by Khan, Vaseem
They parked at the top of the southern edge of the Bori Bunder maidan, got out, then began to walk along the tree-lined path that skirted the field. At this time of day the path was all but deserted; Persis imagined that early in the morning it would have been even quieter, the perfect spot for an ambush. In between the trees, they caught flashes of children playing cricket on the maidan, the odd sleeping drunk. Stray dogs licked at the patchy grass.
‘You haven’t asked me about Herriot’s trousers.’
She inclined her head but did not look at him or slow her pace. Dried leaves crunched beneath their feet. A pig grunted along the lane, trailed by a litter of piglets.
‘I took the liberty of examining them this morning. There are some excellent new techniques in the analysis of blood markings that I thought I would use – the Americans, in particular, have made great progress recently, though the science is still not admissible in a court of law.’
She said nothing, her long legs eating up the path. He found himself hurrying to keep pace.
‘There’s a significant amount of blood on the trousers, of that there’s no doubt. The problem is this: the type of staining does not tally with what I’d expected to find.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Sir James was knifed in the throat. Blood from that wound would have projected downwards on to his trousers in the form of arterial spray. The shape of such droplets is dictated by physics – large, individual stains. But what I found on the trousers is more akin to what we call transfer stains, when an object comes into contact with existing bloodstains, leaving pattern transfers such as bootprints or, as in this case, smears. They could not have been deposited at the time Sir James was knifed. Ergo, he could not have been wearing the trousers at that time. It looks as if the killer smeared the trousers in Sir James’s blood after the fact.’
In the branches of the tree behind her a brainfever bird sounded its piercing three-note call, startling them both.
‘Why?’ Persis asked.
But Blackfinch had no answer to this.
She worked the problem in her mind. If Singh had killed Herriot, then it must have been just after Herriot’s tryst, before he had had a chance to dress. If they could find the woman he had been with, perhaps she might have seen something as she departed? It still made no sense to her that Singh had taken the trousers.
That question stayed with her as they rounded a curve and encountered a red flag that had been planted at the base of a sprawling banyan tree. This was all that remained to mark the end of Vishal Mistry. According to the report, his body had been discovered hidden within the coiled lower branches of the banyan. It had lain there for four days before a passing pedestrian had been alerted to it by his dog. This section of the path was screened from prying eyes by banyan trees on either side. The perfect spot for a murder.
They scratched around in the dirt for a while, but there was little to see. Whatever evidence had been here had been swept up by the authorities. She hoped they had been thorough.
‘Mistry’s sister said that he left home earlier than usual. Yet he did not have any planned appointment, certainly none that his assistant at the shop was aware of. So why was he out here so early in the morning?
‘The policeman who notified me that Mistry’s body had been found told me something else about him,’ she added. ‘Apparently, he was known to the authorities. He had come to their attention following Partition as a man willing to deal in stolen jewellery. A lot of that sort of thing happened during the troubles, theft and looting, I mean. Mistry was accused of acting as a link between those in possession of such items and those willing to pay for them. None of this was proved, and Mistry was never charged. But the feeling is that there was no smoke without fire.’
She noticed Blackfinch glancing at his watch. ‘Is there somewhere else you have to be?’
A flash of guilt swam over his face. ‘I have a luncheon appointment. A lady friend. She doesn’t like to be kept waiting.’
Unbidden, an image of Elizabeth Campbell leaped into her mind. Persis turned away. ‘Do not let me keep you.’ Her tone was cold and she felt instantly embarrassed by her reaction.
‘Well. Right. If you’re sure,’ he said. ‘I mean, there really isn’t much else to see here anyway.’
‘Feel free to leave at any time.’
‘Yes.’ Still, he hesitated.
She deliberately ignored him, dropping to her haunches and pretending to examine minutely some scat on the ground as if perhaps it held a vital clue to the case.
Finally, she heard him walk away. He stopped at the edge of the clearing. ‘Persis?’
She looked up, but did not turn her head.
‘A little gratitude never hurt anyone.’
He tramped off, leaving her with a buzzing in her ears. Whether it was from anger or humiliation she could not tell.
Back at Malabar House she parked the jeep then stopped off at Afzal’s tea stall, a fixture on the corner of the nearby junction for as long as anyone could remember. The stick-thin old man, dressed in Congress white, bowed exaggeratedly. ‘The nation’s newest heroine. I am honoured.’
She gave him a withering look. As he prepared her a milky tea and a cucumber and chutney sandwich, her thoughts continued to graze over the case. Facts were piling upon facts. New avenues of investigation opening up. And yet clarity was no nearer.
Was Singh the killer? If not, then who?
The connection to Vishal Mistry was significant; only a fool would deny that. It was too much of a coincidence that the jeweller had been murdered the morning after Herriot’s own killing. But what had bound the two men? Was it even correct to assume that the same man had killed both Herriot and Mistry? A similar-looking wound was hardly evidence of that fact.
Seated at her desk, Persis dwelt on the things that continued to bother her. She now knew that Herriot had journeyed north, to Punjab, just before his death. The train ticket stub confirmed this. Thinking of the stub reminded her of the note found in the same jacket. The sheet had been taken from the Golden Temple Hotel. It seemed reasonable that he had written that note while he was doing whatever he was doing in the north.
She pulled out her notebook, where she had copied down the name and the strange annotation.
BAKSHI. PLT41/85ACRG11.
She tried to work the letters and numbers around, but only came up with more meaningless jumbles.
What if she broke up the sequence? She picked up her pen again and rewrote the sequence, this time inserting dashes in the most logical places.
PLT-41/85-ACRG-11
Nothing.
She stared at the wall in frustration. On the wall was a map of Bombay. As she gazed at it a tickle feathered the back of her mind.
She continued to look at the map. The city had been dissected into a cartographic grid; along one axis the letters A–K, along the other the numbers 1–14. Malabar House lay squarely in grid G7. A grid.
She looked back down at the enigmatic code, then rewrote it, this time changing one dash.
PLT-41/85-ACR-G11
G11.
What if this were a grid reference? If so, then it hinted at the meaning of ACR. She had seen the annotation before – on rural field maps. ACR was usually an abbreviation for ‘acres’.
Could this code refer to eighty-five acres of land in grid square G11? If so, then it was a good bet that PLT-41 meant ‘plot 41’, another common way of referring to parcels of land in rural areas. But on what map was the grid? And why would all this have mattered to Herriot?
It was likely that he had scribbled these details down while in Punjab. In which case, it made sense that, if the note did indeed refer to a plot of land, then it would be there.
Who did the plot belong to? Bakshi? If so, who was Bakshi? Did this have something to do with Herriot’s work for the Partition Commission? She wrestled with the problem for a while, then surrendered.
There was something else she needed to turn her energies to.
Chapter 18
The sun was beginning to dip behind Laburnum House as Persis pulled the jeep up to the gates. She waited while the guards leaped into action, then navigated her way up the drive to park beside the exterior fountain, a concrete stallion, raised on hind legs, hooves flailing at the air.
She was greeted by the housekeeper, Lalita Gupta. The woman, dressed in a bottle-green sari, looked apprehensive. She led Persis through to a tobacco-panelled drawing room where Madan Lal was drinking tea as he examined a selection of broadsheets.
His eyes widened, but he recovered quickly. ‘Apologies for not returning your calls, Inspector,’ he said, gesturing at the sofa opposite, as Gupta left the room. ‘I have been a little preoccupied.’ He bent his slight frame over the teapot. ‘May I pour you a cup? It’s a Darjeeling blend. Frightfully expensive. I suspect we won’t be ordering more for a while.’
He tinkled the spoon around the porcelain teacup, then handed it to Persis.
‘Not that imminent bankruptcy curtailed James’s extravagance. Appearances were everything to him.’
He pointed the teaspoon over her shoulder at a tiger skin on the wall. ‘This was his cardroom. He and his collection of hangers-on would sit here all night carousing and playing poker. He used to tell people that he shot that tiger in Bengal, on a hunt with a local maharaja. It was a lie, of course. That was the first thing I learned about him, Inspector. James was an accomplished liar. It’s what made him such a canny politician.’
She sensed a subtle change in the way Lal spoke about his erstwhile employer. The cloying respect had vanished, to be replaced with an edge of cynicism.
She launched right in. ‘Why didn’t you tell me that you served with Maan Singh during the war? That he is Mrs Gupta’s brother.’
Panic flared in his eyes. Recovering quickly, he said, ‘It was not relevant.’
‘Everything is relevant!’ She forced herself to calm. ‘You deliberately withheld information.’
‘As I said, it was not relevant.’
‘He was your comrade, your friend. How is it that you are so ready to believe that he is a murderer?’
His expression hardened. ‘Yes, Maan and I fought together; but we were never close. After the war, we lost touch. Then, one day, he called me out of the blue and told me that his sister was looking for work in Bombay. We were in need of a housekeeper and so I offered her the job. Later, when we needed a new driver for Sir James she suggested Maan. I called him and he readily agreed. If I had had any idea that he harboured ill intent towards James . . .’
‘Why did you lie about how Singh ended up at Laburnum House?’
‘I did not wish to complicate matters. Maan is an intensely private individual. He is very guarded about his past.’
She stared at him. Could she trust this man? She was certain he was not telling her everything.
‘We found the body of Vishal Mistry.’
‘Who?’ He seemed genuinely confused.
‘The jeweller Sir James met in his study on the evening of his death. He was murdered the following morning.’
‘Why are you telling me this?’
‘Doesn’t it strike you as an extraordinary coincidence?’
He shrugged. ‘I didn’t know the man or why James was meeting him.’
She changed tack. ‘Did you know that Sir James was planning to take a stake in the Gulmohar Club?’
‘You must be mistaken.’
‘There’s no mistake.’
His mouth drew into a grimace. ‘How could he afford that?’
‘That’s just one of the many questions I’m trying to answer. Perhaps he wasn’t as bankrupt as we all believe.’
They stared at each other and then retreated into their teacups like soldiers agreeing a momentary truce.
Lal broke the silence. ‘Why are you continuing to pursue this? I mean, you’ve solved the case, you’re being fêted by the nation’ – he waved at the newspapers sprawled over the coffee table – ‘so why do you care?’
The answer to that question was more complex than Persis could easily put into words.
‘You’re an idealist,’ said Lal, supplying his own answer.
‘You say that as if it were an insult.’
Another silence.
‘What will you do now?’ asked Persis. ‘I mean, if there really is no money . . .’
‘I don’t know,’ said Lal, but the manner in which he said this was unconvincing.
‘You’re not being entirely honest with me.’
Lal merely lifted his teacup back to his mouth.
She tilted her chin. ‘Sir James was not quite the man you made him out to be.’
‘It behoves no one to speak ill of the dead. Like us all James had his faults. But he was a man who achieved great things.’
‘Yes. For one, he saved you from spending a very long time in prison.’
He frowned. ‘What do you mean?’
‘At Imphal. You murdered three men in cold blood. Somehow Sir James kept you out of a military prison. I suppose that sort of thing can buy a man’s loyalty.’
He seemed stricken. When he finally spoke, his voice had risen several octaves. ‘You have no right to investigate my past.’
‘I have every right to investigate this case in any manner I see fit.’
‘This case is over!’ he exploded. His fists were clenched and he began to rise.
For an instant, fear beat at her like the wings of a giant bird. Her hand strayed to the revolver at her hip. Perhaps Lal saw the movement, or perhaps he realised that he had lost control of himself. He was a man who hated losing control. Because when he did, the results were terrifying, as those men at Imphal had discovered.
‘Didn’t you tell me that you wanted to know the truth?’ continued Persis. ‘I am not yet certain that Maan Singh killed Sir James.’
His dark eyes contracted to pinpoints of shadow. He ground out: ‘I will be lodging an official complaint with your senior officer.’
She found the housekeeper in her office at the rear of the house.
Gupta stood as she entered.
‘Why didn’t you tell me that you knew Lal and Singh before your employment here? That Singh is your brother?’
She blinked rapidly. ‘It – it did not seem important.’
‘What else haven’t you told me? I want the truth.’
‘I assure you—’
‘I know that Sir James entertained a woman in his office on the night of his death. Was it you?’
She looked aghast. ‘No! How could you think that?’
Persis considered asking about Gupta’s son, revealing her suspicions on that front, but then decided to wait until Birla returned with something concrete.
‘Then who?’ Persis pressed in on the woman. Gupta seemed ready to flee. ‘I will find out.’
Silence.
‘Do the newspapers know that Maan Singh is your brother? I can ensure that they do. By tomorrow, there will be a queue a mile long outside your door. They won’t stop until they’ve torn your life apart. Perhaps you’ll be willing to talk then?’
Gupta stared in horror at the policewoman, then lowered her eyes. ‘If I tell you, you must promise to keep my relationship to Maan a secret.’
‘I promise they will not find out from me.’
A shudder passed through the housekeeper. ‘I believe Sir James was involved with Elizabeth Campbell.’
Persis was stunned. ‘You must be mistaken.’
‘I – I saw them together. Here at the house. Some days before his death. I walked in on them . . . embracing. It was obvious.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me this before?’
‘Because it is none of my business,’ she said wretchedly. ‘None of this is.’
Gravel ground beneath her feet as she marched from the front porch back to her jeep. Gupta’s revelation had shaken her. Why would the beautiful young Scotswoman entertain a man like Herriot? The thought of it made her queasy. But it mi
ght explain why Herriot had begun to avoid Robert Campbell. And if Campbell had found out . . .
She heard footsteps and turned to find Madan Lal descending on her. ‘Inspector,’ he said through a primly pursed mouth, ‘I have just been told that you questioned Mrs Gupta.’
‘I did.’ Persis was intrigued by the PA’s ire. What was troubling Lal?
‘I must insist that you do not bother her any further.’
‘Why? What is it that you’re not telling me?’
Lal gazed at her in silent fury.
‘What did you and Sir James fight about on the evening of his death?’
Silence.
‘Why did you call Malabar House? Was it your hope that the case would not be investigated properly? If so, you made a mistake.’ She turned and ducked into the jeep, accelerating away in a clatter of gravel, Lal a neat figure dwindling in her rear-view mirror.
The aide was as good as his word.
She stopped off at Malabar House to inform Seth of all that she had discovered – about Lal and Singh, about Elizabeth Campbell – and was instantly made to regret it.
In the time that she had known him, she had rarely seen Roshan Seth worked up in fury.
‘Did you have to poke the tiger in the eye?’ he seethed. ‘Lal called. Have you any idea how much trouble that man can make for us?’
‘I’m going where the case takes me.’
‘What case? The case is ended. I asked you to be discreet.’
‘Lal cannot be trust—’
Seth slapped the desk. She stared at him. ‘You don’t get it, do you, Persis? They’ve already taken away my career. Another wrong move and they’ll take away my uniform. What will I do then?’ He sighed. ‘The problem with you, Persis, is that you’re so blinded by your own ambition, your own sense of righteousness, that you don’t see anything else. It’s my own fault. I keep forgetting that you are young and inexperienced. The young are always selfish, even when they don’t think they are.’
