Murder in Old Bombay

by Nev March

  “Probably. But the carriage, that had to be planned.” While I’d snooped at the club, my assailants had set a trap, neat as I’d ever seen. What had I done to provoke the ambush?

  Mulling it over, I wolfed down a bowl of ripe strawberries, enjoying their tart sweetness. Recuperating at the Framji home had its compensations.

  “Captain, your ticket to Matheran!” said Adi, face puckered in distress. “It’s in three days. Wouldn’t you rather wait?”

  “No, sir,” I replied, between mouthfuls, “I’ll take that train.”

  Maneck, the man accused of the ladies’ murder, was the key to this mystery.

  Diana looked worried. “Captain, how can I help?”

  Holmes would not have shared details of his investigation, but I wasn’t Holmes. And Diana wasn’t the sort to sit by until the grand finale. I recalled her reticence a few days ago, how I’d been sure she knew something about Lady Bacha or Miss Pilloo. What was she hiding? When would she trust me enough to share it?

  “Not much to do at present, Miss.” I pointed to a stack of notes. “Those witnesses remain. Two children saw Maneck and Miss Pilloo at the university gate a few times.”

  Diana flicked open the report and said, “Why, that’s just on Grant Road. I can take my Ayah and see them.”

  Adi looked doubtful. “Diana, no.”

  “Miss, if you could read me those.…” My right eye could bear some rest.

  Adi left us to it. Diana separated out the police reports on the Havildar and the children’s testimony and read them out. Medical experts focused on some of the ladies’ injuries. Defense counsel claimed buttresses protruding from the tower walls had caused these, so that claim was tested in a highly publicized experiment. In the test, the dummy thrown from the gallery hit nothing on its fall to the ground.

  Now that I had met Doctor Jameson, I set the medical history aside. Four witnesses remained: Maneck, two schoolchildren and the frightened tower guard. After Diana read out their testimonies, she remarked that the children lived close by. Time passed as we reviewed them.

  When we finished, she lingered at the door.

  “Don’t go anywhere, will you?”

  I crooked an eyebrow at her and her cheeks turned pink.

  “It’s just that … we feel responsible. For your injuries. Won’t you rest?”

  I bowed in acquiescence, and she left. When she was around, invariably words failed me.

  * * *

  Toward evening I received another visitor. Gurung entered bearing a platter, upon which lay the card of my friend Major Smith.

  “My God, man!” he snorted, upon being admitted. “What the devil have you got into?”

  I grinned at his florid square face and mutton chop sideburns. After a quiet day, my meals served by Gurung or the gap-toothed boy, I felt weary of my own company. An evening with my oldest friend was just the thing. Smith settled on the settee and stretched out his legs.

  “Nice lodgings you’ve got.”

  “What, this old place?” I grinned from my sickbed.

  After the usual pleasantries, common friends and acquaintances, the garrison, where he was stationed and so on, he said, “Dash it, Jim. They’ve got a grand gymkhana here. You could get back to boxing, old chap.” He jabbed at the air, knotting his mouth in a mock grimace.

  Grinning at his antics, I shook my head. “Don’t think so. Not as young as I used to be.”

  “You were good, man! Won some fine fights … they still talk about it in the regiment. Right. Now, me lad.” Approaching my bedside, he subjected me to a somber stare. “I’m here for another reason. At the barracks this morning, I met Jameson, the physician, and mentioned you.”

  “Ah.”

  “Yes.” He rubbed his chin. “I was asked, told really, to see Superintendent McIntyre of Bombay Constabulary. D’you know him?”

  “We’ve met.” I saw it coming and met it head-on. “You’re here for my statement.”

  He nodded. “Dashed fine chap, McIntyre. Said it would be—um, more appropriate. Sending me, y’see.”

  McIntyre rose in my esteem. Constables in uniform would send this household into a tizzy. Yesterday’s vision took shape in my mind, solid wheels, step-board and all. “Three thugs attacked me on Princess Street. Tell him to look for a victoria with a red seat. They likely rode off in it.” I brushed my bruised knuckles. “They’ll be somewhat the worse for wear. The leader wears a round turban, like a Khoja or Maratha.”

  “By Jove!” Smith exclaimed. “You remember all that!” He reached for the pen on the roll top desk and wrote out his note.

  Once it was sent off with Gurung, I asked, “So where’s the regiment going next?”

  “You miss it, eh?” He grinned. “Not me, ’course. You miss your Arabian, Mullicka.”

  I admitted it. “Loved that beautiful filly. Colonel Sutton’s gift—gave her to me after my last boxing match.”

  “Lucky sod,” Smith said fondly. “Peters has her now. Bought her off me handsomely. His own broke a leg and had to be put down.” His face grew serious. “We’re going home to England, old chap. Time I took a wife. The Thirty-third Horse went back last year, and will you believe, three lads are already engaged! Imagine that! Sure you won’t come?”

  “I think not, Major.” I looked at the man who’d been a brother to me. Would we meet again in this life? We’d been through the worst of it together, smoke and shelling, panic, trying to reload under fire, running out of cartridges … Karachi.

  Perhaps he caught the direction of my thoughts, because he got up and shook my hand. As I returned his grip, Adi and Diana arrived. I made introductions.

  Diana said to me, “Mother asks whether you’re well enough to come down for dinner? Major, you’re invited too.”

  Not wishing to do my old friend out of a splendid meal, I accepted.

  Dinner was a quiet affair, dampened by Burjor’s unhappy mood. Diana and Adi also seemed somber. Did he regret initiating this investigation? Come what may, I would see it through. Digging in, I savored the superb raisin rice pilaf, sautéed lamb, potatoes and an enormous slice of the fruited pie.

  Mrs. Framji, an experienced hostess, took it upon herself to draw out my friend, plying him with questions about England, his family and education. Smith held forth happily and at some length.

  Mrs. Framji turned a smile on me. “And you, Captain Jim. Where were you educated?”

  I stiffened. “Ah, Poona, Marm.” I hoped that would be the end of it and winced inwardly to see Diana’s close attention, for truthfully I’d had little education.

  Mrs. Framji’s face blossomed. “Oh, whereabouts? Bund Garden or Elphinstone? I grew up in Poona!”

  I realized the Framjis knew nothing about me. Perhaps this was what Diana needed before she’d trust me with what she knew.

  “Coolwar, Marm. An orphanage run by missionaries.”

  Silence greeted my reply. Across the table Diana looked concerned. Mrs. Framji gazed at me in sorrow.

  I shrugged. It was not something that came up often, or that I dwelt upon. To bridge the awkwardness, I said, “I suppose I was a handful. Ran off to tend horses for the regiment. At fifteen I signed on as Sowar. Marm, that’s a Sepoy on horseback. My senior officer”—I turned to Smith. “Colonel Sutton, you recall?”—“was rather old-school. What learning I have, I owe to him.”

  Smith said, “Finest officer I ever served with. Brilliant tactician. But you!” He waved a spoon at me. “This fellow saved my life!”

  “Tosh!” I waved it away, but he insisted upon a toast.

  Looking pensive, Adi’s father joined in drinking to my health. Had it surprised him to learn I was an orphan, and a bastard? Surely not, given my mixed blood. But something had disturbed him, and I could not tell what.

  CHAPTER 17

  WHERE IS DIANA?

  After dinner Smith took his leave with copious compliments on the meal. As host, Adi walked him out in amicable conversation, leaving me with Burjor and the ladi
es. Gloom knitted Burjor’s forehead as he stared, unseeing, at his hands upon the table.

  “Sir, may I speak with you?” I asked.

  He rose and motioned me to follow. We bid Diana and her mother good night and went to his study, where he dropped into a chair. His brooding filled the room.

  I asked, “Is something amiss?”

  Burjor looked anxious. “Someone attacked you, Captain. What does it mean?”

  “Papa?” Adi said from the door.

  “Come.” Burjor beckoned. “Adi, I think we should close the … inquiry. This feels like a warning. Next time could be worse.”

  Next time? Why did he fear another assault?

  “They could just be thieves,” said Adi. “It might have nothing to do with the case.”

  “Perhaps,” I agreed, “but if your father is right, it means I’ve disturbed someone. There is something to find.”

  “Give it a chance, Papa. Captain Jim’s onto something.”

  Burjor pressed a fist to his lips. “And if he’s killed? We’re responsible, Adi!”

  He was worried about me. Something inside me blossomed.

  I smiled. “Sir, I’ll be all right. Let me get further along. But here’s a question. Is there someone you suspect? Do you have enemies?”

  A look passed between Burjor and Adi that I could not interpret.

  Burjor rumbled, “No, Captain. We have business rivals, of course. But none would do a thing like this.”

  * * *

  I slept a large part of the following day. Recuperating is an irksome business, and one that, after the army hospital, I’d hoped not to undertake again. Yet here I was, sore and unable to find any part of my body that didn’t ache.

  “See, see? See!” Parakeets peeped outside my window, with the murmur of voices in the house below. I remembered Diana’s impish smile, the gurgle of her laughter. And I knew, dash it all, that bold, inquisitive girl was too young for the likes of me.

  Gurung brought lunch, and proved a quiet, competent batman. Fed, bandaged and dressed, I reviewed what I’d learned so far and prepared to meet the defendant. Maneck’s silent defense was not just foolish, it seemed an admission of guilt. First, he claimed not to know his two accomplices at all. When Enty’s testimony placed him in their company, he refused to answer, infuriating the Magistrate. Nor did he account for his torn clothing, his “panting breath” or his whereabouts at the time of the ladies’ deaths. He escaped the noose only because no one saw him accost the Framji women. If he’d talk, I could get my hands on the real murderers and haul them before McIntyre. With time on my hands, I scoured old newspapers for clues about the two accomplices, Behg and Akbar. While I found no mention of them, gradually a picture of the political landscape emerged.

  Three decades after the Sepoy Mutiny of 1857, small kingdoms and principalities were controlled by local nobles, Rajas and Ranis, most of whom accepted a British presence in the form of a British Resident and his household. These states were often mired in unrest. Rajas often married multiple wives, which complicated the matter of succession.

  Some retained feudal practices. Many queens could not speak for themselves, because of the tradition of purdah, or seclusion. They were restricted to a zenana, or harem compound, open only to male relatives. To be seen by another man caused noblewomen to “lose caste.” They waited upon the Raja’s will, losing protection upon his death. An 1830 British law banned suttee, the immolation of widows upon the funeral pyres of their husbands, but it was still practiced in some princedoms.

  A queen’s lot was rather dismal, I thought. Wealth did not keep a woman safer, nor let her set her own course.

  Next, I read about local burglaries, scores of arrests made—Police Superintendent McIntyre had his hands full. All over India, pockets of discontent festered. A recent skirmish was reported in Lahore, which had a large Mohammedan population. Would my old regiment be recalled to duty? Smith might lose his chance to go home. Lahore, I remembered, was where Miss Pilloo was from.

  Late that afternoon, fortified with a stream of delicacies sent from the kitchen, I traversed the balcony to test my strength. My knee throbbed, so I bound it up again. It would do.

  Adi joined me at six. “Right, Captain, what do you need?”

  My list was ready. “A large mirror, some charcoal and money for the trip to Matheran. The rest I have in my rental.”

  He no longer questioned my peculiar demands, but simply recorded the items, reached into his breast pocket for a wallet and handed me some notes. Then, hoisting a flat box from below the window seat, he extracted a Webley revolver, one of a matched pair. This he handed me, butt first. A box of cartridges followed.

  “Something you wanted. I’m sorry it took so long.” His mood darkened and he said, “How I wish you had it before!”

  I grasped the weapon and liked its weight. It broke smoothly and I nocked in the cartridges. Since I’d handed in my service pistol along with my commission, the revolver felt new in my palm. “Haven’t used one of these in a while,” I said.

  “They’re my father’s.” Adi sounded preoccupied. After a moment he asked, “Have you seen Diana today?”

  When he heard I had not, worry creased his forehead. Yanking upon the tapestried bell-pull, he sent someone to find her. The tall bearer brought the news that Diana and her Ayah had taken the carriage out after lunch.

  “Did she say where she was going?” Adi questioned.

  “No, Sahib.”

  Adi’s lips tightened. “She should know better, after all we’ve been through.”

  Where would Diana go? I knew little of her friends and acquaintances. Remembering her determination from the previous day, I searched my papers for the schoolchildren’s testimony.

  I said, “Those children we spoke of. Where do they live?”

  When that particular page could not be found, Adi’s face took on a greyish tinge. “She’s taken it. They live on Grant Road, don’t they? Will you come?”

  I was already dressed. The gap-toothed boy appeared with my army shoes, freshly cleaned. I tucked the revolver into my breast pocket, feeling rather grim. Where the devil have you gone, Miss Diana?

  Adi and I hurried down the back lane and cut across Hanging Gardens. Ancient jambul trees roped with muscular creepers hung over neatly trimmed hedges. Well-dressed residents of Bombay skirted beds of wide-leaved elephant ear and orange spikes of canna.

  “My mother used to meet her friends here,” Adi remarked, as we flagged a victoria and climbed in, “but not since…”

  As he instructed the carriage driver, I spotted a tall fellow in a shiny green coat and matching turban, walking across the road. Just last week, didn’t someone mention a man in an ornate green coat?

  I remembered. Apte the librarian had seen someone in green arguing with Lady Bacha. While such clothing is unusual on a busy street, it seemed common enough in society circles. In a city this size, no doubt, more than one man sported a green coat. And yet a popinjay who’d accost a woman in a library might well be cool enough to parade his finery under our noses.

  “That chap. Green turban. Who is he, d’you know, sir?”

  Adi gazed out of the carriage, then settled back as it picked up speed. “Not sure, Captain. Someone from one of the princely states? They do tend to dress up.”

  We paid off the carriage at Grant Road, a busy market street. On either side merchants touted their wares. Women in sarees and colored burkhas haggled with vendors or wove through the crowds bearing purchases. Each taking one side, we searched the throng.

  Where was Diana? I described her to a fruit seller, who shrugged.

  Adi waved me over from across the road.

  “Yes, Sahib,” said a vendor, deftly hacking the top off a coconut. That blade was as sharp as a razor. He sliced off the bottom with barely a glance at where he struck.

  “Very fine horses, black-and-white carriage,” he agreed, “stopped there.” He gestured at the crossing with his cleaver. “Carriage not movi
ng, big traffic jam some hours ago.”

  I did not trust his estimate of time, but Diana had been here and not returned home.

  Adi pulled out some coins. “Which way did they go?”

  “That way.” The man pocketed the cash, pointed and went back to his trade. Gazing in that direction, I heard the clock tower chime.

  The child witnesses lived on this street. If Diana had learned something of interest, where would it take her? I knew of only one place, close enough that we could hear its bells.

  “The university.”

  Adi set off at a run toward the intersection, where he secured another victoria by the simple expedient of hoisting himself into it. Hampered by my aching knee, I clambered up and we were off.

  CHAPTER 18

  BACK TO THE CLOCK TOWER

  Our cab careened past the university gate toward the library.

  A waterfall of bells sang the half hour as Adi leapt out, leaving me to pay. Diana’s carriage stood just inside the vestibule. She was here.

  My breath came fast, yet I lacked air. Two Framji ladies had died here, and now Diana was in the tower. Limping, I followed Adi as he raced into the tower.

  “Diana!” The dark cavern magnified his cry, his terror a fierce thing as he charged up the curved stairway.

  I heard raised voices echoed from the gallery above. Adi’s, and … praise be … Diana’s. When I reached the gallery and burst through the door, gasping, Diana seemed to be pleading with Adi. They were flanked by the Ayah and Ganju the sais, Adi’s groom.

  Paying her no mind, Adi glared at three youngsters, the oldest a lanky teenage boy.

  “God, Adi, calm down,” Diana hissed. She cast a terse glance at me, a warning shot across my bow. Washed in a tide of relief, I hid my smile. Diana was a bricky girl, all fire and intensity today.

  Despite her efforts to reassure him, the older boy was anxious. Begging Diana’s leave, he shepherded his siblings away.

  She skewered Adi and me with an accusing look. “They were just telling me what they saw. Then you barge in like a herd of elephants, and they’re frightened all over again. Do you know how long it took to get them to come?”