Diana’s ointment relieved my burns as she narrated the day’s events at court. Since I’d set the Gurkhas to watching Adi’s staff, Diana sent me to Adi with his meal. I was glad to go, for I could not stop thinking of neat, fastidious Adi in that dank place.
When I arrived, a barber was shaving Adi as he perched on a stool. In lockup one could scarcely see sunlight, so any shave was a luxury. The books I’d brought lay beside Adi’s bed. Two stacks, almost equal in height. I said, “Hullo? Brought you some dinner.”
Adi looked away. I added, “Diana and your mother send their love.”
He mumbled, “Di usually brings meals.”
That did not surprise me. The barber stepped back, smiling. I handed him a coin as Adi mopped his face, apparently fascinated by the tiled floor.
After the barber gathered up his things, salaamed, and departed, we discussed the medical examiner’s testimony, which seemed to neither help nor harm Adi. Then I took out Satya’s mysterious little key and frowned at it. “This damn thing is the key to everything. If I knew what it unlocks, we’d know why Satya was doing all this.”
On a whim I went to the barred door and tried the key, fumbling because of my bandages. The guard standing just outside watched, incredulous. The key was far too small. Clicking my tongue, I tucked it away.
Adi looked up with an awkward expression. I met his gaze and shrugged.
He gave a slow nod, receiving my message, Being here is nothing to be ashamed of.
I went on. “I’ve been thinking about Satya’s dying words. Was there a pause, after he said ‘sona’?”
Adi dropped the cloth and gasped. “A century ago, you’d be burned at the stake for a witch. Yes. How did you know? Satya struggled, frothing. It was awful, Jim. His mouth full of blood.”
A rhythmic thump sounded in the corridor beyond, ending in a clank. Somewhere outside, a peanut vendor called, “Chana-sing, chana-sing!” On Caskine Road, the day’s market was closing. We were in Bombay and yet not, for the jail was a world unto its own.
In Adi’s murky cell I found the quiet that eluded me elsewhere. In Framji Mansion, Burjor’s anxiety and grief filled every chamber. Mrs. Framji constantly hushed the little ones, until the atmosphere was as thick as a funeral held underwater. Even in my “little slum hideaway,” as Diana called the Dockyard Road warehouse, I had the urge to hurry, to be out doing things, as though any moment spent thinking was a shocking disservice to Adi.
Here, naphthalene’s odor overlaid the stench from the corner commode—covered of course, with what Adi had at hand, a towel. Despite that, here, at last, I could think.
I leaned my forearms on my knees, working through the snippets I’d collected. “If you were taking your last breath, and you knew it—as Satya surely did—what would you think of? Would you waste that moment on worldly things? Doubt it. I wouldn’t.”
Adi scrunched his face. “What then?”
“You’d name some important task—‘Take care of Diana,’ or ‘Look after Mother,’ yes? So why didn’t Satya do that? Maybe sona doesn’t refer to gold, as we imagine.”
An elusive discomfort filtered into me, the feeling that I’d missed something blatantly obvious. “When Allie and Diana speak—they use diminutives for their friends. Cornelia is Nelia, while someone called Monali is Mona. Ergo, possibly sona is—”
“Sonali.” Adi’s eyes were wide. “It’s a common name. Satya’s lips were moving. He could have been trying to complete the word. But, then he said, ‘Don’t let them sell it.’ That’s why I thought it was an object!”
“Na beych-ney doh does not imply an object,” I reminded him. “More like ‘don’t let them sell.’ What else do you recall? Any little thing could be useful.”
He frowned, eyes unfocused. “Nothing I can tell you.”
“You’re not unobservant,” I protested.
His mouth twisted in a rueful smile. “You mean, I’m not a dolt?”
“No, but it’s a good act,” I chided. “I will find out. If there’s something, tell me now.”
“Perhaps it’s no act!” He gave a mournful laugh. “I wish…” Shaking his head he got off his stool but there was nowhere to go. Moving some clothes, I scooted to the end of his bunk so he had somewhere to sit. Instead, he began to pace. Three steps up, three down.
“Adi?”
He stopped at the bars. I asked, “What? What do you wish?”
“Uh, that I…” Still that negation, that oscillation of his head. His voice went up a half octave. “That I’d seen what was going on!”
“Did you suspect?”
He stared at me. “That Satya forged a vast amount on Papa’s note? I didn’t even know he had it!” Returning to his stool, he dropped his head into his hands.
I had no words to reassure him, so I patted his shoulder and left, saying, “Back soon.”
In earlier days, he’d seemed removed from my immediate investigation. How wrong I was. He’d been rebuking himself.
When I told Diana that evening, she covered her lips. “A girl!” she blurted out. “But he said, ‘Don’t sell!’”
“Not exactly. And the two phrases may not be related,” I said. “Such as, ‘Diana. Almost dinnertime.’”
She glanced at the clock and made a face, then slipped a purple dress over her head and turned her back to me, saying, “But those are related. ‘Diana—dinner.’ Directing me toward something.”
I began latching a long row of tiny hooks down her back. “True, but when a man’s dying, he might want to get something out quickly. If Sona was his girl, say, and in trouble, wouldn’t he say, ‘Help Sona’ or ‘Find Sona’? Was he saying, ‘Don’t let them sell,’ or ‘Don’t let Sona sell something’?”
Diana twisted around, lips parted. “Sell what? Sell Sona herself?”
Trust her to instantly get to the heart of it. She brooded while I completed the troublesome row of hooks, then faced me, biting her lip. “Jim, what if we’ve got everything wrong? What if Satya did this underhand business, not willingly, but under duress? I met him, you know.”
“You what?” I gaped at her, stumped at this revelation.
“In London. Adi brought him to visit while I was staying at the Channings’. He was a shy, quiet sort. Dark-skinned, receding hair, that awful birthmark.”
“Hmm?”
“The butterfly shape on his forehead—oh. You didn’t see him. He was awfully self-conscious. Older than other students, so they probably made jokes about it.”
I struggled to remember the notes in McIntyre’s file, but all I could see was the photograph of Satya on a slab, long lashes nearly reaching his thin cheeks, his Adam’s apple prominent over the deep gash that had ended his life. Was there a birthmark? Yes, I recalled a misshapen grey mark on his forehead. It hadn’t been prominent.
“Older? How old would you say?”
Diana said, “Probably about your age. Maybe thirty?”
Thirty and unmarried. No wonder his mother had been furious.
Diana was saying, “If he had a sweetheart or lover, who would know?”
“Not his parents,” I replied. “They’re extremely traditional. He’d never tell them.”
“He said nothing to Adi, or the staff?”
“An illicit affair? Doubt he’d speak of it. I pushed Adi’s employees quite hard. If they knew, it would have leaked out.”
Diana pressed her thumb to her lip. “He’d need someone to cover for him. A relative or servant?”
“And put himself in their power? Not a chance. That’s why he lived at the factory, to escape vigilant monitors.”
Her voice was wistful. “He had no friends?”
“Only Howard Banner, I suppose. Played cards with him. It’s a good bet Satya wouldn’t tell an Englishman. But … Banner did say Satya had no head for drink. Might have said something in an unguarded moment.”
The Gurkhas, Ganju and Gurung, were absent, watching the employees’ homes in turns with Bhim, the new groom. Jiji-bai had placed platters of food on the table. Burjor handed our dishes to Mrs. Framji, who served. Neither seemed keen to sup.
Burjor asked, his tone wistful, “Any progress?”
I apprised them of our latest conjecture.
“Then Sona may refer to his wife?” said Mrs. Framji, a hand flying to her chest.
“It’s possible he was secretly married. Doesn’t appear he mentioned her to anyone.” On that desultory note, we dined.
Little Shirin was particularly truculent this evening. She pushed her food around in circles until it dropped off her plate. Pleased with this success, she proceeded to follow it with another piece, and then a series of peas that rolled across the tablecloth.
The rest of us tried to behave as though it were an ordinary day.
Diana bit her lip and frowned so I said, “My dear?”
“Sona. There are two options: she may come from a caste that’s higher than Satya’s, or she’s from a lower caste.”
“If she were equal, there would be no objection, is that what you mean?”
“Castes are subdivided into hierarchies or ranked by wealth, property, and assets. There is no ‘equal,’ Jim. If she’s high caste, then Satya’s family would balk at first, but they’d be secretly pleased. What caste did Satya belong to?”
I thought back to my first conversation with his mother. She’d been proud, defiant. “Brahmin, I believe, a sect from the Konkan, near Goa.”
Diana knotted her forehead. “So that’s not it, then. Sona would be from a lower caste. That would send them into a tizzy. No wonder Satya left the house!”
I lowered my fork. “Wait. You’re saying they’d be furious.”
“Well, if she married down, her family would be outraged. There’s your motive for murder; but if she’s lower caste, then Satya’s family would … forbid it.”
Forbid Satya. Like me, I thought, remembering Burjor’s initial refusal to let me court Diana. I skewered a chunk of sweet potato and ate. What did it all matter—caste and class. Just more ways to let some feel superior, so they could exclude the rest of us poor bastards.
“Oh dear!” Diana’s hand shot out, but it was too late. Shirin’s chubby arms flew apart, her glass toppled. Yellow sherbet streaked over the white tablecloth.
“Shirin!” cried Mrs. Framji and delivered the gentlest scolding I’d ever heard.
Baby Tehmina promptly drew a large breath and bawled. Shirin glowered at her mother and tossed her fork on the maligned tablecloth.
Nodding apologies, I beat a hasty retreat. I’d face an armed group of grumpy Afghans over a pair of pocket angels with lungs like bellows.
Since Satya’s key was a bust, I focused my energies on the idol we’d found in the mali’s hut. Adi said it was made of silver, so as soon as the markets opened that warm October morning, I headed for an address Burjor provided, Jussawalla’s store in Byculla. It turned out to be a window-fronted establishment on a busy street. Jussawalla was weathering the heat in a thin cotton shirt that hung over white trousers, his religious thread wound about his waist, like Burjor in his casual at-home clothes.
Tossing his polishing cloth over a shoulder, at first Jussawalla refused to attend me, citing a duty to his customers. When I pointed out that the store was empty, he grudgingly conceded a few minutes.
Gazing around at the artifacts on his shelves, I expressed my admiration, pointed, and asked questions. Gradually he warmed and grew animated as he talked about his craft. Pointing at a row of intricate goblets, he said, “It takes three weeks to make each one. First the base is cast. Then I do the bowl and handle, and join them. Lastly, the etching.”
He reached out and hoisted a heavy candelabra, turned it upside down to show it was hollow in the center. “They have to cool before I remove the clay shell. Then the designs are etched. Take this Ganesh for example.” He brought down a silver statuette from a shelf.
“The ears, trunk, necklace, arms, fingers—I cast each one, then attach it in place like a puzzle. It’s a sequence. Put the ear on first and the trunk will not fit. One wrong move and I lose days of work. The sequence is secret. Took me years to develop.”
I stared. It was identical to the one from the mali’s hut, except for the sheath of gold.
“Is this what you sold Satya?”
He started, then admitted it, his lips an inverted crescent.
“You told Adi it was ingots. Forty kilos!”
He put up a hand. “I did not say ingots. Satya said a South Indian temple wanted them.”
“And you kept that from Adi. How many statues did Satya buy?”
“Ten,” said the merchant. “Five hundred rupees each. A good price.”
My pulse gave a jump and began to canter. I’d found the craftsman who made Satya’s statuettes. There were nine more statues somewhere.
Satya’s family were goldsmiths, so he could well have learned gold plating. He’d stolen gold from his kin. But why had Jussawalla been so irate with Adi?
I peered at his broad face. “You spotted your statue someplace, didn’t you? Except it wasn’t in silver, but gold! Where did you see it?”
“I don’t remember where.”
So he had found one. I grabbed his shoulder. “I think you do recall. You recognized your work, dressed in gold. You were furious.”
Jussawalla twisted, trying to yank free. Shoving at his bitterness, I said, “Did you confront Satya, demand to be cut in? After all, it was your work. Did he mock you?”
Abrupt color flooded his face. “You’re accusing me?” he bellowed. “Get out!”
“A man’s life is at stake! Was the statue in Bombay?”
He locked gazes with me, then nodded a resentful chin.
I released him. “Here, in the city?”
“Yes. Now leave!”
When I gave him my best imitation of McIntyre losing patience, he finally answered, “In Cammattipoora, but I don’t know where! It was in a procession!”
So! Jussawalla had visited Bombay’s infamous red-light district. It explained his reticence. If I found Satya’s customer, I might reach his network and whoever was behind it. Adi did not believe Satya had engineered this mess. I was beginning to believe him.