by Nev March
As I left Framji Mansion that night, my footsteps crunched into the stillness. The scent of jasmine brought the weight of nostalgia. I’d not yet left, and already I felt homesick.
“Captain!” a voice called behind me.
Diana. I swung around.
She dashed down the stairs, skirts fisted in her hands. She’d go to Simla soon, and be away for three months. When next we met she could be engaged to someone else. Yet I had a job to do in Lahore, and wishing would not change it. Did she truly care for me? Could we have a future together? Diana stopped a few feet away, eyes gleaming.
When I said nothing, she burst out, “I know who complained about you to the Governor.”
“Do you, now.”
“At the Petits last night, I saw Superintendent McIntyre go over to the Governor’s secretary. Pandey, I think he’s called. So I followed him. They went out to the verandah, so I … I stood by the window and listened. McIntyre mentioned you. He asked, ‘Who was it that drew the Governor’s attention to this?’ And Pandey said, ‘Oh, that clerk, Francis Enty, of Lloyd’s. His lordship banks there. Enty asked why we’re still investigating after the case ended months ago.’”
Enty! I pieced it together. “Enty might know I have his letter. He lied about his wife being in Poona.”
“Good heavens. Why?”
“Don’t know. McIntyre said he withdrew his testimony the very next day. Refused to identify Akbar and Behg, so McIntyre couldn’t place them at the scene. It ruined his case.”
That was my missing link. Why had Enty refused to identify Akbar and Behg? Could they have abducted the missing Mrs. Enty? Had they held her this long? If so, months after the trial, Prince Suleiman, alias Akbar, still compelled Enty to silence—but how? I’d followed Suleiman for days and seen no contact between them.
I thought of Diana in her evening gown, snooping on government business.
“Miss Diana,” I said slowly, “you cannot do this. Listening around corners and such.” When she began to protest, I cut her off. “I understand why you did, but please.”
“All right,” she said. “Captain, I can’t get used to this new appearance.”
Simla was full of dashing young men. I wanted to tell her to wait, not rush into something she might regret. But what was within me would take longer to say than this stolen moment, and I would not speak the words dressed in another man’s clothes.
Diana’s fingers knotted at her waist. “Don’t change … who you are,” she said softly.
What was she afraid of? “Hm?”
Indigo shadows played across her cheeks. “Don’t let the disguise become you.”
Surprised, I said, “It’s just clothes.”
“It’s not.” Her voice wobbled. “You sounded different when you spoke to Ganju. Like someone … crude and harsh.”
The accuracy of that made me pause. It was who I had to be now, a surly Pathan seeking his long-lost brother Kasim. I would wear brusqueness to fend off unwanted questions, retreating into Rashid or my memory of him, so he would not disappear, not entirely. Would it change me? The question sat sharp-edged in my gut. Trust Diana to know where the real threat lay.
“Shhh.” I reached for those slender hands and took them in my own. Despite the warm air, her fingers were cold. “I’ll be here when you return from Simla.”
Would I return? The north bubbled with unrest, and a storm was brewing in the Punjab. I hoped to get in and out, with my answers, before it broke.
Diana was still. Did she know what I was thinking?
“See that you are.” She squeezed my hand, pulled away and hurried back to the house.
I watched until she waved from the top stair. She was still standing at the great door when I stepped through the gate.
CHAPTER 29
AWAY TO LAHORE
Huddled in a third-class carriage as my train rumbled across the plains, I considered what I knew of Lahore. Once a walled city in eastern Punjab province, it had long since spilled past the fort to sprawl over a wide tract along the river. Now a two-day train ride north of Bombay, it was a key military supply post, the central point between Delhi and the untamed Frontier.
I’d already learned that my gaze was too mild. It invited conversation and I wanted none. By adopting a scowl, I rebuffed most fellow travelers’ attempts to draw me out. Despite this, a Babu—a minor official in a dark jacket that bulged about his middle—took a liking to me. Curious, his gaze lingered upon me, but he did not cause me much concern. Since many Pathans were light-skinned, my color was unlikely to give me away.
When I fell asleep things went awry. Perhaps the smell of the Punjab, sweat, warm hay and horse manure, filtered into my dream. Metallic clanking from the carriage ahead brought memories of army ordnance and munitions. Perhaps the jolting passage over a bridge or a screeching halt at a station misled me, for my mind was back in Karachi.
I felt pain, but could not tell where I hurt. My nightmare twisted around me and tightened, the hammer of wheels joining the pounding in my head. A bloodied face came at me, straining. I froze, grabbed and held him off.
I awoke to a pair of terrified eyes inches away. It was daylight, and the carriage was in an uproar as several travelers strove to restrain me. Wrinkles radiated down the face of the man I held against the wall of the carriage. Stunned, I pulled my forearm back from his throat. My hand unclenched, releasing his clothes. I slumped into my seat and stared at the fellow I’d assaulted—an old man with thin white whiskers. He doubled over, his turban tumbling to the floor.
What had I done? The faces around me evaded my gaze or met it with suspicion. What had I called out? Had I spoken in English? What of the poor wretch I’d almost strangled? Someone handed the old man his turban.
“Shama karo,” I gasped in apology. Weary and woolly-headed, I leaned back against the seat. Someone offered me a tin cup of water. I took it gratefully, spilled some and drank.
“Fauji hai.” (He’s a soldier.) My fellow travelers had decided I was a Pathan soldier, going home on sick leave.
“What happened?” someone asked in the Punjabi dialect.
The Babu, a clerk or accountant perhaps, appointed himself to answer on my behalf. “This one”—he pointed to the old man huddled across from me—“fell on him. Woke him.”
I ignored the puzzled murmurs.
“Bhayah” (brother), he said to me, “you should see a doctor.”
He proceeded to list a slew of remedies for various ailments. Ignoring him, I resolved to remain awake for the rest of my journey. I’d almost given myself away. Strange that I did not dream in Adi’s home, not once, despite my skirmish in the dark. I felt safe there, clear in my role and my task.
The Babu assured me I would be all right, beaming like a proud mother. I winced at the old man, ashamed to have handled him roughly. Deep creases in his face, he nodded patiently.
* * *
The travelers grew friendly over the next two days, a camaraderie thrust upon them by hours and proximity, but I remained silent, shaking my head when questioned, brushing off sympathetic looks.
We reached Lahore at dusk. The carriage emptied, passengers erupting from their cramped quarters. I hoisted my sack from the floor and slung it over a shoulder, my right arm sore, despite Jameson’s assurances. As I dropped from the train to the concrete three feet below, my knee protested that foolhardy decision.
Across the deserted platform, a weak lamp glowed by a small brick building where the call of crickets swelled. Only the Babu and his ingratiating smile remained.
“Bhayah,” the round little man addressed me, and made a motion to carry my sack.
I shook my head, thanked him briefly and limped away to find a rickshaw. But I hadn’t considered the hospitality innate in my compatriot. Had I approached him in his official capacity, he’d no doubt squeeze a hard bargain in bribes. But confronted with a lonely, broken soldier, he did not just offer assistance, he insisted upon it.
In my pocket was Burjor�
��s letter of introduction to the Talukdar, tax collector of Lahore. I did not expect to use it. Instead I’d find the brick factory where Kasim had lived and worked, and discover who might want to avenge him. I pulled out a crumpled scrap on which I’d written Kasim’s address.
“My brother,” I said, pointing at the scrawl.
The Babu took the paper with relish, thinking me an illiterate fellow, and said he would accompany me. At the next intersection, a mule-drawn tonga stood under a gaslight.
While I had a comfortable command of the northern dialects, it behooved me to say little, to avoid detection. My lack of local knowledge would expose me. So, resolved to play the stranger, I boarded the tonga with my cheerful companion to rattle over murky, cobbled streets.
The Babu proved a helpful, if garrulous chap. That suited me well. Crowded beside me in the cart, he spoke about the planting season, his village (someplace called Awal), and assured me that he knew all the “big people” of this town. As intelligence it was scattered and random, but might be useful. I pretended not to listen. Since he was evidently content with this arrangement, we proceeded in agreement. Bare, narrow streets gave way to a cluster of light, a bazaar in the distance.
The smokestacks of the brick factory, squat against the sky, blocked out a swath of stars. Seeing a glimmer ahead, we slowed and disembarked before a cluster of low-thatched houses lit with kerosene lanterns. The night had cooled. Marching ahead, the Babu addressed two men who lounged on a charpoy bed in the courtyard. I limped along behind him, with an aching knee that I did not have to feign.
“Kasim’s brother?” the older man said.
The younger one, evidently his son, with the same bushy eyebrows and beard, said, “Kasim is dead.”
I stopped where I stood, for all three turned to stare at me. “Dead?”
The older man approached and gave me a brief history. “Yes, Janab, Kasim did work here. A hardworking youth. Some years ago, he died in a train accident.”
The son brought a dozen or so dark-clothed men and women in shawls, who formed a circle around us. I felt oddly distant, playing a man learning of his brother’s death.
I’d paused too long after the man finished speaking. Some of the group moved restlessly while the rest looked on. I questioned the older man. “Where did he die?”
He conferred with those around him and said, “Janab, he died at Moga station, on the way to Bombay.”
A frisson of surprise flickered in me. “Was anyone with him? You? Anyone here?”
A sorrowful whisper rose from the perimeter. The older man shook his head.
“Did anyone see his body?”
The balding Babu patted my arm, since I still denied the fact of my loss.
The older man answered with reluctance, “No, Janab, he fell under a train.”
Had hapless Kasim, desperate to cross the tracks and catch his train, bled to death from his injuries? I dropped my head and searched for my next question. The group waited, their courtesy no less kind for all its rough simplicity.
“How did you hear of it?”
“A telegram.” The older man did not recall any more about it.
“Did he have friends?” I used the Punjabi word for companions.
“All of us,” the man said, spreading his hands.
These brickmakers and workmen had known Kasim, and perhaps liked him. It was time to leave, before they began to ask questions. I nodded, placed my hand upon my heart in a gesture of thanks, hefted my sack and began to walk away.
I’d taken a few steps when a voice called out, “Janab!”
Perhaps I made a solitary figure, standing outside the circle, but this seemed my natural place, the wanderer, the man over whom they would puzzle tomorrow.
The older man approached. “My mother says a doctor tended Kasim.”
I drew a slow breath. “Does she remember anything else?”
My question was relayed to an old woman. I trudged over, bent to her and waited.
A small, shriveled face peered out from layers of cloth. A bony hand extended from her shawl, and her dry voice warbled, “Janab, during the tragedy, Doctor Aziz took care of Kasim.”
“Maji, how do you know?”
“Why, Doctor Aziz told us Kasim is dead. He sent us the telegram!”
“Where is Doctor Aziz now?”
No one knew, but they would not have me leave. “At least take a cup of tea, Janab!”
While I hesitated, the Babu accepted eagerly, and launched into a description of my fracas on the train. A born raconteur, he knew the value of a good tale. This did not overly concern me. My guise held, so if the Babu chose to use our acquaintance for a story, what of it?
Sitting on a charpoy, I accepted a steaming cup of tea and asked, “Why did Kasim leave? Was he not content?”
The older man grimaced, spreading his hands. “Janab, he did not like it here. We are plain folk. Kasim could read! He wanted to be a great man. So he left for Bombay.”
The group became more talkative, asking about Kasim’s (and my) parents. I described the epidemic in which Kasim’s parents perished, and the conversation eddied and drifted. These simple folk could tell me no more.
It was late but I dared not sleep here. I might call out in my sleep and give myself away. A short while later, I thanked them and the surprised Babu, and left.
CHAPTER 30
UNEXPECTED EVENTS
That night I walked dark lanes, toward the bazaar lights in the distance. Lahore was unknown to me, one street much the same as another. My stomach rumbled. I’d not eaten much during the journey, and now the aroma of grilled meat beckoned. Hampered by my stiff knee, I trudged toward it.
Tomorrow I would visit the train station, cable Adi about my progress and seek the whereabouts of Doctor Aziz. This decided, I turned into a bustling street.
The raucous bazaar smelled enticing, with food prepared in little carts all around. Other vendors squatted on their haunches with baskets of fruit, bread or meat. Lit by flickering lanterns, a turbaned Pathan rotated a hunk of beef over a wood fire.
I pointed at the meat, bought some and crouched beside the road to devour slivers of carved meat in a thick disk of naan bread. From this vantage I observed the street. When a fruit seller passed, I bought apples. Next, a boy tried to sell me cheese. Had I not seen a thousand such lean, spry urchins, as willing to ply their wares as to run off with one’s purse? When he would not leave, I bought a small cloth-wrapped lump and sent him away.
Diana would not approve of my ill temper. She’d be fascinated by this street, with its smoky lamps that yellowed passersby and sent shadows dancing on the cobbles.
Pockets of young men laughed together. Families clustered, the children all but tripping burkha-clad women by running underfoot. A husband stalked ahead, a small boy abreast, while his wife and another child trailed behind, sharing sweetmeats. Babies, swaddled in homemade blankets. A boy in a smart vest and kurta proudly bore a large kite, followed by his protesting younger brother. No one walked alone. When I tired of this pageantry I crossed a bridge to a quieter street.
Here, pairs of turbaned men leaned against mud and brick walls. They watched me, a solitary stranger, with suspicion. Seeking a safe place to sleep, I plodded along the riverbank.
A large man is, in my experience, generally left alone. Carrying a plain sack and dressed in ordinary garb, I had little cause for concern. Yet I feared to sleep for two reasons: thieves grow bolder when their prey slumbers, and my outburst on the train warned me about my somewhat unsteady frame of mind. Were I to call out in English in my sleep, no guise would protect me. Although the British administered Punjab province, that was still fairly recent, and strangers were not welcome.
Finding a nook under a bridge unoccupied, I ducked into it and waited, my hand curled around the butt of Adi’s revolver. As birds rooked and flapped somewhere above, I listened for a footfall, but none came.
A small dinghy moored under the bridge offered shelter, so I pull
ed it close, peeled back the cloth covering and found it empty. Its boards smelled of rotting fish and river kelp, but I climbed in and stretched out in the small space. Pushing off into the shallows with an oar, I felt content. If anyone should approach, the splash of water would warn me. With that comforting thought, I drifted off.
* * *
While I slumbered, Lahore burned. I woke, choking on the acrid stench of smoke. I was trapped. Karachi. Panic rising, I felt cloth above me. Some perverse breeze had wrapped the blanket close over the dinghy, and for a few awful moments I struggled to escape. The air was thick and stale. I gasped and choked as remnants of sleep scattered. Rubbing eyes that itched and burned, I remembered where I was, not in Karachi, but Lahore.
A haze of smoke screened the distant shore. Fire? What had happened last night? I waded to the nearest bank, plunked down on its slope and tugged off my boots. As I drained water from them and squeezed out my baggy pants, footsteps and voices sounded on the bridge above.
I climbed the embankment and saw a stream of bedraggled people hurrying over the bridge, their possessions slung in bundles or piled upon their heads. Women carried infants, an arm or leg dangling from a cloth sling. They pushed ahead, stark worry and alarm in their faces.
“What’s happened?” I asked a man.
“Pathans are coming! Pakhtuns!” he snarled, hurrying on.
This alarmed me. Pakhtun—soldiers? Were they not an independent princely state, an Afghan tribe in the northern mountains? If they were here, Lahore might soon be under siege as the British vied for control of the city.
Bollocks. I was on a battle line again. I had to get back to Adi.
I asked an old man hunched at the crossroad, “Janab, which way to the station?”
Eyes dull, he pointed to a deserted street.
The station house was silent. I crossed the platform and tried each door without success. Around back, where the single lantern hung last night, someone peered through the slats of a window.
