When I returned, the family was at dinner. I popped my head in to say hello before heading to the kitchen to wash up. There, the servants were sitting in a circle for their own meal.
Seeing me, Gurung jumped up. Jiji-bai too, climbed slowly to her feet.
“Baithey raho,” I reassured them and went to the mori, a tiled-off area separated by a ledge. Leaning over it, I ran the tap and soaped my hands while asking after Jiji-bai’s health.
Gurung handed me a cloth. Drying off, I realized Jiji-bai had not answered. The others would not meet my gaze. Out of respect they did not eat in front of me, but only ducked their heads.
Jiji-bai wiped her eyes with a corner of her sari and said in Hindustani, “Sahib, I remember the little one, Chutki. She was so young, too young. Her memory comes to me, sahib.”
I recalled Chutki’s large, dark eyes, which rarely looked up, and the tinkle of her payals, how they sounded when she limped and their joyful rhythm as she recovered. A tiny teenager, she’d joined the kitchen crew at the Framjis, winding her hair in a bun to appear grown-up. I’d called her my sister, if only for a few months. Her spirit, her loss still had me in its grip.
My throat felt tight as I touched Jiji-bai’s shoulder. It was enough. She mumbled to Gurung to set another place in the dining room for me.
When we entered there, conversation ceased. Had I interrupted some disagreement? Burjor looked unhappy, Adi was frowning.
Draped in fabric the color of moss in a shady well, Diana held her youngest sister on her lap and kept her little fingers busy shredding a roti. Offering greetings around the table, I took my place. Mrs. Framji passed the rice and directed the other dishes to my attention. The silence thickened as I served myself, but Diana’s lips held the glimmer of a smile.
Nothing too bad, then. I said, “Apologies for my tardiness, Mrs. Framji, sir. Can I help with the present difficulty?”
Adi gave a wan smile. “He’s caught you out, Papa. One second in the room and he knows there’s a problem.”
“No problem, beta,” said Burjor, picking up his spoon. “I decided to sell our hotel in Simla, and Byram has found a buyer. That’s all there is to it. Now come on, don’t spoil dinner.”
Ah! So I’d missed Byram’s visit. He’d arrived while I was out quizzing Banner.
Adi protested. “Sell? After all the work you’ve done, importing French tablecloths, towels, chefs from the south. The craftsmen, designing archways, tables, monogrammed bowls, silver cutlery! Why should we sell?”
Burjor chewed.
Adi went on, “You’ve never mentioned this before. We were going there this summer. So why sell? And to whom?”
Burjor burped, raised a hand in apology. “Let’s discuss it later. Now, Captain, have you found anything?”
Adi clearly did not like the change of subject but I said, “Yes, something, but I’m not sure what to make of it.” I turned to Adi. “Satya Rastogi—he went to Oxford with you?”
“And Cathedral—boys’ school.”
The Framjis had almost finished their meals. Hurrying to consume mine, I said, “Describe Satya—his nature,” then closed my eyes as the first flavorful mouthful blossomed in my mouth.
Adi leaned back and considered. As usual, when he spoke, it was succinct. “Satya was bright. Brilliant, even. After Cathedral, we both chose Oxford. I suppose his choice of subject was natural—being brought up around jewelers and craftsmen. What astonished other students was his ease with complicated terms. He said it was pie, compared to memorizing Sanskrit shlokas! He’d mastered the essence of chemistry, I think. Could tell you at fifty paces what a smell was, look at a bit of stone and tell you what minerals it contained. Yet he was humble. Friendly, in an unobtrusive way.”
“A charmer?”
“God, no.” Grinning, Adi picked up his utensils. “Frightfully shy around the ladies. He’d barely look up! But he played a mean game of whist.”
“Did he drink? Smoke?”
Adi’s brow puckered. “No. He was a high-caste Brahmin, you know. Vegetarian, even in England. Ate potatoes endlessly, poor sod. No vices, really. He liked music but was terrified of attending a do. I made him go to the opera once. Despite the expense, I mean. Ten minutes in, he wanted to leave! I wouldn’t hear of it, so he sat back down. Said he couldn’t believe the noise at first, but then became entranced.”
“Was Satya crooked?”
My bald question sounded like a day-old cod going splat on the rosewood table. Finally, Diana said, “What d’you mean, Jim? What have you found?”
When I told them about Howard Banner and the loan that Satya had pleaded for, Adi’s mouth dropped open. “But we had money. Two thousand in the bank! Why would he borrow from Banner? Without saying a word?”
“You had not discussed another loan?”
Adi shook his head. “I wouldn’t have accepted it from Banner. That much? Why on earth…? We had enough for six months—I’d have got some orders by then. If the Brits ganged up on me, I’d sell in Rangoon or Hong Kong!”
“So why did Satya need the cash?”
Just then baby Tehmina reached out. Diana gave a cry as the little hand knocked over her glass. Water splashed over the tablecloth. Instantly the others offered napkins and helped mop up.
When we settled down again, Adi shook his head at me. “Satya, crooked?” he said. “I wouldn’t have believed it. He was quiet, though, rarely spoke of his parents or childhood. As though he was ashamed of it.”
“If he needed cash, why wouldn’t he ask his parents? He’s the only son in a goldsmiths’ clan,” I said, spooning mutton and potatoes reddened with spice onto my plate, “among a lot of cousins.”
Adi’s eyebrows shot up. “He’s the only son?”
“You saw him as bright, friendly but quiet. Your workman Faisal said he didn’t want to go home, and his mother said—”
“You met Satya’s mother?” Adi asked.
I smiled. “A tough lady. She was…” I gave it some thought, then said, “furious with Satya. They gave him an expensive education. Perhaps he was expected to settle to the yoke, after that. But he didn’t. He worked ‘in a phac-ta-ry.’ She didn’t know he was your partner.”
Adi looked stumped. “He didn’t tell them?”
I shrugged, savoring spicy chickpeas and lentils. “Same reason he didn’t ask them for money. Or perhaps he did, and was denied. Kept things close to his vest, young Satya.”
The Framjis had finished their meals, so Gurung brought in finger bowls. Starting at the head of the table he bathed Burjor’s hands from a thin-spouted silver jug.
Burjor grunted his thanks and dried his fingers on an embroidered napkin, saying, “This Mr. Banner, the medical salesman … is he a suspect?”
I handed my empty plate to Ganju and complimented Mrs. Framji on the meal, then replied, “Everyone’s a suspect until I find the culprit, sir.” Then recalling the invitation I’d made, I turned to Diana. “My dear, you wanted to have a party this weekend, didn’t you?”
“Well, yes,” she said, her eyes on baby Tehmina, who was splashing in her finger bowl. She tapped the child’s hands together to shake off the droplets, then enveloped them in a napkin and gave Gurung a smile. This signaled him to whisk away her bowl and attend Mrs. Framji.
Diana went on, “I had almost given up, but I met my old friend Mary Fenton—the actress. Her father was Irish—he was in the army, Jim. Anyway, we attended a talk at Wilson College, and she introduced me to two charming sisters. Rata Vakil teaches French there and her sister Mehr studies medicine at Grant Medical College.” Her calm voice held a note of suppressed excitement.
Diana had recently been keen to study medicine. She asked, “Shall I invite them for dinner on Saturday, Mama?”
Her mother demurred. “Diana, I have heard of Mary Fenton. She’s married to Kavasji Khatau, the playwright—you know she has left him?”
Diana countered, “She learned Gujarati so she could act in his plays. She made him famous.”
After a pause, Mrs. Framji said, “So three guests?”
“Four,” I said. “If it’s all right, I’ve invited Jameson, the army medico.”
Diana beamed. “I like him. But we need two more young men to balance out. There’s Adi, ’course. Who else can we have?”
Who did I want at our table? I considered the bachelors I knew in Bombay. Smith would rejoice to be invited, but since he’d joined the constabulary, that would be awkward.
Mrs. Framji cast an anxious look at me. Two of the ladies invited were Parsi, so I said, “What about Soli Wadia, who fetched us from the pier?”
Mrs. Framji sighed. “His mother sent me such a nice decline. She feels awful, she said, but now isn’t ‘the right time.’”
Seeing Diana’s shoulders slump, I asked, “Why not let him make up his own mind?”
There were nods around the table. Diana said, “All right, I’ll write out the invitations. Will you give Dr. Jameson his, or shall I send Ganju?”
How Jameson would guffaw if he got our missive through a bearer. He’d never let me live it down. “I’ll take it, sweet.”
At my words, Diana’s parents glanced at each other, and some communication seemed to pass between them. The family got up, Mrs. Framji hoisting the youngest, who burped loudly and fussed. Since the younger son Fali and little Shirin were at school, three-year-old Tehmina was the center of adult adulation. Now she cooed at me, “Carry! Carry me. I’m big now!”
Taking her carefully from Mrs. Framji I assured her that she was indeed very grown-up.
“Up, up!” she demanded, with the authority of a sergeant major.
“Captain,” said Burjor, clearing his throat.
“Sir?” His formal opening after our pleasant meal surprised me. Then recalling the argument I had interrupted, I expected he would invite Adi and me into his study. Instead, he said, “It is Mama’s birthday tomorrow, so we plan to go to the agiyari in the morning.”
That was the Zoroastrian fire temple, I recalled. “Of course.”
“I’m sorry,” he said. “You can’t come. Only Parsis are permitted inside.”
Diana put a hand on my arm. “It’s one of those silly rules, Jim.”
So Diana was going, too. Dropping my voice, I asked, “Will they let you in?”
From the door, Adi snorted. “I’d like to see someone object! I did pass the bar, you know. I’ll sue the blackguard!”
Sometimes I didn’t think Adi understood just how much trouble he was in. I said, “Right. Tomorrow’s Thursday, so I take it I’m on my own.”
Diana grimaced. “Only until lunch. We should be back then. Or earlier, even.” If they throw me out, said her mocking look.
“I’m seeing McIntyre. To take a look at the file.”
Adi’s file? her eyes asked.
As I replied with a nod, a rush of gratitude washed over me. This, I thought, this was being married. Having someone who understood, who knew the meaning behind what was said, the implication. Diana’s glow told me she knew I’d made inroads with McIntyre, gained Jameson’s public support with my invitation, and begun beating the bushes for Satya’s killer.
It was progress, although Banner’s intelligence could mean that Satya was doing something illicit. I had a whole lot more searching in store.
The toddler in my arms yelped and squirmed. Remorseful, I loosened my hold.
“I’ll take her,” said Burjor, so I handed Tehmina into his arms where she perched like a pudgy miniature Queen Victoria surveying her empire. If Diana and I ever had a child, I thought, she’d look just like that. The thought made my chest tight.
McIntyre wasn’t in that morning, but he’d left instructions with Sub-inspector Sabrimal to seat me in his office. True to his word, there on his blotter lay a discreet brown manila folder. I felt a rush of gratitude, then tempered it with caution. McIntyre was an ally, but I’d be a fool to trust him blindly. His true allegiance was to the crown.
“Chai, sahib?” asked Sabrimal, his round face beaming.
“Thank you,” I said, and waited until he’d left before I flicked open the file. It was laid out pro forma, with photographs. Satya, hair cropped short, lying on a slab, a small wound in his neck, barely an inch long. He’d worn a thin mustache, and … what was that, sprawled off center, on his face? A Brahmin mark? Scanning the page, I read: strawberry birthmark on forehead.
Then came the statement from investigating officer Stephen J. Smith, the witness statements from Adi’s employees and medical examination reports. I set aside Adi’s written statement. The bank manager swore he’d handed over two thousand rupees in banknotes to Satya Rastogi; a conversation with one Bala Mali was transcribed verbatim.
This last was damning. Bala was Adi’s watchman, stationed at his factory gate. The employees had arrived between nine and eleven fifteen. He said Adi had arrived in a carriage around eleven thirty. A coal cart had then arrived and the carriage left soon afterward.
Vishal, the accountant, had overseen the unloading of sacks, paid, and sent off the cart. I frowned at the page, an ache throbbing at my forehead. Adi had insisted that he arrived at noon.
The rest matched what I already knew—just after the clocktower struck twelve, the watchman heard a hue and cry, and rushed to the factory building. Satya was on the floor, bleeding, etc. He saw blood on Adi’s shirt and hands. Adi sent Bala to summon a local havildar, so he ran to the police chowki at Grant Road. He returned, riding behind a mounted officer.
I frowned—hadn’t Faisal said that Vishal brought the constable? If the gateman rode behind the havildar, what was the staff doing during the ruckus? Perhaps I was making too much of it, I thought. If they arrived together, would Faisal really remember who brought whom?
I tapped the pages, puzzled at the minor inconsistency, then spotted a cup of tea at my elbow. Sabrimal had discreetly withdrawn, leaving me to my cogitations.
Based on the gateman’s statement, McIntyre had placed Adi in the factory at eleven thirty, and therefore earlier than noon, as Adi claimed. Was this why he was set against Adi? When Adi fled the country, it must have seemed like an admission.
Adi’s testimony was concise. When he arrived at noon, he hadn’t noticed anyone at the gate. He was the sort who’d nod and acknowledge his man, even a lowly sweeper, but mightn’t remember it if he was preoccupied with missing funds. Or Bala Mali was not at his post just before noon when Adi arrived. If he’d stepped away, then someone else could have entered, had an altercation with Satya, and stabbed him just as Adi entered the building. Or perhaps Bala Mali was with Satya himself. That made him a suspect, too.
I closed my eyes, recalling the factory—the gate was about thirty yards from the structure, which had once been a stable. Large archways along the side were now boarded up, leaving doors on the narrow ends. When we visited, the rear egress had been open “to get some fresh air.” The front of the workshop connected to a small passage with doors leading to the supply room, accounting office, and other rooms. Adi could have been walking through that hallway when Satya was attacked. He could have approached just as the killer ducked out the rear. I frowned—was I trying to force the facts to fit my theory?
The property was densely treed with chickoo, palms, and banana trees, banyan heavy with vines, ample shrubbery where one might secret oneself. All a killer need do was wait for Bala to be called from the gate, then dash out.
Bala Mali—was that his last name, or his occupation? A mali is a gardener, so possibly he was employed as both. An ordinary morning, he’d said. He gave his position as “gate man” whereas McIntyre’s slanted hand denoted him as “watchman” at the top of the page, which indicated his role was that of a guard.
Mali’s address was listed as Plot 12 Dady Lane. Adi’s factory was on that same street, wasn’t it? Closing the file, I returned it to McIntyre’s blotter, feeling grim. Time to see the watchman.