by Nev March
Next, McIntyre called Adi and questioned him about the death of Chutki. Once Adi gave a succinct account of the action on the deck of Vahid Cruiser, her death was deemed manslaughter, not murder, since she was not Kasim’s intended target. Kasim would stand trial, but Akbar was not charged, although he remained a suspect. My protest was ignored—McIntyre would not do so “just yet.”
* * *
After the inquiry, we returned to Framji Mansion. Burjor and his barrister, J. Batliwala, retreated to his study. I knew I should leave the Framjis to grieve in privacy, yet Adi’s red-rimmed glance demanded I remain. We withdrew to the morning room, a quiet group, each immersed in our own thoughts. Diana curled on the carpet by Adi’s feet, her cheek against his knee in sorrowful rumination.
Lines etched around Adi’s mouth, aging him beyond his years. Slumped on the sofa beside his mother, he gazed at Lady Bacha’s portrait, propped against the mantel, draped in a string of white flowers. Miss Pilloo’s photograph beside it was similarly adorned.
Touching Diana’s head, Adi said, “I keep thinking of Kasim’s testimony—Bacha said ‘I won’t let you take her’ … that’s the answer, isn’t it? Bacha tried to prevent Pilloo from being abducted. She could not have known Akbar would resort to outright murder, throwing Pilloo to cover his escape.”
I considered it—was that what drove Lady Bacha? What else would she care about? Of course!—Adi.
The seed of an idea taking root, I said, “Sir, I wonder if she had another reason.”
“Go on.” Adi shook out a white handkerchief and wiped his glasses.
“It puzzled me all along that the ladies didn’t cry out for help. That led me to suspect Akbar had a hold over them, threatened to make the compromising letter public. Now Lady Bacha refused to be abducted. Akbar and Kasim could not drag the ladies through the university. An assault was imminent, intended to beat her down, force her into the burkha. Perhaps he held a weapon on Pilloo. If Bacha called out and drew attention, it might save them, but she believed Akbar had that damaging letter.
“That letter may have been uppermost in her mind. If it came out, you, her husband, would face ruin. How could she prevent it? I think she wanted to mark anyone who used it against you.”
“Mark them? How?”
“Your family is well liked. If she died, anyone who later harmed the Framjis could be suspected of her murder. Here was a way to save you, and your family, permanently.” I studied the painting of Adi’s determined young wife. “She intended to render any compromising letters unusable. This was her sacrifice.”
A long pause followed. Diana stared up at me. “If someone had cast slurs upon us, and then she died, of course the police would check their alibi closely! But no one had, so far. She was thinking ahead?”
“Yes. If someone made the letter public now, you can bet McIntyre would scrutinize their motives.”
Adi sighed. “Yes, it makes sense. That’s Bacha’s gift, then.”
“My poor child,” Mrs. Framji whispered, kerchief pressed to her lips.
Adi gazed at the portrait. “She found a way to protect us. But against what? What was in Pilloo’s letter?”
Indeed, that remained a puzzle. I shook my head in reply.
Mrs. Framji rose, saying, “We thought Kasim was dead. That’s why we didn’t recognize him at Maneck’s trial.”
“His beard hid his face, and he rarely looked up,” said Adi, remembering. Mrs. Framji left soon after.
I glanced at the portrait of Lady Bacha, that solemn face grown dear, as though I’d once known her. Did Adi want such a constant reminder of his loss? Or did it not matter, since her absence was a prominent silence? He would always miss the sound of her, her smile, her touch.
I asked, “Will you keep the portrait here?”
“Yes,” he said, with an air of finality. “I’ll make her proud. I need her by me, you see, so I can explain things. Tell her what I’m going to build.” As he spoke, his voice gathered purpose. Adi would never be truly young again—the past year had seared that away. The acetic, piercing quality of his gaze had tempered to steadiness, seasoned by events, yet compassionate still.
What of Diana? Her cheeks bloomed with health and vitality, yet those eyes were thoughtful, sometimes mournful. She had an alarming ability to read people’s minds, at least to read mine. More than once she’d seen me watching her. At my sheepish half smile, she sent me a questioning look. That low trill of her laugh, always intoxicating, I craved like an opium addict—I heard it, picturing her in the seconds before I dropped into sleep, when I feared dreams would drag me to Karachi. Then I remembered an inadvertent giggle, her gurgle of laughter from our dance, when I’d lifted her off her feet and swung her about to the music. Despite all Burjor’s forbidding, the future beckoned.
Yet that missing letter was still a threat. Miss Pilloo’s letter again, I thought, rubbing Jameson’s stitches that lay across my palm like a row of ants. Akbar had sought that letter the night I’d caught him on the balcony. So where was it? What did it contain?
CHAPTER 58
COLONEL SUTTON’S PROPOSAL
McIntyre had learned from Sir Peter, the British Resident at Ranjpoot, that Akbar was holed up in his palace. Lacking a plan to smoke Akbar out, my investigation had stalled. Undeterred by this, Adi dived into society with a verve that matched Diana’s. I enjoyed his company, delighted in Diana’s and persuaded myself that close proximity was the best means to keep them safe.
Adi had invited me to join the family at the theater the next day, and I’d accepted. We saw a comedy. Adi and Diana translated for me in whispers, since it was in Gujarati. Then we went to Byram’s for dinner, Adi and I all spiffy in tails, top hats and gloves, Diana glowing in a deep purple dress that revealed her delicate collarbones.
Byram’s mansion blazed with light and music as we ascended the stairs, Diana’s black stole over my arm, her proprietary hand in the crook of my elbow. Victorian manners required that she rest the tips of her fingers on my sleeve, but Diana tugged on my arm, grinning. Ah, how right it felt. Adi looked dapper. Diana sparkled. The three of us made rather an entrance as Byram greeted us in the brightly lit foyer.
Diana was speaking when her gaze shifted behind me and her face changed.
Warned, I turned, but it was too late. I had an instant, a bare second to block Diana with my shoulder. I need not have worried—this greeting was mine alone: a neat clip to the chin that snapped my head around.
No one else had that clean right cut. Rubbing my stinging jaw, I said, “Pleasure to see you again, Colonel.”
“Bloody hell, Jim.” My commander, Colonel Sutton, caught my shoulder as he gaped at me, our eyes level. “You’ve gone soft! I haven’t landed one on you in years!”
I grinned, then began to laugh. Here was Sutton, my old friend, his sandy hair cut short as usual, pale mustache bristling, not down south in Madras as Smith had said, but standing before me in the flesh.
Diana’s grip tightened on my arm. A fierce look passed between her and Adi. What was she upset about—that little tap on my jaw?
“Miss Framji, may I present Colonel Sutton, my commander,” I said, remembering my manners. “Colonel, her brother Adi Framji.”
Adi and Sutton shook hands.
“Captain,” boomed Burjor’s voice nearby, so I included him in the introduction.
“Mr. and Mrs. Framji, meet Colonel Brian Sutton, Commander of the Madras Regiment.”
When Sutton turned his admiring gaze on Diana, she asked, “Should I be worried, Colonel, or was that how you always welcome Jim?”
Sutton’s eyebrows rose at her use of my given name. Cheeks growing rosy, his eyes flashed. “Charmed, Madam!” He made a broad flourish. “The British army at your service.”
Bloody ham. He knew. Sutton knew she meant something to me and had set out to charm her. I stifled a smile as he took Diana’s hand and raised it to his lips. Behind Sutton, Adi rolled his eyes.
Dinner was a cheerful aff
air, as most of the company knew each other. McIntyre and Sutton flanked Byram at the head of a long table appointed with all manner of crystal, a full sweep of cutlery and glasses set around each gilt-trimmed plate. Diana was seated by Adi, far across the table from me.
“I see you know the Captain,” McIntyre remarked to Sutton. He’d noticed Sutton’s peculiar greeting and was curious, in his usual grim way. During a lull in conversation, he asked, “So, Colonel, improvement on the Frontier?”
“Ask the Captain!” replied Sutton. “He was just at the front, don’t you know? I’ve been down south, but I keep an eye on the boy. General Greer, in charge of Simla, said the Captain here pulled off one of the damnedest rescues he’d ever seen.”
Mrs. Framji turned to me, concerned. I’d not told the Framjis about it. I sighed. Diana had heard that—would she flay me for this business? Ever since we returned from Simla, something had changed in her. Now and again a pained expression crossed her face, but when I inquired, she denied anything was amiss. What had she heard me cry out, that night I staggered in from Pathankot? She’d look at me, her face soft, yet when I caught her gaze, she’d turn away. I wanted to break this impasse between us, but Burjor’s plea, “Captain, she’s not for you,” kept ringing in my ears.
“Bloody hell,” I said. “Beg pardon, Marm.” There was no help for it. While Sutton recounted my adventure with Ranbir, placing rather a more romantic light on it than General Greer had, I made inroads through the salmon soufflé and curried lamb.
“Walked straight into an enemy sentry.” Sutton paused at the crucial moment of the tale and beamed at me.
Avoiding Diana, I said, “We uh … Razak’s family, the tribesmen, saved the day. The lads and I got back—that’s all that matters.”
He grunted. “With ten infantrymen, I’m told. Through Pathan-held countryside.”
Sutton’s eyes glinted as he raised his glass. “To the lads on the Frontier, and to my boy.”
Across the table, Diana melted into a smile. My worries receded, clouds parting after a wretched storm. I caught that radiant look and did not care who noticed.
At evening’s end, while the Framjis were saying goodbye to Byram, Colonel Sutton wanted a word, so I joined him at the window. He was trim in uniform, fit, although well past sixty. He’d been a friend when I had none. More than a friend. He’d trained me to box, put me up, bet on me. He’d taught me to win, and then shared his winnings with me. He did not need to do that—just as he didn’t have to gift me Mullicka, that bronze Arabian filly who rode as soft as the wind in the clouds and faster than any creature I’d seen.
“Eat up, lad, you’re out of shape. You’ll train at the camp here,” Sutton said.
He waved away my surprise, mistakenly thinking it was on account of my mixed race. “It’s all right, I’ve got you in.”
“Train, sir?” I asked. “For what, exactly?”
“A match, ’course!” He grinned. “A real doozy! All lined up. Four weeks away.”
A boxing match? I stared. Sutton wanted me for a fight? When the pieces fell into place, disappointment flared. I tamped it down, realizing that was why he’d built me up all evening.
“I’m done with boxing,” I said, and felt at peace with it. There, at last I’d said it out loud. Let him find another protégé.
Mustache bristling, Sutton drew an audible breath, huffing, “Come now, lad! I’ve put some effort into you.” Relenting, he went on, “You’ve been ill, I see that. A few weeks training will get you shipshape.” He caught my head between mutton-chop hands. “Boy, you’re good. Work at it. You could do it.”
My hands had just healed from my wounds at the docks. I pulled back. “Sir, I think not.”
He glowered. “How d’you think I paid for those books, eh? Your kit? Your horse, the Arabian? You did for me, I did for you. Once more, eh?”
I understood. What I’d seen as kindness was simply repayment. He’d bet on me, won, and spent some of his windfall on my education. If I ever owed him a debt, it was paid.
I repeated, “No, sir.”
“Dammit, Jim!” he growled. “You don’t know whom I’ve got lined up for the fight! Magnificent fellow—champion boxer! The prince of Ranjpoot!”
I stared. “Seth Nur Akbar Suleiman?” That was why Akbar’s shape seemed familiar—the shape of a boxer.
Sutton grinned. “That’s the chap. Won’t come to Bombay, so it will be an hour out, at Palghar, a neighboring independency.”
My God. Here was a way to smoke him out! Having lost his ship, Akbar would take the fight to repair his finances. “You’ve asked him? Does he know my name?”
Sutton chuckled. “He’s to fight the best we could put up. You’re ex-army but you’ll do.” He grinned. “So it’s yes? Good lad.”
CHAPTER 59
DIANA’S CONJECTURE
Diana seethed, her shoulders stiff as she sat between Adi and her mother in the Gharry carriage. “Captain, how could you?” Her voice throbbed with … worry? No, something more … dread?
Casting a quick look my way, Adi cautioned, “Diana!”
“A boxing match, Adi? Papa, do you think he should do it? With an injured shoulder!” Diana’s voice shook. Biting her lip, she gazed out of the window as Mrs. Framji made a shushing motion with her hands.
“The Captain must do as he likes,” growled Burjor, giving me the impression that he disliked Sutton’s plan intensely.
I explained, “Sir, Colonel Sutton taught me to box. Regiments put up their fellows against each other. Bets are placed. It’s an annual competition. Keeps the lads fit, well trained, pride in their colors, that sort of thing.”
“Did you win?” asked Adi.
I grinned a reply, then saw that Diana was close to tears. Already upset, she would be livid if she knew my opponent. Yet if there was a chance to bring Akbar to justice, I must take it and put an end to his vendetta against the Framjis. It was a long ride back to the house.
Diana sailed into the morning room, flung her gloves on the table and rounded on me. “Captain, he’s using you!”
Mrs. Framji clutched her husband’s arm as she and Burjor exchanged a look. Although I’d seen Diana on a tirade before, her flushed cheeks and fiery eyes disconcerted me. On edge, she went to the window and back, her steps stiff and jerky as she crossed the room.
“Go to bed, Diana,” said Mrs. Framji, then bid me good night.
“Captain, Adi, it’s late,” said Burjor, raising his eyebrows toward me, charging Adi to be Diana’s chaperone. In her present volatile state, it surprised me that her parents would depart. Reminded of the late hour, I knew I should leave. But first I’d try to calm the lady’s fears.
Once her parents had left, I asked, “Miss Diana, what’s the matter?”
Her pallor sharp against her dark velvet, Diana said, “My God. You really don’t know.”
What could she mean?
She whispered, “Your father. Your lousy, rotten father. Colonel bloody Sutton.”
I felt chilled, as though my fingers had touched stone and found it icy. Sutton? She was upset about Colonel Sutton? Why had she called him my father?
“Did you not know?” Her voice broke. “He calls you my boy all the time! Jim, just look at him!”
I saw him in my mind’s eye. Colonel Sutton stood as tall as I and with a similar build. He had a boxer’s square chin and thick neck. But my hair was dark, his the color of honey. I considered the set of his eyes, his jaw, his forehead, how he laid his hands upon my shoulders at every opportunity. I’d seen this as a mark of favor. I’d delighted in it.
“He said nothing,” I said, and knew I lied.
Why else had he hired tutors to teach me math, Latin and French? If all he needed was a boxer, why send away for books, fill the evenings talking of Nelson and Trafalgar? Why teach me wayfaring and quiz me on history? He’d seen my love of horses and made it so I joined the Dragoons as an ensign. When I had no means to buy a mare, he gave me one. Not just a mare, but
Mullicka, a magnificent Arabian. He’d been a father after all, without ever claiming me as his own. Was he, in fact, my father?
Diana hissed, all hurt and fury. “Colonel Sutton! That man is rotten. Poison! He wants to bet on you like a prize horse. That’s all you are to him!” She winced. “Please. You can’t fight. Remember what Jameson said. Remember your shoulder! If you hurt it again, oh God!”
She stepped close, beseeching. Adi stepped up, frowning his concern.
The chamber spun around me. I dropped into a chair and gazed at them, two siblings so close to each other, and so distant from me.
“I don’t want to, my dear,” I said, “but I have to end this. Akbar cannot be allowed to snatch whom he pleases. He took Chutki. Next, he may take a shot at one of you. I can’t wait for that. McIntyre has no jurisdiction in Ranjpoot, so he cannot arrest Akbar there. This fight has a large winner’s purse. Side bets are enormous. It will lure Akbar out.”
“Akbar?” Diana whispered, her voice raw. “You’ll fight Prince Suleiman? Damn you, Jim!” Tearing from Adi’s side, she fled the room.
I watched her go and feared that this time she might not understand. I had to finish this, once and for all. I was doing it for Diana. But would it cost me her affection?
* * *
At breakfast the next day, Diana seemed quiet and watchful. I explained that the match would be held in Palghar, just outside Bombay. I’d take the train there the night before.
Diana said, “Palghar? I don’t like it. Things aren’t always what they seem.”
Engrossed in his textbook, Adi nodded absently. Called by her mother, Diana left, sending me a glance of worry mixed with some emotion I could not name—one so intense it sharpened her gaze and set her shoulders to soldierly stiffness. This message, if indeed it was one, puzzled me for I could not fathom what she was warning me against.
It got me thinking. She’d suggested Akbar might be at the Ripon Club, and the editor Byram had helped me get in—and then I’d been attacked by Akbar’s thugs. The concierge had marked me, sure. I recalled quizzing him at the register—the guest book, by a telephone. How had Akbar put a plan together so quickly? Who’d revealed my steps to him?
