by Nev March
“What is this thing?” she asked, putting on spectacles that were suspended around her neck. “A tiny pearl.” She handed it back. “Nephew, we all obey a greater law. We disobey at our peril. So says His Excellency, the Aga Khan Sahib.”
From behind my cleric’s glasses, I watched Behg, alias Kasim, who knew Miss Pilloo as a child and had lured her to her death.
* * *
I’d bribed servants, waylaid tradesmen near the palace, but found no trace of Mrs. Enty. Remembering an old Urdu saying—“Don’t spit in the plate you eat from”—I thought perhaps Akbar kept his nefarious dealings outside Ranjpoot. However, he might keep Lady Bacha’s eyeglasses as a trophy.
Three nights later, wearing a black hood over my cassock, I climbed the trellis and crept into the palace. Guards overhead called to each other, spitting tobacco from their high perches. A light breeze covered the rustle of hay I had bound into a sack. I was going to start a fire.
Not that I intended to harm anyone. No, I planned to give the alarm myself. I needed access to Akbar’s rooms, and a clear path. What better distraction than something afire? From the shelter of thick vines, I found what I needed—the servants’ entryway. For a few annas, a bearer had described the palace layout and Prince Akbar’s magnificent chambers.
I’d learned that Prince Akbar had a card game tonight so I waited in a dark alcove overlooking the hall. At last, he and Kasim hurried past toward the Durbar, still talking. Excellent! Moving swiftly down the corridor, I set about my plan.
“Aag! Aag!” I hollered in the local idiom. “Fire!” My shout was taken up. Servants scampered down the stairs, footsteps pounded over the galleries. The palace emptied, as bearers and guards were mustered to haul water from a well in the courtyard. That was all right, because I was already in the men’s wing, running through Akbar’s things.
By candlelight I searched his desk and wardrobe, a roomful of fancy garments, pearl-encrusted coats and jackets, bejeweled swords and turbans. Although I examined the beading and rummaged through his pockets, I found no wire-frame spectacles, nor tiny beads.
Leaving empty-handed, I spotted branches of blooms, bougainvillea blooms in a giant vase. Reminded of the Framji ladies, outrage rose, thick as bile—he had everything, this popinjay! A life of leisure, a fine education, more wealth than most saw in a hundred lifetimes! Why intimidate delicate Lady Bacha? What manner of man enjoyed terrifying little Miss Pilloo?
Yanking the boughs from the vase, I tossed them on the floor. Let him know I was here, and could return whenever I liked. Petty, perhaps, but I wanted to shake him, to put the fear of an unseen hand into his mind. This seemed just, because he had dared invade the Framji home.
That’s when my plan went wrong.
As I snuffed out my candle and slipped through the corridor, I spotted a woman in a white burkha. She cried out, quaking, standing between me and freedom, the vine-covered balustrade. I’d lit the fire on the other side of the building, so she was alone. White chador curved over her, the small stooped figure clutched a hand to her throat—the Rani!
“I can hear you breathing. Who are you?” asked the familiar, regal tone, peering into the dark. That was brave. Alone at night, a dark shape looming, most would have hollered for help.
Approximating her idiom, I said, “I am not of your household.”
Standing in the moonlight, she jerked. “What a strange voice! Who sent you?”
“No one you know. I will not harm you,” I said, trying to calm her. I could not be caught here. If she screamed I would have to run for it. But why was she alone in the men’s quarter? She gazed around—in fear?—or guilt? Perhaps I could use that. “I know you, Rani Sahiba.”
“What are you? Djinn? Demon?” she quavered, her breathing ragged.
Face hidden in my hood, I stepped closer.
“I do not come for you,” I said. “But you know why I come.”
Suddenly fierce, she whispered, “You come for the wicked, for the evil in my house. Who is it? Who brings this curse upon us?”
Her start of horror upon seeing me was more than surprise. She’d met someone in secret tonight. Superstitious and fearful, was she also party to Akbar’s plan? Did she know where Mrs. Enty was? I had to find out. “Those who took the woman from Bombay.”
Her mouth dropped open. “Bombay? What woman?”
The Rani was not part of this. Lit by moonlight, wisteria roped the balustrade beside her. Dashing past her, I leapt over the parapet, catching a vine to swing from the creeper into tall ornamental grass. There I waited, trying to breathe softly.
Long moments later she stepped to the parapet, peering out at the darkness, a shriveled old woman with Chutki’s grit. She folded her hands, invoking divine protection, then shuffled toward the well-lit courtyard. I wasted no time hotfooting it back to the Resident’s home.
* * *
I had found neither Mrs. Enty, the beads, nor Lady Bacha’s spectacles, so we tapped Sir Peter’s network for some sign of Mrs. Enty, but came up empty. Unable to enter the zenana, I bribed a female servant and palace guards, but none knew of a woman being kept prisoner.
The next day Sir Peter revealed a useful titbit. His palace informant had heard that Kasim, alias Behg, would return to Bombay. I resolved to take the same train—that serpent would bear close watching.
“Take care of yourself, young man,” said Sir Peter.
Giving me her hand in farewell, Mrs. Gary said, “You must come back to us.”
As the rickshaw trundled me away, I watched the old soldier and his charming wife, standing side by side, hands raised in farewell. Could I be so fortunate in my declining years?
CHAPTER 49
FOLLOWING KASIM
Six days later, dressed as a lowly peanut seller, I followed Kasim down a by-lane toward Dockyard Road. Each morning he stopped at Enty’s home, said a brief word, then spent all day on a private vessel moored at Sassoon Dock. Each evening he returned to his bolt-hole on Dockyard Road. Two questions drove me: Where was Mrs. Enty? And what was Akbar exporting by ship?
Maneck had proved amenable to my plan, even eager to aid me, now that his landlady was safe with relatives. I planned to have him watch the house on Dockyard Road.
Face muffled in a checkered cloth, Kasim crossed a narrow bridge, glancing over his shoulder. I plodded along, unconcerned. In me, he would see just a shabby chana-wala, a turbaned vendor of peanuts, carrying a ubiquitous wicker basket. I was nondescript, except for the one feature it was impossible to disguise, my height.
A crossroads is an ideal spot for a peanut vendor, and waiting for customers, ample ruse to observe a street. Narrow homes lined both sides. Dust rose in a cloud of heat and grit. The smell of dried leaves and spices assailed me. Setting down the basket, I crouched by a wall to watch.
Kasim walked halfway down the street and paused, glancing to either side. I fiddled in the basket, paying him no heed. Soon he’d climb the stairs to a brown door. Which one was it? Too far away to see the number, I tried to count doorways.
Footsteps sounded on the bridge. I knew this pattern, familiar from the Framjis’ balcony—their houseboy Ramu. As he came even with me, I locked a hand around his ankle. Like a blanket slipped from a horse, he dropped into my arms, his frightened little face crumpled.
“What are you doing, Ramu?” I asked, seating him beside me.
Eyes bulging, he squeaked, “Captain Sahib. I followed you.”
“Buy some peanuts,” I said, making a cone out of newspaper and scooping peanuts with a practiced motion. His round eyes showed white as he questioned my sanity, rummaging his pockets for a coin.
I passed him his purchase, saying, with a jerk of my chin, “See the man climbing those stairs?” Kasim had knocked, and now awaited a response. In a moment he would disappear.
“Yes, Sahib.”
“Run up and see the number on the door, then come back. Do this now.”
Ramu returned shortly and sat on the wall beside me, nibbling p
eanuts.
“He went to number twenty-one.”
“Thank you. Why are you here?”
He squirmed. “Memsahib asked me to follow you. I waited at the bakery, and chana-wala comes out. Hai, where is Captain Sahib? Then I saw that the chana-wala is tall. He is you!”
“All right,” I said, rising to my feet. “Mrs. Framji was worried about me?”
“No, Captain Sahib.” He wiped his nose with the back of his hand. “Diana Memsahib.”
Diana had sent a houseboy to follow me? Good heavens. Our last argument no longer rankled, when Diana had all but accused me of forcing myself upon Chutki. But until I solved this mystery I had few prospects, and would not court her against Burjor’s wishes. Staying away from Framji Mansion had little effect—it only strengthened my affection for Diana, her humor, her sharp, inquisitive mind, her impish smile. It was time to see her, and Chutki.
* * *
Sometime later, cleaned up, my gift in hand, I strode toward the kitchen.
“Bao-di!” Chutki stopped rolling out bread to swipe her hand across her forehead, smearing it with flour.
I grinned at the curious picture she made, braid dangling down her back, her saree tucked around and secured at the waist. Others in the kitchen stopped to gape. I nodded to them, saying to the cook, “Namaste, Jiji-bai,” and tugged Chutki toward the garden.
Three stairs at the back entrance descended into lush greenery. Sitting, I handed Chutki my gift. A peahen gurgled and fluttered away. Curry leaves and peppermint beside a wide pot of aromatic tulsi scented the air.
Wide-eyed, Chutki unwrapped the parcel, winding the string about her hand. Peeling back the paper, she gaped at a blue-green saree I’d bought her.
“Bao-di! It’s too soon to give me this. Rakhsha-bandhan is weeks away!” Chutki said in Pashto, her voice soft. Her lips curved. “But I have made something for you.”
She untucked the corner of her saree to pry open a knot of fabric. From this she lifted a thick red string, plaited with yellow thread and tassels.
Seeing my surprise, she explained. “It’s a Rakhee. Girls give them to their brothers, did you not know? Give me your hand.”
As she bound the colored string around my wrist, I admitted, “I never had one before.”
Of course I’d seen these ornaments—my friends in the regiment often wore such gifts, taking leave for the festival of Rakhsha-bandhan, the symbolic tying of a Rakhee. Accepting one was a promise to protect a sister. When I’d bought her, Chutki had asked, “Are you my husband now?” I’d said, “I will be your brother.” Taking me at my word, she now, with this thread, claimed me as her sibling.
Mindful of Diana’s scold when I’d left for Pathankot without a farewell, I said, “Chutki, I will be away some days now. You must not worry.”
She drew back, her eyes full of questions.
“It’s all right.” I assured her, “You are safe, Chutki. I will protect you.”
She gazed back steadily. “I will also protect you.”
I smiled at that curious idea, then, because she was entirely serious, I nodded.
When we returned to the kitchen Chutki hugged her gift to her chest, beaming her gratitude. I brushed the dusting of flour from her forehead. Siblings could do that, I thought, remembering how Adi had stroked Diana’s hair one evening long ago.
“Thank you for the Rakhee,” I said, and went to find Adi and Diana. They would not be happy with my plan, but I needed to flush out Akbar and Kasim. There might be scant trail of their past crimes. To catch them in the act, I’d have to force their hand.
* * *
“But why can’t you tell us where you’ll be?” asked Adi, as we conferred in his chamber.
I chided, “Sherlock Holmes did not share his intentions, did he?”
Adi picked up a book from the coffee table and waved it at me. “The Sign of the Four. You’ve got me reading it now. Did you know Holmes was a boxer?”
“Yes, he’s called a gifted amateur.”
He grinned. “If you’re Holmes, does that make me Watson?”
I chuckled, remembering Diana’s insistence weeks, no, months ago now that she would fulfill that role. As though conjured by my thoughts, she swept in wearing a blue saree. Sensible, considering the oppressive heat. I got to my feet, the touch of her smile stroking my skin.
Eyes warm, Diana said, “Holmes, again? He’s not a ladies’ man, I’m afraid. Rather cold and unfeeling, I thought.”
Surprised to hear my hero belittled, I said, “Surely not? Seems a good chap.”
Diana waved that off and continued in an animated tone. “Captain, I’ve been thinking about your visit to Ranjpoot, and the Rani. You said she wore her glasses on a chain? Well, look!” She pointed to Lady Bacha’s portrait, where her spectacles were painted at the corner. Attached to them, a thin chain trailed off the table in small white beads, translucent, like the one I had found on the gallery. Lady Bacha’s chain had broken there, spilling beads that rolled into tiny crevices.
“Ah,” I sighed. But knowing what the bead was did not help, since I could not tie it to Akbar. I had not found the mysterious missing letter, or Mrs. Enty. Enty had lied about his wife being in Poona. Confronted, he would deny it. Why had he lied? I’d need to find out, while Maneck was watching the house on Dockyard Road.
Mulling it over, I said, “I’ll be gone a few days.”
Adi asked, “How will I get a message to you?”
“Your father has a warehouse on Sassoon Dock. Put a cloth over the door if you want me. A white cloth if it’s urgent.”
CHAPTER 50
MY GOD, MAN!
Hot on the trail of Akbar and his henchman Kasim, I did not return to Framji Mansion for a while. On the twelfth evening, I saw Adi’s signal—a white cloth at Burjor’s warehouse. So I left my post near Akbar’s ship and hurried toward my room behind the Forgett Street bakery.
I’d learned a great deal about our foes, where they came from and went, and what they were about, but I still didn’t know what happened to the Framji ladies. Nor had I found Mrs. Enty. Was she dead, too, her body tossed from Akbar’s ship into soundless depths?
From the gloomy patchwork under a jacaranda tree I examined the narrow lane behind me. Was I being followed? A dog howled. Evening fires and cooking scented the warm air. Although the bustle of day was past, night brought little respite from the heat, which rose from the dusty road in sweltering waves. Sweat trickled down my temple as I listened for a footfall. Hearing none, I went on.
A shadow moved behind the bakery. There—by my shutter, beside the barred window, someone waited. A low stone wall concealed my approach as I crept up. It was a moment’s work to launch myself at the intruder.
Did he have a knife? My forearm cracked across his—I followed it with my weight.
The intruder gasped as his body slammed into brick. He twisted, grasping at my arm frantically. As I hauled him into the dim light, I caught the shine of eyeglasses askew.
Adi stared at me, shaking. Bloody hell.
“Adi,” I hissed. “What the devil are you doing here?”
Shocked at my assault, he struggled to breathe, staring at my matted hair, my face masked in a checkered rag. While he recovered, I unlocked the door and yanked him inside. Leaving him to collect himself, I brightened the place with a kerosene lamp. My blow to his arm would ripen into a nice bruise tomorrow. Why had he not waited at the house?
“What’s so urgent, sir?” I asked.
“My God, man,” he whispered, “what happened to you?”
Dampening a piece of cloth, I rubbed my teeth to remove the soot I applied there each morning. Good teeth are a dead giveaway, and neat fingernails.
“Charcoal soot,” I said. “Rags off a mendicant, manure, rotting fish, local whiskey … and dog vomit. A nice touch, no?”
“Inspired,” said Adi, as I washed my hands in a bucket. “You look truly hideous.”
I grinned at his tone, unwound the rag around my ne
ck to pick up a dish of vada-pav, potatoes and bread, left by the baker on my instructions. Ravenous, I dropped to the floor for a much-needed repast. Adi stalked about, casting dubious looks in my direction.
“When did you last eat?”
“Yesterday,” I mumbled, mouth full.
He shook his head—in pity, or was it despair? “Going too far again, Captain?”
That required no reply. A drink of water from the earthen pot went down cool and fresh. I refilled and drank again.
He said, “You were gone two weeks.”
“Twelve days. I saw the signal.”
His shoulders bore a distinctly unhappy stamp. “Captain, the women are worried. Those Princess Street thugs beat you unconscious, you recall? Could have hauled you off in a victoria, and we’d be none the wiser. Then Lahore. Not a word, for sixteen days. Yes, I know, downed telegraph poles. Now you disappear for weeks,” said Adi, his voice sharp. “Are you well?”
I finished my food. “I’m all right, sir. Need some information though.”
“Yes?”
That was my friend Adi, prompt to offer his aid.
“SS Vahid Cruiser—a small steamship. It’s been at Sassoon Dock a long time. That’s expensive, to hold a berth that long. It’s loading constantly, boxes and crates in dribs and drabs. Guarded night and day by a sentry from Ranjpoot. Why? What’s so valuable? What’s the cargo?”
“Why are you watching a ship?” he asked. Like Diana, he could not abide my stench of dockyard grime and hung back, revolted.
Stripping off my foul-smelling vest and kurta, I stepped into the tiled sink behind an earthen ledge where the baker had left six buckets of water and soap to slough off my disguise. Scrubbing vigorously, I delivered my report.
“I learned in Ranjpoot that Saapir Behg is really Kasim. He works for Akbar, bringing wagons to Bombay. And he visits Enty every morning with a newspaper. Curious, hm?”