With a girl on either arm, I searched the welcoming crowds at Bombay’s Victoria pier for Burjor’s wide girth. There was no sign of him at the dock, nor of Mrs. Framji’s petite sari-clad figure. My insides clenched, as though expecting a blow. Was someone unwell? A sense of dread filtered through me. Why hadn’t they come to receive us?
While Diana’s eyes scoured the festive throng, Adi gestured. “There’s Soli Wadia. God, I hope he doesn’t see me!”
Diana frowned. “Wonder why he’s here. None of his relatives were onboard.”
Soli Wadia. Why did I know that name? Ah—he’d been one of Diana’s beaus!
“Diana! There you are!” he called, a lean young man with dark eyebrows. As he approached, dapper in a white linen suit and beige solar hat, Adi slid behind me.
Wadia bent to kiss Diana’s cheek but she caught his sleeve. “Are my parents well?”
“Yes, yes, they asked me to fetch you,” he assured her, then reached a hand toward me. “I’m Soli. You may not remember, we met at Diana’s birthday ball in ’92.”
Smoothly done, I thought, liking his open smile and firm grip. “Jim Agnihotri.”
That name came easily to my lips, although we had not used it in America. When we left Bombay, a ship’s officer had recorded my name as James Agney-O’Trey, so that was the moniker I adopted, using O’Trey for work, and Agney or some variation of it on assignment. Now back in Bombay, my old name dropped over me like a comfortable, well-worn coat.
Diana was saying, “… my—cousin Adel, from London.”
Wadia shook hands with a startled look. He burst into a laugh. “Come, come, Adel, Diana,” he said, leading us to a waiting coach.
Thank heavens the bloke had a sense of humor, I thought in relief.
In the carriage he spoke with my companions in rapid Gujarati. Diana replied in English, so I followed the gist well enough: Adi’s absence had given rise to a great deal of gossip. His return would likely engender more. When Diana enjoined Wadia to silence about the manner of our return, he promised readily. He said Chief Superintendent McIntyre and his cohort had visited Adi’s factory and home but had made no arrests.
To ride through Bombay’s sleepy streets was to step back in time. A warm breeze blew through the carriage, lifting Diana’s hat, so she took it off and leaned to peer through the window. From the P&O Company dockyard we rode past a round building, the Mazagaon Ice Manufactory, which exuded the ripe odor of fish. Brown sawdust carpeted the road. Bullock carts lined the roadside, loaded with ice blocks sheathed in sawdust and jute against the heat.
Sleepy houses with terra-cotta roofs clustered along the road. I spotted a Zoroastrian fire temple flanked by winged bulls carved onto pillars, and the brick-front of St. Peter’s Church. Adorned with cawing crows, a large sign proudly proclaimed the squat building as St. Peter’s School. Curving past warehouses on Mazagaon road, we passed the vast edifice of Jamshidji’s Hospital, with a long row of windows and wings reaching out around a central pond. Next came the pointed Islamic archways of Grant Medical College, which sported spires and a crenellated roof like a medieval fortress. Obelisk Road led onto crowded Grant Road, where barking stray dogs accompanied us partway. The road climbed through a busy market, each cart surrounded with milling customers.
Temples. We passed small roadside shrines, just marigolds piled around a statue at the foot of a tree and also tall pagoda-like spires heavy with stone ornamentation. The chime of temple bells grew louder as we passed, then faded into the distance. Strange how I’d forgotten that sound. To me Bombay meant birds, tongas, street vendors, and the rumble of trains. However, almost every street boasted a temple, mosque, or church, and often, all three. At Frere Bridge we crossed Tardeo Road running north to Black Town, as it was called.
The street was clogged with handcarts laden with gunnysacks or produce, and cyclists of all ages. Diana pointed out a pair of young women industriously pedaling in divided skirts. Once through, my spirits rose as we clipped past swaying carts and sweating boys plying bicycle rickshaws. At last we rode to Malabar Hill along a coastal road lined with palm trees which bent and swished in the tropical breeze as though greeting us with a lazy wave.
Framji Mansion was draped in dappled shade under a canopy of gulmohur trees. Pink bougainvillea danced in the warm, fragrant breeze. As our carriage neared, Burjor and Mrs. Framji hurried down the great sweep of stairs.
Our welcome at Framji Mansion was exuberant. However, in just two years, Burjor had aged ten. His neck had disappeared and his shoulders bowed under the weight of his head which bent forward. Never sturdy to begin with, Mrs. Framji had grown thinner, her face a tapestry of wrinkles. Surely she was only fifty? She garlanded us with fragrant white tuberoses and embraced Diana, her eyes closed tight.
When it was my turn I tucked a careful arm around her, then slanted toward Adi.
“And who is this young lady?” she asked, smiling.
“Mama,” said Adi, pulling off his hat, his cheeks flushed. “I’m in disguise,” he explained, as Burjor’s eyes bulged in amazement.
Mumbling apologies, Adi dashed from the room in an unladylike gallop.
In the commotion I returned greetings and gave instructions to the startled Gurkha bearers about our luggage. Soli Wadia engaged Burjor in an earnest conversation, then took his leave.
Calling for refreshments, Burjor ushered us to the morning room where Jiji-bai, the family’s cook, had gathered the children. How the little ones had grown! Twelve-year-old Fali was taller and had shed his childhood roundness to resemble a spectacled, younger Adi. Wearing a brocade vest and trousers, hair neatly smoothed back, he had the fresh-faced manner of a junior clerk in a bank.
The two younger children had been babies when we left. After clinging to their mother, they ran to Diana to be picked up. She hoisted the youngest and sat, so the other climbed aboard her knees as well.
Charmed by this tableau, I approached and squatted before the trio.
“This is Shirin,” said Diana, nodding to the older girl. “Do you remember Captain Jim? He lived here with us before we went to America.”
Shirin offered her hand like a grand duchess receiving a serf.
I took her tiny fingers and bowed over them. “Honored, madam princess!”
She giggled, then informed me, “I’m five!”
I agreed that was a very respectable age, then was presented to three-year-old Tehmina, who shook her abundance of riotous curls, gave me a doubtful look, and buried her face in Diana’s neck. Someday, would we have a daughter like her? I felt winded at the thought, as though I was flying through the air without a tether.
While Burjor and I lounged in long chairs, Adi returned wearing male attire and dropped into the couch. His recounting of our shipboard adventures had his mother shaking with mirth, while Burjor rolled his eyes.
Soon electric fans whirred overhead, and the family’s bearers Gurung and Ganju arrived with trays of cool sherbet, grinning their namaskars. Years ago, I’d taken charge of securing the house and come to know them quite well. Quizzing them about local happenings gave me a chance to practice my Gurkhali.
“Kasto samachar?” I asked Gurung, the older of the pair, seeking news.
He replied eagerly, briefing me military style, as though we’d only been away a week instead of two years.
On the settee opposite us, Mrs. Framji leaned against a pile of pillows. Her fingers worried at the folds of her sari, pleating them incessantly. Looking around the room, she said, “We are complete again. How good it feels. We are almost an army!”
Adi gave a wry smile. “Yes, now that I’ve brought the cavalry!”
Chuckles rang out. I hooted at this allusion to my army career then said, “Adi’s right, though. To clear his name, we’ll need all the help we can get.”
Adi sobered. “I can’t keep hiding, not here.”
“You don’t need to. Behave as usual, but keep a low profile.” I glanced at Burjor. Did he have reason to send Adi away or was it just his general distrust of the law?
Mrs. Framji patted Diana’s arm. “When you left, the house was so quiet. As though someone had died.”
Diana gave baby Tehmina a hug, set her carefully aside, and dropped to her knees on the carpet. Laying her cheek against her mother’s knee, Diana said, “I’m sorry, Mama. I didn’t want to leave you.”
I knew this. Had she not refused my first proposal in order to avoid the scandalous union with a parjaat? The word meant “outsider,” but within it were other echoes: pariah, outcast. Yet Diana had persuaded her parents to relent.
I had no parents to help or hinder. I’d never known either my Indian mother’s family or my English father. That thought got a familiar heat bubbling inside me: someday I’d meet that dratted man who’d taken his pleasure of a sixteen-year-old and abandoned her, friendless, and with child. If I could have one moment with him, I’d teach the blighter a thing or two.
My fists uncurled as I thought of Shanti, my mother. Fragile and consumptive, she’d had the presence of mind to take refuge at a Christian mission in Poona. There, tended by Anglican nuns, she’d died, leaving me to be raised by them and old Father Thomas.
Diana murmured softly in Gujarati, to which her mother replied in kind.
Mrs. Framji went on, “Even the children knew something was amiss. They kept asking for you each morning. As soon as she was dressed, Shirin would run to your door and knock and knock, asking you to come out.”
“Oh, Mama.” Diana patted her hand. “We are here now.”
“Our family was like a banyan tree with branches hacked off. I knew I would miss you, just as when you went to England for school, but not how much. We had saved up for your wedding…”
Diana flicked a glance at me. “Papa gave me the cheque.”
“Did you buy a house?”
“No,” Diana replied softly.
In fact, my wife had spent part of our nest egg rescuing me in Chicago. To spare her blushes, I said, “We bought a bakery in Boston; our friends run it.”
Diana’s look thanked me for that tactful phrasing, for she’d made the purchase in my absence. She added, “And an old copper mine, but Papa, we don’t yet know if it’s worth much.”
Adi knew this from conversations onboard. He sat up, the lawyer in him roused. “Do you have contracts for these ventures?”
“What do you think?” Diana grinned. “Properly signed and witnessed! I’ve learned a bit or two from you.”
Burjor grunted his approval. “Two enterprises. In less than a year!”
I grinned at his raised eyebrows. “Your daughter is as sharp as any bania shopkeeper!”
He harrumphed, unable to mask his delight, then asked, “And the detective business, is it steady work?”
I nodded, preparing to broach Adi’s legal troubles, but Mrs. Framji preempted me. “Son, can anything be done for Adi?”
We spent the better part of an hour discussing the case. Gradually a more complete picture emerged. Adi denied seeing anyone leave the factory when he entered, just before noon. Two employees had been dining on the other side of the building. They’d returned together and found Adi bending over Satya as he drew his last breath.
Adi and Satya had been alone. Adi’s clothes were spattered with Satya’s blood. His bloodied finger marks were on the murder weapon.
I asked, “Did anyone see you arrive?”
He grimaced. “Our old chowkidar said he was at the gate. Claims he didn’t see me enter just moments before the ruckus.”
His phrasing puzzled me. “Did you see him?”
Adi clicked his tongue. “I wasn’t paying attention when I arrived.”
I frowned. “Did he see anyone leave?”
“He insists that no one left the building. He claims I got there earlier, at eleven thirty.”
Taken aback I asked, “Can he read time? Does he own a pocket watch?”
Burjor replied, his voice uneven. “Said he heard the clock tower. Bloody fool.”
I glanced at Adi. “But … where were you that morning?”
“Later, Jim.” Pulling in his lips, Adi looked away.
Perplexed, I frowned. Why did McIntyre think Adi would kill his partner—was it just the lack of alibi, or something more? What possible motive did he imagine Adi had?