Murder in Old Bombay

by Nev March

  Diana swept by in a saree the color of purple dusk, her hair caught up atop her head. She saw me awake and paused, distressed. Thus alerted, I sat up cautiously. Face flushed, she bit her lip in agitation. Diana could not bear to give pain. She had once said she hated to break things. Now she looked fit to throw things, then wring her hands and weep.

  I said, “Miss Diana, are you well?”

  “I’m glad you rested, Captain, but,” Diana said, and sighed, “I must ask … about Chutki.”

  “Yes?” I had provided only the barest details about Chutki, in part to protect her reputation, but also from reluctance to pry into the child’s suffering. Diana narrated that her servants had inquired what caste Chutki belonged to. My claim that she was my sister had been met with much curiosity, since we looked nothing alike.

  “Of course, I knew that was a ruse,” Diana said. Looking determined to take me to account, she asked, “How did she come to be with you?”

  Warned by her account of the servants’ gossip, I knew I must not reveal Chutki’s story. I had to hide her past, in order to give her a future. I asked, “Did she say something? About what happened?”

  Diana answered with a long stare. “Why is she with you? How?”

  Now I could not believe the accusation in her face. I had not asked Chutki about when she was a captive. Nor could I tell Diana how Chutki was offered to me. One did not speak of such things.

  After a moment, I said, “A bad business, Miss Diana … I couldn’t leave her there.”

  “You? Or that awful Pathan?”

  “Miss?”

  “When you command the children—‘Quiet! Enough!’” she hissed, “I hate him.”

  Him? Fear sputtered in my gut. “Who?”

  “The Pathan. That crude person … you become,” she said.

  She walked back and forth, draped in soft lavender fabric, but tougher than many officers I’d known. She’d been afraid my disguise might overcome me. Right. If my guise upset her so, I had no further use for it. Rashid Khan’s beard and matted locks must go.

  “Miss Diana,” I said, “would you summon the barber?”

  * * *

  The barber, a round fellow, balding, with a fringe of hair at the back of his neck, placed a three-legged stool by the window and greeted me.

  Diana marshaled her troops without delay. Fearful perhaps that I might change my mind, she rapped out orders with the ease of a quartermaster. “Bring Captain Sahib’s clothes. Heat water for his bath!”

  The children begged to stay and watch the barber. Perhaps that was well. They’d know me still, know I was yet their Bao-di. Eager for a spectacle, they sat on the floor around the stool.

  Chutki giggled from the doorway, a sweet sound I’d thought lost to our misadventure. Shirtless on the low stool, I glanced back to see her duck and hide her face. Behind her, cooks and maids grinned at the morning’s entertainment, namely me.

  “Military cut, Sahib? All right!” The barber flexed a shiny pair of scissors and made short work of shearing me, clumps of hair falling all around.

  The smallest boy, Hari, grabbed one off the floor. Round eyes implored, “Can I have it?”

  I shrugged. If the little ones found playthings in discarded hair, who was I to refuse?

  Diana’s maid came in carrying the baby. When she set him down by the boys, he leaned forward and made steady progress on all fours. He could crawl! Had he just learned to do this? He grabbed a fistful of hair. It was headed toward his face, so I lifted him into my lap to disengage fist from mouth. His weight felt comfortable, his familiar, warm roundness curiously satisfying—I’d not known it could give such pride, such pleasure.

  “Sahib, look this way,” the barber said, soaping my jaw.

  Parimal fell over, rolling in delight. “White beard! Old man!” he giggled, pointing.

  The infant in my arms crowed and blew, a plump hand reaching for my face. We hadn’t named him yet, and the boys were calling him Baby.

  When Diana took him from me so that the barber could wield his blade, her face was cautious and closed off. Would she not forget my dratted Pathan guise?

  Soon, my face clean-shaved and tingling from his ministrations, I wiped away smears of lather and thrust a hand through hair newly shorn to regimental length.

  The boys hung back, quiet and absorbed, their large, dark eyes taking in the change. Surely they’d get accustomed to me soon enough?

  I stood, straightening after weeks in the Pathan’s studied stoop, and bid farewell to my old friend Rashid Khan the Pathan. I had re-created him in my disguise, from his stoop to his blunt manners. I missed the fiery blighter. But Rashid had been killed last year in Karachi, so I returned him to his grave.

  Elsewhere in the house, a deep singsong voice had been praying. When the prayer ended, an odd quiet descended over my chamber. Silent servants grouped at the door. Diana held a hand over her lips, looking as though she might cry. Puzzled, I touched my jaw. What was the matter with everyone?

  “Captain!” Adi smiled from the door, dapper in a grey suit. “Welcome back.”

  I grimaced to be found in such a state of undress, in what was becoming a public spectacle.

  “What’s this?” Burjor stopped in the doorway, then plowed into the chamber still wearing his prayer cap, broad face wide with satisfaction.

  “Captain Jim!” His arms opened and enveloped me.

  I stood stock-still. Astonishment gave way to gratitude. Here was the father I’d never had, open and forthright, yet warm in his approval. I grinned and returned the unexpected gift of his embrace.

  CHAPTER 42

  THE QUARREL

  Greer had commanded my presence at ten o’clock the next morning. As Gurung knotted a tie around my neck, I said, “I’m surprised the General waited this long.”

  From the door, Mrs. Framji said, “My boy, a pair of Sepoys came yesterday while you slept, but Diana sent them back. With some rather unfriendly words, I’m afraid.”

  I chuckled to imagine how Greer had received that. Since I’d renounced Pathan garb and had left my uniform in Bombay, I wore a formal black coat and trousers, grey silk tie and vest. Pointing at the clock, Mrs. Framji waved away my thanks.

  Returning to the map room at Simla headquarters, I encountered blank looks.

  “You sent for me, sir?” I said to Greer’s back.

  When I gave him a Pathan greeting, hand over heart, short bow, he stiffened and said, “Good grief.”

  Standing among smiling Gurkhas, Ranbir chuckled at my changed appearance. I went over and shook his hand, thanking him for his aid. Words don’t comply, at moments like this. They bunch up in my throat and won’t form into straight lines. Ranbir’s wide smile told me he understood.

  “Captain Agnihotri,” Greer cut in. “If you please,” he said, and went on to review our accounts. “Damnedest thing I ever heard,” he said. Mulling it over, he went on, “Fortunately we struck a bargain with the blokes from your lad’s village—we have a foothold there now.”

  But he wasn’t done with me. “Captain, you went in with no advance party, no reconnaissance, no fall-back plan and a hundred other blunders. Only God knows how you brought them back alive. Lucky I sent you my best man. Well done, Subaltern Ranbir Singh.”

  I remained impassive. After McIntyre’s dressing-down in Bombay, Greer’s was positively mild.

  Signaling me to stay, he dismissed the group. As officers and Gurkhas shuffled out, stopping to shake my hand on their way, it brought back pleasant memories of my years in the service. Once they’d gone, Greer said, “A commendation for Singh, eh? What d’you say?”

  When I endorsed the idea heartily, he said, “Good. You’ll stay to luncheon?”

  I declined, reluctant to return to the mess hall. Last time he’d ordered Ranbir to knock me out as a test of my fitness. Being known as a boxer had disadvantages, not least among them the expectation that I actually enjoyed a fight.

  He looked put out. “Got somewhere else to b
e, Captain?”

  I pleaded weariness, which he huffed away.

  “Right, here it is. Can’t put you up for a medal, since you’re a civilian. Why not rejoin? How’d you like a commission, as Major? Your, er, name poses a difficulty, but I’ve a thought we could find a patron for you.”

  I stared. Indians did not rise above Subedar-Major, equivalent to the rank of Captain, since young Englishmen could not be expected to follow a native. He’d offered me the rank of Major, which came with a fine salary and quarters to boot. But it was too late. I wanted to return to Bombay and finish my investigation.

  “I cannot accept, sir,” I said, “though I’m deeply grateful, of course.”

  He nodded, “Expected as much. Medical discharge, Colonel Sutton said.”

  He’d spoken to my old commander? Had Sutton told him of the slaughter in Karachi? Greer’s face gave nothing away, so I rather thought he knew.

  An ensign brought in some papers and a wad of cash. Greer counted out some notes and handed them to me. “Took the liberty of sending for your wages: just sixty rupees, for the return of my lads and the doctor.” When I’d tucked it away, he bid me goodbye, his face pensive. “If you need anything, you will say?”

  Surprised at Greer’s emotion, I smiled, saying, “Sir, there is no debt,” then picked up my hat and left.

  Back at the villa, I wanted only a cool drink and some quiet. In Conan Doyle’s imagination, Holmes could hole up for hours, smoke his pipe and scrape at his fiddle. My experience of an investigator’s life contained no such pleasantly cerebral pursuits.

  As I set down my hat, Diana stepped into the verandah that served as the boys’ nursery. It was warm, so I shrugged out of my borrowed coat.

  “Hullo, Miss, where are the boys?”

  “Captain,” Diana said, her voice reserved. “Papa took them to bazaar in a tonga.”

  “Ah.” I pulled off the tie, feeling rather abandoned. “And Chutki, Miss?”

  I heard Diana exhale and knew I’d misstepped, but not how. She’d wanted my Pathan guise gone and it was. So what irked her?

  She spun around, outlined against the sunlit window. “Why do you call me Miss!”

  Why was she so upset? I could not imagine what I’d done to cause it. Her father wanted distance between us, but when I kept that distance, it weighed upon me, and seemed to distress Diana. All through Pathankot I had thought of her. Unaccountably weary, I dropped into a chair.

  Diana waited, demanding an answer.

  I spoke gently, “Why do you call me Captain?”

  She stilled, sunlight catching her hair, weaving it with gold. Her head tilted, as though listening to music I could not hear. Face soft, she said, “Jim.”

  My name on her lips was an intimate sound. How it affected me! She’d spoken my name before, when I’d told her about Karachi. Yet her presence now held a bittersweet pain. A threshold lay before us, and Burjor had asked me not to cross it.

  “Diana.” When she did not reply, I asked, “What troubles you?”

  Her intake of breath was sharp. She mumbled something, turning away.

  But I could no longer wait. I caught her shoulder. “What is it? What have I done?”

  “You left!” she said, in a strangled voice, “with no goodbye.”

  “Ah.” How soft her look, how mournful! But in her eyes, turmoil seethed. “I’m sorry, Diana. I had no wish to worry you.”

  Her brown eyes held flecks of gold. “Oh! No, Jim, not me. You didn’t say goodbye to Chutki! To Parimal and Hari! I can’t speak Pashto—nobody here can. They woke and found you and Razak gone. I suppose they feared you’d left them … or died.” Cheeks flushed, her whisper was fierce. “You cannot just pick them up, like objects, then put them aside.”

  I swallowed against the knot in my throat. Was this rebuke on behalf of the children, or herself? Did she think I put her aside to go off on some mad adventure? I’d had so little time—one evening to regroup.

  I wanted to trace the sweet curve of her cheek. Instead I said, “I thought them safe, with you.”

  “And were you safe? What if you’d not returned? Have they not suffered enough? Eleven days, Captain. They barely ate! They would not leave this room, in case you magically appeared! Mama made gulab jamun, Papa tempted them with puppies. We’ve had the most terrible time, one or the other crying every night. And Chutki!” She struck my chest with the flat of her hand. “How could you?”

  Was this still about not saying goodbye?

  “Diana, no one’s ever depended upon me like this,” I said. “This is new to me. That I might matter to someone.”

  She pulled away with a cry. “No! You don’t tell me anything! It’s Chutki. She … oh dear!” She flushed. “We feared she might be with child.”

  I gaped. “She’s twelve years old! Is she all right?”

  “As it happens, it was only cramps. And she said she’s fourteen.” She showed ten and then four fingers. “Jim, she’s awfully fond of you.”

  It sounded like an accusation. Was Diana … jealous?

  I quirked an eyebrow at her, teasing. “Should I ask her to be less fond?”

  Diana remained implacable. “You didn’t … touch her?”

  Taken aback, I asked, “Chutki? You’re talking about Chutki?”

  Diana huffed. “Her regard for you, it’s not seemly.”

  Seemly? I recalled how we’d walked, starving, avoiding soldiers, carrying her, my arms aching. Appearances had mattered not a whit.

  I chided, “Tsch. Don’t be a prig, Miss.”

  “A prig! This from an unmarried man with five children!”

  Polite society would find this peculiar, I supposed. Would my affection for the children take Diana from me? I struggled to explain. “Should I abandon them … as I was abandoned? You have so much, Diana! How can you understand? It is hard, to be without.”

  “Without … money?” she whispered.

  I shook my head. “No, Diana, without family.”

  Looking aghast, she covered her mouth. “Family! Did you marry her?”

  “Marry … Chutki?”

  I caught Diana’s arms. As the pieces fell into place, I could barely form the words.

  “Chutki … when you believed her with child … you thought it was mine?” Numbed by Diana’s accusation, I whispered, “Diana, you can’t believe that.”

  Her eyes enormous in a pale face, she said, “I don’t know him—you, the Pathan. When you’re like that.” She ducked her head, closing herself off from me.

  All at once I could not wait. I choked, desperate with a sort of panic. This moment defined everything. I had no sense of future beyond it.

  Gripping her arms, I cried, “Diana! Answer me. You hold a knife to my throat! Would I father Chutki’s child?”

  Diana searched me with astonishing calm, leaving me adrift, without tether, without compass. Did she not know me at all? That sweet dance at her ball was distant now, part of another lifetime. She took me for a brute. Something in me snapped, some final reserve.

  Outrage churned sharp as bile. I demanded, “Even if she wasn’t a child. Even if it wasn’t an outrage … do you imagine I would? That I could?”

  “Jim.” Diana winced, her delicate throat working. Her brown eyes scorched me.

  Feeling wretched, I could not budge. I wanted to cry out, to shake her! No, I wanted her soft voice saying “Jim,” wrapping about me like a blanket on a cold night so I could pull her in and close my arms around her. But Diana despised me. How could she think I might harm a child, little Chutki with her torn feet and painful smile, her round, tired eyes and that wispy braid she was so proud of? Feeling gutted, I dropped my hands.

  Diana’s lips parted. “No. I see that … Jim, I’m sorry.”

  My breathing eased, but the knot inside me remained. Having no heart for this battle and feeling blasted full of holes, I bit out, “You should be, Miss.”

  Weaving cool fingers through mine, she said, “You could never harm them, Chutk
i or the boys.”

  Sunlight streamed through the glass, shimmering on Diana’s wan face. She met my glance unafraid.

  The tide in me abated, but I’d been hurt and could not forget it. Despite the closeness of our intertwined fingers, I felt … ambushed. Why did it hurt so? Because it was unexpected? No. Because I’d trusted her, I believed that therefore she must trust me. I was wrong.

  “I’ve never seen you angry before,” Diana said, her voice careful. “There. The clouds depart. Jim, there was something else, wasn’t there? Not just Doctor Aziz. Some reason you went to Pathankot, why you had to go?”

  She was right. I’d gone to Pathankot for the Sepoys, stranded and alone, fearing detection at any moment.

  Diana neared, as though reading my mind, a mournful line to her lips. “I thought so. I call you Captain because it’s what you are. You’ve left the army, but the army hasn’t left you.”

  CHAPTER 43

  LEAVING SIMLA

  A week later we returned to Bombay on the southbound Frontier Express, traveling first-class, Chutki with Diana and her parents in one coach, Adi and I lounging in another. The servants had the third compartment. I had rested in the interval and eaten well. Although well below my usual weight, I’d even visited the army gymkhana to box.

  Stretched out in the railcar, I rubbed my shoulder, thinking of Diana. Ever since our quarrel, a fissure remained: a shadow in her downcast look, a reservation in my mind. No wonder she doubted me, when I would not say how I’d found Chutki. She distrusted my guises, suspecting I behaved differently under their thrall. How little she knew! My guises allowed me entry into places not open to Englishmen. They were dear to me, for I knew them well, my dead brothers-in-arms: Rashid Khan, the rough-mannered Pathan, and Jeet Chaudhary, the dockworker.

  Although she continued to call me Jim, I seldom used her name, for it brought the pain of what could have been. She accepted my coolness with calm. From Adi’s remarks, I gathered that Soli, the older Wadia brother, had paid marked attentions to Diana in Simla—was my reticence driving her away?