by Nev March
“Yes.” I felt bleak. “I think it’s why Lady Bacha and Miss Pilloo died.”
“But, Captain?” Diana sat up. “That doesn’t make sense! If Pilloo or Bacha had it, whatever it was, why go to the tower at all?”
“I don’t think they found it. I think they were being blackmailed, Miss Diana,” I said, “and the proof is still here, in this house.”
CHAPTER 20
MANECK, THE ACCUSED
Exhausted from the midnight skirmish, I fell asleep on Diana’s couch before the constable arrived. Accustomed to camping in fields, my pallet tossed into a different tent or barracks each night, I could rest most anywhere.
But sleep did not last. Diana’s settee was both softer and smaller than I was accustomed to. I heaved in a breath, felt the ache of bruised ribs and sat up. My inventory of soreness took but a few seconds. Most of last night’s blows had fallen on shoulders and arms, but my temple throbbed.
Diana had slept elsewhere, yet her presence permeated the dainty room, flooding me with her lavender scent. Collecting myself off Diana’s couch, I hurried from her bedchamber, feeling clumsy to have invaded that intimate space.
A purple dawn painted the low horizon as I trudged down the verandah. Last night’s burglar meant more secrets to unearth. I was blind, and the enemy could see. It was taking me too long to work this out, I thought, plodding into my guest room. When my fingers fumbled with the lamp, I noticed bandages encasing my hands. When was that done? Who’d patched me up while I slept? Peeling off the wrappings, my knuckles smelled of peppermint and some medicinal herb. The same greasy stuff covered my face and shoulders.
Every muscle protested. Well, I thought, adopting a limp to ease my knee, I was wounded and a soldier. What better guise for my journey? A wounded soldier I would be.
By lamplight I found the porcelain sink, washed and donned my khaki uniform without ceremony. The clock dinned five o’clock, a solemn, mourning sound, as I picked up my valise and hobbled down the stairs.
A victoria waited by the iron gates of Hanging Gardens. As the sky blushed a wounded pink, I roused the sleeping driver and set off to catch my train. Once aboard, I slept.
“Matheran station, Sahib!” the conductor said in my ear, three hours later. Accustomed to recuperating soldiers, he did not bother me with questions.
That crisp morning, my rickshaw tottered over curved pathways. At dips in the road we passed through dense fog, thick cloud as white as the cotton sheets in Adi’s home.
“The name Matheran, what does it mean?” I asked the bare-footed fellow pulling my cart. He twisted around and smiled wide, all wiry sinew and bone, wearing only a dhoti, traditional baggy trousers that ended at his knees.
“Mathey, Sahib, is the head of the mountain. Mathe-raan is the head in the clouds.”
Truly, this morning, I had my head in the clouds. Numbed by last night’s skirmish, I had forgotten to retrieve my notebook after all.
I was booked at a small hotel, whose blue-tiled verandah gave a magnificent view of the plains. Without a word, a smiling young waiter brought food. The eggs were perfect, over easy, runny just as I like, the sausage hot, the jam sweet and thick over crusty slices of bread. Upon my saucer, a mound of butter had been shaped into a flower, each petal complete with delicate lines. I stared in fascination—how was it made? After the din of Bombay streets, the quiet of the verandah was almost palpable. It poured around me and soaked into my skin long after my meal.
I considered how best to meet Maneck. I would ask the innkeeper. As I hobbled toward the inn, a rumpled youth passed me. His eyes were hollow, skin pale and bloodless and he, like me, had not shaved. That must be Maneck, I realized with a start, the very man I’d come for!
Since my return was booked on a train the next afternoon, I could little afford to wait, and must make his acquaintance. But how? Placing my bruised hands on the railing, I scanned a long sweep of green, indented here and there with patches of silver lake. Dense forest clothed the mountainside in deep shadow over which curled wisps of cloud.
“A nice view,” said a young voice by my shoulder.
I nodded and drew a slow breath, rubbing my ribs where they moaned.
“Come from the front?” he asked.
I gave a brief smile and offered my bruised hand. “James Agnihotri, Captain, Dragoons.”
“Captain.” He took my hand carefully. “Maneck.”
I gestured to a pair of wrought-iron chairs. “May we sit? My knee.”
“Of course.”
He was bony as adolescents are, awkward and high-strung. His prominent Adam’s apple moved as he swallowed. He thrust a hand through long unkempt hair, glancing at my forehead. No doubt I appeared worse off than he. My hotel mirror showed that the bruise at my temple had developed colorful streaks.
How to begin? Should I just plow in and ask for his help? Would it alarm him to know that I was not here to recuperate, but to plumb him for secrets?
“Where can a bloke buy a whiskey?” I asked.
He chuckled, a pleasant sound. Saying, “I can help you there, Captain James,” he invited me to follow.
Maneck was lonely. I saw that within moments of entering his sparsely furnished chamber. Austere in its neatness, it contained a bed, a dresser and a single chair. In a corner stood an earthen pot for water. Only the clothes slung over the dresser revealed that the chamber was occupied.
My host offered me the only chair, then took a pair of glasses to the window to rinse. His room was suspended over the mountain, and so, probably, was mine.
Pulling out a bottle of White Horse whiskey from the dresser, he raised it at me and poured us two generous shots.
“Cheers.” With a murmur of appreciation, I clinked and downed it. It would serve.
Sitting cross-legged on the bed, amused, Maneck leaned forward and refilled my glass.
When I asked about Matheran, he offered generous suggestions: good views, the way to the bazaar and so on. Matheran hill station boasted two sanitariums, a small bazaar street and a waterfall. He, in turn, asked after Bombay.
“How long were you there, Captain?”
I breathed slowly to ease my ribs and watched him, alone and friendless in this silent prison. All at once I pitied him and could no longer hide the truth.
“I’m here for a reason,” I said cautiously, “and it has to do with you.”
He jerked back, eyes wide.
“Maneck, if you want me to leave, I will,” I said, palms wide.
He scrambled to the window and glared at me.
“Are you a newspaperman?” he asked, incredulous.
“No. I work for Adi Framji.”
There. It was out.
He opened and closed his mouth. “What do you want?” he whispered at last.
I shook my head. “I mean you no harm. But you know something, about the death of the Framji ladies. I need to know what it is.”
His lips twisted into a grimace. “I said nothing when they put me on trial. For murder. Why would I tell you?”
Damn. I needed his help, and had only a day to acquire it. What did he care about? His unkempt distress, his limp beard poking out at all angles were significant. He knew Miss Pilloo and Lady Bacha. Diana said so. Ah. He was still mourning the two girls. After all these months, he was still raw from it.
“You knew the ladies,” I said, striving for gentleness, “didn’t you?”
Maneck nodded, grudging even that small admission.
“So why didn’t you defend yourself during the trial?” I asked. Then I guessed, “You … protected them. Their reputations.”
His face crumpled like a child’s. Dropping to the floor, he wound his arms about his knees and buried his face. Sobs shook his scrawny shoulders. I let the torrent run its course, hoping it might wash away some grief. Weary, I laid my head back upon the chair and closed my eyes.
After a while Maneck quieted. He wiped his cheeks with the back of his hand. “I tried to defend them. And failed,”
he said bitterly.
“So help me now. Tell me what you know.”
Sorrow and fear mingled in hazel eyes. “You don’t know … they’ll kill me.”
“They tried to kill me,” I said, gesturing at my face.
He gasped, leaning forward to peer at my bruises. “What happened?”
This wasn’t what I intended. If I had any plan for this interview surely it did not involve recounting my ambush. Yet something like hope flickered in his eyes. I told him of my visit to the clock tower and the assault on Princess Street. Alert to his growing alarm, I did not mention my skirmish with the burglar.
“Come back to Bombay,” I said, “let’s finish this together.”
“My God.” He stared at my injuries, then drew back, shaking his head. “I’m not … like you, a soldier.”
Maneck knew who had attacked me, or whom they worked for. I clamped down on my frustration and steered a different tack.
“Tell me about the other two, Behg and Akbar? Did you know them?”
These two men were tried as his accomplices but Maneck denied knowing them.
He grew sullen, and shook his head. “I won’t talk about that.”
I tried another approach, taking him to the day of the tragedy.
Again, he would not budge. McIntyre and the prosecutor for the Crown had interrogated him for months. He’d given them nothing. The police reported Maneck’s appearance as “panting.” That was the word used. What could account for it?
“Why did you leave the clock tower?” I persisted. “You weren’t there, were you, when the women fell?”
For a second it appeared that Maneck would answer, then he covered his face with his hands. In this lonely prison he’d sought a moment of company, invited me to drink with him, and in return I’d subjected him to an interrogation. I pitied the friendless young man, and regretted my broadside of questions when he was already tattered and downed.
“Maneck, I’m sorry. Tell me something. Anything,” I pleaded.
His ragged breath filled the room. He said, “Just this, Captain. Ask them about Kasim.”
Such bitterness in his young voice. “Kasim?” I had not heard that name in connection with my case. I waited, a question on my face.
Maneck’s mouth twisted. “Ask the Framjis, your employers. About the boy Kasim who used to live there. A servant. In their house.”
The tension in his wiry frame seemed to accuse Adi’s family. This was the first time I’d heard them mentioned in a negative light.
“Did they harm Kasim in some way?” I asked. Had this Kasim killed Lady Bacha and Miss Pilloo for revenge? Was he my unknown foe, the intruder I’d fought last night? Maneck stared at the floor and said no more. As I took my farewell, he shook hands in silence, face shuttered and wary.
“Be careful, Captain,” he said, closing his door.
I’d done all I could, and would have to be satisfied with that meager clue. Disappointed and exhausted from more than my injuries, I returned to my room and slept through dinner.
* * *
When I rose, dusk was creeping up the mountain. Birds trilled and crickets called to each other, friendly sounds, yet they reminded me of my solitary state. No wonder Maneck felt alone here. The other guests had supped already, so after a quiet meal I summoned the innkeeper and asked where I might soak in a tub.
“There is a pool in the garden, would that suffice?”
The night was sweet and warm. A pleasant breeze stirred my hair.
“It will do very well,” I said, and went to collect a towel.
The blue-and-white tiled pool smelled fresh with running water. Around it the mild sweetness of jacaranda blossoms filled the air. A trickle of water dripped into the pool from a water tank somewhere higher up, some engineering I could not see.
The purple sky dimmed. On the terrace where I’d dined, lanterns were being lit. Screened by willows and peepul trees, I sank into cool water and floated under a cluster of stars, my only companion a chattering squirrel.
That night I lay in a mosquito-netted bed, serenaded by deep-throated frogs. At the end of this, I wanted to clear Maneck’s name as well as the ladies’ and set Adi’s mind at rest. Maneck had stood trial, suffered censure and public vitriol, all to protect the memory of two friends. No one should have to hide, fearful and trembling, after doing something so brave. Diana was right. Here was no monster but a frightened lad, made the patsy of some dark power. No wonder he’d been found innocent.
I drifted off awash in memories of Diana, her elegant composure, her wide smile and lively manner. I’d always planned to marry someday. In my fancies, the figure beside me was someone quiet to walk with at sunset. I imagined I might look up, of an evening, and find her sewing beside me. Now that gentle figure paled beside Diana’s diamond sparkle.
I chuckled at my own imaginings. Diana was as far above me as the stars.
CHAPTER 21
DINNER WITH THE POLICE SUPERINTENDENT
I took the train to Bombay the next afternoon. Alone in my compartment, I extracted the package of Miss Pilloo’s letters and read them carefully. Writing mostly about books and clothing, she had possessed an active imagination. Only after reading three letters did I realize that the individuals described so passionately were, in fact, characters in books! She spoke of them as though they formed part of her intimate circle. It seemed a lonely life for a girl.
When the train stopped midway to Bombay, I bought a newspaper. As the vendor handed it through the window bars, a headline caught my eye: “Military hero confronts burglar.”
Byram, I swore, bloody Byram. This was his doing, damn him. Tom Byram was one of the few people who knew of our private arrangement. Surely he knew that to preserve my story as “Adi’s friend,” I must avoid public attention. Well, that plan was now blown to smithereens. He’d broadcast my name and business to all of Bombay, if not the entire British Empire.
Captain James Agnihotri, formerly of the Fourteenth Light Dragoons, a guest at the residence of Burjor and Mrs. Framji on the evening of twentieth of March, occasioned to witness a burglar and made short shrift of the intruder. A turban and knife were found at the scene. The Bombay Constabulary is investigating the incident.
I am not quick to anger, despite my odd behavior that night I’d forestalled the burglar. Most things, I find, are temporary and pass into distant memory with the next great event. But this commentary drew blood to my face. How could Byram reveal such important details? How was I to make unobtrusive inquiries now? Damn the man!
Worse still, he’d labeled me a military hero. I cringed, thinking how Smith and my regimental blokes would scoff at such nonsense. We’d all seen action on the Frontier. What a chaffing I should get, next I saw them.
My train pounded out a hollow song as it crossed a bridge overlooking square fields and thatched huts. I thrust my doubts out the open window. A blast of air puffed them back in my face. Dash it all, I was a novice at this career. I’d got very little from Maneck. My association with Adi was all over the papers. I needed a way to ask questions inconspicuously, without revealing my business to all and sundry. I leaned against the window frame, needing the cool air against my heated brow.
* * *
Whatever I expected upon my return, it was not to find lights blazing, and a pair of carriages outside the house. The Framjis were giving a grand dinner. Having already paid off the tonga, I trudged up the path with my valise, feeling as worn and crumpled as my old uniform.
Burjor and Mrs. Framji stood at the top of the stairs to welcome guests. She descended to greet me. A flick of her hand summoned a liveried fellow to take my valise. It was a gracious welcome, observed closely by two gentlemen in white ties and formal evening wear: Byram and Police Superintendent McIntyre.
McIntyre’s abrasive stare reminded me of my poor showing on our last acquaintance. Unshaved and weary, no doubt I looked positively rough this time, but at least I was reasonably clean. I set shoulders square, bowed and accepted
his hand.
“Evening,” he said abruptly. Not disposed to think well of me, then.
“Sir, I’m honored.”
McIntyre nodded and went ahead with the Framjis. Dapper in black pipes and tails, Tom Byram smiled, shook my hand, clapped my injured shoulder and invited me inside.
“May I have a word, sir? Right away,” I asked.
He shot me a grin, then grew watchful. “Certainly, this way.”
He led me to the morning room. There, I rounded on him. “An article, sir. On the front page!” I pulled the Chronicle from my jacket and held it up.
Adi entered, startling us. Byram and I swiveled to face him.
“Captain?” Adi saw my grim face, and the paper in my hand. “You’ve read the article.”
“Sir.” I drew a breath. “How does this help us? Makes it impossible…” I shook my head, irate that I could not articulate it well.
“May I explain?” Byram asked. He grimaced in apology to Adi, spreading his palms. “Adi, at dinner yesterday, we planned Diana’s coming out. The ball is in two weeks, and the Captain will still be black and blue. How were you going to explain that? A little piece in the news makes him a hero, and his bruises are accounted for.”
Smooth. The man was so composed I disliked and admired him at the same time. Could that really be why he’d done it? It didn’t hurt that his was the only paper to carry that story.
“Thank you, Uncle,” Adi said, apparently taking him at his word. His gaze flicked to me. “Perhaps if you’d spoken to the Captain first?”
Byram apologized, and was so abashed that it would be churlish not to accept.
“Very well, sir,” I said, and begged to be excused from dinner.
But Byram would have none of it. “Nonsense, my boy!” he insisted. “Why, they’ve come to meet you, of course!”
I stared. What the devil had he done?
“It’s all right, Captain.” Adi’s tone was sympathetic as he motioned me to follow. “Let’s get you ready.”