by Vaseem Khan
Persis took the King James Bible out of her satchel and set it down before Forrester. She opened her notebook and placed that beside the Bible. ‘We think we’ve identified four of the seven books. An expert opinion would be valuable.’
Forrester’s gaze rested on the open notebook. ‘Yes. These seem correct. Though, if I remember rightly, the name Ruth might also be interpreted as meaning “companion”.’
She abruptly sprang up from her chair and strode to a floor-to-ceiling bookshelf taking up one wall. She looked over the spines, then hopped on a stool and pulled a slim, green-backed volume from the uppermost shelf.
Returning, she showed it to Persis: Merryweather’s Reference Guide to Biblical Characters.
She settled back in her seat. ‘How much do you know about the history of the Bible?’
‘Very little. I went to a Catholic school, but I’m not Christian.’
‘Zoroastrian?’
‘Yes.’ She was surprised. Most Britishers would simply have called her a Parsee.
Forrester pushed on. ‘The Bible, like most religious texts, came together firstly through oral tradition. The Hebrew Bible – or the Old Testament, as Christians refer to it – was originally written down in Hebrew and its sister language, Aramaic, and first translated into Greek around three hundred years before Christ – this is known as the Old Greek Bible or the Septuagint. The New Testament canon developed over an extended period of time. The term itself arose due to controversy among Christians in the second century as to whether or not the Old Testament should be included in Christian scripture at all. In 382 AD, the Council of Rome set out an authoritative list of books of the Bible and had them translated into Latin – this became the Latin Vulgate Bible, which, to this day, remains the official Bible for the Roman Catholic Church.
‘English translations of the Bible began around the 1300s with Wycliffe’s Bible, a translation into Middle English by a group of pre-Protestant Reformation scholars. A 1525 translation by William Tyndale, an English scholar executed for his part in the Reformation, is generally regarded as the first printed English version of the New Testament.
‘Following the English Reformation, the Puritans – a faction of the church unhappy that certain Roman Catholic practices continued to be tolerated – pushed for a new translation. In 1604, King James I of England met with church leaders to formalise a translation that would conform fully to the ecclesiology of the Church of England. The result was the King James Bible.’
Talking about her passion made her seem a different person, Persis thought.
‘At any rate, let us see if we can solve your riddle.’
Twenty minutes later, she had updated Persis’s notes:
AFFECTIONATE (PHILEMON) 1:3/1.7
HONOURED (TIMOTHY) 1:2/5.8
FRIEND (RUTH) 2:11/52.64.71.72.92.97.102.146.157.158.221
EMBRACES (HABAKKUK) 3:14/2.3.63.64
PRAISED (JUDE) 1:7/6.137.139.159.164.168.173.174
PERSECUTED (JOB) 26:14/17.30.62
SERVANT (OBADIAH) 1:21/15.21.24.53
‘That’s as best as I can guess. Now what?’
‘Now, I apply the cipher.’ Persis walked around the desk, leaning over Forrester, and turned the Bible to the Book of Timothy in the New Testament. ‘There’s two of them,’ she muttered. ‘Two books of Timothy.’
‘Start with the first,’ suggested Forrester.
The numerical sequence that went with the word ‘Honoured’ – corresponding to the Book of Timothy – was 1:2/5.8. Chapter one, verse two, followed by the fifth and eighth characters in that verse. Applying this to 1 Timothy, she arrived at ‘T’ and ‘o’. To.
She applied the same sequence to 2 Timothy but got ‘m’ and ‘h’. She decided to stick with the results of the First Epistle to Timothy.
So the first two words of the riddle were Go To.
Excitement churned through her. She could see the far shore.
Fifteen minutes later, she had all seven words written out before her, arranged into a sentence in the order that Healy had written down his clues:
GO TO MOONSTARERS HOME
SPECTARE SUB LUNA
‘What does it mean?’
Forrester was silent a moment, then said, ‘Look under the moon.’
‘What?’
‘The last three words are Latin. Spectare sub luna. They mean “look under the moon”.’
Persis frowned. ‘Do you know who Moonstarer is?’
‘No. It’s not a name I’m familiar with.’
‘Is it biblical?’
‘Definitely not.’
They gazed at the page, before Persis turned away. ‘Dammit.’
Forrester watched her pace the room. ‘You didn’t expect John to make it easy for you, did you?’
Persis stopped. ‘I don’t know what to expect from him. I just feel . . .’
‘You’re frustrated. Don’t be. For what it’s worth, I think you’ve done an excellent job so far.’
The praise took her by surprise. ‘Thank you,’ she mumbled. A silence. ‘I should probably sleep on it.’
‘That sounds like a good idea.’
At the door, she felt an inexplicable urge to turn and say something. ‘We’ve met before, you know.’ Forrester gave her a quizzical look. ‘I came here with my father a few years ago. His name is Sam Wadia. He runs a bookstore.’
Forrester tilted her chin. ‘I remember him. An uncompromising man. He was in a wheelchair. There was no way to get it up the portico steps, so he paid a gang of coolies to carry him – and his chair – to the top. Cursed them out every step of the way, as I recall.’
‘That sounds like my father.’
‘You looked a lot different then.’
‘I wasn’t dressed like this,’ said Persis, indicating her uniform.
‘And how has dressing like that been for you?’
‘It—’ She felt a sudden overwhelming desire to tell Forrester the truth, the plain unvarnished truth. ‘It’s been a choppy ride.’
‘Well, if you wanted easy, then you should have stayed at home and baked biscuits.’
Persis gave a wry smile. ‘May I ask you a personal question?’
‘I doubt I could stop you, even if I wanted to.’
‘Why did you never remarry? Never have a family . . .’ She tailed off, suddenly unsure of herself.
‘You want to know if it was worth it?’ Forrester’s face had grown still. ‘The poet William Blake once wrote: “Some are born to sweet delight, some are born to endless night.” I haven’t yet worked out which category I fit into.’
‘But how do you do it?’
The response was instant. ‘Clarity of purpose.’
Persis nodded. ‘Do you think Healy had clarity of purpose?’
‘Yes. I believe he did.’
‘What was his purpose?’
Forrester flashed a bloodless grin. ‘Now that, Inspector, is the question.’
Chapter 26
The slum kids were in the shop – crowded into the rear, sitting cross-legged on the floor, spread into the surrounding aisles; a few even perched on the shorter bookcases around the battered old sofa where her father was holding court. He was reading to them, his gruff voice rolling sonorously into the shop’s corners.
She’d always marvelled at the way he could hold them captive, every head turned towards him, not a murmur in the silence. The fact that such a charitable impulse commanded him at all continued to astonish her.
For the past decade, once a week, he would invite in children from the local slum, and read to them. Word had spread, and what had begun as a trickle had become a flood.
Now, there was barely space to move in the store on such evenings.
He’d kept at it even during the war years.
That had been an odd time. She was not yet eighteen when the British Raj had declared war on Nazi Germany. By the end of the war, two million Indian soldiers had been committed to the effort, though you wouldn’t know it, judging b
y the newsreels.
The country itself had been at odds. Once it became clear that British promises of greater autonomy in return for Indian military assistance were not going to materialise, Gandhi’s Congress had launched their Quit India movement. He’d promptly been thrown in prison, along with thousands of his contemporaries.
Others, like Subhash Chandra Bose, had splintered from the Congress, joining the Germans and the Japanese; Bose had gone so far as to raise Indian legions to fight against the Allies.
In Bombay, Persis – along with Emily and Dinaz – but not Jaya, who refused to countenance manual labour – had trained for Air Raid Precaution duties. She’d loved the feeling of being involved in the war effort, not to mention the ARP helmet they were all issued with.
Looking back, she knew she’d behaved childishly, giggling along with Emily at the handsome foreign soldiers that alighted in Bombay in a constant stream, on their way to various theatres of war.
A year into the conflict, the son of her father’s friend, a boy named Harish – a boy she’d known – was killed at Libya. Perhaps that was the moment her perceptions had begun to change. Harish was just one of many fighting for an alien power that refused him basic rights in his own homeland, yet asked of him the ultimate sacrifice to protect their way of life.
Perhaps that was also the moment a splinter had worked its way into their friendship.
Sam was reading from The Little Prince by Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, translating it as he went. One of her own favourites as a child.
Aunt Nussie stood from her seat behind the counter and approached her, signalling her to step outside. Persis knew that Nussie, not to be outdone by her father, had taken to bringing food over for the children. Her aunt didn’t do things by halves, so the children ended up taking back their body weight in rice and dhansak.
‘They’re working you too hard,’ said Nussie, examining her face. ‘It’s past eight. Again.’
‘No one is working me. I’m choosing to work.’
‘When are you going to learn that there’s more to life than your career?’
Persis rolled her eyes. She didn’t have the strength to go over the same old arguments with her aunt.
‘At any rate, there’s something I wanted to discuss with you.’
She felt a twinge in the region of her kidneys. Expecting her aunt to present her with another marriage proposal, she began to protest, but Nussie cut her off. ‘Reports have reached me that you were spotted at the Wayside Inn two nights ago. In the company of a white man.’
Her mouth flapped open. Her cheeks felt hot. ‘Who told you that?’
‘It doesn’t matter who told me. Is it true?’
It was insufferable to be subjected to this sort of cross-examination. Aunt Nussie had a way of making her feel fifteen. ‘Who I have dinner with is no one’s business but my own.’
‘That’s where you’re wrong, young lady. Have you any idea how it reflects on the rest of us if you’re out gallivanting with a white man?’
‘I was not gallivanting.’
‘Then what were you doing?’
She steeled herself. ‘If you must know, it was an official meeting. My companion was Archie Blackfinch.’
Nussie’s face darkened. ‘The Englishman? The one you brought home with you?’
‘I didn’t bring him home. He was working with me on a case and it was late and so I invited him in to eat with us.’
‘Do the pair of you always end up eating together while working on a case?’
‘For God’s sake, we’re just colleagues! Didn’t your spies tell you I was in uniform at the Wayside?’
Nussie was silent a moment. ‘Yes. That was mentioned.’ She sniffed, somewhat mollified. ‘Just remember, Persis, not everyone is as enlightened as I am. I say this for your benefit. A woman’s reputation can only be lost once.’
The shop’s door chimes jangled. An enormous bouquet of flowers wobbled towards them. At the last instant, Krishna’s head emerged from around the bouquet.
Her father’s manservant grinned at her. ‘These arrived for you earlier.’ He thrust the flowers at Persis.
Daffodils. Her favourite.
She saw that Aunt Nussie had crossed her arms and fixed her with a look.
‘They’re not from Archie,’ she protested. ‘He’s not the type to send flowers. And besides, we’re not . . .’ She tailed off as she noticed a small envelope tucked into the centre of the bouquet.
‘Hold this.’ She handed the flowers back to Krishna, plucked out the envelope, and took out the card inside. There was no name. Only an inscription.
So, we’ll go no more a roving
So late into the night,
Though the heart be still as loving,
And the moon be still as bright.
Her heart stopped, performing a complicated somersault inside her ribcage. ‘Byron,’ she breathed.
‘Byron?’ Nussie repeated. ‘Another Englishman? My God, Persis! What’s wrong with you?’
Persis shook her head, unable to explain.
She took the flowers from Krishna and stumbled back inside and upstairs to her bedroom, where she locked the door, threw the flowers on to the bed, sat down at her dresser, and read the card again.
The words were from a poem by Lord Byron: ‘So We’ll Go No More a Roving’.
Zubin. It could be no one else. The memory lurched out of her, coughed up like a dead bird from a cat’s gullet. It was the poem he’d read to her before kissing her that night.
They’d both adored Byron. And through him they’d come to adore each other.
Or so she’d thought.
He’d betrayed her, stolen into the interior spaces of her heart, then broken it in a way she’d never have thought possible.
And now he was back.
What message was he trying to convey by sending her these flowers, this poem?
She sat there, motionless, staring at her reflection in the dresser mirror.
Finally, she stood, took off her uniform, showered, changed into a nightgown, then went into the living room.
Her father and Krishna arrived. Krishna served dinner, as Sam, flushed from his exertions, clattered about the room. His face was drawn, she noted. ‘How are you feeling?’
‘The next person who asks me that I shall shoot in the foot.’
‘You don’t have a gun, Papa.’
‘I’ll buy one.’
Dinner was rice and lamb. ‘Nussie tells me someone sent you flowers today.’
She gave a puff of annoyance. ‘Are you going to lecture me too?’
‘Why would I tell you anything? I mean, it’s not as if I’m your father.’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘You’re a grown woman, but that doesn’t mean you’re not a child.’
‘That literally makes no sense!’
‘What I mean is that you’re not experienced in the ways of the world. In the ways of men.’
‘Was Mother when you eloped with her?’
He stiffened, his moustache crinkling as his lips bent into a grimace. ‘We were in love,’ he muttered. ‘And we were both Parsees.’
‘You caused a scandal.’
‘Nothing compared to the scandal of my only daughter carrying on with an Anglo.’
‘I’m not carrying on with anyone!’ She had the overwhelming urge to thump the table. Instead, she stood, glared at him, then stomped back to her bedroom.
Half an hour later, she heard his wheelchair creak by. It stopped outside the door. She could practically see him contemplating knocking. During her childhood, he’d never been able to sleep without first checking on her; even now, he hated going to bed on an argument.
Truth be told, so did she.
But he’d crossed a line, as had Aunt Nussie . . . She was almost twenty-eight! This was modern India, not the Dark Ages. They had no right to be so overbearing, to – to . . . interfere.
She heard him wheel away, headed towards his bedroom.
She distracted herself by pickin
g up The Divine Comedy and continuing her reading.
Every so often her eyes were drawn back to the flowers, now dumped headfirst into the waste bin. A fist of anger would rise up through her, rapidly followed by an overwhelming desire to call Archie Blackfinch.
The confusion of her feelings unnerved her. Like a basket of snakes let loose inside her, slithering over one another, impossible to grab hold of.
She focused on Dante’s description of Hell. Or rather the nine circles of Hell, each one reserved for a particular type of sinner: the pagans, the lustful, the avaricious. Murderers and thugs; heretics and adulterers.
She paused on two descriptions.
The first was the seventh circle, where those who committed suicide ended up, entombed inside trees and fed upon by harpies through all eternity. Her thoughts returned to John Healy.
Why had he killed himself?
He was, by all accounts, a Catholic. She knew that to Catholics, suicide was a mortal sin, a sin that denied them access to heaven. So why?
She spent a moment on the eighth circle, the Malebolge, where fraudsters were consigned to torment. Seducers ended up here, forced to march in circles while lashed at by horned demons.
She imagined Zubin here, the lash in her own hand.
She read on.
Having navigated Hell, Dante now found himself in Heaven, in the company of his beloved Beatrice. Heaven – Paradiso – was divided by Dante into nine ‘spheres’. Visiting the first sphere, he and Beatrice find themselves on the Moon, home to those souls who had broken their holy vows. Beatrice takes the time to explain why the Moon exhibits dark patches. Dante posits a pseudo-scientific explanation, but Beatrice rebuts this with a metaphysical counterargument, involving the use of divine power that affects the apparent luminosity of heavenly bodies.
