by Vaseem Khan
The attraction that had sprung up between them had been unexpected; she’d expended considerable energy denying it.
The barriers had broken down when Blackfinch had accompanied her to Punjab in pursuit of the Herriot investigation. She’d learned about his background – years as a chemical engineer in the war, then working with the Metropolitan Police Service as a forensic scientist, and finally, receiving an invitation to come to post-Partition India and supervise the setting up of a forensic science lab in Bombay. He’d told her about his family – a brother named Pythagoras – Blackfinch’s own given name was Archimedes – and an ex-wife. She’d learned also of that curious quirk in his character that made him detail-oriented in a way she’d rarely encountered; it also gave him a social awkwardness that was second only to her own.
She had no idea how to characterise the current state of their relationship.
They’d dined together several times, and attended a couple of functions in the wake of their success on the Herriot case. Something had undoubtedly passed between them. But were they together?
More worryingly, did Blackfinch think that they were or that that was a possibility?
She couldn’t be sure.
Neither of them had said anything, skirting around the issue like moths around a flame.
They fell into conversation.
Blackfinch updated her on his attempts to set up his forensics lab. He was busy training a batch of young men in the dark arts of crime scene analysis.
‘Men?’
He blinked. ‘Well. Yes. All the students are male.’
‘Why?’
‘Why what?’
‘Why are they all male?’
‘Ah. Well, all the candidates for the programme were male.’
‘And why was that?’
‘I don’t follow.’
‘Did you make any attempt to recruit women?’
His mouth opened, then closed again. ‘I wasn’t really involved with the recruitment side of things.’
‘I thought you were in charge.’
He coloured.
She let him wriggle on the hook for a few moments, then asked him about his family.
‘Thad lost a couple of cows at the weekend.’ She recalled that his brother went by his middle name, Thaddeus, and that he was a farmer. Blackfinch showed her a letter from his young nieces. It detailed an adventurous tale of sheepdogs and fairy princesses.
She glanced at it. ‘They’ve spelled “ogre” incorrectly.’
‘They’re children, Persis.’
‘That’s no reason not to correct them.’
They ordered, then chatted for a while, waiting for their food to arrive. She watched Blackfinch fiddle with his cutlery, lining up each piece of silverware with exacting precision beside his plate. It was funny how one became used to such oddities, she thought, the idiosyncrasies that distinguished one person from another.
Their order arrived and they carried on talking, working their way around to her twin investigations.
‘Your Jane Doe from the train tracks is going to remain a mystery, I’m afraid,’ said Blackfinch, fencing at the risotto on his plate with a fork. ‘I had the chaps over at fingerprint records compare her card with everything on file. She’s not in the system. I hadn’t expected her to be. There aren’t that many female convicts.’ He smiled. ‘You could try the Foreigners Registration Office. All foreigners in the country on a long-term basis are required to report to their local registration officer on arrival. As per the Registration of Foreigners Act, 1939. I had to do it myself.’
She kicked herself for not having thought of this.
Picking at her sautéed salmon, she next brought him up to speed on the Healy investigation, finishing by reading out to him from her notebook the riddle he had left behind. ‘I think the first few lines refer to a man who came to Bombay to become an architect, possibly for the Raj.’
‘That doesn’t really narrow it down,’ said Blackfinch.
The British expansion in India, led by the East India Company, had been a gold rush. With the building of the railways, the country opened up to settlers from all over the empire. Architects had flooded to the new frontier, a place where labour was cheap, marble was plentiful, and the freedom to think big almost a requirement. India’s cities were a testament to the extravagance of its colonial draughtsmen.
‘Can I have a look at that?’ He reached for her notebook and peered at the page. ‘I’m afraid this means nothing to me. Riddles have never been my strong suit. Sorry.’ He beamed at her. ‘You look well. The grubby uniform really suits you.’
‘I didn’t have time to change.’
‘It’s not a problem. Really. I think you look magnificent.’
An awkward silence descended between them, broken by a loud laugh from a nearby table. ‘I’ve been seeing a bit of the city,’ continued Blackfinch. ‘Been here more than a year and haven’t really gotten to know the place yet.’
Another orphaned silence huddled on the table, waiting for one of them to speak.
‘I don’t suppose—’ He stopped, then seemed to gather himself. ‘I don’t suppose you’d like to come out for a jaunt on the weekend?’
‘A jaunt?’
‘I was thinking of visiting the Elephanta Caves. Out on the island. I’ve been told they’re well worth a look.’
She stared at him. The idea was tempting. A day away from work, from the routine of Malabar House, a day in the company of a man she actually liked . . .
‘No,’ she said. ‘The investigation into Healy’s disappearance is pressing. I can’t take the time.’
‘Ah. Of course.’ He stared resolutely down at his glass. ‘It would only be half a morning. On Sunday.’
‘No.’
His shoulders fell a little. ‘Persis . . . I wonder . . .’
She waited.
‘Have I done something to upset you?’
It was her turn to hesitate. ‘No.’
‘Right.’ He still couldn’t meet her gaze. ‘It’s just that – I thought we were getting along . . .’
‘We are getting along. We work very well together.’
‘That’s not what I meant.’ He looked as if he would say more, but then gave up, lifting his tumbler and slugging it back.
Blood rushed to her cheeks. The awkwardness between them became unbearable. It was a relief when the waiter arrived to take their dessert order.
The rest of the meal passed in relative silence. Towards the end Blackfinch said, ‘There was one other thing I noticed when we went over Healy’s place. I got the distinct impression that it had already been searched. Nothing I could put my finger on; it’s just that he struck me as a meticulously ordered man and there were things that seemed to have been moved and then not returned to their proper place.’
‘How would you know?’
‘As I said, it was just a feeling. My mind gravitates to such details. I can’t help it.’
Who else would have searched Healy’s home? Certainly no one from the Society. And, according to the testimony she had so far, he hardly knew anyone else in the city.
The word rose unbidden to the front of her mind: conspirators.
It stood to reason. Stealing the Dante manuscript was no small enterprise. To smuggle it out of the country; to find a willing buyer; to evade capture. Surely Healy would have needed accomplices?
But why would they have searched his bungalow? If they were conspirators, then Healy would have gone straight to them after the theft. Unless . . . perhaps Healy, having taken the manuscript, had decided to strike out on his own. In which case, she wasn’t the only one in Bombay looking for the vanished academic.
And if Healy had double-crossed criminal elements, she doubted they’d look kindly upon him once they caught up with him.
She considered the trail of clues he’d left behind.
Might this be an elaborate ruse to throw everyone off his scent?
Back at home she saw that the lights were still on in the
bookshop. Her father was doing his weekly inventory.
‘It’s been a good week,’ he said as she entered, barely lifting his head from the thick ledger on his counter. The shop was empty. ‘The new Sartre is flying off the shelves.’
Sam rarely worked himself up to excitement over a new item in the store, but she knew that he’d been anticipating a strong reception to the third volume in Jean-Paul Sartre’s Roads to Freedom trilogy. The book, La mort dans l’âme, had finally reached India, translated into English as Troubled Sleep. Her father had a waiting list of customers.
‘Papa, do you have a book in here about architects of the Raj?’
He set down his pen and fixed her with a look. His balding head shone in the light from the electric light fixture above. A fan on the counter ruffled his heavy grey moustache. ‘A hello would be nice.’
She smiled and walked over to kiss his cheek. ‘How are you feeling? I wish you’d let Uncle Aziz give you a proper physical.’
‘I’d rather jump under a bus than let that quack poke around inside me.’
‘He’s a very able doctor.’
‘The only thing he’s able to do is drink. Copiously. The starch in his collar is the only thing holding him upright.’
‘He’s not the only one who needs to watch his drinking.’ She looked pointedly down at the tumbler sat beside his ledger.
‘A nightcap,’ he said. ‘Care to join me?’
She shook her head. ‘The book?’
He directed her to the rear of the shop.
Stuffed in between Horology and African Anthropology, she found a small section housing architectural digests and books about architecture.
She pulled out some of the more relevant-looking volumes then went to the old sofa her father kept at the very back of the shop and sat down. The springs creaked alarmingly and continued to rattle as she spread the books across a coffee table, stained and scratched through decades of abuse.
The first book was called Great British Architects of the 20th Century. She went through it quickly, noting down those names that had worked in India or had some connection to the country – particularly those who had worked in and around Bombay. She did the same with the remaining volumes and digests, moving back in time, to the beginnings of Britain’s colonial adventures on the subcontinent.
By the time she’d finished, her list comprised dozens of names, men from all over the British Isles – architects, draughtsmen, surveyors, town planners, civil engineers. Many had come to India under the auspices of the East India Company, as cadets, eventually taking up rank within the Corps of Bombay Engineers, a military unit stationed in the Bombay Presidency and responsible for numerous civil engineering and architectural projects throughout the region, including the Asiatic Society building.
Men like this had built the infrastructure that had powered the British Empire. Long after they became dust, their work would remain, a living reminder of India’s colonial past.
She sat back.
This was useless. Assuming her conjecture was even correct – that she was looking for an architect of the Raj – there was no way to narrow down the list.
She took out her notebook and examined the first sentence of Healy’s riddle.
Sundered from Alba’s hearth he came.
Who was Alba? Where was his – or her – hearth?
She lingered on her earlier thought, that Healy had left this trail of breadcrumbs to throw his pursuers off his scent. Was she wasting her time?
She went back and picked up the last of the digests. An article inside it had caught her eye, detailing the history of an institution known as the Bombay Geographical Society. The Society’s members included numerous architects and civil engineers. It had published transactions until 1873, when it had merged with the Asiatic Society. Indeed, the Society had met regularly at the Asiatic Society building.
An idea occurred to her.
Surely that expertise still existed in the city somewhere? Someone who knew all about architects that had worked in Bombay over the years?
She returned the books to their shelves, then sat with her father, watching him work.
‘Why don’t you go up and have something to eat?’ he said, scratching away in his ledger.
‘I’m not hungry.’
He sighed and set down his pen again, peering at her over the top of his spectacles. ‘You’ve already had dinner?’
‘I – ah – I had a little something.’
‘Who with?’ His scrutiny seemed to burn right through her. She pretended to look down at her notebook. ‘Oh. Just a colleague. It was a work thing.’
‘This work thing wouldn’t happen to be English, six feet tall, and about as sophisticated as a brick?’
She coloured. A few weeks earlier, Blackfinch had accompanied her home during the investigation into Sir James Herriot’s murder. He’d sat through dinner with her father, Aunt Nussie, and Darius. The frosty reception her aunt had given him had gone completely unnoticed. The man seemed to have no feel for such things. Her father had noted the visit but not remarked upon it.
She should have known that he’d sensed something. Sam Wadia had a preternatural ability to sniff out whorls and eddies in the current of her life.
She stood up. ‘I think I’ll have a shower.’
He continued to gaze at her, then, without another word, went back to his work.
Chapter 13
‘The Bombay Geographical Society?’ Neve Forrester, standing beside the statue of former Bombay governor Lord Elphinstone, pursed her lips. ‘Well before my time, but yes, you’re correct. They were absorbed into the Asiatic Society. What is it you wish to know?’
It was the following morning and Persis had made the Society her first port of call.
Quickly, she explained the reason for her query. Forrester listened intently, her elegant fingers tapping the side of her leg. ‘I’m glad to see you’re making progress. Though I can’t understand why John would leave behind these riddles. If his intention is to lead us to the manuscript, then why steal it in the first place?’ Her eyes were troubled. ‘I received a call from Delhi yesterday. Some martinet. He had the nerve to ask me how it had been so easy for John to remove the manuscript from our possession. Wanted to know exactly how he’d been vetted to work here. Of course, he hadn’t the foggiest idea of who John was or what he did.’
She said no more. Beckoning Persis to follow, she led her back to her office.
Removing a black book from a desk drawer, she riffled through the pages, then picked up her phone and asked for the switchboard.
By the time she returned the receiver to its cradle, she’d made an appointment for Persis to meet with a William Clark, president of the Bombay Architectural Forum, and a lifelong member of the Asiatic Society.
‘Rather a grand view, isn’t it?’
Persis turned from the window to find a tall, hawkish white man walking towards her across the terrazzo flooring. His sandy hair, flecked with grey, framed an austere face into which had been dropped, like jewels, two blazing blue eyes. He wore a half-sleeved sports shirt with plaid trousers, as if he’d just returned from a round of golf.
She’d arrived at Clark’s office fifteen minutes earlier, a seven-storey art deco building on Marine Drive overlooking the Back Bay. The mid-morning sun made prisms on the water as boats bobbed on the chop. Beneath her feet, traffic moved along the road; a steady stream of pedestrians wandered along the curving promenade beside it.
Clark led her from the waiting room into his office, a surprisingly small space, with a desk buried beneath folders and leaning towers of paper. On one wall were photographs of Bombay landmarks – the Eros Cinema, the Taj Palace Hotel, and the Rajabai Tower – modelled on England’s Big Ben, and once the tallest structure in the country. On a second wall were pictures of Clark at various building sites, sometimes with a hard hat on, sometimes posing in the foreground as workers clambered up and down bamboo scaffolding behind him.
He notice
d her gaze. ‘I’ve been in Bombay a long time, Inspector. Worked on a great many buildings. You could say the city has gotten under my skin.’
He waved her on to a sofa, taking a wing chair opposite. ‘Now, please tell me what this is about. Neve was rather cryptic this morning.’
‘Have you known her long?’
‘I arrived in Bombay thirty-odd years ago, under the auspices of the Asiatic Society. Neve was born here. The Society has a strong geographical tradition and she asked me to chair that aspect of their work. I say asked, but Neve has a way of asking that makes refusal rather difficult. Even then she was a bossy sort. I was a young architect in those days; Bombay wasn’t quite virgin territory, but there was plenty of scope for invention. Or reinvention, I should say.’ He smiled. ‘That’s the beauty of this city. In five centuries, it’s reinvented itself a dozen times.’
‘I’m in need of your assistance. But it’s a sensitive matter. Mrs Forrester assured me of your discretion.’
‘Ms.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘It’s Ms Forrester, not Mrs. Neve divorced a long time ago. Never remarried. She was always wedded to the Society. Shame, really. She was quite the looker in her day.’
Persis blinked. ‘Did you two . . .?’
‘Oh, God, no. Not that I’d have minded. In fact, if we’re being discreet, I suppose I can tell you that I did make a couple of ham-handed advances. She simply wasn’t interested. Between you and me, I think Neve bats for the other side – if you catch my drift. That’s why her first marriage failed, I’ll wager.’
Persis felt suddenly defensive on behalf of Neve Forrester. This man had no right to discuss her private life in such a cavalier manner. Her expression hardened. ‘She assured me of your cooperation. It’s a matter of national importance.’
He leaned back, fished a silver case out of his pocket, lit a cigarillo, and blew out a cloud of smoke. ‘Please . . . enlighten me.’
Quickly, she brought him up to speed.
‘You know, Neve showed me that manuscript once,’ he said, when she’d finished. ‘Can’t say I was impressed. I’ve never really been one for books. I prefer to get my hands dirty. Stone, clay, marble. That’s what makes an empire, Inspector, not dry words on paper.’ He bared his teeth. ‘But, of course, empire is a thing of the past. It’s one of the reasons I stayed on. I suspect India will remake herself, shed her skin and start afresh. I’d like to play some part in that.’
