In one of Conan Doyle’s stories, Holmes had said, “The most difficult crime to track is the one which is purposeless.” What was the purpose here? No one had been on guard when little Shirin was abducted. I blamed myself for that carelessness. After consulting Burjor, I sent the new boy Bhim to bring back the Gurkha guards, then hurried to the Teen Batti crossroad nearby.
Victorias lined up at the corner, the drivers awaiting fares. Most watched passersby or played idle card games. One by one I asked them who had passed by that afternoon.
Within an hour I learned that three men in a cart had come through the crossing and been seen near Framji Mansion. Last week a Victoria had lost a wheel nearby, but the same cartmen refused the customer. An ekka driver who’d seen the incident warned me to steer clear of the trio.
“One was a bad man, sahib.” The ekkawala shuddered. “He had the eyes of a cobra. Do not anger him.” Head wobbling in dismay, he salaamed and took his leave.
The three had been observing Framji Mansion, but what was their game? If Diana was right, someone had noticed the gold idol in her possession. Satya had stolen from his kin, so could the Rastogis be responsible? I paused in the shade of a jambul tree to reflect. Perhaps Satya’s clan considered the statuette theirs by right. We had received no demands, but that meant little. One could hardly admit openly to abducting a child. If a ransom note was on its way, I could make provision to trap the messenger.
However, I could not reconcile myself to wait for such a missive. Returning to Framji Mansion, I gave instructions to detain any messenger who brought a note.
“… have you left your revolver, Jim?” Diana was asking.
I jerked my attention back to the company. “The Webley? Ah…”
“It’s here,” she said, lifting a box from the sideboard and setting it before me. “Why don’t you carry it?”
I shook my head. “I’m a lousy shot.” At the back of my mind, a memory wafted, like tendrils of smoke. A glance between Satya’s parents, Meera and Tansen. Meera’s fear, the knowledge in her eyes, some truth she did not want to acknowledge.
Diana was persistent. “It’s because of … what you’ve seen, isn’t it? You know what bullets can do.”
“Leave it be, sweet,” I said. “There are other ways to solve an argument.”
“Fists, and knives.” She gave an impatient wave. “I think … you’re not afraid you’ll miss. You’re afraid you won’t miss.”
“Put that away safely.” I gestured at the golden statue, then laid Satya’s little key beside it. “This too. I’m going to Satya’s home.” Yanking on the bellpull, I sent Gurung for the carriage.
Ganju brought the coach, riding atop. Giving him directions to Lohar Chawl, I stepped into it. Diana insisted I take Gurung along, so he climbed in too. As the carriage rattled along, I warned him we could be heading into a bit of unpleasantness.
He leaned forward. “Life is dull without you, sahib,” he said, cracking his knuckles, then muttered a foul word. “To take a child—cowards! If only I’d been there.”
At the Teen Batti intersection, we passed a posse of carriages hurrying the other way. Alarm spurting, I pulled away from the window.
Police coaches! I could not afford to be tossed in the clink again. Then I realized Burjor had likely called McIntyre on the phone and summoned the force himself.
When my carriage halted outside the sonar kholi, the gatekeeper was nowhere around, and the building seemed deserted. A tingle of warning ran down my spine. Where would they take little Shirin? It seemed a rash, improbable risk, unlike anything Tansen would undertake.
I called out and shook the wrought-iron gate, but there was no answer, so Gurung gave me a leg up and I clambered over. The chain was padlocked from the inside. I looked around and called again in the mournful silence.
Although sturdy, both Gurung and Ganju had the short stature of most Nepalis. While they worked out how to climb over the gate, I made my way around to the kitchen.
A loud sniff startled me—but not as much as I shocked Satya’s mother with my appearance.
“Heh bhagvan!” she cried, snatching up a kitchen knife. “Cap-tin sahib?”
“Pranam. Where is everyone?”
She slumped on the top stair and shook her head. “Gone. Great shame has come upon us. Satya has ruined us.”
“What’s happened?”
“My nephew Pandu was betrothed … but the girl’s family has broken it off. They will not say why … we know it is because of Satya. How I prayed for a son, all those years ago. But Satya has brought us nothing but trouble.”
“Where have the men gone?”
She looked down at her knife, her voice dull. “It is hopeless, now. Hopeless.”
An aged woman peered from an upstairs window, her white hair braided over a shoulder. She called down to Meera, who answered in the vernacular. The joint family took care of both children and the aged, I thought. No disabled or troubled individual was abandoned. Yet all must bend to the will of the karta. What did that do to their feeling of self, their independence?
Even in the army, where I’d been chained to routine through law, tradition and military discipline, I’d had some say over my time, and my interests. Here, each decision was made by “elders.” A man was bound to a craft; his wife chosen for him. Each interaction with others was ruled by their status, every purchase controlled by the head of the family. It must stifle the very soul. No wonder Satya had rebelled.
I said, “Meera-ji, I need your help. Where is your kin?”
Dabbing with her sari palloo, Meera said, “My husband cannot control Pandu. The others are angry too. To refuse the match after gifts were exchanged, it is an insult. A stain. No one will marry into our family.”
“Tell me about this boy Pandu.”
“He is not the oldest, but he is smart. Customers ask for him. He learned our craft very early. It is in his blood. Designs spin from his hand like music.”
When I made no reply, her chin rose. “Why did you come? What’s happened?”
I said, “Someone has abducted a child.”
“You think we did it?” She pulled back, disbelieving.
I sighed. Did she know about Satya’s criminal dealings? To jar her off balance I said, “Because of Sona. Satya … cared for her.”
She sucked on her teeth. “He did all this for a woman? For love?”
“Satya has a daughter,” I said.
When she reared back, her nose pinched, I lost patience. Spreading my arms, I swung around. “Where is everyone?”
“I don’t know.” The rasp of truth was in her voice.
Was that fear lurking at the back of her eyes? In a moment it was gone. I was reminded of the madam who’d conceded Sona without much of a fight. Remembering her flat, watchful look sent a warning shiver over my skin. She would have liked to sink her little knife into me, I thought. Did we have more than one enemy?
Dusk had settled around the city. Shopkeepers closed their doors and vendors carted away their wares as I returned to Cammattipoora. The coach could not enter its narrow, twisted streets, so I sent it back with the Gurkhas.
At the first intersection, I passed a thickly bearded man. He avoided my glance and spat a stream of red betel into the lane. On a whim, I followed the rude cove. He glanced back and flinched. Hitching up his baggy trousers, he hurried away.
This sudden agitation gave me a spurt of unease. Had he been sitting there, or just exited one of the houses on the street? I strode faster, keeping him in sight.
And then it came to me—I’d seen him just as I left the carriage. Had he followed me? My random movements must have jolted him, especially when suddenly I was behind him.
Pain exploded at the back of my head.
I fell, the world all atilt. Darkness overcame me.