Because of her inward agitation, Perveen didn’t think she could force anything sweet down her throat without gagging. At the same time, she couldn’t walk away without a purchase. ‘I’m welcoming an old friend from England at Ballard Pier later today, so I’d like you to pack me a small box of your prettiest dahitan.’
‘Most beautiful and sweet. Just like you!’ Firoze’s wide grin split his face like a cracked persimmon.
‘By the way, did you serve a fellow from outside Bombay this morning?’
Firoze looked puzzled, but Lily spoke up. ‘We had a dark and grumpy customer with a funny accent. He bought a date-nut cake and some almond fudge. I told him he could sit at a table, but he went outside.’
‘He stayed outside for a few hours,’ Perveen said. ‘I asked him something, and he ran away as if I were a nasty British policeman!’
‘He probably arrived on the overnight train, because he seemed quite tired,’ Lily reflected. ‘He asked in the funniest accent what time law offices opened up in this area. I said nine o’clock for most firms and eighty-thirty if it’s the Mistrys.’
‘What are you doing giving out such information about our esteemed neighbours?’ Firoze wagged a reproving finger at his daughter.
Firoze knew things about Perveen that he’d blessedly never disclosed. She could have said the name Cyrus to him, and his eyes would have flared with recognition. But she would not parade her past mistakes in front of his impressionable daughter. ‘That accent is a Bengali one. Now that Lily’s described him, do you recall him?’ she asked him.
The baker shook his head. ‘My cardamom dough needed attention, so I was in the back. It’s good that you told off that velgard!’
‘A wise woman can catch trouble before it starts,’ Lily said as she tied a fine bow around the box of sweets. ‘Pappa, would you let me run your business later on, just as Mistry-sahib is doing with Perveen?’
‘My father has hardly done that. He’ll work for many more years, and I still must prove my worth.’ Perveen spoke sincerely; it was a heavy responsibility to be the only woman solicitor in Bombay. She couldn’t bring shame on Jamshedji Mistry. This was why the stranger’s presence bothered her—and the reason she wasn’t going to tell her father about it.
2
BEHIND A CURTAIN
Bombay, February 1921
Back at Mistry House, Perveen handed over the sweets to Mustafa for safekeeping and gave a brief summary of the words she’d exchanged with the stranger, not mentioning Cyrus. She didn’t want the garrulous Mustafa to ask any more questions. She needed to work.
Upstairs she opened the file cabinets to search for any documents relating to the late Omar Farid. There was plenty to wade through: property deeds, maps of landholdings and contracts with the government for the production of khaki drill cloth. She was startled two hours later when Mustafa knocked on the door to say lunch was served. Her father had just come in and was washing his hands downstairs.
She put the papers aside. ‘Did Pappaji tell you the outcome?’
‘He said he’s hungry.’
Perveen hurried down to the dining room, where her father was seated at the long rosewood table. Jamshedji Mistry was a trim, good-looking man of fifty with a thick head of greying brown hair. His most dominant feature—which Perveen had inherited in a slightly reduced version—was a beaky nose. Outsiders joked about Parsi noses, but Perveen loved their shared trait.
The two bent their heads and recited their prayers. Then Mustafa served the lunch sent by John, the Mistrys’ Goan cook. John had worked hard preparing lamb koftas, a tamarind chicken curry, a thick yellow dal with mustard greens and caramelized rice. He’d also sent tangy vegetable pickles, fragrant wheat rotlis and a tin of almond-honey brittle large enough to last a week.
Mustafa looked disapproving when Perveen requested smaller servings than usual, but her nerves had affected her appetite.
‘Pappa, I’m waiting with open ears. Did we win?’
After accepting a large serving of chicken curry, Jamshedji spoke. ‘Yes, but after a long deliberation. If only you’d seen the opposing counsel smiling, anticipating our ruin.’
‘Did he call our client to the stand?’ She’d expected it.
‘That he did, and the boy was prepared for every question.’
The boy was Jayanth, a twenty-year-old stevedore who’d been charged with inciting unrest through the organization of other workers. Taking into consideration the British fear of communists, Perveen had suggested Jayanth be cast as a hard worker with no political affiliations, just a strong desire for the safety of all the dock workers. This concern would ultimately aid his employer, she had argued, because fewer accidents and deaths would allow for work without interruption.
‘Good,’ she said, relieved that her coaching had worked. ‘And what was the content of Judge Thorpe’s decision?’
‘Innocent on all charges. Judge Thorpe ruled Jayanth must be offered his former position and be paid for every day since his sacking three months ago. That I wasn’t expecting.’
Perveen clapped. ‘Splendid! I wish I’d seen you plead the case.’
Jamshedji raised a finger, playing teacher. ‘Ah, but your work as a contract solicitor is what keeps Mistry Law profitable. Without contracts and wills, we could not take on pro bonos like Jayanth.’
This was the most praise Perveen had received in the six months she’d been working. She was performing not only the tasks of a solicitor but also those of law clerk, translator and accountant. But who was she to complain? There was not another law firm in the city that would employ a female solicitor.
‘I’ve a question for you, my dear,’ he said, leaning back in his chair. ‘What wood did you break today? I’ve only heard about your spying on strangers through opera glasses.’
Perveen scooped rice into her mouth and chewed. Mustafa obviously had mentioned the morning’s excitement. She needed to tell the truth, but she also wanted to not make her father nervous about her coming into work without him some mornings.
‘A Bengali man was lurking across the street for three hours. Eventually I went across to inquire his reason. He ran off without explaining anything.’
Jamshedji shook his head. ‘Our beloved Fort is becoming overcrowded with all types. But a woman should never approach a man on the street.’
Perveen’s irritation swelled at her father’s judgemental tone. ‘It was hardly an approach—’
‘You crossed the street and sought him out! Tell me, is that a European behaviour you learnt at Oxford?’
‘No—I—’ Perveen felt herself reddening. ‘I first thought he might be waiting for you. Either because he had an appointment or was angry about the outcome of a case.’
‘I represent clients from all communities but no Bengalis in the last year,’ Jamshedji said, his voice as grating as Mustafa’s serving spoon scraping the porcelain rice bowl. ‘Don’t worry about such matters. Concentrate on pushing forward the contracts.’
‘Yes. One mustn’t lose the title of King of Contracts,’ Perveen said sarcastically.
‘Keep up your efforts, and you might become known as the Queen of Contracts.’ Jamshedji chuckled.
‘Speaking of contracts, we received a request from the Farid household. The cover note was from Mr Mukri, the family’s agent. He wrote that Mr Farid’s three widows want to give up their dowers to donate into the family’s wakf.’ Perveen didn’t mask her apprehension that all the women, who no longer had income from a husband, were giving up their only assets to the charitable foundation.
But Jamshedji didn’t address the issue of wakfs. Stroking his chin, he said, ‘It sounds as if you are speaking of mahr.’
‘Yes, I am.’ Perveen sighed, knowing she should have used the word for the special two-part dower that Muslim women received from men’s families. The first gift symbolized the family’s welcome to a bride; the second part, given at either divorce or the husband’s death, was a material promise of fair treatment throug
hout her life.
‘Bombay judges have been rather prickly about mahr these days. Let me look at the documents.’
After she’d fetched both letters from upstairs, her father pulled out his gold monocle to study the fine sheets of vellum. Then he shook his head. ‘Worthless!’
Perveen had been perched on the edge of her seat waiting for such a declaration. ‘Isn’t it strange that all three women wish to make a change against their own interests, and that two of the signatures are almost identical? And how convenient for the judge that this letter from the women was written in English. Are they really all fluent in English?’
‘I cannot answer the last question because I have never met the ladies. But we must not have immediate prejudices.’ Jamshedji gave her a reproving look.
Perveen didn’t hide her surprise. ‘Are you telling me you’ve never spoken to the wives in all the years you represented Mr Farid?’
‘I have not,’ he said, signalling with his hand for Mustafa to bring tea. ‘The Farid widows live in strict seclusion. With my late client gone, the only male in the household is the baby son of the second wife.’
‘Purdahnashins don’t speak with men,’ Mustafa said as he came around with the silver teapot. ‘My mother and sisters didn’t close themselves in, but many of the wealthy do. Especially Hanafi Muslims.’
Perveen always appreciated Mustafa’s wisdom about areas where she knew little. Now her dismay at the women’s situation was being replaced by interest. Secluded, wealthy Muslim women could become a sub-speciality for her practice. ‘Mustafa, I believe “purdah” means “veil”. Does “nashin” mean “lady”?’
‘You are supposed to be studying Urdu,’ her father interrupted. ‘“Nashin” means “sitting” or “dwelling”. Therefore, “purdahnashins” means “those who stay behind the veil”.’
Perveen took a long sip of Mustafa’s delicious tea, a mixture of Darjeeling brewed with milk, cardamom, pepper and plenty of sugar. ‘What do you think of the household agent, Mr Mukri?’ she asked her father. ‘I’m supposed to ask him to help sort out the details of the estate, but he’s not answered many of my letters.’
‘Mukri was one of Farid’s management officers at the fabric mill. He shifted to staying with Farid-sahib during his illness. I saw him when he came in to sign papers relating to his appointment as estate trustee and household agent. A young man, but he was most respectful towards our client.’
‘As he should have been! But let’s talk about the letter he sent that’s signed by the widows. I think two of the signatures might come from the same hand.’
Jamshedji studied the paper and then handed it back to her. ‘The names signed by Sakina and Mumtaz do bear a resemblance. Razia’s name appears different.’
‘Excuse me, sahib, but you should say “begum”,’ Mustafa interjected from the corner, where he stood awaiting further command. ‘To address these married ladies of high birth respectfully, one must add “begum”.’
Nodding at Mustafa, Perveen said, ‘I am guessing Razia-begum signed for herself. What if the other two were signed for by someone else, perhaps Mr Mukri?’
‘Conspiracy theory!’ Jamshedji said with a chuckle. ‘We have no way of knowing.’
‘Shouldn’t we ask them?’
Jamshedji put his teacup down so hard it rattled the saucer. ‘I already mentioned that the ladies live in seclusion. I haven’t reviewed the mahr documents since I drafted them all those years ago. Remind me, are these dowers equivalent in value? That’s the best case when you’ve got multiple wives surviving a husband.’
‘The mahr gifts are wildly different,’ she answered, relieved that he’d asked the question. ‘Your client gave the first wife, Razia-begum, a dower of land: four acres in Girangaon, a plot that holds two mill buildings that went up in 1914.’
Jamshedji picked up his cup and took a long sip. ‘That sounds like quite a large gift, but in 1904 it was swampland. Are you saying the mills that made the company’s fortune are there now?’
She nodded, feeling proud that she’d caught something her father should have known. ‘I consulted the map of his holdings we have on file. Part two of the mahr, to be awarded at the time of husband’s death or divorce, was listed as 5000 rupees.’ Perveen was glad to have the papers handy so she could keep the details of all the wives’ arrangements straight. ‘Farid-sahib’s second wife, Sakina Chivne, received a very different kind of mahr: a diamond and emerald jewellery set comprised of earrings, a necklace and bangles. Her second mahr payment was also 5000 rupees.’
‘Mr Farid was doing well by 1914 when he married his second wife,’ Jamshedji said. ‘I don’t recall the cost of that jewellery, but we have the insurance papers for many of his valuables.’
‘Why did Mr Farid decide to take a second wife?’ Perveen asked. Despite what her father had said about the client’s good character, she felt squeamish about polygyny, which was still practised by many Muslims and a smaller number of elite Hindus. In truth, there was surely polygyny in her own parents’ family histories. Parsis hadn’t made it a crime until 1865.
‘The obvious reason.’ Jamshedji raised his thick salt-and-pepper eyebrows. ‘Offspring.’
‘But the first wife, Razia-begum, had borne him a daughter. Eleven years old now, I believe,’ Perveen said evenly. ‘He had his heir.’
‘But no son; he needed someone to work inside the mills. His parents were the ones who insisted and found Sakina Chivne. I tell you, it was quite a disappointment when she bore two daughters straightaway. Sakina-begum’s son was born a year and a half ago. By then, the complaining parents had both passed.’
‘Like I said, he got his son.’ Perveen crossed her arms. ‘Why did he also need a third wife?’
‘He met Mumtaz just last year and married her five months before his death. It was a legal choice freely made by him.’ Jamshedji shook his head. ‘Although I considered it rather strange.’
Eagerly, Perveen picked up on his language. ‘What do you mean by that?’
Jamshedji toyed with a few leftover grains of rice. ‘She was a musician working in the entertainment district on Falkland Road.’
‘That’s the reason for her mahr: two sitars and one veena,’ Perveen mused. ‘Did she know he hadn’t long to live?’
‘Undoubtedly,’ Jamshedji said. ‘He was very frail at that time of his life. But those musical instruments are a pittance compared to what the others received. I don’t think she did it for money.’
‘Look at this,’ Perveen said, studying Mumtaz’s marriage contract with new interest. ‘Mumtaz signed this document in July 1920 with an “X”. Yet her name is signed on the new letter. Did she learn to write in the last seven months? I’m interested to ask her about that discrepancy.’
Jamshedji blinked. ‘What do you mean ask her?’
She’d gotten ahead of herself. Taking a deep breath, she asked, ‘Might secluded Muslim ladies be willing to meet with a female lawyer?’
He gave her a long look. ‘There’s a chance.’
‘I’d like to speak to them directly rather than continue my one-way correspondence with Mr Mukri.’ Perveen tried to sound detached and professional.
Jamshedji sipped the last dregs of tea and put down his cup. ‘I’m not certain you’re ready to make a personal call to secluded women. You must use caution.’
Perveen felt wounded. ‘I’m always cautious!’
‘No,’ he said with a soft smile. ‘You are impatient and impetuous. I’ve overheard you speaking about the government.’
Perveen made a face at him. ‘In private circles only. I know Mistry Construction depends on government contracts.’
‘You’ve also said more than most are ready to hear about women’s rights.’
‘Other Parsi women are doing the same. Mamma’s groups are always working on women’s welfare and education.’ She felt on firm ground because her father had donated generously to her mother’s causes.
‘What you say will sound like L
atin to these ladies who’ve been sheltered their whole lives. Your Urdu is less than rudimentary, and you haven’t studied enough Mohammedan law.’
Were these honest criticisms, or was he just trying to discern how motivated she’d be? Perveen did her best to answer coolly. ‘I’ve read Mr Mulla’s Principles of Mahomedan Law, which explains everything I need to know. I can speak with the ladies in Hindustani. Surely they’ll understand me.’
‘But they’ve very likely never met a Parsi,’ Jamshedji objected.
Perveen’s frustration spilt over. ‘Pappa, you own the only law firm in Bombay with an employee who can communicate directly with secluded women. Why not take advantage of the greatly underused asset that is your daughter?’
Jamshedji closed his eyes for a long moment. When he opened them, he gave Perveen a serious look. ‘If you go, you must carry out the consultations with the same deference you employ with our male clients. Omar Farid would rise from the grave if he knew I didn’t serve his family members with respect.’
‘He is not in the grave any more. He is in heaven!’ Mustafa objected from the corner.
‘Mr Farid will be smiling from the clouds once I’ve helped his family,’ Perveen said, leaning over to kiss her father’s cheek.
After lunch, Jamshedji strolled off to the Ripon Club. Perveen knew he was headed for one of the Parsi social club’s long-armed teak lounge chairs in which certain barristers were infamous for putting up their legs and snoring away. He probably wanted praise from his friends, a glass of port and then a long nap.
Perveen went back upstairs to the cabinet where client files were stored. As the door swung open, she breathed in the cloying scent of camphor and surveyed stacks of cloth, leather and cardboard folios.
After a few minutes, she located a slim folder of newspaper clippings. Although Omar Farid had died just the past year at the age of forty-five, the coverage of him spanned only the last five years of his life. There was an article from 1915 about Farid Fabrics creating a new section of mills to weave cotton drill cloth for Indian Army uniforms. Another report, dated 1917, discussed Mr Farid’s charitable donations to returning military casualties. Finally, she reviewed his December 1920 obituary, which included a mention of the mills and his charity. The last line read: Mr Farid is survived by his family, including one son.
A Murder on Malabar Hill Page 2
