17

Black Fingerprints

Bombay, February 1921

At the Farid bungalow, Perveen sat on a rosewood chair and watched Sub-Inspector K. J. Singh shake black powder across the floor.

The dark powder, late afternoon heat, and the stench of blood had brought up memories of the Sodawallas’ home: both the horrible little room and the foyer where she had stenciled for hours over the months.

What was going on now felt like a nightmare. And although Perveen might avert her eyes from Faisal Mukri’s body, she felt a duty to remain.

Knowing her father would expect her to report on every detail of the situation, Perveen had asked to stay. It was a nervy thing to do, and Perveen had been surprised that the sub-inspector had allowed her to linger. As the fingerprinting continued, she realized her presence gave the sub-inspector a chance to show off. After all, his boss hadn’t yet arrived, and she was the first female lawyer he’d ever met.

Sub-Inspector Singh had swiftly dispersed the thick black powder over everything: the marble floor, the walls, and the furniture. He was making a mess of this elegant old house, but she supposed it couldn’t be avoided. She studied the junior police officer, who wore a neatly trimmed beard and had an impressively large dark-green turban. Unlike ordinary Indian constables, who wore blue tunics with pantaloons, the sub-inspector wore the crisp white uniform of jacket and trousers of the Imperial Police.

The golden-brown bridle-leather briefcase, which had originally been underneath Mr. Mukri’s body, now lay blackened with powder. She eyed it, wondering how she’d be able to convince the sub-inspector to return it. As one of very few Indians in police administration, he would probably not want to give the impression he would cut another Indian a favor.

“Are you finding many impressions?” Perveen asked in a friendly tone.

He gave her a supercilious look. “I was trained in Calcutta in the Henry Fingerprint Classification System. I don’t suppose you know that fingerprinting science began in India?”

“I didn’t know,” she said honestly. “About how many fingerprints are on file in Bombay?”

“Over forty-five thousand,” he said with pride. “In these times, whenever a man is arrested, his fingerprints are taken.”

“Are there only criminals’ fingerprints on record?”

“Not exactly. Almost every sweeper and guard is requested to let us take impressions. We saw no guard at the gate. That is already suspicious. My inspector, Mr. R. H. Vaughan, will certainly pursue him.”

Feeling jittery, Perveen tried not to concentrate on her private suppositions that at least one of the women on the other side of the screen might have been involved with Mukri’s death. She was supposed to defend them, not throw them to the wolves.

Perveen studied the hallway, wondering if she might notice something important. She surveyed everything: the floral mosaics on the walls that bore splatters of the blood, the velvet stool that was knocked over, and the open door to a bedroom.

Perhaps this was where Mr. Mukri had slept. As Sub-Inspector Singh kept dusting, she got up and entered the room. The handsome bed was neatly made with a red silk quilt; on marble-topped tables on either side, there were crystal goblets.

A slight hissing sound caught her attention. She followed it to a closed door, which she pushed open to discover that behind it was a bathroom with a marble tub. She’d heard the faint noise of taps not closed all the way, judging from the moisture beading up on a long rust stain inside the tub.

“Where have you gone?” Sub-Inspector Singh’s voice was sharp and close behind her.

Perveen felt like a child in trouble. “I’m sorry. I did not know this was off-limits.”

“Touching the door ruins fingerprints! There may be evidence here.”

Perveen looked at the trickling tap. She could have pointed it out to him. However, she was not legally obligated to assist; and if she became involved in the defense of anyone within the household, tipping the detective about anything could have disastrous implications. Still, she wanted to foster a good relationship; there were many things a lawyer could learn from the police. This was why her father—the next person she’d telephoned after she’d rung the police—was downstairs with the two constables.

“My inspector will want to know what was taken,” Sub-Inspector Singh said. “This will be difficult indeed, since the three widows live on the other side. What can they tell us?”

Perveen was pleased to have a way to redeem herself. “Our law firm has a written record of some of the household’s most important assets. I believe we can share such information to assist in your investigation.”

Singh looked appraisingly at her. “When can you give it?”

“Perhaps tomorrow. But I’ll need my briefcase. It’s the one lying against the wall—”

“You own a man’s briefcase?” He looked disbelievingly from her to the case.

“It’s mine!” she bleated, feeling desperate. “I can tell you that it was manufactured by Swaine Adeney of England and has my initials stamped on it. PJM.”

He shuffled over to the briefcase and lifted it up for inspection. “Why would your briefcase be with the deceased?”

Perveen took a deep breath. If she wasn’t careful, she could turn his suspicion on herself. “I misplaced it when I was visiting earlier today. I’d come on a routine visit that dealt with the estate settlement. The late Omar Farid was originally my father’s client, and now I’m helping, because the wives will speak to me.”

Sub-Inspector Singh handed her the case. “You may have it, then. But will you tell me if anything’s missing?”

“Thank you. I’ll look right now.”

Perveen shook off her worries about being considered culpable along with the black dust covering the case. Her notebook, a Bombay street guide, three pens, twenty rupees, and some odd paisa coins were still inside. The mahr and wakf papers showed signs of rifling. Mr. Mukri had looked. Not that it mattered anymore.

“Nothing’s been taken. Not even the small amount of money I always carry,” she said.

“Any thief would have taken the case. It looks expensive—” He broke off at the sound of Jamshedji’s voice booming from downstairs.

“My apologies, madam, but this area is not open for visitation! It is under police protection.”

“Is that so?” drawled a recognizable female voice. “Then what about your presence, sir? You’re too nattily dressed to be a constable.”

Sub-Inspector Singh gave Perveen a comradely glance and muttered, “Those Angrez. Everywhere they should not be.”

“It sounds like my father needs help.” Briefcase in hand, Perveen hurried down the main staircase.

Alice was dressed in a white linen frock that was not only creased but also stained with red dust. She goggled at the sight of Perveen. “Perveen! How did you get here?”

“I’ll ask the same of you!” She laughed, trying to sound amused—although she wasn’t. It was an inconvenient time for Alice to blunder in.

“I was coming back from sightseeing on Elephanta Island when I saw the hubbub. The whole street’s up in arms.”

“Even so, that is no reason to enter another person’s property,” Jamshedji said icily.

“Pappa, she is my closest college friend, Alice Hobson-Jones,” Perveen interjected because as annoyed as she was about the interruption, she didn’t want Alice to feel rejected. “She lives just around the corner.”

“So you’re the famous Jamshedji Mistry, Esquire!” Alice beamed as if she was intent on ignoring his unfriendly reception. “Perveen has told me loads about you. Actually, I only came because of the commotion. Our guards said a police cart went by—the kind that is used to carry bodies.”

“I regret to say that the information is correct,” Jamshedji said stiffly as he shook Alice’s outstretched hand. “A gentleman from this house has passed away.”

Alice gasped. “But I thought the nawab died some time ago!”

Father and daughter exchanged glances. At Jamshedji’s nod of permission, Perveen spoke. “Alice, you are correct that the householder, Mr. Omar Farid, died last month—although he was a businessman, not a nawab. The gentleman who died today was the family’s household agent and guardian.”

“How ghastly,” Alice said. “Was he killed defending the widows and children? What a hero he must have been!”

“We don’t know specifics,” Jamshedji said in the patient voice he employed with foreigners. “That is a matter for police deduction. And now, Miss Hobson-Jones, if you don’t mind—”

“But Mr. Mistry, can you tell me, were the ladies and children harmed?” Alice persisted.

“They’re fine,” Perveen said. “I’ve been inside the zenana section to check on them.” Although there hadn’t been time to talk.

“Perveen, perhaps you and Miss Hobson-Jones could visit with each other later?”

Jamshedji’s discomfort was obvious to Perveen. The sudden interloper was a social superior who could cause all manner of trouble. Perveen would put him at ease later; for now, she’d do as he asked.

Perveen walked out to the garden with Alice.

“Why didn’t you tell me that you already knew my mysterious neighbors?” Alice grumbled. “We looked down at the garden together, and you didn’t say a word!”

“I didn’t know you were such close neighbors until I visited your parents’ house, and I’m duty bound to protect my clients’ privacy,” Perveen said, putting an arm through one of Alice’s. “My father only said as much as he did because you’d arrived and there seemed no way to keep it hidden. But do be quiet about it to others.”

Alice rolled her eyes heavenward. “I shall. But does this gag order preclude me from telling you what I think?”

“Speak, but in a lower voice,” Perveen whispered. “There are open ears on the other side of the wall.”

Alice regarded the high property wall with its spiked glass topping and winced. “All right. Mother says that whenever there’s a murder in India, one can count on the evildoer being a disgruntled servant.”

Mohsen was still missing from his station; however, Perveen refused to engage in typical prejudices and didn’t want Alice to absorb them. “Here’s what I think. Because there are so many more poor people in India than rich people, they receive most of the convictions. Their fate is decided by judges who come from the elite.”

“I hadn’t thought of that,” Alice said, looking a bit shamefaced. “Whoever it was, I hope that he or she is caught. Do you see how fair-minded I can be?”

“I do.”

“Will you come to the bungalow after you’re finished here?”

“Your mother said yesterday you’d be busy tonight.”

“I’ve got that thing where your legs are still rolling the day after you’ve been at sea. I tripped in the caves; that’s why I look such a mess.”

Perveen hesitated because, although she would have liked to talk about everything with Alice, it would be difficult to resist saying too much. “I’ll have to see what my father thinks.”

“It was his suggestion!” Alice said heatedly.

Perhaps. But her father had no idea how hard Alice was likely to press her about the case’s details. And after all the truth telling that she and Alice had gone through over the years, Perveen wasn’t sure how much she could deny her.