The Perplexing Theft of the Jewel in the Crown

Augustus Lobo, principal of the St Xavier Catholic School for Boys, peered down from his lectern, his brow furrowed into an expression of intense disappointment. The gathered boys stared back up at him in collective bewilderment. ‘Gentlemen, it is with the profoundest sorrow that I stand before you this morning. Usually, at this time each year, it would be my singular honour to lead you in Christmas Mass.

‘Alas, it is not to enjoin you in prayer that I am here today, but to deliver the most scandalous news possible. Not twenty-four hours ago I stood before you and informed you of the reprehensible actions of a group of n’er-do-wells who had seen fit to besmirch the honour of our great institution by stealing school property from the office of Mr Banarjee. I told you that I had replaced the items in question. I openly challenged these goondas to attempt to recreate their crime, not believing that anyone would be so reprehensible, so audacious as to actually plunge once more into the dark pool of moral turpitude.

‘Alas, I was wrong. Lightning has indeed struck twice.’ Lobo clutched the lectern and leaned forward, fixing his students with a baleful look. ‘I now call upon the perpetrators of this outrage to recall their teachings. We are more than an institution of learning, gentlemen. We are an organisation that stands for something. Christian values. Honesty and integrity. That is what St Xavier expects from each and every one of you. I ask the guilty parties to step forward and confess. Admit your guilt and your punishment will go lightly. For forgiveness is also one of our virtues.’

One hundred and eighty heads turned to watch Brother Noel Machado draw the thick curtains over the stained-glass windows of the assembly hall, pitching the vast room into darkness. From this darkness came the disembodied voice of the principal.

‘What I have not told you, gentlemen, is that last night a trap was set. My challenge to the culprits was merely a ruse. You see, when the thieves returned to the scene of the crime, they once again broke into Banarjee’s safe. However, this time, unbeknownst to them, a hidden device had been installed. When the safe swung open, this device was activated, releasing an invisible cloud of particles into the air, particles that clung to the perpetrators of the crime. These particles cannot be seen in natural light. In order to observe them, one must employ ultraviolet light. Permit me to demonstrate… Brother Machado!’

There was the sound of a switch being flicked, and suddenly, from the stage, there blazed a bank of eerie blue fluorescents. Row by row the light swept over the assembled boys who stared in puzzled astonishment from one to another… And then, halfway along the tenth row, the light stopped.

At the rear of the hall Poppy clapped her hands. ‘It worked!’ she exclaimed, delightedly. ‘It really worked! How did you know?’

‘It is a recent technique that is being employed to safeguard valuable items in the homes of the rich,’ explained Rangwalla. ‘Chopra told me about it a while back when orders came down that we should be on the lookout for stolen merchandise tagged by this method. Apparently it is all the rage in western countries.’

‘Well, it was a very good idea. Like you said, those boys have been caught, but not red-handed.’ Poppy sighed. ‘But what happens now?’

Rangwalla shrugged. ‘That is not my business. The school will have to discipline them. It is hardly a police matter.’ He winced. ‘Not that I am a policeman, any more.’

Poppy patted him on the shoulder. ‘No,’ she said. ‘You are better than a policeman now. You are a private detective, and a very good one at that.’

Augustus Lobo paced agitatedly behind the desk in his office, his hands clasped behind him, his cassock swishing against the flagstones beneath his feet. ‘Well, gentlemen, what have you got to say for yourselves?’

Raj Wadia, Anoop Joshi, George Fonseca and Rafeeq Baig stood to attention before the principal’s desk. Joshi and Baig hung their heads, finding something of supreme interest on the floor. Fonseca blubbered quietly into his collar, a trail of snot snaking down from his nose to his upper lip. Only Wadia remained imperious, staring coldly ahead, as if apart from proceedings. At the back of the room Rangwalla and Poppy looked on.

Lobo turned abruptly, causing Fonseca to jump. ‘Wadia, you are the leader of this gang. I demand an explanation.’

Lobo paced the office again, before wheeling back on them. ‘By all accounts you are very bright boys. What need had you to steal those papers? Answer me!’

Lobo’s eyebrows knitted themselves together in fury. ‘If I do not have an explanation, you are all finished!’ he thundered. ‘You will be expelled, booted out, expunged! I will summon your parents and we will have it out. Do you think grand larceny is a trivial matter? Well, do you?’

Joshi and Baig exchanged glances, then shook their heads. Fonseca let out a loud wail of anguish and buried his face in his hands. Wadia’s lip curled in a supercilious smile.

‘Sometimes, I long for the old days,’ growled Lobo. ‘A good thrashing, that’s what you young goondas need.’

Poppy, who had been watching the pitiable Fonseca and had found herself overcome by a sudden mist of sympathy, now spoke. ‘Sir, perhaps I might talk with them for a moment?’

‘What else is there to say, Mrs Chopra?’ said Lobo gruffly. ‘These rapscallions have desecrated the good name of St Xavier. They have undermined everything we have attempted to teach them. They are goondas – no more, no less.’

Lobo stared at her crossly before throwing up his hands. ‘Very well. Machado, come with me.’

After the two men had left, Poppy faced the boys. ‘I know that you are frightened,’ she said gently. ‘Even those of you who are pretending that you are not.’ She stared closely at Wadia, whose cheeks flushed.

‘But what I also know is that you are children. Children make mistakes. Childhood is the best time for mistakes because you can make up for them. You can learn from them. But first you have to be willing to accept that you have made an error, and you have to be willing to make amends. I will help you, if you are willing to talk to me. I promise that I will not think harshly of you. Everyone deserves a second chance. Will you talk to me?’

She watched as Joshi and Baig exchanged looks again. Fonseca stopped sniffling and wiped a sleeve across his nose, then raised his head to look at her.

‘Do you really think so, madam?’ asked Fonseca, his eyes round behind his spectacles.

‘Yes,’ affirmed Poppy. ‘I really do.’ She patted Fonseca on the arm. ‘But first you will have to tell me what you have done with dear Father Gonsalves’s head.’

Chopra sat in his chair in the courtyard of Poppy’s restaurant. Before him, on a stool, lay a heap of manila folders, an almost empty glass of lime water, and his mobile phone, which he had just set down, his ears still ringing with Mrs Roy’s dire threats.

The backlog of work on his cases was becoming critical. Mrs Roy was not the only unhappy customer. But what could he do? Between the Koh-i-Noor case, Poppy’s missing bust, and looking for Irfan, both he and Rangwalla had been completely swamped. It was not for nothing that he had prised himself away from the Koh-i-Noor investigation and spent Christmas morning catching up with some of his other cases. But the simple truth was that he would need a dozen such mornings to make much headway.

After all, he could always return the retainers he had accepted. It was not the money that bothered him, anyway. Chopra was loath not to follow through on a commitment. In that sense Mrs Roy had every right to castigate him.

Chopra recalled the telephone conversation he had had with his wife that morning.

He had been delighted to learn that Rangwalla had been successful in engineering the return of the missing bust. He also knew that following the successful conclusion to the case, Rangwalla and Poppy had once again set off on their quest to locate Irfan.

From his wife’s crestfallen expression he realised that they had not been successful.

‘You will find him,’ said Chopra reassuringly. ‘We will find him.’ He put his arm around her and squeezed her shoulders, realising that Poppy was struggling to come to terms with the fact that they might never see Irfan again.

Ganesha, who had been dozing beneath his mango tree, trotted towards them and rubbed his head against Chopra’s thigh. ‘That’s a promise to you both,’ said Chopra. ‘We will find him.’

Chopra asked Chef Lucknowwallah to set out a table and chairs and to serve up a mix of dishes: aromatic lamb biriyani for Rangwalla, an exotic chicken kolhapuri for himself, and Poppy’s favourite, a traditional Maharashtrian pao bhaji – buttered rolls with a spicy vegetarian curry.

The atmosphere was subdued and Poppy seemed to have little appetite. She remarked, more than once, on how miserable it felt not having Irfan around on Christmas Day, sharing lunch with them, horsing around with Ganesha instead of focusing on his food, as he was wont to do. Chopra tried to lighten the atmosphere by asking for more details of the resolution to the missing bust case. This got Poppy talking and he was glad to see a semblance of animation returning to his wife’s usually boisterous demeanour.

He listened intently as she explained their efforts, focusing on Rangwalla’s successful gambit and how it had flushed out the thieves of Lobo’s beloved bust. He found himself shaking his head as he pictured the four boys from St Xavier’s stealing the examination papers – not once, but twice! What arrogance! But perhaps that was the problem with the modern generation. They simply did not grasp that there could be consequences to their actions. They seemed to operate from a misplaced sense of invulnerability.

It was galling to Chopra that one day this brigade of louts would be running the country.

‘Well done, Rangwalla,’ said Chopra, eventually. He was genuinely pleased. ‘I knew hiring you would be a good idea.’ He reached down and picked up the stack of folders from the stool beside his chair. ‘Here is your reward. You can get on with this lot. Start by following Mrs Roy’s husband around. I want to know if that old duffer is drinking his lunch. When you find out, let Mrs Roy know immediately.’

The three of them turned to see Rosie Pinto leading four youths into the courtyard.

Chopra recognised the uniform of the St Xavier Catholic School for Boys. Having just heard the story of the nefarious goings-on at the school he found himself bristling at the sudden presence of these four young hooligans. But then he saw that the boys were subdued, and advanced towards them behind expressions of intense contriteness.

‘Madam,’ said Raj Wadia stiffly, addressing Poppy, ‘we have been sent here by our parents. We wish to say something to you.’ He licked his lips and exchanged glances with Fonseca, Baig and Joshi. ‘We wish to thank you for saving us from expulsion and for convincing Principal Lobo to give us a second chance.’

Fonseca, who was hopping from foot to foot, suddenly surged forward and clasped Poppy in a hug. ‘We will never do anything like that again!’

An astonished Poppy finally extricated herself from the overcome young man. ‘I know that you won’t,’ she said. ‘You will all go on and make me very proud.’

After the boys had left, Rangwalla turned to Poppy. ‘What exactly did you say to Lobo to get them off?’

‘I merely reminded him what it is to be young,’ Poppy told him. ‘We all make errors of judgement. Everyone deserves a second chance. And besides, we place too much pressure on our young people to do well in exams. Do you know how many children committed suicide last year in our country because they could not meet the expectations of their parents? We must all learn to be a little more forgiving.’

‘Wise words,’ agreed Rangwalla with feeling. He had never had much time for exams and recalled the many beatings his father had given him for his poor results.

Chopra reflected once again on his opinion that many of the younger generation in India were becoming afflicted by the vices of arrogance and irresponsibility. Clearly, his wife did not share his opinion. Was he being too harsh? Hadn’t he been young once? After all, who was he to judge? He had made mistakes too as a young man. What gave him the right to think ill of others?

Nevertheless, he felt that there was a sense of entitlement amongst a certain type of privileged youngster that was breeding the wrong sort of brashness. Not the kind that promoted entrepreneurialism and endeavour and might benefit both individual and nation, but the sort of loutish behaviour that led to acts of foolhardiness at best and sheer irresponsibility at worst.

Little did Chopra know then that, in just a few short hours, he was to encounter the ultimate demonstration of this phenomenon.

THE CULPRITS ARE UNMASKED