Murder in Old Bombay

by Nev March

  I stiffened. Could Byram be a part of this affair? His paper had surely benefited from the tumult and publicity over the girls’ deaths. Was it all an act, his charming smile, debonair dash and flair?

  A frisson of fear ran over my skin. Not Byram, surely? He was Burjor’s particular friend. Such betrayal would wound Burjor. I could only imagine how deeply it would cut Adi.

  I recalled a morning Adi and I had met Byram at breakfast. He was reading the papers as I complimented Mrs. Framji on her crepes.

  Overcome, Mrs. Framji had broken into sobs. “Pilloo loved crepes,” was all she could say. While Adi and I exchanged looks of sympathy, Tom Byram crouched beside the sobbing mother, his arm about her shoulders. Head bent to hers, he whispered consolation. Could a man of such sensitivity plot to murder his friend’s children?

  But wait. If he had something to do with it, would he have offered me a hundred rupees to solve the mystery? Or was that done simply to bolster his role as Burjor’s friend? His distress as he crouched by Mrs. Framji was real. Surely that was him, Tom Byram without his layers of sophistication.

  Yet, all along, someone had known my movements and told Akbar.

  I cleared my throat and drew Adi’s attention.

  “Adi, I’m afraid we must set a trap for your friend Tom Byram.”

  “What! Byram?” Adi sprang up. “Uncle Tom?”

  “Akbar has known our plans as soon as we make them,” I explained. “I was ambushed on Princess Street—a simple matter, if one simply waited for a gentleman, as I was dressed that day, a gentleman of my height, coming from the Ripon Club. Byram knew I’d go there, since he’d proposed the ruse himself. I was supposed to ask for him, wasn’t I? What better way to identify me? While I was laid up with injuries, Akbar the burglar visits by night—a perfect time to search Framji Mansion. When I left for Lahore—on the last train, mind—would Byram not know that Lahore was already under attack? Convenient for Akbar if I’d been trapped there.”

  Adi groaned. “No, Captain, not Byram!”

  Again I remembered Byram’s face, consoling Mrs. Framji, his compassion for her grief. What did it mean?

  “Did he have a close friendship with your mother, before she wed?”

  Adi breathed in, an audible gasp. “They’re distant cousins. He’s twenty years older, so they couldn’t marry.” He shook his head, “Captain, it can’t be him. He’d give his life for her.”

  I considered that. “It is a capital mistake to theorize before you have all the evidence. It biases the judgement,” I recited.

  “Holmes, no doubt,” said Adi, glum.

  “Mm. I’ll craft a test for our friend Byram.”

  That evening when Tom Byram arrived, I saw a chance to put my plan in action.

  “Hello, Tom, will you stay for dinner later?” said Adi.

  “’Course, my boy! I heard—a midnight raid! A slave ship! A rescue! Marvelous news—what headlines we’ll make,” Tom Byram cried, shaking Adi’s hand. He kissed Diana’s cheek, complimenting her purple silk, then came round to me, holding out a large hand. “The man of the hour. Captain, you’ve done us proud.”

  Bloody Byram. Right. Time to see where his loyalty lay.

  Taking his hand, I said, “No report, sir. That was our deal. None.”

  His eyes bulged. “Now wait … Surely you don’t mean…?”

  I tightened my grip. “You said, ask for you at the Ripon Club. An hour later, the Ranjpoot gang accosted me. While I’m in Matheran, you printed details of my investigation—and blew my cover. Got me a ticket to Lahore, and it’s the last train—I’m stranded in the middle of a war. You’ve been helping Akbar. What did he promise? Land? Mining rights?”

  Tom Byram’s mouth dropped. His lips trembled, the hand in mine shook. Shocked grey eyes holding mine, he staggered.

  “But I … no. You can’t mean that.” His voice creaked like old leather. “The Ripon Club … no, my boy…”

  There is a moment when a liar knows he is found out, a moment I knew well. It’s written in his eyes, even before I’m done speaking. His eyelids flicker, his face slackens and for an instant his mask drops. I have seen hate, naked and wild, in such men, arrogance and fury. How quickly they spin to accusation or pretense.

  “No.” Byram looked shaken to the core, but no flicker of awareness came. His weight fell against my arm, and I knew that I’d been wrong.

  I helped him to a chair. “I’m sorry, sir.”

  Adi and Burjor looked appalled. Their friend had aged ten years in just minutes. Diana knelt beside the old man, comforting. “Dear Uncle, it was a test. You passed, of course!”

  Byram peered up, his fingers plucking at my sleeve. “Captain. The burglary…” he choked, his composure shredded. “I wrote about it. An excuse … for your bruises. We were going to have a dance. The rest … it wasn’t me.”

  “I see that, sir,” I said, repentant.

  “Then who?” His jaw dropped. His voice wobbled, uncertain. “No. It can’t be.”

  “Someone who works for you?” asked Adi.

  “I’m sorry, Captain.” The veins bulging at his temple, Byram clutched my forearm. “It must be my new assistant. He came from the south. Perhaps from Ranjpoot! I didn’t realize.”

  Blast. I had misjudged badly. I patted his hand, giving him a moment to regroup.

  Diana’s breath hissed in a slow release. She hated breaking things … and I had just done as much damage as one can without physical violence. Her saree had been draped over her head, and dropped to her shoulder when she comforted him. As she scooped a handful of silk off her shoulder to pin it over her hair, the smooth skin of her arm, that pointed elbow made me ache.

  Crouched beside Byram, I vowed that, come what may, I would see her safe. I’d seen her fight for her place among the Framjis, not a jewel on display but as an equal. God knows I tried to stay distant, to keep myself aloof, but it scarcely mattered where I was. When I was alone, when the world around me paused, my mind returned to her.

  “Hm.” Byram caught me watching her and exhaled, sorrow drooping his tired face. He left immediately afterwards.

  Later, when it was just me and the siblings, I recalled Diana’s obscure warning.

  “Miss Diana,” I said, “you said things aren’t what they seem. Did you also suspect Byram?”

  She looked startled. “Uncle Tom? Heavens, no! He’d give his life for us.”

  “So your warning—what did you mean?”

  Diana bit her lip, shaking her head. “Jim, people hide things—for all sorts of reasons. You taught me that. Why must you go to Palghar?”

  She’d been fretting about my boxing match. A surge of affection lifted me. I cast a glance at Adi and glimpsed the shadow of a smile cross his face. Picking up his textbooks, Adi gave us the morning room, saying, “I’ll be next door,” a not-so-subtle reminder to maintain a proper distance.

  How we talked—her childhood, my years in Burma and the Frontier province—each subject flowed into the next. Diana sparkled, giggling at my tales, telling me her own: escapades, visits to the London School of Medicine for Women. Diana spoke little of her stay in England, but asked me instead about my childhood. When the grandfather clock chimed twelve, I said goodbye, but it was another hour before I left.

  She’d known most of my awful history—the rest? How could I tell, when I scarcely knew what was real and what imagined? I did not expect her to understand. But she listened closely, repeating, “Jim, let it go. It’s in the past.”

  CHAPTER 60

  BURJOR’S EDICT

  That night I dropped into bed, and slipped into a dreamless sleep.

  Awakened by parakeets sparring in the lavender dawn, I stretched and grinned, remembering the events of last evening. In the clear light of morning, I relived our conversation, hearing the inflection of Diana’s voice, how she signaled curiosity with a sharp tilt to her head. When we spoke of Karachi, I recalled her staunch defense, marveling, buoyed by my relief and elated.

&n
bsp; Tonight, I decided. Tonight, I would speak with Burjor and ask his leave to court Diana. He’d forbade it before—but could I change his mind? I’d do whatever he asked. As for the matter of funds, McIntyre’s offer of a job could be just the ticket. How much did a police detective earn? I resolved to find out.

  Dressing quickly, I went through my usual drill. My knee ached and grumbled, but the shoulder held up all right. Sutton’s fight would soon be upon me, so I returned to the gym and spent the rest of the morning being pummeled by younger men. Blocking, weaving, ducking, taking blows on my shoulders and arms—these absorbed me. When I failed to slip the punch, a sharp knock ensured my full attention.

  At the gymkhana, I received a note from Maneck requesting an immediate meeting. I found him waiting at my warehouse, looking glum.

  “Akbar was seen at the racecourse,” he said. “His men laid bets on the upcoming fight. Made quite a statement, all decked out in finery.”

  It took a while to reassure him. After he departed at noon, I returned to Framji Mansion, called for hot water and spent an hour soaking in a claw-foot tub before Gurung came to dress me for lunch. Ah, the joys of luxury, I thought, as he held out a clean linen shirt and buttoned on a pair of cuffs.

  Once we arrested Akbar at the boxing match, my case would be complete. Only the incriminating letter remained—if I could find it, the Framjis would be safe. Still, I could not, in good conscience, continue to live with them. I’d take McIntyre’s job and move out of my warehouse hideaway. Chin tilted for Gurung to knot my tie, I resolved to settle accounts with Adi and find suitable lodgings.

  In the dining room, Adi smiled a welcome. Handing me a glass of sherry, he said, “New developments, Captain! Byram’s discovered how Akbar was getting our plans.”

  “Found the leak, did he?” I said, sipped and straightened. “Compliments on your father’s cellar.”

  Adi grinned. “Yes,” he added, somewhat apologetically, “Byram’s new man traded titbits for cash. The blackguard begged our pardon, didn’t know anyone would be hurt.…”

  It did not surprise me: greasing a few palms was the norm, utterly unremarkable. “Just made a pretty penny, eh?” I caught a footfall at the door and swung around.

  Looking peeved, Burjor huffed a greeting, then lowered his weight into his chair.

  Adi asked, “Are Mama and Diana out for luncheon?”

  “Diana won’t join us. Mama and she are … busy,” Burjor said, signaling to Gurung at the door. Lunch was served right away, a splendid swordfish, eggs fried on a bed of spinach, but the air held awkward silences.

  “Is something amiss, sir?” I asked, after a particularly long pause. “Perhaps I can help.”

  My words caused an alarming change in Burjor. His wide face creased in an expression of pain. I feared he’d had a seizure.

  “Papa!” Adi cried, leaping to his feet. “What’s happened?”

  “Sit, Adi. Sit,” Burjor ground out, flushed, jowls shaking. “Captain Jim,” he sighed. “No. I cannot allow it. After all we have been through—it’s too much. The scandal. The papers. People talking. Mama should not have to endure that again.”

  “Sir?”

  “Diana and you,” he said, shaking his head.

  “What’s happened, sir?”

  “I met Colonel Sutton at the Governor’s. Sutton asked when we’re going to announce Diana’s engagement to you.”

  Sutton. That evening after the theater, he’d seen what Diana meant to me, and in his ruddy red-coat blundering, managed to cock it up.

  I drew a sharp breath. “I intended to ask your blessing today.”

  Burjor winced. “You are a good man, Captain,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

  I felt at a loss. “Sir, I care for her … deeply.”

  “Young man, you don’t understand … a great deal is at stake! The scandal! The Parsees, my brethren, will cease doing business with us.”

  So that was the end of it? He would not give me leave to court Diana, fearing the scandal it would cause. That’s why Diana had not joined us today.

  Throat parched, the sherry sour upon my lips, I asked, “May I speak with her?”

  “No, Captain,” he said, his voice pained. “Best not.”

  Had he forbidden her to see me? I strove to muster a righteous indignation, but found none. I gaped at him, wanting to persuade, to protest, to rail at this injustice, and could not. His forehead rested upon clasped hands in an attitude of distress that moved me. He was protecting his own. Had he been cold, unfeeling, I could have hated him. Had he pronounced a judgement upon my head, it was easy to reject. But his sorrow, his need to spare his wife further torment, how could I fault that?

  * * *

  The next week I bunked at Smith’s, spending every waking hour at the officers’ boxing gymkhana. Although my quandary remained, the match was upon me, so I put my all into preparing for it. The gymkhana afforded a measure of privacy, a gifted Chinese masseur and an excellent hot tub. Over tedious, painful hours, I rebuilt muscle, gained speed and precision. Eventually, my shoulder proved a greater nuisance than my knee; Jameson scowled at me when next I presented myself.

  “When’s the fight?” he asked, his hand tight on my chin as he examined a swelling under my eye.

  “Two weeks,” I mumbled.

  “Damn it, lad,” Jameson said, probing my shoulder. “Once dislocated, the joint is weak. You understand it could dislocate again, or even break!”

  “There’s a chance I won’t have to fight.”

  He examined my injured knee as he muttered something about “… damn fools who don’t know what’s good for them.” Then he asked, in a clipped voice, “It’s Akbar?”

  “Yes. He won’t be able to stay away. Once he shows, McIntyre will arrest him.”

  When he was done, I tugged on my shirt. “My shoulder, will it hold?”

  He rummaged with his bottles of powders, poured some out and mixed a concoction on a sheet of paper. “One teaspoon, dissolved in milk, twice a day. Build up the bone fast enough,” he said, folding it into a packet. “I plan to bet on you.”

  Pocketing his medication, I grinned at that note of confidence.

  “Good,” he said, tossing me a tin box emblazoned with the words West Indies Cigar Company. “That’s for Framji Senior! See that he gets it tonight.”

  * * *

  At seven o’clock that evening, dressed up and polished like a ceremonial sabre, I trotted up the white stairs and stepped into Framji Mansion again.

  I had glimpsed Diana only once last week as she leaned from a carriage that passed me at the gate. While I ached for the sight of her, I dreaded it too, for wanting it too much. I had honored her father’s wishes, weighed them greater than my fondness for her sharp wit, her ready compassion, my joy in her smile. And yet, faced with the prospect of telling her so, I balked. I needed to see her, to explain.

  As I entered the foyer, Diana slipped out of the morning room. Her blue dress swirled against her ankles. “Captain Jim. I hoped you’d come.”

  Was she waiting for me? Captain, she’d said, her manner subdued. I felt heavy with regret. “Miss Diana,” I said, returning to formal address. Her hair was piled up, as it had been at her ball. “Is there a soiree tonight?”

  “No. I’ve something to tell you. Come.” She caught my hand and tugged me to a small door. I followed, mystified, into a chamber without windows, ten feet across. Diana fiddled with a lamp, turned it up and closed the door, saying, “It’s the coat room. That side opens to the ballroom.”

  Having her near was to drink after weeks in the desert. Those delicate fingers, now clenched at her side in folds of pale blue. Her arms, slender and so perfectly shaped, her softly heaving bosom. A pulse flickered in the indentation of her neck. Jewels trembled at her earlobe to send blue flashes flying on the wall.

  Diana searching my face, wide eyes dark and questioning.

  “Jim, have I done something awful?”

  Startled, I said, “No. Why d’
you ask?”

  Diana winced. “You look so stern. And you’ve a bruise, there.” She pointed to my cheekbone. “I haven’t seen you in so long.”

  “Your father…” I began.

  She caught my hand, her fingers cool against my skin. “I know. Oh Jim. I’m so sorry.”

  Her touch unlocked me. I breathed in the sight of her. She knew, and mourned what could not be.

  “What did you want to tell me?”

  Diana said quietly, “Ranjpoot. Akbar is to be king. His coronation is set for October.”

  It was the first I’d heard of it. “Is the Rani dead?”

  “No. This isn’t in the papers. Akbar plans to take the throne,” she whispered.

  I bent to her. “How do you know?”

  Her skin blushed deep rose, from her bosom to the peak of her forehead.

  “At the Petits’ last night, when the men went off to smoke, I made an excuse and … hid on the balcony outside the smoking room. Overheard the Ministry man tell McIntyre. Akbar’s made arrangements to pay the inheritance tax.” She broke off and said, “Oh Jim. You’re angry with me. I know I shouldn’t have. But I had to do something. No one will tell me about you.”

  Diana had snooped, hoping for news of me.

  “I’m not angry.” I remembered the gift of cigars in my breast pocket. “Diana, did you speak with Doctor Jameson?”

  She bit her lip. “I had to. Just to know you’re well.”

  She had visited the infirmary, alone by the sound of it, to ask Jameson about me. That was why he seemed so exasperated with me. Jameson had seen how it was with her, and sent me to the Framjis with the box of cigars as a pretext. That crafty sod. I owed him!

  “Diana.”

  She looked startled. “Are you all right? You look strange.”

  The devil with it, I thought. She was the sparkle in my world, the one I waited to tell my discoveries to, whose opinion I valued even over Adi’s. With her, each moment turned magical, anticipated all day and savored the next. Not for anything would I cause her parents harm. But I loved Diana—would they not reconcile to it?