by Nev March
“Captain Sahib!” Gurung touched his forehead, relieved to see me.
“Everything all right?” I asked in Hindustani, dismissing the Durwan.
Gurung grimaced. “Diana Memsahib wants to speak with you. She is waiting in the carriage.”
Crikey! No wonder he couldn’t give the Durwan that message! I hurried to clean up, wondering what Diana wanted. Fifteen minutes later, I climbed into the Framjis’ enclosed Gharry carriage.
Looking rather gaunt, Diana wore a long, divided skirt and white shirtwaist. She wore no gloves. She scanned my face. “How are you?”
“No permanent damage,” I replied, trying to gauge her mood.
She would not hold my glance, but examined my bruised jaw and temple. Brushing my shoulder, she said, “Shouldn’t you rest?”
Alarmed by her haunted look, I asked, “What’s happened?”
Her lips twitched in the semblance of a smile. “I had to see you.”
I measured her reply. Her shoulders were tight and stiff. “There’s more, isn’t there?”
She nodded, her face flushed, secretive. “Akbar. He’s been seen. McIntyre’s man spotted him at the races. He got away before the Havildar could raise a cry.”
“And you know this, how?”
She smiled, a full-blown grin that arrowed into me. “I overheard Papa on the telephone with McIntyre.”
“And you snuck away to tell me. Dash it, Diana, your father will be livid.”
“He doesn’t own me. I had to … warn you. Akbar will probably come for you. You beat him. He’ll hate that.” Her pearly teeth caught her lower lip. “People like him can be vicious. He won’t play fair, Jim.”
I caught the hand that had clutched my sleeve and raised it to my lips.
Her glowing smile churned my insides, because I did not deserve it.
“Diana, don’t. Don’t look like that. You’ve got some romantic notion of me. I’m not that man.”
“Aren’t you? All right. Who are you, then?”
Smith’s story echoed in my mind, some of it still missing from my memory. I did not recall firing on the Pathans, nor reaching my comrades. But that last fight with the Pathan leader? I remembered his throat under my palm, the feel of him as he twitched and shook.
Did I deserve to go on, to seek my own happiness? I stared down at my hands. “I’ve … killed … natives, my own countrymen.”
Her fingers tightened on mine. “You had a duty to the uniform. To your Company. To your friends!”
“I couldn’t save them, most of them,” I said, remembering Father Thomas, his serene face, now chiding me. Such sorrow in his blue eyes. Had he guessed my tattered inner state? I’d survived skirmishes before, shot at the enemy from a distance. But Karachi was different. Was there a moment when I could have stopped, should have stopped? But I could not think, then, only knew if I released my hold the Pathan would lash out and I had not the strength to overcome him again. Was it self-defense? I did not know. I could not expect her to understand, nor would I speak of it.
Diana squeezed my hands. “Listen to me!” Her fingers touched my jaw, turning me to her. “It was an awful time. You did what you had to. Leave the past behind.”
I read her face and found only concern. Determination. She saw me as I am, and did not turn away. Her fingers clutched my coat in fretful impatience.
“Jim, why do you put others above yourself? I cannot understand it!”
I gathered her to me and she came willingly. With her near, only the present mattered. Whatever I had done or left undone faded, regrets slipped away, the burn of self-recriminations eased. Why did she value me so? I stopped questioning it, grateful it was so.
Sometime later the clock tower chimed the quarter hour. It had chimed before, while we spoke. Adi and her parents did not know where she was.
“Let’s get you home.”
“All right,” she said against my chest, then pouted. “You’re sweaty.”
I laughed out loud, leaned my head out of the window and roused Gurung to action.
Diana clung to me on the short ride back, joyful moments of whispered confessions and endearments. Notwithstanding my malodorous state, we held as close as possible in a carriage that bounced and jolted over cobbles, hitting every stone in the road. Somehow, I had to convince Burjor to let her marry me.
CHAPTER 65
RETURN TO THE CLOCK TOWER
We arrived at the house too soon for my liking. The carriage rocked to a halt and Diana’s arms squeezed around my neck, her face warm against mine. I chuckled as she uncurled off my lap and arranged her clothing.
When I stepped out and handed her down, Burjor hurried down the stairs in a panic.
“Diana!” he boomed. “Thank God you’re safe!”
Surely that was unwarranted, I thought in confusion. I was no threat to Diana.
“Child, where were you?” Mrs. Framji’s voice had a frightened pitch. “Adi got a letter while we were out. He rushed off right away.”
Perspiration beading his forehead, Burjor thrust a page at me. “Captain, read this.”
In the fading light, I read the note aloud: “Agnihotri, I have the last Miss Framji. Come to the Clock Tower alone. Or she falls, at eight o’clock.”
My pocket watch showed it was seven thirty-six. Akbar had left the note unsigned. Byram’s editorial had cornered him, so he’d moved against us again. Yet his plot must have gone awry, because Diana was safe with me. Adi, however, did not know that.
Looking pale, Diana said, “I was supposed to go to the theater with friends. I begged off at the last minute because…”
Because she had to see me. If she hadn’t, she might have stepped into Akbar’s trap. The note was addressed to me, and I’d not been at the house in days. Now I feared for Adi, gone to the clock tower in my place. I swore under my breath. Until I stopped Akbar, those I loved would always be at risk.
“You’ve alerted McIntyre?” I asked Burjor.
He nodded. “I returned ten minutes ago and saw this. Called him right away.”
“When did Adi leave?”
He conferred with Gurung and said, “Almost half an hour ago.”
Adi could not hope to hold off a beast like Akbar for long. The prince could have killed him already, but I thought not. Akbar was a showman. Why kill Adi without an audience?
Hoping I wasn’t too late, I called to Gurung, “Saddle the horses. You’re coming with me. Ganju’s to secure the house.”
As I took my leave, Burjor stood, tight-lipped, clenching and unclenching his hands.
Diana said, “Jim, I’m coming. Last time you sent me off for cartridges and left. Not this time!”
Burjor frowned, aghast. “Child, are you mad? You cannot!”
Agreeing with him, I said, “Diana, no.”
She cried, “Papa, Adi’s in trouble! I can help. Jim, don’t treat me like a child!”
Did she not understand? If she came, my mind would be divided. I needed to think of Adi. “Think what you will of me, Diana, I cannot risk you.”
As I turned away, Diana caught my arm. “Jim! Think like a General! I can take orders as well as any man.”
Seeing my hesitation, Burjor clenched a fist in his hair and groaned. Lips tight, Diana was fierce in her resolve. Adi was in trouble, so she would follow anyway. With or without me. Better to keep her where I had a smidgen of control.
“Right,” I sighed, wondering how to keep her safe.
“Captain!” cried Burjor. “Here, you’ll need this.” Barreling down to me, he pressed a revolver into my hand. Adi’s Webley, the twin of my own. It was loaded.
Grateful, I stashed it securely. I would not leave it in my saddlebag this time.
“What’s our plan?” cried Diana as we ran to the stables.
Plan? I didn’t have one.
Akbar’s note was addressed to me. He wanted me, not Adi. This was personal. It wasn’t just losing the fight—Byram’s editorial made Akbar a hunted man. His ship impounde
d, his finances in tatters from betting heavily on the certain outcome of our match, he’d lost both reputation and fortune. He could still hide away, but he wouldn’t. He was furious. It made him more dangerous.
What was my plan? I improvised. “I’ll hold Akbar off until McIntyre arrives.” Hold him off and try not to get Adi or myself killed.
We mounted quickly. Over my shoulder, I told Diana, “Wait for McIntyre. Whatever happens, Diana! Stay with Gurung.”
Once I ensured Gurung understood his charge, I dug in my heels and sent the mare bounding down the path, leaving Diana and Gurung to follow.
The clock tower chimed seven as I sped over the causeway, urging the mare on.
Surely not? Surely it was not yet eight?
It rang again—as I charged down Queens Necklace, the coastal road. Then eight again. What the devil?
Adi. He was alive. He’d got into the carillon room and sent a warning I could not possibly miss.
I bolted across the maidaan, yanked the mare around a bullock cart to clatter past the High Court, my heart thudding away. What was the time? Tree limbs obscured the clock face, high above. At the tower vestibule I leapt off the mare and left her snorting as I pounded up the narrow, coiled stairway, revolver in hand. I ran stooped, for the ceiling was low. To either side, cold stone brushed my arms.
The bells were silent when I reached the door to the gallery. Where was Adi? No sound but my own breathing filled the narrow space. I peered through the half-open door, trying to see what I was walking into.
“Come out, Captain!” called Akbar from the gallery outside. He’d heard me.
There was really no choice, after all. I stepped out, weapon at the ready.
Against a splendid crimson sky, Adi sat astride the parapet, one leg over the side. His hands were bound together before him.
Akbar stood beside him in a neat suit, as dapper as a Bond Street gentleman.
“Here you are,” he said. “Barely in time!”
I clicked off the safety and pointed my revolver. “Let him go.”
Akbar’s smile broadened. One hand lay flat on Adi’s chest. “So we have an impasse, eh? You have a revolver; I have your friend. It should be the girl, but no matter. He’ll do.”
Adi said, “Dammit, Jim.” Blood dripped from his chin, anguish in the twist of his mouth. He hated being the bait. He’d got away from Akbar to send me a warning and taken a blow to his face as punishment. One push, and Akbar would send my friend over the edge to join his dead bride. Nothing could break his fall.
Nothing? I saw a way for him to hold on, but how could I tell him?
I called out, “Adi, Diana’s safe. I held her. Her arms around my neck.”
Adi stared. Did he understand? I could not tell.
“You!” Akbar spat, livid. “A half-breed! And Diana—the Parsee princess.”
His hand clenched in Adi’s shirt. His face twitched, close to madness—why? He’d not known about Diana and me! How could I pull him back, barter with him? I flicked the safety back on and held up the pistol. “It’s me you want. Let him go.”
Akbar’s eyes glittered as he calculated his next move. “Put the gun down. Kick it away.” To make good the threat, he extended his arm, holding Adi over the drop by his shirt.
Adi leaned sideways, trying to hug the parapet with his knees. That would not help if Akbar thrust him over.
“All right!” I held up the pistol, bent and set it on the ground. “Here! You win.”
Instead of appeasing Akbar, it seemed to enrage him.
“You should have left well enough alone! I had a chance to take back India!” he bit out, his face a mask of fury. “You interfered with my ship. I should have had you killed on Princess Street.”
To distract him, I cried, “My sister, Chutki. Why did you take her?”
He grinned, teeth showing in a snarl. “That hurt, eh? You should have stopped then.” Mouth twisting in rage, he said, “I was named for an emperor! It was my destiny!”
His palm shot out and shoved Adi in the chest.
I had a choice, I truly did. I could snap off a shot, or try to catch my friend.
“No!” I raced forward as Adi fell.
But Adi had understood my message, or perhaps he acted upon instinct. His arms, bound at the wrist, went over Akbar’s head, catching around his neck. Adi’s unexpected weight pulled Akbar forward over the parapet.
It bought me time—just enough time to reach out, grab a fistful of Adi’s clothes and haul him back over the edge. Entangled, Adi struggled to free himself of Akbar.
Akbar bellowed his frustration, butted against us like a tethered bull. He grappled in fury, pummeled, thrusting and gouging at me while I strove to pull Adi away. At last Adi came free. I shoved him to the side. But now Akbar had me in a headlock, his elbow tight around my neck.
Helpless, choking, I met Adi’s horrified glance. My fingers tore uselessly at Akbar’s iron arm. Such pressure on my throat. My vision dimmed—I could not stand it much longer.
Stand it. Stand. Could not stand. I slumped, let my full weight fall on Akbar’s arm. Unbalanced, he dropped forward, breaking his hold.
I twisted, heaving, my lungs screaming for air. Breathe! My throat on fire, I staggered up, backed away. Akbar did not take his eyes off me.
We circled, gauging the distance and each other. Akbar advanced, his hand pulling something from his waist, while I retreated, gasping.
Hooves rattled on the cobbles below. McIntyre? He was taking his own bloody time getting here.
Akbar’s arm lashed out in a curve. Damn. He had a knife.
I jerked back just in time. His blade sliced across my chin, stinging. Blood dripped, warm down my throat.
The parapet hit the back of my hip, bringing me up short. I’d run out of room.
His fist cracked down on my wounded shoulder. Pain drove me now—all I could see was Akbar.
He smiled. “I’m going to take you apart.” His blade sliced, missing me by a hair, swung back for another pass.
I grabbed his wrist, sliding my forearm against his as I held him off.
We might have been evenly matched at the start, but now Akbar held the advantage. He had the blade. My shoulder shrieked from the weight of my useless right arm.
In the army I’d heard the whine of bullets that buzz by with a deadly sting, known they’d be the last thing I’d feel. Now my ears hummed as I strained, one-armed against Akbar’s fearsome bulk, too weak to push him away.
His eyes flashed as he understood my predicament.
In my early boxing days, I lost many fights. There was a moment when I knew how it would go, the inevitability of it plain, immutable even. I had that sense now, of how this would end. Akbar would kill me, then turn on my friend Adi crouched by the door.
“Adi,” I said, choking, “Go! Get away.”
I could hold Akbar off no more. Exhausted, I shuddered against the press of his bulk. I would die here. Had Lady Bacha felt this when she made her last stand on these stones? She’d chosen how she would die—no one could take that from her. So would I. I still held a final card, one I did not want to use. Already we teetered against the tower wall, leaned out over it, pressed ever further by Akbar’s prodigious strength. I would turn sideways and take us both over.
Trouble was, I didn’t want Adi to see it. With the blade at my neck, I could not move to spot him. Instead I listened for a footfall toward the door. Go, Adi. Go.
“Checkmate,” Akbar hissed.
“Why did you do it? The Framji girls. Why kill them?” I cried, in a last-ditch attempt to distract him.
He sneered, “The women? Why do you care? Just useless women.”
His blade neared, touched my skin with its cold kiss. His breath huffed into my face.
I heard the unmistakable click of a pistol cocked to fire. Adi? Had he found my weapon near the door?
Diana’s voice cut the air. “Let him go.”
Akbar’s smile widened, revealing perfect t
eeth, inches away. “I warned you, Diana.”
“And I told you! Stay away from my family!” Diana cried.
I told you? Diana knew him. She knew Akbar! I weakened, felt the blade’s bite.
A shot boomed nearby, deafening me.
Akbar looked astonished. He crumpled, pulling me sideways. Meshed to him, awash in pain, I saw darkness. Hands tugged at me, rolled me over. My head hit a flagstone. A voice barked words that echoed and faded.
I was awash in emotion. All my life I had longed for a family, someone to love. Now I loved, and it hurt. It burned inside me, tearing its way out, cutting sharper than the twinge in my neck. The thickness inside me felt heavier, filling, choking, pouring inside, pouring out. I loved not just Diana but all of them: my cool-headed friend Adi; Burjor—my staunch ally even when I did not obey him; the trust in Mrs. Framji’s warm look; Chutki, who would always be with me; Razak’s fervent grin, the warm weight of those little chaps Parimal and Hari, and that sweet-smelling infant Baadal. They were with me still. I had not left them.
A handful of stars lay scattered in the twilit sky. Distant and weary, I watched streaks of red and gold in the blue curtain above. Hands touched my face, my neck.
Diana.
Light splintered across her face. I watched her lips move, hearing almost nothing. Diana’s lips said, “Jim!” then, “Adi, he’s bleeding!”
Her hands trembled upon me. Something pressed to my neck, pinching with urgency. Voices cracked and rattled around the gallery, dropping and rolling like pebbles. I’d learned something awful just before I fell. What was it? I drew a shaking breath, raised a hand to touch her, and remembered. It cut me deeper than Akbar’s blade, reached that thickness inside, told me, no, you’re wrong, this is a lie.
My words formed slowly, came out slurred. “Akbar. You knew him. All this time.”
I had ached to belong, to be part of them, part of her. But Diana was not who I thought she was.
I let go.
CHAPTER 66
MELTDOWN
Doctor Jameson kept me in hospital the next day, while Superintendent McIntyre prodded me with questions. I slept, dropping off midsentence, cursing the hypodermic that was never far from Jameson’s reach.
