The Dying Day

by Vaseem Khan

‘Is that what you think he was doing in India? Running?’

  ‘It would explain a lot. I mean, no disrespect to your country, but a scholar of John’s standing . . .? He could have walked into any institution in the world. He didn’t need to come to Bombay to translate The Divine Comedy. There are other copies.’

  Persis thought back to the tablets they’d found in Healy’s bedside drawer. This backed up Lockhart’s account that Healy was having trouble sleeping.

  ‘There’s one other thing. Possibly nothing.’ The American hesitated then plunged on. ‘About a week ago John had a row with a colleague. At the Society. It was over the manuscript.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘A guy named Belzoni. Italian. Have you met him yet?’

  ‘What did they argue about?’

  ‘Belzoni wanted more access to the book; he’s working on some sort of catalogue. As Curator of Manuscripts, John was in charge and he barely let Belzoni near it.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He wouldn’t say. But I think Belzoni got John’s back up when he started talking about India having a moral responsibility to return the volume to Italy. John isn’t fond of Italians – it was in Italy that he spent all that time in prison. He didn’t like the word “moral” in an Italian’s mouth, I guess.’

  Persis thought back to her meeting with Belzoni. The Italian had failed to mention a tiff with Healy. Why?

  ‘Does he have any other acquaintances that you think I should speak to?’

  ‘As I said John was an intensely private man.’

  ‘Any other lady friends?’

  She raised her chin. ‘That was very direct. No, Inspector, I don’t think John was sleeping with anyone else. He wasn’t that sort of man. We may not have been lovesick teenagers but we were a pair. I didn’t step out on him and, as far as I know, he didn’t step out on me.’

  Chapter 11

  ‘I’d rather poke knitting needles into my eyes. With all due respect.’

  Seth glared at her from behind his desk, then walked around to the near wall and stood with his back turned, looking up at a print of the Mughal emperor Akbar on elephant-back. ‘Do you know what the punishment was for insubordination in the Mughal empire?’

  She waited, taking refuge in silence.

  ‘The emperor would order a public gathering. He’d call for his favourite elephant, have his guards force the offending subject’s head down on to a stone plinth, and then instruct the beast to crush the man’s skull underfoot.’ He turned back to her. ‘When I say to you that it is my wish that you work with these women, I mean that I expect you to do it.’

  The trouble had started on her return to Malabar House.

  She’d noticed a pair of youngish women emerging from Seth’s office. The SP had a complaisant grin pasted across his face, one at complete odds with his usual demeanour. He’d shown the women to the station’s interview room, then beckoned Persis into his office.

  She’d given him an update on both the Healy case and the investigation into the death of the woman from the railway tracks.

  ‘Murder?’ he’d said glumly as she detailed the pathologist’s conclusions.

  The murder of whites in Bombay was now a rarity and one that instantly attracted press – and political – attention. With independence, a line had been drawn under the colonial era. Any foreigners that remained in the country were generally deemed worthy of ally status – India and her former rulers were now partners in the new world order, no longer master and subject. Throttling one’s allies was usually considered beyond the pale. ‘Well, I suppose we’ll have to follow it up. Is Fernandes behaving himself?’

  She’d stifled the urge to speak ill of her fellow officer, instead presenting a factual account of how the case had progressed. Seth absorbed the information, then said, ‘It sounds like you have a plan. Now, what about Healy? What are your next steps?’ He explained that he’d received a call from ADC Amit Shukla. ‘Delhi has been on the line to him. The Italians have thrown their pasta at the wall. Apparently, Nehru is climbing his own walls, up at Viceroy’s House.’

  ‘Rashtrapati Bhavan.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘They renamed it on Republic Day. Have you forgotten already?’

  She showed him the inscription Healy had left behind, and described her meetings with Belzoni and Lockhart. Seth could make nothing of the strange riddle.

  ‘It’s always the quiet ones you have to watch out for,’ he’d sighed. ‘Stealing the manuscript I can understand, but why play games? Why kick a man in the balls when you’ve already shot him through the heart?’

  She’d refrained from comment. Seth’s language became increasingly colourful in direct proportion to his agitation and the amount of whisky he’d consumed.

  ‘I think he wants us to find the manuscript,’ she offered. ‘I think he’s hidden it somewhere.’

  ‘I ask again: why?’

  But that was the question to which there was yet no answer.

  Seth had leaned back in his chair. ‘I have another task for you. Did you notice those two women I was talking to when you came in?’ Her antennae began to send out warning signals. ‘They’re from the Margaret Cousins College of Domestic Science. It’s some sort of institute aimed at progressing women’s rights. As if we didn’t have enough trouble on that score.’ He gave her a pointed look. ‘They would like you to come to their institute and deliver a lecture. Apparently, you’re quite the celebrity down there.’

  ‘A lecture?’ she echoed.

  ‘Yes. A talk. Tell them about your life. Your experiences as a policewoman. Very straightforward.’

  She stared ahead, rigid-backed, radiating refusal. ‘I don’t think so. Sir.’

  He frowned. ‘There’s nothing to it. It’s a couple of hours of your time.’

  ‘If there’s nothing to it, why don’t you send someone else? Better yet, go yourself. I’m sure they’d appreciate a man of your experience.’

  ‘These women have the ear of the chief minister’s daughter, Persis. Refusing them is not an option.’

  ‘I’d rather poke knitting needles into my eyes. With all due respect.’

  That was when Seth had gotten up and made his speech about Mughal elephants.

  He stared at her now until she was forced to look at him. ‘How can you expect me to do this? Now? Didn’t you just say how important the Healy case was?’

  ‘I’ll tell you what my old boss told me when I made a similar complaint early in my career: life is a balancing act. Learn to juggle.’

  The women stood to greet her as she entered the interview room. They made an odd couple, one tall and thin, the other short and round. Side by side, they resembled the number ten made flesh. Both were dressed boldly, the taller one in a cream, two-piece, collarless suit with round blue buttons and a peacock brooch on the lapel, the other in an embroidered white kurta over a long rainbow skirt with high-heeled, lace-up Oxfords.

  ‘Inspector Wadia,’ said the taller one, extending a hand. ‘How lovely to finally meet you. My name is Jenny Pinto. This is my colleague Scheherazade Mirza. We represent the Margaret Cousins College of Domestic Science. We were hoping that you might spare some time for a chat.’

  ‘I’m really rather busy at present.’

  ‘Of course. I imagine being at the vanguard of a movement can be quite trying.’ Pinto smiled. She had a wide forehead and small eyes, magnified somewhat by the spectacles that sat on her aquiline nose. Her hair was cut short and styled into fashionable bangs.

  ‘Movement?’ Persis frowned.

  ‘Our nation’s first female police inspector. A movement of one is still a movement.’ She smiled. ‘Even the monsoon begins with a single raindrop.’

  ‘I’m not exactly clear what you want from me.’ She knew that she was being curt, but she had no more wish to be held up as a symbol by women as she did by men.

  The shorter woman, Mirza, stepped forward. She had catlike eyes, heavily lined with kohl, and a sulky mouth. She wore a su
rfeit of bangles, and her hair was piled up into a beehive. ‘We’re presuming that you’re familiar with the All India Women’s Conference?’ Her voice was singsong, the voice of a koel. ‘This year our college has been chosen to host the conference’s annual gathering. Over one thousand women will be in attendance, from around the country. We were hoping you would speak at the event.’

  ‘Why me?’

  ‘We feel your unique experiences will provide both positive encouragement and an inspirational message.’

  ‘I’m not a professional speaker.’

  Pinto smiled. ‘Sometimes actions speak louder than words, Inspector.’

  Persis flapped around for a lifeline. ‘I wouldn’t know what to say.’

  ‘We can help you to prepare a suitable talk,’ persisted Mirza.

  Silence reigned. ‘Surely there must be someone else,’ Persis finally managed. Her throat had become dry.

  ‘Not unless you know of another female police inspector in the country?’ Pinto smiled again.

  She felt a fluttering inside her chest, like a bird had become trapped in there; she realised that it was panic.

  ‘Superintendent Seth assured us of your cooperation,’ said Pinto.

  ‘Though we’re certain you need little persuasion,’ added Mirza.

  They advanced on her, in a pincer movement.

  She recognised the futility of further protest. ‘Very well.’

  After the pair had left, she returned to her desk and forced herself to focus on the work at hand. Pinto had handed her a card and invited her to the college for a look around and to further discuss the talk.

  She flung the card on to the desk.

  Birla arrived, flapping his shirt as he stood beneath the ceiling fan. Saddlebags of sweat were visible under his arms. He barked at the peon, Gopal, to fetch him a glass of water.

  Once he had slaked his thirst, he wandered over to her, notebook in hand.

  ‘So . . . the fences were a bust. None of them claim to have heard anything about a valuable manuscript on the market. Not so much as a peep.’

  ‘Do you believe them?’

  He shrugged. ‘They lie and cheat for a living. For what it’s worth, they seemed genuinely mystified. I also managed to talk to all the names you gave me. They had surprisingly little to say. John Healy was an acquaintance, nothing more. Not one of them used the word friend, or expressed any great distress at his disappearance.’

  ‘And you didn’t mention the manuscript?’

  ‘No. I stuck to the script, namely that he’d vanished without telling anyone and his family was concerned about him. Not that you’re going to be able to keep a lid on this for much longer. Anyway, one thing they all agreed on: the man was a loner.’

  She gave him an update on her findings since they’d last discussed the investigation.

  He peered at her notebook, at the strange riddle Healy had left inside his bedroom mirror. ‘Means nothing to me. But it does make you wonder what he’s up to.’

  ‘Lockhart agrees that he’s leaving us a trail leading to the manuscript.’

  ‘That’s very gracious of him. It would have been simpler if he didn’t steal it in the first place.’

  As Birla walked back to his desk, she focused again on the enigmatic riddle. Her mind snagged on a couple of the lines. Firstly: To beauty’s bay, seeking Sinan’s fame.

  Sinan. The name was familiar.

  She closed her eyes and cast a net into her memory . . . Ah. There it was.

  Sinan might be a reference to Mimar Sinan, the Ottoman architect from the sixteenth century who had served Turkish sultans such as Suleiman the Magnificent. Sinan had designed hundreds of well-known buildings, including the Süleymaniye Mosque in Istanbul. He was often compared to Michelangelo. Indeed, it was said that Michelangelo and Leonardo da Vinci had met Sinan on visits to Istanbul in the early 1500s.

  Her memory dredged up one further detail.

  Sinan had a connection to India, too.

  He had helped design the Taj Mahal.

  Her eyes tracked to the first part of that sentence: To beauty’s bay. Anyone who had lived in Bombay for any length of time knew that the city’s name came from the original Portuguese bom bahia meaning ‘beautiful bay’. It seemed a small leap to believe that this is what Healy had meant. Coupled with the first sentence, Sundered from Alba’s hearth he came, she conjectured that Healy’s riddle was referring to a man who came from a place associated with someone called Alba to Bombay in search of fame – Sinan’s fame . . . the fame of an architect.

  But then what did enjoined to begg imply? ‘Enjoined’ meant ‘forced into’. Did this mean that the architect had fallen on hard times, that he’d been forced into beggary? If so, he wouldn’t be the first man to arrive in India in search of fortune only to discover the opposite.

  She continued along the passage: his labours Empire’s pride. These words seemed to imply that Healy’s mysterious architect had been prominent in the Raj. Unless the reference was to another empire – the vastness of the subcontinent had seen many civilisations come and go. The Dravidians in the south; the Aryans in the north; the Cholas, the Chaulakyas, the Mauryans, the Mughals . . . the list went on.

  She scanned the remaining lines. His infernal porta, a King denied; ’Neath Cross and dome, his resting place; Together we await in fey embrace.

  What did infernal porta mean? Her mind drifted back to the Latin class at the Cathedral Girls School where she had studied. It had never been her best subject, but she had a hazy recollection that porta meant gate. And infernal? Wasn’t that something to do with hell? So might the line be read as a ‘gate to hell’?

  She frowned.

  That made no sense. What architect could possibly have built a ‘gate to hell’? The following line also made little sense. ’Neath Cross and dome, his resting place. If Healy was talking about a grave, then did he mean the grave of the architect? But then, how could it be ‘Cross’ and ‘dome’, one a Christian symbol, the other a Muslim one?

  The final line gave her some hope. She chose to believe that the ‘we’ in this sentence included Healy, a suggestion that if she could find his mysterious architect she might find the Englishman too.

  She worked the problem for another half an hour, but could make no further headway.

  By the time she left the office, she was already fifteen minutes late for her dinner appointment.

  Chapter 12

  The maître d’, a beanpole dressed in a black and white tuxedo and sporting a prominent widow’s peak that gave him the aspect of a vampire, looked at her in the same way a Catholic priest might look at a scimitar-waving Muslim that had just wandered into church. ‘Is there a problem, madam?’

  ‘Problem?’ The source of his consternation finally dawned on her. She hadn’t had time to return home and change out of her uniform. ‘I’m here to—’ She stopped. ‘I have a meeting with a Mr Blackfinch. I believe there’s a reservation.’

  She was led through to the rear of the fashionable restaurant.

  The Wayside Inn, Colaba, had a longstanding reputation.

  Situated at the Kala Ghoda roundabout, at the centre of which pranced the black equestrian statue of the Prince of Wales Edward VII, rumour had it that none other than Dr Bhimrao Ambedkar had dined here daily, drafting much of the new republic’s constitution during the late forties.

  She recognised a few faces – actors and actresses, a couple of prominent businessmen.

  Heads turned as she walked past. Unbidden, a warmth crept into her cheeks.

  Blackfinch rose to greet her. His expression stalled momentarily as he saw that she was still in uniform, but then the warmth of his smile returned. ‘Late as usual.’

  ‘What?’ She frowned. ‘I’m never late.’

  He raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Rarely,’ she said. ‘Rarely late. And only when unavoidable.’

  ‘Well, you’re here now and that’s all that matters.’ His enthusiasm was both welcome and disturb
ing. She realised that he’d made a special effort. He was immaculately turned out in a double-breasted herringbone suit, a striped shirt and a well-matched tie – for once, knotted perfectly. His smooth cheeks gleamed in the overhead lighting, and his thatch of dark hair had been Brylcreemed back, giving him the neatness of an otter. He looked at her through black-framed spectacles, his green eyes crinkling with good humour. A waft of aftershave floated across the table.

  She took off her cap and set it down, suddenly feeling acutely out of place.

  ‘Do you mind if I visit the washroom?’

  ‘I’ve waited this long,’ he said, picking up his whisky tumbler.

  In the washroom, she daubed a handkerchief under the tap and wiped the sweat from her face and neck. She stared at herself. The large, dark eyes, the strong nose, the high cheekbones. Thick black hair that she kept back in a bun or braided into a single plait. She had been told many times that she closely resembled her mother, a society beauty in her day. She’d certainly never lacked for male admirers. But her focus had always been elsewhere, much to Aunt Nussie’s chagrin.

  The past drove a kick into her ear.

  There had been one. A fellow Parsee who’d worked his way under her skin, a smooth-talking charmer with pedigree, charisma, and a sharpness of wit that had beguiled her. One night she’d given herself to him. Had she known that he’d vanish shortly after and only contact her again by way of a card inviting her to his wedding, she’d never have made that mistake.

  She was left feeling foolish, an ingénue hoodwinked by a womanising charlatan.

  Later, the rage had come.

  Her mind flashed back to the Studebaker she’d seen parked outside Malabar House, the shadowy outline in the driving seat . . . It couldn’t be. That snake had moved to Delhi, to live with his wealthy in-laws. He hadn’t been seen in Bombay for years.

  Returning to the table, she saw that Blackfinch’s tumbler had been refilled. Another Black Dog, of which he was inordinately fond. He’d loosened his tie and his cheeks glowed.

  Her thoughts lingered on the oddness of their relationship.