Midnight at Malabar House (Inspector Wadia series)

by Khan, Vaseem

  The clock chimed on the wall, restarting time. She coughed loudly. ‘It’s me, Persis,’ she said gruffly.

  Shock poured from the receiver. ‘Persis? Do you know what time it is?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Another silence.

  ‘It’s two in the morning.’

  ‘Yes. I just told you that I already know this.’

  ‘Oh.’

  Silence.

  ‘Um. Is there any particular reason that you’re calling me at two in the morning?’

  She took a deep breath. ‘It is for professional reasons.’

  ‘Oh.’ Did he sound faintly disappointed? ‘And this couldn’t have waited until the morning?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well, I suppose you had better tell me, then.’

  Quickly, she recounted to him her investigation into Herriot’s movements and her plan to travel to Punjab.

  He did not immediately reply. She heard him clattering around, the clink of a glass. ‘Let me get this straight,’ he said finally. ‘You’ve been suspended—’

  ‘I have not been suspended,’ she said hotly.

  ‘My apologies,’ he said, not sounding at all apologetic. ‘You’ve been encouraged, by your commanding officer, to take a few days off, and instead of taking a well-earned holiday you intend to risk your career by doing the very thing you have been asked not to do?’

  Her knuckles tightened on the receiver but she said nothing.

  ‘What exactly do you hope to find?’

  ‘I want to see if Sir James discovered something that might have a bearing on his death. There is also the fact that Maan Singh’s permanent residence was in Amritsar. Amritsar is just a short distance from Pandiala. One must pass through it to get to Pandiala.’

  ‘You want to visit Singh’s home?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He was silent a moment. ‘Are you sure this isn’t . . .?’ He tailed off.

  ‘Isn’t what?’

  ‘Well, I was wondering if this isn’t a desire on your part to rebel. To show your superiors that you won’t be silenced. To prove to them that you know better, in the hope that they’ll recognise this as a virtue. Believe me, Persis, that sort of thinking has ended many promising careers.’

  She swallowed the response that sprang immediately to the tip of her tongue. Namely, that Blackfinch sounded as condescending as her superiors.

  ‘I am aware of the possible consequences of my actions,’ she said grimly. ‘But that doesn’t change anything. I was given this case and I will see it through. I called you because I felt that your investigative skills might be of some use to me on this journey. But if you don’t see the point of it, I will bid you goodnight.’

  ‘Is that really why you called me?’ he said softly.

  ‘What? What do you mean?’ It was the second time in as many days that he had confronted her with a meaning she couldn’t quite fathom. Words as slippery as smoke.

  The silence stretched, and then he broke the spell. ‘When do you plan to leave?’

  ‘Tomorrow. I will take the two-fifteen Frontier Mail from Ballard Pier Mole station to Delhi, then from there to Amritsar and Pandiala.’

  ‘Fine. I’ll meet you there.’

  She was momentarily taken aback. ‘Very well.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘Good.’

  Silence breezed from the receiver.

  ‘Well, I shall put the phone down now.’

  ‘Great.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Another waft of silence.

  ‘Goodnight.’

  ‘And a goodnight to you too, Persis.’

  As she slipped into bed, Akbar squirming beside her, lost in dreams of mice and men, she couldn’t help but linger on the conversation. Blackfinch was an enigma. He had seemed resolutely opposed to her journey, and then, on the turn of a coin, had agreed to accompany her. The man was . . . odd.

  She drifted into a sleep with a tiny coal aglow in her stomach.

  It was the strangest feeling.

  Chapter 20

  6 January 1950

  Birla called her at her home as she was packing. ‘Why aren’t you at the station? I need to speak to you.’

  She hesitated, then told him about her plan to follow in Herriot’s footsteps. ‘I’ve told Seth that I’m taking a couple of days’ leave.’

  ‘That’s probably wise,’ said Birla. ‘Are you going up there alone? A Punjabi village is hardly the sort of place for a young woman to be wandering about on her own.’

  His concern was genuine, and she wondered if she should tell him about Blackfinch. In the end, she decided against it. ‘I’ll be fine.’

  Birla seemed set to argue, then gave up. ‘You asked me to find an address for Herriot’s bookkeeper. Do you still want it?’

  She noted the details, then put down the phone. She looked at her watch. There was plenty of time before her afternoon train. She had made plans for the morning but there was time to fit in a visit to Herriot’s bookkeeper.

  Blackfinch’s words regarding her motivations had been sobering. She had been forced to remind herself that a good detective kept an open mind and followed through on every lead.

  Herriot’s bookkeeper was one such lead.

  The other was Elizabeth Campbell.

  Andrew Morgan worked from glass-fronted offices on the second floor of a ten-storey tower in Cuffe Parade. He was a sallow, silk-shirted man in his mid-forties, prematurely bald with a rash that extended up his throat towards a weak chin.

  ‘What can I do for you, Inspector?’ he said, gesturing at a seat before his desk. He blinked at her from behind steel-rimmed spectacles.

  The office, like its occupant, was small, every wall lined with client folders, his desk similarly swamped.

  ‘I want to know more about Sir James’s finances.’

  ‘I’ve already told his lawyers everything they needed to know.’

  ‘The man is dead. I’m investigating his murder. I don’t think he will mind.’

  His brow furrowed. ‘I was under the impression that the murderer was behind bars.’

  ‘There are some loose ends.’

  He digested this. ‘What would you like to know?’

  ‘Were you in charge of Sir James’s finances?’

  ‘In charge? No. I merely kept his books.’

  ‘Where did he derive his income from?’

  ‘Well, he was paid a substantial sum by the Indian government for his work on their behalf. Plus there were various investments and consultancies over the years. His holdings in Britain and overseas. It all amounted to a healthy income.’

  ‘My understanding is that he was in financial difficulty.’

  Morgan pursed his lips, as if she had personally insulted him. ‘Sir James was an extravagant man. He spent money almost as fast as he made it. But, yes, these past few months have been particularly difficult. He had incurred substantial losses.’

  This tallied with the testimony of Edmond de Vries, Herriot’s son. The collapse of Herriot’s holdings in the West Indies had decimated his finances.

  ‘Was he bankrupt?’

  ‘He hadn’t officially declared bankruptcy. But, yes, he was headed that way. He’d had to liquidate assets in England. Move large sums around to cover his debts. It wasn’t enough to save the sinking ship.’

  ‘Did he approach you just after Christmas to tell you he’d come into money? That he was investing in a club?’

  He frowned. ‘No. There was nothing like that.’

  It was as Persis had expected. Herriot hadn’t shared the fact of his newfound source of wealth with his own bookkeeper, the man he trusted with his finances. Why not?

  The answer was obvious. It was not the sort of wealth that could be accounted for legitimately.

  She shifted in her seat. ‘I want to ask you about a particular expenditure. Regular payments made to a boarding school in Panvel.’

  He twitched, his demeanour changing. ‘I know the payments you mean. I
t was that aide of his. Lal.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘Madan Lal. The man’s a crook.’

  ‘Please explain.’

  ‘He was Sir James’s go-between. He’d come and throw his weight around. Tell me that Sir James had asked for this expenditure or that. Usually, it would be large sums of cash. At first, I would double-check with Sir James, but he always confirmed that he’d given Lal the instructions; pretty soon, he began to get annoyed. Accused me of “wasting his time”. The truth was that he wanted a degree of separation between himself and that money. That’s why he gave Lal power of attorney to sign cheques on his behalf – with my counter-signature. I knew what the cash was for, of course. Bribes. Payoffs. Lal was a glorified gopher. A bagman, as they call them in the States.’

  ‘Who was Sir James paying bribes to?’

  ‘Does it matter? This is India, Inspector. Nothing gets done without someone’s palm being greased. Sir James was a political agent, a good one. He knew what it took to make things happen out here. When in Rome, yes? And some of those payments, I suspect, were to women, women he’d got into trouble. Like I said, the man led an extravagant life.’

  She absorbed this. ‘Tell me about the payments to the school.’

  ‘That was an odd one. Lal came to me in mid-1946 to explain that Sir James wanted to pay for some kid’s school fees. Eye-watering sum. By then, I wasn’t in the habit of querying him, so I approved the payment. I assumed the kid was the result of Sir James’s philandering, another of his dirty little secrets. Each term Lal would come along to sign a new cheque. Regular as clockwork.’ He stopped. ‘But then, a few weeks before his death, Sir James asked me to go over all his expenditure with a fine-tooth comb. I guess he’d found out about the collapse of his holdings and was seeing where he might economise. I did as I was asked.

  ‘I called him back on New Year’s Eve. I’d forgotten he was having a party. I hadn’t been invited, of course. No one wants their accountant where their friends can talk to them.’ He flashed a mirthless smile. ‘At any rate, I went through a list of things where I thought he could tighten his belt, including the vast sum he was spending on this kid at the Heart of Mary School. He hadn’t a clue what I was talking about. It took a moment for the penny to drop.

  ‘Lal had pulled the wool over both our eyes. You almost have to admire the man.’

  ‘And you didn’t think it was important to come forward with this information?’

  He shrugged. ‘No one asked me. And then you caught your man, so it seemed irrelevant.’

  The home of Elizabeth Campbell turned out to be a breezy bungalow near the Taj Hotel in Apollo Bundar. Persis was let in by a mousy native housemaid and directed into a drawing room featuring heavy Victorian furniture and thick curtains. The gloom bothered her, and she flung the curtains back to reveal a verdant garden in desperate need of the attentions of a mali.

  A mynah bird flashed on to a branch of a tree abutting the windows and cocked its head at her.

  When Elizabeth arrived, she was dressed in a shapeless bathrobe, and seemed somewhat the worse for wear. The woman had been drinking; her blue eyes were bloodshot and an unsavoury odour wafted from her. Unbidden, the word louche flapped its way into Persis’s thoughts.

  Elizabeth looked at her blankly, then flopped on to a sofa and lit a cigarette. Persis took the chair opposite her.

  ‘Don’t you just hate mornings?’ said the Scotswoman. She stuck out a leg, wiggled her toes into the Shiraz rug at her feet. ‘If God had intended us to rise with the larks, he would have made us earthworms.’

  Persis refrained from pointing out that it was almost afternoon.

  ‘Tell me about your affair. With Sir James.’

  Her eyes widened, but she said nothing.

  ‘Was it to get back at your father? You blamed him for the death of Satyajit Sharma, a man you loved.’

  ‘How – how did you find out? About James?’

  ‘Mrs Gupta. She saw you with him. At Laburnum House.’

  She grimaced. ‘Yes. I approached James. This was weeks before his death. I made him believe I wanted him. I knew that he had a wandering eye. I couldn’t think of anyone I might be with who would annoy my father more.’

  ‘Were you in his study on the night of the ball? Just before his death?’

  She shook her head. ‘No. I – I told him that I wanted to. I was ready to go through with it. But—’ She bit her lip. ‘I just couldn’t. The idea of him touching me.’ She shuddered.

  Persis’s thoughts ticked over in the silence. Was she telling the truth?

  ‘Did your father know about this?’

  ‘Not until that night.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  She coloured. ‘You have to understand. I was furious at my father. I couldn’t stop thinking about Satyajit. So I – I did something foolish.’ She lifted her chin. ‘I told him that I had slept with James.’

  ‘You lied?’

  ‘Yes. I’m not proud of it. I just – I wanted to hurt him the way he had hurt me.’

  Persis paused, mind whirling.

  ‘What did he do?’

  ‘He was livid, of course. He’d already suspected that something was wrong. James had begun to avoid him ever since I’d started making overtures. He didn’t want to risk giving the game away. But my father had noticed anyway. He wasn’t the only one. Tongues were wagging that they’d fallen out. Even at the party James kept his distance.’

  ‘What did he do that night? After you told him?’

  The woman steeled herself. ‘He went up to confront James. But he came back down within minutes. He was acting strangely. Said he hadn’t found him and that he’d speak to him later.’

  Persis paused. ‘Do you believe that?’

  She did not answer.

  Persis waited, then: ‘Why now? It’s been over a year since Satyajit died.’

  ‘Because I thought that time would make the pain go away. I was wrong.’

  Persis looked at her squarely. ‘Do you think your father killed Sir James?’

  Her face crumpled. ‘The truth? I don’t know.’

  There was no direct train to Pandiala. The Frontier Mail ran north for almost twenty hours to Delhi, stopping there for an hour, then turning north-west towards Amritsar for a further six. They would arrive in the Punjabi city some time on the afternoon of the 7th, halt for another hour, then continue to Pandiala, forty minutes further on.

  They met on the platform, a swirling mass of passengers, porters, beggars, lepers and snack vendors. Blackfinch stuck out like a flamingo at a convention of crows. She spotted him, a tall island in the midst of the maelstrom, dressed in cream trousers and a sports jacket, his dark hair flopping around his head. He clutched a single battered-looking suitcase. A group of beggars had formed a ring around him, hands outstretched, beseeching animatedly. He seemed oblivious.

  He spotted her and waved enthusiastically as if flagging down a taxi. She was glad he was on time. Bombay operated two distinct time regimes: the city’s municipal body followed ‘Bombay Time’, based on the movement of the sun, while the railways, telegraph system and, frankly, most other parts of the country, followed Indian Standard Time, set by the longitude of the Madras observatory. The thirty-minute time difference gave Bombayites the perfect excuse to turn up late for just about everything.

  She fought her way to him. ‘Here,’ she said. ‘I bought tickets for two cabins in the first-class compartment.’

  ‘Well done,’ he said, beaming at her. He seemed disconcertingly buoyant. She wondered if he’d been at the Black Dog. His eyes ran over her chosen attire – jodhpurs, ankle boots, a white blouson and a wide-brimmed fedora. She had considered wearing her uniform but Punjab was well out of her jurisdiction. Given her current status, it seemed pointless drawing attention to herself.

  ‘You look all set for a safari.’

  She frowned. ‘These clothes are practical for the journey.’

  Blackfinch’s smile fa
ltered. ‘Well, of course—’

  ‘They allow me freedom of movement while also being comfortable in the hot weather.’

  ‘I didn’t mean—’

  ‘I did not feel the need to dress up just because you were accompanying me.’

  ‘That’s not what—’

  A series of loud, shrill whistles rescued the Englishman. The chaos on the platform ascended to an elemental pitch. A uniformed ticket-master watched them from the nearest bogie with a phlegmatic expression. His jaw moved rhythmically; he leaned over and shot a jet of betel nut on to the baking tarmac.

  Persis shuddered. She had always hated the habit.

  They plunged through the swarming throng to the front of the train, beggars clinging to Blackfinch’s legs, clambered aboard, and made their way up the corridor to their respective cabins.

  ‘Side by side,’ said Blackfinch. ‘How convenient.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  He beamed at her. ‘Oh, you know, if this was a movie . . .’

  She continued to look at him.

  His smile dipped in wattage. ‘Never mind. I was just being humorous.’

  They stared at each other, two singular individuals lost in a maze of their own making.

  ‘I have some work to catch up on,’ said Blackfinch eventually. ‘How about we meet up for dinner? They have a dining compartment, right?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Persis. ‘For first-class passengers only.’

  ‘Seven?’

  ‘Seven will be fine.’

  Her cabin was small, but tidy. The leather of the long seat taking up one side of the berth was vividly maroon and cracked only in the corners. A mural covered the wall above the seat, disguising storage units containing blankets and bolsters. On the opposite side, a pull-down bunk would serve as her bed for the night portion of the journey. She hoisted her suitcase on to the overhead storage rack.

  The cabin was pleasantly warm. Kicking off her shoes, she removed a bolster from the cupboards, and stretched out on the seat with a book.

  The book was a strange little thing, published the previous summer in Britain, and only recently making it to Indian shores. Her father had purchased a few copies for the shop, and instantly regretted it. ‘It will never sell,’ he had told her.