Consciousness came slowly, with the drumbeat of a headache. Some part of me observed that the itch on my face had worsened. It grew sharp as I came awake. When I moved to escape the burning, my shoulder stabbed a protest. What the devil? I straightened. Something tightened, sending up a flash of pain. It bit into my wrists.
I could not move my arms.
Damn. I was bound. Sweat trickled down my skin like a track of acid. I clenched my jaw against a moan and turned to see my prison.
It was bright. Blinking against the glare, I realized I lay directly in the sun. Sunlight streamed down, slowly cooking my skin. An oversight? Or a clever torture? If my body was found in such a state, it could be presumed I’d succumbed to the heat. Perhaps Jameson would notice a lump on my head, which now throbbed incessantly.
I studied the small, dirty room with patches on the walls. A thread of ants trailed from a high window. Peeling paint on the green door. I smelled onions, garlic, spice, woodsmoke. A kitchen was nearby.
Groaning, I slid into the shade. There I pulled up my knees, shifted sideways, and took some of my weight on my forehead. My skin stung, but with small movements, I struggled to my knees.
Footsteps tapped outside my chamber, soft padding steps. The door opened.
A boy came into sight. With a startled yelp, he dashed away.
He’d left the door open. Breathing hard, I leaned into the wall and tried to rise. A mistake. My elbow shrieked a warning, and my vision swam. My head throbbed like I’d lost a boxing match. Blast. In a way, I had.
But my feet were not bound, so I would make for the kitchen. Could I get there before the boy brought help?
I remembered entering Cammattipoora, when something had struck me. Bollocks. The gang was bold to assault and cart me away. It had been evening then, so they might have been seen. An angry carpenter was sawing away inside my head. As I inched forward, I heard no temple bells, no rattle of carriages outside the window. In all of bustling Bombay, could there be an enclave without the jingle of ekka bells, the wailing call of street hawkers? My heart skipped a beat, then made up the omission double time. Where the devil was I?
Cammattipoora was between the crowded areas of Grant Road and Byculla. In most of the city I would be able to hear trains, but now that low rumble was missing. From outside the window came a bleat, followed by the flutter of pigeons. Cool air brushed my skin. Was that the hiss of surf breaking over rocks? I was near the sea.
Since Bombay is an island, this did not offer much to pin my location. It only meant that my captors had a convenient way to dispose of me. Ocean currents could drag my body far out. With any luck, in a week or two I’d be found by an unhappy fisherman.
My mouth too dry to salivate, I swallowed and pushed to my feet. The pounding in my head drowned out faraway sounds as I swayed, trying to steady myself, when footsteps clattered to the door and a gang poured in.
Most were scrawny, clothed in a mix of dhotis and shirts, sleeves rolled up, glaring from under grimy turbans. Workingmen, six or seven, perhaps. One barked to another, who replied roughly, with a shrug. You said he was unconscious?
I grasped some words, though it was a dialect unlike the Gujarati spoken by the Framjis. It was broader, flatter in sound. Clearing my throat, I asked in my rudimentary Gujarati, “Kon Cho?” Who are you?
This caused a stir. The leading two jabbered back and forth, then sent the boy away.
I leaned against the wall, weary and overheated, sweat dripping and no way to swipe it off. I watched the two deputies, for surely they had sent word to their leader. I was awake, therefore the task of polishing me off would not be easy. Both men were armed, the hilts of daggers jutting above their belts, but neither reached for his weapon. On alert, they waited, dark gazes impenetrable.
The door swung open to admit an affluent, round-bellied man. He was dressed like a merchant, a chain of gold glinting around his neck as he said in thickly accented English, “So the mountain must come to Mohammed, it seems!”
I did not return his smile. “Are you a Mohammedan?”
He seemed surprised. “Certainly not. It’s just a saying. The boys were to bring you to me, instead I must come to you. But no matter. You are awake.”
“Tameh kon cho?” I asked again. Who are you?
He blinked. “That’s what puzzled them,” he said. “You asked so politely. A rough man would demand, Tu kon che? But you used a term of respect. An Englishman who speaks thus, what are we to make of you?”
“You know who I am,” I said, tiring of his games. “Or you would not bring me here and steal my property.”
He gestured to his men and stepped aside. In no time, two chairs were brought into the room. A pair of hoodlums shoved me into one.
The ringleader sat and gave more softly worded commands. A frisson ran down my spine, for this was no unmannered crook. An underling produced a cloth-wrapped parcel and held it out to me. The covering was gingerly peeled back to reveal my pocketbook and my grandfather’s watch.
All courtesy now, the leader asked, “As you say, your property. How did you learn about the golden Ganesh?”
I blinked. Was that what this was about? I’d been so worried for Shirin, it had faded from my mind. The idol’s weight. I’d written it in my notebook. Had the hoodlums taken that too?
The leader was waiting for my answer. I said, “From a friend. It’s part of an investigation.”
His eyebrows shot up. “You are police?”
“A private investigator.”
He blinked, his face blank. I added, “A detective. Who are you?”
He smiled. “Dee-fective sahib, you may call me—Rai Chand. Which friend?”
I frowned. “Why?”
He rubbed his clean-shaven upper lip, then said, “Come now. To gain something you must give something, yes?”
“What can you tell me?”
He chuckled. “You don’t ask for food or water? To be freed?”
I heaved a breath. “Water would be nice. And these…” I turned slightly, showing my hands.
“Tsk-tsk.” He flicked a finger at the door. A boy came forward with a metal glass.
He carried it toward me and carefully put it to my lips. I drank it all, begrudging the drops that trailed down my chin.
“Better?” said my cheerful captor.
I did feel more hopeful. If he’d wanted to do away with me, he had no need for this piece of theater. No, he wanted something from me, therefore I was determined to get every last bit of intelligence from him.
I said, “Thank you, Mr. Chand. Why did you bring me here?”
He sighed. “The English always want the upper hand. You are the one whose hands are bound, and yet you are asking questions? Come now, Agnihotri.”
He knew my name. Damn.
His face grew curious. “Anyway, how does an Englishman come by that name? It is, ah, nakli? A false name?”
Catching sight of my look, he said, “All right, all right. We both know why you are here.”
I held his dark gaze. “Indulge me.”
At this, he frowned “You went to Ghanshyam, the goldsmith. With a golden statue, a murti, yes?”
I recalled the store I’d visited in Kolaba. Was that a week ago? It seemed longer. If Rai knew about it then he’d had me followed for some time. “The storekeeper,” I said. “He put you up to this?”
“Mr. Agnihotri, please. Answer the question.”
I frowned, recalling the curious undercurrent at the goldsmith’s shop. Squinting at Rai, I asked, “Where is my book?”
He exhaled, his mouth grim, then flicked a finger without looking away. A man placed my notebook on my knee.
This, more than anything, puzzled me. They had my notes, watch, and wallet. Did they intend to return them? For thieves, they were not behaving to form. Unless they believed I had access to more gold statuettes. My fingers were almost numb, so I wiggled against my burning wrists. “D’you mind?”
Rai tilted his head, his mouth drooping. The boy stepped around me like a frightened crab, and worked at my bonds, flinching when I grunted in discomfort. My little book slipped off my knee and fell between my feet. Untied at last, I rubbed my raw wrists with tender, swollen hands the color of cooked lobster.
One of Rai’s men loosened his blade. Another was carrying a rod. They were afraid.
Rai watched me with a pained expression. “Why did you weigh the murti?”
The statue. When I caught his gaze, the knowledge was in his eyes.
I said, “The Ganesh is fake.”
He sat up. “Not fake, Mr. Agnihotri. Pure silver, with a veneer of gold. Where did you get it?”
I scoffed. “Hoping to acquire more?”
A series of facts fell into place. He knew it wasn’t gold, only plated. Therefore, he knew about Satya. Rai was Satya’s accomplice. “You know that no more can be made, because you know the craftsman is dead.”
“Wait.” Rai showed me his palms. “Detective-ji, think. If I killed him, why would I tell you all this?”
I dragged in a breath. “You were working with Satya. You admit it?”
He leaned forward, his manner intent. “A lucrative business. We sold a lot during festivals, for weddings, and to those giving to temples. This is our karkhana, the workshop where we built the wooden base, the housing. We are his craftsmen.”
He’d just admitted to selling forgeries but seemed eager to convince me he was quite legitimate. “What was Satya’s part?”
“His family is well known for generations. Satya went to the customers, offered them the Ganesh-ji. He was quite willing! He got a nice commission.”
“Until he changed his mind. Then you silenced him.”
Rai reared back. “Think, Detective sahib! Why would I kill him? His death hurts me. It hurts my business! It brings police, a detective to weigh the gold! Our business is kept safe, as long as no one weighs the gold. And why should they? It comes from a reputed karigar from a notable goldsmith family. If he wished to leave, I could have bought his silence; we did not need to kill him!”
The truth in his voice was unmistakable. I stared at him in consternation.
Sparrows chittered outside the window as I asked, “So who put an end to your windfall?”
Rai’s shoulders relaxed. His men stirred, releasing their tense stance. Two of them dropped to their haunches to watch the conclusion of our pantomime.
Rai’s voice was low. “It was not us. You must look elsewhere.”
If I didn’t believe him, would he set his hoods upon me? I demanded, “And that’s why you knocked me out and tied me?”
He spread his hands. “I apologize. I am a businessman. Not a killer.”
This was too smooth to be believed. “And now that I know your business, what do you plan?”
“You are after Satya’s killer. I also want him caught.”
“If it’s one of your hoods?” I used the word goonda, implying his was a gang of crooks.
He pulled back. “My workmen do not defy me. Without me they would starve.”
I gave each of his men a good look, but none struck me as shiftier than the others. Two of them touched their foreheads, perhaps in apology for my rough treatment. What would Rai make of Satya’s dying words? Would he know who Sona was? I watched him closely. “This has something to do with you. It must.”
He pulled back. “But why?”
“Satya’s last words.”
Rai sat very still as I said, “He was still alive when he was found.”
He leaned forward. “What did he say?”
The moment of truth, I watched for the flicker of awareness, of knowledge. “Sona. Na beych-ney doh.” I quoted the elusive fragment.
Rai blinked, frowning. “Gold. Don’t sell the gold.”
He’d translated it differently, as though it was addressed to him.
As he squinted upward, his lips silently repeated the words. Blast it, he didn’t know.
“So where is it? Where is Satya’s poonji?” he demanded.
He thought I had Satya’s stash!
When I just gaped at him, he blustered, “If you want the child back, give it to us. It is ours. Satya stole it. Return it, and you will have your child.”
He’d seen Shirin with Diana and decided she was my daughter! He saw my face and hurried to add, “She is unharmed! We have no wish to hurt her. Return our property.”
Panic stabbed me. “Return it? Don’t you understand? I don’t have Satya’s gold!”
Cocking his head, he drew back. “You have the Ganesh, so you have everything. You don’t want your child?”
“Of course I do! But I can’t trade what I haven’t got!”
He took out and studied a piece of paper, mouthing the words in silence. Frowning, he slowly read them aloud.
“Then you must get gold bars from the mint. At dawn on Thursday they will be taken on English ships. Bring us that gold and you will have the child.”
Yesterday was Monday. Thursday was the day after tomorrow. I snapped my jaw shut and swallowed, feeling as though I’d downed a walnut, shell and all. “The transfer of taxes from the Imperial Mint. You want me to steal the Queen’s bullion?”
He nodded, mouth grim. The page he held quivered as he read, “Steal the carriage, once it’s loaded.”
“It will be guarded.”
“You were a soldier.”
I was to overcome the guards. Commit grand larceny and possibly murder. I felt detached, as though watching myself prepare for the firing squad and admiring my posture.
He continued reading in a measured tone, “You will drive the carriage with the gold bars. You will see a man with a red flag. You will take him up and hand over the reins. He will take you to the rendezvous.” Rai Chand labored over the last word, parsing out the syllables.
He met my gaze, then read the words again. “Then you must get gold bars from the mint…” The repeated phrases sent a shiver over me. Who was it that spoke thus? It seemed the hallmark of a strange mind, a devious, detailed mind that had already mapped out the route I would take. This plan had been in motion for days, I thought, ever since I’d solved Padamji’s problem and confronted his missing worker.
That mint worker who ran when I approached him. A flash of wild panic had filled his eyes—what could make a man so afraid?
Rai Chand’s hand had trembled as he held the paper.
I squinted at him. “Who gives you orders?”
He folded the page into his sleeve. “We each answer to someone, mister detective. Now I leave you to think it over.”
“Wait! How do I know the child is well?”
His face drooped. “You don’t.”
He began to turn away, then stopped in the doorway. He made as though to speak but shook his head. Shoulders slumped, he left. The men shuffled out behind him, the last stepping backward. The door clanged. Frustration churning, I heard the lock click.