At times, Perveen could still smell the sandalwood oil from her wedding night. Shaking herself, she asked, “What amount of money did Sakina-begum give you?”
His face became guarded. “One rupee, but some was gone for the tram cost.”
She suspected this was a partial truth. “Tell me—did you avoid telling the police about the errand at first because you wanted this trip to remain unknown?”
“Yes,” he said, nodding with seeming relief. “When they met me at the gate, I thought that Mukri-sahib had complained to them about me. That is why I said I was just away down the street rather than farther away; he would not like me performing duties for the widows. Little did I know the other durwans would be asked and then contradict me.”
“And what reason did the police give for arresting you?”
“They said because I lied about being with the durwans down the street, I must go with them to have my fingerprints checked. I said it was needless. The police made prints five years ago.”
“In what situation were they taken?” she asked, wondering if he had been charged with a crime.
Looking warily at her, he said, “I’d been working at the docks, and Farid-sahib told me I could work at the house. When I started, the police came around and took the prints. Most durwans in Bombay have their prints recorded with the police.”
Taking Mohsen here to be fingerprinted allowed the police to tell the press they had a suspect in custody. Furthermore, keeping him in the cell gave them the opportunity to force a confession if they never found anyone more suitable. “Did you ever tell the police you went to Zaveri Bazaar for Sakina-begum?”
“Yes, when I was questioned here. They looked at the attar I was carrying and said, ‘This means nothing.’”
“What happened to it?”
He hesitated a moment. “They took everything from my pocket and say they’re keeping it for now. Probably it’s gone,” he added glumly.
Recalling the many inconsistencies, Perveen knew it was time to press on. “I visited Attarwala-sahib this morning. He remembers everything about your visit yesterday and wrote an affidavit. That is a sworn statement of the timing and so on.”
“He said I was there?” A hopeful smile appeared on Mohsen’s long face.
“He also shared this long list of purchases you made on behalf of the begums that weren’t paid for with the petty cash they gave you,” she said crisply. “At his request, I settled that bill.”
“I wish I could pay,” he mumbled. “But I cannot.”
It was hard to maintain composure when she wanted to shout at him, demanding that he acknowledge his thieving. “You took money from Sakina-begum yesterday, and I know you have done the same with the others. What are you buying with the begums’ money?”
“There is a lotion for skin—very expensive—made by a doctor. I’ve been putting it on Zeid for a year now. The mark is lightening, so perhaps he will find a paying position somewhere. We will have a better life, Insha’Allah.”
Perveen opened her notebook now and made the notes on Mohsen’s testimony that she had held back from making earlier, while he was talking. Then she read it all back to Mohsen, who nodded along with it.
“That is the truth,” he pronounced gloomily.
“I know you asked Mr. Attarwala about a jeweler. Did you take any jewelry from the house?”
Now he looked incensed. “Certainly not. I am not a thief; I am a house guard!”
Perveen nodded, resolving to ask the women to look through their jewelry collections when she saw them. “Do you know anything about Mukri-sahib that might have led to his death?” She stared at Mohsen, looking for evidence of hesitation. “I know he tried to steal funds from the begums. What kinds of things did you notice?”
His eyes glittered with emotion. “He was a bad man. He only got his place at the factory because of being in the family. He did nothing to earn it.”
This sounded similar to what her father had heard. “Do you know if he was into any type of business outside of work? Did strange men come around or . . . even ladies?”
He shook his head sharply. “Nobody came. He liked keeping that house for himself.”
“Thank you, Mohsen.” Perveen stood and slid her notebook back into her briefcase.
“Will you go back to the bungalow?”
She shook her head. “I’ve got other things to do first. I shall visit them tomorrow.”
“Will the police allow me to place a call to the bungalow? I would like to speak with Sakina-begum.”
She imagined that he’d make a plea for Sakina to tell the police about the errand. “I’ll ask them. I will also show Mr. Attarwala’s statement about your purchase to the police.”
Mohsen had a spring in his step when the guard led him back to his cell. The same guard escorted Perveen upstairs. Taking a breath of good air, she tried to collect her thoughts. She had read Mohsen correctly as a disagreeable man from the minute she’d first pulled up in the car. Taking the money the begums gave him to buy items for them was an example of bad character. However, if it was true that he’d spent the begums’ money on his son’s skin cream, he had some kind of heart.
Upstairs in the Malabar Hill Station, Perveen approached the man she’d dubbed Sergeant Biscuit, who was now enjoying a cup of chai. “Sergeant, I need to speak with an officer,” she said. “I have information regarding the prisoner I visited.”
He smiled as if she were a child asking to see a busy elder. “It is not our investigation. That is the business of CID downtown.”
“But the prisoner is being housed here. Which officer is responsible for him?”
Sergeant Biscuit looked at the closed door behind him. “Chief Fisher is holding a meeting. I don’t know how long it will take.”
She could hear a rumble of voices behind the door.
“I shall wait.” Perveen seated herself on the edge of a wooden bench in the waiting area. She was among an assortment of depressed and anxious-looking people. She imagined many of them had relatives stuck in the cells below.
The door opened, and two Englishmen came out. One was middle-aged and plump, wearing a tight white uniform with some swags of braid across the chest. She guessed he was Chief Fisher. The red-faced, younger man was Inspector Vaughan from the day before. With them was Sub-Inspector Singh, who gaped at the sight of her.
“Good afternoon,” she said, nodding at the group.
Inspector Vaughan’s face was blank—as if he didn’t recognize her. Well, she’d been sweaty and bedraggled the day before; now she felt fresh, in a starched green cotton sari with delicate chikankari stitching and a necklace, bangles, and earrings of Hyderabad pearls.
Chief Fisher gave her a dismissive glance. “If this is related to a family member, please speak with the public defender.”
“No, thank you. I am a solicitor in private practice,” she said crisply. “I have some information relating to the death yesterday at twenty-two Sea View Road.”
At the words “Sea View,” both white men looked at her sharply.
“Madam, who did you say you are?” Chief Fisher demanded.
“She is a lawyeress named Miss Perveen Mistry,” Sub-Inspector Singh said quickly. “Her father represents the late Mr. Farid. The two Mistrys assisted us yesterday.”
“Come into the office.” The Malabar police chief’s voice was curt.
After the door closed the four of them in, Fisher settled into a large chair upholstered in leather behind a wide mahogany desk. There were just two other chairs in the room: slant-backed campaign-style chairs. Vaughan took the one closest to Fisher. That left one chair for either Perveen or Singh. The Sikh glanced at Perveen and gestured for her to take the chair. While Perveen hadn’t liked him calling her a lawyeress, she felt guilty taking the chair; his mannerism made her think he was used to being the one left standing.
“May I explain?” Perveen asked, giving her attention to Chief Fisher. After he nodded, she said, “I’ve spoken with two people regarding the activities of Mohsen Dawai, the Farids’ durwan, who is in custody downstairs. What I’ve learned is important for you to know.”
“We’ve reported the facts already,” Vaughan said with a sneer. “First Mohsen said he was chatting with the boys down the street, and then he claimed he went shopping. What’s the latest lie?”
Perveen would not respond to his slur. In a steady voice, she said, “I spoke to Mrs. Sakina Farid, who’d asked Mohsen to buy a vial of attar around three-thirty yesterday, which was the reason he was missing from his post. Just like you gentlemen, I had no reason to believe this was the truth. Therefore, I traveled to the shop in the Zaveri Bazaar where Sakina-begum had sent him. Mr. Attarwala confirmed Mohsen’s arrival shortly after four-thirty and submitted an affidavit about the purchase and the time Mohsen was in the shop.”
“A nice excuse for a trip to a perfume shop,” Inspector Vaughan said with a laugh. “Did you get something for yourself?”
He was dismissing her, just like the men had at the Government Law School. Perveen felt anger rising but remembered how her father’s smooth approach tended to serve him well. “My point is, Attarwala gave Mohsen the product he purchased. Mohsen said that the police who checked him in at this station removed his possessions for safekeeping. Do you still have the attar he bought, or did it somehow disappear?”
Chief Fisher spoke up. “I was the officer present when he was taken into custody. There was only the vial and a bag containing his other purchase.”
Instead of saying what she really wanted to say—why didn’t you let him go?—she asked, “What is it?”
The three men exchanged glances.
“Might it be a skin cream?” Perveen asked.
“Yes,” Inspector Vaughan said.
“A medical treatment for his son. Mohsen had to go to the apothecary, also in the bazaar, for it. I’m sure you could check up on that, if you think it’s necessary.”
Inspector Vaughan cleared his throat. Roughly, he said, “Is there a reason you wish the fellow downstairs to be freed? I met your father, and he didn’t mention anyone was representing the durwan.”
“As the family’s solicitors, we are invested in making sure that the household is protected by someone. My father and I left twenty-two Sea View Road yesterday with an assurance of round-the-clock police protection for three secluded widows and their small children. But the police left the place before night fell and still haven’t returned.”
“They didn’t stay because I didn’t put in a request,” Inspector Vaughan said icily. “A suspect was taken into custody. There was no continuing threat.”
“In any case, police are assigned duty at my discretion. The sub-inspector should never have told you there would be coverage without his superior’s request to me.” Chief Fisher glowered at Singh.
The fact that they’d left the women unprotected with a murderer on the loose caused Perveen’s temper to spark.
“Perhaps you think this is trivial because it wasn’t a European household that was attacked,” she said. “The problem is, this is an Indian city. If you want law and order in the town, you need to protect all people.”
If only she could tell them that their negligence had caused a young girl from the household to vanish.
Sub-Inspector Singh had such a look of tension on his face that Perveen almost wished she hadn’t made the comment. She imagined he might agree with her, but in the hierarchy, he was powerless.
“Why would you want that watchman back? He’s not much of a watchman if he wandered off and allowed a murderer to enter!” Inspector Vaughan said defensively.
“Just like your policemen, he had to respect a direct order.” Perveen gathered up the receipt and affidavit she’d placed on the desk. “Thank you for the chance to directly provide this information on the watchman’s whereabouts. I shall not waste any more of my time.”
Chief Fisher coughed. “Actually—before you go, let the sergeant make a copy of that affidavit.”
Perveen paused, keeping the paper in hand. “I will certainly oblige, but in exchange, I was wondering if you might allow Mohsen Dawai to make a telephone call. He wishes to speak with Mrs. Sakina Farid.”
Sub-Inspector Singh looked at his superior. “Sir, if the begum is on the telephone, we can speak to her as well. Perhaps we’ll learn more than we did yesterday.”
“All right, then.” Vaughan shot Perveen a poisonous look. She had embarrassed him in front of his colleague.
“I have the number,” Perveen said, writing it down. She was careful to keep her face expressionless, though she hardly felt that way. She was outraged the police would have kept Mohsen Dawai locked up without real evidence. And for the first time, she’d realized what her power as a lawyer really meant.
26
A Word in the Right Ear
Bombay, February 1921
The police were efficient. Within minutes, Sergeant Biscuit had typed two copies of the statement and stamped them with the official seal. Inspector Vaughan took one and Chief Fisher the other while Perveen slid the original into her legal briefcase. Her meeting had seemed like a success, but she didn’t know whether they’d release Mohsen. In the meantime, she needed to find a reliable temporary guard.
Arman was leaning against the Daimler, which was parked in the shade of a jacaranda tree. The chauffeur looked bored but brightened at the sight of her. “To the office, please.” Perveen sank into the back seat. “You know everything about the city, Arman. Do you have an idea how to find a durwan to guard a house for a short time?”
“Everyone is wanting permanent work, memsahib. And durwans cannot simply leave one house to work at another place for a few days. The owners would not like it.” He paused. “What about men with training as soldiers? The soldiers have come back from war, and not everyone has work.”
“Perhaps.” Hiring a veteran was a practical idea, and perhaps Razia would know of someone the wakf had helped who was nearby. But that would take time. Then she had it. “The docks! Jayanth knows many men there. I think Mohsen was a stevedore.”
“But they are mainly Hindus at the docks,” Arman said. “The begums may not like that.”
“Perhaps the women won’t mind. It’s not as if they have to live together,” she said, feeling irritated. The boundaries communities drew around themselves seemed to narrow their lives—whether it was women and men, Hindus and Muslims, or Parsis and everyone else.
“Perveen-memsahib, we are here.”
Arman had driven all the way to Mistry House. However, she wasn’t ready to go inside; her mind was too unsettled. “I’m going to take a short walk. Will you please bring the document case inside to Mustafa and have him take it upstairs?”
“Certainly. But where are you walking?”
“I’ll just stroll over to the pier and back. I’ve a headache—this will make me feel better.”
The wind buffeted Perveen as she walked toward Ballard Pier. After she was allowed through the gate, she gazed ahead at the sea filled with small cargo ships, the kind of vessels that Jayanth worked at loading or unloading every day.
A tall cargo ship was slowly steaming out of the harbor. Perveen stared at it, imagining the heat and rough conditions on board, so very different from the first-class quarters she’d occupied as she headed toward the unknown in England. In 1917, she’d not spent long thinking about the great expense her family had gone to to send her—or their belief that a failed law student in Bombay could succeed abroad. Would that investment prove sound?
As she walked along, she thought she recognized a small, wiry young man with a confident gait. She called out, and when he turned, she was pleased to see she’d been right.
Jayanth ran up, his sandals flapping
hard on the stones. “Memsahib, why have you come?”
“I’m searching for someone who might like working as a household guard. Do tell me, though, how are things at your job?”
“I’m being careful,” he said grimly. “My boss, Ravi, is always watching me with an angry face. He did not like giving the back pay. I am hoping he isn’t planning to get rid of me.”
Perveen tried to comfort him. “He must know that if he sacks you again, you would come straight to us.”
“I do not mean sacking. I mean killing me off. From the way he looks at me and from how I hear him swearing about your father by name, I am concerned for the firm as well.”
Perveen pondered his words and realized there might be some cases where the rule of law wasn’t worth the consequences. “People say all kinds of things when they’re upset. As lawyers, we don’t worry for ourselves. But I worry for you. Although you have the right to work at the loading company—if you truly feel endangered, you should leave. In fact, I may have something for you in town, working as a house guard.”
He looked dubious. “This family would hire someone who hasn’t done such work before?”
“I would do the hiring. It could start—” She broke off, seeing a heavyset man approaching from the water. “Jayanth, do you know the man who’s coming our way?”
The stevedore turned his head quickly. “It’s Ravi. Please go! He may think I’m telling you tales!”
“All right, I’m on my way,” Perveen said hastily.
Jayanth called after her, “Walk back through Ballard Estate. It’s safer.”
Jayanth was translating his own worry into overconcern for her. But as she walked through the elegant new office district, she recalled the Bengali stranger and the man who resembled Cyrus. So much had happened that she’d almost forgotten about them. She’d be glad if she never saw either man again.
Finally, Perveen turned into Bruce Street. The Silver Ghost was parked in front of Mistry House. This was unexpected. Perveen nodded at Sirjit, the Hobson-Joneses’ Sikh chauffeur, who’d taken her home a few days ago. No passenger was in the car: Alice must have been admitted inside.
The Widows of Malabar Hill Page 28
