Murder in Old Bombay

by Nev March

  The creaking of the warehouse door had drawn his attention. He looked up, puzzled. Taking a few steps, I dropped the sack with a thump.

  “Oi! Give me a hand here. Hurry!” I hollered, using the idiom of Ranjpoot.

  The guard gave a start, craned his neck, then ambled toward me. “What, still more?”

  As he reached toward the sack, my fist caught his temple. He staggered. Though dazed, he twisted and struggled until a sharp knock told him that wasn’t wise. I forced him into the warehouse at knifepoint. Yanking the turban off his head, I hissed, “Undress.”

  The whites of his eyes gleamed in the dim light. His head bobbed. Wide-eyed, he fumbled at the fastenings of his uniform. He need not have worried—I cut lengths of rope to bind him hand and foot, stuffing a rag in his mouth for good measure. With jagged breath, he watched me don his uniform over my clothes.

  I felt my pockets for Adi’s pistol, cursed as I remembered—I’d left it in my saddlebag. Wonderful! Greer would have sneered. You’re a bleeding one-man show, and you come unarmed. Brilliant, Captain!

  My fingers closed on a slip of paper in my pocket—Mrs. Framji’s note perhaps, asking me to come to dinner. I had a four-inch blade, now stashed in my boot, and a piece of paper. I slipped it into the cummerbund of the Ranjpoot uniform, over my stomach that heaved like the ship I was about to board.

  Just as I took the guard’s place, the cruiser’s engines chugged to life, spewing smoke from its chute.

  No, I swore inwardly. Not bloody yet.

  CHAPTER 53

  ON BOARD

  Vahid Cruiser seemed ready to sail, its coal-fired engines growling. Could I slip aboard to search it? Would the absence of a guard at the gangplank alert those aboard?

  Footsteps on the dock drew my attention. A group of people approached, moving briskly. First came a tall turbaned guard, then Akbar, his chin thrust forward, long coat flapping. Flanked between two turbaned men was a shorter, thin man, hatless … oh God, it was Adi! How had they got him? He’d gone for his friend the harbor master. Dammit, Adi!

  A man in a long kurta followed, sandwiched between them and a guard dragging a girl by her elbow. Chutki. She was alive.

  “Excellency.” As they came abreast, I imitated the low bow of the Ranjpoot guards. The plume of my borrowed turban hid my face. I was gambling that the upper classes saw only a servant or bearer, not the person inside the uniform. It paid off—Akbar stalked past me. My throat tight, I fell into step behind the group to cross the gangplank. The ship pulsated under my feet, lit only by distant lamps on the wharf.

  How in God’s name did they get Adi? He’d gone to the harbor master’s rooms, had he not? My stomach clenched as realization dawned. The man in rumpled kurta must be that very harbor master, with expert knowledge of the bay. In need of a pilot to weave through the moonlit harbor, Akbar must have waylaid him and nabbed Adi as well. Eager to help me, my friend had walked into the eye of the storm.

  The leading guard started up a metal stairway that led to the upper deck. Akbar followed, haughty feet stamping wide.

  Adi moved with a sudden spurt, so quickly I barely saw him dart away. Starting up the stairway, he ducked under the guard’s outstretched arm and disappeared around the stairs.

  Charging down the steps, Akbar bellowed, “Stop!” Mouth twisting into a cruel smile, he grabbed Chutki by the hair. “Come back or the girl dies!”

  A weapon glinted in his hand. Desperation wound through me. I could make myself known and distract Akbar. Could Chutki escape in the hubbub? What then? A host of possibilities breathed in and out, each a thread of hope that snapped as I played out Akbar’s reaction. In none of them could I see how all three of us, Adi, Chutki and I, might escape.

  “All right.” Adi reappeared, a silhouette against the gunwale. “You have a choice, Mr. Akbar. If you want to ransom me, let her go.”

  Akbar chuckled, looking from Adi to Chutki and back. “I think I’ll keep you both.”

  “Don’t think so,” said Adi, calm as ever. “You see, I can swim.”

  But Akbar would not lose his prey so easily. Sneering, he pointed the pistol at Adi.

  I had to act, and now! As I pressed sticky palms to my waist, they brushed something—the note I’d thrust into my waistband. A mad plan formed in my mind, utterly hopeless, but I had nothing else.

  “Excellency!” I pushed forward toward Akbar. “Wait! Message from Rani Sahiba.”

  I offered the scrap as his retainers did, bowing, arms outstretched, paper held between folded hands. I’d seen his sais, his groom, bring him messages in Ranjpoot. Now, on a ship, ready to depart, would he take the bait? It was a pathetic ploy—it couldn’t hope to work.

  Yet the habits of privilege are strong. Akbar scowled. “Now? You bring it to me now?”

  His right hand lowered the pistol as he reached for the missive with his left. I stepped in close, locked a hand around his weapon, made a fist with the other and slammed it into his face.

  It was like hitting a tree. It shook him, but he didn’t go down.

  “Bao-di!” came Chutki’s whisper, shocked and joyful. “You came!”

  Akbar turned on me and chaos ensued. Shouts, punches, blows blocked, fingers gouging.

  A shot cracked out to my right. Chutki stood there! My head snapped around—a mistake.

  That second of distraction cost me dear. Akbar knocked my feet out from under me. I fell, caught at him desperately and dragged him down. We slammed into the deck together. Hearing his expulsion of breath, satisfaction snaked through me, fierce and vicious.

  A voice boomed from the wharf, “Prepare to be boarded!”

  Twisting under me, Akbar didn’t seem to hear it. I grappled, as if I’d captured a python. He was lithe, quick, and he struck hard. For one moment I had the upper hand—but my injured palms were slick with blood and he slipped from my hold, thrusting me back. Feet scrabbled on metal rungs, and he was gone.

  Shots cracked out, hitting the boards beside me in a hail of thunder. Instinct drove me to the deck. I caught sight of a spark on the wharf. McIntyre’s troops were here and, goddammit, shooting at me! Rescue had arrived, but once again, I was on the wrong side of the firing line.

  I curled, huddled tight against the whine and splatter of bullets. I was in Karachi again, amid screams and choking cries. When it ended, I was deafened, chest burning, throat on fire.

  Adi. Oh God, Adi had been near the gunwale, closest to the wharf. I shuddered.

  “Captain? Jim!” Someone at my shoulder, crying out, shaking me—Adi. His face was strained and pale in the dim light.

  “Are you hurt?” he asked. “Are you shot?”

  I shook my head, wheezing—I never could talk after a fight. Grabbing his arm, I thrust a word through my throat, pointing at the figures slumped on the deck: “Chutki.”

  Was one of those rumpled piles little Chutki, my brave girl? Adi turned and headed there.

  “Help me!” a man begged from the deck. “I’m bleeding!”

  “Good!” Adi said. “Be afraid!” Stepping over the man, he spat out, “That’s Kasim, alias Behg. All this started with Kasim.”

  So I’d been wrong again. The man in the kurta was no harbor master but Kasim, Akbar’s partner in the murder of Lady Bacha and Miss Pilloo.

  “Vahid Cruiser. Stand down.” Chief McIntyre’s voice, magnified through a blow-horn, boomed across the wharf. “By order of the Viceroy. You will be boarded.”

  But I was looking for Chutki. I stooped by the nearest figure, saw the turban and stepped over the man. Where was she?

  Adi called, “Jim, over here!”

  I dropped beside him and bent my head to Chutki’s silent chest. Her skin felt warm, but her breath was still. I rubbed her hands, her arms, to no effect, then caught her close. Bending low, I touched my lips to her forehead, choking, my chest aflame.

  Chutki’s tiny body felt just as it had on our way to Simla, warm, narrow, but slack and loose-boned. I held her, rocking her like a
baby, overcome, remembering her last words, “Bao-di, you came!”—so joyful, her surprise woven with delight.

  I carried her to McIntyre’s impromptu headquarters, set up in the warehouse where I’d left the ship’s guard. There I laid her down, covering her peaceful, sleeping face, and the bullet hole in her chest. For just a few weeks, I’d had a sister.

  Bright military lanterns lit the wide space. Sepoys brought sailors off the Vahid Cruiser, bound and strung together like a prison chain gang. Constables tramped back and forth over the gangplank. Soon a stream of captives staggered from the hold, both men and women, as McIntyre’s men emptied the bowels of the slave ship. Bedraggled men and women clustered together, fearful and confused, barefoot and dressed in rags, while McIntyre’s booming voice organized assistance. Kasim, alias Saapir Behg, huddled at the center of the warehouse.

  “Not a bad day’s work!” said McIntyre, surveying the scene, feet planted wide. “Three dead, one civilian…” His lips compressed. “Your sister, I’m told. My regrets, Captain. We’ll find who’s responsible.”

  The warehouse seemed to move in a ripple, as though I were still aboard a ship.

  “Steady on!” Adi caught my arm. “I saw what happened. You clipped Akbar, got into a mix-up with him. When Kasim took a shot at you, Chutki jumped in the way.”

  I felt numb, a humming sound filled my ears. I’d come for Chutki, and she was dead. The closest thing I’d had to family was gone. My forehead pressed to Adi’s shoulder, loss and regret burning a path inside me that I knew well.

  Chutki had the sort of pluck no one expects, the courage to endure the unspeakable in Jalandhar, to walk on bloodied feet, to protect a babe and save little scraps to feed it when she had nothing for herself … and in the end, to throw herself into the line of fire to save her Bao-di, who showed up, out of nowhere, to get her out of a scrape.

  CHAPTER 54

  A FUNERAL

  Next day while other women prepared for the Rakhsha-bandhan festival, which celebrates siblings, when Chutki should have tied that string about my wrist, we prepared to cremate her.

  “May I come with you to the cremation ground?” Diana asked.

  “Women aren’t allowed,” Adi said. “It’s an orthodox Hindu place.”

  Mrs. Framji patted her hand and suggested they pray in their own way. It was agreed—Zoroastrian prayers with flowers and sandalwood would be offered in little Chutki’s memory.

  “She was a good child,” said Mrs. Framji, “and so fond of you. We hadn’t seen you for days, and she became rather listless. Diana was teaching her English, did you know? But Chutki would never answer questions about herself.”

  I sighed. “No. Her history is an unfortunate one, Marm. I couldn’t tell you, for fear it might bias some in this household against her.”

  I glanced at the door, where Jiji-bai and the other servants listened. The Gurkha retainers Gurung and Ganju sat cross-legged against a wall. When I narrated how I’d been offered Chutki, their faces mirrored their distress. They’d come to accept little Chutki, and her death had wounded them. When I told how I’d taken Chutki from her captor, Jiji-bai cried, “Shabaash, Sahib!” praising me.

  Diana grimaced, holding back tears. “Why didn’t you tell us before!”

  I sighed. “I couldn’t. Your household would want to know her caste and such. They might look down on her, poor girl, for what she endured. I worried you would not want her here, and might send her away. People aren’t kind to such as her.”

  Diana turned her face into her mother’s shoulder and wept.

  Rising to their feet, Gurung and Ganju took matters in hand and asked to give Chutki a simple Buddhist funeral as though she were one of their own. I did not protest—Chutki wouldn’t mind.

  Her body cocooned in a white shroud, Chutki looked like the child she’d never been. Wearing orange clothes, Gurung, Ganju, Adi and I lifted her bier from the cart and carried her to the Shamshan Ghat, the cremation ground on the sands by the Indian Ocean. Burjor followed with his house guards. Maneck’s arrival caused a stir, but Adi nodded to say it was all right.

  We stepped down a narrow gravel path to the waterside, each holding a corner of the bier. My bandaged hands ached, although Chutki weighed nothing at all.

  A stack of wood awaited us by the waterside. Words were spoken, whisked away over the ocean. I lit the pyre with a taper. Flame sputtered, caught, curved around the lower branches and draped them in orange, engulfing the white bundle. My kurta flapped against my knees, echoing the snap and crack of the pyre.

  Smoke rose, billowed, curled around me and stung my eyes, wafting toward the setting sun. Standing by the fire, watching the sun dip, my future stretched as wide as the horizon, and as mysterious.

  Of the ragtag children I’d found on the road to Simla, Razak was returned to his village, Hari and Parimal to their parents. The Framjis’ Bengali cook and her husband had asked to adopt baby Baadal. He needed a mother to love and nurture him, a father to protect him, give him a trade, teach him to be a man. Since I could not offer as much, I agreed.

  The girl I called Chutki was my charge for a brief while, a few short weeks. I never learned her real name. As the sun dipped into the horizon, I relinquished her to her maker, whoever that might be.

  I’d seen courage in my years, men who rallied their troops or brought off daring feats. Here, instead, it took a quiet form, extraordinary because it came from one untutored to such things. Chutki saw Kasim turn his weapon upon me and used the only shield at hand, her own body. What greater affection could she give me? Her round eyes seemed to chide me now: “Shed these thoughts of unworthiness, Bao-di, and live.”

  CHAPTER 55

  INTERROGATION

  The next day, McIntyre summoned us to the Constabulary for the inquest into the deaths of Chutki and two Ranjpoot guards. From his terse note, it seemed he was not pleased with me.

  He received us gravely, mopping his forehead, in full uniform despite the heat, his hair plastered to his head. He greeted Adi, then took my bandaged hand carefully, saying, “Glad to see you’ve recovered, Captain. You’ll be questioned first. You’ve brought the evidence?”

  Coming from McIntyre, that was downright civil. We followed him into the courtroom, where the Magistrates’ raised dais dominated the chamber. The Framjis’ barrister, Mr. J. Batliwala, of Brown and Batliwala, seated us at a wide desk.

  A single chair stood in the dock, an ominous island facing a phalanx of pews, every seat filled. Someone rose to make space for Burjor and Mrs. Framji. Diana sat with them, demure in a grey saree.

  I set down the box containing my documents, unsure what to expect. I’d barely shaken Batliwala’s hand when the Magistrates were announced and the audience rose.

  This inquest would precede Kasim’s trial. While McIntyre had not arrested me for my part in storming SS Vahid Cruiser, he’d told me not to leave Bombay. Whether he’d treat me as a witness or defendant remained to be seen.

  McIntyre nodded to the panel. Taking his place, he began, “This is an inquiry into the incident on the nineteenth of June, 1892, which resulted in the deaths of two men originating in Ranjpoot, and one child, a girl named Chutki Agnihotri.”

  They had given Chutki my last name, because I didn’t know hers.

  McIntyre called me. I was sworn in, and he cited my military record: “Twelve years in service, Dragoons, Bombay Regiments. Three field promotions. Numerous commendations for action, Maiwand and Rangoon. Three mentions in dispatches. Injured in line of duty, Karachi, June 1890. Nominated for Victoria Cross, awarded Indian Order of Merit. Medical discharge 1892.”

  Adi glanced at me. The VC was awarded only to those of British descent, so, as an Indian-born native, I’d got the Order of Merit. It lay unopened in a little box at the bottom of my trunk. Reluctant to speak of it, I’d not worn it to Diana’s ball.

  What had McIntyre just said? Injured in ’90? Surely he had it wrong? Hadn’t I been wounded last year, 1891?

  He s
aid, “Captain, you were hired by Mr. Adi Framji and Mr. Burjor Framji?”

  “I was.”

  “To what end?”

  “To uncover the truth behind the deaths of Mrs. Bacha Framji and Mrs. Pilloo Kamdin, née Framji.”

  “And you have undertaken some investigations to that end?”

  I had.

  “Very well. Tell us how you came to be on that ship.”

  This bit was tricky. I had broken into a warehouse, assaulted the ship’s guard and stolen his clothes.

  I straightened my shoulders, set to parade rest, and said, “I surveilled the ship SS Vahid Cruiser for twelve days, watched Akbar and his men load various boxes and crates. Had reason to believe this was a slave ship, carrying women to ports in Guyana. That evening I learned from a witness, Maneck Fitter, that my ward, Chutki, had been abducted and taken to the dockyard. I entered Sassoon Dock to search the ship.”

  McIntyre’s eyes narrowed. “All right, Captain, your steps are marked quite clearly. You cut your hands on glass embedded in the dockyard wall and bled all over the shipyard. A simple matter to follow your path in the light of day. A guard posted to the steamship Vahid Cruiser was found beaten, bound and gagged in the warehouse of the Oriental Company. You acknowledge doing this?”

  “Yes, sir, to … impersonate the guard.”

  This caused a stir among the audience. My face warmed at this catalog of my brutish conduct. Diana must know that a detective’s task entailed the use of force, but I did not care to have it laid bare. Alas, there was no help for it.

  “Did you have a weapon?”

  “No, sir. My revolver remained in my horse’s saddlebag, at the gate.”

  McIntyre shook his head, then lost patience with me. “Why this ship? Why were you watching Vahid Cruiser?”

  “I followed the accused, Kasim Khwan, alias Saapir Behg, there from Ranjpoot.”