Diana sat on the bed, smoothing her fingernails with an ivory-handled nail file, watching me go through my morning drill. Our voyages had disrupted my usual regimen, so I closed my eyes to maintain form through my aches. Inhale-push-exhale.
She said, “How many do you do? Are you counting?”
Puffing in rhythm, I grunted through my push-ups. “No.”
Droplets of sweat tickled as they rolled down my arms.
To my surprise, she dropped down on the carpet beside me and copied my stance. Lying prone, I grinned as she set her hands by her shoulders and wobbled upward.
“Put your knees down,” I suggested.
She did, and tried another push-up, then flopped onto her belly.
“Pull forward,” I said softly, resisting an urge to catch the ringlet that tumbled over her forehead. She tried again and went down with a thump.
“How do you do it?” she cried, crinkling up her face.
I smiled. “Started at fourteen, copying the sepoys. We drilled daily, in the army.”
My reasonable tone made her frown. “So it’s easier for you?”
“Precisely.” I watched her wheeze upward. She did two more that weren’t bad.
“Men are stronger, sweet,” I said, “but you could build some strength too.”
She flipped over. “Poppycock! Women’s minds are stronger. We have to be. To bear children.”
I sat up and mopped my face with a towel, remembering how she’d disappeared while investigating her sisters’ deaths. She’d had a companion in Chicago, but still got into a soup. “Won’t argue with that. But … you won’t travel alone, yes?”
She pushed her curls away and glowered at me, her face pink with exertion. “Can you promise the same? Not to get into danger?”
I tossed the towel over my shoulder and contemplated her. “Things that are dangerous for you may not be, for me.”
“Oh!” She scoffed. “Your skin repels bullets? You’re impervious to knives? Then what’s this?” She poked at a scar on my neck, not gently.
“And this?” She put her hand flat on my back, then traced over my skin.
Why wouldn’t she look at me? “Di?”
She blinked hard, trying to be stern, but tears shone in her eyes. I pulled her close.
“You stink,” she said softly, but she didn’t pull away.
Her skin was soft and warm. She smelled so good that I pulled her atop me and forgot what I was going to say.
Most officers arrived at the Bombay constabulary after nine in the morning. Knowing Chief Superintendent McIntyre’s penchant for an early start, I arrived at eight—after his breakfast, but before he went on rounds of the bullpen and jail. I timed it well—the morning air was still fresh, sparrows chittered, and palm trees swished outside his window.
Seeing me at his door, McIntyre barked, “By God, it’s Agnihotri!”
This effusive welcome caught me flat-footed. “Good to see you again, sir,” I managed, taking off my felt hat. For a moment, it was as though I had never left Bombay, but continued in my post at the constabulary. Two years ago, the local havildars had grown accustomed to my comings and goings at all hours, and I’d come to know McIntyre well over the course of my brief tenure. In private, Smith and I called him Mac. Despite his initial distrust, he’d been a good superior, assigning me a slew of old case files to learn my craft. He’d been surprised at how many I’d resolved.
“Returned from America, is it? Bloody Yanks not treating you right?” His growl held an almost affectionate tone that made me blink.
Dressed in a crisp khaki uniform, he stepped around his table to offer his viselike grip, blue eyes keen above his walrus mustache. Exchanging the usual preambles, we sat.
McIntyre’s fifty-pound gaze had not diminished in the two years since we’d met. As it pressed down upon me, I pretended to be unaware of it and maintained a pleasant expression. I liked him, but only a fool would forget that he was English to the bone. I’d found him a fair man, as long as one did not question the unspoken authority of British Rule. After a long moment, he leaned back in his chair, looking satisfied.
His eyes glinted. “So, what can I do for you? Ah, it’s the Framji mess, isn’t it? Who’d have imagined. Fine family like that.”
I spread my palms. “The Satya Rastogi case. You can’t really suspect Adi Framji.”
He gave me a look I could not decipher. “Wouldn’t be the first time for young Framji.”
“The first time for?”
McIntyre watched me closely. “This friend of yours, he’s killed a man before.”
I drew back. “Adi? What’re you talking about?”
The superintendent’s eyes bored into me. “You can’t have forgotten.”
Adi, a killer? When I just stared at McIntyre, he coughed and touched his neck.
I pulled in a breath, remembering. Two years ago, I’d been up against a formidable foe, the heir to a native princedom. Furious that I’d ruined his plans, Prince Akbar had lured Adi to the Bombay University tower—as bait for me.
Swapping blow for blow, I’d grappled with the princeling on the tower gallery. Then a blow rendered my arm useless—the memory was vivid: his knife at my throat as I held him off, his weight tilting me backward, the edge of the parapet slicing into my hip. Adi had crawled toward the door, hands bound, searching for my handgun.
McIntyre said, “Prince Akbar of Ranjpoot was shot and killed.”
“That was different!” I blurted. Diana had arrived just in time. She’d picked up my revolver from the mosaiced floor.
McIntyre squinted as he sorted through my words, adding, subtracting, making deductions.
“Yes,” he agreed. “That wasn’t young Framji at all.” The skin around his eyes crinkled. “Let me see. Who else was up on that gallery? Why, the charming Miss Framji.” There was no question in his tone.
Instead of refuting it, I said, “Self-defense. Akbar was out of his mind. Said he’d kill us. You were at the inquest.”
He leaned back and toyed with his pipe. “Which was sympathetic, since you had that wound…” He tapped his throat again. “Young Framji said he fired the revolver.” Eyes gleaming, his smile broadened. “And how is the fierce Miss Framji? Ah! Mrs. Agnihotri now.”
Damn the man. During the raucous inquest, Adi and I had chosen to keep Diana out of the report, but McIntyre had sniffed out our subterfuge.
“She’s well, sir. But Adi, you know his sort. Intellectual, a lawyer, a responsible bloke. Can you really see him cutting his partner’s throat? If they had a disagreement, he’d simply buy Satya out. Then, he’d probably take him to a club for dinner!”
“So why’d he run, hmm? Looks bad. Looks guilty.”
“He had business in London, but he came back,” I reminded him.
“He panicked. Innocent men don’t, usually.”
“If he’s guilty, why would he return?”
McIntyre’s eyes narrowed. “Because you made him.”
“He had a choice,” I said.
Thinking back, I wondered, was this true? With Diana demanding Adi clear his name, and me espousing his innocence, what choice did he have, really?
McIntyre huffed. “If Rastogi had mucked up their sterling reputation? All that planning, months of work all ground to dust. His name destroyed, dragged through the mud. What then? Think he’d just take Rastogi to court?”
Blast it, he made a good point. If Satya had sacrificed months of hard work, it would hit Adi hard.
Content that he’d flummoxed me, McIntyre dug at his pipe with a sixteen-penny nail. I recalled that he carried it for that exact purpose. Knocking the bowl’s contents out over a wastebasket, he said, “It’s the quiet blokes whose feelings run deep. Quiet blokes with strong ambitions, passions reined in tight. Young Framji, I’d say he learned of Rastogi’s betrayal and snapped.”
Dread crawled over my skin. “Betrayal?”
Packing the bowl of his pipe, McIntyre paused. “Your client,” he said slowly, “hasn’t told you, then.”
Drat the man, he was giving me palpitations. “What d’you mean?”
Tilting his head, he gave me a look, then struck a match to his refilled pipe and exhaled a puff of smoke. That damn pipe! It gave him time to mull things over, set up his play. He’s enjoying the moment, I thought, my skin itching with a need to refute his complacent deductions, but I held back. Silence often won more results than questions.
In a low growl, he said, “Before he died, young Framji’s partner cleaned out their bank account. Took it all. Two thousand rupees.”
That was more than a year’s pay! I grappled with the significance of such a sum.
Keeping my tone level, I asked, “Have you found the cash?”
McIntyre made no answer, so I went on, “There’s motive then, for an intruder. Burglary gone wrong.”
McIntyre’s burr gentled. “Young Framji was heard arguing with Rastogi, just before noon. Just before he was found covered in Rastogi’s blood.” He sighed, pushing back in his chair. “Don’t take Framji on, not as a client. You’re married into the family, lad. Look to yourself! And the little missus. Hire someone else.”
His implication pulsed into me with painful pricks. If Adi was convicted, he was saying Diana might consider it my failure. I took my leave with a neutral manner, but the sapling of worry within me was sprouting fast. I’d brought Adi back. I’d damn well better make good on my promise to exonerate him.
Now I understood why Burjor had been so eager for Adi to leave Bombay. The case against him was ominous.