‘Objection!’ screamed Mr Wadia. ‘Another family member’s death is unrelated to the marriage situation in question. Irrelevant!’
‘Your Lordship, I plan to use this example to show that in addition to the physical harm Perveen has already undergone, there are reasonable grounds for anticipating continuing danger to both her life and liberty. Chiefly, the death of another woman in the household. Perveen’s husband, Cyrus Sodawalla, was in residence at the time and, despite the fact that he was an adult, did nothing to help his sister, nor did his parents.’
‘Objection! A female’s health is not a concern for a brother,’ Mr Wadia shouted. ‘It is ladies’ business only.’
What her father had said was exactly what Perveen had been trying to say to the Sodawallas all along. She had gone stiff with anger, hearing her own argument used in reverse.
‘Overruled,’ said Judge Moody, leaning forward slightly. ‘Please continue, Mr Mistry.’
‘I seek to prove that Cyrus Sodawalla was negligent in caring for his sister. As section thirty-one states, such conduct that affords reasonable grounds for apprehending danger to life or of serious personal injury is entitlement for judicial separation.’
Judge Moody frowned. ‘This is an interpretation of the Act I’ve not heard before. Will you elaborate on your rationale?’
‘Your Honour, it is entirely straightforward,’ Jamshedji said. ‘Already, Perveen’s life has been ruined by her rash agreement to Mr Sodawalla’s proposal. She can never marry another, nor have children. Is that not enough punishment? Should she be forced back into this household, where she will be made again to lie on another woman’s deathbed?’ Jamshedji turned from the judge to look directly at Cyrus. ‘What do you think, Cyrus? Do you really long for your unhappy wife to return?’
He did not answer. The silence was filled with the rustling sounds of people in the benches, and she imagined they were craning their necks to look at him, to see the young man whose reputation had been ground into the gutter by his father-in-law.
‘No.’ Cyrus’s voice was barely audible.
Jamshedji nodded. ‘On behalf of the plaintiff, I rest my case.’
The magistrate called a one-hour recess after the case. He gave the jurors this time to return verdicts on the nine cases that they had heard. This brief recess caused a flurry of movement in the courtroom. Those whose cases hadn’t yet been heard streamed out, complaining about having to come back.
‘The jury has fewer than seven minutes to discuss each case. How can justice be done?’ Camellia fretted.
‘They will take longer if needed. Nothing to do now but relax.’ Jamshedji was flushed from the exertion of speaking, and Perveen saw rivulets of sweat running down from the edges of the wig. He’d presented a thoroughly ingenious argument while relatively unprepared, in a courtroom he didn’t know. And he’d even gathered testimony from Gita.
One woman stopped by Perveen and put a hand on her arm. ‘I know what it is to be kept secluded. I hope you don’t have to go back.’
Perveen felt gratitude for this kindness. ‘Thank you. I—’
‘The shamelessness of young women!’
Perveen recognized the scolding man who’d interrupted as an unpleasant member of the Sodawallas’ agiary. Before she could respond, though, another woman had patted her arm.
‘Very good to see a lawyer speak up for women’s rights. All the better when he’s her father.’ The friendly woman beamed at Jamshedji. ‘Give me your card. I’ve got plenty of business for you.’
Jamshedji gave her a gracious half-bow. ‘You are most kind, madam; but my firm is based in Bombay. This will, I hope, be my sole court appearance in Calcutta.’
When they had a bit of space, Perveen whispered, ‘You made a magnificent argument, but I didn’t know what lengths you’d go to. I feel mortified.’
Jamshedji looked soberly at her. ‘I’m sorry that I made you embarrassed. But I decided to follow my instinct. I needed to prove an existing danger to you in the marriage.’
‘How did you learn about Azara’s cause of death?’
‘I hired someone here to request the medical files for you and Cyrus. The hospital worker accidentally also brought the file for Cyrus’s sister, as she was a family member at the same address. When I saw the doctor’s report, I knew it would be vital to your defence, but there was the problem that the information was not obtained through proper channels.’
‘And that would make it inadmissible in court.’ Perveen paused, thinking. ‘But you spoke of a coroner’s report.’
‘Yes. The coroner is a government official, and the Bengal Presidency has just as detailed records as the Bombay Presidency,’ he said with a satisfied smile. ‘I recalled you saying that your ayah was working in the household when Azara died. Our detective learnt from Gita’s mother, Pushpa, that the Sodawallas fired her for not stopping you from leaving. Since Gita had returned to her home village, she felt safe enough to provide the sworn testimony.’
Perveen would never be able to thank Gita for what she’d done. How was it that she could speak the truth, and Cyrus had not? ‘When I first met him, Cyrus lied to me about Azara’s death being from cholera. I wonder why he thought he couldn’t tell me the truth.’
‘Perhaps it was the family’s agreed-upon story,’ Jamshedji said. ‘It was a risk to bring up Azara’s death, but I believe it’s now impossible for the delegates not to consider the possibility of continuing danger. Only when there is an actual death do people think twice.’
‘When you spoke so bluntly about it, that hurt the Sodawallas. They were in pain,’ Perveen said, remembering how she’d pitied the weeping Behnoush. ‘They hadn’t faced up to their role in Azara’s death. And now their community knows all about it.’
‘Maybe some of the orthodox will change their traditions,’ Camellia said, looking serious. ‘Some families will tell women to seclude themselves for one or two days, not eight. Pappa described a tragedy to everyone, but knowing about it might make a difference.’
‘Do you truly . . . ?’ Perveen’s sentence died as she saw Cyrus walking through the crowds towards them. She had no time to warn her parents before he was upon them.
‘How could you do that? Shame my family; accuse us of killing my sister?’ Cyrus shouted down into the face of Jamshedji, who was a few inches shorter than his six feet.
‘You are the only one using those words,’ Jamshedji said tightly. They were becoming entertainment for anyone passing through the corridor. A knot of excited onlookers formed around the men, and Camellia put a protective arm around Perveen, who wished they were invisible.
‘You bastard! You have brought up the sorrow my family has tried so hard to put behind us,’ Cyrus shouted angrily, ignoring the constables hastening towards him.
‘He didn’t mean to insult you,’ Perveen said, her heart beating fast. ‘It’s just an argument. What lawyers must do—’
‘Perveen!’ her father snapped. ‘Don’t say anything more.’
‘Lawyers are the vilest creatures on earth. Less than human,’ Cyrus said with a sneer. ‘Of course you wanted to be one, Perveen!’
Jamshedji tilted his head back to look fully at Cyrus as he spoke. ‘You testified on the stand that you were willing to have a separation. But all your vakil did was present a picture of a wife with bad housekeeping skills. No jury would permit the two of you to separate for such a small reason. You needed a stronger example, and I gave just that.’
‘You called my parents murderers.’ Cyrus was breathing hard, as if struggling to stay above water. ‘You said I was diseased. And you said I didn’t care that Azara died—’
‘If you don’t care to be accountable for the past, think about your future,’ Jamshedji said between gritted teeth. ‘How delighted would you be to have my daughter living with you for the next forty or fifty years? Do you think you’ll have one happy day in those decades?’
Cyrus answered him but kept his eyes on Perveen. ‘If the jury sends her
back to stay with us, she will pay for every bit of filth you said in court today. And if she’s granted a separation, it won’t be a happy one. I’ll make your lives hell.’
A bell rang, signalling that the magistrate was ready to reconvene the court. The chief juror delivered a series of papers to Judge Moody, who read the decisions aloud and without expression. The wife whose husband had brought a prostitute into their bedroom was granted a separation with alimony. Divorce was granted to the woman whose husband had slept with his cousin. On the other hand, the jury granted an annulment to the man whose wife hadn’t yet consummated. And then it was their turn.
‘Sodawalla versus Sodawalla.’ Judge Moody squinted as if it was difficult to read the paper in his hand. Perveen felt an iciness flow through her, certain that the outcome was bad. ‘In this matter, the jury would like to state for the record its disapproval of the wife’s intrusion into the husband’s place of business. However, the Sodawallas’ abuse of female seclusion, a respectable tradition if done with everyone’s agreement, raised a reasonable doubt for the wife’s safety. Six votes for the granting of judicial separation. No alimony.’
The judge droned on, but Perveen did not hear the words. She’d heard ‘granting of judicial separation’.
She had won. Although still married to Cyrus, she’d never have to see him again. Every day of the month would belong to her. Her life was her own again.
Shaking and sobbing, Perveen hugged her mother. She realized Camellia’s face was also wet with tears.
‘Yes,’ Jamshedji said, his own arms, strong as tree branches, going around the two women. ‘We have not lost her. Thank God.’
Perveen could not let the delirium of joy overtake her. She remembered Cyrus’s words during the break. ‘Pappa, can the separation be challenged?’
‘It could, but they’re not likely to do that,’ he said reassuringly. ‘Too much money and distress.’
‘But Cyrus threatened us.’ He had looked straight at her, and the hatred in his gaze had been clear.
Jamshedji took out his handkerchief to wipe Camellia’s tears. ‘He can threaten all he wishes, but I suspect his energy for mischief will run dry during the three years you’re studying in England.’
‘If I can get a place . . .’
‘You earned it long ago,’ he said. ‘And you’ve already got the necessary papers.’
Her father had filed for her right to enter England immediately after she’d passed the Oxford examinations two years earlier. In fact, the document granting her that right was issued in the name of Perveen Jamshedji Mistry, which was what he told her to use for her university application. Nobody had ever heard of a married female studying at Oxford—to see if she’d be admitted as such was too great a risk. And using her maiden name wasn’t quite a lie, given her legal separation.
Still, the challenge of presenting herself as a single woman dogged Perveen during the month that she and Camellia spent organizing her trunks. All the while, her father hunted for a booking for her on one of the few passenger steamships still operating between India and Europe. The seats were few, and he wound up having to pay for first class rather than second. Perveen felt guilty, knowing that most Indian students travelling to England had won full scholarships with travel and living stipends and were not imposing financial burdens on their families. She’d sold the jewellery her parents had given her for her wedding, but that would only cover one year’s tuition.
‘I can always raise my hourly billing rate,’ Jamshedji had joked when she’d expressed worry about all her expenses. ‘In any case, I expect to bring in a solicitor to raise the firm’s revenue within the next few years.’
Just four weeks after the separation was granted, Perveen stood on the first-class deck of the ferry that would take her to the Dutch Emerald. The sun was high, and she had to squint to see her parents and Rustom standing on Ballard Pier below. She could not see their expressions and could only hope they were smiling.
‘Do you want a last look at someone?’ a female voice said.
Perveen turned to see a very tall, blonde English girl proffering a pair of opera glasses.
‘Oh. That’s kind of you, but not necessary.’ It was embarrassing to have been caught on the verge of tears, and by a posh English person at that.
‘Come on. They’re really meant for performances, but they’re still all right to use outdoors. Don’t you want a parting glimpse?’
The girl seemed so sincere, Perveen didn’t want to make her feel bad. ‘All right. Thank you.’ She took the glasses and adjusted the focus.
‘Did you find your family?’
‘Yes. My parents are crying. I can’t stand to look any more.’ She handed the glasses back to the stranger. Why was she leaving Bombay when she’d fought so hard to be with her own family again? Three years apart would feel endless.
The girl smiled wryly. ‘That’s rather different from my own departure. I boarded in Ceylon, where my father’s been working, and he, my mother and I were arguing all the way up the gangplank.’
‘We argue too. They say arguing is in Parsi blood,’ Perveen said. ‘I hope to hone my arguments to a professional level while in England.’
The girl hooted. ‘Are you bound for Oxford? I saw a trunk labelled for St Hilda’s College. Was it yours?’
‘Probably,’ she admitted, surprised her luggage had caught this stranger’s eye.
‘Well, it’s your lucky day, because I’m a second year at St Hilda’s,’ the girl said, tilting her chin so she looked even taller. In a mock-confidential tone, she added, ‘I’ll tell you everything you need to know.’
‘I’d like that,’ Perveen said, feeling a surge of relief that she wouldn’t walk into the college like a complete know-nothing.
‘I’m Alice Hobson-Jones,’ the young woman said, holding out her hand. ‘Born in Tamil Nadu, shipped back to London and Oxford, briefly moored in Ceylon, and who knows what’s next?’
Perveen shook the girl’s hand. ‘I’m delighted to meet you, Miss Hobson-Jones. I’m Perveen Mistry, Bombay born and bred.’
‘Do call me Alice,’ her companion said with a grin. ‘Fourteen days at sea is an overly long time to be formal, isn’t it?’
The horn blew, signalling the ferry’s departure. Perveen kept her eyes on her family until they blurred with the mass of other people around them. The lump in her throat was being replaced by something entirely different.
Anticipation.
28
CAT OUT OF THE BAG
Bombay, February 1921
When Perveen awoke, her throat felt dry, although her body was soaked. She had sweated, maybe for hours. It was all because she was wrapped up in a thick, rough blanket. Reaching out a few inches, she tried to tug the cloth down, but it just pulled tighter around her curled-up form.
And then she remembered—Bruce Street, and the shock of a cloth sack coming down over her head. She had a memory of fighting against it and then being hit. She recalled a bumpy ride and being hauled out and hearing the sound of lapping water. She’d braced for the feeling of sinking like a stone into cold water. She would end her life in the Arabian Sea, the body of water her ancestors had crossed to build their new lives in India.
At the Calcutta High Court, Cyrus had sworn vengeance. The years between had been filled with the excitement of Oxford, returning to Bombay, and working as a full-fledged solicitor in her father’s practice. Until the last few days, she had relinquished her fears.
The attack had caught her off guard, despite the warning signs. And the plan would come off without a hitch. Her parents didn’t know anything was amiss, and enough time had passed so there would be no suspicion of the Sodawallas. And her death, once it was discovered, would allow Cyrus to marry a new wife.
A loud ship’s horn interrupted her thoughts, reminding her of another possibility. She recalled the hulking figure of Jayanth’s boss. Ravi had been furious about the changes Jayanth’s victory had brought about for all the stevedores.
As revenge against her father, Perveen, who’d shown her face at the docks, could have been abducted. She’d be left to die. Ravi would escape prosecution.
But there was also the Farid situation. Someone involved might worry she was getting close to the truth. The telephone call from a woman that had brought her out could have been a ploy, and the disabling of Ramchandra’s rickshaw had been intentional. This, of course, pointed to the attacker being connected to the caller.
She’d been taken around eight in the evening. What time was it now? She slid her stiff right hand over her left forearm until she felt the rectangular face of her French wristwatch. She could not read time in the dark, but it was comforting to still have it. She wondered if she had anything else. Groping with both hands, she found her beaded purse trapped in a corner of the sack near her feet. How surprising that the assailant hadn’t taken it. Perhaps it was meant to be an identifier after she was nothing more than a pile of bones.
The fact that she’d been left alive might mean somebody was nearby keeping guard. She wanted to know. Clearing her scratchy throat, she began shouting in Marathi. ‘What are you doing, sticking me in a bag like this? Kidnapping is a crime.’
She shouted for five minutes, changing her language to Hindi and then English, steadily raising her level of profanity. Hearing nothing but silence, she gathered that she was alone.
If she truly was alone, she could try to escape the bag without interference. Feeling more determined than frightened, Perveen began exploring the thick sack. The top end was sewn straight across, but the end near her feet was drawn tightly together, as if it had been tied with a rope. She could not possibly untie something knotted on the outside. The only way out of the bag would be to tear the straight edge. Perveen searched through her small beaded purse, which contained a few coins, business cards, the vial of rose attar and her mother-of-pearl fountain pen. She removed a metal hairpin from her braided coronet and tried to stab it through the cloth. The thin pin broke on her fifth attempt.
A Murder on Malabar Hill Page 31
