That evening, a few guests had been invited to celebrate Mrs. Framji’s birthday. Adi and I entered the drawing room together, spiffy in our dinner jackets. Bombay folk held to the traditions of earlier decades in a motley mix of native and English garb. Burjor usually wore traditional garments: a white suit tied at one side called a Parsi dugli, or a loose, embroidered oriental jacket. Tonight Adi and I had adopted English formalwear—black coattails with white vest and bow tie. In America these would be hopelessly old-fashioned; young men had taken to wearing lounge suits and black tie for dinners. One rarely saw a frock coat these days.
Since we were alone, I asked Adi the question that was haunting me. “You’ve taken the carriage to work before, haven’t you?”
Adi nodded. “When Papa was in Simla, or down south, I had it every day.”
I watched him closely. “So Bala Mali would recognize it?”
“Of course.”
“Certain ’bout that?”
Adi shrugged. “One time, Soli Wadia dropped me off in his coach, the mali refused to open the gate! I had to get down and reassure him. He’s stubborn about supply carts too, won’t let them in. Insists that Vishal attend to them.” He paused, then asked, “Why d’you ask?”
Diana came in just then, and sat down quietly beside Adi. Her choice was deliberate. Women always seem to know who needs them more—perhaps they can sense it, without words, and are moved to offer sympathy. Or was it instinct—did she see something under Adi’s calm demeanor I could not? Was there some undetectable clue she knew from a childhood spent together? I had no wish to cause Adi anxiety, but I had to address this. To do less would be to shirk my duty to him, and that I would not do.
I huffed a breath, then said, “You didn’t take your carriage, but the mali and Faisal say they saw it the morning Satya died. I thought they were mistaken or confused. One, perhaps, could be wrong, but both?”
Behind his glasses, Adi’s eyes were too wide, too dark.
I explained, “It’s in McIntyre’s file. Your sais Bhim will remember where he drove the carriage that morning…”
Adi pushed back his chair and jerked to his feet like a jack-in-the-box. “Don’t say any more, Jim … I think we have to stop. Drop the investigation.”
I felt a jolt through my spine. “Drop it? Why? What are you afraid of?”
“Stop, Jim.” His eyes were black pools.
If there was evidence against him, we had to stare it in the face and reckon with it. I plowed on. “Faisal and Bala saw it leaving the factory. Both thought you had arrived in it. The coachman said it was an ordinary day. That means your father took the carriage as usual.”
Adi cried, “Enough. I’m—you can’t!”
Diana’s hand went to her mouth, shaking her head. “No, you must be—”
“I’m not, sweet. Your father visited Satya that morning.”
Adi turned from us in a panic, his hands fluttering.
I said to Diana, “I’ve suspected all along that Adi wasn’t telling me everything. Why wouldn’t he speak, even to save himself? Only one reason, sweet. To spare one of your family.”
Adi stopped at the door, breathing as though he’d just run uphill. “I’m sorry, Jim. I’m releasing you from the investigation.”
My pulse hammered my ears, but I felt oddly calm. “So, I’m fired?”
Diana made a sound of protest as she hurried to him.
“You don’t understand,” Adi whispered, his fist clenched. “You can’t accuse Papa!”
I kept my voice even. “Have a little faith, Adi. In your father.”
Adi looked up, his face twisted with hope.
I went on, “If you fire me, Diana will hire me back. Or I’ll hire myself.”
Diana clutched his wrist, “Adi, I consulted Miss Sorabji in confidence, for her legal opinion. Gave her a retainer, so I’m a client. Here’s what she said: If you confess to inadvertently killing Satya, you could get life imprisonment, or worse. Have you been worrying that it was Papa? You can’t take the blame because of that!”
“God, Diana! Don’t you see? If you accuse Papa, he’ll say he did it! He’ll say that to save me!”
That made me pause. It was just possible.
Confronted with evidence he’d met Satya that morning, would Burjor snatch at the chance to spare his son? Surely he would not confuse things with a false confession?
Even as the thought formed, I wondered, could he really have done it? Could Burjor have discovered something untoward, and rebuked Satya? Had Satya laughed, mocked Burjor, threatened to scapegoat Adi? Such insolence, it could outrage a father, drive him wild. Had Burjor plunged that blade into Satya’s neck?
Or, could it have been an accident? He’s showing Burjor his work. One wrong step, Satya lunges, trips or falls onto the blade. Was that what really happened?
I said, “We have to speak with your father.”
Adi’s plea tore at me. “No! Keep our parents out of it!” He swung around. “Tell him, Diana. Ma’s already upset because her sister’s shunned us. Don’t make it worse!”
Speaking in Gujarati, she calmed him, then turned to me, her eyes shooting a command. “Jim, please. Our guests will soon be here. Leave this be tonight.”
Adi looked so distraught, I feared he’d rush off and confess to McIntyre within the hour.
“I’ll wait,” I said. “But we have to sort this out before one of us has apoplexy.”
Miss Fenton had declined, but Diana’s lawyer friend Miss Sorabji arrived in a grey sari with a shirtwaist and sleeves that extended modestly to her wrists. It bore neither frills nor lace. I caught Diana tucking her embroidered collar under her sari. She need not have feared the comparison, because her sweetly proportioned face and cheerful manner lit up the company. Her brave effort convinced the others, but not me. The lilac stain under her eyes was more pronounced, and she’d wept in her sleep last night.
When I volunteered to fetch the whiskey, Diana followed me to the morning room to carry glasses. There, she whispered, “Miss Sorabji is a Christian. Her father is Parsi, but he converted to Christianity thirty years ago—a huge to-do at the time. Now Cornelia and her sisters are each making their mark. Her sister’s in Glasgow, studying medicine. Cornelia’s studied law, at Oxford.” She made a moue with her mouth. “But women aren’t permitted to take the bar.”
“She works for a living? Clerking for a barrister?”
“She’s advising the ruler of Baroda, the Gaekwad himself, on education in his state. It’s a temporary appointment.” Her doubtful glance conveyed that her friend’s future was uncertain.
Soli Wadia arrived with a massive bouquet of flowers, then ruined his entrance by gazing around the ladies as though wondering who to hand it to.
When Diana stepped up, saying, “I’ll take these to Mama, shall I?” Soli handed them off in relief, then looked at Miss Sorabji in admiration.
Diana’s parents arrived together, Mrs. Framji’s diminutive frame dwarfed by Burjor’s girth. Though pale and slight in a sea-green silk sari, Mrs. Framji welcomed her guests with warm embraces. Nor did the children’s formal clothes dampen their excitement, as the littlest ones bounced about in frills. Ever the expansive host, Burjor too rose to the occasion, telling anecdotes in his deep, rumbling voice.
Dinner began well enough, with pakoras and spicy prawns. Berry pilaf and lamb curry followed, with salmon soufflé on a bed of greens. Through it all, I studied my father-in-law discreetly. What the devil could he be hiding?
Continuing the conversation, Diana said, “Europeans puzzle me. As a group they are stuffy, sometimes, even unfair! But I have dear friends among them. In England, Emily Jane and her mother Mrs. Channing were so kind. There’s Dr. Jameson, even Superintendent McIntyre. You’ve met some good ones, Jim?”
I nodded. “Father Thomas who raised me. An elderly couple I met in Ranjpoot, Sir Peter Gary and Lady Mary. Felt a sort of affinity with them.” I savored a spoonful of savory salmon, and added, “Army officers—I owe some a great deal. Colonel Sutton taught me to box when I was a lanky, ragged boy. Bought me books when I won.”
Diana wrinkled her nose. “But British rule hasn’t helped most Indians, has it? The endless famines and epidemics. Just walk through a bazaar. The children—I can often count their ribs. And why can’t Indians hold top positions in civil service or banks?”
Miss Sorabji stiffened. “You wouldn’t say that if you knew what the princely states were like! Individually a European may be petty or biased against Indians and deprive us of our due, but you cannot deny India is the better for them in whole! They brought us law and order, railways and … indoor plumbing!”
“The pinnacle of human achievement!” said Soli.
The group erupted into relieved laughter as the peace was rescued.
Then Burjor growled. “British law and order? Where was it when my children were murdered?”
Silence froze the company and held us captive. Hearing again that Burjor did not trust British law, I felt the ground sliding under my feet. Did his distrust run so deep that he would take the law into his own hands?
Mrs. Framji clapped her hands together. “Oh! We have caramel custard for dessert. Come, Diana, let’s turn it over.”
Revived by dessert, the conversation veered to safer topics—the warm October, and Mrs. Framji’s ailing sister, who lived in the rural suburb of Bandera. The meal had been surprisingly fraught, but I thought the awkwardness was behind us.
Then, after the ladies returned with the promised confection, Soli Wadia said, “I say, Diana, I read a startling bit in The Times. It was about you! In Chicago.”
“Me? Heavens!” Diana cried, rushing to bring the newspaper from her father’s study.
She flung it open, shook out the pages, then groaned. “That dashed petticoat picture!” She held it up. “How ever did they connect it with me!”
Chaos broke out. Burjor barked an order. Children protested. Taking the paper, I scanned the column under a grainy photograph of Diana turned toward the camera with her mouth agape.
The din ceased as I read aloud, “Indian Princess Saves Man on Ferris Wheel. Last year in Chicago, Bombay’s Lady Diana made a splash at the World’s Fair.”
Diana grimaced. “Oh no! The Vakil sisters will have another reason to cut me, I suppose. And your parents, Soli! Jim, we’re already rather scandalous, and now this!”
“Let me see.” Adi took the sheet and read out the rest, “Indian sage Swami Vivekananda was lauded for his speech at the Parliament of World’s Religions. But Bombay’s Miss Framji was found in a state of undress. Her skirt was used to restrain a madman who panicked on Mr. Ferris’s wheel—a mammoth wheel which raised a set of railcars two hundred feet in the air. Miss Framji (dubbed Lady Diana by the adoring press) was perhaps confused with the Spanish princess, the Infanta Eulalia. The incident caused much excitement among fairgoers.”
Diana buried her face in her hands.
“It won’t bother Jameson,” I offered. “He’ll come, on Saturday.”
“Nor me,” said Miss Sorabji. “If you’d still like me to attend?”
“Of course!” Diana’s head rose, revealing flushed cheeks. “Thank you, Nelia. I think it will be a quiet dinner. Jim, we must give up any hope of redemption. It’s all over. I’m a scarlet woman!” Diana attempted a laugh, which failed dismally.
Burjor glowered at the newspaper, while Mrs. Framji patted her daughter’s hand.
I said, “We’re not invited to the governor’s Christmas ball, then? Oh good!”
My heartfelt tone drew laughs around the table, though Diana’s cheeks remained pink.
She’d held such high hopes of returning to Bombay, yet all we’d received were brickbats and slurs. I reconciled myself to it—if this was the cost of defending the Framjis, I’d take it as long as Diana could. If it sapped her generous spirit, we could go back “home.”
But where would that leave Adi? I couldn’t whisk Diana away amid his turmoil. Would she even go? No, that settled it. We had to sort out this mess before we could think of getting back to Boston.