by Nev March
A series of facts fell into place all at once. I said, as gently as I could, “It was likely two men, although a third may have held the door.”
Adi stared. I’d not had time to apprise him of this.
“Go on, Captain,” he said.
“The viewing gallery surrounds the tower. I noticed this morning that one … assailant could not confine two active young ladies, as they would simply retreat around the gallery and escape. So there must be more than one.”
“Two?” Diana asked. “Or more than two?”
I considered. “Had there been three or more, they should have been noticed going up the tower. Three could certainly have, ah, restrained the ladies, and they were not restrained. So two, then.”
“Oh, child!” Mrs. Framji’s face creased, her head dropped into her hands. Her voice rose, riddled with sobs. “I forbade them to go about alone! Every day I read in the papers … young women go missing. They didn’t listen. Oh, my Pilloo, my Bacha.”
At her lament, Burjor winced. “Let’s see what the captain discovers. Now come, dear, it’s late.” He helped his wife to her feet.
We stood, Diana staring after her parents, affection and sorrow in the tilt of her head.
After a moment, Adi said, “All right. What’s next?”
I pulled out my notebook.
“Miss,” I said to Diana. “Did you know Maneck, the Parsee who stood trial? Had you ever met him?”
“Oh,” she said, settling back on the settee. “We’ve known him, Pilloo and me, for ages.”
Adi looked as astonished as I felt.
“Please explain.”
Taking a breath, Diana began, “Captain, we had a carefree childhood. Grand trips in the carriage, across the new causeway, or down the sea face. You remember, Adi? How I loved going to the races! That’s where Pilloo and I met Maneck.”
I said, “Tell me about him.”
Diana extracted a slim silver case from her pocket and toyed with it, saying, “Maneck’s uncle owns orchards near Bombay. He sells to hotels and establishments through a number of agents. Maneck is one of them.”
“Where does he live?” I knew Maneck had removed himself to Matheran, a hill station where soldiers often recuperated, but hoped to discover more clues at his residence in Bombay.
“He boarded at a guesthouse on Ripley Street. I think it’s run by a Christian widow.”
“Did you and Pilloo ever call on him there?”
“Oh no. We’d never do that. He’s a bachelor. But my dressmaker’s on the same street. We often met Maneck in passing.”
While I took that down, Adi asked, “What next, Captain Jim?”
I considered my list. Questions multiplied on each page, but I had few leads.
“Sir, I asked Apte whether he heard anyone call for help, before either Lady Bacha or Miss Pilloo fell. He heard nothing. Now he was indoors when Lady Bacha fell. I’m going to meet Enty next, so I’ll ask him too—did he hear either one cry out?”
Adi said, “Right after Bacha … died, the clock struck four. Pilloo fell soon after.”
“Righto!” I said, “And in the commotion, it would be difficult to hear Miss Pilloo. But Lady Bacha?”
Adi shook his head, palms wide.
“So only Enty was outside when Bacha fell,” Diana said. Then her eyes gleamed. “You said Lady Bacha? When did she become a peeress?”
Seeing Adi’s shoulders relax at her gentle teasing, I smiled.
CHAPTER 10
THE KEY WITNESS
Next evening, I visited Francis Enty, the bank clerk upon whose testimony the trial had centered. An unremarkable, middle-aged man with sparse, oily hair parted in the center, Enty had a guarded manner as he invited me into a small parlor. His dwelling was furnished simply. Old pieces covered with floral fabric denoted a small but well-managed budget. A chipped ceramic frame held a picture of two small boys and their mother. Two boys, about six years old, scampered off upon his command.
After introducing myself—Brown and Batliwala, investigating the Framji case, etc.—I asked whether his life had been much changed by the trial.
“Not really,” he said. “My daily routine is unchanged. Copy files, prepare letters and so on.”
Enty seemed content with humble clerical duties. Noting my close attention, his gaze narrowed. “Who sent you, did you say?”
Enty was sharp. I saw at once why Superintendent McIntyre found him such a credible witness. “Brown and Batliwala. I’m retained to make some inquiries,” I repeated.
Before he could protest, I launched upon my questions, leading him through his statement as recorded by Superintendent McIntyre. The entire case against Maneck rested on his account. A key witness indeed!
“Mr. Enty, what did you see on the twenty-fifth of October?”
Looking unhappy, he leaned into an old wingback chair. “I was outside the library, walking toward the clock tower entrance, you know it? I heard an argument—raised voices. I saw three men at the first-floor balcony—it opens to the reading room. I was just below, see?”
I wrote quickly. If true, here at last was a timetable of that day.
“Did you hear what was said?”
He shifted. “No … I don’t recall specific words now.”
I watched him closely. “What time was that?”
“Shortly after three fifteen.”
That was interesting. The ladies could not have reached the tower before three forty.
“You’re sure of that?”
“The clock had just struck the quarter hour.”
“Could you see their faces?”
He nodded.
“Who was it?”
“Maneck Fitter—arguing with two Khojas—Mohammedans. I did not know them. I’d seen Mr. Maneck in the library. We had spoken in passing. Morning, the weather, that sort of thing.”
“The two men—how did you know they were Khojas?”
“Their clothing. Long kurta-khamiz in the Indian style. Their turbans.”
“Could you identify them?”
“No. Both were taller than Mr. Maneck.”
“Did you see them at the trial?”
His face closed. “No.”
He seemed irritable now, so I changed direction. “During the … argument you witnessed from the ground, did you see the ladies at all?”
“No indeed. But I saw Mr. Maneck clearly. One man caught his collar, shook him.”
Police had recorded Maneck’s appearance as disheveled, noting his torn coat. I considered Enty’s stiff demeanor. While his testimony was consistent, it made Maneck the liar, since Maneck claimed not to know the other two at all.
“What happened next?”
“At a few minutes before four I left the library. When the first woman dropped, I was right there, thirty feet down the path.” He grimaced, shaking his head.
This was the closest I would get to an eyewitness account of the women’s deaths. Had he left the scene or remained? “Did you summon the police?”
“No. I don’t know who called them.”
My next questions would either confirm the path I was following or set me on a different one altogether. “Did you hear anything before she fell?”
He shook his head. “I did not.”
“No cries, no call for help?”
“None.”
“And after she, ah, dropped, Miss Pilloo was still on the gallery. Did you hear anything?”
“When she fell, sir, people cried out, all around. I was shocked. I went to the poor lady. People crowded. What confusion. Calling out questions, exclaiming.”
I watched him closely. “What did you do?”
“I went to her. She lay on her side. Apte, from the library, got there before me. We knelt on either side.” He winced. “Blood seeped … around her head.”
I absorbed that. “Did you see Miss Pilloo fall?”
“Indeed I did not! I was trying to find a pulse on the first woman’s wrist.” He shuddered, and mopped his br
ow with his scarf. “It was awful, that sound, right behind me. So close.”
Miss Pilloo fell twenty feet further from the tower, I recollected. It would feel very near. So perhaps the women had not fallen from the same point on the gallery.
“What were they wearing?” The police reports mentioned torn apparel—just how disarrayed was it? Surely a drop through the air could not shred clothing as the defense argued?
“The first woman, Bacha Framji, wore a yellow saree and blouse. It came unraveled, but she was fully clothed. The second girl wore loose trousers, torn at the knee. The jacket was buttoned. Ripped … at the shoulder.”
Trousers on women? That was unusual, very modern. Perhaps Miss Pilloo fought longer, which was reflected in greater disarray.
“Did you look up? After Miss Pilloo fell?”
“No, sir. She was alive. I saw her eyelids move…” He grimaced.
“Did she speak?”
“No.”
“Could you read her lips?”
His eyebrows rose. No one had asked that before.
“No, sir. Her lips did not move. She trembled … convulsed.” His lips tightened with emotion.
I asked him about his subsequent movements, whom he’d seen and spoken to. He insisted he could not identify the Khoja men, but named Maneck without hesitation. This testimony could have sent Maneck to the gallows. Had someone bribed or compelled it?
Closing my notebook, I said, “Thank you, Mr. Enty. A last question. Do you visit the races?”
“No sir! Gambling is a sin.”
It was a long shot, and went wide. If his testimony was contrived, I saw no evidence of it.
“I’ve kept you long enough from your family. May I thank Mrs. Enty for her indulgence?”
“My wife is not at home.” Looking put out, he stood up. “If there’s nothing else?”
Not home, so late in the evening? How odd. Perhaps he meant she was “not at home” to me.
“Is Mrs. Enty unwell?” I asked, still seated.
Startled, he said, “Unwell? No. She’s visiting her sister in Poona.”
“Papa?” a child’s voice called from an inner room.
When Enty excused himself, I rose to retrieve my hat. A ball of crumpled paper lay by a stack of unopened letters. Without much thought, I picked it up.
Hearing Enty return, I dropped the scrap into a pocket, shook his hand and departed. While his testimony had damned Maneck for a liar, it also placed Maneck in opposition to two men, possibly in defense of the ladies. No wonder the Parsee community was divided on Maneck’s account, some vehemently against him, while others saw him as a hero.
Returning to my dismal rental on Forgett Street, I mulled over the interview. Enty had not mentioned the four o’clock bells. Understandable, in the turmoil. He’d witnessed an argument where Maneck’s coat was torn. What was that about? Maneck was a suspect because of his unkempt appearance and “gasping breath.” An altercation explained his torn clothing, but what about the rest? Gasping meant exertion, surely? Or was it distress? After all, he’d known the Framji girls.
The librarian said that after police arrived, he accompanied Enty and two constables to the gallery. Enty concurred. He seemed genuine, but something nagged at me, like a shape seen from the corner of one’s eye that is not there when you look again. He’d seemed hurried toward the end of my interview, wanting me gone. Why?
A kerosene lamp cast a dull glow over my run-down lodgings in a disused warehouse. The bakery was closed, but the air still held the soft scent of bread, reminding me that I had not eaten. Last night’s dinner came to mind, and with it, Diana—that first glimpse of her against the sunset. When I’d taken her for a ghost, she’d been surprisingly kind.
I stowed my notebook to roll out my pallet-bed, feeling morose. The fine clothes I’d worn last night lay on a chair, crisp white cuffs and satin tie draped over the impeccably cut dinner jacket, utterly out of place in my dusty warehouse. Borrowed finery, just a disguise. No matter, I was hired for a task, and that I would complete.
As I stripped for the night, my thoughts twisted in ever-narrower circles. Who were the two Khoja men, Behg and Akbar? Neither Enty nor the librarian Apte had identified them. So who had? Enty’s testimony placed two unknown Khojas in Maneck’s company. Why did Maneck deny it? Surely he must know it destroyed his credibility? It was time I questioned him.
CHAPTER 11
LET ME HELP
Next morning, Diana said, “Captain, let me help with the investigation.”
Arriving early, I’d been directed to the dining room, where she invited me to partake. Adi and his father had not yet come to breakfast. Surprised at her urgency, I set aside the pretty dish of gooseberry jam.
Sitting very straight, she said, “Adi said you’re interviewing witnesses. I can help. I speak both Hindustani and Gujarati.”
I did not speak Gujarati, since I’d spent most of my life in the north with Punjabi and Pashto. The Sepoys and Sowars in my regiment spoke in Urdu and its close cousin, Hindustani. That tower guard, I remembered, had been no use at all, since I could not converse with him.
Intrigued, I asked, “Miss Diana, why do you want to do this?”
“I’d like to help,” she said, attempting nonchalance. Then she softened. “I think about Bacha and Pilloo constantly. I could, well, be of some use to Adi.”
I realized that Diana also felt haunted by the tragedy. Small wonder. Yet it was no occupation for a pretty young thing.
“You’d find it very dull, Miss.”
“You need an assistant, don’t you? Holmes had Watson, after all.”
So Adi had shared with her my interest in Conan Doyle. I sent her a lopsided smile, entertained by her ready wit. “Doctor Watson was a crack shot, wasn’t he?”
“You think I’m not?”
That surprised me. Since when were young ladies taught to shoot?
“Miss Diana, you’ve used a revolver?”
“Yes. And you? Are you quite the marksman?” She held my gaze, a hint of color in her cheeks. “In Study in Scarlet, Watson made a list of Holmes’s areas of knowledge, and lack thereof. I warn you, I shall do the same!” Diana’s laugh was water tumbling over river stones.
I grinned at her conversational bull’s-eye. “I’m a terrible shot.”
Cavalry is trained to draw sabres and charge. But that tactic was rarely used. More often we were sent off on a fast horse with a message. Mounted infantry, we were called, meant to travel quickly, dismount and fire. But I’d broken some fingers boxing—my hand shook, taking aim, making me a poor shot.
“Oh!” Her eyes were brown velvet.
Taken with her game, I continued against my better judgement. “I’ve done some boxing, however. Not too shabby on a horse.”
Diana chuckled. “Of course, you were with the Dragoons. That’s a cavalry regiment. Knowledge of geography?”
“Fair.” Colonel Sutton had insisted upon a working knowledge of north Indian terrain, the rivers and foothills of the Himalayas and northern tribes. I thrust away a momentary flash of memory. Dust and smoke, bodies on the ground. Karachi.
Diana stopped buttering toast, her gaze sharp with concern.
When I raised my cup to my lips, she continued. “Know your history?”
“I’m keen on military history, but don’t ask about kings of England,” I quipped, then sobered. Clear-eyed and pristine, she could have no part of this. “Miss Diana, this may turn rather awful. Sure you want to join the hunt?”
She picked up a napkin and dabbed with a delicate motion. “Quite. So I’m hired?”
I found my mind sharpened by the thrust and parry of our conversation. No one could find Diana just a pretty face. While wide eyes and rosy lips distracted me, the keenness of her mind struck me as a useful asset. Yet detective work must be done firsthand.
“I think not, Miss.”
She made a moue with that perfect mouth, a look that told me I’d hear about this again.
&nbs
p; To work. I polished off the jam and toast and tossed down my coffee. Hearing that Adi had left early for class, we went to his chamber, my headquarters.
“What were they like, Miss Pilloo and Lady Bacha?” I asked.
“I didn’t really know Bacha,” said Diana. “I’ve been in England almost four years.”
“You didn’t attend their nuptials?”
“No. My aunt in London was unwell. I stayed to tend her, and missed Pilloo’s wedding as well. But she wouldn’t be sent to her in-laws for a while, so I thought I’d see her before she left.”
Instead, Pilloo died before Diana’s return.
“Pilloo was tall, bony, really. We told each other everything. It hardly mattered she was a cousin. I wanted a sister, and so did she,” Diana said. “But while I was in England, she changed. I could tell from her letters. I didn’t know her anymore—certainly not what troubled her.” Lips tight, she crumpled a kerchief in her hand.
Surely there was more? Her glance skittered away from mine. I’d need to earn her trust before she came out with it.
“Miss, if you think of something, you will say?”
She nodded with a troubled look.
From Adi’s box, I extracted the envelope containing my meager evidence.
“At the clock tower, I found this snagged in the gallery door.” I handed her the envelope containing a curl of dark threads.
She took it, frowned and delicately picked up the threads. “Cotton or linen. Too thick to be muslin,” she said, rubbing the fragment between her fingers.
“It was caught in the splinters, about a foot from the floor. And the librarian found some clothing under a table the next day. Black clothes, torn. Threw them away, alas.”
Diana’s dark eyes widened. “You think this came from those garments. Men’s clothes?”
I opened my notebook to the relevant page. “Apte didn’t know. When he returned to the reading hall, he saw two men reading newspapers. They asked about the ruckus.”
“Captain, that’s odd. They heard the noise, but didn’t go out?”
I’d thought that strange as well. Those two had behaved so oddly that the librarian remembered them months later. “They gave him the impression they’d been there all along.