by Nev March
In my guest chamber, a set of new evening clothes lay upon the bed. Shirt, tie, black dining jacket, white vest and dark trousers. Adi’s man was summoned to dress me.
“A shave first, I think,” said Adi to the tall bearer.
Seated before the floor lamp, I pointed to my upper lip. “Right, let’s have it off.”
Catching Adi’s nod, he tsked over my battered face and trimmed away my military whiskers. When he handed me the mirror, I saw that the effect was not displeasing. Some purple bruising remained along my temple and jaw. Clean-shaven for the first time in my adult life, I looked far younger than I felt.
As I dressed, Adi apprised me of events. The prospect of dinner improved when I learned that my friend Major Smith and some of my old regiment had been invited. Besides Byram and McIntyre, the guests included three Ministry coves I did not know.
Smith arrived in fine fettle, his ruddy complexion flushed and beaming. Two friends from the regiment accompanied him, and as I feared, they had a score to settle with me on account of the fuss in the papers. Almost immediately, Smith began to recount tales from my military tenure. Thankfully, Diana and her mother were seated at the opposite end of the table, where I hoped they would neither hear nor understand Smith’s less appropriate remarks.
Egged on by Byram, who promised to print none of it without my say-so, Smith chortled, “What about the time Jim was almost court-martialed?”
I choked on my drink, recovered and asked, “Have I harmed you in some way, Major? Do you have some reason to dislike me?”
The fellows guffawed their approval.
“Did it have to do with a woman?” inquired Diana, oh so prim, far down the table.
“Miss!” I protested, “Have a care for my reputation!”
“Of course, Captain,” she said demurely.
I looked to Adi for assistance and knew right away it was hopeless. Dash it, he was as eager to roast me as my friend the Major.
“Court-martial? What for?” asked McIntyre, knocking back his third or fourth whiskey—expensive whiskey, for Burjor had good taste in liquor.
“Sir, in present company, it’s not a tale I’d care to repeat,” I said, but it was no good.
“I’ll tell you,” said the Major, happily in his cups. “Had to do with a dhobi—a laundryman. The dhobi was found dead, right by the barracks.”
“Oh!” said Mrs. Framji, utterly confused.
“In the middle of camp, Madam,” Smith explained. “Well, the old cove having died, his people came and took the body, cremated it and that was that.” He grinned, stabbing his finger in my direction. “Except this chap wouldn’t let it go. Kept asking questions. ‘Here’s the washerman, where are the clothes? He’s either bringing clean clothes, or taking dirty clothes away.’”
I winced, Smith’s cavalier manner grating on my nerves. He seemed to forget that a genial old chap was murdered. My face carefully neutral, I wondered, was I that crass?
“And no one can find the clothes!” Smith ended, laughing.
McIntyre glowered, “And the court-martial?”
“Oh!” said Smith, “Jim here went up to a Subedar. Demanded an explanation. Right to his face! Caused a huge to-do, almost came to blows!”
I groaned. “Major, it was an inquiry, not a court-martial.”
“Well, you weren’t going to tell it,” he said.
I addressed Burjor at the head of the table. “Sir, the Subedar flaunted his loot. I simply called him out.”
“And you just a lowly Sepoy!” grinned Smith.
I hurried to explain, before Smith did more damage. “The evidence was found in his quarters. He admitted it—he’d struck the dhobi, killed him for clothes that didn’t even fit.”
My outrage for the poor washerman had nearly ended my military career. Fortunately Colonel Sutton believed me and had the barracks searched in short order. If he hadn’t, I’d have faced dishonorable discharge for maligning an officer.
Adi smiled. “Captain, you mentioned it at our first meeting.”
Major Smith wasn’t done yet. Eager to launch into another story, he announced, “And this chap saved my life … twice!” He waved his hands in a magician’s flourish.
“If so, I made a mistake, twice,” I muttered.
The company erupted into laughter. Across the table Diana caught my eye and raised a glass. God, she was beautiful.
Fortunately, after dinner Smith and his comrades elected to leave, to “put the old chap to bed,” as his friend murmured, saying goodnight. When the ladies departed, the men moved to the smoking room. The Ministry gentlemen, Adi and I sat around Burjor and Byram and the talk turned somber.
Byram said, “I’ve heard rumors of ships carrying human cargo. Any truth to it?”
“It’s the slave trade,” said the Ministry man. “Possibly from the princely states. They ship ’em through British ports and we’re to blame!”
“Which states, sir? Alwar, or Jhansi?” I’d read about them that very morning. “Can the army help?”
“Who knows, Captain? We can’t send in troops, not without provocation.” He looked keenly at me. “Political, are you?”
“No sir.” I declined the compliment, reaching at an elusive train of thought. “The slavers, where do they go?”
“Indentured labor goes to Guyana and Suriname, we’re told. Sugar plantations, hm?”
At the Ripon Club I’d overheard talk of disappearances. Now the Ministry chap spoke of ships carrying slaves as labor to Guyana. Of course, Bombay boasted a huge port. Dockyards and shipyards occupied a large portion of the city, with two more docks added recently.
Letting the conversation drift over me, I reflected on my two remaining leads. Maneck implied that the Framjis had harmed a servant named Kasim. “Ask them about Kasim,” he’d said, throwing the words at me like a knife. I’d talk to Burjor about this—the fellow might be seeking revenge. And that witness, Francis Enty, who’d lied about his wife’s whereabouts. It rankled that he’d got that past me. What else had he lied about?
CHAPTER 22
MISS PILLOO’S LETTERS
My test came at the end of the evening, when only Chief McIntyre and my employers remained in the smoking room.
“Superintendent McIntyre wants a word,” said Adi.
Since I’d left for Matheran right after my scuffle with the burglar, I surmised he wanted to ask about it. This was the second time in a week I’d face the brunt of his attention. I did not relish the prospect.
“Shall we?” said McIntyre, plunking his weight into a wingback chair. He motioned me to a chair before him and unfolded a sheet of paper.
I sat, waited.
His voice dry, McIntyre asked, “D’you want a job with the police, young man?”
Was he being sarcastic? Seeing my astonishment, he cracked a smile.
I wanted to look to Adi, but knew that would be a mistake. It was exactly what McIntyre wanted to discover: what was I doing at Framji Mansion?
Evading the question, I said, “At present, sir, I’m not much good for anything.” I indicated my shoulder with a wince.
His look held more understanding than I expected. The evening’s five shots of whiskey? Either he was a better actor than most, or handled his liquor rather well. He’d seen me return earlier, and I hoped he would not ask where I’d been. Adi wanted to keep my investigation private. So why does an injured man take off to recuperate at a hill station and return right away? I had no reasonable explanation.
Another volley came soon enough. “What did you do, afterwards?”
“After … confronting the burglar?” I caught his nod and paused. “Fell asleep, sir. On Miss Diana’s couch.”
“Hm.” His gaze was unnerving.
I held my breath, wishing I had not mentioned Diana.
“And was she there? In the room?” His eyes bored through me.
Was he asking whether I’d spent the night in a bedchamber with Diana? The question alone seemed an impertinence. Was
the Superintendent baiting me?
I shrugged, rubbing my shoulder. “Wouldn’t know, sir. Expect not.”
“So who bound you up, hmm? Bandages?” McIntyre grinned, enjoying himself.
I grimaced, having puzzled about that too. Who had, in fact, bandaged my hands and put that herb on my bruises? “Not a clue. Clean out.”
He lost patience quite abruptly. “What are you doing here, Captain?”
I said, “Recuperating? Ah—”
Adi cut me off. “He works for me. To find out why my wife and sister died.”
In the long pause that followed, the police chief scratched his head and scowled at me. “You couldn’t just say that?”
“Not my prerogative,” I replied.
McIntyre had had enough. Flicking at his report, he read through the events of that night as recorded by Burjor. I confirmed each point and answered questions without ado.
“I came by, that night,” he said, tucking away the folded page, “while you lay unconscious. Brought Jameson with me—you know him? He confirmed you were breathing, else we’d need a coroner. Bound you up. Again.”
I stiffened, having suffered my fair share of dressing-downs in my day.
“This is twice, Mr. Agnihotri, you’ve taken a beating.”
It was deliberate, his use of my name as a civilian, pointing out that I wasn’t in the army now. Pointing out to the Framjis that I was vulnerable, and they should not expect so much from me. It stung. I went to parade rest, face immobile.
“Ah, that gets to you.” He nodded, leaning forward. “Come to me! To the police, next time,” he said, grim, “or I will need a coroner.”
It was a warning, delivered as tight as they come.
“Yes, sir.” The darn thing was, I didn’t know my foes. I knew nothing about them.
“You have a weapon?” His gaze pressed down on me.
I swallowed and nodded.
Adi spoke up, “A Webley revolver. One of a pair. I have the other.”
“Know how to use it?” McIntyre asked me.
He knew I’d spent twelve years in the army, damn him. “Yes.”
“Right.” He got to his feet, and stuck out his hand.
I scrambled up to take it and flinched under his grip, my knuckles still bruised.
He narrowed his eyes at me. “Jameson said you questioned him not ten minutes after you came to. Dash it, man. When you’re done here, I could use you. If you want that job, come and get it,” he said, and dropped my hand.
Released from the weight of his scrutiny, I felt relieved as he left. Once my investigation was done, I’d consider his offer. But I wasn’t done, not even close. Soon I would have to tell McIntyre my suspicions about Enty’s missing wife. Where was my proof? Where the devil had I put that incriminating letter? It would help if I knew where she was now.
Once Burjor and the Chief were safely away, I slumped onto the settee and groaned.
“I thought you did rather well,” said Adi cheerfully.
“Had an officer like him, Colonel Sutton,” I said, eyes closed against the light. “Couldn’t get a thing by him either.”
On his return, I looked up to see Adi’s father glance down at me. “Captain, all right?”
“Of course,” I said. “It’s nothing.”
He scoffed at that, then sobered. “That night you said the thief was searching for something. Do you know what it is?”
“Not yet, sir,” I admitted with regret, straightening up. Burjor’s frustration was growing stronger, and his enemies bolder. I was running out of time.
I said, “It’s troubled me that the burglar knew to try the second floor. He knew the chamber was on the side of the house. Yet he didn’t know which room. Someone has told him about this house. Someone who knows it well.”
Burjor broke the grim silence. “We’ll search each room.”
I decided not to mention the servant boy Kasim until I could get Burjor alone. First, this home must be made secure. I said, “Sir, Miss Diana heard something on the roof. Someone could have been here before. How can we prevent them from trying again?”
Now my host was on firm ground, apprising me of changes he’d made. A new police perimeter was set around Malabar Hill, with a watchman at the bottom of the rear lane. A telephone would be installed, whereby he could summon constables if the need arose. He had also hired six retired Sepoys to escort the family and secure the house, reporting to me.
Good news, although it meant I would need to divide my time to supervise the new staff.
“Hullo.” Diana strolled into the smoking room wearing a purple dressing gown with the expensive sheen of silk, embroidered with swirling dragons. Carrying a pear in one hand, she curled up on a chair between Adi and me.
“I heard your voices. What’s happened?” she asked and took a bite.
Adi chuckled, reached out and rubbed her head. She twisted away and frowned at him. I watched their interplay and wished again for a sibling. The lads in my company had been my brothers, but this easy camaraderie, this freedom to reach out and touch! Diana’s curls tumbled in abandon. I pulled away from that dangerous terrain.
Diana asked, “Captain, you know about the dance?”
“In two weeks? I heard.”
“Everyone will be there,” she said, relishing both the fruit and the prospect of a ball, “our friends and much of high society. Including a Rani and two princes.”
I turned to Burjor, surprised.
“Yes, Diana reminded us that … well, it’s time we begin to entertain again,” he said, glancing at Adi. Bombay society would be intensely curious about Adi. Was he up to it?
My client nodded, his face composed.
So the period of mourning had ended. Diana’s father had hired a small army while I was away and set up swift communication with the police chief. Now he was addressing Diana’s second complaint with a grand party. Thus had Burjor secured his place in their affection, giving his children as much diligence as his most complex business affairs.
If I could have a pater, I’d imagined one like Doctor Jameson, brusque yet keen in his care, or Enty, the clerk who spoke to his children with firm tenderness. Burjor was both and more to his offspring. Since I liked both young people well, I felt a deep satisfaction at these familial riches.
Watching Diana take tiny bites from the pear, I recalled her disappearance in search of the child witnesses.
“Miss Diana,” I asked, “what did you learn from the children at Grant Road?”
She straightened, holding the fruit with the tips of her fingers. “You remembered. All right.” Licking her lips, she began, “There are three children in the Tambey family—you saw them with me at the clock tower. The youngest is just five. The oldest twelve. They had little to say, but the middle child, a girl, well! She noticed Pilloo and Bacha often at the university. Her brother is a messenger boy, and the younger two play on the lawn when he’s running errands.”
She noticed our keen interest. “Gentlemen, I could get accustomed to all this attention,” she said, teasing, taking another bite. Writing quickly in my notebook, I suppressed a smile, for Diana would have no dearth of men, young or old, hanging on every word. When I was done, she resumed, listing facts in a succinct, lawyerly manner that reminded me of Adi.
“Two events are important. One: some weeks before the tragedy at the clock tower, the girl saw Pilloo and Bacha meet Maneck by the jambul tree near the library. Bacha went inside, leaving Maneck with Pilloo. He departed after Bacha returned. The two girls had words—Bacha was angry and Pilloo wept.
“Second, she saw Maneck on the day of the tragedy. He went into the clock tower alone, and there was a ruckus. Voices raised and so on. The children were afraid, so they ran back to the lawn. They saw the quarrel on the first-floor balcony near the reading room—not the gallery, mind—someone holding Maneck by the collar, shaking him.”
“She was sure it was Maneck?” I asked.
“Yes.” Her voice was definite. “
Her brother sometimes ran errands for Maneck, messages and such. That altercation upset the girl, so they left and did not see … the tragedy.”
Incredible. An eyewitness that the police had ignored, and a perfectly lucid account. I wrote quickly, fountain pen blotting in my haste. “How old is the girl?”
“She’s ten. Spoke excellent Gujarati.”
“Well done, Miss.” I smiled at Diana. This intelligence was priceless. The police would not consider a minor a reliable witness, but it provided a useful picture of events. The child had given Diana far more than she’d told the police. I’d not have got half as much.
Delicate color blossomed on Diana’s cheeks. She acknowledged the compliment with a tilt of her head.
Seeing Burjor glance at the grandfather clock, I said, “Miss, before you leave, about Miss Pilloo’s letters. She thanked you for your advice. What was it, the advice?”
Pilloo’s letters told me she empathized with one Miss Fanny Price, apparently a poor relation in a great house like this one. However, her last letter, apparently dashed off in desperation, alluded to some advice from Diana.
Diana caught my eye. “Oh! It was … personal.” She shot me a look that I took to mean “Not now, with Father in the room.”
But I could not have that. My employers deserved better.
“Now Miss, if you please,” I said. “I’m certain Lady Bacha was being blackmailed. What had Miss Pilloo done?”
“Drat!” Diana slumped into her chair.
I had utterly disappointed her. But the thread of the mystery wrapped about my fist, and I could not let go. I recalled my notes. “The librarian Apte witnessed a quarrel between a man in green and Lady Bacha in the reading room. Now according to the child, Miss Pilloo and Maneck waited outside, so perhaps Maneck had brought them … to meet the bloke in green?
“Lady Bacha left the library upset and angry. She confronted Miss Pilloo—something so urgent it could not wait for later. Miss Pilloo wept, so it was, perhaps, something she had done.”
I turned to Diana. “You kept one letter, didn’t you? And burned it? What did the ladies quarrel about?”
Diana scowled at me, her expression approaching dislike.
