by Nev March
“The reading room is adjacent to the clock tower.” I picked up a pencil and flipped over a sheet of paper. With a few deft strokes I drew a square to represent the tower’s vestibule. Across one corner I wrote Tower, then Reading Room along the side.
I tapped the diagram. “They’re connected by a balcony one floor above. The men could have hidden in the reading room until the crowd dispersed.”
Diana frowned. “Why would they stay? Surely they’d escape in the confusion?”
“Perhaps they wanted to be rid of that clothing. The police arrived quickly, it seems.”
“So they were lawyers?” Diana asked, shocked. “Wearing black robes?”
“Perhaps. Apte did not say what these clothes were. Miss, take a look at this.” I handed her the paper with the mysterious white bead.
“Oh!” She raised the tiny object to the light. “Could be beading from a dress, but this is tiny. The work would be very fine. Where…?”
“Found it on the gallery.”
Diana drew a breath. “Oh my. From Bacha or Pilloo’s clothes?”
I consulted my notes. “Miss Pilloo wore a white blouse and dark, loose trousers. Lady Bacha wore a yellow saree and blouse. Was either one beaded?”
Diana caught a lip between her teeth, thinking. “Don’t think so. Their clothes and things were returned to Adi.”
“Ah.” I had not known that. Diana’s assistance was already proving useful.
I flipped to my list of witnesses. “A few interviews remain: a group of children who saw the ladies arrive. I’ve already met the Havildar but got nothing from him. Poor chap was quite terrified. Not sure he spoke either English or Hindustani.”
“Captain, would you like me to try? He might speak Gujarati.”
“If your father approves. And I’ve yet to meet Maneck, the chap accused of the murder.”
“Oh, Captain, of course Maneck’s innocent. He’s a lamb,” Diana said. “How could anyone think him capable of murder? Silliest thing I’ve ever heard!”
She seemed very sure.
“Miss, the verdict was inconclusive. Insufficient evidence, no?”
She waved that away. Shaking her head, Diana went to the window. Framed against a white balustrade and deep green boughs, she made a charming picture. “Maneck didn’t defend himself. Didn’t say a word. Why?”
“Good question. We mustn’t theorize before we have all the evidence—biases the judgement, said Holmes.”
Diana marveled, “Why, you’ve memorized every word.”
I grinned, binding up a sheaf of reports to take along. “Some of it. Wasn’t much else to read in hospital.”
She bent toward me. “Oh? How long were you there?”
“Months,” I replied, sorting folders. “Ran out of reading material, and I enjoyed Conan Doyle’s book, so I read it several times. Devoured newspapers too, of course.”
I felt her stillness and looked up. Dappled sunlight touched Diana’s head, atilt as she listened. “Captain,” she began, then bit her lip, as though uncertain.
“Miss, is there something else? That might have a bearing on this case?”
She pulled back, wary. “I don’t think so.”
“Righto, Miss, let’s speak tomorrow.”
Her dark eyes pensive, she watched me go.
CHAPTER 12
WHO WAS BACHA?
Late the next morning I found Adi in his room, dapper in white shirt and crisp black legal jacket. Last night’s deliberations had suggested another motive for Lady Bacha’s visit to the clock tower. Had she and Pilloo planned to meet a lover? Was Adi aware of any such dalliance? How could I broach this?
His eyes gleamed as I entered. “Captain Jim! You’ve been busy! Diana showed me the clues you found at the tower.”
“Morning,” Diana said, pouring tea into fragile blue and white china. She seemed glum. I suspected that the siblings had just had a disagreement, and Adi had prevailed.
He spread his hands. “Diana has asked … for a more active role in the investigation. What do you think?”
“Best not, sir. It’s a messy business.”
Both siblings turned to me with similar expressions of inquiry.
I shrugged. “Well, sir, we believe the ladies were murdered. This could be dangerous, hm?”
“Indeed.” Adi frowned. “Another reason, then.”
I wondered, what was the first? The obvious answer: it wasn’t appropriate, was it? Perhaps Adi had discouraged Diana from associating with me, an old army chap.
Her chin rose. “Captain, in England, I met a young Indian lady, Miss Cornelia Sorabji. She studied law at Oxford! She’s been appointed Lady Assistant to the Court of Wards. Why can’t I do something useful too?”
“Ah!” I considered her mutinous look. So this was not about fraternizing with the hired help. “Perhaps when you’ve settled in? Meanwhile, I need an interpreter.”
Her face brightening, a glance passed between the siblings. Was Diana saying, “He agrees with me”? Perhaps in time, I’d learn their silent language.
Turning to business, I questioned Adi about the ladies’ clothing returned by the coroner and learned that none were beaded. Convinced that the ladies had been hiding something, I said, “Tell me about Lady Bacha. To form a clearer picture of her.”
Adi nodded, and began, “Well, Bacha’s parents died years ago. A tragedy at sea. She was brought up by an uncle in Ooty. Her family has coffee estates. Her late uncle managed them.”
“When did he die?”
“Last year. He’d been ill long before Bacha and I were wed. He was keen on a quick match—so she’d be cared for, you see.”
I wrote: coffee heiress from Ooty. A previous suitor? A lover?
“Out with it, Captain,” said Adi, his voice amused.
“Was she willful? Impulsive?”
“Goodness, no! Bacha was extremely dutiful. But she was rather progressive.”
“Sir?”
Adi said, “She was against Pilloo marrying so young, but it’s tradition, you know.”
Miss Pilloo again. “Any close friends?”
“Goodness, Captain, I wouldn’t know where to start! We entertained constantly. She often met friends at Hanging Gardens or the university reading room.” He fell silent as the gloom of the clock tower wove a shadow into his ponderings, caught up in some internal turmoil, a familiar argument that left him desolate.
“Politics? Opinions?” I ventured.
Adi shrugged. “We talked of nationalism, social reform, explorers.…” His expression lightened. “Bacha once said that Columbus must have been awfully conceited to lay claim to everything he found.” He chuckled, looking like a schoolboy in that rare moment. Yet his sparkling bride had a hidden side. Why hadn’t she called out for help?
“Sir, I wonder if she planned to meet someone on the gallery. An old suitor, perhaps?”
Surprised, Adi said, “Impossible, Captain.” He expelled a breath, shaking his head. “I thought I knew her well, until this.”
I let it go. If Lady Bacha had a lover, Adi might not know of it. Secretive Miss Pilloo would, though. “Did the ladies know each other before?”
“Before I married Bacha? No. Pilloo was Bacha’s opposite—no social graces at all. She rarely joined us for outings at the bandstand.”
“Really!” Diana’s eyebrows rose. “Before I left for school, Pilloo and I often went there! We were too young to dance, but we’d watch for hours. Ladies in exquisite dresses, dashing officers in uniform, like scenes from Pride and Prejudice! Pilloo loved it.”
Ah! This was an entirely different picture of Miss Pilloo. “That’s interesting, Miss Diana. Yet in recent years she was shy, almost a recluse. What changed?”
Diana’s face went blank. “I don’t know.”
Adi looked from his sister to me. “Nor do I.”
CHAPTER 13
RIPON CLUB
Next day, I arrived to find the house bustling. As though Framji Mansion had awoken
from a long slumber, vases overflowed the foyer with flowers and ferns. Thick drapes parted to admit the sun, and bearers hurried along passageways with wide smiles.
I’d learned something useful the previous day: a pivotal event had occurred in the year before Adi’s wedding, which changed Miss Pilloo from a sociable teenage girl to a nervous recluse. That incident could be behind the ladies’ daring foray to the clock tower for a secret meeting. Not much, as a clue, but it was a start.
Dressed in a smart grey suit, Adi spotted me and said, “Come join us for breakfast. Diana put her question to Papa last night, you know. He said no. Doesn’t want her involved in our investigation. She didn’t take it well.” He threw me a meaningful look as we entered the dining room.
Adi’s father nodded his greeting, deep in conversation with the lanky editor Tom Byram. The pressman ate like he’d been here often, his large, deft hands dwarfing his silverware. At the sideboard Adi piled his plate with poached eggs, sausages and rolls. I followed suit.
“Chaloh dikra!” Mrs. Framji said, entering behind us, calling the children along. The younger children bounced in, clean-scented, wearing embroidered kaftans. At the sight of me, the older boy paused, then spied the sideboard laden with food and pastries and ran to it. Soon, childish voices trilled through the room. Once they had partaken and departed, the coffee came and it was time for business.
Byram slid a folio across the table. “Captain, your railway ticket to Matheran departs next Friday. Trains to Bombay ply only on weekends, so we bought your return for Sunday.”
“Thank you.” I pocketed the papers, eager at the prospect of finally meeting Maneck. Surely he would tell me his tale, now the trial was done? For if I found those responsible, it would exonerate him.
Adi asked, “Well, Captain, what next?”
I summed up my progress. “By my estimate, the ladies arrived at the tower around three forty, or just after. Enty saw an altercation between Maneck and the Khojas at three fifteen. He’s quite solid on that. So the women weren’t there yet.”
Adi’s mother spoke for the first time. “The three men quarreled before Bacha and Pilloo got there? What does it mean?”
“Only that the three were not agreed upon their plan,” I said, cautious at the note of hope in her voice. “It’s a theory, Marm.” I addressed Byram. “Sir, the two suspects, Behg and Akbar. Any idea where they are?”
Tom Byram cleared his throat, looking doubtful. “Sorry, old chap. Wasn’t able to locate those two. Probably left Bombay.”
“Oh, they could still be here,” said Diana. “Well-heeled fellows usually visit the racecourse, I imagine. They won’t be at British Clubs since Indians aren’t admitted, but you can try the Ripon.” She caught my glance and smiled. “Why the surprise? I grew up here.”
So it was decided. I would be given business attire to gain entry into the Ripon Club, that male bastion of the rich and powerful. Now all I needed was an excuse to be there.
Byram puffed as he lit his pipe and waved out the match. Pointing the stem at me, he said, “Ask for me! I’m a member. I won’t be there, but it will get you in. Then you can seek out the blighters.”
* * *
Dressed to the nines in black suit and top hat, I set off for the Ripon Club. Newspaper clippings of Saapir Behg showed a man with a narrow forehead and untidy beard. McIntyre’s notes mentioned a snake tattooed on the back of one hand. In my pocket I carried a picture of Maneck, a reedy youth standing with somber-faced Behg at the dock.
No photograph of Akbar existed. He was said to have a penchant for wearing jewelry, but I had no description. He’d attended the trial “by proxy,” a courtesy offered by British law to royal members of an independent Raj (princely state). Neither police reports nor papers said what state he hailed from. Strangely little was known about him.
At the Ripon Club, a stately white structure in the baroque style covering an entire block, I paid off the victoria carriage and descended.
A concierge hurried toward me in white uniform and shocking red cummerbund. His turban, in the same red, sprouted folds of stiff cloth resembling a cock’s comb, and he wore it with an air of grave authority. I gave Tom Byram’s name and was led to the lounge.
Here, as planned, Byram could not be found. While the concierge sent away to the other floors, I picked up the Chronicle, pretended to read and examined the spacious hall. Judging from their attire, the occupants of the all-male establishment were mostly British or Parsee.
“I’ll wait,” I assured the concierge, gesturing at my periodical, “and pass the time. It’s quite cool in this fine building.”
He was pleased. “We’ve had great visitors, sir! The Viceroy, why, General Harding has visited us.” His voice held a proprietary pride in that august visitor.
“Fine gentlemen both,” I said.
This loosened his demeanor. It was time to inquire about my main quarry, the princeling, Akbar. “What about Rajas, princes, and the like?” I asked.
Here too, the man was happy to report, the Ripon Club excelled. This brought me no closer to my goal. A new tack was required. “I wonder,” I said, “whether a friend of mine is here. Smith is his name. Major Stephen Smith.”
In fact, Smith was in Madras with the Fourteenth Light Cavalry. However, this ruse might allow me to examine the guest book, which most establishments maintained.
“I regret, sir, the name does not strike. Would you permit, I consult the register?”
Head held high, he led me to a desk, so stiff he seemed to walk leaning backward. Beside a shiny new telephone, a thick register lay open upon the ornate table.
Smith, as expected, was not in the book.
“Would you, sir?” My escort requested that I make an entry.
I diligently added an illegible scrawl. “Would you look for another name? I’d like to meet him, but don’t know the chap. Behg. Saapir Behg.”
He ran a finger down each page, but Behg was not listed.
I said, “I hear he works for Seth Akbar. Is he here?”
The concierge stiffened. “You are acquainted with the Seth?”
Thakur, Seth and such titles were given to landowners or noblemen, indicating both wealth and influence. The concierge knew Akbar, at least by name.
“I have business with him. Is he here?”
“Seth Akbar has not visited for many months.”
“I may have seen him at the races. A short young man, is he not?”
The concierge drew himself up. “No, sir! That is his man of business. The Seth is tall, a pehelvan!”
So Akbar was a strong man, a pehelvan or sportsman, well built and powerful. My host closed the register with an air of finality. Suspicious, his brow creased. To allay his doubts, I mentioned other army officers, then strolled back to the reading area. A wide leather chair provided ample view of his desk. Shaking out the Bombay Herald, I watched covertly. If he sent a fellow off with a message, well, I planned to slip out and follow.
The concierge did not oblige but busied himself in a ledger. Air wafted through the lounge from two ancient fans above. Only the rustle of newsprint and shuffling footsteps broke the silence.
“What a to-do,” said an elderly lawyer behind me. “It gets worse every day!”
In crusty tones, his companion said, “… terrible crime in the city. Gone to the dogs!”
“It’s the princely states,” the first explained, “No law and order. Police utterly corrupt. The Thakurs are pretty much a law unto themselves. They run the Durbar court so if you have a case against them, they won’t give you a sanad to appear!” From this I understood that one required a sanad or permit to plead a legal matter in a princely state.
The second gentleman said, “Surely the army can do something?”
“No, no!” said the first. “Can’t just barge into those places, what? Not since the mutiny, for God’s sake.”
While vast landscapes of India were ruled by the British Raj, numerous pockets, called princely states, w
ere held by local Rajas, or princes. An Indian prince must obtain British approval before he could inherit his throne. If succession was disputed, the British Raj could take control.
The old coves resumed discussing the Sepoy Mutiny of 1857, when armed Sepoys and farmers rebelled against British rule. It was before my time, but I’d heard it discussed in army mess halls. Indian soldiers had been assigned new Enfield rifles, which required tearing cartridge casings with their teeth, casings that were rumored to be greased with pig and cow fat. Mohammedan Sepoys were horrified at the use of pork, which is taboo to their faith, while Hindus were distressed at the use of bovine fat, since the cow is a holy beast.
Gathering support, they had laid siege to a fort in Cawnpore. Although its four hundred English residents surrendered, the rebels slaughtered everyone: men, women, children and Indian servants. By ’58, the British army had crushed the uprising and the East India Company was no more. The Crown had ruled India ever since.
A headline in the Herald caught my attention. “Bandra fishing village attacked.” I read that Bandra was only ten miles north of Bombay. No wonder residents like Mrs. Framji felt unsafe.
An hour later I called it a day. Akbar was known, and possibly feared, at the Ripon Club. Small wonder, since the infamous trial, but it brought me no closer to his whereabouts.
Still outfitted in borrowed finery, I resolved to explore the racecourse next. Electing to walk, since a cloudy sky and brisk wind beckoned, I headed north to the races. At Princess Street, a carriage swerved across the road and came directly at me.
“Hiy!” I pulled back from the snorting filly and carriage, missing its churning wheels by a whisker. My foot landed in a ditch, squishing in a pile of cow dung.
Damn! I stepped out and bent to retrieve my borrowed top hat. In that instant something whispered by my ear with deadly speed.
A blow slammed my shoulder with vicious force.
I cried out, pivoted, but it was too late. I glimpsed a turbaned man, bronzed arms swinging a baton. Two men? Three? They moved fast. Blows rained down hard. I jumped in, swung and landed a few myself.
