The laws of perspective seemed to apply differently to Irani. There was no mistaking he was a big man, even from a distance, but rather like a mountain, the closer you got, the more he seemed to loom larger than your eyes had first appreciated.
He was talking to a group of Englishmen, each armed with a drink and a cigar, the shield and sword of these latter-day crusaders in foreign parts. It struck me as odd that with my city burning and the rest of the country on the brink, these brave men of the King’s Own Bombay Gin drinkers were carrying on as if it were business as usual. I didn’t know whether to applaud the stiff-upper-lip-ness of it all or simply lament the ostrich-headed stupidity. Still, that was a debate for another time. Right now, my priority was to become as one with them.
I attached myself to the fringes of the circle and caught the scraps of a conversation about racehorses.
‘Stud farms,’ opined a chap in a cravat. ‘They’ll transform this business, mark my words. The ones coming up outside Poona… good as anything in the east.’
I didn’t know much about horses, but then I’d never found a lack of knowledge an impediment to voicing an opinion on a subject. Besides, every fool knew that in India the best horses, and by extension the best races, were to be found in Calcutta, and I told them as much.
The chap in the cravat sized me up. ‘And you are?’
I could have made up a name or claimed affiliation with the Bengal Turf Club or some such rot. That would have been the sensible thing to do, but the truth is I was sick of it all. It felt like time to throw the tiger among the mynah birds.
‘Wyndham,’ I said. ‘I’m a detective from Calcutta.’
The words hit home and the reaction was as it always was. People take notice when you tell them you’re a detective. They reappraise you, they stand a little straighter, as though you’re suddenly worthier of their attention. Irani, though, didn’t flinch. Instead he raised his glass in salute.
‘And what brings you to Bombay, Mr Wyndham?’
‘A case.’
‘What sort of case would that be?’
‘The only sort that interests me,’ I said. ‘Murder.’
I sensed Irani tighten his grip on his drink. In his hand it looked like a child’s toy.
‘Murder?’ exclaimed an older fellow in a regimental tie.
‘Correct,’ I said. ‘Nasty business. A man strangled in his own house.’
Our conversation was attracting attention. Others drifted over to listen as though I were delivering the Sermon on the Mount.
‘And you think the killer’s here?’
I stared at Irani. ‘And you are?’
‘Irani,’ he said. ‘Cyrus Irani.’
‘You’re a local?’
‘I’m from Rangoon.’
‘Well, Mr Irani,’ I said, ‘in answer to your question, I do think the killer is in Bombay. There’s no doubt in my mind. Who knows, he may be at this very racecourse.’
The air around us filled with gasps and tentative laughs, but Irani’s face remained impassive. I had to hand it to him, he was certainly a cool one. But he was stupid with it. What he failed to realise was that the key to a plausible cover was not just equanimity, but the ability to behave naturally. With everyone around him reacting with the shock of titillation, his very lack of expression stood out like a beacon. It didn’t necessarily mean he was guilty of Mukherjee’s murder of course, but it suggested he was guilty of something.
I gave a tight smile. ‘I’m joking, of course. While I am here on a case, tonight is my night off. I very much doubt, as Sherlock Holmes might say, that the killer is in our midst.’
Irani made a show of his disappointment. ‘Can’t you tell us any more?’
‘Unfortunately not,’ I said. ‘I’m sure you understand; confidentiality and all that. But you can be certain I’m going to arrest the bastard soon, and when I do, he’ll face the gallows.’ I drank down my whisky. ‘Excuse me, gentlemen, I seem to need a refill.’
I refreshed my glass and located Ooravis Colah, who was now chatting to several men, albeit with one eye still trained surreptitiously on Jehangir Panthaki who, as chance would have it, once again seemed to find himself at the centre of a rather female-heavy crowd.
She caught me watching, extricated herself and ambled over, a princess with a cocktail glass for a sceptre.
‘Having a good time?’
I took a sip of whisky. ‘Marvellous. You?’
‘I’ve been to better parties. What about Irani? You think he’s the man you’re looking for?’
I let out a sigh. ‘Who knows. I’ve shaken the tree. Let’s see what falls out.’
She was only half listening, once more casting stray glances at Panthaki.
‘May I give you a word of advice?’ I said. ‘Ignore him for an hour. Go and chat to some other men; it doesn’t matter who. Men like your friend Mr Panthaki are used to women fawning. It’s all very dull. What interests them is the thrill of the chase. Trust me, give him the cold shoulder for a while, he’ll come running along soon enough.’
She looked at me and stifled a laugh. ‘Make him jealous? You really are charmingly out of date, aren’t you, Captain.’
I shook my head. ‘It’s not about making him jealous. It’s about setting yourself apart from the crowd. It’s about being different; being interesting. In my experience, men born into too much money are afflicted by a disease the rest of us can only aspire to.’
‘And what would that be?’
‘Ennui,’ I said. ‘Everything is handed to them, too early and too easily. Money, women, material possessions. When you’ve been given all the good things in life by the time you’re twenty, where’s the challenge? Where’s the interest? They’re haunted by boredom, you know. You need to be the challenge.’
Miss Colah bit her lip in contemplation. ‘Talk to other men, you say?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘Well, let me start with your new friend Cyrus Irani.’
‘That’s not what I meant,’ I stammered, but she was already sashaying off before I could stop her.
I sipped my whisky and tried not to stare as she joined the group of gentlemen around Irani. There was something about the man, something cold, a cruelty in the eyes, that worried me and suddenly I couldn’t help but feel that Miss Colah was walking into terrible danger.
‘Wonderful night,’ said a voice behind me. I turned to find a pretty Englishwoman in a green dress. She tucked a stray strand of breeze-blown auburn hair behind one ear. ‘The weather’s mild for the time of year, wouldn’t you say?’
Thank God for weather, the backbone of British small talk for at least a hundred years. Back on our sceptre’d and sodden isle, it acted as patron saint and saviour, sustaining our conversations, and here it was, exported to foreign climes and being put to sterling use.
I turned on a smile. ‘Rather chilly for my tastes,’ I said. ‘I’m from Calcutta.’
It was odd how I’d fallen into calling that benighted city home.
‘I thought I hadn’t seen you around here before,’ she said and held out a hand and I caught the scent of floral perfume and gin. ‘Cecily Parsons.’
‘A pleasure to meet you, Miss Parsons,’ I said. ‘Sam Wyndham.’
‘Mrs,’ she corrected me. ‘Well, technically at least. Widowed.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Long time ago now. Back in the war.’
‘I lost my wife around the same time,’ I said.
I took out a pack of cigarettes, offered her one, which she accepted graciously.
‘You haven’t remarried?’ she asked.
I shook my head.
‘It doesn’t get easier, does it? That gnawing emptiness. Time files down the edges, but that crater is still there.’
She might have had a skinful, but I couldn’t fault her words. As they say, in vino veritas.
‘And these dos are the worst.’ She waved at the gathering with her glass. ‘Everyone pitying you or thinking you’re on the lookout for a new man.’
‘So why did you come?’
‘Work,’ she sighed. ‘I run a charity called the Sisters of Hope. We try to help girls who are sold into a life of prostitution. We live off donations, and this is where the money comes out to play. And you, Mr Wyndham? What brings you out tonight?’
I should have been guarded, told her nothing, but I have a weakness for alcohol and a woman with a sad story. There’s probably some psychological explanation for it, and I’ll probably never know what that is.
‘The same,’ I said. ‘Work. I’m a de—’
‘Yes, I know, a detective. I couldn’t help overhearing you earlier. That must be jolly exciting.’
People always assumed that. Most of the time a copper’s job oscillated between the mundane and the malevolent and any excitement was a fleeting, adrenaline-fuelled frenzy of action to save a life, too frequently one’s own.
‘It has its moments,’ I said. Near the racecourse boundary, Ooravis Colah was smiling beatifically as Cyrus Irani and his cadres talked at her, while at a distance Jehangir Panthaki watched her furtively. I raised my glass to young love and took a sip. As I did, I noticed a man at the top of the clubhouse stairs, and almost choked on my whisky.
‘Are you all right, Mr Wyndham?’ asked Cecily Parsons.
Still coughing, I looked up. Walking down the steps was the unmistakable figure of Farid Gulmohamed. For a moment I stood dumbstruck. Was there an etiquette for meeting a man at a garden party whom you’d threatened to throw off a cliff the night before?
‘Mrs Parsons, I’m afraid I’m going to have to go. Please don’t think me rude. The truth is, talking to you has been the highlight of the night, but I need to leave.’
Cecily Parsons looked like she’d heard that line, or a variation of it, before, which was a pity because it was true. Nevertheless she smiled gamely and saluted me with her gin and tonic.
I glanced over at Ooravis Colah. She was still talking, but Irani had suddenly disappeared from the group. Quickly I scanned the assembly and spotted his hulking shoulders heading towards the far side of the clubhouse. I hurried over to Miss Colah.
‘I need to go,’ I said, guiding her away from the scrum of gentlemen.
‘Is everything OK? Are you going after Irani? He just took off like a scalded cat.’
‘I saw. You stay here. I’ll make my way back to Malabar Hill.’
‘One thing before you go,’ she said. ‘Irani.’
‘What about him?’
‘If’s he’s a Parsee, then I’m Cleopatra. What he knows about us and our customs, you could fit on the back of a postage stamp.’