Sir David eyed the tea but did not drink it. Either he didn’t trust the water, or he was waiting for it to strengthen. ‘And their answer?’
‘Answers,’ Perveen said with a smile. ‘They all have differences. And I’m afraid I cannot tell you what they said without violating attorney–client privilege.’
The councillor smiled back just as pleasantly. ‘Of course. As the only female lawyer in Bombay, you hold a power that nobody else has.’
‘I don’t think so,’ she said with a dismissive sigh. ‘After all, I cannot argue cases in court. I have to rely on my father for that side of the work.’
Sir David leant slightly forward across the tiny tea table, almost eclipsing it. ‘In light of your prior assistance to the widows, you seem ideally suited for a matter in which I could use some aid.’
Perveen had the feeling it would be something she didn’t want to do. She was on the verge of refusing when a soft chanting began outside the windows. It was a familiar incantation that she knew was a muezzin’s call to prayer. The call reminded her of the Farid widows, who were likely on their knees, praying that God would assist them through the disruption they’d never expected. Perveen used the reassuring cadence to steady herself and then nodded at Sir David. ‘Tell me.’
‘Commissioner Griffith would be most obliged if you would assist the CID by taking the ladies’ fingerprints. You see, it involves holding a person’s hand, something that we both know goes against the traditional ways of Muslim women. Sub-inspector Singh would be pleased to teach you.’
The idea might have seemed sensible to them, but if she did such a thing, she could very well lead one of the widows into prison. Mr Farid would not have wished it—but how could a young Indian woman refuse the request of an important government official? Her whole future—and perhaps that of Mistry Law—rested on her answer.
She reminded herself that Sir David Hobson-Jones was intelligent enough to grasp the reason she couldn’t comply. Biting her lip, Perveen said, ‘Sir David, I wish I could, as criminology and fingerprinting are things I’d like to learn more about. However, to fingerprint these women would create a significant conflict of interest. Should the police charge one of the family, I could be in the dreadful position of giving evidence against someone I was trying to defend.’
He gazed into his teacup and, having judged the tea was properly brown, finally picked it up and sipped. He smiled as if he’d gotten it just right. ‘You are getting ahead of yourself. The prints are needed for the process of elimination. If we know the familiar family member prints, we’re better able to recognize the hand of an alien.’
‘I very much understand the CID’s wish to be able to collect the women’s fingerprints. The police commissioner must begin hiring female constables, not ask lawyers to do it.’
As she spoke, she felt her anxiety being replaced by the strength of knowing she had the law behind her. ‘I wish the police all the best in this investigation, but for me to fingerprint the widows would be such a violation of lawyers’ conduct that I could be disbarred.’
‘Disbarred?’ He paused significantly. ‘You’re not yet a member of the Bombay Bar.’
Realizing how neatly he’d used her own words against her, she struggled to keep her composure. ‘Once the Bombay Bar admits women lawyers, I shall be vetted not only on my knowledge of law but also on my past behaviour as a solicitor.’
The councillor took another sip of tea. Very likely, he was coming up with another objection. She had to turn the tables quickly.
‘May I suggest one thing, Sir David? If you’d like to prevent another crime from happening while the investigation continues, it would be wise for the police to guard the bungalow. Without Mohsen, the widows and children are absolutely unprotected. What if the killer returns, or any other ruffian who hears about this unguarded house decides to try his luck?’
Sir David Hobson-Jones carefully put down his half-full teacup on the saucer. ‘I’ll see what I can do about stationing a police detail at the house.’
‘That would be very helpful,’ Perveen said, knowing that this conversations was probably worth more than her heartfelt arguments to the police in their quarters.
‘I’ve another request. If you could serve as a go-between in conversations with the widows, that would be within a lawyer’s purview, wouldn’t it?’
‘Certainly, if each lady agrees to speak,’ Perveen added.
Five minutes later, the governor’s councillor was gone. Perveen stood at the parlour window, watching the Silver Ghost pull away. She wondered if Sir David might say anything about Perveen’s representing the Farids to Alice. What a sticky wicket!
Returning to the hall, she dialled the city operator and asked to be put through to the Hobson-Joneses’ house. A manservant answered and told her to wait while he fetched the memsahib.
Two minutes of silence were finally broken by Alice’s breathy, excited greeting. ‘Hello, Perveen! I wish I could have warned you that my father was going to visit. But I rang, and your butler said you weren’t in.’
Perveen felt taken aback. ‘Your father told you he was coming here?’
‘Yes. He asked about your schedule, and I said you’d be working today.’ Alice’s voice had a nervous edge. ‘Are you still speaking to me, or am I now persona non grata?’
‘Don’t worry about your father. He asked me to do some things to help the police, which I sadly cannot, due to conflict of interest.’
‘I doubt you’re sad about it.’ Alice chuckled. ‘By the way, are we still on for going to the pictures tonight?’
Perveen had forgotten about the invitation she’d made. ‘Damnation! I wish I could go, but I’ve still got hours of work ahead. I don’t see how I can go.’
‘That’s a shame.’ Alice’s voice sounded flat.
Feeling guilty, Perveen said, ‘I do want to spend time with you, Alice—’
‘I’m sure you’d like that, if you had the time. You’ve got a career; you’re always going to be busy. I’ve got to find something to do.’
Perveen sighed, unable to keep from feeling irritated that a woman who’d been in India less than three days thought its people should have immediately come forward with a job for her. ‘Alice, I promise I’ll help you find a teaching position. But I’ve got to keep going with my work tonight, and please know it will also take time for university administrators to respond.’
‘I see.’ Alice gave a dismissive laugh that was an echo of her mother’s. ‘By the time that happens, my parents will have my engagement announcement in the Times.’
Alice’s comment was reminiscent of what Razia had said about Mr Mukri’s arranging a marriage for Amina. But the Farid women had faced a real threat, while Alice was engaging in hyperbole. And that was just another irritant. ‘Shut up, Alice. British common law protects you from that.’
‘Are you quite sure? Maybe I should retain your services,’ Alice said in a sneering tone. ‘On the payment clock seems to be the only way people can spend time with Perveen Mistry, Esquire.’
‘I’m not trying to avoid you—’ Perveen began, but there was a sharp click.
She’d offended Alice—Alice, who hadn’t listened to a word of her excuses. It wasn’t fair.
Perveen felt the stern eyes of Grandfather Mistry upon her as she passed his portrait on her way upstairs. Did he disapprove of her attitude towards Alice, or was he trying to remind her that she was distracting herself from the case?
Pushing aside her superstitions, Perveen went to her desk, switching on the green-shaded lamp that was supposed to give the most concentrated form of light.
A pool of yellow light bathed a small mount of letters: two days’ worth, since she’d been busy on Malabar Hill. On top was a letter from a client disputing the hours she’d billed and some documents that had been mailed from the high court in regard to other cases. All of it seemed so petty and distracting with all she had going on. There was even a letter from the Petit Parsee General Hospital. T
hankfully, it was not from the administration with some complaint but was signed by a prospective new client.
The name was Parsi: Siyamak Azman Patel. The man, who gave no particulars of his background, wished her to call on him in the hospital to assist in writing his will.
Perveen could only hope she’d have sorted the Farid case before the poor fellow died, but nothing was certain any more. She resolved to pass the request to another law firm that could handle it immediately.
Once she’d dealt with the rest of the post, Perveen opened her briefcase and put all the Farid papers on the centre of her blotter. Slowly, she leafed through them, looking for something that would show a familial relationship between Omar Farid and Faisal Mukri. She had not dismissed her thought that someone within the family might have wished him dead for reasons of personal or professional gain. But there was nothing.
Annoyed, she continued leafing through the papers, seeing that they were out of order. Somehow the first pages of the widows’ marriage contracts were all missing. This was unfortunate, as she knew those pages contained their fathers’ names and home addresses. This would make it all the harder for her to follow up on finding relatives to help them.
Perveen gnawed on a fingernail, trying to remember the last time she’d looked at all these pages. It had been when she’d had the conferences with the women, before Mr Mukri’s death.
And then her briefcase had gone missing for a while. Had these first pages been removed? What was within them that could be damaging?
The situation was not irreparable. Copies of the marriage contracts probably were with their families as well as the Bombay High Court. But she wanted those papers now.
The sharp ring of the telephone interrupted her thoughts. Was Alice calling back to finish giving Perveen a piece of her mind? Perveen sat, letting it ring till it stopped.
In the silence, she turned back to the now dog-eared stack of Farid papers. Was there something there that might be a clue to Faisal Mukri’s death?
The phone rang again, and this time, Perveen strode down the hall to pick it up.
‘Hello?’ she said.
There was a crackling pause, and then she heard three words spoken in a low, soft voice.
‘Meri madad karo.’ Please help me.
‘Who is calling?’ Perveen asked sharply in Hindi.
‘Help!’ the woman’s voice repeated in accented English.
‘Are you calling Mistry Law? Who is on the line? What has happened?’ Perveen implored the caller. But within a moment, she heard the dull tone that meant the call was finished.
Perveen had no question about what to do next. She dialled the operator and asked to be put through to 22 Sea View Road. But the line was engaged. Either one of the widows was having a chat with someone—or the phone had been taken off the hook.
‘Can’t you interrupt the call?’ Perveen asked. This kind of thing was common, given the impatience of the population.
‘At this hour, it’s not polite,’ the operator said.
‘You must do it. This is urgent.’
There were some clicks, and then the operator said in her ear, ‘Nobody is there, madam.’
‘Then give me the Malabar Hill Police Station.’
The phone was picked up by someone who sounded a lot like Sergeant Biscuit.
Perveen identified herself and described the call she suspected had come from 22 Sea View Road.
‘But that is impossible. The house is secured,’ the sergeant told her.
‘I have heard that time and time again. But this is an emergency.’
‘I tell you, two of our men are on the gates, and there are two more inside. I am certain because three of us are taking extra shifts to make up for it.’
She should have been reassured—but she could not forget the sound of the woman’s voice. ‘I’m glad that your men are there, but there might still be trouble within the house. Could someone please request that the nursemaid check on the family members?’
‘If anyone is calling out, the constables are surely hearing it,’ he said patronizingly.
‘Maybe not, if they’ve called me.’ Perveen banged down the phone. It was a waste of time to continue—she’d have to go there herself.
Perveen hurried downstairs, calling for Mustafa. But he was out. Looking at her watch, she realized it was eight o’clock. He was off-duty; perhaps he had gone to see one of his many friends.
Perveen gathered up the small purse she’d carried earlier in the day and stepped outside, looking for the Daimler. But the space where Arman always parked was filled with a slumbering brown buffalo.
‘Arman?’ she called out loudly as she scanned all of Bruce Street. Perhaps he hadn’t been able to wake the animal and had stopped the car elsewhere. But she could not see him anywhere. Remembering her father’s trip to Poona, she knew there was a possibility Arman had gone to fetch him at Victoria Terminus. This would mean he’d be dropped home before Arman came back for her.
She had to find another way.
Ramchandra the rickshaw-wallah was chatting with a few men at the only tea stall still open. As she approached him, he broke away and came forward.
Perveen spoke hesitantly, because she anticipated a refusal. ‘It’s a bit far, but could you take me to Malabar Hill?’
‘Malabar Hill?’ he repeated incredulously. ‘I’m not often taking my rickshaw outside Fort. That is far and steep.’
The Farids did live very high up. Perveen understood the impossibility of the mission. She could go to a busier street and find a horse-drawn tonga, but it was dark, and travelling with an unknown driver was a huge risk.
‘The Malabar Hill Police Station near the Jain temple. From there, I can insist the police bring me to the destination.’ She reached into her purse, looking at what money she had left. Recklessly, she said, ‘I’ll pay a rupee if you can make it in forty minutes—and another rupee to cover your travel back. I’m sorry to ask you to pedal so far.’
‘Don’t worry, madam,’ he said, turning towards the rickshaw stand. ‘It’s been slow today. I have spent more time talking than cycling. And that sum is almost a week’s take.’
‘Truly?’ Perveen asked as she walked along, feeling bad that Ramchandra lived on so little.
‘Yes. The tonga-wallahs will be envious when they hear.’
As she climbed up into the familiar seat, Ramchandra poured oil into the small covered lanterns that hung on the rear of the carriage and the largest lantern, which was on his handlebars.
After all the lanterns were lit, the street seemed brighter, and Ramchandra set off cycling. Perveen leant forward, wishing she could make the weight of the carriage and her own body disappear. The journey felt slow—and they’d barely started.
Turning off Bruce Street into a small lane, the rickshaw dragged even harder and then ground to a halt.
Ramchandra’s voice floated back to her. ‘Sorry, memsahib. I must check the rickshaw. Something may be caught in a wheel.’
What bad luck. How could his prized rickshaw break down on a night like this one?
Ramchandra had taken one of his lanterns to use while looking at the tires. She saw him bathed in the pool of yellow light, looking up at her with a grim expression.
‘What is it?’ she asked.
‘Both my tyres have punctures.’
Perveen stepped down from the rickshaw and walked over to the tyre he was studying. ‘Two flat tyres? But how?’
Ramchandra’s voice was mournful. ‘As I was just coming along Bruce Street, I felt something rough catch underneath. It’s hard to see in the darkness, but I think something was there. I’m very sorry, memsahib. It will not be possible to fix these tyres tonight.’
Perveen felt desperate. ‘Could one of your tonga-driver friends swap the tyres?’
‘No. Tonga wheels are a larger size.’
Please help me. The urgency in the unknown woman’s voice rang in her head. ‘But I’ve got to reach Malabar Hill.’
&
nbsp; ‘There is the tonga stand, but a lady should not ride alone—’
‘I agree.’ Perveen had another idea. She would call the Hobson-Jones house and ask for Sir David. She hated to ask him for a favour so soon after refusing to do something he wanted. But she couldn’t think of another option—and she knew he wouldn’t want the widows to come to harm.
‘I’ll go back to the office and make a call to see if someone else can go to the police,’ she said. ‘Surely in the next half hour or so, Arman will return with the car. I’m so sorry about your tyres. Take this rupee from me—no, you must accept it. You wouldn’t have ruined tyres if I hadn’t called you into service.’
Perveen ran off around the corner, realizing that she hadn’t moved this fast since her days on the tennis court at Oxford. But this was no game. Someone could be dying just a few miles away.
It was dark, so she could not run at top speed. She also didn’t want to stumble over whatever had damaged Ramchandra’s tyres.
Slowing slightly gave her a chance to hear more than the pounding of blood in her ears. She heard footsteps, fast ones, coming from behind her.
Instinctively, she moved to the side, but the fact that she stopped became her undoing. A rough cloth bag whipped over her head, and a thick, strong arm pushed her backwards and hauled her upward. Perveen screamed, but her voice was lost in cloth as she felt herself lifted up as casually as a stevedore might carry a ten-pound box. She heard a male grunt as she kicked backwards, trying to cause him to drop her.
Suddenly the telephone call for help and Ramchandra’s ruined rickshaw came together. The call had been a ploy to get her outside, so she’d be vulnerable. All of it was planned.
Someone didn’t like her meddling. She kicked again and again, hoping to put the man off balance, but all that happened was he paused, shifting the bag with her body in it up against a wall and punching her in the back.
Then all she knew was a slow dripping sound.
A Murder on Malabar Hill Page 29
