by Nev March
“Must be Parsee.” I finished for him.
Seeing his surprise, I said, “Your father said so. Last night, after the dance.”
“Did he, by God!” Adi winced and spread his hands. “Diana … you could get hurt.”
I wanted to deny it, but his emotion stopped me. All right, I thought. I’d meet him with as much honesty as he offered me.
“Yes.”
Adi’s eyes widened. He rounded on me. “Captain, why are you so reckless?”
I rocked back on my heels. Reckless? Adi’s emotion did not appear directed at me. His angular body tense, he looked ready to do battle on my behalf. A surge of affection lifted me.
“Comes from being a bastard, I suppose. Tends to make one feel rather, ah, dispensable,” I replied, repaying him with truth.
His breath huffed. “You are not dispensable.”
“Thank you.” I smiled at his outrage.
At that, Adi chuckled. I returned to the desk, thinking the strange conversation over. If I hoped to have him as a brother-in-law, pointing out my lack of parentage was not the way to go about it. As it was, I had no chance, so it could not matter.
Adi wasn’t done. “Captain, I’m serious. You must guard yourself. Against Diana.”
Looking up from the map, I pulled in a breath. “There’s not much choice in it, sir. Your sister, she’s like the sun. When it’s out, there’s sunlight.”
Adi’s face softened.
I placed my fingers on the map. “Now here, I have choices.”
He joined me at the table.
“Kasim worked in a brick factory, here perhaps?” I traced the railway lines to the station. “I think that’s where he died.” I tapped the page. “Here’s the army camp.”
“You’ve been there? Returning from the Frontier?”
“No, we went through Karachi Port.”
Karachi Port. The words brought back sounds and images, disjointed, vivid, swamping my senses. A horse shrieking. Blood on a turbaned face, eyes vicious, pouring hate. My friends in khaki, crumpled in heaps along a narrow street. Dirt scraping my face. Clouds of dust, dense, white. Gunpowder’s sharp reek, choking me. Cannons growling. Walls splintering. Smoke. Fear.
Terror locked hands around my neck. I twisted away from it, blind, reaching for something to hold.
“Captain!” Adi’s shocked voice seemed far away. “Are you all right?”
Breathe. Colonel Sutton’s deep voice reverberated in my head. When reason returned, I found I’d grasped Adi’s arm. He held my shoulders, his worry weaving through his tight grip.
“Captain?”
When I could speak I said, “It was long ago.”
I dropped into a chair, exhausted. Strange. I’d not suffered a single nightmare since Adi hired me. Was it a month already? It was the longest I had not dreamt about Karachi.
CHAPTER 26
MAKING PLANS
Adi said no more about my strange episode, although now and again he glanced at me. Recovered, I worked out the details of my trip, planning how we’d communicate and the like.
“Send a telegram every two days,” he said. “Papa has a business associate in Lahore. We’ll get you a letter of introduction. In case you need help.”
He took out a bundle of notes and counted, saying, “Three hundred rupees?”
It was too much. Surely he owed me less? Before I could reply, Adi folded the notes, pulled forward my lapel and tucked them into my pocket. He grinned like a schoolboy. “That’s for expenses. When I left for England, Papa did just that. Put a wad of cash into my pocket.”
I had no words.
“You’ll need it for bribes,” he said, “one rupee for clerks and such. Ten for officials.”
I’d not considered that. Adi was learning about business from his father.
“Sahib!” Gurung, the gateman, stood at the door. We had not heard his knock.
He handed Adi a note, and touched his forehead to me in greeting. With his slanted eyes and scruffy beard, he resembled Ganju, the other Nepalese Gurkha. That gave me an idea for my visit to Lahore. Thinking of a disguise, I rubbed the stubble on my jaw. Would I have time to grow a beard?
Adi read out the note, his mouth tense. “It’s from Byram. His new man says there are no tickets to Lahore for two weeks. Army has commandeered all trains. Trouble brewing, I wonder?” he said, probably weighing whether my journey warranted the risk.
I considered that. The burglar was my only lead in Bombay, but this mystery started with Kasim, who died in Lahore.
“I’ll go to Lahore, sir. We need to know who’s behind this.”
The requisition of trains meant little—the army moved men and equipment routinely for “strategic positioning.” Once I’d reassured Adi, we sent Byram word to purchase my ticket on the next available train.
I also needed to learn more about our burglar from Ranjpoot. The audacity of his manner at the ball struck me, his confidence that I could not identify him in his finery! What utter gall to strut about like a peacock, bedecked with all manner of jewels. Adi noticed my grim look and said, “What’s the matter?”
“The Rani and her nephew. They came to the dance. The very home he tried to burgle.”
“We had to invite them. Papa leases land in Ranjpoot. Palm trees, you know?”
Seeing that I was mystified, Adi smiled. “Ah, Captain, I know something you don’t. How nice. Palm trees. We make a local beer from the sap. It’s called Toddy.”
“Ah!” Toddy was my staple brew in army days, since my purse did not extend to whiskey.
The burglar from Ranjpoot had tried the house twice already: the attempt I’d forestalled, and perhaps when Diana heard a noise on the roof. If this was the enemy, we’d need more than Burjor’s watchmen in a skirmish, for the princedom of Ranjpoot had its own standing army. I reluctantly decided to seek Superintendent McIntyre’s counsel. No doubt he thought me an upstart, but he held the Framjis in high regard.
In two weeks I’d leave for Lahore. At every turn our foes seemed a step ahead of me. I’d had enough. My plan took shape. Prince Suleiman of Ranjpoot was in Bombay. I’d locate his hotel and follow him.
“Before I leave for Lahore, sir, I’ll be away for a few days. Track down the burglar.”
Adi drew back, displeased. “How will I get word to you?”
“If you need me, send a note to my room behind the bakery on Forgett Street. It’s the warehouse.”
“Right.” Adi pointed at four sacks by the window. “Those are things you asked for. Do you need to take them there?”
We loaded the sacks into the carriage with Gurung’s help, and proceeded to Forgett Street, a short ride from Malabar Hill. Unlocking the rough planked door, I carried two sacks from the carriage onto the mud floor of my rental. I didn’t offer Adi a seat, since none seemed nice enough.
At the far side of the warehouse a window leaned over a tiled area, with water in metal buckets. Upon the brick ledge lay my few luxuries: a bar of soap, tooth powder and my fine English razor. Ignoring Adi, who’d grown quiet, I pulled the sacking away to unwrap a large mirror. It would do very well to craft my disguises. Other jute sacks contained charcoal, salt, white ash, jars of resin, collodion and other materials, which I laid along the wall.
“Captain.” Adi’s voice was pained as he took in the dusty space. In contrast with Framji Mansion, it was a hovel.
“It’s got three exits, sir. I come and go quietly. Rent’s three rupees a week. The baker leaves me a loaf and potato vadas, for when I return late.”
Adi winced. “It won’t do, Captain,” he said. “Why not stay at the house?”
Thinking of Burjor’s sorrowful plea, I went to rinse my hands at the tiled sink.
“Thank you, but this will serve.”
We shook hands and made some parting remarks. As he left, Adi took a slow look around, lips tight, as though to ask, “Is this any way to live?”
* * *
I met McIntyre the following day in the sta
tely building on Hornby Road that housed Bombay’s Constabulary. Loose and airy, my Indian attire—kurta shirt over trousers—was well suited to the April sun and heat.
McIntyre, of course, was starched upright in full uniform, service revolver buttoned into his shiny leather belt. He glared at my unshaven jaw as though I’d delivered a personal affront. I decided to wait before asking for his help.
He glowered, stood up and said, “Join me for lunch.”
Before I could accept, he stalked through hallways, stopping here and there for a word with constables, his remarks cryptic to me but comprehensible to his staff, who cracked salutes left and right. I followed him into a large mess hall, empty in the late morning.
McIntyre called out. “Mess man, two plates. Jaldi! Jaldi!”
His thickly accented Hindustani grated in the quiet hall. The long tables reminded me of army mess halls, places I’d known all my life.
“Counting exits?” McIntyre said, with a smirk.
So the interview had begun. I acknowledged that the Superintendent had reason to resent me. After a very public trial, he’d failed to secure a conviction. Was my investigation a poor reflection on his competence? In hindsight, his concern for my well-being was rather generous. I sent him a brief smile.
His look was strangely kind. “Dragoons. Bombay Regiment?” he said, as an opener.
If I were lunching with a fellow officer, I’d have been glad to get acquainted. However, with danger looming over the Framjis, I felt impatient.
I said, “Sir, that’s not why I’m here.” Ignoring his steely displeasure, I forged ahead. “I need your help.”
His face turning a ruddy pink, he barked out a laugh.
That puzzled me. Had he not asked me to seek his aid? Had he not given me a dire warning should I fail to do so? Or did he just relish seeing me grovel? I pulled out my notebook, flipped to the relevant page and waited.
“All right,” he said, dabbing his lips with a white napkin, “let’s have it.”
“I think this started in Lahore,” I said, and gave him a brief history of the servant boy Kasim, who died trying to return to the Framjis. I ended with, “So I’m going to Lahore to find the connection.”
He nodded. His gaze had not wavered since I began.
I continued. “That burglar got me thinking. He might have been looking for some journal or papers used last year to blackmail the ladies. We searched every corner of the mansion, found nothing. So I’ll go to Lahore. Framji’s Gurkha watchmen can secure the house.” I described Burjor’s new guards, which put our contingent at eleven.
McIntyre frowned. “What’s Framji expecting? A war?”
I drew a slow breath. This was the weakest part of my tale. “I believe we have the identity of the burglar.”
This annoyed him. “You have? Or you believe?”
I shook my head. “I’m not certain.”
McIntyre’s lips tightened. “All right, out with it.”
“Nur Suleiman, nephew of the Rani of Ranjpoot.”
McIntyre glared. “What? The nephew of the Rani? Are you daft, man? Bloke was at Framjis’ party, am I right?”
“Yes.”
“Damn cheek.”
His bland retort did not deceive me. Now he understood why Burjor’s staff would not suffice. I said, “The Rani and her nephew command three native regiments.”
During the long pause that followed, I massaged my aching shoulder. The mess hall was peaceful. Weary and drooping, I waited.
“Hmph. See Jameson on your way out. Know where to find him?”
Jameson, the physician? I barely recalled leaving his care. “No, sir.”
McIntyre directed me with a few lefts and rights, then said, “I don’t understand. What do they want with the Framjis?” He tucked a pipe into his mouth, patted his uniform but found no matches or tobacco on his person.
“I don’t know yet,” I said, “but…” I blinked. A fog swirled through my mind, shapes merged and parted as I reached into it. “This is big. It’s more than the Framjis, than the two ladies’ deaths.” I hoped he would leave it at that.
“Big, hmm?” he asked. “Why d’you think so, eh?”
Bollocks, I thought. Holmes never revealed anything before he was good and ready. I’d have to wade into conjecture, and I wasn’t prepared for it.
I cleared my throat, thinking aloud. “If it was all over when the ladies died, why attack me? Why seek something in the dead of night, just a few days after that? I’m asking questions, and it’s set someone off. Prince Suleiman of Ranjpoot, perhaps. I’m a threat. So there’s more going on.”
“All right. Find some proof.”
“Yes, sir.” I paused. “During the trial, the key witness, Enty, did not identify Akbar and Behg, the two conspirators. Apte, the librarian, didn’t see them either. What led you to them?”
McIntyre tapped his pipe against the edge of the table. “That’s the rub. Enty gave us their names, then withdrew his testimony. Left us with purely circumstantial evidence. Gateman at the university recognized them, placed them in the grounds at the right time. Trouble was, both blighters had an alibi for that afternoon—from the butler at the Ripon Club.”
Bloody hell. Enty had refused to identify Akbar and Behg! As for the butler, that was the very concierge I’d questioned. He was Akbar’s man! No wonder I’d blundered into a trap. Had he set the gang on me on Princess Street?
McIntyre leaned back. “Captain, something you should know. Akbar hails from Ranjpoot.”
I felt a chill. Ranjpoot again. Our burglar, Prince Nur Suleiman, was from Ranjpoot. “You’re certain?”
His thick eyebrows descended. “Bloody sure. I tried the case! He’s related to the Rani. She wouldn’t give him up to face trial.”
“Could Akbar be connected with Ranjpoot’s prince, Nur Suleiman?”
McIntyre glowered, pipe clenched between his teeth. “May be the very man. Akbar’s said to be a tall strapping cove. That’s rare in the south. Matches your description of the burglar.”
I had identified the burglar as Prince Nur Suleiman. Hadn’t the concierge described Akbar as a pehelvan, an athlete? If McIntyre was right, Suleiman could be Akbar himself.
McIntyre asked, “At the dance, did he know who you are?”
“Sir, he could hardly fail to, because of bloody Byram.” I mentioned Byram’s article that described the attempted burglary.
“I’ve read it. Did Akbar know you spotted him? Lock eyes or anything?”
I searched my memory of Diana’s dance. The prince had watched Diana closely, but so had every man. I’d kept my distance, watching him. Had he noticed me?
“No.”
“Good! We have a chance,” McIntyre said with relish. “Now. Miss Framji—where does she go?”
I stiffened. “What do you mean?”
“Where does she shop? What friends does she visit? What, now you don’t trust me?” McIntyre chortled, mocking me with his knowing look. “To put a bloody Havildar about those places, you dolt. I’m to watch over the Framjis. Isn’t that why you’re here?”
“Ah.” I mentioned Diana’s dressmaker on Ripley Street, and her friends, the Petit family.
Our food arrived, and I ate quickly. McIntyre’s silence was not harsh, although he continued to examine me. Did the dratted fellow never blink?
When we’d eaten, he clicked his fingers at the mess man and pointed at our dishes, by which I understood I’d been a guest of the Constabulary for lunch. With a jerk of his head that commanded me to follow, McIntyre stalked out.
I lengthened my stride to keep up. We wound about some corridors and ended in a large chamber smelling of familiar carbolic and medicine.
“Jameson,” McIntyre barked, tilted his head at me and strode off.
My surgeon ambled over with a gratified smile.
We shook hands. “Thank you, sir, for the bandages.”
He took my hand, turned it over and examined the fading bruises on my knuckles.
“Youth!” his cheerful voice boomed. “Best medicine there is.”
He directed me to a chair, where he proceeded to turn my head and press upon my shoulder, clucking under his breath. “You’ll mend, Agnihotri, if you don’t get into any more scrapes.”
He bent and peered into my face.
“Still having nightmares?”
CHAPTER 27
RECKONING
“Captain Jim,” Diana said, standing at Adi’s door, cool and fresh despite the sultry morning.
Folding my notes into Adi’s legal boxes, I rose to my feet. “Morning, Miss.”
Subdued, she handed me some pages and perched on the settee, smoothing her grey riding skirt. She’d revised my notations on Ranjpoot, transcribing them in her cursive hand. Noting her sober manner, I dabbed perspiration off my forehead with a kerchief and sat to read: Ranjpoot’s Rani had no adult heir and must appoint a Regent until her stepson turned eighteen. Like many native rulers, she was negotiating with the Governor of Bombay to approve one. Diana had noted four contenders, including Nur Suleiman, the Rani’s nephew.
“Thank you, Miss.”
The silence should have warned me.
“Captain, would you drop this investigation? I know it goes against the grain, but please.”
I looked up, surprised. She’d been an ardent supporter of my investigation. Now she wanted to end it? Her shoulders cramped and stiff, she looked haunted—by what?
“Good Lord, Miss. Why?”
“I asked Adi to call a halt, to dismiss you,” she said. “No one listens.”
“Dismiss me!”
“Oh yes, be angry, why don’t you? Papa’s upset. Adi’s furious with me. Why not you too?” Diana leaned back on the sofa, her lips mournful.
“Why are they upset?” I asked, puzzled, thinking back to when I’d last seen them. They’d both seemed at ease.
Diana bit her lip. “After the party, the Wadias asked for a khastegari.” She saw my confusion and explained. “It’s a formal meeting to discuss marriage. I refused. It’s too early! I’ve only just come home. Mama agreed with me, so it’s put off for a few weeks. But then Adi blurted it all out. He’s so ridiculously honest! He told Papa, about … yesterday. Papa said to me, ‘Leave the Captain alone and let him do his job.’ He’s never spoken to me like that before.”
