A hot breeze blew dust into my face as I rode a one-horse ekka toward Adi’s factory. This cart had been called “a tea tray on wheels” because every rut in the road jarred one’s spine. Europeans sat in the shape of an N hugging their knees, as the elder Kipling’s book described. Instead, squatting brought a brief relief. Hanging onto struts that supported the cloth roof, I urged the driver onward. If Bala Mali was not dismissed, ostensibly he still worked for Adi. He had not been at the gate when I visited with Adi, yet no one had mentioned him. Was he such a nonentity that his absence went unnoticed?
Bells jingling, my conveyance headed east toward Babula Tank and Bombay Jail. To my left rose the spires of Grant Medical College, the swath of Jamshidji’s Hospital and behind it, the daunting façade of the Hospital for Incurables. Nearing the turn for Dady Lane, I hollered to the driver. He took it without slowing, the cart wildly atilt, but I clutched my hat and kept my seat.
Adi’s factory looked bereft as though mourning its lost usefulness. At the open gate I got down and paid the sweating ekkawala as he watered his horse. Patting the short mare’s neck, I glanced around. Where was that inconspicuous gateman?
My footsteps crunched on gravel, muted where grass and weeds poked through. The roots of great banyan trees hung like sinewy pythons over a stone wall at the perimeter, while tall jambul trees sheltered the silent building. I tried the door, hammered on it, but no one opened. Had Adi given his employees leave for the day? I did not recall any such mention, so I walked around the compound, stepping through the high foliage.
Overhanging vines descended in cascades to screen dense thickets. If one wanted to hide, he would not lack cover in waist-high brush, though most would avoid it for fear of snakes.
Specks of white adorned the flower beds to my right; behind, a row of mighty teak bloomed with spiral candles. Yet violent death had visited this tropical splendor.
Coming around the side I entered a formal garden, row upon row of glossy bushes and shrubs crowded with petals. At the back, overgrown stones showed what had been part of the home’s foundation. The thoroughfare beyond walled off Girgaon Back Road, so the tree-lined path had once been the main entrance. Here Adi’s employees claimed to have taken lunch together. Glancing around the cool, shady perimeter, I could not fault their choice. At the center, a rubber pipe lay near a hand pump and its wide stone vessel.
Spotting someone crouched in the bushes, I hailed him. “Bala Mali?”
An older man in a rumpled brown dhoti got to his feet and joined his hands in greeting over his scrawny chest, still holding a forklike implement. Small in stature, with thin arms and muddy hands, he stood barefooted near a pile of weeds. He ducked his head, a toothless smile on his lined face.
Since he had continued work when recompense was uncertain, the garden must be dear to him. Around him a jumble of red hibiscus crowned a bush, while stephanotis, jasmine, heliotrope crowded adjacent beds. The scent of honeysuckle descended from the vine-covered wall. Behind us, great bell-shaped elephant-creeper and lilac flowers grew over the iron trellis of the dilapidated front porch.
“You like flowers,” I said.
He showed his gums and pointed with his gardening fork. “Champak, sahib. Hibiscus. Chameli over there, and Aparajita.” He gave their Indian names in an affectionate tone.
I said, “Your employer was killed, some weeks ago. I’m looking into the case.”
He wobbled his head, turning serious. I motioned him to the shade nearby, sat on a stump, and took off my solar topi. “Tell me what happened, that morning.”
He rattled off the sequence as though accustomed to repeating it.
Once he ended, I asked, “When the carriage arrived—did you see Adi sahib in it?”
He had not.
“Did you see him get out?” I watched closely, for this question could trip him up. From the gate, the carriage would stand between him and anyone descending toward the foyer.
When he shook his head, I pointed at some protruding roots. “Sit—it is a hot day.”
He jerked. “Sahib, I am a poor gardener. I am not kursi-nashin.”
That was a term I’d almost forgotten. Natives were required to purchase a certificate that entitled them to sit in the presence of an Englishman. “Tsk,” I said. “Betho!”
He squatted, folding his hands before him.
“How do you know it was Adi sahib’s carriage?” I asked.
Surprised, he shrugged, so I pressed on. “Who was driving it? Did you recognize him?”
The hapless mali shook his head, so I tried a series of questions: Was the driver young, or old? What was he wearing? What color were the horses? Was there anything unique about the carriage? He could answer none of these.
“So how do you know it was his carriage? Could it have been someone else’s?”
He gave this some thought, then said, “It is possible,” but without conviction.
Next, I asked whether he had left the gate that morning. He admitted freely that it was unlocked all morning. He had watered the plants, opened the gate for the early arrivals, and returned to tending the beds. He could place no time on this.
A simple explanation. Adi had likely arrived during that interval.
“Why didn’t you say this to the police?” I asked.
He looked surprised. “They didn’t ask me.”
From where we sat, I could see the path to the building, so I asked, “Did you see anyone come in on foot?”
Now he stared, then dropped his gaze. He had remembered something.
“What is it? Who did you see?”
As I became more insistent, the fellow fumbled, and turned pale. He held out trembling hands to me, saying, “I am just a mali sahib. I open the gate. I don’t know anything.”
“Where do you live?” I asked.
He indicated a dilapidated garden shed leaning against the distant wall.
“Family?”
He signaled that he had none. By now he was fairly weeping, repeating over and over that he had seen no one. And that’s why I knew he had.
Who had he seen? Something was afoot, yet I could not tell what. However, knowing the methods of police havildars, I asked, “Did anyone beat you?”
He shook his head, his chin buried in his chest.
“Bala, I will not hurt you. Tell me what troubles you?”
When he raised his face, I was appalled. Tears ran down his sallow cheeks, but his eyes! They held such sorrow, helpless fear, pleading, a weary dullness that tugged at me deep within.
“Has someone harmed you? Threatened you? One of the workmen?”
He only shook his head.
Out of desperation, I asked, “Was it Adi sahib?”
This drew a sharp reaction. “No, sahib! No!”
Then it came to me. “Satya. Satya did something.”
He covered his face and wept like a child, silent sobs shaking his thin shoulders.
I gazed at him, unable to console and caught in a dilemma. Could such a mild creature really stab his employer in the neck? Ridiculous. But his torment begged explanation. Did he imagine he would be made a scapegoat? He knew something and was deathly afraid. However, until he was reassured and trusted me, I would get nothing from him.
“Get up,” I said, rising to my feet. “You can’t stay here. Come with me.”
He tucked the gardening implement carefully into the crook of a tree and followed meekly. I went to the nearby hand pump and worked the lever. He stood back as the water gushed, then realized it was for his benefit and leaped forward to drink and clean his face and hands. I pumped the lever as he washed his feet and backed away with folded hands.
I booked him into Bombay Jail near Nowroji Hill, giving instructions that he was to be fed, have a cell to himself and remain unmolested. Recognizing me from my previous stint in the constabulary, the havildar on duty did not question my authority.
When he took hold of Bala’s arm, the mali turned astonished eyes on me.
“You will be safe here,” I assured him. “No harm will come to you.”
“How long?” he gasped.
“A few days. Rest here. You are not under arrest.”
I repeated my instructions for good measure, then, unable to do any more to comfort the fellow, I left.
It was a mistake I will always regret.
At Framji Mansion, lunch had already been served and the house was suspiciously quiet. In the kitchen Jiji-bai got up from a low charpoy.
“Where is everyone?” I asked.
She raised folded hands to her ear, mimicking sleep, and asked whether I’d lunched. When I replied I had not, she uncovered a series of bronze and copper vessels. The heady aroma of spice and fried onions filled my senses. I pointed to a few pots and soon a plate was prepared.
Rather than sup in an empty dining room, I sat cross-legged on the cool kitchen tiles. In the army, officers dined on tables with white linen, but sepoys held out their metal plates to the company messman-cook, then sat on the green to eat. Somewhere in the formal rooms a grandfather clock chimed a mellow call. Smiling, Jiji-bai brought me a spoon and a glass of water, then sat beside me, fanning herself with a corner of her sari.
In the slow silence of that afternoon, we spoke of Chutki and the other children I had found in Punjab. Jiji-bai had no news of the two little brothers we’d returned to their parents in Jalandhar, but the youngest, Baadal, who’d been adopted by the Bengali cook and her husband, was now three. They had returned to their ancestral home in Calcutta some months ago; the child was growing well, she assured me.
That quiet moment ended when young Fali came stamping into the kitchen with five-year-old Shirin in the middle of a high-pitched quarrel. My presence shocked them into silence.
“Sit,” I said, pointing at the floor beside me.
All eyes, they gazed at me, then obeyed.
“Did you go to the agiyari?” I asked, to make conversation.
Alas, my topic was ill chosen, for both began hurling furious accusations. When I could make sense of it, I realized that the visit had gone terribly awry.
“So you entered the temple, then left? Is that it?”
“I wanted to go in!” cried Shirin. “But they didn’t let me!”
Fali snorted. “You and Mama could have gone in. Papa and I were going home with Diana.” The shadow of a mustache darkened his upper lip. Was he ten when we left Bombay two years ago? I could not remember.
Additional questions elicited a clearer recounting. They had alighted at the temple when a deputation of elders surrounded Burjor.
From the children’s outrage I deduced that some insult was offered—it was unclear to whom. However, Burjor had then proposed returning home with Diana, while Mrs. Framji and the children made the offering to the holy fire. Diana wanted to return alone, whereupon everyone protested. Perhaps the hullaballoo so distressed Mrs. Framji that she insisted they cancel the visit. She had then dispatched the two children to school for the afternoon session, from which they had only just returned.
I exhaled, feeling a weight press down upon me. As I’d feared, my union with Diana had disrupted the even keel of the Framjis’ lives.
Ignoring their mutinous faces, Jiji-bai served the bickering children a platter of boiled egg sandwiches that had been set aside.
Depositing my plate in the mori, I washed my hands and went up to Diana.
A tap on the door brought no response. I knocked. Could she have fallen asleep? I tried the knob and found it locked. My insides jerked. Had Diana locked me out?
Footsteps pattered on the tile, Diana opened the door, her face blotched and wan.
“Ah sweet,” I said, helpless against her distress. “How do I fix this?”
“You can’t,” she mumbled, tucked against me, her arms tight around my waist.
I enveloped her tiny frame and held her close, regret burning through me. I had known Diana was expected to wed a Parsi, and only a Parsi. Yet somehow, she’d captured my affections, and I could no more turn away than slice off an arm. She’d become integral to me. Our difference mattered less in the States, or even in Britain—but now, faced with expulsion from her place of worship, she must feel diminished, even rejected.
“I’m sorry,” I said, against her hair.
I could not see her face, but I felt her tense. “Sorry?” Her voice held a strange tinge, an edge of anger.
She pulled back and gazed up, eyes blazing. “Those small-minded nincompoops! Those rotten hypocrites! They talk of good deeds, then blindly rebuff me just because I disobeyed their dictates? Who gave them that power? And who needs them? Why should I give a whit what they think?”
“Whoa!” I said, “Slow down. Tell me what happened.”
As she went on, I realized that the matter was more serious and far-reaching. Because it was some holy day, many members of the community were present when the Framjis arrived. Some had sided with the temple priests, while others hotly opposed them. Harsh words had been spoken.
“Soli defended us, so someone taunted him about his uncle—Curset Rustomji, an engineer who’d married his own aunt, Lowji Annie, a half-Parsi Englishwoman. The things they said! It was awful.”
Adi had reminded the priests of their earlier compromise, citing the legal agreement they’d entered into. Byram insisted that if they refused to hold up their side, they must return funds that the Framjis had secured for the Widows’ and Orphans’ Trust.
Heavens. Adi and Byram had gone to the temple prepared with legal ammunition! I shook my head in amazement. “Quite a to-do.”
Diana looked glum. “Trouble is, both Mr. Banaji and Mr. Jussawalla were there and they agreed with the priests. Jim, these people do business with Papa, and now they’re upset with us. I don’t know if they will break off or refuse to deal with him.”
“Adi would have made sure Burjor’s contracts are solid,” I reminded her.
“But if we take it to court, it will make things worse,” she said. “There’s no coming back from that. Others will be leery. And no future business from them.”
I sighed, holding her troubled gaze. “Will you still have your soiree tomorrow?”
Her chin rose. “Absolutely. Here’s Jameson’s invitation.” She opened the lid of her secretary and handed me a monogrammed ivory envelope.
As I slid it into an inner pocket, another fear beckoned from the shadows. What impact would this have on Adi’s case? If McIntyre was holding back out of respect for native sentiments, now nothing prevented him acting on his suspicions. How long would he wait?
Dressed in a fresh linen suit, that evening I returned to police headquarters. Jameson wasn’t in, so I left the invitation propped up against a bottle of castor oil on his desk. He’d get a chuckle out of that, I thought, and went to the cells to find Bala Mali.
The native officer with whom I’d spoken had gone off shift. The English sergeant in charge ran his finger down the ledger and said, “No one here by that name.”
I snapped. “He’s not arrested. I had him held for Superintendent McIntyre only this morning.”
He shrugged, then checked another file.
“Well?” I demanded.
“You’re…?”
“Captain Agnihotri, Fourteenth Light, retired.”
“Army,” he said. “You can’t just park your fellow here. Take him down to the barracks, next time. No one of that name here. Can’t help you.”
Frowning, I went to see McIntyre, but found him occupied. He spotted me over the heads of three formally dressed gents and said, “I sent him home, Agnihotri. Chap’s useless. Can’t hold him without a reason.”
I had a reason, dammit! The mali was terrified of someone. Given McIntyre’s present company I only bowed from the door. It drew a wry chuckle from him, then he turned his attention back to his guests, saying, “Once the ship arrives, send me word and you’ll have your escort.”
An armed police escort could mean some bigwig arriving. There’d been nothing in the newspapers, so I put it from my mind. I toyed with the idea of fetching the mali again, but where would I stash him? He’d fare no better in an army clink, and I could think of no credible explanation that would serve.
It was Mrs. Framji’s birthday, and the fracas at the fire temple must have been unpleasant. Since the sun headed toward the horizon, I returned to Framji Mansion, determined not to be late for supper, for once.
As it turned out, that was my second mistake.