by Nev March
Burjor’s rebuke had shaken Diana. Her candor disarmed me. She said, “But Captain, please. Quit this investigation. You could return to the Chronicle. You’d still have a job.”
I swallowed. “No, Miss. I’ll see this through. Even if I’m dismissed.”
Her eyes went wide. “For God’s sake, why? What’s it to you?”
I frowned. “For Adi, Miss. He’s lost his wife. Doesn’t he deserve to know why? And what of the ladies? Don’t they deserve justice?”
Diana winced. “God forgive me. I care more for the living!”
She was afraid. I paused, puzzled by it. “Why, Miss? Why should I stop?”
Her eyes flashed. “Isn’t it obvious? So you don’t get killed!”
I straightened. This was the source of her anguish? Diana looked away. She seemed certain about some impending danger. What did she know?
“Miss, explain.”
Our eyes met. “Adi didn’t realize either. You identified the burglar as Nur Suleiman, prince of Ranjpoot. Adi said, ‘Thanks to the Captain, we know whom we’re up against.’ But he doesn’t see why this changes everything.”
“Does it?”
She grimaced. “If it’s Ranjpoot … if the Rani’s involved and you prove it, well, it would be disastrous for her. The British could send in the army, take control of her entire princedom. It would become part of the British Raj.”
I drew a breath. “She would lose Ranjpoot.”
Diana nodded. “Adi and my lawyer friend Cornelia spoke about it last week. If a native ruler is incompetent or a minor, as in the Kathiawar estates, well, the Court of Wards manages everything. The Raj controls hundreds of native estates already! No one could fault them for taking over Ranjpoot.”
Now our dinner with the Ministry blokes took on a darker hue. “When I returned from Matheran, who were those Englishmen at dinner?”
Her glance skittered away from mine. “Mr. Branwell is with the Home Office. I met him in London, when I lived there with the Channings. The others are on the Governor’s council.”
Home Office—did that mean the Crown was interested? These gentlemen had assessed me with their questions. If I succeeded, they had much to gain. If I died, they lost nothing.
I said, “If you’re right, I’m a pawn in this game. A game of politics between Ranjpoot and the Raj. But, Miss, it doesn’t matter. If the Rani is behind this, she must be held to account.”
“You still don’t see! The Rani would do anything to prevent it. If she’s killed two people in broad daylight, well, what’s one more?”
Bollocks. She was right. Was that why McIntyre had delivered his warning?
Diana pleaded. “Please don’t go to Ranjpoot. There’s no law there, no police.”
“Hm.” I’d visit Ranjpoot, but not until I was ready.
“And Lahore … I don’t know. Can you take the new guards with you?”
“They’re needed to safeguard the house.” And you, my dear, I thought.
“Chief McIntyre, then. Could he help?”
I gave her a brief smile. “Alerted him yesterday. Don’t worry, Miss. He’ll watch over you while I’m away. Give me time to sort this out.”
“Time?” Diana gazed at me. “Captain, we have no time. Papa is taking me to Simla in two weeks. To escape this heat.”
In two weeks? I set the papers aside. The Framjis were going north to Simla, in the foothills of the Himalayas? Adi said nothing of it yesterday. Burjor must have decided this very morning, in that explosive meeting. “Simla?”
“We have a bungalow on the Mall, before Lowries Hotel.”
I understood. Since I proved unable to keep my distance from Diana, her father had found a way to achieve it. I should have expected this.
Diana said, “I could refuse to go.”
I straightened. “Don’t do that, Miss. When do you get back?”
“July, with the monsoon.”
Three months. They loomed, arid until she returned with the season of rain. Yet in Simla, Diana would be away from the threat that hung over us in Bombay.
I nodded. “You should be safer there.”
The prince of Ranjpoot could have a long reach, though. I’d have a word with Burjor. He would need adequate staff on the journey.
“It’s far. Three days by train,” Diana said, glum.
A long silence flowed between us as I watched her worry. Seeing her thoughts flow over her face, I was riveted and devastated at the same time.
What did I reveal in turn? I could not say, but it startled Diana.
She said, “Captain, will you be careful?”
Had I once thought her sophisticated? I strove to reassure with a smile, since speech was impossible.
“You’re unlike anyone I’ve met, Captain Jim,” she said, “as quiet, as dependable as furniture! Then that night, what you did … Afterwards, waiting for the constable, you fell asleep. Adi and I watched over you. You were so … battered and worn. But you’re the sort who dives into rivers when people are drowning, aren’t you?”
I flinched. “Miss Diana. I’m no hero,” I said, my throat thick with pain.
She leaned closer, searching my face, but for what?
The movement rocked a small planter on the window behind us. I steadied it with a hand, her closeness affecting me like wine.
“What is it?” Her gaze dropped to my lips.
All at once, a voice inside me warned, “Have a care! There’s no going back!” Diana was curious, but could not really care for me, could she?
She smiled. “You look younger when you sleep.” Her hand reached out.
I caught her wrist in midair, held firm. “Miss Diana, don’t … toy with me.”
I had not intended to say that, but it would do.
She stared at me, horrified. “Is that what I’m doing?”
“You know I’m not Parsee.” Her wrist was tiny. I loosened my grip.
She pulled her arm away. “Did my mother say something? Or Papa?”
She read the confirmation on my face and cried, “Why do they dictate everything? All my life, I’ve known my duty. To marry well! Bring forth a new generation! I’ve always obeyed them. But now? It’s my life!”
Cheeks red, she winced. “Bacha died so young. Pilloo, before her life had even begun! What if you…”
What if I were killed, hunting the ladies’ murderers? A wave of affection caught me unawares.
She looked agonized. “Captain, do you never break the rules?”
I drew a slow breath. “I have. But never without consequences, my dear.”
She steadied. Her eyes flickered, registering the endearment. “All right. I’ll wait,” she said. “Come back soon.” How she resembled Adi in that moment, determined and intense!
Come back soon. Those three words lifted my spirits and sent them winging, a kite in a high gale. My God, I thought. What I’d read as willful youth was steadier and more insistent than I’d believed. For some strange reason, Diana might actually oppose her father and choose me!
Then reality set in and emptied the room of air. She was going to Simla, where India’s colonial administration and Bombay society flocked to escape the summer heat. Soon she’d be among a host of clever fellows. An heiress, and fair game no matter what her father wished. Reluctant to curb her impetuous nature, yet fearing some headlong dash into uncertain waters, I searched for a way to caution her.
“Miss Diana, you don’t know me.”
“Of course I do!” she retorted, placing her hand upon my bare forearm.
What new mischief did she have in mind? I raised an eyebrow.
Her laugh was water gurgling over river stones.
She grinned, warm and impish in her delight as she withdrew her fingers, saying, “See? Anyone else would have grabbed my hand and made some sappy remark. You don’t do that. One can learn a lot by listening, you see. When you spoke of … Mullicka, was it? You said, such power in her, and yet so gentle. That … moved me.”
“A fin
e gift from my officer, Colonel Sutton.” Sutton had won handsomely, betting on me at a boxing match. I watched Diana, riveted.
She launched into a list, counting on her fingers, “I know that you grew up in a Mission in Poona. You joined the Dragoons. You got injured last year and left the army. And when you met Adi, you were a journalist.” She triumphantly concluded the story of my life.
I said, “That’s what I’ve told you. How d’you know it’s true?”
She looked puzzled.
“What if I lied?”
“I’d know. I’d just know,” she assured me, then said defiantly, “Tell me a lie.”
I laughed, shaking my head. I flicked a ribbon that bounced by her ear, and gazed into her eyes, now glinting with amusement.
“Miss, you’re a bit like my sister. She’s younger, of course, married to a civil service chap in Delhi. She has a three-year-old, David. She used to pepper me with questions, like you.”
Diana’s lips curved. “What’s her name?”
I looked out at the verandah and heaved a sober breath. It was a nice fiction, and for a moment I wished it were true.
“Oh God,” Diana whispered. Realization bleached her face, leaving it stark. She swallowed and said, “That was a lie!”
I saw the hurt, and felt like a cad. When she told me about Kasim, she’d said, “I hate to break things.” Now I felt the same.
“Can all men lie?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said, “though some are better at it.”
Diana examined me as though memorizing pages in a book. “I won’t forget you, Captain.”
“I hope not,” I said, striving for a light note, and turned back to her notes.
It would have to do, for I was going to Lahore to sort out the truth of Kasim’s death. Despite my fondness for her, and her interest, how could I court Diana? With neither name nor fortune, if she chose me against Burjor’s wishes, how could I support our life together?
CHAPTER 28
A PATHAN COMES TO DINNER
Over the next few days, dressed in different disguises, I shadowed Prince Nur Suleiman and some of his cohorts. Experimenting with my new supplies, I copied the appearance of men I’d known. Different turbans and white powder masked my longish hair, while layers of collodion added scars or changed the contours of my face.
Often I followed Prince Suleiman to the dockyard and spent a great deal of time there. One evening Ramu, the Framjis’ little gap-toothed boy, brought a note to my room at the bakery. I let him in, grinning through my untidy beard at his astonishment.
Ramu gaped at me. “Sahib?”
I planned to travel to Lahore dressed as a Pathan, an Afghan tribesman from the northwest province. These fighters were generally tall and weather-beaten, so I would not look out of place. I’d known Pathans in the army, illiterate, proud fellows, quick to temper or laughter—one could never be quite sure which—and loyal to the core. Some tribes were friendly to the British army, while others, the Ghazis and Afridis, despised us. I was safer there as a Pathan and more likely to find answers.
“Betho—sit,” I said, and took the note to the lamp to read.
Mrs. Framji wrote that it’d been a while since I’d dined with them. Would I come now, before dinner got cold?
I debated leaving for Lahore without meeting the Framjis. Cleaning up for an appearance at the house was out of the question. My beard and worn clothing were ready for my trip.
But I wanted to see Diana before she left for Simla. A plan took form in my mind.
“Who else is coming to dinner?” I asked, pulling a long grey kaftan over my head.
“Just you, Sahib.” Ramu remained on his haunches by the door, looking worried.
“Is the carriage here?”
“Hah, Sahib.”
Winding a turban around my head, I checked the mirror, then pulled on my comfortable army boots. I washed hands before I set out. Mrs. Framji was rather particular about clean hands.
Here was a chance to test my new guise. If I could get by the Framjis, who knew me well, it would surely pass with anyone else. In The Sign of Four, Holmes masqueraded as a sailor, deceiving Watson and Detective Lestrade. Was my disguise as convincing?
When the carriage halted at the gate, three new watchmen rushed up, and it took a while to reassure them. I told them it was a test of their alertness, and they withdrew, looking askance and shaking their heads.
Framji Mansion glowed at the end of the curved drive, where gaslights turned the pillars to silver. I approached in darkness, my footsteps crunching amid a chorus of crickets. The still air was pleasant, yet it held a warning too, some presentiment that this moment was precious and rare, not to be broken with careless words or experiments. Too late to fall back now, I thought. I’d committed to a course of action and would see it through.
Clothes maketh the man, the old adage warns. Did the Framjis’ regard depend solely upon my appearance, as someone they’d grown familiar with? Would they know me well enough to see through my exotic costume?
Whom did I want to test? Adi? Burjor and Mrs. Framji? Or was it Diana? How would she react when I revealed myself? For I was more than the British soldier she knew. Would she accept my Indian side with equal aplomb? These two were inseparable within me, after all I’d seen and done.
My pulse quickened as I strode up the clean, porcelain sweep of stairs. I stomped heavily through the entryway and corridor, thinking to give fair warning to the family waiting for dinner.
It did not suffice. As I stopped in the doorway, a little hunched, and touched my forehead in greeting, Adi bolted up from his chair.
Nor had I reckoned with the children being at dinner. Adi’s younger brother pointed at me and yelped. The littlest one wailed. Burjor at the head of the table reached over and scooped her up, hushing and rocking to comfort her. Another child, a girl, dashed out toward the kitchen.
“Oh dear,” I said, in my normal voice.
“Captain!” cried Diana and ran to me, eyes bright and amazed. She caught my arm, took in my beard and examined my turban. Her nose wrinkled at the smell of my clothes. The odor of sweat and dust marked me as a working man, a laborer of some sort. I didn’t mind the stench, wore it as part of my disguise. A whiff of lavender would turn heads where I was going and draw suspicious stares.
“Turn around!” she commanded.
I did so with a flourish that set the baby to crying again.
Mrs. Framji hurried in from the kitchen, her younger daughter peeking from behind her.
Would she know me? I stepped up, bent and touched her feet in the traditional greeting of elders. “Salaam, Maji.” (Mother, I greet you.)
I smiled at the frightened girl hiding behind Mrs. Framji’s knees, her brown eyes wide.
“Dikra?” meaning “son,” Mrs. Framji said, sounding puzzled. “Who is he?”
I rose to my full height and met her gaze.
She gasped, a hand over her lips. “Captain? What have you done? You’ve grown so thin!” Her delicate fingers fluttered over my cheek.
Ah, that’s where Diana got it from. A wave of comfort lifted and carried me in its wake.
“Thank you for the note, Mrs. Framji,” I said. “I’ve missed your splendid meals.”
The clan erupted into laughter and relief. Moments later I was seated, and my plate piled with more food than it could hold. I answered questions between mouthfuls of sausage, sweet potatoes, lamb curry and saffron rice.
Now that his fright was past, Adi’s little brother climbed astride my knee to show he was not afraid. Mrs. Framji bid him add another sausage to my plate.
The little one was placed in my arms, to learn that a bearded man was not a fearful thing. Round and warm, she pulled at my beard with tiny fingers, while I explained my plan.
“You look the part, Captain,” Diana said, “but can you carry it off?”
“I was a Sowar for three years,” I replied. “A Sepoy on horseback. I knew Rashid Khan, the fellow I’m dressed a
s, quite well.”
“Ah!” said Adi. “That’s why you’re so convincing. He’s a real chap. Where is he now?”
“Dead, I’m afraid.” I chewed, steering my mind away from Karachi, where Rashid met his end. If only I’d got to him sooner. “Sir, I’m on the eleven o’clock train, so I won’t stay long.”
Ganju, the Gurkha houseman, set a dish on the sideboard. He’d been watching with concern as I spoke to the Framjis in English. He addressed me now in Gurkhali, his own dialect, “Sahib, I could come with you.”
“Your job is here,” I said in the same tongue. “Keep them safe, or you answer to me.”
The dialect came easily to my lips, and I felt reassured. My new persona would hold.
Ganju stared, and went back to serving pudding.
Hearing me speak, Adi began to laugh. He leaned back in his seat, shoulders shaking.
As I gave the baby to Diana, her arm brushed me. The curve of her throat, the smooth cream of her cheek—ah, how these tugged at me.
Burjor said, “You sound so different. You stand and move like someone else.”
Adi said, “You look like an Indian now. A native, as the English would say.”
“Sir, I am a native,” I replied, skewering the last sausage before Ganju replaced my plate with a bowl of pudding.
“No,” rumbled his father, “you’re not. Like us, you’re in between, or both. Neither fully English, nor fully Indian.”
I savored a spoonful of Mrs. Framji’s pudding, a warm moment of solidarity glowing within me.
After the meal Ganju brought bowls of water in which to wash our fingers. Wiping off on the proffered towel, I reached into my kaftan and handed Adi a wad of papers. “Sir, my report.”
He took it with a searching look. “Something new?”
When I nodded, he secured the bundle in his breast pocket. A weight dropped from me then, for I’d given him all I had learned in the last ten days, and what it likely meant.