Although there hadn’t been time to talk.
“Perveen, perhaps you and Miss Hobson-Jones could visit with each other later?”
Jamshedji’s discomfort was obvious to Perveen. The sudden interloper was a social superior who could cause all manner of trouble. Perveen would put him at ease later; for now, she’d do as he asked.
Perveen walked out to the garden with Alice.
“Why didn’t you tell me that you already knew my mysterious neighbors?” Alice grumbled. “We looked down at the garden together, and you didn’t say a word!”
“I didn’t know you were such close neighbors until I visited your parents’ house, and I’m duty bound to protect my clients’ privacy,” Perveen said, putting an arm through one of Alice’s. “My father only said as much as he did because you’d arrived and there seemed no way to keep it hidden. But do be quiet about it to others.”
Alice rolled her eyes heavenward. “I shall. But does this gag order preclude me from telling you what I think?”
“Speak, but in a lower voice,” Perveen whispered. “There are open ears on the other side of the wall.”
Alice regarded the high property wall with its spiked glass topping and winced. “All right. Mother says that whenever there’s a murder in India, one can count on the evildoer being a disgruntled servant.”
Mohsen was still missing from his station; however, Perveen refused to engage in typical prejudices and didn’t want Alice to absorb them. “Here’s what I think. Because there are so many more poor people in India than rich people, they receive most of the convictions. Their fate is decided by judges who come from the elite.”
“I hadn’t thought of that,” Alice said, looking a bit shamefaced. “Whoever it was, I hope that he or she is caught. Do you see how fair-minded I can be?”
“I do.”
“Will you come to the bungalow after you’re finished here?”
“Your mother said yesterday you’d be busy tonight.”
“I’ve got that thing where your legs are still rolling the day after you’ve been at sea. I tripped in the caves; that’s why I look such a mess.”
Perveen hesitated because, although she would have liked to talk about everything with Alice, it would be difficult to resist saying too much. “I’ll have to see what my father thinks.”
“It was his suggestion!” Alice said heatedly.
Perhaps. But her father had no idea how hard Alice was likely to press her about the case’s details. And after all the truth telling that she and Alice had gone through over the years, Perveen wasn’t sure how much she could deny her.
18
The Sound of Murder
Bombay, February 1921
Perveen bid a restrained goodbye to Alice at the gate, where one constable was holding back a cluster of neighbors and tradesmen who had come to inquire about the presence of the police car. As Perveen began a quick walk back to the bungalow, the Farids’ young maid ran after her, calling out her name.
Perveen stopped. “What is it, Fatima?”
“Can you tell the police to bring back my Abba?” she said between sobs. “The policemen took him.”
Perveen was staggered by this new information. “But—I didn’t see him when he arrived. And the sub-inspector was still taking fingerprints.”
“Others came. A white man. I think he’s the one who ordered the constables to take him. But it’s all my fault!”
Perveen felt a mix of emotions. First was great relief that a perpetrator had been caught, which meant the widows would be safe. But Fatima’s tear-stained face moved her, and the haste of the arrest made her skeptical.
“Tell me what happened.”
“They came to me and grabbed my hands. They pushed them into black ink. I washed and washed, and I cannot get rid of the marks.”
Examining the girl’s stained fingertips, Perveen said, “They might have fingerprinted because you’re the only one who goes on both sides of the house. They must distinguish you from the person who attacked Mr. Mukri. It doesn’t mean you are considered guilty.”
“I would rather have them take me than take Abba,” she wailed. “Who will take care of Zeid?”
“Please try to calm yourself. What did the constables ask you?”
“They asked if I saw Abba go into the house, and I said yes—remember, he came to save you when Mukri-sahib was shouting. But then he was gone. He only just came back and they surrounded him and wouldn’t let me near. Then they took him!”
“I need to know more. In the last hour, did you hear anything unusual?”
“They asked that, too. I told them the truth: I couldn’t hear anything but Jum-Jum crying. He is getting a tooth.” She shifted from one small bare foot to the other. “Could you please come back to the zenana? The begums are terribly upset. The nasty white policeman is still here.”
It dawned on Perveen that the man was likely Sub-Inspector Singh’s boss—Inspector Vaughan. Perveen told Fatima to go to her brother. Then she walked to the doorway of the zenana, where she found a short Englishman in his late twenties at the closed door. He was hammering it with his fists.
“Namaste!” he shouted in a manner that had little to do with the word’s meaning. It was also a Hindu greeting not used with Muslims.
“Good afternoon, sir!” Perveen said in English. “I’m afraid—”
The man whirled around and gaped at her. “Farid-begum?”
Holding out her hand, she said, “My name is Perveen Mistry.”
He didn’t take her hand, but he peered accusingly at her with bulging blue eyes. “Do you have any association with the Parsi gentleman who’s bothering my constables?”
Coolly, Perveen said, “I’m the daughter of Mr. Jamshedji Abbas Mistry, and we practice together at Mistry Law. Are you Inspector Vaughan?”
“Chief Inspector Vaughan.” He squinted at her suspiciously. “I didn’t know lady vakils existed.”
“I’m a solicitor, not a vakil.” Taking out her handkerchief to dry off her palms, Perveen tried to sound pleasanter. “I don’t know if my father mentioned that the widows who live here are purdahnashins. They would feel violated if they had to face you in an interview. They have very limited contact with men.”
“One would think they’d wish to relax the rules to capture a murder suspect,” he grumbled.
“Typically the custom is for men with a valid need to speak with them through a screen,” she said crisply.
“I’ve been hammering this door for ten minutes and am on the verge of breaking it down. I won’t have to do it if you’d convince them to speak with me.”
Perveen paused, reading the anxiety in the detective’s red face. Since Mohsen had been taken into custody, it was unlikely that Vaughan thought one of the widows had killed Mr. Mukri. However, they were all potential witnesses, given that they had been on the scene. And it would be safer for them if she met privately with them first.
“I’d be very glad to help, Inspector Vaughan, but I can tell you that they will be more candid if I talk to them alone. Would you like me to ask what they might have seen or heard?”
“Naturally,” he said, sounding slightly mollified. “Do you know where Faisal Mukri’s family lives?”
She shook her head. “Sorry. Mr. Mukri was a bachelor and employed at Farid Fabrics, so management may have a family record.”
“And there’s the matter of the watchman. The little maidservant told Singh that he was briefly in the house and then went on an errand. But she’s his daughter, so he could ha
ve made her lie for him. I can’t see a reason for a bungalow watchman to leave his post to run errands,” he added with a snort.
“I’ll do my best with the ladies,” Perveen reassured him. “Will you be on the other side of the house?”
Vaughan blinked, as if she’d startled him. Perhaps he wasn’t used to being questioned by Indians. “Yes. I’ll be at the death scene with the coroner.”
Fans whirred quietly on the ceiling of the downstairs great room where Sakina sat against the bolsters. The second widow’s head was bent over the embroidery piece she was working on. Razia’s daughter, Amina, appeared to be reading a book.
Soft chanting could be heard from the small side room.
“Razia is praying,” Sakina said, tilting her head toward the room where Perveen had admired the mihrab. “I have prayed already with my daughters. Razia wished for Amina to pray, but she has not done it.”
Amina’s lips were pressed together, and her eyes had a dull look. Perveen longed to embrace her but knew better. She’d learned about the power structure of the zenana and didn’t want to usurp Sakina’s role.
“Sakina-begum, shall we go upstairs to talk?” Perveen asked.
Sakina looked up, revealing reddened eyes. “I want to stay near my children. They are just outside in the garden now, with Taiba-ayah. After what happened, I want to be near them.”
For all Sakina’s concerns about her children, Perveen wondered at the widow’s decision to sit inside and leave the ayah caring for them. She suspected this was the custom, just as Sakina chose not to have the little ones stay with her in her elegant private bedroom. Perveen hadn’t even seen Jum-Jum yet. Clearing her throat, she said, “I’m so sorry this happened. I wonder, if I’d stayed with you this afternoon, it might have deterred whoever did it.”
“We shall never know,” Sakina said, wiping at her eyes. “I keep thinking, what would my husband say if he knew the man he appointed guardian died protecting me and all the others?”
“My poor father,” Amina said in a whisper.
The Widows of Malabar Hill Page 20
