by Nev March
McIntyre frowned. “Why?”
“I went to Ranjpoot to investigate the Framji ladies’ murder. You recollect that two individuals, Akbar and Behg, were accused, but acquitted for lack of evidence. Having identified Akbar as the prince of Ranjpoot, I followed him there, and found Behg, who sports a snake tattoo upon his wrist. Akbar called him by the name Kasim. So I followed Kasim to ascertain his movements.”
McIntyre looked skeptical. “You met both men in Ranjpoot? Are we to believe you escaped detection?”
“I was dressed as a shortsighted missionary, sir.”
McIntyre gave a bark of laughter. Not a shining moment for me.
Yet impersonating Father Thomas had worked. I continued. “Upon his return to Bombay, Kasim frequented an address at Twenty-one Dockyard Road. I followed him to Sassoon Dock, where I took up station for twelve days.”
“And escaped notice again? Didn’t they spot the old friar sitting there, day after day?”
“Er, this time I dressed as a mendicant, sir. Overheard sailors from SS Vahid Cruiser mention cattle to be sold in British Guyana, and the size of the bounty expected from the sale.”
“Were cattle loaded onto the ship?”
“No, sir.”
McIntyre paused to let the Magistrates absorb that. “No cattle were loaded. Captain, you watched, dressed as a beggar, identified the ship, its cargo and this individual?”
When I confirmed that, McIntyre announced, “The cargo on board this ship, the evidence before the court, is a hundred and thirty-one men and women of various backgrounds, most illiterate, abducted from as far away as Bengal. These persons were rescued from SS Vahid Cruiser, where the prisoner, Kasim Khwan, was arrested, having taken part in a scuffle with this officer, Captain Agnihotri. In that action, the girl Chutki was killed.”
He signaled me to resume my seat. I did so, checking to see how Adi had received my testimony. He nodded, elbows upon the desk, hands fisted before him.
“Bring in the accused,” said a Magistrate.
Kasim was led in, shackled at the wrists. One eye bulged, blue and hideous, as he limped to the dock. He was made to place his hand upon his holy book and sworn in.
I pitied Adi, then. He had endured the arduous trial earlier and now must suffer it again. He’d demanded to know why, and soon we would hear it, the truth of Lady Bacha and Miss Pilloo’s last moments.
McIntyre approached the Magistrates, saying, “This has been Captain Agnihotri’s investigation. He’s asked your indulgence to question the witness himself. Do your lordships agree?”
Good heavens. I had requested permission to question Kasim, and McIntyre had taken me at my word. I’d get my chance to demand answers from Kasim at last.
CHAPTER 56
KASIM’S STORY
One eye swollen shut, Kasim looked thin in his crumpled kurta, hunched over his manacled wrists, elbows tucked in close. Here was Akbar’s henchman, the mysterious servant boy Kasim, Chutki’s killer. I would need to get him off guard, but how? I recalled that Miss Pilloo had taught him English. He spoke it well.
I asked, “Saapir Behg, you have used the name Kasim Khwan?”
He drew back, alarmed.
“Do we need witnesses, already in this audience, to identify you, or will you admit it? You are Kasim?”
He nodded, wary. “I am.”
“You were raised in the Framji household from the age of thirteen? They fed and clothed you, educated you?”
Kasim hung his head. “Yes.”
“Were they generous toward you?”
He acknowledged it was so.
I found my lead, a way to take him off course. “How did you come to serve them?”
He blinked rapidly. He’d not expected this, but he rallied. “My mother was a cook, in Pilloo’s home.”
Not Miss Pilloo, or Pilloo Memsahib. No deference to upper class here. Why? It would bear careful handling. I resolved to take him through each step of this curious business, starting with his childhood.
“You grew up in Lahore. How did you come to Bombay?”
His eyes darted about. “When I was thirteen, my mother and brother died in a terrible epidemic. My father died before, when I was two. At the master’s house, all the servants had left. The master was ill—vomiting, coughing. His wife collapsed with fever, begging me to care for Pilloo. She sent us to stay on a rooftop terrace until the disease passed. At night we heard cries and moans all around. We lived there for weeks, buying food with our last coins. The master died first, then his wife, so I cared for Pilloo until Burjor Sahib arrived.”
That’s why he felt Pilloo owed him! “You saved seven-year-old Pilloo.”
“Yes.” Kasim straightened, raising his head. He’d be more forthcoming now.
Pressing my advantage, I continued. “Why did you leave the Framjis?”
He started. “I didn’t! They cast me off! Burjor Sahib sent me back to Lahore. Because of my friendship with Pilloo.”
“Friendship? Did you not demand Miss Pilloo give you things? Clothes? A pocket watch? What else—money?”
His eyes flickered. So I was right.
I continued. “Why did you steal Miss Pilloo’s letter?”
Kasim waved his hands, denying it. “No, no! It was not like that. I hid Pilloo’s letter as a joke. I meant no harm. Just a game, bargaining for the letter.”
He was lying. He’d stolen the letter because it gave him power over her. How did he know its value? Wait, I thought. I had moved too quickly and missed something important. What was it? Pilloo was just a child. What if the letter wasn’t something she wrote, but was given?
“You were there when she got the letter,” I guessed.
Kasim stiffened. Looking down, he said, “Before the master died, he climbed to the terrace. He was very sick, begged Pilloo not to come close. He gave her something wrapped in cloth and said, ‘Child, keep this safe. No one must see it. It could ruin us.’”
Ah! I saw now—that was why Pilloo was so desperate to regain the mysterious letter. Why hadn’t she just given it to Burjor? Her father had said it could ruin the Framji clan—no wonder she was frantic to regain it. That’s what changed Miss Pilloo into a frightened recluse—her childhood friend had taken her father’s letter.
“So you knew its value. You stole it from Pilloo, to hold over her. Did you read it?”
Kasim rubbed one hand over the other. “I could not.”
I watched closely. Was he telling the truth?
“All right. How did you come to Ranjpoot?”
Kasim cleared his throat. “I worked in Lahore, making bricks from dawn till dusk. What life was that? No chance to make anything of myself. No one there could even read!”
He had worked in the brick factory for two years—why leave then? I remembered Burjor saying, “Right after Pilloo was engaged, Kasim was killed on the way to Bombay.”
“You left when you heard Miss Pilloo was betrothed. Did you see a chance to make her pay for the letter again? Is that why you changed your identity?”
He licked his lips. “I just needed a fresh start.”
I stared at him with an odd presentiment. Pilloo’s impending marriage had decided him. That meant more. I guessed: “As Kasim you could never win Miss Pilloo. Did you think a new identity would do it? A new name?”
Seeing Kasim squirm as I exposed his secret, his affection for Pilloo, I pulled in a breath. He and I both loved someone above our station. So how had Miss Pilloo ended up dead?
Sharp-edged, I said, “On the way, you saw an accident. A boy fell under a train. What better way to start fresh? You used that—let the Framjis think you were dead. You told Doctor Aziz, ‘That’s Kasim.’ Did you pretend to weep? He took you under his wing, didn’t he?”
Kasim stared. I’d been guessing, but I’d struck true.
“So you left the doctor and hid in Ranjpoot.”
Kasim cried out, “No! I came to Ranjpoot to make something of myself, not to be errand boy for the doctor
! When he sent me with a note to Prince Akbar, I saw my chance. What a man he is! Akbar had a vision for Ranjpoot! He accepted me as his servant, giving me great responsibility—I became his man of business.”
I could see this was true. At last, one of the ruling classes had respected Kasim’s abilities. He was resourceful, ruthless and decisive—a useful man to further the prince’s interests. In turn, Kasim admired Akbar, eager for the halo of power that extended to himself. What had he used to gain Akbar’s interest? The blackmail letter? What the devil could it contain, to be so valuable?
“How did Akbar learn about Pilloo’s letter?”
Kasim bit his lip. “He needed money, for Ranjpoot! For the treasury! I told him about Pilloo’s letter. That she would pay something to regain it. He was skeptical—said it was a waste of time.”
“But you wanted to see Miss Pilloo again. So you persuaded him.”
Kasim spread his hands. “Maneck got a message to Pilloo. She agreed to meet me.”
“In the library reading room?”
“Yes. But it all went wrong. That morning, Akbar sent me to Ranjpoot and took my place. And the girls also changed places! Instead of Pilloo, he met Bacha.”
So the man in the green coat was Akbar, not Kasim. I recalled the Tambey children had seen Bacha return from that conversation, upset and angry with Pilloo. Akbar had expected to meet with docile, young Pilloo and instead had come up against composed, self-assured Bacha.
I prompted Kasim, “So on October twenty-fifth, on the clock tower gallery, you were going to sell the letter back to Pilloo. You got rid of Maneck—sent him off to secure a carriage. Francis Enty witnessed your altercation at three fifteen. Maneck’s coat was torn. Who did that?”
“Akbar,” said Kasim.
I understood. If I let him, he would pin everything on Akbar. “Akbar and you hid in the carillon room. Sometime after three thirty, when the Framji ladies entered the gallery, you boxed them in. That’s how you got behind the ladies to prevent their exit.”
Kasim stared at me. “Yes.”
“What happened on the gallery?”
I noticed a movement at the desk. Adi had straightened up. Here was his moment of truth.
Kasim said, “We came in behind the Framji women. The small one, Bacha, scolded Akbar, asked for the letter. He laughed and demanded money. She refused, demanding the letter. She took out a bundle of notes and threw it at him.” His face twisted. “She shouldn’t have done that. It made him angry. Akbar took the money and told her the price had gone up. The payment was herself and Pilloo! I didn’t know, until that moment, what he planned! It was not my fault—”
“You didn’t know?” I cut off his whining. The librarian had said the black clothes were worn and frayed. Kasim was lying again. “When you brought the burkhas with you, you didn’t realize Akbar was going to abduct the women? These were the same black clothes you’d foisted on other women, other captives you’d taken, yes? Why didn’t Lady Bacha shout for help?”
He groaned. “Akbar warned her—if she called out he would give Pilloo’s letter to the newspapers! He said, ‘Let’s see what the world thinks of the fine Framjis then!’”
“Go on,” I prompted.
“Pilloo was crying. Akbar told me to put a burkha over her head. He said the girls would come quietly, because we had the letter. But Bacha would not.” He looked down at his shackled hands.
“And then?”
“Akbar had boxed Bacha against the wall. She had nowhere left to go. She said, ‘You aren’t going to return it. You never intended to!’ Akbar struck her across the face. Pilloo struggled, weeping. What could I do?”
“Go on.”
Kasim continued. “Bacha said, ‘No, I won’t let you take her. You won’t get away with this.’ She leaned across the wall and went over.”
He slumped in his seat. No one said a word.
I imagined it—tiny Lady Bacha in a yellow sari, facing down the mighty princeling. She’d have pushed herself over the curved parapet. She’d fallen, her sari unraveling, a golden bird in the noonday sun, pure-hearted and free.
A muffled sob sounded on my left. Adi’s fist pressed to his lips, his face creased, body shaking. Batliwala patted his arm. Pens scratched on paper as the Magistrates wrote. When they ceased, one of them nodded to me.
I said, “All right. What happened next?”
Kasim shook his head, wordless. He looked defeated. Remembering the black fibers in the wooden doorframe, I prompted, “Pilloo tried to run away. Her burkha caught in the door.”
“Yes,” he choked.
I understood. Kasim had stopped Pilloo from leaving, damn him.
“So you caught her. You prevented Pilloo’s escape.”
Kasim cringed, speaking in a rush, mixing English and Urdu. “Akbar was angry. He said, ‘Take the burkha off.’ I did so—I didn’t understand what he wanted. He said, ‘We need a distraction.’ And … he picked her up and threw her over the wall! I swear I did not know he would do that! She was my childhood friend.”
So that’s why Miss Pilloo hit the ground twenty feet farther from the tower than Lady Bacha. To my left, Adi bowed his head.
Did I believe Kasim? Yes. The guilt was eating at him. Yet I could not pity the vile creature. He’d helped Akbar murder the Framji ladies as surely as if he’d killed them himself.
Feeling vicious, I said, “You prevented Pilloo’s escape. Little Pilloo, whom you say you cared for. But that’s a lie—as a captive she’d be in your grasp again. That’s what you wanted. But Akbar threw her off the gallery. You saw this?”
“I saw it!” Kasim’s eyes glittered, wild and feverish, condemning his erstwhile master for a murderer. “It happened so fast. I didn’t know what to do. Akbar picked up Bacha’s spectacles. I bundled the burkhas under my shirt. We went down the steps. Near the bottom we heard voices. Akbar said, ‘Turn around!’ We told the people we were just going up and entered the reading room. We sat quietly, pretending to read. We could hear everything. Constables, university people talking. A library clerk came in, and Akbar complained, ‘This is a reading room! What is all this noise?’
“We left the burkhas under the table and escaped. When Akbar saw the big carriage waiting at the south gate, he laughed. ‘Perfect! We depart in style.’”
So that was it. The ladies crumpled on the ground, Akbar and Kasim calmly walked from the reading room to board the waiting carriage, while the police harangued poor, frightened Maneck about his torn coat.
Seconds ticked by. I asked, “Where is the letter? The letter used to blackmail the Framji ladies.”
Looking confused, Kasim blurted, “It must be with Akbar!”
Was that the truth? He’d been abruptly sent off to Lahore—did he have the letter then? If so, why was Akbar searching Framji Mansion?
I said, “No. You hid the letter. That’s why Akbar was searching the house when I caught him on the balcony.”
Kasim raised his folded hands, admitting his lie. “We could not find it. I swear this.”
Had Kasim been the first burglar, the one Diana heard on the roof? Searching in the dark, he had not found what he wanted. When Akbar subsequently looked for it, I accosted him. I felt certain that Kasim knew where the letter was. Could Akbar still intend to use it somehow? I had to find the damn thing.
But I wasn’t done with Kasim. Chutki was dead. This was an inquest into her death.
CHAPTER 57
BACHA’S SACRIFICE
“Why did you abduct Chutki, my ward?”
Kasim blurted, “Akbar ordered it! We noticed a new girl going to and from the Framji house, and saw the Rakhee tied on your wrist. Akbar said if we had your sister, you would stop pursuing us. He wanted to send you a message.”
I understood. Akbar had tried to stop me, just as he’d silenced Enty. “A message? Like the messages you took the law clerk Francis Enty all these weeks?”
Kasim drew back, recoiling. Setting up for a knockout punch, I stepped in, feeling
cool, and drove forward.
“Each morning you carried a newspaper to Enty’s home. What did it contain?”
Kasim choked, “His wife wrote a note on it under the date. To show she was alive.”
I nodded. “And Enty continued to hold his tongue as long as his wife lived. If he identified Akbar and you, that new evidence might reopen the murder case. Well, two days ago, Mrs. Enty was retrieved from the house on Dockyard Road, alive.”
The courtroom buzzed with gasps and whispers. My task complete, I felt weary, my limbs heavy, my breath rough. Akbar had taken Chutki in order to control me. By moving up the raid on SS Vahid Cruiser, I’d set in motion events that culminated in Chutki’s death.
She was gone, yet I remained.
A Magistrate motioned to McIntyre to approach.
After conferring briefly, he turned to me. “A question for you, Captain, if you please. Was the Rani of Ranjpoot involved in this scheme?”
Staring at him, I drew a breath. Here it was, as Diana had predicted. If I implicated the Rani, the British might rule her unfit, place her state under its control. She’d rebuked Akbar’s arrogance at dinner. Confronting me in the dark that night, she’d thought I was a djinn. Was she aware of Akbar’s schemes? Recalling her puzzlement at my question, I thought not.
“I have no evidence of her involvement,” I said carefully.
McIntyre’s eyes drilled through me. He repeated the question in different ways, but I maintained a passive stance. The Rani might have benefited from Akbar’s crimes, but I could not fault her for them.
“All right, Captain.” McIntyre dismissed me.
I sat beside Adi, feeling utterly spent. For the next two hours McIntyre interrogated Kasim about the slave trade, and he admitted everything, revealing all I’d learned about Akbar’s dealings: For two years, Akbar’s shipments of indentured labor to Guyana had netted him a tidy sum. Kasim, as his man of business, was tasked to identify suitable victims—landless laborers, widows and urchins. They were rendered unconscious and held at Dockyard Road until packed into his ship, which made four runs to Guyana each year.
