Diana descended the stairs in a lavender sari, one hand on the banister.
Gazing upward, I said, “But soft, what light from yonder window breaks? It is the east, and Diana is the sun.”
She stopped, a smile tugging the corners of her mouth. “Romeo and Juliet again!”
“Act two, scene one.”
“I wish you wouldn’t, Jim. That play’s a tragedy. Doesn’t end well for them.”
“You’re not superstitious.”
“Tosh!” she scoffed, resuming her descent, a hand clasping folds of shimmering silk. “Fellows will think you’re trumpeting how well-read you are.”
“Can’t a bloke romance his wife?” I asked, raising her hand to my lips.
“Oh you,” she chuckled, eyes twinkling. “When shall we buy our steamer tickets? I want to stay for Adi’s birthday. That’s in three weeks. What d’you think, Jim? Will Dupree mind?”
As she spoke, I thought I had never seen anything so magnificent. She glowed with health and vitality, her smile as tender as any man could hope. If only she’d remain this content in Boston! But what if her glow came from being in the bosom of her family, her reunited family, now that Adi was back? Were they what she needed, even more than me? She spoke with matter-of-fact anticipation, yet I wasn’t as complacent. She’d faced rejection and disgrace, yet she’d gone house to house asking about Satya’s statue. She’d braved a Cammattipoora brothel, and got the Parsis to riot, to aid me. In time she might rebuild her close friendships in Bombay. Yet she seemed determined to leave.
“You’re certain?”
“Mmm. Last time I left, I was running away. But I’m not afraid anymore. I’ll probably still get nasty looks and condescending smiles. What’s it matter if they cut me? When we needed them, most dropped that nonsense and helped.”
Two years ago, she’d been a society heiress. Now she was far more.
“Steamer tickets,” she said quietly. “Let’s go home, Jim.”
I blinked, trying to remember what time the shipping office opened. But last night we’d inferred the presence of someone working behind the scenes, someone that hardened crooks feared. Was Diana trying to get me away from him?
Sure, we’d won this round. But wouldn’t our fake bullion enrage him? No, I thought. This was an intellect in complete control of his emotions. The Framjis would be safe only as long as he had no use for them. Little Shirin had been returned, unharmed, and said she’d wandered through an enormous house—a palace—and dined with an old man who took snuff. The rest of her tale seemed muddled with some bedtime story: libraries that smelled of old books, a hall of maps, books stacked along an endless stairway, Chinese vases as tall as the ceiling. Young Fali could have identified the place, but not a five-year-old.
I asked, “Think I’ll get to see the London sights this time? I’d dearly like to take a look at Baker Street.”
Diana smiled her relief.
At breakfast, I asked Burjor, “Do you trust Byram the editor?”
He set his paper aside and said, “He helped us to protest the dogcatchers.”
I buttered a slice, smiling. “Not what I asked.”
Pushing away his plate, he leaned on his forearms. “A year ago, two, I would have said of course! But Jim…”
I waited. Had he ever used my name before?
He said, “I trust him, but there’s a lot I don’t know about him. He’s very well connected, too. I tried for a seat on the Governor’s Council, but they chose Byram.”
“That caused a distance between you?”
“Political envy? No.” He sighed. “No, that was me. You don’t know … Mama, Rati was a famous beauty in her time.”
I grinned. “Diana has her looks.”
“Diana has some of me too!” He chuckled, pointing at his sagging jawline. “Rati was a catch! Gentle, beautiful … so poised. Byram wanted to marry her.”
“But she chose you.”
“Yes!” He marveled.
I chuckled. “I know the feeling. So about Byram?”
“He’s so…” He struggled for a word. “So urbane! And I’m…” He laughed and turned a palm toward his girth.
I asked, “Should I trust him?”
Burjor’s face cleared. “He admires you. Told me you are an honorable man. He will never harm Mama or the children. So yes, you can.”
That very morning, I visited the Chronicle, where I navigated through the reporters’ hall, having worked there briefly two years ago. Beyond was Byram’s glass-walled office. I stepped to the open door and rapped the glass. “Good morning!”
“Good Lord!” Byram took off a narrow pair of glasses and came around to embrace me.
The scent of good tobacco, soap, and old leather enveloped me. He’d grown thinner, his skin sagging at the throat. His lined cheeks split in a delighted smile. I grinned back.
“Have you forgiven me?” he asked.
“For what?”
“For whatever Burjor said I’ve done. I interfered. There, I admit it. He was being a boor, and I told Diana to force his hand. She’s very dear to me … Now, how can I help?”
He waved me to a seat, which I took. “Perhaps I’m just here to say hello.”
“Nonsense, nonsense!” He poured two glasses of pink sherry and handed me one. “You are a busy man. A useful one.” He smiled. “Padamji is grateful.”
I twitched in surprise. “What did he tell you?”
Byram chuckled, leaning back in his tall chair. “Who do you think sent Burjor to Dastoor Kukadaru in the first place? And why him, when there are a dozen priests of greater influence? No. You see, Padamji from the mint had begged Kukadaru for help and he came to me!”
“I see.” Staring at the old conniver who’d schemed for my benefit without a qualm, I made a decision. “I do need your help. Someone kidnapped Shirin, the Framjis’ five-year-old.”
Eyes bulging, Byram’s mouth dropped open. With a strangled sound he pushed away the sherry and shot up. “My God! Let’s go. Let’s go to them.”
“Wait.” I stayed him. “She’s all right. I got her back.”
He dropped into his seat, gasping, as I said, “I need to know who did it. He’s a danger to them.”
Breathing hard through his nose, he quaffed the sherry, then sputtered and coughed. “You had better tell me everything.”
Swearing him to secrecy, I described the kidnapping and my own abduction. When I mentioned stealing the fake bullion, he gave a strangled laugh. However, he grew silent as I described the scene at the temple. When I finished he sat still, looking inward.
“You have an enemy,” he said. “All right. What do you know about him?”
“Not much.” I enumerated on my fingertips. “He has a network of loyal men—one with cold eyes like a cobra. Rai Chand worked for him and feared him. The mint worker was terrified of him. He has a large empty house in the city. We think he’s thin and tall and can appear to be a senior lawyer.”
“Indian?”
I’d begun to say, “Yes, of course,” but stopped short. “He held Sona prisoner and hired a false witness, but those could be managed through others.”
Agreeing, Byram helped himself to more sherry. When he’d downed it, he said, “Shirin saw his home, saw him?”
“She said he was pretty like Diana, but old.”
Byram stifled a laugh. “That could mean anyone over twenty. She’s your only witness?”
“And the false witness at the trial, Pritam Dutta. Trouble is, Dutta’s missing.”
“Ah.” Byram looked sad.
“Pandu said Rai Chand was his go-between. And Rai Chand’s on the run.”
“A large empty house in the city—that’s your only lead.” He went to a cabinet and rummaged, returning with a file.
He said, “For many years I’ve known of a hand behind the scenes, moving funds, controlling markets. This recent spate of burglaries, it’s not random, you know.”
I raised a hand for the file but he withheld it, pages wobbling.
He sat, shoulders curling forward. “There are whispers in the underworld. They call him Yama, god of death, because anyone taken to him is usually found dead.”
I tilted my head for the file. He sighed, his hand covering it. “My boy, think about it. A large empty house.”
Who’d own a vast, empty mansion somewhere in the city? My throat dry, I said, “You think he’s British.”
Chief Superintendent McIntyre summoned me the next day, so I went in my best tropical suit. However, when I arrived in front of the constabulary I had a surprise. The first inkling was when two constables snapped me salutes.
I glanced down at my white linen suit, feeling glum. Did it make such a difference? Joining my hands I said, “Namaskar.”
They replied with wide, knowing smiles. Huh. Something was wrong.
Perplexed, I hurried along the outer perimeter of the bullpen toward McIntyre’s office. Just as the door opened, I heard a stamping noise.
I swung around. Every officer, native and British, was at attention. I glanced at McIntyre, expecting him to let them stand down, but he stood there puffing away at his pipe. With an amused look, he raised an eyebrow.
Me? They were at attention for me?
Ignoring that I was not in uniform, I returned the salute and gave the order, “At ease!”
First one bloke, then another came up and shook my hand. Smith’s bruised face was the color of mottled tomatoes still on the vine. “What the devil have you been telling them?”
He shook with silent laugher, then said, “The truth, Jim, nothing but.”
I was aghast. “All of it?”
Mighty pleased with himself, he cracked a wide smile. “Oh, yes. Every little bit.”
Later, lounging in his office, McIntyre and I made small talk. Then he cleared his throat and said, “There aren’t many natives, ah, Indians I trust, laddie.” He glanced over to see whether I resented this description. I did not.
“Care to stay a bit longer? Knotty problem we’ve got…”
I straightened in surprise. “You know we’re going back to Boston?”
McIntyre harrumphed and picked up his pipe. “Won’t always be like this, you know,” he said, waving the thing around. “Natives are doing better, some even in Civil Service! Justice Satyen-dra-nath Tagore holds court in Satara district. Too late for you, ’course.”
The civil service exam was closed to those over nineteen, an age I barely recalled. McIntyre grinned a sour smile, poured whiskey into two glasses and slid one over.
“Here. Take a look.” He pushed a page toward me. “Show it to that wife of yours. That there’s a decent salary. More ’n I made, when I started.”
Christ. I cast a glance over the paper, then took a swig and agreed it was fine stuff, best I’d ever tasted. We spoke about my investigation, as much as I could divulge; I danced around the rest on tiptoe, while he watched with crooked eyebrows.
He sipped, then said, “Quite a chance you took to retrieve the Framjis’ child. Could have been shot. Really think Rai Chand had someone watching? The whole street’s closed, you know, when we’re moving taxes.”
I shrugged. “There were a dozen Indians there.”
When his eyebrows knotted in a question, I said, “The guards.”
“Humph.” He gazed at his glass as though it puzzled him. “We found Mr. Chand, or rather, his body. Wife identified him this morning.”
My breath rasped. “How did he die?”
“Hanged. On a tree near that temple. Old priest found him at dawn.”
I sighed. “I don’t think Chand was behind everything. Someone was holding Satya’s child in that brothel. Chand didn’t know anything about her.”
“I can help you there,” he said. “Seems Satya visited the kotha in ’82. A little rebellion, perhaps, or on a lark. The woman bore his child just before he left for England. She died of cholera in ’91.” He took in my astonishment and gave a wry smile. “We record everything, you know. Births, deaths, occupations, it’s all there.”
I absorbed that. “So who was blackmailing Satya? And who hired Dutta to frame Adi?”
McIntyre looked out of his window, frowning. “Any theories?”
I grimaced. “Only speculation. Byram and I tried out some ideas. A thin, tall man with international connections.” McIntyre didn’t know about Padamji’s problem, so I hurried on. “His network has men who’d die rather than be taken alive.” The terror in that mint worker’s face before he bolted still haunted me.
“Lives in a large mansion—baby Shirin was clear on that front. And he’s got a henchman with, um, cold eyes.”
McIntyre tilted his head at me. He didn’t laugh.
I said, “And what about the old mali? Who assaulted him?”
McIntyre grunted. “Satya’s cousin. Looking for the gold Satya stole from them.”
I understood. “The mali wouldn’t point the finger at Pandu because he’s loyal to the family. What about the two thousand Satya withdrew? Ever find it?”
McIntyre chuckled. “Same boy. He said Satya had a habit of hiding things in his shoes. He took the cash, and the shoes, as it happens. We have it all. We can send him up for theft, if young Framji presses charges?”
Adi sue Satya’s bereaved family? “I doubt that.”
I leaned back as the puzzle pieces fell into place. Satya had glimpsed someone behind Burjor. He’d probably expected Pandu, so he’d palmed off his key to a more amenable ally. Burjor and Adi would be relieved to know that Pandu had recovered some funds for Satya’s kin.
The talk moved to general topics. When we’d said what needed to be said, I set down my empty glass. McIntyre looked somber, his gaze on the offer I’d left on his blotter.
The quiet seeped into me, a comfortable quiet, which a year ago I would not have imagined was possible in McIntyre’s volatile presence. The smooth burn of the Glenturret spread through me like a blanket. Perhaps that was why the question slipped past my lips.
“You were in Poona, in the ’60s, weren’t you?”
His eyelids flickered. “After the mutiny? We went all over. A foul time.”
“Where’d you furlough?”
“Lucknow. Mysore…”
“Poona?”
He gave me an odd look. “’Course.”
“In ’60? ’61?”
“Possibly. Wouldn’t know dates, ’course. The missus might … she got here about then. Looking for someone?” Was that a glint in his eyes?
So close now. Should I stop before I went too far? Thus conscience doth make cowards of us all, I thought. And makes us rather bear those ills we have, than fly to others that we know not of. Hamlet was a namby-pamby bloke, I thought, feeling rebellious. I’d waited so long to know! McIntyre had his head back against the chair, his eyes closed to narrow slits.
I plunged ahead. “Did you know a woman named Shanti? Aged sixteen or so.”
He blinked, eyebrows jerking upward. “Who’s she?”
“Dead, now,” I said. Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, Or to take arms against a sea of troubles, and by opposing, end them.
My next words might quash our new amity, I thought, this delicate balance, so hard won. Some might even call it friendship. But I had lost friends before, some to death or disrepute, others to disdain and sudden anger. I could survive it. So I would take up arms, come what will.
“Shanti was my mother. She died when I was two.”
My question sank in, causing ripples in his demeanor. “Did I know her? Is that a…? Good Lord!”
His shocked eyebrows were answer enough.
“Right,” I said, and stood up to leave.
His mouth closed, he clambered slowly to his feet. “Why’d you think…?”
I stuck out a hand, locked gazes; we were the same height, of similar build, our linked hands equally browned by the Indian sun.
“Perhaps I’ll always look for him,” I said. “Thank you for the whiskey. Good night.”
He didn’t release me. “About that,” he said. “Sit down a minute.”
He dropped my hand and waved at the chair, then, when I remained standing, he eased into his seat and leaned back.
“Remember your commander, Colonel Sutton, from Poona? ’Fraid the bloke went up north on Shikar. ‘I’ll bag me a tiger,’ he said. Well, tiger or not, he’s gone missing.”
Toying with his pipe, he watched my astonishment, my worry, my confusion. Why now? Why had he waited until now to say this?
He cupped the bowl of his pipe in his palm, covered it with his hand. “You know those frontier foothills, don’t you? Care to go find him?”