by Nev March
But this, from Burjor, whom I extolled as an exemplary father! That he thought so little of me cut deep. I wiped emotion from my face, but now he seemed attuned to me and grimaced an apology.
“No, Captain, it’s not that. I see great merit in you. We owe you a great deal! You are not responsible for an accident of birth.”
His chest swelled with a heavy breath. “No, it is Diana. Two brides were lost to us … to my clan, Captain. We cannot lose another!”
The creases around his mouth deepened. His voice dropped to a whisper. “Our customs are all we have.” He buried his head in his hands. “This we cannot change … But why?”
Surely now he spoke to the saint, rather than to me? I felt winded, out of breath from the unexpected punch to my gut. I hardly dared hope that Diana might come to care for me. Her lighthearted flirting this evening was no more than an affectation, common surely among young ladies of her class. Yet we had shared a tender moment, as heady as the finest bourbon. I could still feel her closeness, the curve of her waist in my grip. When I moved to leave, her fingers on my hand, staying me, echoed my own reluctance to end our dance.
Clearly Burjor’s words were aimed to snuff out that flicker of hope. Moreover, he placed the responsibility upon me to distance myself from Diana. He could have forbade me, even dismissed me, but he had not. He’d simply asked me to leave her be, with a father’s prerogative, saying, young man, she’s not for you.
My ribs throbbed with a new ache. How could I answer? I felt heavy with regret. As I searched for words to voice my protest, I paused: Who else had he warned off? What else had he done? Burjor had just opened a path for me to ask about Kasim. Since Maneck’s obscure remark implied some cruelty on Burjor’s part, what better time to put the matter to rest?
“I understand, sir,” I said. “May I ask about a different matter?”
He looked up and appeared heartened. “Of course, Captain, anything.”
“Who is Kasim?”
Had I struck him in the face, I could not have shocked him more. His lips parted, and his ruddy cheeks paled. Burjor’s manner shouted both guilt and remorse. Was Maneck right, then? Had this good man harmed a lowly servant boy?
“What?” he said, then perhaps recalling that it was a common name, “Which Kasim?”
I said, “A lad who worked here, at the house.”
Clutching his chair, he hoisted himself up to cross the floor and back. Shoulders hunched into a bull-like posture, planting himself on the carpet before me, he said, “Kasim—can have no bearing on your case. He is dead.”
I stared at his face, now creased with distress. “Dead, sir? On the contrary, if he died under suspicious circumstances, that could give someone motive for revenge.”
What had Burjor done that was so wrong? I could not believe this gentle soul capable of malice. His staff spoke of him with gratitude and warmth. Jameson and McIntyre called him “Moneybags,” yet the moniker was voiced with affection.
Only once had he cut me, by placing Diana beyond my reach. Wait, was that it?
“Did you perhaps warn him away from Diana … or Pilloo?” I guessed.
Taken aback, Burjor protested. “It’s not the same, Captain! He was a servant, a Khoja!”
A Khoja Mohammedan, like the two conspirators? Was there a link to my case?
Someone knocked on the door. I flinched at the interruption, having forgotten the guests still gathered in the ballroom. So, apparently, had my host.
Adi stepped in, saying, “Papa, the gentlemen have left. Byram sends his compliments.” He looked from his father’s face to mine. “What’s happened?”
His father thumped himself down on the settee. “The Captain asked about Kasim.”
“Kasim, who worked here?” Adi did not seem alarmed. So whatever Burjor had done, Adi was not party to it. I was glad of that.
Now Burjor seemed determined to tell the story and have done with it. He said, “All right. It may have some bearing, it may not. Here it is. About ten years ago, my brother and his wife both died in an influenza epidemic. I brought Pilloo from Lahore to live with us. Their servant boy Kasim had no one, so I brought him along. You remember, Adi, it was before you went to England. I hoped that a companion from home would help her … not feel so alone.”
Adi rubbed his forehead. “I remember him. He was devoted to Pilloo. Followed her everywhere.”
“He was a friend, someone to speak Urdu with,” Burjor said, “but as she got older, it didn’t seem right. He was a servant after all. When she turned twelve, I sent him back to Lahore to learn a trade. The owner of a brick factory took him as an apprentice.”
All this seemed reasonable. “So what was the difficulty?” I asked.
“He would not go!” Burjor exclaimed, “He demanded to stay! Made a nuisance of himself, so”—he sounded grim—“I had two bearers take him back to Lahore.”
I considered the sad tale. Burjor and his wife had adopted Pilloo as their daughter. A servant boy would be grossly overreaching to imagine himself a suitable match.
“But he died,” Adi said. “How did he die?”
Burjor puffed out his lips. “The next year Pilloo was betrothed. Kasim tried to return to Bombay. He was killed in an accident, crossing a railway track.”
“How old were they when they came here?” I asked.
“Pilloo was seven; Kasim, about thirteen.”
“He’s six years older. What year did he leave?”
Calculating, he said, “It was eighty-seven.”
He’d said Pilloo was twelve five years ago, so Kasim was eighteen—a young man. His tragic life and untimely death might well be laid at Burjor’s door. But who’d want to avenge him?
Burjor rose, saying, “Captain, I regret it. I should have managed it better. But at the time, how could we know?”
I took that to mean it was time for me to leave and got to my feet.
“Thank you, sir. That may prove useful.” Because he seemed so pensive, I added, “I will consider what you’ve said.”
Some trace of my bleak mood must have showed, for Adi gave me a sharp look. Perhaps he had a trace of Holmes in him too.
CHAPTER 25
LADY SLEUTH
Both Enty and the burglar Nur Suleiman would bear watching, but at present I had no means to do so. I reviewed Adi’s case notes again. Every aspect of it seemed to have been explored, save two: the mysterious servant, Kasim, and the tower guard—that Havildar had been no help at all. Remembering his terror, I realized I needed a way to travel anonymously and seek my answers.
In search of appropriate attire, the next day I took a tonga to Chor bazaar, the thieves’ market. Nestled among the wreckage of broken bullock carts was a shabby little shop that fit the bill. Piles of old newspapers framed the entrance. A handwritten sign offered: OLD CLOTHES AND GOODS.
“Used clothes?” I asked the owner, a fat Sindhi, his lips stained red with betel nut.
Curious, he asked, “Yes … for who?”
Perhaps he took me for an Englishman. “My servant,” I said, “lost his on the train.”
“Stolen, no doubt. One should never sleep on a train,” said this vendor of the thieves’ market. He spat to one side, and beckoned me inside.
“What about this?” He held up a kurta tunic from a pile on the table.
“Something longer.”
I sifted through garments in rapid succession, selecting what would fit me.
“How much?” I asked without interest. Any enthusiasm usually doubled the price.
“Two annas each, Janab,” he said, “Look around, I have more.”
Janab—that was sir, or mister, in the tongues of the north. I chose two khamiz shirts, several cloth strips to wrap into turbans, three baggy trousers, assorted vests and kurtas.
A long black garment caught my eye. A missionary’s cassock! A quick rummage produced a priest’s white collar. I imagined the discomfiture of some poor padre at his loss, and the thief’s astonishment when he
found he’d stolen a pile of unusable clothes. If I was ever hired to investigate the case of the purloined cassock, these vestments could be just the ticket.
The hem showed a little wear, but no rips or tears. Those black threads I’d found in the door of the tower might belong to a lawyer’s black jacket as we surmised, but here was another possibility, a cleric’s black robe.
“Do you want that?” the shopkeeper asked. “The priest died, and his man came and sold his things, but I have little use for them.”
So much for my speculations, if that was indeed the truth. Struck by the length of the garment, an idea sprang into my mind. The old missionary had been almost as tall as I. His cassock could prove a useful disguise.
“All right.” I tossed it on top, then began the process of haggling with the shopkeeper.
He named an amount. I laughed at it.
“For old clothes? Rubbish.” I offered to pay a third of what he’d asked. He fussed, then suggested something lower than his initial foray. This went on. To fail to bargain would draw immediate suspicion, but I had a more mundane reason—a depleted wallet.
An hour later I dropped the lot in my rental room behind the Forgett Street bakery. Fortunately, my run-down warehouse came cheap. I had a small pension from the army, scarcely enough to live on, and must establish myself soon. Adi’s case was promising, but I seemed no closer to solving it.
For the rest of the day I assembled disguises in which to blend into the city.
* * *
Before I returned to Framji Mansion, I met a friend at Army Ordnance and Supply and procured a map of Lahore. My main lead was Kasim, who died in Lahore, a northern town in the Punjab province. So to Lahore I must go. I sent a note to Byram to reserve my railway ticket.
Spreading my map over Adi’s desk, I traced a finger along the main roadways to memorize their features.
“Captain?” Diana stood at the door in a yellow sundress, a ribbon holding back her curls.
My mind went quite blank. When sense returned, I thought Burjor’s disapproval of me as a suitor was surely unnecessary. Last night Diana had danced and flirted with several young men. In the light of day, last evening’s closeness seemed my own wishful imaginings. She’d collected a wealth of information, but that only proved she was eager to aid her brother.
“I’ve something … to tell you.” Her diffident step was a far cry from her usual dainty stride.
I straightened. “Miss?”
“It was all my fault,” she said to the carpet, looking about twelve years old.
“What was, Miss Diana?” Sitting on the edge of the desk to avoid towering over her, I smiled to reassure her.
“Don’t look at me like that,” she muttered, hands clenched at her sides.
Was I so easy to read? I rearranged my face to show only concern. “Like what, Miss Diana?”
Rueful, she took another step. “Like I’m, oh, perfect. I’m not. I try, God knows, but…”
Just feet away, her freckles were endearing.
“I hate breaking things,” she said, placing her palm flat on the desk.
I felt the weight of it, as though she’d placed her hand upon my chest. Breaking things? What did she mean? I watched, fascinated, as her face tightened with resolve.
“Kasim. It was my fault. Adi said you know about him.”
I’d not expected that. Surely Diana was in England at the time? But here at last she might confide what she knew.
“Go on, Miss Diana.”
She winced, fisted the hand on the table, and her tale rushed out.
“Ten years ago, when Pilloo came to us, she was seven. I was ten. Everyone made such a fuss of her, poor little orphan. I wouldn’t speak with her, play with her. I said awful things.”
She seemed determined to paint a harsh picture of herself as a child. Adi would have been a quiet, studious boy, while Diana had the spirit of a thoroughbred. I could well imagine Burjor doting on such a splendid child.
“So many had died in the epidemic,” she said in a low voice. “When Papa brought Kasim here, he was three years older than me. I laughed at him because he couldn’t read. So Pilloo taught him English. We’d find them together constantly.
“That’s why Kasim thought … damn fool he was, always making eyes at her, waiting outside her room. He lived here with us but … something wasn’t right. Pilloo seemed almost afraid of him. I told her to ignore him and she did. They quarreled—Kasim made such a fuss. When Papa heard of it, he sent him away. I felt so sorry for the trouble I’d caused. I tried to make up for it, really I did.”
No one could mistake her earnestness and regret. I saw how she might feel guilt over a childhood resentment, now that Miss Pilloo was dead. It also explained why Burjor had felt the need to remove Kasim from his home. In fact, Kasim was older than I had expected. If he’d lived, he would now be twenty-three.
“You didn’t pity the boy?”
“No.” Diana’s tone was sharp. “He … I can’t quite explain. Kasim was … puffed up. He acted like he owned Pilloo.”
“How?”
“Oh, a hundred little things—he’d wait for our tutor to leave, demand she come with him. Just little things. He wanted a pocket watch, so Pilloo asked Adi to buy her one. She gave it to Kasim—couldn’t refuse him.”
“Did she care for him?”
Diana shook her head. “Pilloo was only twelve. Kasim was upset, furious even, about being sent back to Lahore. Everyone felt awkward about it. I think Papa decided I needed discipline too and sent me off to finishing school.”
True or not, Diana saw that as a sort of banishment. However, her story convinced me that Kasim was the key to this mystery.
“Is that all?”
Diana nodded, holding my gaze. Troubled, she seemed about to say more. Then her mood shifted.
“You look different without that mustache.” She touched my jaw, turning me to examine my faded bruises. Her father’s warning rang in my mind, his pained expression as he delivered that plea. My hands clenched on the edge of the table.
“Diana!” Adi exclaimed from the doorway.
“It’s only the Captain!” Diana protested over her shoulder. She turned back to me. “You don’t mind, do you?”
Only the Captain. How could such innocent words carry such a sting? But it confirmed what I knew. Diana did not consider me a suitor.
I chuckled. “No, Miss.”
She grew quiet, repeated my last word. “Miss?” Then said sharply, “Captain, you’re not a servant!”
“Am I not, Miss?” I said lightly.
“No!” She looked pained. “You’re not.”
Why was she so distressed? “What am I, exactly?”
“A friend,” she said, raising her chin, “who’s gone to ridiculous lengths to keep us safe.”
Her fingers rose, touched my bruised temple and stayed to flick a lock of my hair. I tensed, astonished. Diana’s touch was breaking rules. Did she understand the allure of her closeness? Her deep brown eyes searched me with a puzzled look.
“Diana!” Adi hissed. “Leave the poor chap alone!”
She glanced back at him, lips compressed at the interruption. I’d learned to beware of this particular mood, and right enough, for the next question knocked me for a six.
“Captain, why did you fight the burglar?”
Her dark-lashed eyes brimmed with determination and something I could not name, a sort of vulnerability. Nothing would do now but the truth.
“Miss Diana, I feared it was your room.”
My answer silenced her. Realization dawned in those intelligent eyes. I looked away so she would not see too much.
“Thank you, Captain.” Her breath brushed my cheek with warm softness, a touch so light I might have imagined it.
I glimpsed a curious expression on her face, akin to wonder. She’d been about to kiss me, then caught herself, stepped back. A blush crept over her as she ducked her head.
Was Diana interested in me? Adi l
ooked as stunned as I felt. The quiet room waited, breath suspended. Had Adi not been present, would she have kissed me? No, she was just grateful, mistaking my headlong dash on the balcony for chivalry. I strove to read no more into it.
“Righto,” I said, clearing my throat, which had gone dry.
Diana had turned away, deep in thought. How to bridge the moment? This morning I’d remembered something to ask her. What was it? Oh, yes.
“Ah, Miss, would you examine these.…” I found my foolscap sheets containing her revelations last night and handed them to her. At the top, I’d printed: Ranjpoot.
“The information you collected. Would you complete it? Transcribe it, if you wish.”
Eyebrows arched, she took the page. “Did I tell you that much?”
“Yes, Miss. I’m sure I’ve forgotten some. Would you add what’s missing?”
With a brisk nod, she took the sheet and left. I collapsed into the chair behind the desk, knowing Diana was beyond me, yet tangled in threads of amazement and hope. A part of me insisted that Burjor’s warning had come too late.
As I leaned my elbows on the desk, Adi’s posture caught my attention. Ramrod stiff by the French windows, he stared at me, motionless in the grip of some torment.
“Sir?”
His teeth clenched. “Adi. My name is Adi.”
I straightened, disturbed to see emotion twist his gentle face. Only moments before, Diana had taken umbrage just so, at an ordinary term of address. Now Adi too seethed over it. Standing at the window, he tossed a remark over his shoulder. “You’ve called me Adi before, you know. After you were knifed, Captain. And when you spotted the burglar at the ball.”
Something was amiss. Best I got to the bottom of it. I joined him, looking out at the garden.
“Did I?” I did not remember it. But now I needed to know where he stood. I asked, “Does it bother you, that I’m not Parsee?”
He tensed, and his chin stiffened. “As my friend, I don’t give a hoot what faith you’re from.” He sighed, “But Diana’s husband…”