Murder in Old Bombay

by Nev March

  His mother, a young Afghan woman wearing a brown headscarf, creases already etched around her mouth, cast a pleading look at me. She’d only just found her lost boy. What must she think of a pale, haggard bloke that her son called “father”?

  “Razak.” I caught his shoulders, bent to peer into his face. “Stay. They were without you for so long. This is your home, is it not?”

  His mother’s relief rewarded me. Little Razak nodded, crestfallen, as I rubbed his head.

  “What will happen to Parimal and Hari?” he whispered.

  I promised to care for them, adding, “You did well, Razak, son, khuda-hafiz.”

  At this goodbye, his scrawny arms wound about me. Reluctantly releasing me, he stood by his father while we mounted.

  Ranbir and I set off at a walk. Well rested, the Arabian picked her way over rocks and roots down to the wooden bridge. My shoulder eased. I rode, balancing my weight against saddlebags packed with provisions as we stepped downward.

  “Bao-di!” Razak called, from high above, a long note of sorrow. I pulled up, craning my neck at what I could see of the little hamlet. Razak’s tousled head, narrow shoulders showed briefly. I would miss the little general.

  Pathankot was an hour’s ride, a bustling town beside a broken fortress. It spread across a valley, between the Chakki River and its main tributary. One bank of the river rose in sharp folds of grey rock. From this high ground, we crossed a stone bridge toward the city.

  Ranbir stirred, pointing. Pathan soldiers with distinctive large white turbans guarded the crossroads leading into the city. We followed the bustle of carts and foot-worn villagers.

  Most men here carried an old jezail rifle slung over their shoulders. Leather-covered blades hung from their belts. Leading our horses through the crowds, faces muffled in wrappings like other tribesmen, we escaped notice and threaded our way toward the bazaar.

  Ranbir grunted. “What now, Bao-di?”

  “Now we find the troop. Let’s separate and ask questions. Strangers are noticed—say only that we’re seeking our friends.”

  An ironsmith’s forge abutted a stable. We bargained, arranged to feed and water our horses, then followed the unmistakable aroma of roasted lamb to the market. Arranging to rendezvous at the stable, Ranbir set off to ask questions at the market. Hours later, having scouted the narrow byways around the fortress, I returned, weary and empty-handed. Ranbir had found kebabs, bread, yogurt and a host of local tales. We sat cross-legged and ate.

  Ranbir said he’d avoided several Afghan soldiers, then grinned. “These people are very superstitious! That old palace by the river, in the broken fort? They are all afraid of it. They say the zenana, the women’s quarters, is haunted.”

  “Haunted? Why?” I ate a kebab, wondering what use this knowledge might be.

  “An old shoemaker told me the story. Some two hundred years ago a Moghul king tried to capture Pathankot. This town was the stronghold of a Pathan Thakur and his queen the Thakurani.” Ranbir mused, “There are many such tales in these mountains.”

  “Why is it haunted?” I dunked the last kebab into an earthen pot of yogurt and popped it into my mouth.

  “The Thakur died bravely in battle. But the Thakurani would not be taken. Rather than become slaves, she and all her court ladies committed Johur. They jumped from the battlements and died.”

  A shiver ran down my arms. It sounded strangely like the mystery I needed to unravel. Two centuries later, had Lady Bacha and Miss Pilloo faced a similar threat?

  “The old man said their ghosts cry out still.” Ranbir continued, “Their wails are heard on quiet nights.”

  Skeptical, I frowned. “From the zenana?”

  Dusk was upon us as we decided to search the crumbling fortifications on the edge of town. The Gurkha troop might have secured themselves in its maze of corridors and tunnels, but in the dark, how could we find them?

  Ranbir paid the sleepy stableman, who spat sideways on the straw and then untied our horses. I climbed into the saddle and pointed my Arabian to the town outskirts. She walked gently, hooves clip-clopping in the starry night. The market having closed, we wove through a few villagers trudging homeward.

  Night comes quickly in the mountains. The air was crisp and still. Navigating cobbles, long since crumbled, that lay loose and uneven in our path, our horses’ hooves clinked on stone, high notes interspersed with hoofbeats. I winced—could the sentries at the crossroads hear us?

  The fortress loomed, dark and formless. It had been shelled years ago, leaving wide gashes in the wall, a wall that bled piles of stone, great blocks of it slowing our pace.

  The outer fortifications towered on my right. I nudged my horse along the perimeter, trusting her to navigate the rubble. Reins slack, she stepped carefully, dropping her head now and again to sniff at stones. Stopping at a dark hollow, a crevice in the wall, she shook her mane as though to ask, “Are you bloody sure you want to do this?”

  She’d found the way into the fortress, but could we find our way out?

  CHAPTER 40

  THE HAUNTED ZENANA

  Night is not the time to explore unfamiliar terrain, yet it was all we had—my injury had cost us three days. With a nudge of my knees, the Arabian stepped through the broken archway into the fortress courtyard.

  A sliver of moon left the clouds to gleam high above, allowing me a view of vast fortifications. Two turrets loomed at either end of a forward wall, vantage points to pick us off with a bullet. The courtyard offered no shelter between outer and inner walls, a space designed to trap intruders.

  “Bao-di,” said Ranbir, “this is not a good place.”

  An archway to one side led to an inner locus, the zenana or women’s quarters, marked by narrow windows overlooking a courtyard. I hesitated, reluctant to enter a maze of unfamiliar passages, but there was no help for it. We must find Greer’s men and Doctor Aziz. Grateful for moonlight, I searched the shadows for movement. The air was cooler amid the fog and silent stones. Among these walls, one could almost believe in spirits.

  Suddenly a plaintive wail wound through the ruin, creeping over bare stones, chilling in its despair. My breath caught, disbelieving. The Arabian lurched sideways, hooves clattering, a familiar sound, comforting in its normalcy, in contrast to the otherworldly cry.

  The screech faded, leaving an expectant silence. I held tight to the reins, cold creeping over my skin. We should leave this alien place.

  “What is it?” Ranbir whispered.

  My hands soothing my mount, rubbing her twitching withers, I said, “Steady, old girl.”

  There was something peculiar about the torn cry, a familiar quality, despite its eerie resonance. When I nudged the Arabian, she set off at a happy trot. Astonished, I held her back, until I realized that her gait meant something. Could she know that sound?

  Then it struck me. Good Lord—that eerie note came from army bagpipes!

  I loosed the reins, letting the Arabian find it. Ranbir followed, uttering prayers.

  The Arabian sidled to a stairway, her feet dancing, her ears up and alert, eager and high-strung. I dismounted, holding her bridle.

  “Rookoh!” A voice commanded me to stop.

  I stiffened, heard Ranbir’s startled breath and understood. The Sepoys of the Twenty-first Gurkha Rifle Regiment were expert snipers. Only their reluctance to reveal themselves had saved us from a marksman’s bullet.

  Still clinging to the saddle, I whistled two notes every Sepoy would know.

  Someone chuckled. “Mess call,” the quiet voice said in English.

  We had found the troop. I felt giddy with relief. “Righto. Can you play ‘Loch Lomond’ on those pipes?”

  A short Gurkha in khaki uniform stepped out of the shadows a few feet away, smiling. I admit to a warm rush of relief, even ebullience, then. The troop had survived in the fortress for weeks and surely knew every turn of these blasted passages. Their ruse, those ghostly wails, kept away enemy soldiers and townsfolk by night. With thei
r help we might escape this place.

  “I am Seetu. Come,” the Sepoy beckoned.

  Sending an old bagpiper to hide our horses, Seetu led us to their hideaway. Gurkha infantrymen scrambled to their feet and saluted. Exchanging heartfelt greetings, I asked. “Where’s Major Hadley?”

  Seetu replied, somber, “Huzoor, he was shot when our post was overrun. We had to blow up the munitions. I assumed command.”

  “And Doctor Aziz?”

  A thin, bearded man in a soiled grey kaftan and vest came forward, saying, “I am Aziz.”

  At last! I shook his hand gladly as the Gurkhas crowded around us with bright eyes. Seetu distributed our stores among the Sepoys, who consumed them quickly. Huddled together against the cold, we considered different routes of escape. If we left in darkness we’d be at the mercy of the terrain, but waiting for light could bring the enemy.

  A plan was devised. We set sentries and lay down on the cold stone floor. Despite that, sleep came quickly.

  * * *

  Just before daybreak, Ranbir and I set off to the market to buy horses or mules. As we approached the crossroads, leading our horses, I realized that we’d been noticed. A group of Afghan soldiers was pointing at my fine mount. I sighed. There was no help for it but to bluff our way through.

  “Irkav!” the leader commanded in Dari.

  My pulse sped into a staccato. The filly shifted anxiously.

  Just then a high voice called, “Bao-di!” as Razak and his father dropped from their mounts midstride. As they greeted us with the traditional embrace on each shoulder, much to my relief, the soldiers lost interest in the common spectacle of a family reunion.

  “Razak would not rest until he found you,” Razak’s father said. “We watched the crossroads yesterday but you did not return. We have been searching for hours!”

  Their arrival greatly improved our prospects. In a brief negotiation I hired his wagon and horses. The village needed grain and supplies, which they would acquire in Simla. Collecting the Sepoys, we began our return with Razak’s father and some tribesmen as an escort.

  Later, as we prepared for departure, Razak’s shoulders slumped, his mouth a crooked curve of dejection. “Bao-di!” he cried.

  I’d grown fond of this little thief. I remembered his cool composure that first day as he pinned me with my own pistol. His love for Parimal and Hari, caring for them although still a child himself, how he’d wept when we were safe and fed by the Framjis.

  Thin arms went around my waist. I hugged him, caught his shoulders and asked, “Why did you ambush me, that first day? For the food?”

  Abashed, he mumbled, “The baby was crying. We hid and followed you. You had a woman making roti.”

  “Razak, son, why did you take the baby?”

  He blinked. “When I found him, Bao-di, he smiled at me. How could I leave him there?”

  “Little thief.” I grinned at Razak. He was so much more.

  As we left, Razak stood in the road, waving to me and his father, until the rocky path dropped out of sight beside the river.

  That evening, riding beside Doctor Aziz, I got my chance to question him, at last.

  “You were in Lahore some years ago?”

  He nodded, puzzled.

  “I wonder if you recall—you treated a lad called Kasim? Train accident, I believe.”

  “Oh!” His eyebrows shot up. “I remember that. Tragedy, of course. Legs sheared at the knees. Femoral arteries severed. Stemmed the bleeding, but it was too late.”

  “Can you tell me what happened?”

  “I heard a great hue and cry, people calling for a doctor, and went to see. The boy had to be carried to the platform. I was summoned, and found the child bleeding. I stayed with him to the end.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  Doctor Aziz exhaled. “There were two boys at Moga station, Kasim and a friend. After Kasim died, the other said he had nowhere to go. I brought him with me, as a houseboy for my wife, to help around the house.”

  Kasim had been traveling with a friend! “Where is he, your houseboy?”

  The doctor eyed me in surprise. “This is important to you?” When I affirmed it, he said, “I don’t know where he is. He left without a word.”

  “His name? What did he look like?”

  He shrugged. “Sahir? Sabir? A thin youth, morose, always complaining.”

  A thin youth? Wait. Earlier he’d called Kasim a child. But Diana said Kasim was three years older than herself.

  “Kasim and his friend, how old were they, Doctor?”

  He frowned, thinking. “Difficult to say. Kasim was perhaps fourteen? His friend was a young man, perhaps twenty years old.”

  “Which year was this?”

  “It was March of eighty-eight. I was leaving Lahore for a rural posting.”

  Diana was twenty this year, 1892, and she’d been in England four years. That made her sixteen in ’88. She’d said Kasim was three years older than her, so the fourteen-year-old who died could not have been Kasim. Was it possible that Kasim was not dead? Was he a twenty-year-old who faked his death by giving a dead boy his name?

  “Your posting—where was it?”

  “A princedom in the south. You may not have heard of it. Ranjpoot.”

  I stared. Ranjpoot? Here was my connection at last! Kasim went to Ranjpoot with the doctor, and Akbar and Behg were from there.

  We reached Simla at sundown on the second day. I met Greer’s scouts, who spotted our approach, so we had no trouble getting through the lines on Simla Road. At the sentry post Greer’s officers and Sepoys swarmed toward us. Deep shades of evening washed the surreal scene: Gurkhas dismounted, Sepoys everywhere, officers clustered around the short blond form of General Greer.

  Striding toward us, Greer shook my hand, saying, “Good man.”

  All at once the miles descended, my feet were lead, my eyes burned from the ride. I took my leave of Razak’s relatives, raised a hand in farewell to Greer and the Gurkhas and started toward the Framji villa.

  A small tonga pulled up beside me, driven by a young Sepoy with dark skin and flashing teeth who said, “General Greer’s compliments, sir. Climb in. I’m to take you home.”

  CHAPTER 41

  SHEARED

  I’m told I ran a fierce fever that night, cried out and made rather a nuisance of myself. Voices roused me from sleep only to ply me with a bitter draught that tasted like crushed mosquitoes. I drank and dropped into darkness.

  The sound of quick feet running on tile woke me in an unfamiliar bedchamber, a whitewashed affair with teak dressing table and wooden chairs. I’d reached Simla.

  Having left Razak with his kin, only two of my urchins, Parimal and little Hari, remained. Seeing me awake, they padded up, all wide eyes and puckered lips.

  I could no more resist them than cease breathing. They clambered onto my bed, flinging questions every which way. Time slowed. Each moment precious, each sound etched itself on my senses, like rain after a drought.

  “Good morning, Captain,” said Mrs. Framji, forehead ridged with worry. She hovered at the door with Diana.

  I greeted them. To my surprise they entered. Mrs. Framji gestured at my blanket of boys. “Are they … disturbing you?”

  I smiled. “No.”

  Diana shook her head at me, saying, “You gave them the most awful fright. Showing up half-dead. To collapse like that, right at the door!”

  “Ah.” Gurung had answered the door.… I remembered stepping through, then nothing.

  I rubbed a hand over Hari’s soft head, breathing in the warm feel of them, their clean, soapy smell. It burrowed inside me, mending pieces I’d not known were broken.

  “Captain,” said Diana, wincing, “would you rather go to the infirmary?”

  I looked up in surprise. “That bad?”

  She came around to the foot of my bed. “Only if it’s better for you. You seemed so…” She trailed off, sighing.

  “Yes,” I said, “but this is what I need.�
�� I touched a tousled head, saw round eyes and plump arms, faces whose hollows had filled out. “They look well. Thank you.”

  Her voice hushed with excitement, Mrs. Framji said, “Captain, Diana has found their parents.”

  Diana nodded, saying, “You know they’re brothers? Well, when Parimal gave his full name, Parimal Vasant Arora, that’s his father’s name right in there, Vasant Arora. He’s from Jalandhar, so I’ve sent him a telegram. You don’t mind?”

  I breathed, feeling the boys rise and fall with me. “No. Thank you.”

  Alas, the quiet moment did not last. Parimal sneezed and tried to push Hari off me. Hari wriggled, raised a chubby hand and delivered a smack to his brother’s cheek.

  “Buss!” I secured him with an arm about his little body, enveloping his hand to prevent further assault. Although I’d abandoned the lads for a while, Diana had not. Once unrest in the Punjab subsided, perhaps Parimal and Hari could go home.

  As Diana whisked them away, a burden lifted that I’d not known I carried. Before I left Razak, he’d extracted my promise to care for them. It said much about the man he would become.

  I slept most of that day, waking only to take my fill of Mrs. Framji’s superb meals. Whispers from the door alerted me when the boys or Chutki peeked in, but under Diana’s admonishments they let me be. Sleep came in an inexorable wave, deep and dreamless, as it had in Framji Mansion. Perhaps that’s what home felt like, a sense that I might drop the reins, shelter under Burjor’s roof and take what I needed to restore myself.

  * * *

  Next morning the song of a Muezzin’s call to prayer filtered into my dreams. I smelled the crisp tang of mountain pines, the smoke of cooking fires around Razak’s village.

  A musical sound came from the door, a soft jingle of playful bells. Chutki appeared, her tinkling rhythm telling me she no longer limped. Who’d given her anklets? It both surprised and reassured me that she’d been accepted into this household. She peeked in, dimpled a welcome and left before I could voice my surprise.