by Vaseem Khan
Persis grimaced. ‘I was never very good at painting the town, red or any other colour.’
‘Nonsense. You’re a celebrity now. You’ve got to rub shoulders with the in-crowd.’
She knew Jaya was only teasing. Besides, it would be nice to see Dinaz. She’d been away for the past few years in West Bengal working in the Sundarbans Forest Management Division. Her infrequent telephone calls hinted at an adventurous and sometimes perilous calling, including the occasional encounter with a tiger.
‘Fine,’ she said. ‘Count me in . . . Any word from Emily?’ she asked awkwardly.
‘No. Dear old Emily seems to have forgotten us.’
Emily St Charles. For years, her best friend and closest confidante. And then the war had come along, and, in its aftermath, the great betrayal. Promises of greater Indian autonomy in return for India’s help in the war had proved hollow, and violence towards Brits in the country had escalated, despite Gandhi’s calls for restraint. Emily had left for England in 1946 with her family.
She’d written sporadically, for a while, but in the past year, nothing.
Persis had made a half-hearted attempt at writing back, but it simply wasn’t in her. Words would wither on the page into meaningless expressions of sentiment. Crumpled balls of paper littered the floor of her bedroom until finally she’d given up.
Sometimes, late at night, she’d feel the past rebuking her, as sharp as a stiff finger poked into the kidneys. Surely, friendship meant making the effort?
‘Do you have Emily’s number?’
‘No. She’s moved home. The last time I spoke to her there was mention of an engagement.’
Shock knifed through her. ‘She wouldn’t marry without inviting us, surely?’
Jaya shrugged. ‘People change. Besides, it’s not as if we’re all disposed to go charging off to London at the drop of a hat.’
Persis walked on in thoughtful silence. It would explain a lot. Emily’s wouldn’t be the first marriage to dissolve the bonds of childhood friendship.
She remembered that, one day, Emily had convinced her to go to the movies after school, to watch The Mark of Zorro. Afterwards, they’d sworn that if either of them married a man half as dashing as Tyrone Power, they’d ensure they didn’t behave as soppily as Linda Darnell.
And, of course, they’d be maid of honour at each other’s weddings.
Perhaps there was blame on either side for promises that had proven hollow.
At the door, she asked, ‘By the way, you haven’t heard anything about Zubin being back in town?’
‘That serpent? No. Why?’
‘No reason.’
‘Oh, Persis. You’re not still holding out a torch for him, are you?’
‘Of course not. I just – I thought I saw him, that’s all.’
‘Well, if you see him again, take out that revolver and put it to good use.’
Chapter 22
The guard watched her, smoking a roll-up, as she crossed the street and entered John Healy’s home for the third time. He looked like the same man she’d seen on her first visit; she wondered if curiosity would compel him to ask after the missing Englishman.
Inside, she wasted no time, heading straight for the bookcase in the living room.
She took out the six volumes there and set them down on the coffee table. Next to them she set down her notebook and two more volumes, books on codes and ciphers, sent over by her father.
She checked her watch. It was already two and she had a four o’clock appointment at the Margaret Cousins College.
Quickly, she skimmed through her father’s books until she found the relevant sections on book ciphers. To her irritation, it appeared that, though relatively well known, book ciphers could be applied with numerous variations. These variations were usually agreed between the correspondents in advance. However, what was common to all book ciphers was the use of a single text as a key. Once you knew the codebook or codetext, it was only a matter of working through the various ciphers until you struck upon one that produced a meaningful message.
She picked up Through the Looking-Glass. Healy had already used it once in his trail of clues; logically, it was the best place to start.
She began with a simple cipher.
She posited that the first number in Healy’s set of numerical clues indicated the page, the next, the line on that page; then the numbers that followed the oblique stroke were either the location of the words to be used from that line or the location of characters. So, taking the first sequence – 1.3/1.7 – she turned to page one of the book, looked at the third line down and picked out the first and seventh words. This gave her ‘kitten’ and washed’.
Nonsense.
The next sequence was 1.2/5.8. So, again, first page, but this time second line down, then fifth and eighth words. ‘Was’ and ‘kitten’.
With the third sequence – 2.11/52.64.71.72.92.97.102.146. 157.158.221 – she realised that she couldn’t possibly be on the right track. The numbers after the stroke couldn’t indicate words on the eleventh line of the book’s second page because there simply couldn’t be 221 words on a single line, or even 52, for that matter. Nor could the numbers refer to characters on the line, rather than words. She’d been around books long enough to know that no line in any normal book contained over two hundred characters, even if you included the spaces between words.
The answer was simple: she was using the wrong cipher.
She dug back through the reference books her father had sent her and, after some further effort, quickly concluded that none of the book ciphers detailed there would work.
She spent another hour going through the same process with the other books on Healy’s bookshelf.
Nothing.
Had Sam guessed wrong? Perhaps Healy hadn’t employed a book cipher at all.
Disappointment wrapped itself around her and for a moment she sat back on the sofa, closed her eyes, and allowed the frustration to flow through her.
Having worked it out of her system, she stood, placed Healy’s books, and her own, into her bag, then returned to the jeep.
Chapter 23
‘How much do you know about Margaret Cousins?’
Scheherazade Mirza spoke as she walked, keeping up a brisk pace.
She had arrived on the dot of four, parked in the college’s courtyard, and made her way into the foyer. The building was smaller than she’d expected – a single, three-storey structure with a broad, art deco façade painted in beige and imperial maroon – calling it a college seemed an exercise in hyperbole. A wooden signboard had been hung by ropes across the front: MARGARET COUSINS COLLEGE OF DOMESTIC SCIENCE. The ropes gave the place a sense of impermanence. It reminded her more of the city’s numerous cinemas – the Regal, the Eros – than an educational establishment.
‘Not as much as I’m about to be told,’ muttered Persis.
‘Sorry, I didn’t catch that,’ sang Mirza over her shoulder, turning sharply into a corner.
‘I was just saying I can’t wait to find out more.’ Persis glanced at her watch. She didn’t have time for this.
Voices floated along the corridor. Arriving at a white-painted door, Mirza barrelled headfirst into it, then held it open for her guest.
Persis walked into a large room with whitewashed walls, parquet flooring, and ceiling fans whirring away at regular intervals. Along the walls were portraits of austere-looking women, mainly white, looking down on rows of chairs facing a stage and lectern. The chairs were occupied by perhaps a hundred or so women, chatting, some with cups of tea in hand. All were well dressed, and impeccably groomed: silk saris, dresses, and hats. The odd pair of trousers hinted at the presence of a sexual counterculture.
Her immediate impression was that she’d walked into an aviary, one reserved for rare and exotic birds.
The tall figure of Jenny Pinto turned from another woman and approached her, a smile lighting up her severe features. ‘Inspector. We’re delighted you could join us.’
‘What is this?’ hissed Persis. ‘I thought I was only here to talk about the possibility of giving a talk.’
‘That’s correct. The annual meeting of the All India Women’s Congress will take place in six weeks, right here, in Bombay. And we have been chosen to host it. Our hope is that you will speak at the event. But today . . .’ She gave a sheepish smile. ‘I’m afraid I’m to blame. I couldn’t help but mention to one or two of our members that you’d be here today. Before I knew it, they’d decided to gather for an impromptu tea party. I believe they’re hoping you might say a few words.’
Persis looked out at the sea of women. She was suddenly acutely aware of the perspiration on her brow, the fact that she was wearing a uniform, that her hair was pulled back, that she looked decidedly out of place in this setting. ‘Impossible.’
‘We’re not asking for a speech,’ said Mirza. ‘Just a few words of encouragement.’
‘I couldn’t,’ muttered Persis. A hoop of panic tightened around her chest.
‘Didn’t I read somewhere that you were a debate champion at university?’
Persis gave her a sharp look. Mirza simply beamed at her.
Pinto moved closer. She waved at a portrait on the wall, a white woman with gentle eyes and grey hair. ‘That’s Margaret Cousins. A quite remarkable woman. She was a prominent suffragette in Ireland before moving to India in 1915. She spearheaded the fight for women’s rights on the subcontinent. We owe her a great deal.’ A smile winched up the corners of her mouth. ‘But the thing is, Persis . . . It’s high time we took charge of our own destiny. The plight of Indian women can only be changed by Indian women. More importantly, what we really need is ordinary women. Many of our colleagues are well meaning, but they’ve never experienced hardship. For many of them, this is a hobby. What we need is those for whom this is a cause. Someone like you, Persis. You, more than any of us, truly understand how the cards are stacked.’
Persis looked out at the audience, now focused on her. The silence in the room was as thick as elephant grass. Her mouth was suddenly dry of saliva. She experienced the bizarre sensation of living through a metaphor made real – from her first day on the force, she’d been held up as some sort of symbol, an emblem of a changing India.
And yet, she’d never asked for that responsibility.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, hoarsely. ‘I can’t help you. Not today. Not ever.’
She turned and walked away.
Chapter 24
On the drive to the Asiatic Society her thoughts lingered on the meeting.
What had Pinto and Mirza made of her spineless exit?
The tips of her ears burned.
She’d never held herself up as a crusader. She’d chosen to become a policewoman for her own selfish reasons. Inspired by an absent mother, willed on by her own bullheadedness in the face of being told that she wasn’t allowed to, she’d made it her mission to prove them wrong.
But who was this them that she was continually seeking to prove herself to?
Sam’s face hovered before her. He’d said little when she’d first declared her intention to join the force, merely warning her that she should expect a bumpy ride. Once she’d been accepted into the academy, he’d thrown his weight behind her, though she knew this was partly because Aunt Nussie had taken the contrary position, almost fainting dead away at the notion that her only niece intended to don khaki trousers and patrol the streets like some common hawaldar. Persis had patiently explained to her that she had no intention of becoming a constable – there were already one or two token female hawaldars around the country. Her sights were set higher.
She intended to qualify as the Indian Police Service’s first female inspector.
‘And what will that get you?’ Nussie had asked. ‘Do you think any man will want to marry a woman carrying a gun and licensed to shoot him?’
Franco Belzoni was waiting for her in Neve Forrester’s office, leafing through a thick volume open on the desk. There was no sign of the Englishwoman.
As Persis entered, he rose to his feet and extended a hand. ‘Inspector. It is good to see you again. How can I help?’
Persis waved him back into his seat, then sat down. She took off her cap and wiped a sleeve across her brow.
‘I was saddened to hear of John’s death,’ continued Belzoni, before she could speak. ‘I did not know him long, but he seemed a good man. The world has lost an excellent scholar.’
Of course, Forrester would have told him of Healy’s death – no doubt it would be headline news by tomorrow. She wondered what else the Italian knew.
He sat forward, eagerness personified. ‘Tell me, have you recovered the manuscript?’
‘No,’ she replied. ‘The manuscript is still missing.’
He closed his eyes. ‘Questo è un disastro.’ He shook his head. ‘John was our principal lead.’
‘Our?’
He blinked, as if realising what he’d said. ‘Inspector, please understand. This artefact is an Italian treasure. At some point your government will realise this and return the manuscript to its rightful home. You must forgive me if I am taking this matter very personally.’
‘You seem to be under some sort of misapprehension,’ she said icily. ‘I’m not here because I need your help. I’m here because you lied to me.’
His eyebrows lifted in surprise. ‘I do not understand.’
‘When we met, you forgot to mention that you and Healy had fallen out. That you’d had an argument, over access to the Divine Comedy manuscript.’
‘But this is untrue!’ He waved his hands around agitatedly. ‘Yes, John may have turned down my request for more time with the manuscript, but it was only a matter of scheduling. Hardly a falling-out.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘Who told you this?’
‘Does it matter?’
‘If I am to be slandered, then I must know who is my accuser, Inspector. This is only fair, sì?’
‘Erin Lockhart. She told me you had a row with Healy just days before his disappearance.’
‘I would not call it a row.’ He shrugged. ‘I am Italian. We express ourselves . . . appassionatamente.’
She allowed a silence to pass, then took out her notebook and set it before him. ‘Healy left behind another clue. Does this mean anything to you?’
He plucked up the notebook and scanned the words Healy had written on to his thigh.
‘Affectionate honoured friend embraces praised persecuted servant.’ His brow furrowed. ‘A riddle? Why would John do this?’ His frustration was evident. He glanced at the numbers below the words. ‘These sequences look like a cipher.’
‘Yes. Do you know which one?’
He shook his head. ‘It is not my area of expertise.’ He set down the notebook. ‘Tell me, did you find anything else with John’s body?’
‘Such as?’
‘Notebooks? A diary, maybe? Letters?’
‘Why?’
He seemed to realise that his eagerness had raised an alarm. He sat back. ‘Perhaps they might show us the way.’
She debated with herself how much to reveal to the Italian. There was something about Belzoni that bothered her, something about his façade that rang hollow. She was now convinced that, despite his protestations, he and Healy had never been friendly.
‘He left behind a note. The first three lines of Inferno.’
‘ “Midway upon the journey of our life, I came to myself, in a dark wood; for I had wandered from the straight and true.” ’
‘Yes. Does it mean anything to you?’
He considered this. ‘No. I mean, nothing that sheds light on our problem.’ He was silent a moment. ‘That is all he left behind?’ His curiosity was like a hound, snuffling at her heels.
She hesitated. ‘We found three notebooks in his bag.’
His eyes lit up. ‘What is in them?’
‘His translation of the manuscript.’
His brow knitted.
‘Were you expecting something else?�
��
He seemed about to say something, then subsided. ‘Perhaps you would permit me to take a look? At the notebooks?’
‘Why?’
His mouth flapped for a moment. ‘I may be able to see something that you have not.’
‘And what might that be?’
He was on the back foot again, taking refuge in silence.
‘Why do I get the impression that you haven’t been completely honest with me?’
‘I assure you, Inspector, my only wish is to help. Our goal is the same.’
But was it?
She found herself wondering, for the first time, at the motivations of those caught in John Healy’s web. Neve Forrester. Franco Belzoni. Erin Lockhart. James Ingram. Those he had touched, and who were now left behind to wonder at the secrets he had spun in his wake.
‘I think you have been given the wrong impression about me,’ Belzoni continued, his face earnest. ‘Erin Lockhart is not quite a, how you say, paragon of virtue.’
‘In what way?’
‘Her interest in John may have had more to do with the manuscript than the man, if you catch my meaning.’
Persis shifted in her seat. So James Ingram had been telling the truth. ‘Are you suggesting she knows something about the manuscript? Or Healy’s actions? Something she hasn’t told me?’
‘I suggest nothing, Inspector. I merely point out to you that it is bad form to rely on hearsay.’
Chapter 25
Back at Malabar House, she called Birla and Haq over.
The pair of sub-inspectors looked haggard.
She knew Haq had been run ragged with the National Games, thankfully now at an end, and she’d kept Birla busy enough with the Healy investigation. The two constables were often feuding, but looked too tired even to grimace at one another.
