by Nev March
This was a large Indian household, often called a “joint family.” Adi and his bride had lived here too.
“Sir, in the days before … her death, had your wife been unhappy?”
He shook his head. “She did not appear so. Quiet perhaps, in the weeks before.”
“And your sister, Miss Pilloo. What was her demeanor?”
Leaning on his elbows, Adi looked at his hands. “Pilloo had always been rather shy, I suppose, rarely spoke at meals.” He sighed. “She was wed just six months before, you know, at fifteen. She’d have gone to her husband when she was eighteen. She was content, I think. But lately, before the tragedy, she seemed … withdrawn. Perhaps it only appears so, now that they’re gone. Bacha and Pilloo were devoted to each other, you understand.”
A lock of hair fell over his forehead, now ridged with grief.
That was my introduction to the victims of this case, the ladies, as I began to think of them. Bacha, nineteen, married a year, and Pilloo, sixteen, just wed, and devoted to her new sister-in-law.
“Is that common among Parsees, sir? To wed at fifteen but remain living at home until later?”
Adi’s eyebrows rose. “It’s a compromise, I suppose. Tradition dictates girls should marry young, but reformers like our friend Behramji Malabari in Simla have been vocal against it. Diana refused to marry, wanted an education, so Papa sent her to finishing school near London. Pilloo was more domestically inclined.”
So, one sister was in England, the other had been married. I knew very little about the Parsees, descendants of medieval refugees from Persia.
I asked, “What can you tell me about the day of the event?”
My client took three breaths and locked his fingers together. “On the twenty-fifth of October, Bacha and Pilloo said they would visit my mother’s sister in Churchgate. They set off at about three that afternoon, but … never got there. Instead they climbed to the viewing gallery of the university tower.”
I’d known this. The university library or reading room was a popular location to meet friends or browse newspapers, filled with students and law clerks most of the day. I said, “Rajabai clock tower, near the reading room. Did they say they would go there?”
“They told no one at home.”
Had the ladies hidden their plan to visit the tower, or simply changed their minds midway? Here I was at a disadvantage. Army life taught little about women and their motives. Why would they lie about their whereabouts?
“Who saw them there?” I asked.
“A Havildar, the clock tower guard, escorted them up the stairs. Two siblings—children really—saw them go up to the viewing gallery.”
“Their names?’
Adi’s brow knotted. “The guard was called Bhimsa. The children are from the Tambey family, I believe.”
“And then?”
“Just before four o’clock, Bacha … dropped to her death. A short while later, Pilloo also fell from the gallery. I’m told she lived for a few moments.”
The gap in time between the women’s deaths was puzzling.
“Were there other witnesses?”
“Afterwards, you mean? Oh yes. A librarian—Apte was his name. Francis Enty, the clerk who testified, and Maneck, a Parsee, was charged, along with two Mohammedan accomplices.”
I added these to my list. I could visit the university and seek other witnesses, but had little hope of sifting through dozens of students who might have been present.
“How soon did the police arrive?”
“Right away, it seems. Bombay High Court is nearby. Police Superintendent McIntyre testified he got there at ten minutes past four and cordoned off the area.”
“Why was Maneck arrested?”
Adi drew a breath. “Maneck appeared unkempt and out of breath, for which he had no explanation. It’s in McIntyre’s report.”
“And the Mohammedan men? Why were they arrested?”
“The Khojas, yes. Before the deaths, Enty, the law clerk, said he saw an altercation in the tower, involving Maneck and two Mohammedan men, Seth Akbar and Saapir Behg. Maneck claimed not to know them. Both had alibis elsewhere.”
So, the police had decided Maneck and the Khojas were lying and believed Enty’s story. Why? “Behg stood trial but Akbar wasn’t found?”
“No,” sighed Adi. “It’s a famous name—Akbar was an ancient Moghul king, you know? Curious that we don’t have his first name, only the title Seth … I gathered he’s influential. Couldn’t be found.”
That was odd. “I’ll ask Superintendant McIntyre about it.”
CHAPTER 4
THE FATHER
The clock tower chimed eight the next morning, its tones ringing as I stepped into the Chronicle’s office and found it deserted. Too early for reporters, since the morning papers had gone out at five and the evening blokes had not yet arrived. Eager to begin my investigation, I emptied my desk of belongings and left a note for my sub-editor—matters that required urgent attention—thereby suspending my journalistic career for a while. I would explain in person, of course, but that should do for now.
In the shuttered bazaar street with its empty awnings, upturned carts and tongas, a cow chewed and flicked its tail but otherwise took no notice. I liked the sense of slipping in and out undetected. If one fit into the picture, few people looked closer.
Only just March, a warm breeze came at me. Flagging down a passing victoria carriage, I rode over the coastal way to Malabar Hill. We swung right at Teen-batti and climbed toward Hanging Gardens, where polite society took their evening constitutionals.
At Framji Mansion, the gateman waved me through. In the morning room, Adi nodded a welcome, then noticed my worn khaki trousers, my only white shirt, sleeves rolled up to the elbows, and ubiquitous newspaperman’s vest.
“Tea?” he offered.
I accepted. Adi tugged the bell-pull and spoke to a uniformed bearer in a local tongue, Gujarati perhaps, which I did not understand.
Turning back, he said, “Captain, only two people will know of our arrangement. My father, and Tom Byram of the Chronicle. He’s a close friend of my parents.”
So, Adi knew Tom Byram, owner and chief editor of the Chronicle. His headlines, “INCOMPETENT AND CONFUSED!” flayed the police investigation of the tower deaths. Prosecution was “BUMBLING AND INCREDULOUS.” While other journals were less generous, he’d defended the ladies’ reputations. Mr. Byram had also been my employer.
“And when my investigation is done, will I return to the Chronicle?”
Adi considered. “Shall I suggest a leave of absence? Six months, do you think? And we can’t have you dressed as a reporter.”
“That would do,” I agreed. “So, if I’m not to be a journalist, what’s my story?”
A liveried bearer entered with a large metal platter and poured from a porcelain teapot. The delicate teacup looked tiny in my hand.
Opening a bundle of dark fabric, my client shook out a long black garment.
“It’s one of my robes, as student of law. Should fit you, though it might be a tad short. The university clock tower is right by the High Court, so there are always lawyers around.”
I smiled, thinking of Sherlock Holmes’s penchant for disguise. My assignment had taken a new turn, I thought, warming to the idea of wearing one.
“And those?” I nodded at two squat metal boxes by the table.
“My notes from the trial, Captain. Chief McIntyre provided the witness testimonies. I kept some newspaper reports.” Distaste tinged his words. “If asked, you work for Brown and Batliwala, our solicitors. And now,” he announced, “my father wants to meet you.”
I followed Adi to his father’s office, passing thickly curtained windows. White molding surrounded ornate framed portraits. Mustached men in traditional attire gazed down from dark canvases. Here, they seemed to say with pride, was the fruit of several generations’ effort and enterprise.
Adi noticed my interest in the portraits and stopped in the hallway. “My gr
andfather,” he said, pointing to a man in dress uniform—a Grenadier, an officer, epaulettes gleaming.
“He was with the East India Company?”
Adi nodded. “He served during the mutiny. We’ve been staunch supporters of British rule. Law and order, you know.”
Curious. Although the Sepoy Mutiny of 1857 had occurred over thirty years ago, few people mentioned it. Led by the last Mughal emperor, supported by Maratha generals and a fiery queen, Rani Laxmibai, an appalling number of Indian troops had rebelled, murdering British officers and their families. The Framjis were loyalists, but Adi’s morose tone puzzled me. What was that story?
* * *
Adi’s father, Burjor Framji, stood before a desk cluttered with piles of paper, a thick-set man with a ballooning waistline.
“Adi! And Captain Agnihotri. Come in, come in,” he rumbled with an easy smile. I liked the respected Parsee businessman right away.
Moving quickly for one so rotund, he shook hands with an enthusiastic grip, peering at me, curious and open. One could not venture to Bombay without meeting a Parsee, I supposed. Widely respected, they were everywhere. Enterprising businessmen, affably pro-British, they owned hotels, newspapers and plantations, ran shipyards and banks.
Burjor named senior officers of his acquaintance, then asked, “Where were you stationed, Captain? Did Mrs. Agnihotri accompany you?”
“Burma and the Frontier province, and no, I’m not married.” Officers’ wives were not permitted on campaign. In fact, the army rather discouraged matrimony.
Burjor said, “Last October, the death of my daughter Pilloo and Bacha, Adi’s wife … well, it’s been a blow, Captain.”
I commiserated.
He continued, “Many Parsees supported Maneck Fitter—you know he’s one of us, a Parsee? I don’t know him. It’s unthinkable that one of our own could kill two innocent girls. But that verdict of suicide? No.”
I understood. Neither father nor son believed it was suicide, but they lacked evidence to prove it. That’s why they’d hired me.
We spoke for a few minutes, then Adi said, “I’m off to lecture, Captain. Use my chambers, all right? I’ll see you this afternoon.”
Still warm from that courtesy, I returned to Adi’s chamber. Stretching out on his settee, fingers steepled, I considered what I’d learned, much as I imagined Holmes might do.
What could I deduce from Burjor’s kindly, expansive manner? His whiskers overflowed to join heavy side locks, leaving a bare chin. It was an open face, apple-cheeked with laugh lines that swallowed up his eyes. He wore an expensive dark silk tunic, yet he spoke like a man of humble beginnings. Landowner and patriarch, Burjor had made a name for himself in business. Had he also made dangerous enemies?
Opening Adi’s box of papers, I extracted several foolscap sheets. Adi’s writing was a flowing script, as elegant as a lady’s but sharp, as though he wrote quickly.
Instinct is an odd thing. Wherever I am, I must know the way out—cannot rest easy until I know I’m not boxed in. So before reading, I went to a pair of narrow French doors. They swung open to a long, shady balcony and I stepped through.
The smooth stone bannister felt cool under my hands as I glanced over tropical ferns and banana leaves. The Framjis fascinated me, Adi’s quiet courage, Burjor’s directness and warmth. Somewhere a myna warbled, “Yes? Yes?” The murmur of distant voices and birdcalls brought back a moment from my childhood. The perfume of incense touched my face with gentle fingers. Why did it feel so poignant, like an old scar that aches for no reason? Then it was gone.
This mansion was larger than any home I’d seen. Curious, I went down the white balcony to my left.
“Adi, are you sure?”
Hearing Burjor’s gravelly voice, I stopped. To overhear this private moment between father and son seemed a shoddy way to repay my employer’s trust. I should return.
“I am,” Adi said. “I want to know. No matter what he finds.”
“But he’ll ask a lot of questions.” Burjor slipped into a local dialect and I missed a few words. “Can he be trusted? No, not business secrets, that’s not what I’m saying, though that can cause problems.”
“You think if he found something … blackmail?” Adi said, “No, Papa. Not this man.”
A rush of affection enveloped me. I felt as though my officer had just vouched for me with his commander. But why was Burjor worried about blackmail? What was he afraid I’d find?
He said, “So we’ll tell the family, Mama, Diana, all the staff, that he is your friend.”
Adi must have nodded, for Burjor continued. “She won’t like it. Mama does not like secrets.”
“Just keep them out of it.”
“But Adi, he’ll question them, no? What will they think? This could be very awkward.”
After a moment, Adi replied, “I think he’s tactful, Papa. I’ll mention it.”
Clothing rustled as they rose, and I retreated to my client’s office. When Adi returned only moments later, I shifted in my seat. Listening around corners did not sit right with me. Now, Captain, I thought, comes a test of who you are.
A smile flickered in greeting as Adi gathered up his books. “Found anything useful?”
“Sir.” I faced him squarely. “I was on the balcony. Overheard your conversation. I apologize.” I wanted to say, you can trust me—but what did I know about them really?
Adi stared up at me. “All right.”
I liked his steady, forthright manner. He’d mentally reviewed his conversation with his father, and was satisfied. If he had something to hide, he would scarcely have engaged me.
He nodded at the boxes. “So you’ve made a start?”
I hesitated. “Are you sure about this, sir? What if I find, well, something painful?”
His lips tightened. “Let’s have it, whatever it is. I can’t just keep … attending lectures, writing briefs, without knowing what happened.”
What happened to her, to his sister and the pretty young thing he’d just married. And if I succeeded? What then? Another trial?
“Sir, if … when, we find the culprit? Will we involve the police?”
Adi did not hesitate. “Yes, Captain. If there’s proof.”
“And if the culprit is, well, someone you care about?”
“Our family?” He drew a tired breath. “Yes, even then. This must end, so we can go on.” He seemed to reclaim himself, as though he had stepped back into the ring and dared fate to knock him down.
With instructions to report in frequently, I left, thinking about Adi’s letter in the papers: They are gone but I remain. Although pounded and tattered after Karachi, I also remained. Not good for much, perhaps, but wanting something more. A soldier needs to belong, to be part of a continuum. I was thirty, an age when many soldiers were retired and married, with a brood of three or four. But an Anglo-Indian is rarely welcome, and finding a wife would not be easy. No, I needed a job, a direction. I needed this post almost as much as Adi needed to lay his ghosts to rest. I was on the hunt, and it felt good to have a goal.
The next day I sat in Adi’s chambers and pored over his copious notes. He had a lawyer’s logical sense, describing facts in careful detail, although hearing them must have torn him apart. The Medical Examiner’s report said Lady Bacha’s body had a fractured skull, cracked ribs and a broken neck. Miss Pilloo’s body was scratched on breasts and thighs, with numerous internal injuries and broken bones. All consistent with a fall of two hundred feet.
In the margin Adi had scribbled questions, discrepancies and, once, a sad lament: “Bacha, what was so awful that you couldn’t tell me?”
I paused, turning pages back and forth. The end of the medical report was missing.
CHAPTER 5
THE VICTIMS
Next day I returned, and stepping through the foyer where sunlight spilled over checkered tiles, I followed the bearer up a stairway to Adi’s apartment and found him immersed at his desk. He rose, greeted me and waved me to a chai
r.
“What news?” his look demanded, but courtesy required that he play the host before embarking upon business. “Join me,” he said, lifting the cover from a platter of sandwiches. As we ate, I asked about the missing pages from the Medical Examiner’s report.
Adi raised his eyebrows. “Oh? I didn’t notice. You could ask the M.E., Patrick Jameson, or Superintendent McIntyre.”
He went on to discuss some points of law. He emphasized one in particular—a principle called double jeopardy, instituted to prevent a person from being tried twice for the same crime.
I asked, “If I find evidence, will that prevent another trial?”
“Depends on the evidence,” he said, in true lawyerly fashion.
In the silence, I was distracted by the portrait of a lovely woman on his wall.
Noticing my interest, Adi said, “That’s Bacha.”
His young wife was dressed in pink saree and headscarf, a long strand of pearls curved over her breast. She looked straight on, composed and steady, dark eyes unsmiling. In newspaper photographs she’d been an elegant socialite in diamonds. This quietly assured person seemed far more substantial.
The book in her lap meant she was educated. Since few women learned to read, she must have had a wealthy guardian, a progressive man. One slender hand clasped an ornamented fan. A macaw blazed forth, green and orange, on the balustrade behind her. A pair of spectacles lay beside some embroidery. The unfinished sewing struck me as ominous somehow, prescient of an unfinished life.
“I’d like to examine the ladies’ rooms,” I said, “and speak with the staff.”
Nodding, Adi opened a narrow door, and I followed into a dark passage. He turned up the gaslight to reveal an anteroom adjoining a lady’s bedchamber. A doorway led to a white-tiled bath where I spied a claw-foot tub.
“Bacha’s room has not been disturbed, since the…” he said, and withdrew, in his grief.
Shadows cloaked the chamber, a stillness with unexpected weight. Stepping past a four-poster with its canopy of lacy white mosquito nets, I parted thick ivory drapes to admit sunlight. The room waited, so quiet I could hear my own breathing.