by Vaseem Khan
A disturbance had broken out at a rally Sam and his pregnant wife had been attending. In fleeing, Sam had crashed their car, killing Sanaz and losing the use of his own legs in the process.
For two decades, Sam had kept the truth from her, allowing her to believe that the British had been directly responsible for her mother’s death. When he’d finally come clean, it had proved anticlimactic. Too much time had elapsed. She could no longer summon up the ghost of her mother at will, as she had been able to in her youth. Sanaz was now a memory, one that continued to haunt her father, but only flickered at the edges of her own consciousness.
She told them about the Bible John Healy had left behind, the inscription he’d written inside. ‘The Greek words mean “follow the truth”. I can’t work out what the first part is. What’s in a name? It sounds familiar but I can’t place it.’
Sam’s brow crunched. They both stared into the distance, wrestling with the problem.
‘That?’ said Nussie, focused on her plate. ‘It’s from Shakespeare.’
Sam looked at her incredulously. ‘You know what that means?’
She patted a napkin around her mouth. ‘Don’t sound so condescending. Frankly, I’m surprised you don’t. I thought you ran a bookshop.’
Sam glared at her. Persis could see that her aunt was savouring the moment. She put a hand on Nussie’s arm. ‘Tell me.’
‘Well, it’s from Romeo and Juliet.’ She cleared her throat. ‘ “ ’Tis but thy name that is my enemy; thou art thyself, though not a Montague. What’s Montague? It is nor hand, nor foot, nor arm, nor face, nor any other part belonging to a man. O, be some other name! What’s in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.” ’ She beamed. ‘I played Juliet in our college production.’
Persis vaguely recalled the quote now. She’d read Shakespeare diligently as a teen but Romeo and Juliet had never been one of her favourites.
She considered the play. What could it possibly have to do with anything? The quote referred to Juliet’s dilemma; namely, that had Romeo been named anything other than Montague, their romance might have proceeded without hindrance.
Why would Healy write this above the two Greek words? Akoloutheo Aletheia. Follow the truth. The two lines had to be related in some way . . .
‘While we’re on the subject of romance,’ continued Nussie, not looking at Persis, ‘I don’t suppose you bumped into any eligible young men at the agiary?’
‘For God’s sake,’ spluttered Sam. ‘She didn’t go to the man’s death ceremony to find a husband.’
Nussie set down her napkin. ‘She’ll be twenty-eight years old next month. She refuses to be set up with anyone, refuses to come to any of the parties I organise. What should I do?’
‘Have you tried minding your own business?’
Nussie coloured. ‘She’s my only niece. I owe it to Sanaz.’ She turned to Persis. ‘If you won’t let me find you someone, then find someone suitable yourself.’
Someone suitable? Unbidden, Persis’s thoughts flashed to Archie Blackfinch. She could not think of someone less suitable in her aunt’s eyes than the handsome, awkward Englishman. Nussie was a modern woman, by Indian standards, but for a Parsee to marry an Englishman . . . unthinkable.
‘An unmarried woman is like a garden in need of a gardener,’ continued Nussie.
Persis pulled off her napkin and stood up. ‘I’m going downstairs to find a copy of Romeo and Juliet.’
‘You see what you’ve done?’ growled Sam.
She leaned down and kissed Nussie on the forehead, then turned and walked on to the landing. From here, she took the rear stairs down into the bookshop.
A ghostly radiance filled the shop, lamplight falling in through the shop’s bay windows from the street outside. Her father – and his father before him – had never bothered with shutters. During the various riots that had convulsed the city, the glass façade had been shattered more than once. Sam refused to hide behind a wall of steel, telling her that it would ruin the shop’s look: Doric columns in yellow sandstone, an ornamental frieze displaying muscular scenes from Zoroastrian mythology, and a pair of stone vultures perched high on plinths.
She wandered through the maze of shelves – order was something else her father had never bothered to instil in the shop. He knew where everything was, and that was all that mattered.
Somehow it worked.
The store had a longstanding and loyal clientele. Even in the war years, it had continued to do a brisk trade. For Persis, it had been a haven, a place to hide from the troubles of finding her way in the world. Growing up a single child, motherless, hampered by an independent-minded, prickly persona, it was inevitable that friends would be few and far between. Loneliness had become a way of life.
Her mind flashed back to Healy’s spartan home. There was a man who understood loneliness.
She made her way to the Classics section and walked her fingers along the shelves, eventually pulling out a copy of The Complete Works of Shakespeare, published by Oxford University Press.
She walked to the front of the shop and sat at her father’s counter. Akbar had followed her down, and now curled up by the door, staring up at her with his ghostly green eyes.
She turned to Romeo and Juliet, found the relevant passage – Act 2, Scene 2 – and spent some time going over it. But nothing new leaped out at her. If there was a hidden message that Healy was pointing to, it eluded her.
Finally, she rose, and returned the book to the shelf.
Another thought struck her. She walked now to the shop’s military books section.
She quickly found what she was looking for: Military Badges of the British Empire: From the Boer War to WW2.
She returned to the counter and placed the large volume atop it.
Closing her eyes, she summoned up an image of the brooch they had found by the body of the woman on the tracks. Three centimetres in height. A sword, a crossbow, a blazing sun. And on top: a red and gold crown. It was this that had given her the idea.
She had seen plenty of such crowns at the Anglo school she’d attended – the school badge had included one, set above a Latin quotation. She recalled a girl in her house, Felicity, whose father had served in the British air force. He’d been killed in action and Felicity had worn a military brooch for weeks afterwards, until her mother had decided to pull her out of the school and return to England.
Persis found what she was looking for towards the very end of the volume.
There it was, a pristine colour illustration of the badge on the brooch, beside it a brief description:
Royal Air Force Wyton station Pathfinder Airfield badge, the centre depicting a blazing sun surmounted by a bow pointed down and sword pointed upwards with the Latin motto ‘Verum Exquiro’ – Seek the Truth. Wyton Airfield has been in military use since 1916, firstly by the Royal Flying Corps, and later by its successor, the Royal Air Force. Various units served at Wyton during World War One and, more recently, World War Two.
Seek the truth. Verum Exquiro. She was struck by the synchronicity of the words, how they chimed with the words Healy had left behind.
Follow the truth.
She wasn’t sure how this new information took her any further forward. Her instincts told her that the woman from the tracks hadn’t served in the RAF at Wyton, though she couldn’t be sure.
How else might she have come into possession of the brooch? Might it be a lover’s gift? Persis had heard of such ‘sweetheart brooches’. She hadn’t noted a wedding band or engagement ring, but those might easily have vanished in the dead of night. She reminded herself to speak with the man who’d found the body.
An image of Fernandes reared up before her. Seth asked me to lead this investigation.
She stamped on her anger.
Perhaps the brooch was a memento mori, a keepsake of one now departed. More importantly, how could it help them to identify the woman?
A bicycle rattled by in the alley outsid
e. Akbar scrabbled to his feet, hissed through the glass.
Persis picked up the phone on her father’s counter and dialled.
‘Hello?’
‘It’s me,’ she said.
‘Persis!’ Blackfinch’s enthusiasm radiated from the receiver like the greeting of a wet dog.
‘I need your help.’
Quickly, she described the gruesome discovery on the tracks. ‘Can you fingerprint her? See if she’s in the records anywhere?’
‘Consider it done.’
‘Also . . . can you call Bhoomi and ask him to conduct the autopsy tomorrow?’
Raj Bhoomi was Bombay’s chief pathologist, and a friend of Archie Blackfinch’s.
‘What’s the rush?’
‘Can you do it?’
She imagined him frowning. ‘That was rather curt. Something about this has got under your skin.’
He was right, of course. In the short while they’d known each other, they had become attuned to each other’s thoughts. After a silence, he said, ‘I’ll call Raj. He owes me a favour. On another note . . . might I request the pleasure of your company at dinner tomorrow?’
She hesitated.
It was not that sharing a meal with the Englishman was an unattractive proposition; it was more the confusion that his presence engendered.
Her priorities were clear, to her, if to no one else.
The mantle of being India’s first female police detective was one that she wore lightly. But the advancement of her own career, that was a different matter. She had no wish to become embroiled in a romantic liaison, particularly one that might colour the image that others held of her. Until now, she hadn’t cared how she was perceived, but in the past month she had become – as others continually pointed out to her – a symbol, a woman whose actions provoked both plaudits and censure at a national level. To begin an affair with an Englishman . . . it was inconceivable. She would instantly be cast as one of those Indian women, the kind that had served as mistresses to their Anglo masters, even as their countrymen suffered.
On the other hand, there were professional matters that she needed to discuss with Blackfinch. The Englishman was as socially adept as a camel but there was no doubting his intelligence or his extensive knowledge of the forensic sciences.
‘Yes. That would be fine.’
‘Excellent. Shall we say eight o’clock at the Wayside?’
‘Very well.’
Back in her bed, with Akbar curled under the cotton sheets, her mind lingered on the woman from the tracks.
Who was she? What existential angst had brought her to death’s door at such a young age?
The grim thought followed her into a fitful sleep.
Chapter 7
An hour into the morning a peon arrived at Malabar House bearing an envelope from the Asiatic Society. Opening it, Persis discovered a sheet of paper inscribed with a list of John Healy’s acquaintances. The list was short and written in a flowing hand; at the bottom a complicated scribble marked Forrester’s signature.
Persis picked out the three names that Forrester had marked with an asterisk – these were the ones that Healy appeared particularly close to, though Forrester had given no indication as to the nature of the relationship.
Franco Belzoni
Erin Lockhart
James Ingram
She called Birla over.
‘I want you to do two things. First, make a tour of the local fences, the ones that handle high-ticket items. After that, pay each of these people a visit.’ She pointed at the names on Forrester’s list that hadn’t been marked with an asterisk.
‘What am I asking them?’
‘I want their impressions of Healy. Anything they can tell us, anything that might shed light on why he may have done this. Don’t mention the manuscript for now. Just tell them he’s missing and the family is worried.’
She watched Birla walk back to his desk, then picked up the phone.
Fifteen minutes later, she’d made appointments to meet with Belzoni and Lockhart. Ingram had proved harder to track down.
Seconds after she returned the receiver to its cradle, the phone rang. It was Blackfinch.
He had visited the morgue that morning to take fingerprint cards of the woman from the tracks. He hoped to have an answer for her by the time they met for dinner. At the morgue, he’d also taken the opportunity to confirm with the pathologist that the post-mortem would be expedited. It would take place later that day, at three p.m.
She thanked him and put down the phone.
Glancing over at Fernandes’s desk, she noted that he hadn’t been around all morning. Unusual. Fernandes might be a backstabbing, treacherous cad, but she couldn’t deny his commitment. He was rarely late or absent and seemed to live for his work.
As if summoned into the centre of a pentagram by the mere evoking of his name, the big policeman appeared, striding into the office towards his desk, taking off his cap and wiping a forearm across his sweaty brow.
‘Where have you been?’ she said, automatically.
Fernandes turned and stared at her. ‘I went to interview the man who found the body on the tracks.’
Her shoulders straightened. ‘And?’
‘He claims he took nothing from her. He didn’t even touch her. There was no point. She was dead and a white woman. He simply went on his way; but then his conscience got the better of him so he reported her to the Dongri station.’
‘Do you believe him?’
‘Yes.’
She paused. ‘The brooch we found belongs to a British Royal Air Force unit.’
‘How does that help us?’
‘I’m not sure yet.’ She hesitated. ‘I know a military historian. He’s a friend of my father’s. I’ll give you his details. Take the brooch to him and see what he says.’
‘We could just put her face in the newspaper.’
‘No.’ She stopped. She didn’t want to tell him that the same thought had occurred to her and she’d dismissed it. She didn’t want to risk alerting . . . who? There was no evidence of foul play. Family, then. She wouldn’t wish a loved one to discover a death as gruesome as this via a salacious headline.
His moustache twitched. ‘It’s my call. As the lead investigator.’
Anger flared at her temples, but she clamped her mouth shut. They stared at each other, until Fernandes sat down. ‘Very well. Let’s follow up what we have. For now.’
‘The post-mortem is scheduled for three p.m. at the Grant Medical College.’
‘So soon?’ His voice radiated surprise.
Bombay’s post-Partition growth spurt meant there were more people in the city than the infrastructure could handle. Nehru’s reforms were promising an economic miracle; in the meantime, the instability created by the withdrawal of the British, and the nationwide shortages caused by the economic troubles left in their wake, drew the poor to the city of dreams, an endless procession of the weary and the hopeful. But overcrowding and scarcity led to conflict. And conflict led to hostility.
The murder rate in the city had spiked, overloading the handful of qualified pathologists at Raj Bhoomi’s disposal. It was rare for a post-mortem to be conducted within a week, let alone a day.
She pulled open a drawer and took out the Bible that Healy had left behind.
Turning to the flyleaf, she considered again the inscription: What’s in a name? Akoloutheo Aletheia. There had to be a connection between the two lines, otherwise why place them together? The impression of Healy that she’d formed was that of a deliberate man. Why use ancient Greek? Why not simply write ‘follow the truth’ in plain English?
She recalled something Forrester had said at their first meeting about how language evolved over time; how the meanings of individual words could change.
An idea flashed a fin.
She stood, tucked the Bible under her arm, and headed for the door.
She found Neve Forrester in the Society’s basement, in a room labelled Conservation and Rest
oration. She stood, breathing down the neck of a slim Indian man half her age who was seated at a table, wearing white gloves and gently tweezering apart the pages of a manuscript that was either incredibly old or had seen better days. Sweat shone on his brow; every few seconds, a nervous twitch passed through his arm. Persis got the impression that his anxiety was at least partly induced by the hawk-like presence of Forrester.
‘May I speak with you a moment?’
Forrester stepped away. ‘How can I help you, Inspector?’
‘Is there anyone here who is an expert on ancient Greek?’ Quickly, she explained her conjecture.
Forrester’s pale eyes rested on her. ‘You’re not satisfied with my translation.’ It was a statement, rather than a question.
‘I’m exploring all options.’
Forrester turned on her heel. ‘Follow me.’
A short walk later they were back in the Special Collections room. This time there was a white man working at one of the tables, a manuscript open before him as he scratched in a notebook laid flat on the table.
Forrester walked over to him. ‘Albert, may I have a moment?’
The man ignored her. He was old, Persis saw, with a round, beery face, hoary stubble, and wisps of white hair around the edges of a liver-spotted cranium. His fingers, like his body, were short and thick. Pince-nez glasses were balanced precariously on the end of a drinker’s nose.
He finished his sentence, set down his pen, and looked up at Forrester. Persis sensed an unspoken hostility between the pair.
The Englishwoman turned to Persis. ‘May I introduce Professor Albert Grant, our resident classicist.’
Persis introduced herself and quickly explained what she was looking for. ‘Can you help?’
Grant pulled off his spectacles and waved them at the manuscript before him. ‘Do you know what this is?’ He did not wait for an answer. ‘It’s one of the world’s oldest books on Greek grammar. Dated 1495. I daresay I am amply qualified to assist.’
