The Widows of Malabar Hill

by Sujata Massey

  “How would you know who was being called?”

  “Fatima’s job is to go and hear whom he is requesting. I heard the bell, but I stayed inside my rooms praying he wasn’t calling for me. But Fatima came and told me I’d been chosen.” She swallowed hard and then added, “I was sick with fear. The jali screen is really a door with a lock, and I was sure he had the key.”

  Perveen felt a cold finger of dread at this knowledge. “Had he ever gone through?”

  She shrugged. “Not that I know of. In the old days, the jali stayed closed but was not locked. Our husband walked through, and we also went to the other side if there were no other gentlemen visiting the house.”

  “I understand. What happened next?” Perveen settled deep into the car seat, getting herself in the right position to observe any changes in Razia’s expression.

  “When I came to the screen, I could see the shadow of his figure on the other side. He asked why I’d changed my position about donating my mahr to the wakf. I dared not say what I really felt—that I didn’t want him using our wakf funds.” Razia sucked in air, as if she needed it to go on. “That man told me that I had proved myself incapable and said I must write a letter resigning from being a mutawalli. I was to write that I’d lost my ability to think well following my husband’s death.”

  Mukri had landed on insanity, one of the few reasons a mutawalli could be taken from their job. Even if Razia didn’t sign such a statement, he could solicit accounts from others defaming her. “How did you respond?”

  “I said I needed to think, and that such a letter would take time to write. Then he warned me if the paper wasn’t ready within the hour, he would . . .” Razia shook her head. “I can’t even say it!”

  “Tell me.”’

  In a wavering voice, the widow continued. “He said if I didn’t give him the paper, he would go straight to Falkland Road and find a husband for Amina.”

  The prospect was horrifying, but it was within Mr. Mukri’s rights as the household agent to arrange marriages for any of the females in the family—the daughters as well as the widows. Shaking her head, Perveen said, “What a dreadful threat.”

  “And while I was standing there—feeling so dead inside—he told me he was through with talking to me. He wanted me to bring Mumtaz to speak with him. Surely he had some terrible plan in store for her, too.” Razia moistened her lips and looked nervously at Perveen. “She was lying asleep in her bed. I spoke several times, but she would not get up. I left, thinking that I had enough to worry about.”

  Mukri could have told the illiterate Mumtaz to draw an X on a statement about Razia’s mental infirmity. Perveen wouldn’t have put anything past him. The only question nagging at her was why someone as intelligent as Mr. Farid would have hired such a loathsome man to care for his family. But she wouldn’t interrupt Razia, who was now speaking freely.

  “I went out, and as I turned into the next hallway, I saw my daughter. She’d heard everything Mukri-sahib had said to me and was terrified at the prospect of being taken for marriage. She wouldn’t let me near her—she rushed out to the garden in tears.” Razia wiped her own eyes as she spoke. “I went to my desk. All I had to do was write a simple statement giving up duties as the mutawalli. I didn’t want to do it, but I realized that if I angered him, he might seek revenge.”

  “That is correct. He could still have married off Amina, and he might have even had you committed to an asylum.” It was a shocking, terrifying prospect. Perveen thought back to her recent conversation with Amina and wondered why the child hadn’t mentioned this as well.

  “So I had an idea.” Razia looked steadily at her. “It was an immoral idea but the only way to save Amina and all of us. I decided to deceive him into believing that I had prepared the statement for him. And when I opened the pass-through slot to give him the document, I would instead shoot something sharp through and catch him in the throat.”

  Perveen sat silently, trying to imagine it. “But the pass-through slot is only about three feet from the ground!” she said after a moment.

  “We sit facing the slot when we speak,” Razia explained. “Then the slot is just below the level of each person’s face.”

  Perveen nodded, recalling the bench Sakina had shown her. However, Perveen couldn’t remember whether she’d seen a chair or bench in the area where the detective had been taking prints. Unless it was the rosewood chair she’d sat on. The thought of this made her grimace.

  “He was waiting when I arrived. From his shadow behind the jali, I saw that he was standing. That would not work with my plan.” Razia took a deep breath. “I requested that he please sit down to receive the papers. He did so. And when I opened the slot, I shot my letter opener through it hard. He cried out, just as Amina said she heard.”

  “Your letter opener!” Now Perveen realized why the object in the man’s neck had looked familiar. She’d seen Amina toying with it at Razia’s desk.

  Razia closed her mouth and looked expectantly at Perveen.

  Perveen thought that parts of Razia’s story had seemed very believable, but the method of murder did not. “Can you tell me more about the death? Was there a struggle?”

  Razia fell silent and looked as if she was thinking hard. At last, she said, “Do you know how, after awakening from a dream, you can’t remember the whole thing?”

  “It happens.” Perveen had awoken in a sweat after a bad dream about Cyrus the previous night.

  “I don’t remember more than pushing the letter opener through the slot. I must have dealt a mortal blow. After that, I went back to my room, washed my hands, and prayed.”

  The perpetrator had to have been very close to Mukri to make the many stab wounds on his body. Blood was splattered all over the main house’s second floor hallway. Yet there was no blood on Razia’s sari. “What happened after you prayed in your room?”

  “I drank water.” She pressed her lips together. “Why are you looking at me that way?”

  “I don’t feel like I’m hearing the whole story.” Perveen chose her words carefully, not wanting to accuse Razia of lying. “May I ask how you managed to make multiple stab wounds through a small space?”

  Razia’s tired eyes blinked. “I said before, it was all like a dream. I cannot recall.”

  “And how could you carry out such an assault without getting any blood on your sari?”

  Razia looked down, and a single tear fell on the black silk.

  “Of course, one might wear different clothes to commit a crime, and then change back to the other clothes again. Can you show me the clothes you wore to commit the killing?”

  Wiping her eyes, Razia shook her head.

  “You said you came here to confess,” Perveen said.

  Razia was studying the car’s metal door handle.

  “Might you be taking the blame because you’re trying to protect someone from conviction?” When Razia didn’t answer, Perveen said, “Are you trying to protect Amina?”

  Razia shook her head again, but still didn’t look at Perveen.

  “Amina confided her great distrust of Mukri-sahib to me. Surely her fingerprints will be on the letter opener she played with at your desk. But that is hardly enough to send her to prison.”

  “How can you be sure?” Razia asked anxiously.

  “For a start, such a small girl is no physical match for a big man like Mukri-sahib. Also, she told me she was in the garden when she heard him cry out. She never mentioned to me that she discovered the body.”

  Razia looked at her again. “Actually, Sakina said Amina was the one who told her about the death. I can’t bear to ask Amina. I thought the less we spoke about it, the safer.”

  “I doubt the police will suspect her. But others in this house were aggrieved by him. And we don’t yet know if he had enemies at work or amongst his acquaintances and relatives.”

 
“That’s right,” Razia said, her voice catching. “We don’t know.”

  “As the senior wife, you naturally take on the responsibility for the family.” Perveen put a hand over Razia’s, which was strikingly cold despite the car’s heat. “But you cannot lie! In fact, lying in court is a chargeable crime.”

  Razia looked anxiously at her. “You speak as if I shall go to court.”

  “I’ve every intention of keeping you out of court.” Perveen kept her hand on Razia’s as she continued. “If you’d like, I can be your lawyer. This is different than my father representing your late husband. It is a separate, clearly defined agreement. Anything you say—including what you’ve already told me—would be confidential.”

  “I’d like that, but what if someone else needs you more than I do? What happens to her?” Razia’s voice wavered.

  “Don’t worry. If another person needs representation, I will help find suitable counsel.”

  “Would this second lawyer be a man?”

  “Yes. Sadly, I’m the only woman solicitor in Bombay. I shall ask my father if he thinks he can help another family member without there being a conflict of interest.” Perveen saw from Razia’s face that this offer hadn’t done much to soothe her. “Do you wish to stay here tonight? I could take you and Amina to stay elsewhere.”

  Her eyes widened. “Do you mean go to my family’s house in Oudh?”

  “The police wouldn’t like you being so far away,” Perveen said. “You could stay with my family. My father has brought home clients before.”

  Razia put her hand to her mouth. “But you are Parsis.”

  “Don’t worry about it. We worship differently, but we are not so far apart in our hearts, don’t you think? And being with us might be a helpful distraction for Amina.”

  Razia looked as if she was deliberating. At last, she shook her head. “She’s rarely been away from Sakina’s children. Now she is needed by them more than ever.”

  Perveen didn’t think that any of the family should remain inside the house. If the killer was a stranger who’d come in from the outside, he’d know of the house’s riches and perhaps want more of them. And if the murderer came from within, she was likely a woman with her own unspoken agenda.

  “Now that there is no longer a man in the house, would you ever walk through to the other side?” Perveen was intent on helping Razia establish an escape plan.

  “I suppose so. As I’ve said, we observed a limited form of purdah when my husband was alive. We didn’t go out in public, but at home we only secluded ourselves when businessmen and my late husband’s friends called.”

  “Will you ring the police or me if you’ve any worries?” Perveen looked intently at her, trying to communicate how bold she might need to be.

  “Yes. Perveen-bibi, you’ve been so good to counsel me like this. For the first time in hours, I feel as if I can breathe again.” Razia opened the car door. Pulling her sari over her face, she slipped back into her secluded world.

  Wiping away the sweat that now covered her whole face and arms, Perveen returned to the main house. The constables confirmed that Bombay’s coroner, Dr. Horace Cartwright, had arrived. Dr. Cartwright had declared Mr. Mukri dead and had overseen the removal of his body to the police morgue.

  “Where have you been?” Jamshedji asked. Her father looked disheveled, as if he’d also absorbed the true meaning of the afternoon. A family they’d promised to protect was in crisis. Helping the Farids now was a great deal more than figuring out the financial payouts from the estate.

  “I was holding a consultation inside our Daimler.” At his raised eyebrows, she said, “We must talk. Razia-begum has some concerns.”

  “Is she safe?”

  Perveen sighed heavily. “As safe as any of them can be. I really think—”

  “Let’s speak of it when we’re home tonight,” he said in a low voice. “I’m on my way to the Farid Fabrics office to inform management about Mr. Mukri’s passing.”

  “Please try to get his parents’ names and an address.” Perveen imagined his parents would fall into a deep grief. No matter how unpleasant a person might be, there would always be those who’d raised him and saw a different aspect of him.

  Sub-Inspector Singh carefully trod down the staircase, his heavy box of fingerprinting equipment in one hand. “Miss Mistry, have you finished speaking to the widows?”

  “Yes. I am ready to speak with you and your inspector.” She did her best to sound civil.

  “It shall be me alone,” he said with a hint of pride. “Inspector Vaughan has already left.”

  Perveen was upset with herself for not moving faster to share the information she had gained. “I’ve heard your men took Mohsen into custody. It turns out that Sakina-begum confirmed to me that he was sent on an errand—”

  “A widow may have given him an order,” Singh said in the same superior tone he’d used with her when she’d chatted with him about fingerprinting, “but how can she know if he went straight out or lingered inside the main house? His own daughter admitted Mohsen went to the house to break up a quarrel between you and Mr. Mukri.”

  She realized that if he knew about the argument, she could join a cast of suspects. “I can certainly address the quarrel. But that doesn’t take away my concern that with Mohsen gone, nobody is here to guard the widows and children.”

  Jamshedji spoke up. “A good point. But my daughter and I have a genuine concern that by taking Mohsen away, you are leaving a family of women and children unprotected.”

  “I’m sure they’ll have some family members come to stay,” Mr. Singh said.

  Perveen’s back went up. “I asked them about that, and they could not agree on who they’d like to come. In any case, nobody will be here tonight!”

  “Inspector, what do you think about the idea of having some constables remain stationed outside the bungalow and perhaps on the first floor?” Jamshedji asked in a collegial tone.

  “To take men off regular duty for personal guarding is outside our purview,” Singh said, looking uneasily at Jamshedji.

  “If the Malabar Hill Station can’t spare men, perhaps the commissioner would send someone from central headquarters. This is rather an important district, and the residents are anxious about the possibility of burglaries.” Jamshedji gave Perveen a serious look, and she nodded back. She wished to God that she could operate as smoothly with the police as he did.

  “I’ll speak to my inspector about it,” the junior detective answered, sounding slightly more agreeable. “But that hall area should be cleaned before any constables come in for duty.”

  “Is all your evidence collected, then?” Perveen asked.

  “Yes. So cleaning can be done by the servants,” Singh said. “It’s rather a mess upstairs, I’m afraid.”

  It seemed to Perveen that he was asking the impossible. “Sub-Inspector Singh, despite this house’s size, cleaning is done by two child-servants. For them, cleaning a murder scene would be upsetting, perhaps even cause nightmares—”

  “Isn’t there an ayah?” Jamshedji interjected. “She can do it. Ayahs deal with every sort of mess.”

  Perveen hadn’t met Taiba-ayah yet, but she could imagine how any children’s ayah would feel about mopping up a dead man’s blood and a thick layer of black powder. Warily, Perveen said, “I’ll ask her, but she might refuse.”

  “Speak to her, and then let’s go,” Jamshedji said decisively. “I shall drop you home before I go on to the mills.”

  “But I can’t go home. Alice is expecting me.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “That’s right. You have a date with the English chatterbox. I shall have Arman drop you at her family bungalow, and he will return for me. What is the address?”

  “Twenty-two Mount Pleasant,” Perveen said. “The very new, big white bungalow.”

  The sub-inspector’s ey
ebrows rose. “Isn’t that some government bigwig’s place?”

  “Yes. It’s the home of Sir David Hobson-Jones, who works for the governor,” Perveen said, deciding to needle him a little for the sarcastic comment he’d made upon hearing Alice’s voice.

  But it didn’t cow him. Singh merely snorted and said, “Just what I need: a councillor living around the corner from my investigation. Everything will have to be done twice as fast.”

  Perveen didn’t think a murder investigation could be fast-paced. She felt as if she’d just boarded a long-distance train. Who else would come on, and where the journey would end, was far from certain.

  1917

  20

  Sweetness of Home

  Bombay, March 1917

  ARRIVING ON BOMBAY MAIL STOP

  VICT TERMINUS 10 AM SAT MARCH 20 STOP YOUR LOVING PERVEEN.

  Perveen had paid to have her tersely worded telegram sent from Nagpur, one of the stops on a journey that was supposed to take forty hours but that, due to a locomotive change, had stretched to forty-four. As she emerged on the platform at Victoria Terminus, she wondered if anyone would come.

  Looking across the platform, she saw families dressed in white flitting through the crowds and remembered it was the Persian New Year. She had been so distraught that she’d not realized her journey would bring her home on the first day of Nowruz, when Parsis filled the city’s fire temples and then one another’s homes at celebratory parties.

  Her family would have plans today. Her throat was tight as she looked around the platform and searched the hundreds of figures for anyone she might recognize. Perhaps her father would have thought to send Mustafa. She couldn’t imagine Grandfather Mistry would come. He was the one who’d never warmed to the idea of her marrying Cyrus. And now she’d done the unthinkable and become a runaway wife. She was sure her grandfather would say that every bead of the family’s reputation was lost.