9308-3953

CITY OF BELLS
City of Mystery, Book 4
By Kim Wright

Bombay, India – Byculla Club – The Kitchen
August 7, 1889
3:40 PM
The two bodies lay face to face on the marble slab. At first their pose had been more decorous –
positioned well apart, each with straightened legs and their arms crossed over the chest, much in the
manner of buried monarchs. But ice is a precious commodity in the summer, especially in India, so
on the second day they had been inched more tightly together to conserve the cold, and on the third
day they had been moved closer yet again, until the limbs of the man and woman eventually
overlapped. Fused together in their icy dome, far more intimate in death than they had ever been in
life, the elderly British woman and her loyal – but somewhat ineffectual – Indian bodyguard stared
blankly into each other’s frozen eyes.
The officer charged with the investigation had been trained as a military man. While he was
comfortable with tribunals and inquiries of a certain nature, he was entirely out of his element here, at
the Byculla Club, the most exclusive British enclave of the whole of the Bombay Presidency. He had
tried not to gawk at the satin-draped manservant who had met him in the foyer and escorted him
through the elegant rooms, his boots no doubt scuffing the floors with every step. Through the open
doors and beyond the terrace he had caught inviting glimpses of a garden where women took tea,
tennis courts which stood empty in the heat of the day, even a shimmer of light which promised the
presence of a swimming pool. On the subcontinent, water was the greatest luxury of all.
Yes, the Byculla had everything – except, it would seem, a mortuary, which is why any persons
who had the audacity to get themselves murdered within these high gates could expect nothing more
than a transfer here, to the kitchens, where they would await justice in much the same resigned manner
that their friends awaited the arrival of the cheese course.
The officer leaned against the marble slab, feeling the cold of it permeate through his thin linen
trousers, and exhaled with a curse. He considered the haunches of meat hanging on hooks all around
him, the bank of oysters heaped on a separate table, a flock of birds suspended, still feathered, from a
corner. So much death in one room. He didn’t like death, a fact which might have surprised the men
stationed beneath him. Despite thirty years in military service, he had never grown comfortable with
the sight of the human form brought so low, reduced to just one more carcass in a room full of
butchery.
But he had been sent to view them, and view them he had done.
There was little to report. An old white woman. An old dark man. Neither corpse seemed
inclined to reveal what had killed it, much less who. The lady was of an age and constitution that if
she had simply fallen to the floor of the Byculla Club it would have been assumed she’d been taken
by natural causes, and there likely would have been no investigation at all, even one as cursory as
this. Only the fact that her servant had likewise succumbed minutes later had signaled that this was no
heart failure or stroke. And thus, by so promptly joining his mistress in death, perhaps one could say
that the fellow had performed his duty after all. At least a little. For now an event that might
otherwise have been dismissed without thought was being classified as a crime.
In fact, this woman’s husband - just as frail as she and very nearly as dead - languished
even now in the military jail, although why a sixty-nine year old man would kill a seventy-one year
old woman, the officer could not hazard a guess. Women were vexing, this he knew, but no matter

how unpleasant this particular old biddy had been, it seems that after surviving decades upon decades
of matrimony, any man could white-knuckle his way to the end.
So what might have prompted the old duffer to put her away, and – even more troubling a
question - to take the manservant as well?
With a sigh that was louder than his earlier curse, the officer pushed away from the table,
pausing one last time as he left the room to consider the scene. No matter how pressing the need to
conserve ice, whoever had made the decision to entwine the bodies of Rose Weaver and Pulkit Sang
was a fool. When it came time to separate them, their limbs would likely break.

Chapter One
Leeds, England
Rosemoral Estate – The Peacock Lounge
August 16, 1889
12:20 PM
“It seems that we are running the risk of becoming the last thing I thought we’d ever be,”
Tom Bainbridge said, settling back in an elegantly shabby armchair and flicking his cigar in the
general direction of an ashtray.
“And what is that?” his brother William asked, a bit warily. Tom may be the baby of the
family, but he was also wildly confident, stunningly clever, and far too fond of his drink. It all added
up to unpredictability, the one thing William couldn’t abide.
“I’m rather afraid to say,” Tom said. “I might be struck by lightning for daring to utter the
words aloud.”
“It’s a cloudless day,” William said, with a glance toward the wide French windows.
“Risk it.”
“We appear to be teetering on the cusp of being a happy family,” Tom said.
William chuckled, with both surprise and pleasure, for now that he stopped to consider
it, Tom was quite right. The next day, their sister Leanna would marry Dr. John Harrowman, whom
she incessantly referred to as “her intended,” and it seemed that whatever Leanna intended to have,
she ultimately did. William had to admit that John was a pleasant enough chap, although a bit too
inclined toward liberal causes, and he supposed that John was even what the ladies would call
handsome, with his tall slender frame and wavy dark hair. The newlyweds would of course settle at
Rosemoral following the obligatory honeymoon abroad, and shortly after they returned, William
himself would march to the altar. He would be accompanied by the amiable heiress of the neighboring
estate, Hannah Wentworth.
“I like Hannah,” Tom said, as if reading his mind. “She seems quite…forthright.”
“That she is,” William agreed, with another chuckle. Some gossips might claim his own
intended to be plain, even horse-faced, with an unwomanly degree of interest in livestock and
farming, but she suited William admirably well. And besides, when they combined the acreage of
Hannah’s estate with that of Rosemoral, the result would be the finest farm in three counties, with
William as manager of it all.
“Thank God she escaped the clutches of Cecil,” Tom added. “Now that time has passed
and the dust has settled, it seems completely evident that he was the root of all our problems from the
start. Well, Papa was actually first, I suppose, but after he got himself thrown from his horse, Cecil
stepped into the vacancy rather well, did he not? Gambling and cheating and sowing discord in every
corner.”
“Discord?” asked William. “Is that the proper word for what Cecil sows?”
The brothers sat for a moment in silence, each man lost in his own thoughts. When their
grandfather’s will had quite unexpectedly – quite shockingly, in fact – left Rosemoral to Leanna and
not to one of her three brothers, Cecil had exploded with rage. As it had turned out, his gambling
debts were far more severe that anyone had guessed, and he was being aggressively pressed for
payment by men he had once counted as friends. But even after losing Rosemoral, Cecil had one final

ace up his sleeve – his courtship of the fabulously wealthy Hannah Wentworth. Unfortunately for
Cecil, Hannah had found him canoodling with a maid in the rose bushes and thus she too had slipped
through his hands.
And then, after causing the sort of “discord” that neither Tom nor William could bear to
contemplate in the light of this lovely summer morning, Cecil had disappeared. The official story
doled out to Leanna and their mother was that he had gone heiress-hunting in the fertile fields of
America, a lie which anyone with any acquaintance with Cecil would readily believe.
The last nine months had brought great changes to the family. Within weeks of Cecil’s
absence it was clear he’d been a cancer; once removed, the body promptly began to recover. Their
mother Gwynette, worn down with worry over her middle son’s incessant escapades, had regained
her health and even a bit of her legendary beauty. Leanna had promptly hired William as her estate
manager, the function he had always secretly wanted, which allowed William to pay his uninspired
but persistent court to Hannah Wentworth, who was a far better match for him than she had ever been
for Cecil. Hannah seemed perfectly aware that she was fortunate to have avoided becoming yoked to
Cecil, and transferred her affections from one brother to another with minimal fuss. Leanna’s own
attention was focused on planning the wedding and helping her fiancé John establish his medical
clinic. Their new brother-in-law seemed destined to become the saint of the county before his work
was finished, bringing the wives of rural farmers a level of obstetrics care previously only available
in London. And through it all, Tom had remained in that laudable city, comfortably housed with their
Aunt Geraldine and somewhat less comfortably learning the ropes in his new position as chief
medical consultant to the first forensics unit of Scotland Yard.
Thus there was peace in the valley – although both Tom and William knew that the ladies
could not remain in the dark forever. The fact that Cecil had not returned for Leanna’s wedding was a
strong hint he was not merely touring America, as was his complete lack of correspondence since
November - a silence noteworthy even in a man with as little sense of family responsibility as Cecil.
Leanna was too distracted by her role as bride to ponder the matter deeply, but their mother no doubt
had already begun to suspect that he was truly on the lam from some latest bit of debauchery. It would
all have to be faced someday, but not, it would seem, on this particular day. At least for the
meantime, Gwynette Bainbridge seemed more than content to let things drift along precisely as they
were – unquestioned and calm.
“He shall resurface eventually, you know,” Tom said.
“Let us hope not.”
“Hope strikes me as a highly imperfect defense against the evils of the world,” Tom said,
reaching for the tumbler of brandy on the table besides his smoldering cigar. Spirits at noon were
never a good sign, William thought with a small tickle or worry, but perhaps Tom was merely
relaxing before the social duties of the weekend began.
“I know you have devoted your life to science and whatnot,” William said, “and I think
that’s a fine thing. Precisely as Grandfather would have wanted it. But it seems a dangerous path
you’re on, pursuing truth no matter what the cost.”
Tom shrugged, although he was feeling anything but nonchalant. He was just past twentyone,
while William had passed thirty, and he feared some sort of lecture was coming. “I am Scotland
Yard now, as you know. And thus yes, of course I am devoted to the pursuit of truth at all costs.”
“Unofficially Scotland Yard.”
Tom took a gulp from his glass. “Quite unofficial. I am a volunteer, in fact, which is an
embarrassing thing for a man to say aloud. Makes me sound like some well-to-do matron hell-bent on

ehabilitating the whores. But Trevor Welles never makes a distinction between me and the others on
the team, so I can’t see why you should.” He put the glass back on the table and pulled in a slow
breath. There was nothing like an older brother, Tom reflected, to make you feel like a child again.
To knock you right back to the nursery with just a few well chosen words. Best to revert the
conversation back to its original topic. He nodded toward his brother and asked, “But seriously,
don’t you ever wonder what became of Cecil?”
“Of course I wonder,” William said, his gaze moving to the wide open windows and the
soft green lawns of Rosemoral beyond. “Only a fool wouldn’t wonder and only a fool wouldn’t
worry. But, trust me on this, Tom. Some stories are better left untold.”
***
The Gardens of Rosemoral
12: 50 PM
“I knew the Bainbridge family was rich.” Trevor said, “but somehow I never grasped
that they were quite this rich. Actually seeing the estate in all its glory puts another perspective on the
matter, does it not?”
“Indeed it does,” said Rayley. “How many bedrooms would you guess the house to
have?”
The three official members of the Scotland Yard forensics team – Detectives Trevor
Welles and Rayley Abrams, along with bobby Davy Mabrey – were strolling the gardens of
Rosemoral while the three unofficial members – Tom, his Aunt Geraldine, and Geraldine’s
companion Emma Kelly – were presumably somewhere inside. As a close friend of Geraldine’s and
a frequent guest at her legendary dinner parties, Trevor had certainly enjoyed the benefits of the
Bainbridge family fortune on many occasions, but in the city the money at least was contained within
the walls of Geraldine’s handsome home. Here, in the country, it seemed to spill out in all directions,
engulfing every meadow and hill within view.
“I have no idea the number of bedrooms,” Trevor said, “but bedrooms at least serve a
definite purpose. What I find truly amazing about Rosemoral is all these vague public rooms which
seem to have no function at all. Consider this. Last night, Tom asked me to have a drink with him in
the Peacock Lounge. Now what would you imagine a Peacock Lounge to be?”
“I should think it was painted blue,” Rayley said mildly.
“As would any sensible person,” Trevor said. “But as it turns out, it was a room filled
with peacocks. Huge stuffed creatures fanned out across every surface, all staring at me with the most
disconcertingly beady eyes. As a result, I fear I took more brandy than was prudent.”
“I don’t like them either,” Davy blurted out. He was younger and shorter than the other
two men, looking more like a school boy than an adjunct to the Yard. Knowing this, Davy had decided
to treat his misleading appearance as an asset and not a liability; it seemed that suspects were often
willing to confide any number of things in the harmless seeming bobby that they would never say in
the presence of his superiors. “I don’t like the birds or the stuffed monkeys or that pig thing with all
the bristles standing at the end of the hall. I was looking for the privy in the middle of the night and
ran right into it. For a moment I thought it was real and set to charge me.”
“There are indeed many remarkably convincing examples of taxidermy within these
walls,” Rayley said with amusement. “Evidently the grandfather was quite the naturalist and a sworn
devotee of Darwin. Tom’s own eccentricities make a bit more sense now, do they not?”
“Leanna’s too,” Trevor said, his eyes coming to rest on a full-blooming rose. “I keep

forgetting, Rayley, that you were gone to Paris and didn’t know her like the rest of us. But she is quite
extraordinary, I assure you.”
A small pause. That silent second, maybe two, that always seemed to follow any
mention of Leanna’s name. For Trevor had been enchanted by the young heiress as well, but - unlike
John Harrowman, the man she would marry on the morrow - he had lacked the courage to pursue his
inclinations. Trevor was notoriously plodding with women, seeming to somehow always end up as
more brother than lover, and Rayley suspected that his friend might now be well on the way of making
the exact same mistake with Emma Kelly that he had once made with Leanna Bainbridge.
Wake up, Rayley thought, following Trevor’s gaze toward the rose bush. For pretty
young girls are like these flowers. There seem to be so many, blooming here around us, each more
delightful than the last. But someday soon, with the slightest turn of the sun, they shall all be gone.
Aloud, he ventured a joke. “And what made Leanna so eccentric? Besides, of course,
the fact she was mad enough to prefer another man to you?”
It was a risk. A test of how well Trevor might manage attending the wedding tomorrow.
To Rayley’s relief, as well as that of Davy, Trevor laughed.
“Just as well it didn’t work out,” he said. “The girl is lovely, no doubt of that, but can
either of you imagine me here, the master of a country estate?” He tapped the rim of his bowler with
a fingertip and shook his polished walking cane at them. “See? Even my clothes are quite wrong for
the task.”
“As is your pace,” Rayley said. “We are supposed to be strolling the garden, are we not,
and yet I swear we have passed this one particular rose bush at least three times. You stride about
like a man rushing to catch a train, not one who is out to admire nature. And what crimes should you
find to investigate, here in the hills?”
“The theft of a cow?” suggested Davy.
“Indeed,” said Rayley. “I can see you now. Constable Welles, formerly of Scotland
Yard, dispensing justice on the issue of Bossy’s true owner. Summoned to the home of the village
drunk who has just set upon his wife. Helping to pull overturned carts from the ditch.”
“True, true, all true enough,” said Trevor. He knew that tomorrow morning, at the
moment when Leanna Bainbridge became Leanna Harrowman, there would still be a pang in his
chest, but he appreciated his friends for trying to make him feel better about it. He turned slowly, his
shoes crunching against the pebbles as he took in the estate from all directions. But it was a futile
exercise. North, east, south, and west, the view was all the same – green grass, stone walls, softly
undulating hills punctuated with the occasional sheep.
“True enough,” he said again, this time with more conviction. “It’s all quite perfect to
the eye, is it not? The whole scene seems designed for human happiness – or perhaps even that more
elusive thing they call peace. But I would never have found my purpose here.”
***
Rosemoral - Leanna’s Bedroom
12:50 PM
Leanna emerged from behind her dressing screen with Emma close behind her, picking at
the folds of her voluminous white silk skirt. Leanna swirled and then looked at the three women
seated before her expectantly.
“Flawless,” said her mother Gwynette.
“Exquisite,” said her future sister-in-law Hannah.

“Glorious,” said her Great-Aunt Geraldine, who then promptly surprised them all by
reaching for a hankie to dab away tears. It was not odd that she would show emotion, for Geraldine
Bainbridge was a fiercely passionate woman - an enthusiastic patron of a variety of causes and given
to exaggeration, gossip, and verbosity by nature. But it was surprising beyond measure that she
would be moved to tears by the sight of a girl in a wedding gown. Geraldine had not only managed to
reach the age of sixty-seven without ever having been, in her words, “netted and mounted,” but had
been known to write vehemently feminist letters to the editor of the London Star, the most famous of
which had compared marriage to slavery.
“Darling Auntie,” said Leanna, dipping to give Geraldine a hug. “None of this would
even be happening if weren’t for you. If I’d never come to London, I never would have met John, and
who knows what would have become of me then?”
Seeing as how you are both wildly beautiful and wildly rich, Emma thought drily, what
most likely would have become of you is that you would have married someone else. Probably not
someone with the elevated social consciousness of Saint John Harrowman, but no doubt another
man who was equally handsome, charming, and aristocratic. For you are, without question, the
single luckiest human being I have ever known.
But of course she did not say these words out loud. Despite the oceanic gap between
their status in the world, Emma was genuinely fond of Leanna and supposed, against all odds, that
they might even be called each other’s best friend. Best female friend, at least. They were both
women who had found themselves surrounded by men – Leanna through the fluke of having been born
with three brothers and Emma through her unlikely position as the linguistics expert on the Scotland
Yard forensics team. Under the circumstances, they were gratified to have befriended each other at
all, and Leanna now turned towards Emma, her pale eyebrows lifted in question.
“You are the most beautiful bride I have ever seen,” Emma promptly confirmed. “And
John will no doubt be the most handsome groom and the wedding tomorrow shall be so unrelentingly
perfect that we shall all be struck deaf, dumb, and blind simply by having witnessed the experience.”
“Good,” said Leanna decisively, turning to consider her reflection in the mirror. “For
that was precisely the effect I wished to achieve. In fact, if a single guest leaves the church tomorrow
in full possession of his senses, I shall count myself a failed bride.”
“Do you want to put on the veil?” Emma asked. “For it sets the gown off to perfection.”
Just then there was a rap at the door and one of the maids entered, bearing what
appeared to be a letter on a silver tray. The tray was large and obviously heavy and she advanced
toward them with a slow and measured step. Enough ceremony to still the chatter of the room. Emma
wondered if such rigmarole was typical at Rosemoral or if the staff was putting on special airs in
honor of the wedding.
“Just came for you, Miss,” said the girl.
“Thank you, Tillie,” Leanna said. She took the letter in both hands and considered it
with a quizzical frown. “To the Bride of Rosemoral,” she read. “Heavens, that’s rather prosaic, is it
not?”
“And look at that envelope,” Emma said, peering over her shoulder at the crinkled,
honey-colored paper and the explosion of different colored stamps haphazardly crammed into the
right hand corner. “It appears to have come through the wars.”
“Little wonder, it’s from India,” Leanna said slowly, squinting at the spidery handwriting
on the front of the envelope. “Mother, do we know anyone who is stationed in India?”
“Not that I’m aware of,” Gwynette said. “Geraldine, are there any old family friends

who might –“
“Read it,” Geraldine said.
The order, so plainly stated and thus so unlike its speaker, seemed to stun them all.
Leanna tore at the envelope and extracted a single sheet of paper, as thin and yellowed as its sheath,
and, with a small intake of breath, began to read.
My darling. I have no right to call you that or to ask you now for help. I have no right to ask
you for anything at all, as we both well know. But I find myself in a spot of trouble and you’re the
only person I can think to turn to in my hour of need.
It’s Rose, as if you haven’t already guessed. They say I’ve gone and killed her.
“That’s it?” Gwynette said. “It isn’t signed?”
Leanna shook her head. She had gone a little pale.
“How extraordinarily odd,” Hannah said, leaning forward, a frown settling across her
heavy features. “Gone and killed her, he says? The letter must have been delivered here by mistake.”
“I don’t see how,” Leanna said. “We’re the only Rosemoral in all of England.”
“Is there a date?” Geraldine asked. Her voice was so devoid of inflection that it
sounded barely human and Emma looked at her with alarm. Experience had taught her that Geraldine
shrieked and railed over mice caught in traps, oversalted soups, and typhoons swarming countries so
far-flung that most of the citizens of London couldn’t have found them on a map. If Geraldine was
calm, then the situation must be very bad indeed.
Leanna turned over the envelope. “August 9,” she said slowly. “Posted a full week
ago. Do you know the meaning of this, Aunt Gerry? Who might have sent me such a strange letter?”
“No one, darling,” Geraldine said. “That letter is meant for me.”

Chapter Two
Rosemoral - Dining Hall
August 17
10:12 PM
Thirty-two hours later, with the newlyweds happily dispatched on a honeymoon tour of
Italy, the Thursday Night Murder Games Club convened to discuss the remarkable matter of
Geraldine’s Indian letter.
It was not a Thursday night, of course. Nor were they ensconced in their normal
location, Geraldine’s opulent dining room in London. But the tables and chairs of Rosemoral would
serve just as well, and, thanks to the hospitality of the bridal family, good food and fine wine seemed
to flow as steadily in the country as in the city.
Wealth blurs certain distinctions, Trevor thought, leaning back in his seat to better
survey the pleasant scene before him. The prosperous can be cool in the summer and warm in the
winter; they bring gardens into the city and fine cuisine into the country. Reality is not the
stumbling block for the rich that it seems to be for lesser mortals, but merely something to be
managed. A clever hostess with ample funds at her disposal can easily transport her guests into
any time and place that she wishes.
Gwynette, William, and Hannah had departed the table, along with the handful of
houseguests who had remained after the wedding. The servants had likewise made their tactful
retreat, leaving only the Murder Club: Trevor, Rayley, Davy, Tom, Emma, and, of course, Geraldine.
Normally nonchalant in all social situations, she seemed unusually anxious tonight. Trevor had
noticed that her napkin lay twisted beside her plate and her wine glass was untouched.
“Perhaps we should start by asking you to tell us,” he said gently, “the basics of your
history with the man who wrote the letter. This Anthony Weaver.”
Geraldine had surely anticipated the question. Had surely been mulling the matter all
day. And yet she hesitated, her eyes narrowing as she focused on the copse of candles clustered in the
center of the table, their light flickering low with the lateness of the hour.
“I met him on a ship,” she finally said. “A ship bound for India. It was 1856 and so I
was…I suppose I must have been just at thirty-five years old.”
This information, brief as it was, seemed to trigger a response in each person seated at
the table. But it was the date of the voyage that intrigued Trevor, and a quick glance at Rayley
confirmed that his fellow detective had also noted its significance.
1856 was the year before the Great Mutiny.
“They called us the fishing fleet,” Geraldine went on, with a shaky and mirthless laugh.
“For if you were a woman who had passed marriageable age and your prospects in England had
grown limited, then they promptly packed you off to India. The men there outnumbered the women ten
to one and it was said that even the ugliest and most disagreeable of females could easily catch a
husband among the officers of the Raj.”
“You traveled halfway around the world looking for a husband?” Emma said, the
disbelief in her voice echoing the thoughts of them all.
“Of course not,” Geraldine said sharply, and for the first time all evening she reached for
her wine glass. “Marriage is a trap, especially for women, and most especially for a woman like me.

But I wanted to see India. It was the grand adventure of my generation, and although my parents were
quite tolerant for their time, even they would not allow their daughter to sail, as you say, halfway
around the world to merely ride elephants and study Hinduism.” Geraldine’s mouth narrowed into a
bitter little smile. “But they had every confidence in the fishing fleet, which had been designed for the
transport of upper and middle class white women. The fleet promised safe passage, or at least as
safe as that era allowed, and a host of acceptable chaperones. Far more than any of us would have
liked, as it turned out.”
“And what was Anthony Weaver doing on such a ship?” Rayley asked.
“There were three types of passengers on board the Weeping Susan,” Geraldine said,
leaning back. “We spinsters, of course. Dreadful word. And our chaperones, who were in many
cases our age or even younger. You can imagine how that rankled. The chaperones were most
frequently the wives of officers in the Raj, who lived in constant rotation between their duties to their
husbands in India and the comforts of England. Those comforts in many cases included proximity to
their children, who had most likely been sent home to boarding schools by the time they were six. No
civilized person would attempt to educate a British child in India.”
Geraldine sighed before continuing. “It is only in retrospect that I see how hard it must
have been for the women. At the time it seemed as if marriage to an officer would be a madly
exciting existence, certainly offering more variety and freedom than most wives enjoy. But through
the years I have thought back on how they must have felt constantly torn between two places, ill at
ease and guilty no matter where they happened to be. And ever in transit as well. For the journey
was no easy matter in the fifties, before the canal on the Suez opened and steamers came widely into
service. We sailed on clippers, if you can feature it, all around the base of Africa through the Cape of
Good Hope. Passage took six weeks if luck was with you. Longer if the wind died.”
“Six weeks?” Tom said in horror. “Even the grandest of adventures tend to wear thin
after two.”
“Indeed,” said Geraldine, smiling at her grand-nephew. “My point exactly.”
“You said there were three categories of passengers sailing,” Trevor reminded her. “Yet
you only spoke of the spinsters and their chaperones.”
“The third group was a handful of British officers,” Geraldine said. “Reporting to their
posts, returning home again, going back and forth on leave. Anthony, in fact, was traveling to rejoin
his regiment in Bombay.”
“Six weeks is a long time for a party of strangers to be cooped up together in tight
quarters,” Tom said. “I imagine the ship would come to seem like a world unto itself. Quite apart
from your real lives, wherever they lay, with all sorts of romances, feuds, and complications erupting
among the passengers.”
“But the trip may also have offered an unaccustomed burst of freedom for everyone
aboard,” Emma said, further expanding on Tom’s thought. “The men about to take up military posts,
the married women in respite between their own demanding roles as wives and mothers. And the
unmarried ones…most of them away from the restraints of their parents for the first time, I’d
imagine.”
“You imagine quite correctly, both of you,” Geraldine said. Her eyes had taken on a
dreamy look as she still gazed into the glow of the candles. “Life on board created the most dreadful
ennui and claustrophobia, day after day all the same, and yet at times there were these moments of
mad gaiety, for each of us was determined to seize her small pleasures wherever she could. A world
into itself, just as Tom said. A world which we all knew would cease to exist the moment the ship

eached the harbor of Bombay. And it was in this setting that I first came to know Anthony Weaver.”
“You said it was a six week transit if conditions were with you,” Emma said softly. “But
on this particular voyage, I somehow suspect the winds died.”
“Oh my, yes,” said Geraldine, and her large gray eyes filled with tears. “Quite right
again, my darling. On this particular voyage, the winds died.”
***
The Bombay Jail
6:14 AM
“I understand you requested a priest, Secretary-General?”
The old man had been dozing. He startled awake at the loud voice and, just as had been
the case on each morning since he’d come to this dark and fetid hell-hole, for a slow moment he had
wondered where he was. How had he come to be stranded here, on this narrow bench, with only a
rough-ripped scrap of cloth stretched beneath him? With only a cup of flat water and bread of the
most dubious origin to sustain body and soul?
Most of all, how had he lost his power? Enough so that this insolent pup standing before
him, the sort of pimpled, snot-nosed boy he wouldn’t hire to shine his shoes, might feel free to talk to
him in this manner?
“A priest?” the lad repeated, none too pleasantly.
The old man winced. Asked for a priest, indeed. He might have been brought low in
these last days, but not so low that he’d accept Irish-bred comfort. He would rather die with his soul
unclean than pour his sins into Catholic ears.
Struggling to contain his tremors and to push back the pounding in his head, he pushed
himself to a sitting position and painfully twisted to better face the figure in the doorway. “There has
to be some sort of military chaplain stationed nearby, does there not?” he said, with deliberate
civility. For the first time in many years, he regretted his religious laxity. If he had attended services
on a regular basis, he would have been able to ask for a suitable man by name.
“We can scrape up someone, I’d wager,” said the boy, with a wide grin that catalogued
the collective failures of British dentistry. “’Case you’ve decided to confess, that is?”
Anthony Weaver - sixty-nine years of age and the former Secretary-General of the
Presidency of Bombay Province, jailed for the murder of his wife and in the early stages of
undiagnosed lung cancer – coughed and leaned back against the cracked plaster walls of his cell. The
boy was right enough in his way, for Weaver did indeed have something to confess. Not to the crime
he had been accused of now, not to killing Rose and her manservant , but to something else. Some
long ago failing that had followed him, with the persistence of a shadow, for more than thirty years.
So send them all, he thought, coughing again as the boy in the doorway at last
disappeared. Send the chaplain and the vicar and the priest and the swami too, and the blind man on
the corner who says he can see into your heart and heal it for a dozen rupees. Send them to this cell to
hear confession of a mistake which was made before most of them were born. Not that it mattered. If
Anthony Weaver knew anything, it was this: That life and love and country and duty…that all of these
things faded in time. They came and went with the impartial cruelty of the Indian sun.
But sin and sin alone is eternal.
***
Rosemoral - Dining Room
10:34 PM

“I fear I am being obscure,” Geraldine said, wiping her eyes. “Which is the very last
thing I intended to be.”
“These are memories which have likely gone unspoken for some time,” Rayley said with
sympathy, his own mind darting back to Paris and the extraordinarily ill-fated liaison he’d
experienced there the past spring. How long would it be before he would speak of Isabel Blout, he
wondered, and if he ever did, would he manage to tell the story in a sensible fashion?
Geraldine smiled at him. “Thank you, dear, but Trevor has asked me to stick to the
basics, so I must start again.” She gave a great exhalation to steady her nerves. “I boarded a ship,
having assured my gullible parents and even my far-from-gullible brother that I wished to find a
suitable man and marry. I had a substantial inheritance and a decent bosom, one of which I luckily
still retain. But despite these assets, I had never been particularly marriageable by English
standards. I was forceful, perhaps too full of opinions and too certain I was right. The eligible men in
my circle had demurred, each in his turn. And so, when a full fifteen years after my lavish debut I
remained unattached, my family was easily persuaded I might try my chances on the subcontinent.
They took me to the port of London and onto the ship I went.”
“And who was named your chaperone?” Trevor asked.
“Very good, my dear,” Geraldine said. “Your question is quite apt and proves why you
are the leader of us all. See there, everyone. A single shot in the dark and Trevor has managed to hit
the one fact that will advance our story. For I was entrusted, you see, to the care of a matron a few
years above my own age, a woman named Rose Everlee who was returning to India to join her
husband in Bombay. And as fate would have it, Anthony Weaver was the dashing second in command
in that same unit. Roland Everlee’s lieutenant, in fact, and also his closest friend.” Geraldine paused
and frowned. “I say all that as a matter of course, but was Anthony truly dashing? They always use
that word with officers, so I suppose he must have been. Or at least dashing enough for me.”
“Rose Everlee introduced you to Anthony Weaver,” Trevor gently prompted.
Geraldine nodded. “Before we had left London harbor. He was at my side even as I
waved goodbye to Leonard and my parents.”
But Emma was frowning. The letter which Leanna had read referred to a woman named
Rose. Apparently over the course of the years, the commanding officer’s wife had somehow become
the dashing lieutenant’s wife and, more to the point, had also managed to get herself murdered. What
sort of tangle had Geraldine stumbled into?
Noting Emma’s expression, Geraldine nodded again. “Yes, my dear, yes. As unlikely as
it seems, my chaperone for the voyage was the very same woman who now lies dead. But perhaps I
am getting ahead of myself once again.”
“You sailed,” Trevor said pointedly.
“We sailed,” Geraldine said. “Weeks upon the water, three of them spent simply drifting
in the complete doldrums of the Indian Ocean, with nowhere to seek shelter except the terrifying
prospect of the African coast. The captain assured us that if we took harbor there we should be
devoured on sight, and, fools that we were, we believed him. And so we sat. Too little wind, too
much water. Too little food, too much sun. It was during those doldrums that Anthony and I...we
indulged ourselves, I suppose that is the best way to say it. In ways which would not have been
allowed in London, or even Bombay.”
Silence. Everyone waited.
“The months that followed,” Geraldine said softly, “were the happiest of my life. But

also the most confusing. The uprising came, you know. Not nearly as swift or unexpected as the
reports claim. As military men, Roland and Anthony were both aware there was discontent among
the native populace, but most of the reported trouble had been inland and it was widely believed that
the coastline, and thus Bombay, would be safe.” Geraldine grimaced. “Perhaps I should say that it
was widely believed that all the English in India would be safe. The men and women of the Raj were
rather naïve, you see. They thought that the Indians loved them unquestioningly, as children love their
parents. But Anthony knew better. He understood that the danger was real and much closer than
anyone was willing to admit. In fact, it is almost as if he had a premonition. Against all my romantic
and rather foolish protests, he insisted that I return at once to England.”
“And thank God that he did,” said Tom. Geraldine’s story had left him very nearly in
shock, as evidenced by the fact he had stopped drinking. As many evenings as he had spent in his
aunt’s home, he had never heard anything about a man named Anthony Weaver or even a voyage to
India. Had never known how close his beloved Aunt Gerry had been to being caught up in the
infamous Indian Mutiny of 1857, which had resulted in the murder of nearly 400 British, a sizeable
percentage of them women and children.
“What of Rose?” Trevor said.
“Roland wished for her to leave as well, but she was, at the advanced age of thirty-nine,
at last expecting a child and thus her doctors forbad the trip,” Geraldine said. “As it turns out, their
advice was sound, for she delivered safely in Bombay. But poor Roland was killed in the uprising
before he ever got to see his son, and then Anthony -“
Here she stopped and Tom was aware that around the table they were all holding their
collective breath. The candles had sunk into a puddle, and the light was nearly gone.
“The next time I heard from Anthony,” Geraldine finally continued, “was when I
received a letter explaining to me that he had married his best friend’s widow and was prepared to
raise Roland’s son as his own. He said that his loyalty to his captain surpassed all others, especially
in light of the horrid manner in which the man had died. Roland was a true hero, you see, impaled on
a host of swords as he sacrificed himself trying to save a woman and her five children.”
“And you never saw Anthony again?” Tom said. “Never heard from him at all until
yesterday?”
Geraldine shook her head. “As far as I know, neither Anthony nor Rose ever returned to
England, not even for a visit.”
“Because their rapid marriage was a scandal?” Trevor asked. The memories were
obviously painful, but it seemed a greater kindness to treat the story as a case study, and thus
impersonal. Offering sympathy over a jilting thirty years in the past would only insult a woman as
independent as Geraldine.
“It wasn’t a scandal at all,” Geraldine said matter-of-factly. “You must remember that
India is an outpost, a colony, with few British men and even fewer women. And the conditions were
far more primitive in the fifties. Rapid marriage and, if required, rapid remarriage were the norm.
No, I think it was because India offered a man like Anthony, who had ambition but limited resources,
a chance to make his fortune. Staying there must have suited him.”
“Did it suit Rose?” said Emma.
“Not quite so much, I’d imagine,” Geraldine said, with another small private smile, this
one of a manner Emma found impossible to interpret. “She complained of the heat and the bugs the
entire time I knew her and she never learned to tolerate the food. But my sources assured me that
Anthony rose up the ranks well enough through the years, so I suppose their creature comforts

expanded with his career.”
“I have a question, Ma’am,” Davy said. It was the first time he’d spoken since dinner.
“I’d imagine you all have any number of questions,” Geraldine said with a snort of
amusement. “But what is yours?”
“Meaning no disrespect, ma’am, but do you think it is possible…I mean, seeing as how
they were on the same ship together when you met, coming back from England at the same time… and
then haste of the…with her husband barely dead…I don’t know quite how to say it, ma’am, but when
you look at the sequence…”
“You’re asking if it were possible that Anthony’s true affection was directed toward
Rose all along?” Geraldine said. “That poor Roland was a cuckold, that I was their cover, and that
Anthony’s professed loyalty to his captain was really just an excuse to stay close to the wife? Of
course it is possible. It was, in fact, the first thought that occurred to me when I got Anthony’s letter
all those years ago.”
Trevor was ashamed that this particular theory – which sounded so plausible when
clothed in Geraldine’s plain language – had not occurred to him. It had been neither his first thought
nor his fifth. And judging by the expressions around the shadowy table, neither Emma, Tom, nor
Rayley had imagined it as well. Painful to think that among them, only Geraldine and Davy were
clear-headed enough to see through the haze of romance and adventure to the tawdry possibilities
beneath.
Emma recovered first. “Speaking of Anthony’s letter,” she said. “The second one,
yesterday’s, was addressed to the ‘Bride of Rosemoral.’ Why should he call you such a thing?”
“A silly spasm of pride,” Geraldine said. “Despite the fact he presented it as mere duty,
being tossed over for Rose was a blow. I wrote him back that I too was about to be married and spun
quite an elaborate tale around the event, even going so far as to suggest the Queen and Prince Albert
would be in attendance. And I believe I may, in my foolishness, have signed this fanciful missive
‘The Bride of Rosemoral.’ Strange he would remember that now, after so long. Perhaps he did it to
mock me. After all, if he followed my history even half as avidly as I followed his, he would know
that I remain Geraldine Bainbridge.”
“I can’t think why he’d mock you,” Tom said. “Especially when requesting your help.”
“And that’s the real issue here, is it not?” Trevor asked. “Putting aside the man’s
audacity in even asking, what the devil sort of assistance does he expect you to provide?”
“Money?” Geraldine said archly. “Everyone always seems to need a little more of that
in times of trouble. British council for his defense, I’d imagine? An investigation, almost certainly. I
shall ask him, of course, when I get there.”
Another silence fell around the table. Not a pleasant, reflective silence, but the sort of
nervous, anticipatory silence that precedes a gunshot, or a storm.
“Get there?” Tom finally asked warily.
“Travel to India, even now,” Rayley broke in, “can be extraordinarily-“
“Geraldine, you don’t truly-“ Trevor began.
“Well of course I must go, darlings,” Geraldine said. “Anthony will find no justice in
Bombay, not unless someone somewhere stirs to help him. We all know that.”
“But you owe this man nothing,” Trevor sputtered. “Less than nothing.”
“You asked for the basic facts of our story,” Geraldine said, a trifle sharply. “And the
basics were precisely what I gave you. But matters of the heart are never so simple as they might
seem to those on the outside, looking in.” She glanced around the table, at the shadowy forms of the

others and then took a final, trembling sigh. “For you see, I have my regrets as well.”

Chapter Three
Scotland Yard
August 18
2:14 PM
The next afternoon Trevor was back in his office in the basement of Scotland Yard,
frowning at a telegram. He was so preoccupied that he scarcely looked up when Rayley entered.
“She’s not Ripper,” Rayley said briefly.
“Never thought she was,” Trevor murmured, his eyes flitting across the paper in his hand
a final time. The fact that Jack the Ripper remained at large was a black eye that the whole of
Scotland Yard wore, and some might guess that Trevor himself, as principal detective on the case, felt
a special level of guilt at the fact the crimes had never been solved.
But nothing could have been further from the truth. Trevor knew in his heart he had done
all he could do to capture Jack, and there was a certain peace in that knowledge. Failure, Trevor had
sometimes reflected, often seemed to bring more peace of mind than success, for success had to be
constantly maintained while only failure allowed a man to close a door and truly leave the past
behind.
The rest of the Yard did not share in this philosophy. They were still looking over their
collective shoulder for Jack, and thus calling in the forensics team each time a female had the
misfortune to be knifed in the East End. That was, in fact, why Rayley and Tom had been fetched an
hour earlier to examine the remains of a woman who had, almost without question, been killed by her
own husband. And there was no telling when the paranoia would finally end. They had put Mary
Kelly in the ground nine months ago. She was not only the Ripper’s last known victim but also
Emma’s sister, and thus every detail of that investigation was burned into Trevor’s memory as if it
had been branded there by a hot iron. No, he would never forget the case, never fully be over it, and
yet – nine months was the length of a human gestation. The amount of time it took to bring new life
into the world and so, it seemed to Trevor, a proper amount of time for a man to likewise reinvent
himself. To find a new incentive for his work. The Ripper had slowly melted in his mind to an
amorphous, uncatchable figure of evil. The enemy Trevor knew he would never vanquish, for the
instant the neck of one killer snaps with the rope, another victim is crying out from another street.
In short, Trevor felt about criminals much the same way Jesus had spoken of the poor.
He knew they would always be with him.
And so he had dispatched Tom and Rayley to make study of this latest victim’s knife
wounds and to record the statements of her doubtlessly raving husband. He had spent the resultant
privacy of the last hour composing a telegram to the military police of the Bombay Presidency. His
questions had been answered with stunning promptness, almost as if someone in that dusty little field
office had been waiting anxiously for an inquiry from Scotland Yard and had all the particulars at the
ready.
“See here,” Trevor said, sliding the paper across the table toward Rayley.
“Heavens,” Rayley said, pulling up a chair with a scrape. “This may be the longest
telegram I’ve ever seen.” He scanned it quickly, a pucker appearing between his thin eyebrows.
“Miss Bainbridge said India is where the ambitious men used to go. It would seem that is still the
case.”

“What makes you say that?”
“This man, this Henry Seal, who has sent the missive…I get the impression he’s trying to
make a name for himself, that’s all. The report is suspiciously detailed. And yet he dispatched this…
this…what was the fellow’s name? This Morose or Morass or whatever he was to examine the
bodies.”
“It’s Morass, and I doubt Seal was the one who sent him,” Trevor said, drawing the
paper back across the desk. “The double structure of India’s government leads to much overlap of
duties and confusion, so I can only assume Morass and Seal come from different divisions. You have
the Viceroy, of course, who reports to Parliament and as you see by his title, Seal is most likely with
them. And then each geographic region is its own presidency, with its own Governor, and my guess
would be that Morass is from that division. A group of military boys who are undoubtedly in over
their heads but still reluctant to call in the Viceroy’s men. You know, a bit like the local coppers
always resent Scotland Yard when we come crashing about, telling them their business. Only in this
case it’s worse because there is no clear chain of command.”
Rayley raised an eyebrow. “You know all this off the top of your head?”
Trevor chuckled. “I will admit that I’ve spent the best part of the last hour doing a study
of how justice is dispensed in India. And the answer appears to be ‘badly.’ Geraldine is quite right.
Even with his exalted title, there’s no telling what sort of investigation or trial Anthony Weaver can
expect.”
“Do you think she’s really going?”
“If Gerry makes up her mind on something, no one can stop her. Speaking of which,
where’s Tom?”
“Got a bit of blood on him during the examination upstairs,” Rayley said with a shrug.
“Said he was going home for a wash and a change of shirt.”
“And you believed him? You let him go? He’s plotting with his aunt, and there’s no
doubt about it. My guess is both he and Emma will be on that same steamer to Bombay.”
“What if they are, Welles?” Rayley said, leaning back in his chair. “Tom and Emma are
unpaid volunteers. They’re free to do exactly as they please and besides, anyone can see that Miss
Bainbridge should not undertake such a lengthy journey alone.”
“I know what you’re thinking,” Trevor said, “but we can’t ask the Queen to release us
again, not so shortly after Russia. Or Paris, for that matter.”
“Whyever not? We have no pending case.”
“Not at the moment, no.”
“And we went to Russia entirely at her behest. To assist her in a private matter of her
own, as I recall.”
“Nonetheless, I won’t go to Her Majesty yet again asking for leave,” Trevor said
resolutely. “Not so soon. And not for some ridiculous case of marital violence. A man kills his
wife. A tragedy, certainly. But of the most common sort, and hardly one that requires our specialized
skills. No, we shan’t go with Geraldine, no matter how she begs.”
“Has she begged?”
“Not yet,” Trevor admitted. “But she will.”
“I wonder if the Queen has heard of this sad affair,” Rayley mused.
“Why should the Queen concern herself with something like this?”
“Come now, Welles,” Rayley said. “The dead woman, after all, is the widow of a well
known military hero, a man with statues cast in his honor. The accused is a retired Secretary-General,

with a distinguished record of his own. If our sojourn to St. Petersburg has taught us anything, it’s that
Her Majesty takes a dim view of any crimes which involve servants of the Crown.”
“It’s a domestic affair,” Trevor repeated, his face flushed. “The murder may have
involved more celebrated people in a more exotic setting, but I assure you that the Weaver case is at
heart no more compelling than the story of that baker’s wife who lies bloody and bludgeoned above
us. Our duty is to the Queen and the citizens of London. Weighed against that, the fact that Gerry knew
this man a lifetime ago counts for nothing.”
“And yet,” Rayley said, gazing innocently up toward the water-stained ceiling, “for some
reason you have spent the last hour reading up on the legal system of the Bombay Presidency.”
***
Windsor Castle
3:30 PM
“Of course we are familiar with the Weaver case,” the Queen said.
So she is back to the royal “we,” Trevor noted with bemusement. During their recent
trip to Russia he and the other members of the team had traveled in close congress with the Queen and
her granddaughter - so close, in fact, that on more than one occasion they had stood witness to the
most un-royal sort of family rows. But if he had thought that such a sustained period of enforced
intimacy was to alter the nature of his working relationship with Her Majesty, it was evidently not to
be the case. Victoria seemed capable of passing through levels of formality as easily as she walked
through the rooms of Windsor Castle. The Queen had granted his request for an audience with a
promptness which suggested she had not forgotten his services to her family during the Russian caper,
but now that he was seated in her private office, her infamous hauteur had returned.
“The sacrifices made by Roland Everlee,” the Queen continued, “earned him the highest
honors that the Crown can bestow. Posthumously awarded, of course, but he is still regarded far and
wide as the very example of British honor. And thus the murder of his widow, even so many years
after the fact, would most naturally be brought to our attention.”
Victoria shifted in her seat. Short and plump, she never seemed wholly on balance atop
her enormous chairs, and more than once Trevor had indulged the whimsical notion that the Queen
might actually tumble from her padded cushions and roll across the floor. Now she looked
impassively at Trevor and added, “Perhaps the better question is, why has a Scotland Yard detective
taken interest in such a matter? Are the streets of London so silent that you must search halfway
across the globe to find a forensic challenge?”
She had them there.
“A friend brought the case to my attention,” Trevor admitted. “She is connected to both
the victim and the accused. Or at least she was connected to them long ago.”
“We presume you refer to Geraldine Bainbridge?”
Trevor looked at the Queen with surprise.
“You came before me last year with this ill-formed notion of a forensics unit,” she said.
“Requesting funds for a science that my advisors assured me was hardly a science at all… and yet I
personally financed you. Since that date your unit has provided service beyond reproach, proving that
my support of your work was not in vain. But do you imagine I would have invested so much in an
ordinary detective named Trevor Welles without a bit of intelligence of my own? I would venture I
know as much about you as your own mother does. Your mother who, if memory serves, is named
Edith and resides in Shropshire. A lovely piece of country, albeit a bit remote.”

Trevor could think of nothing to say to any of this, which was just as well, since the
Queen continued. “So I am quite aware of your friendship with Miss Bainbridge, a woman I met
years ago. I gather that she also made acquaintance with Anthony Weaver in her girlhood?”
At least she had dropped the “we,” and, in fact, was looking at him with sympathetic
interest, but Trevor was unsure of how much of Geraldine’s story he should share with the Queen.
“Not exactly girlhood,” he said, aware that he was avoiding the key issue. “Miss
Bainbridge was thirty-five.”
“And this strikes you as an age too advanced for romantic intrigue? How old are you,
Detective?”
“Thirty-four,” he admitted.
“Then you must hurry. The clock is surely about to strike.”
Was she making a joke? Trevor had never known the Queen to joke.
“Geraldine traveled to India in 1856, the year before Roland Everlee’s death,” he finally
said. When in doubt, best to stick to the barest of facts. “Rose Everlee was her chaperone for the
voyage and introduced her to Anthony Weaver on the ship, during the weeks that they were in transit
between London and Bombay.”
It was an incomplete explanation, to be sure, but the Queen seemed to grasp the
implications behind his words at once. She nodded briskly and reached for a paper on the table
beside her. It bore a grand blob of maroon-colored sealing wax on the back, a detail which struck
Trevor as odd.
“It is quite fascinating how matters sometimes converge,” she said. “For I received just
this morning a letter from Michael Everlee on this same subject. Do you know the man?”
“Only by reputation,” Trevor said.
“Indeed,” said the Queen. “Cambridge educated, the young hero of the Conservative
Party and thus a rising figure in the House of Commons. Or so they tell me.” Peering down, she read
aloud:
Your Majesty:
I turn to you in humble request. My stepfather, the retired Secretary-General Anthony Weaver,
has been unjustly arrested for the murder of my mother, Rose Everlee Weaver. Your majesty knows
the details of my true father’s death. Mr. Weaver married my mother shortly after my birth, and he
is the only man I have ever known as a father. A finer or more honorable man could not be found
and thus I know he could not be guilty of such a crime.
I am traveling to India at once and shall be in route to Bombay by the time you read this. I am
humbly writing to ask that you encourage the local authorities to welcome my intrusion into this
matter and to assist me as I endeavor to prove my stepfather’s innocence.
With deepest humility,
Michael Everlee
The Queen folded the letter. “What do you make of that?”
Trevor's first thought was that any man who claimed to be humble three times in a row
was probably anything but, and that nothing in the graceless phrasing of the letter suggested that the
author was a Cambridge man, much less a rising star in political circles. But presumably the poor
chap was in shock over recent events and, just as he said, rushing to pack and travel. So instead of
critiquing the tone of the writing, Trevor took a different tack.

“The letter was obviously composed in haste,” he said cautiously. “And yet I am struck
by what it does not say.”
“No mention of grief for his mother,” the Queen said.
“Indeed,” said Trevor. “And no insistence that justice should be done on her behalf. His
only concern is freeing the stepfather, but even his defense of Mr. Weaver is rather oddly stated.”
The Queen slowly nodded. “He does not say that Anthony Weaver would not have killed
his wife because he loved her. Instead he suggests this would be impossible only because Mr.
Weaver is an honorable man.”
One motion Trevor had never seen the Queen make was a shrug; as the dominant
monarch of the civilized world, it would never do for Victoria to show either indifference or
uncertainty. And yet she came close to the gesture now, her shoulders rising and dropping ever so
slightly. “I was not touched by this letter in the least, Detective,” she said. “The line about him
trusting that I remember the details of his true father’s death was nothing more than a bully of the most
direct sort. He all but said that his father was a decorated hero and thus that I must help him. I do not
like to have my hand forced in such a manner.”
Now she did shrug. “The trouble, of course, is that his father was a decorated hero and
thus I indeed must help him. I was about to compose a directive to the Bombay police this afternoon,
but put the matter aside to grant you an audience. And now it strikes me that this seeming coincidence
is not coincidence at all, but rather an indication that the Weaver murder has more wide-ranging
significance than I originally understood.”
The Queen paused. “I recall Miss Bainbridge’s unique personality most specifically,”
she softly added. “I can only assume that she too plans to depart for Bombay?”
“I imagine that she is packing now, your Majesty.”
“Do you further imagine that our Miss Kelly and the charming young doctor will
accompany her?”
“Yes, Emma is Geraldine’s companion and Tom is her nephew so I feel safe in
predicting that they are packing as well.”
“And so shall you,” said the Queen.
Even though Trevor had come to Windsor with just this intent, the swiftness of the
Queen’s decision stunned him. “You wish me to go to India, Your Majesty?”
“Yes, and take the others. The clever Jew and that young bobby who looks like a
choirboy. The report from Bombay was sadly limited, so it is impossible to predict what you will
find when you arrive there, but something about all this is…it seems very queer, Detective. I shall
write precisely the directive that Michael Everlee requested, but on your behalf. Informing the local
authorities that your team will be conducting an independent investigation at my special request and
instructing them to grant you every courtesy in your efforts.”
And won’t they just love that, Trevor thought. The one thing the Everlee pup had gotten
right was when he called British interest in an Indian crime “an intrusion.” But Trevor nodded to the
Queen and, following her wave of dismissal, rose to his feet.
“Speed is essential, Detective,” Victoria said. “I doubt you shall be able to overtake
Michael Everlee in his journey, but with any luck you shall join him in Bombay before he manages to
do any real damage.”
“Damage to the case, Your Majesty?”
“Damage to the crown.” The Queen looked at the letter on the table beside her with
distaste. “We do not trust him.”

Chapter Four
The Port of Suez
August 21, 1889
10:15 AM
Whenever the Queen of England takes an interest, matters begin to move with astonishing
speed.
Within hours of Trevor’s audience at Windsor Castle, paperwork had been delivered to
his quarters in the rooming house, detailing travel plans for six people, and by the next afternoon, they
were all on the train. The morning of the third day found them at the port of Suez, preparing to board
a steamer for Bombay.
As the rest of the group went strolling, determined to absorb the limited charms a
working port has to offer and taking advantage of their brief respite between the train and the boat,
Trevor remained behind. He found a bit of shade on the dock and leaned back against a wall of
cargo, keeping an eye on the group’s trunks and valises as he waited. Trevor had spent his
professional lifetime struggling to surmount the British mistrust of foreigners – a form of bigotry that
he knew, despite his concerted attempts to dispel it, still flowed within his veins. From the moment of
their arrival, this Arab port had struck him as utter mayhem, with any number of small, dark men
darting about beneath the relentless Middle Eastern sun, babbling among themselves in an
incomprehensible tongue.
Take this fellow, for example. He was approaching the heap of eleven bags, all piled
into a rough crate, which had accompanied them so far on their trip. One for each man, two for
Emma, and the remaining five crammed with any number of improbable items which Geraldine had
solemnly declared to be “necessities.” Judging from the shape, one of them apparently held a violin.
Trevor did not wish to insult the dockworker, who moved about the cargo with the agility of a boy
and the face of a grandfather, but he could hardly help but stare when the man pulled from his pocket,
of all things, a paintbrush. Dipping it into a nearby can of black paint, he marked the side of the crate
with four English letters: POSH.
“Never thought I’d see the day when the likes of us would be called posh, did you, Sir?”
Trevor tilted his chin in the direction of the familiar voice. “You decided to cut your
walk short, Davy?”
“Not exactly a stroll through Covent Garden, is it, Sir?”
“That it is not,” Trevor agreed, reflecting that it was probably nerves about boarding the
ship as much as the smell and clutter of the port which had driven the boy back. It was well known
throughout the group that Davy suffered from seasickness.
“We won’t be on the open sea for long, lad,” Trevor went on, his eyes never leaving the
man with the paintbrush, who had now moved to mark the same four letters on the other side of the
crate. “We’ll be sailing a strait with land in view on both sides for at least half the journey.”
“I know, Sir,” Davy said, although he hardly sounded convinced. “Miss Emma showed
me the map.”
“And you know what this means?” Trevor asked, gesturing toward the crate with his
pipe. “This POSH?”
“Stands for Port Out, Starboard Home,” Davy said promptly. “So we’re to be in the best

cabins, both coming and going, which means those located on the shaded side of the ship. Although
whether we’re to thank the Queen or Miss Bainbridge for our favored position, I can’t say, Sir. Can
you?”
“Probably Gerry,” Trevor said. “She seems to have a knack for plucking out small
strands of luxury, even in the most ghastly of circumstances.” It was barely past ten in the morning
and the heat on the dock was already oppressive. Trevor could scarcely bear to think what it would
be like in the early afternoon, with the sun directly overhead. A shaded stateroom would be worth
rubies in such a situation. Trevor had heard of the term “posh,” of course, but had never known the
precise derivation of the word, or that it was meant to describe those who could afford to travel even
the tropics in relative comfort. He sent up a silent prayer of thanksgiving, hardly his first, for the fact
Geraldine was both rich and generous. In the future he would oversee her five bags with less
complaint.
“But you know what I don’t understand, Sir?” Davy asked.
“I cannot imagine, for you seem to understand a great deal, Davy. Often more than
Rayley and myself combined, I should venture.”
The boy flushed with pleasure. Or perhaps he was simply flushed. Hard to tell in this
heat, and Trevor made a mental note that once they were finally in Bombay he must shuck these
purgatorial tweeds and purchase himself a white linen suit. He had always considered such garments
the height of ostentation – practically a shout to the world that one was well-traveled – but he was
already beginning to see their usefulness.
“The Indian manservant?” Davy said. “The one who was killed with the old lady?
Didn’t the report say he’d been her servant nearly the whole length of time she’d been in India?”
“It did indeed. Years upon years in her service.”
“So how old was the fellow?”
Trevor sighed. “Gone past seventy, just like his mistress. I know where you’re heading
with this and I quite agree. Keeping such an elderly man as a bodyguard is a ridiculous notion, even
though the report says this quite pointedly. Pulkit Sang was not a porter or a butler, but the bodyguard
of Rose Everlee Weaver. We can only assume that the position was a bit of an honorarium. A way for
a trusted servant of long standing to keep his hand in the game, retaining the title more than the duties.
I can’t imagine a woman like Mrs. Weaver would need much protection, can you?”
“And yet she was murdered,” Davy said matter-of-factly.
“And yet,” Trevor admitted. “You obviously have a thought, so by all means, state it
cleanly.”
“This woman was the wife of a retired Secretary-General,” Davy said. “Living in
comfort in a big home in Bombay. Probably all she had to do all day was ride back and forth to her
social club. What did the report call it?”
“The Byculla Club,” Trevor said. “Apparently the hub of all British activity in the city.
Are you asking why such a woman would need a bodyguard?”
Davy shook his head and the two men stood back to allow a contingent of the Arab
porters to surround the ponderous crate which held their bags. Lifting it to their shoulders, much like
pallbearers with a coffin, they proceeded toward the gangplank.
“I think you’re on to it, Sir. That the reason she had a bodyguard now was because she
didn’t want to sack an old man who’d been in service to her for so many years. I guess what I am
wondering is why she would have needed a bodyguard in the first place. All those years ago, when
the lady first hired the fellow, what was she afraid of?”

Trevor looked at Davy in surprise. “You are quite right, Davy, of course you are.
Perhaps her husband – either the first or the second, who can say – insisted she take on protection. I
would imagine that many of the British did so in the years surrounding the mutiny of ‘57, when fears
were running high. Who knows, as the widow of one high-ranking officer and then the wife of
another, she might have been a likely target for kidnapping or some other form of extortion. I shall
check when we arrive and see if any specific threat might have been made, long ago, that convinced
Rose or someone close to her that she needed a bodyguard.”
“And Sir?” Davy ventured.
“Yes, lad?”
“While you are asking, try to find out why the lady would have chosen an Indian
bodyguard. Seems more probable, under the circumstances, that she’d have wanted British.”
***
Bombay - The Terrace of the Byculla Club
1:49 AM
“To be honest,” Hubert Morass said, tossing back the last of his gin and tonic, “I struggle
to understand why the death of an old lady and her servant should cause so much excitement.”
“Is that so?” Henry Seal asked drily, gazing into his own glass. Gin and tonics were the
drink of choice among the elite of the Raj, and the cocktail was claimed to be popular for its
medicinal value. The tonic water was dosed with quinine to offset the chance of malaria and the
limes, so generously squeezed that the bottom of his glass was awash in pulp, were known to prevent
scurvy. The gin itself, Seal could only suppose, was to calm the nerves. And judging by how freely it
was poured, the British in Bombay must be nervous indeed.
Seal had only been in Bombay himself a few months and was struggling to get a grasp on
the duties of his post. Although he reported straight back to London instead of to the field office in
Bombay, apparently he rested more or less on the same level of authority as this crass buffoon
Morass. The man had clearly gained his own middling status through some cousin or in-law or old
school friend, for he most certainly had not earned the position through his intelligence or social
deftness. He had made it clear at more than one turn that he not only had few theories about the
murder of Rose Weaver, but he even lacked the most rudimentary curiosity about the matter. Seal had
been troubled at first, when he learned that the Presidency would be investigating the case as well as
the Viceroy’s office. Under any civilized system of government – that is, anywhere other than in India
– either he or Morass would be considered a redundancy. But apparently sending two men to do the
work of one was the norm on the subcontinent and thus Seal had almost immediately begun to view
Morass as more of an annoyance than a competitor.
His real problems lay elsewhere. On a steamer, in fact, somewhere between Suez and
Bombay. The fact that a contingent from Scotland Yard was coming to investigate a domestic murder
in a normally tranquil region of India was unexpected – and troubling. Part of Seal’s mind argued that
their presence was merely a result of the relative celebrity of the deceased and the accused. But
another part of his mind – the darker part, which erupted to the surface on those nights when the heat
made sleep an impossibility – saw the intrusion of the London detectives as proof that someone,
somewhere, at some point in the long and serpentine chain of command which stretched from London
to Bombay, had concluded that Henry Seal was not up to the task at hand.
“She was not just any old lady,” Seal said to Morass, putting his glass on a nearby table
and pushing to his feet. “As evidenced by the fact that the Queen herself has sent a directive and as

evidenced by the fact I asked you here today. The Scotland Yard chaps are going to expect us to
deliver them something when they disembark on Thursday. And these bodies are now going into their
tenth day on ice.”
Morass raised a bushy eyebrow but said nothing.
“In other words, they’re decomposing,” Seal said irritably. Could the man deduce
nothing at all? “And it’s safe to venture that the extremities are going first. I suppose you know what
that means?” Without pausing for a response, which he knew was unlikely to come, he answered his
own question. “It means any possibility of collecting useable fingerprints is dwindling daily.”
“Fingerprints?” Morass said with a frown.
“Impressions, usually in wax or ink, taken from the tips of –“
“No, I know what they are, but why the devil should they be of use in this case?”
“I don’t know,” Seal admitted. He had begun to pace but Morass was still seated, lightly
twirling his tumbler of gin. “But if the Scotland Yard fellows ask for them and we don’t have
them….if we have in fact let the window of opportunity pass and they arrive to find the bodies too
deep in molder…”
“Why do you fear Scotland Yard so much?” Morass asked, delicately fishing a wayward
lime seed from his drink and tossing it into a nearby bush. The two men were seated on a distant
section of the Byculla Club terrace. They had been greeted with a reasonable degree of courtesy
when they entered and had even been offered luncheon, which they readily welcomed. Morass may
have come from the military side and Seal from the Viceroy, but civil servants, no matter what their
branch or level, accept food whenever it is offered. But both of them, for separate reasons, had noted
that they had been escorted to a highly undesirable table. Seated nearly in direct sun, far from the
umbrellas where the other diners were clustered. We shall let you in, the table location seemed to
suggest, because the paperwork you carry demands it. But we shall not make you welcome.
“I do not fear the Yard,” Seal said.
“So it is more a matter that you hope someday to join it?”
“What if I do? Only a fool would want to remain here, in this godforsaken outpost of
civilization.”
Morass smiled, but only a little, and his amusement was largely concealed by the
profusion of facial hair on his broad splotched face. The Byculla Club hardly seemed like an outpost
of civilization to him. On these grounds, flowers bloomed. Fountains tumbled. Ladies sipped their
own gin and tonics, dubbed a Bombay Splash in their honor, as if changing the name somehow diluted
the alcohol. A cellist played in a corner of the terrace and across the great lawn long-suffering
nannies watched as toddlers and dogs dashed about. A man could see Bombay and the Byculla Club,
Morass reflected, as either the pinnacle of civilization or the nadir of self-important silliness,
depending on his perspective. Depending on where he had come from, or – perhaps even more
telling – where he hoped to someday end up.
“So you’ve invited me here to help you fingerprint the two bodies?” Morass finally
asked, which made Seal stop mid-pace and turn toward him. “I cannot imagine what benefit that
would provide, Yard or no Yard, seeing as how the two bodies in the kitchen are the victims and not
the accused. Anthony Weaver is the man whose fingerprints we might need, and he is penned up at the
jail.”
“I know that,” Seal said.
“Besides,” Morass continued. “From what I’ve read about fingerprinting, which I will
admit is not much, the practice is most helpful when one is trying to prove that the accused touched a

murder weapon. A gun or knife or the like. And we have no such murder weapon. We have, in fact,
no idea how the lady died.”
“This I know as well.”
Morass squinted up at Seal, but the man’s face was largely shadowed by his hat, a
strange affair with an absurdly broad brim. Woven in straw as if Seal had been, at one time or
another, upon safari. “Poison would be my guess,” he said quietly.
Seal stiffened. “Poison is a woman’s weapon. Anthony Weaver is a decorated officer.”
Morass wiped his chubby hands on one of the delicate serviettes on the table, without
much effect. “So you are suggesting he would announce this fact by running through his prey with an
army issued saber? Yes, he is an officer, but he is also an old man and a smart one. Smart enough to
choose a weapon which is both less expected and which allows him to be far away when the victim
succumbs. Victims, I should say. We all keep forgetting the Indian. You have not been in this country
as long as I have, Inspector Seal. There are any number of botanicals here on the subcontinent which
would confound detection in a European laboratory.”
Seal at last abandoned his pacing and sat back down at the table. “We have collected
blood,” he said. “Enough to give this Scotland Yard doctor a decent crack at analysis. And as for the
fingerprints, I shall concede your point, that the prints of the accused are more likely helpful than
those of the victims. But let us assume your theory of poison is a sound one. Would fingerprints not
help us to reconstruct the case, learn more about how the poison was administered? Via a teacup or
spoon or through some sort of legitimate medication? If so, knowing what she touched last would be
most helpful and for that we need her fingerprints as well as her husband’s.”
Morass nodded. “True enough, I suppose, especially when one reflects upon the role of
the Indian. For he’s the most puzzling piece of the puzzle, is he not? I find it hard to imagine
circumstances in which a servant and his mistress might have imbibed the same substance. They
would hardly take tea together, or share a cocktail, and he certainly would not take her prescribed
medication.”
“It is confounding, I agree,” Seal said, reflecting that perhaps he had dismissed Morass
too quickly. The man’s observations were surprisingly sound. Seal added, a bit lamely, “So perhaps
we should both be grateful that the Yard is on their way to lift the matter from our hands.”
Faced with such a blatant lie, Morass could only snort. “Damn the Yard. All they shall
do is take credit if the case is closed and blame us if it isn’t. So I suppose you are right, we must
provide them with the fingerprints of everyone in Bombay if only to cover our own arses. And you
are right as well that it must be soon, for the decomposition is no doubt advancing hourly, despite that
heap of ice. Did you bring wax? Or is ink the preferred method?”
Seal slumped in his chair and looked down, the hat now completely obscuring his
features. ”I brought neither. I haven’t the foggiest notion of how to take fingerprints, you see. I have
read articles, of course, but I was hoping…I was rather hoping you might have sometime seen it
done.”
“I have never even read the articles,” Morass said. “We could borrow some ink from
the club secretary, I suppose. Go down to the kitchens and give it a try?”
“But in trying we may muck it up worse,” Seal said. “Damage whatever prints do
remain past the point that even Scotland Yard could retrieve them. How much do you know about
decomposition?”
“What sort of question is that? I know what any other man knows. That it happens. Heat
accelerates the process. That it stinks.”

“But the extremities go first simply because they are the extremities, isn’t that the case?
The fingers and toes because they are small, and the points most removed from the torso, the frozen
core.”
“I suppose,” Morass said, with a frown. “What are you getting at?”
“We shall visit the bodies, just as you say,” Seal said, standing once again and this time
nodding for Morass to join him. “And on our way through the kitchen we shall furthermore trouble
the chef for the use of his best cleaver.”

Chapter Five
The Fortitude – Top Passenger Deck
August 22, 1889
7:20 PM
The steamer ship was stunningly loud in comparison to the sounds produced by a clipper
– that gentle billow of the sails, the steady splash of water against the hull, the cries of the gulls as
they circled above. Leaning against the railing, Geraldine risked a deep breath and was rewarded not
with a bracing gulp of sea air, but instead with a lungful of smoke and ash. She coughed and spat, but
the burning taste in her mouth lingered.
Would she have fallen in love with Anthony if they had met aboard such a machine as
this? If their first words had been shouted above the roar of the engines rather than whispered to the
accompaniment of birdcalls? The Weeping Susan had been all fluttering and flapping, a vulnerable
vessel at the mercy of the elements, and thus much like the woman she carried. But now, thirty years
later, The Fortitude roared its way unapologetically toward India. The directness of the approach,
the solidity of the ironsides, the steady drone of the engines… the ship was the very personification of
British supremacy, of a nation which – much like Geraldine Bainbridge herself – had grown into a
position of such power and self-assurance that seemingly nothing could stop its progress.
Another whistle shrieked and the iron railing trembled beneath Geraldine’s palms. She
smiled, a smile with irony, and ambivalence, and perhaps a touch of sadness. The Fortitude was so
loud that this time there was no chance she would hear Bombay before she saw it. This time the
ringing of the bells would not catch her unawares.
***
The Fortitude – The Card Room
7:20 PM
“We’ve gone over it all a thousand times,” Emma protested, her eyes darting around the
table at the four men. “We simply must face the fact that, at least compared to our trips to France and
Russia, intelligence on this case is very limited. All this speculation is only prejudicing our minds.”
“Emma is right, as always,” Tom said, with a lazy wink in her direction. “I can
practically recite that Seal fellow’s telegram by heart. Any collected evidence is bound to be
compromised, but it’s pointless to make predictions until we have it in hand.”
“Compromised?” Davy said with a frown.
“I’m not suggesting either of the Indian investigations was corrupt,” Tom said, drawing
in on a cigar he’d obtained for a remarkably good price in the shops of Suez. “But I think there’s a
strong possibility they were inept. And when I ponder the condition the bodies will be in after lying
two weeks in India. India in August, for God’s sake…”
“They iced them,” Trevor reminded him.
“They always ice them,” Tom said. “Trouble is, freezing alters tissue nearly as much as
decomposition.”
Rayley pulled on his own cigar, which was of a different brand and leaf but purchased at
the same agreeable price. “While Miss Bainbridge is off taking her stroll on deck,” he said, “there is
something else we need to discuss. What if the evidence doesn’t exonerate Weaver? No matter what

their level of detective skill, it remains entirely possible that the locals have the right man. How
would Miss Bainbridge cope with the revelation that we have traveled all this way only to build a
better case against her old beau?”
Davy nodded, as if the same thought had troubled him, and Trevor and Tom both began to
talk at once. Leaving the men to their circular discussion, Emma slipped out of the card room and
made her way to the so-called observation deck. An earlier trip up had proven there was little to
observe – they were at the exact midpoint of their journey, with neither Arabia nor Africa in view -
but Gerry had been gone for some time. And this Emma found disturbing.
Once Emma emerged from the steps to the deck she immediately spied her, standing
alone in the smoky mist, braced against the railing and apparently deep in thought. Emma moved
slowly beside Gerry, glancing up at the sky as she spoke. “The stars should come out soon,” she said,
struggling to project her voice above the steady mechanical roar. “Although thanks to the marvels of
modern engineering, we shall have only two evenings to appreciate them, and not the forty days and
nights of your last voyage. Oh, wait. My mathematics have failed me. It was closer to sixty, was it
not?”
“Something like that,” said Geraldine, following her gaze. “The trip is much easier now,
but a certain charm is lost.”
“Charm?” Emma said skeptically, remembering Gerry’s tales of passengers sleeping in
hammocks as dirty bilge water sloshed across the floor beneath them and in particular her story of the
time an enterprising rat had gnawed through the strap of her hammock, thus depositing the slumbering
Geraldine in a veritable river of refuse. “It seems the modern era trumps the past in every way, for
we now have so little time aboard and so many amusements along the journey that I find myself
dashing from one activity to the next, rather like a child at the county fair. The men spent the whole
afternoon out on the sporting deck, you know, learning some grand new skill they call shuffleboard.
Apparently Davy is quite the natural.”
Geraldine gave an obligatory little chuckle, but there was clearly no heart in it. She was
staring out into the growing darkness, in the direction of Arabia.
“But no matter how different the ship,” Emma said gently, “you still find yourself headed
once again to India. Does it bring back memories?”
“Not a one,” Geraldine answered. She had always considered herself to be a good
liar. It was one of her private little brags.
“Do you regret ever having loved him?” Emma asked.
It may have been a rude question, but it was a pertinent one. She had not been fooled in
the least by Geraldine’s claim that she was not reminiscing, for the woman was clearly snared in the
web of memory.
“The events which followed certainly tainted the memory of our affair,” Geraldine
admitted, after a pause. “For once a woman begins to question one thing about a man, it seems
impossible to stop. It is like pulling a single thread from a tapestry and watching the entire picture
unravel.”
“And this…this betrayal…this knowledge that you were cruelly used…”
“Was I cruelly used? Yes, I suppose I was, although not nearly so cruelly as poor
Roland. Perhaps you can even say that Anthony, admittedly quite by accident, helped me to find my
true fate. Romantic disappointments often do just that, my dear, although you’re too young to know of
these things just yet. Whenever that object that we thought we wanted most is abruptly taken from us,
there is an awakening in that moment. It can be a harsh awakening, true, a bit like throwing cold

water on a dreamer, but it is still effective.”
Geraldine thought she was too young to have known heartbreak? That was quite the
laugh. And proof, Emma supposed, that we all suffer from a type of emotional nearsightedness,
seeing the people closest to us in a kind of soft-edged blur.
“Are you saying,” she said, “that after your romance with Anthony failed, you knew
without question that you would never marry?”
“That is precisely what I am saying,” said Geraldine. “From the moment I received the
letter telling me that he had married Rose, I saw that the still life of domesticity was not for me. That
my life’s purpose would be placed out against a broader landscape. Heavens, listen to me ramble on,
for I am quite poetic tonight, am I not? Filled to the gills with metaphors. Tapestries and paintings
and cold water and the like.”
Emma shook her head and pushed away from the railing. “I know you think I am too
young to understand, and in truth I don’t. I’m not sure at all why you answered that horrid man’s letter
or why we are undertaking such a complicated journey. Is it that you feel the need to show him that,
despite or perhaps because of his absence, your life is a grand success?”
It was Geraldine’s turn to be pulled up short. Could that truly be why she had so readily
written to assure Anthony she was on her way? Because she could not resist the chance to show him
the woman she had become – an heiress, a socialite, known and respected in her own right, never
again to serve as the ornament of some undeserving man? But the minute she had the thought,
Geraldine rejected it. No, she was not crossing an ocean merely to gloat. Not to look upon Anthony
in his cell and Rose in her coffin and relish the knowledge that, in the end, she had bested them both.
“Not at all,” she said. “I have come to India with one purpose alone. To face up to my
past.”
“But the past is…past,” Emma said. “That’s rather the whole point, isn’t it?”
“Ah, my dear,” Geraldine said. “You truly are so very young.”
***
The Weeping Susan
April, 1856
It had surprised her to learn that the doldrums were a real thing. Not a synonym for
unhappiness or boredom, as the word was often used on dry land, but rather a feature of the wind.
The Weeping Susan became caught in them just as she neared the equator, which is where the danger
is most acute. Almost at once, the breezes failed. The sails sagged. Even the cawing birds and
chattering porpoises which had followed the ship around the tip of Africa were abruptly,
instantaneously gone. All movement and sound ceased and there they sat, day after day, just as the
poet described.
As idle as a painted ship upon a painted ocean.
The first week was tolerable. The second, stultifying. In the third week a sort of panic
set in among the passengers, who could see land in the distance and who begged the captain to lower
the rowboats and take them to shore. Anything to escape this floating prison. He refused. ‘Twas
Africa, he said, with a jerk of a thumb toward the verdant land mass. The savages would devour
them before they were ten steps up the beach. Then on the other side, he offered, before anyone could
bother to ask, lay Arabia. Even worse. A land where little children were trained as soldiers and the
knife blades ran as long as a man’s body. And the Arabs, unlike the Africans, were utterly immune to
Christian conversion.

In the beginning of the fourth week, something shifted. Not the winds and not the sails,
but within the mood of the passengers. A sort of frenzied, devil-may-care energy possessed the ship.
People laughed, sometimes rather maniacally. Some sang, and others danced. The crew, never
circumspect in this regard, doubled their amount of drink and one woman, in a sleepwalking sort of
stupor, attempted to throw herself overboard.
The captain had seen it all before. He knew well enough what the doldrums could do to
a group of people and he’d be damned if it would happen again on his watch. Not with a shipload of
middle class ladies entrusted to his care. He ordered that everyone must sleep up on deck. The heat
was the danger, he declared. The heat and the lack of true rest for them all.
And so that very night, with the sun burning the edges of the water to red, they all
trooped up on deck from their various cabins. The passengers from the posh staterooms and those
poor souls crammed into the lesser berths below. From the wife of the Secretary-General to the
cook’s spindly-legged galley boy, they all stood before him, holding their bedclothes in their arms,
their eyes mutely begging him to deliver them from their misery, if only for a single night.
In order to preserve what was left of the group’s rapidly dwindling sense of propriety,
the captain ordered that the useless mainsail be lowered from its mast and stretched across the length
of the deck. It became a canvas wall between the sixteen men and twenty-seven women, and, after a
bit of fuss, everyone made up their pallets and lay down to sleep.
Almost immediately they were thrilled with the unaccustomed sense of an evening
breeze, cooling their bodies for the first time since the ship had rounded the Cape. And then, as the
sun sank completely, they were treated to a canopy of stars. The constellations of the Southern
Hemisphere were strange to most of them. One of the more scholarly sailors called out the names in
the darkness - Orion, Taurus, and of course the Southern Cross. The men could see where he was
pointing, but from their side of the canvas wall, the women had to work a bit harder to find the
promised figures in the ink-dark sky.
The fact that Rose Everlee was married to the Secretary-General of the whole of the
Bombay Presidency, made her without question the most valuable cargo on the ship. But she was also
an enormous pain in the arse and she chose this moment – just when tranquility and even a sort of
enchantment was beginning to settle over the ship – to whisper that she was getting a headache.
Geraldine was not surprised. Rose had announced one headache after another since they left London,
the tedium only occasionally interrupted by announcements that Rose had a backache.
So Geraldine had scooted over on her pallet, just enough to allow Rose to push to her
feet and make her unsteady way across a deckful of dozing women. To go back to the hell of the cabin
and the heaven of the opium that awaited her there. Geraldine was relieved to have her gone. She
could now wiggle into Rose’s prime location on the deck and thus better hear the droning voice of the
impromptu astronomer. For Geraldine was a bit of a scientist in her way, the daughter of a botanist
and the sister to a naturalist, and she knew that when she returned to England, her father and brother
would expect to hear a full account of her experiences on the lower half of the globe.
But most of all Geraldine was relieved because with Rose out of the way she was for
once alone within the privacy of her own thoughts. She stretched out on her back, looking up at this
foreign sky, reveling in the luxury of the doubled pallet, and running her fingertips along the gently
undulating folds of the canvas wall.
There was a sudden movement on the other side. A hand, she believed. A hand moving
in response to her own.
Geraldine froze. Somehow, in the freedom of the setting - the cool breeze, the expansive

sky, the deep drowsy sighs of the women around her - she had forgotten that a regiment of men lay so
very close.
She pressed her hand. Lightly. Tentatively.
The hand pressed back.
“Darling?” said a voice beneath the canvas. No more than a whisper, but she heard it
quite distinctly and recognized the speaker: Anthony Weaver.
Geraldine had watched him every day since the voyage began. It had been a challenging
quest, for days upon end would pass without the female passengers coming into any sustained contact
with the male. Furthermore, Rose was a hawk, rarely giving Geraldine the freedom to mingle with
those on the lesser decks, no matter what their gender. That was, until the doldrums had seized the
ship and all rules had seemed to go out the window. Over the last three weeks Geraldine had
conversed with Anthony daily. At times, it had seemed he was flirting with her but Geraldine was
inexperienced with men beyond her family circle and hard-pressed to tell the difference between
socially-required politeness and genuine interest. Anthony always seemed to be close by, this was
true. But perhaps it was more in service to his commander’s sickly wife than due to any true desire
for congress with Geraldine.
There was not a single book in her father’s library that could help a woman at a time like
this.
The hand again. Not against the canvas wall now, but rather slipped below it, lifting
back a fold of the heavy cloth. Just enough to allow him to slide a palm underneath, to inch out his
fingertips until they touched her bare arm.
“Darling?” he said again.
How had he found her in the dark? She remembered him standing on the deck as the sail
was being lowered. She had been among the ladies, of course, and he among the men. But for a
moment their eyes had met. He had taken note of where she had been on the women’s side, and he
must have aligned himself opposite her.
How bold of him, she thought. And how mad to do this without knowing what her
reaction might be. She could easily have pulled away, screamed. Alerted Rose, who would not have
hesitated to bring the entire ship down around his ears.
But Geraldine did not scream. Instead, she rolled toward him.
For she had come to India to change herself, you see. She had known precisely what it
meant for a woman to round the corner of thirty - as definitive a milestone as rounding the Cape of
Good Hope - and to still have no matrimonial harbor in sight. Back in the family estate in Leeds, she
had thus determined months ago, perhaps even years, to be a different kind of woman – independent,
adventurous, unheeding of the calls of society’s crows. To do this she would have to leave her old
self behind, to abandon pieces of her history with each step of her journey.
This seemed as good a time as any to leave this particular part behind.
Geraldine knew she was not pretty. Neither was she feminine nor graceful and she
furthermore knew that the ardors of the long voyage had robbed her of whatever small delicacies she
might once have claimed. By the time Anthony Weaver groped beneath the canvas sail and found her
hand, she was sunburned and windblown, her skin coarsened by the continual sting of salt, her eyelids
heavy with the cumulative exhaustion of innumerable days and nights without sleep.
So even at the time she had wondered why he had chosen her. The men would
outnumber the women once they docked, but here, on the boat, females were the commodity in
excess. Anthony Weaver was the only man among them who was of a marriageable age and not a

member of the crew. These were not the sort of odds which normally favored a woman like
Geraldine.
And yet the wall between them lifted. Slowly, steadily lifted.
Years later Geraldine would read a religious tract about the Mormons in America. A
singular group of people with many strange beliefs among them, not the least of which is that the souls
of women are incapable of finding their way to paradise on their own. They need a man to pull them
there, a proper husband to reach through the veil which separates one realm from another and grab
their hand. How her learned friends had laughed at these Mormons. It was bad enough to declare a
woman unequal on this earthly plane, they’d said. But to further deem her incapable of entering
heaven without a man….
It’s just the way they justify having so many wives, Geraldine’s friend Tess would
chortle. Don’t you think so, Gerry?
But Geraldine would be uncharacteristically silent. She would remember this night.
The canvas wall, the hand inching beneath it, the struggle to lift the heavy sail which hung between
them, the slow moving together in the dark. And she would admit that in that moment, Anthony
Weaver truly had pulled her through one world and into another. If not quite all the way to paradise,
then at least to a mysterious new continent, one that no woman – no matter how clever – would ever
have found on her own.
In time, the fuller truth would come to Geraldine as the truth so often does – unwelcome,
and in pieces. She would be forced to remember that she had been lying in Rose’s place on the deck
when Anthony’s hand had found hers. Anthony had watched the positioning of the women so
carefully, had taken such pains to make sure he bedded down at a precise and certain spot on the other
side of the canvas. When he had called out his romantic – but, as it turns out, tragically vague -
invitation of “Darling?” he must have been surprised indeed to hear Geraldine’s voice come back. To
hear her nervous, breathy whispers in place of the low-pitched, rather petulant tones he’d expected.
But he had rallied from the surprise almost immediately – the speed of his recovery perhaps a
predictor of how well he would ultimately climb the ranks of the military, a precursor of his
admirably agile career in politics. For he had adjusted his plan in an instant and spent the starlit
evening not in the familiar arms of Rose Everlee but rather forever changing the fate of Geraldine
Bainbridge.
Precisely how long had the young officer been trysting with his superior’s wife? Had
their affair begun in India, or in England, during the months of leave? What had made Anthony
desperate enough to seek her out along the open expanse of the deck, where any man with a lantern
might have found them? And at exactly what point had he recognized his mistake - that it was
Geraldine and not Rose who rolled toward him, who lifted the canvas and threw back her bedding?
This Geraldine could not answer. She only knew that by the time the Weeping Susan at
last arrived in Bombay harbor, she was in love with Anthony Weaver and that Rose Everlee had
somehow, rather mysteriously, gotten over her headaches.

Chapter Six
Bombay Harbor
August 28, 1889
9:42 AM
Considering that it was the port of entry to an alarmingly foreign place, visitors rarely
found their first view of Bombay alarming. Clustered on a series of islands, flanked by gentle hills,
the approach to the harbor was so lovely that some travelers were moved to compare Bombay to
Naples. The western architectural style, at least in those buildings large enough to be visible from
shipboard, did nothing to dissuade them from this initial reaction. The houses lining the waterfront
were reassuringly grand and in the distance even grander villa-style estates dotted the hills, implying
wealth, comfort, and stability for those families fortunate enough to occupy them.
Welcome to India, it all seemed to say. We are very much like Europe, only with far
better weather.
That was the first impression. Then came the second.
As the ship grew closer, its passengers begin to catch glimpses of a tropical fecundity
peeking out from the European façade: date trees in which large shadows moved, bright flowering
shrubs offering sanctuary for even more brightly colored birds, unnamable produce piled high along
the docks. Between the fine houses one could catch glimpses of the working class district which lay
just beyond. A jumble of half-standing shacks, each painted a more jarring hue than the next, and all
of them jammed against each other in no immediately logical sequence. It was as if a child had built a
play city out of blocks and then kicked it.
Next, the sounds. The bells, which seemed to ring constantly. Not because they were
marking the hour or announcing a visitor or the arrival of a train. No, the noise of India appeared to
have no purpose beyond its own existence. The bells rang from prayer flags, clanged from cattle,
tinkled from the fingertips of the dancers on the waterfront. The natives even attached bells to their
children. Although the passengers of The Fortitude - arriving by steamer in the elevated year of 1889
as opposed to arriving by clipper in the barbaric year of 1856 – had enjoyed their brief and
comfortable passage, they were about to step from a small familiar world into one that was huge and
exotic. And so loud, so very damned loud, that a man could hardly hear himself think.
When the ship was fully within the harbor, they were at last accosted by the smells. The
faint acrid whiffs they had noticed miles out to sea but dismissed as imagination, were back upon
them, but now with a strength that could almost knock a strong man off his feet. Tobacco, which was
familiar, and garlic, which was for most of the passengers somewhat less so. Other spices which
defied definition. Sweat, it almost went without saying, and feces, both animal and human. Beneath
the generalized stench a well-trained nose might also detect that strangely sweet aroma that signals
the ultimate form of decay. Some passengers approaching Indian ports claimed to have seen dead
bodies bobbing in the harbor, attracting no attention whatsoever from either the locals or the sailors.
But despite all this, the city was the dream of every servant of the Raj.
Anywhere the British were settled in India was called a station, from the smallest and
most remote outpost to Bombay, which boasted 12,000 English citizens. A drop in the proverbial
bucket given the city’s general population of nearly two million, but certainly enough to make their
presence known. Largely because of this thriving British station lodged within its gates, Bombay had

ecome an energetic and modern city, with a reasonable selection of western shops and clubs. The
city had pianos, midwives, dentists, umbrellas, photographers, magazines. Mutton in tins and beer in
bottles. Even more important, it offered opportunities for civilized companionship. Conversation.
Flirting. Debate. Gossip. The ocean breezes even made the heat tolerable. In short, any civil
servant with any wit or ambition strove hard to get himself stationed in Bombay, the pearl of the
western coast.
The Raj had a definite pecking order for its men, and thus for the women attached to
them as wives or daughters. The highest were the Viceroy and the Viceroy’s council, followed by
military officers and local government officials. Next came professionals of various ilks, then
soldiers, and finally general laborers, of which there were not many. Servants in India were so cheap
and plentiful that it made little sense to import British workers to perform mundane tasks. Last of all
came the missionaries, who seemed to annoy the English and the Indian alike.
Therefore, one might say that Bombay was overrun with politicians and officers who had
finagled their way into one of the most desirable cities in India, and then promptly set about
replicating everything they missed from England. It was not easy – comfort in India would always be
a relative term – and the snakes, scorpions, and microbes were unimpressed by the glory of the Raj
and made their way into this exalted city just as quickly as all the others. But a shell of privilege
covered the British in Bombay. They traveled in certain compartments on trains, directed their
carriages exclusively down the least distressing streets when navigating the slums, and lived only in
designated districts. They did not bother learning any of the numerous native languages – perhaps
beyond a few words of “kitchen Hindustani” so that they could communicate with their servants – nor
did they concern themselves with the equally incomprehensible currency. No British citizen in India
need ever carry cash. Credit was extended automatically, based on the color of his skin.
There was another India out there, close at hand. They knew it, of course they did. They
could see it, if they looked, and they could hardly help smelling and hearing it, some senses being
innately more democratic than others. But the British in India sought to limit their exposure to the
land they ruled. And they tried not to remember the sort of things that could happen if the thin shell of
privilege ever cracked.
***
Bombay Harbor
10:45 AM
The minute the debarkation process was complete, the men opted to go directly to the
police station where Anthony Weaver was being held. A porter managed to fetch them a public cab,
which in truth looked more like a cart with a ragged canopy suspended overhead. The four wedged
themselves miserably in, with Davy crouched on the floorboards, Tom and Rayley sharing a rickety
seat, and Trevor’s ample backside hanging half over his own shaky perch. Tom saluted to the ladies
as they jostled away.
It was a sight that would have amused Emma if she didn’t have so many troubles of her
own. The departure of the men meant that she was single-handedly left to contend with Geraldine and
the eleven pieces of luggage, but, just when she was beginning to despair of finding any assistance at
all, the throng at the dock suddenly seemed to part like a Biblical sea and she saw, to her great
surprise, a well-appointed carriage not unlike the one Geraldine owned back in London. A woman
was waving to them from the window with a gloved hand.
“That must be our Mrs. Tucker,” Geraldine said with palpable relief.

Emma was not entirely certain who their hostess was, or what connection she held to
Gerry, but she found herself waving back with wild enthusiasm. The temperature on the dock was
already sickening and both she and Gerry were bathed in sweat. The whole harbor was a sort of
scarcely-contained bedlam, with dogs snarling, carts rattling, coolies shouting, children extending
their palms for coins and pointing pitifully at their mouths as they did so. And then there was the
matter of that old man, standing just before her, who had reached within the folds of his loosely
wrapped garment and extracted something. Something which Emma had failed to recognize until the
man proceeded to make water, nonchalantly and right there on the street. They needed shade, and
transport, and a breeze bought of movement and it seemed that this Mrs. Tucker, whoever she was,
had the power to provide it all. If the wagon so closely following her carriage was meant to hold
their bags, then Emma would fall at the woman’s feet in gratitude.
It was. A swarm of men, a toss of coins, an exchange of greetings, and they were off. At
first the carriage made little progress, both due to the chaotic activity of the dock and the fact there
didn’t appear to be anything in the area which could convincingly be called a street. But then the
driver found a bit of headway, and then a bit more. He was inching toward an opening in the crowd
when Mrs. Tucker wrapped her cane sharply against the floorboards and barked “Not that way.”
The dark-skinned man, evidently accustomed to following directions which made no
sense, obligingly slowed the horses. The second wagon likewise halted, a bit more abruptly, causing
the luggage within it to bounce about unrestrained. They sat for a moment, utterly still, and Emma
was afraid the crowd would engulf them again. She sank back against the dark red cushions, her
damp shirt sticking to their ridiculously unsuitable velvet covers, and shut her eyes. She could
scarcely bear to think they might turn back toward the dock. Not back toward those swarms of street
children, all pointing so incessantly, and yet so hopelessly, toward their empty mouths.
“Thank you for coming yourself to the harbor,” Geraldine was saying to Mrs. Tucker,
“and for your extraordinary hospitality. Six houseguests descending upon you at once –“
“Nonsense,” said Mrs. Tucker, tugging at a glove. “Friends from home are always
welcome.”
Now this was strange, Emma thought. Based on the awkward formality, Gerry did not
appear to know Mrs. Tucker at all. Evidently in Bombay, “friends from home” was a vaguelyclaimed
status, applicable to anyone who had been foolish enough to undertake the journey from
London.
The driver had the carriage more or less turned now and was headed away from the
open street and toward one which was much narrower and more crowded. The breeze Emma had so
fervently hoped for was unlikely at this pace.
“Whyever did you ask him,” she blurted out to Mrs. Tucker, “to take another route? We
were making better progress on the other, were we not?”
It was a presumptuous question, especially in light of the fact Mrs. Tucker had saved
them from the pandemonium of the docks, but Emma didn’t care.
The woman looked at her coolly. Her expression, in fact, was the only cool thing in the
carriage.
“The other road,” she said, “leads past the temple.”
“Ah,” said Emma. “And this will slow our progress? It is some sort of religious
holiday?”
Mrs Tucker shook her head emphatically. “The ladies of Bombay,” she said, “do not
travel the road which leads past Khajuraho temple.”

“Whyevernot? I should dearly like to see the sights of India.”
“Not this sight, I’d venture,” said Mrs. Tucker.
“It is a Hindu temple?”
“Of course.”
“Then I am quite curious,” said Emma, her energy returning as she leaned forward to
better face her hostess. Or landlady, or whatever the woman would ultimately prove to be. She
should have asked Gerry for more particulars before she had gotten on the boat. Mrs. Tucker was a
strange one, no doubt about it. What would compel her to don a full bustle, plumed hat, and gloves in
this appalling heat?
“I am quite curious about the local customs,” Emma continued, surprised Gerry was not
jumping into the conversation as well. But Gerry sat silently staring out the window. “And I hope to
experience as much of Bombay as I can while I’m here.”
“Are you a missionary, my dear?” said Mrs. Tucker.
“No,” said Emma, stung. “Of course not.”
“I am glad to hear it,” said the woman, whom Emma was beginning to dislike more with
each passing moment, carriage or not. “For they are the only ones who go poking around the temple.”
“One doesn’t have to be a missionary,” Emma said, “in order to want to see the real
India.”
“The real India?” said Mrs. Tucker, barking a laugh. “Yes, visitors fresh off the boat
always claim just this, that they have come to see the real India.” She sat back in her seat, and fanned
herself with one of her gloves. “I must tell you, my dear, that this ambition generally lasts about a
day. Sometimes two.”
***
Bombay Jail
11:14 AM
They had been deposited on the steps of the police station with little ceremony, but both
Henry Seal and Hubert Morass were at least on hand to greet them. After offers of refreshment and
the privy – the first declined, the second accepted – the men from Scotland Yard were escorted back
to a dreary little office for the debriefing. Seal claimed the desk, and presumably any authority that
went with it, while the chairs of the others were crammed in at such close quarters that the ten knees
of the five men were nearly touching.
Within minutes of the start of the meeting, Trevor was utterly confused as to what aspects
of the investigation fell under Seal’s jurisdiction, and which fell under that of Morass. The two men
seemed to talk over the top of each other, much in the manner of comic actors. Of course, it scarcely
mattered what was said or who said it, for the past three days appeared to have provided little new
information in the case. With Seal attempting to take the lead and Morass offering numerous points of
commentary, the men stumbled once more through the same details which had been outlined in the
telegram and then simultaneously fell silent.
“You have interviewed the Weaver household staff, I presume?” Rayley ventured.
“Of course we have, for all the good it’s done us,” Seal said. “Apart from the dead
bodyguard, the Weavers employed a cook, a maid, and a young fellow who served as valet, driver,
and butler. All claimed to have seen nothing amiss.”
“And even if one of them had noticed anything, they wouldn’t tell us,” Morass added.
“The Indians don’t want to talk to the British any more than the British want to talk to the Indians.”

“That seems a rather broad statement,” Trevor said.
“But accurate,” said Seal. “To start, there is a code of honor among Indian servants
which demands the guarding of the master’s secrets. Secondly, Inspector Morass is quite right about
the degree of mistrust which lies between the natives and the Raj. The local people are not eager to
share their thoughts with any white man in uniform, I assure you.”
“Which shall make our interviews all the more difficult,” Trevor conceded.
“Nonetheless, we shall give it a fresh crack. Where are these servants, anyway? Please do not tell
me they remain in the house.”
“Of course not,” said Seal, bristling slightly. “The house is shut tight and preserved as a
crime scene. The servants have returned to their own people. A type of holiday, I suppose, made all
the sweeter for them by the fact that Secretary-General Weaver has declared he shall continue to pay
their full wages until this matter is resolved.”
There was a pause in which Trevor and Rayley exchanged a glance. A small fact, but
possibly pertinent. Weaver could simply be showing a sense of responsibility toward his employees,
making sure they were housed and fed during his time awaiting trial. Or he could just as easily be
buying their loyalty – and continued silence - from his prison cell.
“We shall interview the Secretary-General of course,” said Trevor. “And sooner rather
than later. You can reconvene these servants, I should hope? You took their addresses?”
Morass gave a low bark of laughter. “These people don’t have addresses,” he said. “If
you could see the local district, you’d know soon enough –“ But here Trevor’s expression barricaded
this line of thought and he hesitated. “We can reconvene them if need be,” he finished meekly.
“Good,” Trevor said. “See that you do. One can hardly blame the locals for avoiding
the Raj police. But none of us are in uniform, so perhaps we shall fare better in persuading them to
talk.”
“Unlikely,” Morass said. “All whites look dead alike to them.”
Gad, what an unpleasant man, Rayley thought. As coarse as a feedbag and the other
one, the one who works for the Viceroy… Well, he has a better suit, and better teeth, and better
manners, but I wager that at the core Seal is no more enlightened than Morass. Rayley could only
imagine the delicacy with which these two had conducted their initial interviews. They reminded him
of a man he had met on the Fortitude, a merchant of some sort who’d been sharing a nearby lounge as
they had all congregated on the sporting deck, watching young Davy triumph in shuffleboard. What
was it that man had said?
We haven’t come to India to make friends. We are here to rule.
And this was the attitude, no doubt, of the vast majority of the people they would have to
deal with in the course of this investigation. Be they military officers, civil servants, or
businessmen…all the British on the ship had seemed to have the same self-satisfied air. The
assurance that might was right, that India was a barbaric land and should be grateful that England had
stooped to save her from herself. Perhaps it was not surprising that the Raj had bred a brotherhood of
such bullies, for judging from the handful Rayley had met so far, it seemed that men who would have
only risen to a modest rank in London could ascend to far greater heights here. Even those with
limited intelligence, education, or family connection could stride the streets of Bombay like little
white kings.
Similar thoughts seemed to be occurring to Trevor, who was visibly struggling to control
his temper, and most likely to Tom and Davy as well, although the younger men had remained tactfully
silent for the whole of the conversation.

“Shall we tell you what we need?” Rayley asked, with a calm courtesy that he hoped
was contagious. “Or at least what we need to begin?”
“Of course,” Seal said.
“Inspector Welles shall interview the Secretary-General. Thomas Bainbridge will
examine the bodies, with me serving as his assistant. Davy Mabrey shall search the Weaver house
and we shall also at some point require access to the totality of the Byculla Club, where Mrs. Weaver
and Sang actually expired. The bodies were discovered in the foyer, I believe?”
Seal nodded. “The butler had just greeted Rose Weaver at the door, with her bodyguard
in attendance. She was scarcely a dozen steps inside the foyer when she collapsed. Sang seemed all
right at first – even was on his way to fetch her some water, and then he fell too. They hadn’t been
inside the Club long enough for anything foul to have occurred there, so of course my mind went to
poison, and of a type which acted slowly. Something which they had likely imbibed before leaving
the Weaver home.”
“Or on the carriage ride over,” Trevor said, noting out of the corner of his eye that
something Seal said was making Morass wince. Most likely the problem was that one detective was
taking credit for the theories of another, a problem which seemed to exist in every police station on
the planet.
“Did they pass anything unusual on the drive over?” Rayley was asking. “Were they
delayed in any manner on their trip?”
“It’s a five minute ride,” Seal said. “The driver said they make the trip at the same time
and along the same route every morning and that this day was not exceptional.”
“Any number of people might have known their route and timetable,” Davy said. “I have
always thought it a strange thing the way the royals and the posh fellows all stick to their patterns of
coming and going. It seems to leave them open to attack.”
“Quite right,” agreed Tom, shifting in his seat. “Their love of protocol makes them
sitting ducks.”
“But Mrs. Weaver wasn’t a target of any sort,” Seal said.
“Yet she employed a bodyguard,” Trevor said. “And an Indian one at that. Was there
any indication she felt threatened?”
Seal slowly shook his head. “The Secretary-General denied that the household had
received any threats, even though it would have been to his advantage to claim so. The bodyguard
was an old family regular, with them for years as I understand it, and announcing him as her
bodyguard was likely no more than an affectation than anything else. You shall soon see, Detective,
that the members of the Raj never hesitate to hire more servants than are needed, and to set them to
any number of silly tasks. It is a status symbol to have two men doing the work of one, you see.”
And the same is evidently true of your police force, Trevor thought, most pointedly
turning his head from Seal, to Morass, and then back. His sarcasm was evidently lost to the outsiders,
although a current of amusement ran through Rayley, Tom, and Davy.
“So you make nothing of her drive to the club,” Rayley said quietly.
Seal shrugged. “Rose Weaver was an old lady and merely set in her ways like they all
are. Why shouldn’t she drive to her club at the same time and down the same street every morning?
There’s no reason to think their brief journey between the house and the Club played any role at all in
their deaths. After all, the carriage driver was quite unaffected.”
“And he would be?” Trevor asked, bringing his pencil to his pad of paper.
“The young man who does a bit of everything around the place,” Morass answered.

“He’s dark as the night but they call him Felix for some reason.”
“And does this bit of everything include gardening?” Tom asked.
“ I don’t know,” Seal said slowly. “Why should we have asked him such a thing as that?”
“No reason,” said Tom. “And I am getting ahead of myself as always. It would seem we
have any number of routes of inquiry before us so there’s no reason to sink into mere speculation as
yet. Are the bodies still at the Club?”
“In the kitchen on ice,” said Morass.
“Oh and that reminds me,” Seal said. “You’ve all been invited to the Club tonight for
dinner. Including your lady friends and hostess. The Byculla Club has been most accommodating in
the whole matter, offering us every courtesy from the start.”
“Have they indeed?” said Trevor.
Rayley picked up the dropped thread. “This is all quite fine, but our time is dwindling.
Our priorities for the afternoon are to view the bodies and secure the house. In the meantime the two
of you will find us the Weaver family’s lost servants. Especially that remarkably handy young Felix.”
“This may take –“ Morass began, but Trevor cut him off.
“Very little time at all, I should imagine. If the worthy Secretary-General is paying their
wages, then his banker must be sending their funds somewhere and that is your place to start.”
“Of course,” Seal said for perhaps the fourth time since they had begun the briefing
twenty minutes ago, but now a little less confidently, and Morass sank in his seat like a scolded
schoolboy.
“Someone has already come asking to see the house,” he said sullenly.
“Let me guess,” Trevor said. “Michael Everlee, son of the deceased, stepson of the
accused. Fresh off the boat from London and determined to free Anthony Weaver from his cell.”
“Just the fellow,” said Seal, with some surprise. “But we didn’t allow him access, of
course. He lacked the proper paperwork.”
“Put up quite a squawk,” Morass said. “Dead furious. Kept saying that the house was
his boyhood home and he didn’t need our permission to stay there.”
“Stay there?” Trevor said in disbelief. “Do you mean the man actually intended to take
up lodging in the middle of a crime scene?”
“We already said we sent him packing,” Morass said defensively. “Him with his city
suit and his – what did he call that nancy boy who was with him?”
“ His attaché,” Seal said shortly.
“I presume you have men guarding the Weaver house?” Trevor asked. “That it has
occurred to you he might not accept your order to stay away?” And then, in the ensuing silence, “Well,
did you at least get an address for where Everlee is rooming during his visit? No, of course not.
Why did I bother to ask? No one in the whole of the Bombay Presidency has an address.”
“It would seem,” Rayley said, “that we must start at once before things get even more
muddled. If you will direct Welles to the jail and Mabrey to the Weaver house, and then Bainbridge
and myself to the Club we shall-”
“We do have one more thing to show you,” Seal broke in. He at least seemed aware that
he had made a bad first impression and was eager to correct it, perhaps with some dramatic
revelation. In fact, with this last statement, even Morass brightened a bit and sat up straighter in his
chair.
“Blood drawn from the victims, I hope,” said Tom.
“Blood, indeed,” said Seal. “It’s in storage at the Club kitchens, along with the bodies.

But the truly important thing is that we have these.” He reached down beneath his desk and pulled up
a leaden urn, evidently a heavy one by the awkward way in which he let it clatter to his desk. He
removed the lid and then carefully extracted a four folded cloths, each packed in ice. “Man left, man
right,” Seal muttered softly to himself, squinting down at the small tags which were attached to each
packet, their ink evidently smeared by contact with the half-melted ice. “Woman right, and, woman…
this must be woman left. Here you go, doctor.”
“What the devil is this?”Tom asked. But he accepted one of the cloths, the one labeled
‘woman right’ and shook it. Chipped pieces of ice rained down upon the wooden desk and, followed
by – to the great satisfaction of Seal and Morass and the mute horror of everyone else - five frozen
human fingers.

Chapter Seven
The Tucker House
12:20 PM
“Gerry, however do you know this woman?” asked Emma, when they had at last been
delivered to the house and shown to their rooms, which were not only adjoining but which
furthermore shared a small porch. The two women stepped out to wait there while the bags were
unloaded from the cart and dispatched to their various destinations. “I can’t imagine you would
maintain friendship with anyone who’d espouse such repugnant opinions, no matter how long ago you
might have met her.”
“I don’t know her, darling, at least not in the way you think,” Geraldine said, sinking to a
bamboo chair, which promptly groaned in protest and tilted, causing her to startle and grab the
armrests. “Oh dear, I seem to have forgotten the effect that mold and termites can have on furniture. I
seem to have forgotten any number of things. Our trip from the docks was quite the adventure, was it
not?”
` “Quite,” said Emma. “But you’re avoiding my question. Why are we staying with Mrs.
Tucker?”
“Because we need rooms and she lets them, darling,” Gerry said, pausing to dab at her
brow. “Although you must take care to never say it quite that way. From what I understand, the poor
woman waited it out for years for her husband to retire from his post so that they could return to
England. Then, within a week of getting his papers and thus his full pension, the man very
inconsiderately passed away in his sleep. Can you imagine? She wakes up to find all her careful
plans lying dead in the bed beside her. And so now our Mrs. Tucker finds herself stranded here in
Bombay, widowed, high in rank and low on funds, and mistress of that pompous carriage and this
enormous house. Although everyone in Bombay is doubtless aware of her circumstances, her pride
would never allow her to admit to the women of her social circle that she was reduced to running a
hostelry, so we must help her maintain the silly fiction that we are friends visiting from London. A
rather large and illogical group of friends. Besides, the house is perfectly commodious, is it not, and
Bombay is sadly lacking in appropriate hotels. Or even inappropriate ones. Where else should we
find a place with room for us all?”
“I suppose,” Emma admitted, wondering if she should risk sitting down in the even more
unstable looking chair that was perched beside Geraldine’s. Despite the odd-looking mortar walls,
which she could only assume were meant to combat the heat, the house was agreeably large and open
in design, with an entire host of bedrooms all opening up to a shared central courtyard. “But the
things she said in the carriage…and the rude way she greeted her staff. What did they call her?”
“Memsahib,” said Geraldine. “It means ‘the master’s woman.’ And although I agree
with you that her views are both intolerant and intolerable, you mustn’t judge her too harshly. She is
very typical of the women of the Raj, at least the ones I knew in the fifties. You must remember that
they were just ordinary women, who expected to become no more than wives and mothers, to live out
their lives in the villages where they were born. They did not seek adventure, at least the majority of
them didn’t, and they never asked to be put in these extraordinary conditions.”
“Those clothes she wore, so impractical in this heat,” Emma murmured. “And these
overstuffed furnishings, practically begging to be eaten by insects.”

“Silly indeed,” Geraldine agreed. “And we shall doubtless see more of the same this
very evening, for Mrs. Tucker has informed me we have been invited to dine at the Byculla Club. All
of us. She said it with great emphasis. Which is quite the social accomplishment, I take it, especially
in light of this particular group. She may as well have added, ‘Yes, even the Jew.’”
“She’s horrid,” said Emma. “Did you hear her shriek at that poor housemaid? Why is it
that when we British speak to foreigners we shout, as if raising the volume of our voice will
somehow make them understand English? It would seem after a lifetime in this country she would at
least have learned a few words in the native language.”
“Yes, but which native language? India has more than a hundred indigenous tongues. No
doubt a household of this size has three or four among its staff.” Geraldine looked at her kindly.
“We’re all a bit tired, I think, and the temperature has made us cranky. An afternoon nap will set it
right.”
Emma was indeed exhausted, although it pained her to admit it. “A nap already? The
hall clock showed barely noon when we entered.”
“Ah, but it is later in London.”
“Actually it’s earlier in London,” Emma said, with a little laugh. “You always manage
to get that backwards. It’s no more than three in the morning there.”
“All the more reason we should be in bed,” Geraldine said, pushing to her feet. “Come,
my dear. India is punishing, especially to women, and we shall be no good to anyone tonight if we
arrive at the Club, and thus at the true start of the investigation, in ill humor. And when it comes to
Mrs. Tucker…You must try a little harder to see it from her perspective. She may be tedious, but she
is our hostess.”
“I will try,” Emma said. “But I do intend to tour the temples no matter what she says.
And I shall at least learn a few words of Hindustani.”
“Oh at least,” Geraldine said with a vigorous pat to her arm. “And you can bristle at
every ridiculous remark which is made at tonight’s dinner table, of which I’m sure there will be
many. But still….I must say that from a social standpoint, things seem better here than they were
when I last came.”
On that disconcerting note, Emma left Geraldine and wandered back to her own room.
Both her bags were waiting there, looking somewhat the worst for their ride from the dock, and Emma
could not begin to imagine how the driver and maids had determined which valise was to be
delivered to which room.
Her blouse was uncomfortably stiff with dried sweat, so Emma opened the smaller bag
and pulled a nightgown from it. Geraldine had warned that the British in India changed clothes three
or four times a day but Emma had misunderstood the comment. She had thought that Geraldine was
suggesting they were pompous and effete, and thus trying to emulate the behavior of the upper classes
back at home by having one suit of clothes designated for luncheon and another for tea. Now she saw
that Geraldine had been talking about nothing more than the necessity of staying comfortable in the
heat and Emma grimly reflected that she had packed far too light. If she continued to perspire at this
rate she would have to do laundry daily.
Geraldine had also said something about snakes and scorpions and bugs hiding in
bedclothes so – after shucking her clothing, corset, and stockings – Emma strode over to the low bed
and grabbed the sheets. She pulled them back layer by layer, systematically shaking each in turn, but
no creatures emerged. The window above the bed was open but the heavy woven grass screens
seemed to be discouraging a breeze, if indeed one were inclined to blow. Emma noted many moths

and flies embedded in the slats, along with some cricket-like creature, and several large dung
beetles.
Continuing to wander around the room in her white muslin nightdress, Emma took
account of the sparse contents. There was a small well-like hole in the corner, which upon inspection
held a bottle of water, the glass indeed far cooler than one might expect under the circumstances.
Taking one of the goblets from a nearby shelf, Emma poured herself a swig and shuddered. It was
very strange indeed, and most likely a sample of the tonic water Geraldine had also warned her to
expect. The metallic taste was undoubtedly quinine and, steeling herself, Emma ventured another
sip. It was wretched, but claimed to be effective, and she certainly didn’t want to get malaria.
Passing the couch and chair, she noted both were threadbare in places, no doubt courtesy
of the persistent moths and termites. A table and oil lamp were well situated for reading, which was
fortunate, for the only other piece of furniture in the room was a bookcase crammed full of what
turned out to be novels, most of them apparently written by British women. The names of the authors
were not familiar to her but, based on the titles, Emma suspected they were romances.
The room was thus inspected and there was nothing else to do but follow Geraldine’s
sensible suggestion to take a nap. Emma felt a bit guilty about it, knowing the men were just as
exhausted and probably a good deal hotter, but she was here, and so was the bed, and a certain syrupy
weariness had crept into her limbs. If only there was some sort of breeze, she thought, glancing at the
courtyard which beckoned through the second door. While showing them through the house, Mrs.
Tucker had promised that on exceptionally hot nights, the servants would pull the beds out into this
central open space so that the master of the house and his guests could sleep outside, a notion which
had struck Emma as marvelously exotic. But she had also wondered if the notion of sleeping under
the southern sky, male and female alike in their separate enclaves, had brought up painful memories
for Geraldine.
But there was no point of thinking of that now. At night, when the sun was down,
sleeping outside would be a delight, but at noon, with the sun near its peak, the interior of the house
was presumably cooler. So, with a resigned sigh, Emma stretched down upon the creaky bed, closed
her eyes….
And felt a breeze.
Her eyes starting open, she found herself staring into the flower-like shape of an
enormous ceiling fan hanging above the bed. It was so high and recessed so deeply among the rafters
that it had escaped notice in her initial study of the room, but here it now was, directly above her and
steadily spinning.
It was pleasant, yes, but disconcerting. What had made it begin?
Emma waited a minute, enjoying the sensation, even as she wondered if it were some
sort of hallucination, some sign she had already gone mad from the temperature. Then she pushed
from the bed, the springs echoing every movement, and just as she rose to her feet, the fan stopped.
“Curiouser and curioser,” she muttered and then she noted that a rope was attached to the
fan, cleverly insinuated among the exposed rafters. Her eyes followed the rope across the ceiling and
down the wall, where it disappeared behind the bookcase. Emma walked over to the bookcase,
frowning. It was large and heavy, like all the furnishings of the room, and far too laden with romance
for a single slightly-built woman to move on her own. But stooping and peering behind it, she could
see that the rope extended down the wall nearly to the floor and then exited via a small hole.
Something outside was making the fan move. Something in the courtyard.
Grabbing the top bedsheet to wrap around her body, Emma moved to the door and

peered out. She was rewarded with the sight of a small brown boy, naked himself except for a
swaddling cloth around his hips, crouched near the wall. He did indeed hold the other end of the
rope in his hand and apparently by tugging on it at regular intervals, he was able to make the fan spin.
He grinned at her.
Disconcerted as she was, she grinned back. He looked no more than five or six years
old.
“How did you know when to pull?” she asked without thinking, for of course he couldn’t
understand the question. And besides, she herself knew the answer. The creak of the bedsprings was
his signal, as loud to his well-trained ears as a gong, and a sign that one of the Memsahibs was taking
her afternoon rest. A sign that he would be required to stoop here, making his slow methodical tugs
for as long as she lay in the bed. It was appalling, Emma thought - but perhaps, on second thought, no
more appalling than how the young chimney sweeps in London were treated. They were lowered into
smoking hell holes and this boy was in a reasonably pleasant courtyard as he went about his task. He
didn’t seem underfed or mistreated – or even unhappy. He was watching her with wide bright eyes.
And she so dearly wanted to nap.
“Thank you,” she said, although she was quite certain the child did not understand this
simple phrase either. It was highly unlikely he had never heard it from Mrs. Tucker or any white
skinned person. But he grinned again and nodded, and with nothing left to say between them, Emma
retreated slowly back into her room. She sat back on the bed and with the subtle squeak of the
springs, the great fan begin to turn again.
He’s out there anyway, she told herself, leaning back on the bed and letting the cool air
wash across her like water. Sitting and waiting. He may as well stir the rope, after all.
And then another thought came over her, just as she drifted off to sleep. An hour in this
country and I am already letting a child fan me while I nap. I have become just another one of the
memsahibs and, God help me, it didn’t take long.
***
The Byculla Club – The Kitchens
1:20 PM
“Don’t tell Trevor or he shall have apoplexy,” Tom said, “but the idea about cutting off
the fingers wasn’t a bad one. Either Seal or Morass, one of them, is cleverer than he seems.”
“Well I suppose even a blind squirrel finds a nut once in a while,” said Rayley, wiping
his hands on a dishcloth. Within minutes of their arrival at the club, they had been shown to the
kitchens, and then to the storage cooler, and had there been greeted by the sight of Rose Weaver and
Pulkit Sang lying side by side in what appeared to be a coffin made of ice. It was both eerie and
rather like a child’s fairy tale, Rayley thought, noting how the corpses lay not only in close congress
but furthermore gazing into each other’s eyes. As if they shared some secret unknown to the outside
world.
But any such romantic notions quickly dissipated when Tom approached the pair and
matter-of-factly began to whack away at the ice. They were extracted easily enough, since the thick
dome which covered them broke off nearly all in a piece, allowing Tom and Rayley to set it aside.
The revelation of the bodies brought both the sweet smell of decomposition and the awareness that
rigor had in essence fused them together. Tom, utterly nonplused, had merely picked up his hammer
again.
Rayley had stood in the doorway, ostensibly to shield the kitchen staff from the

undignified sight of Tom wresting the bodies apart, at one point straddling the both of them and using
his full youthful strength to accomplish the task. He assured Rayley that his roughness was necessary
and would not corrupt the investigation. Since the two had been dead so long, it should be an easy
enough matter to tell postmortem wounds from any which might have been inflicted while the person
was still alive. Rayley had briskly nodded, but in truth the purity of the forensics was the last thing on
his mind. Although he had volunteered for this task, recording the observations made as Tom
examined the bodies, he hadn’t counted on anything quite so distressing as this.
At last the two lay apart and it took Tom but a few minutes more to confirm that the
original report appeared to be accurate. The bodies had suffered no obvious injuries before death.
“At least nothing such as obvious as a blow or stab wound,” Tom had said. “But the skin
is far too corrupted to look for a puncture mark.”
“You agree with the possibility of poison, I take it?” Rayley asked, finally leaving his
post at the door to cautiously approach.
“It seems likely,” Tom said, glancing toward the vials of blood resting on the table
behind him. “The local boys are right in saying that it’s the only thing that explains the fact that both
arrived here at the club apparently in fine fettle and lay dead just minutes later. But the trouble is, the
kit I brought from London and my study books only address the sort of poisons one is apt to find in
Europe. I venture to say there are any number of botanicals here in Bombay which could cause death
upon ingestion, but I have no idea where to begin.”
“They were likely dosed in the home and not the club?” Rayley said, gazing down at the
form of Rose Weaver. Of the two, she looked especially pitiful. So small and pale and startled
looking, as if death had caught her utterly unaware. The fact that one foot flopped awkwardly inward,
the ankle no doubt broken during the rather brutal autopsy, only added to her helplessness, as did of
course, the fact she was missing all ten fingers. Sang was curled on his side, with his own ravaged
hands tucked under him, almost as if he were ashamed of them.
“Yes, the poisons are a conundrum,” Tom continued, lining the fingers up on the table
beside the blood samples. “But I do believe these fingers may yield at least partial prints. With any
luck Davy shall pick something up when he dusts the house and we will be able to determine where
and how the poison was administered, even if we don’t know the precise kind it is.”
“Would a jury convict without proof of the type of poison?”
“I cannot say. What a jury will or will not do lies more within your expertise than mine.
A British court might demand it, but who knows what a local court may accept.”
“It seems,” Rayley said, “that we are well on our way to strengthening the case against
your aunt’s beau.”
“We can’t help which way the evidence falls,” Tom said, shifting the form of Rose back
beside that of Sang on the table and wincing with the effort. “Which Aunt Gerry fully understands, I
am sure. But as for now,” he added, “help me rebury them in ice, will you? I’m not sure these bodies
have anything else to tell us, but I am not ready to release them for burial yet. Or whatever the Hindus
do. Burning, probably.”
` “Very well,” said Rayley, scooping the smaller shards of ice to pack around the two
bodies. “But I wish to stay and assist while you do the fingerprinting and blood work. Should I pull
the microscope from its case? I know I’m little help in the laboratory but I find this part of the
process oddly compelling.”
“Of course,” said Tom, as they lowered the large curved piece of ice over the bodies. “I
shall talk you through it as I work and turn you into a proper laboratory assistant. Ah, look there,” he

said, jerking his head toward another table. “There is a bit of welcome news, is it not? It would
appear we are having lamb for dinner.”
“Welcome news indeed,” Rayley said drily, for he also had noticed the racks of lamb as
he entered, lined neatly up against the wall and unwrapped for defrosting. It was all a bit much to
take in, the puddles of animal blood on the floor, as the lamb slowly dripped, the vials of human
blood on the counter. The fingers and the ribs and the hanging birds and the staring eyes, all of it, all
together, and Rayley suspected his dreams would be memorable tonight. “In truth I don’t know why I
want to learn your work at all, Bainbridge. For this is a dreadfully macabre sort of business, is it
not?”
***
Bombay Jail
1:30 PM
The old man stared at Trevor impassively. He did not seem particularly pleased to have
been escorted from his cell into a larger, airier room for his interview, and the words “Scotland
Yard” had not created in Anthony Weaver the sort of nervous expectation they generally created in
others.
Nor did the man appear to be bound by the protocol of the situation. In fact, he spoke
first.
“Did Geraldine travel with you? Or did she merely send you?”
“Merely?” Trevor snapped. “There is no ‘merely’ about it. A contingent of investigators
traveling from London to Bombay on a domestic matter is a noteworthy event, Secretary-General, and
I should think you would be grateful to anyone who had gone to such trouble on your behalf.”
“This is not a domestic matter,” Weaver said and despite his immediate dislike of the
man, Trevor was impressed with his composure, with the calm, even timbre of his voice. If he was
near seventy, on trial for murder, and incarcerated in a moldy Bombay jail, he doubted his own nerves
would have held so steady. “This is not a matter of a man killing his wife,” Weaver continued. “It is
more likely a case of political intrigue.”
“We are aware of that possibility,” said Trevor. “As is The Queen.”
“The Queen?” said Weaver, his face for the first time showing emotion. “The Queen
herself has taken an interest in my predicament?”
“If the Queen has taken an interest,” Trevor said, “it is more due to the status of the
deceased than the accused, I assure you.”
“It was Michael, wasn’t it?” Weaver said, twisting nervously in his chair. “He went to
her. Told her everything.”
Well, he certainly didn’t tell her everything, Trevor thought. Whatever everything is.
Something about the mention of either the Queen or Michael Everlee’s name had brought a new
energy to the small room, some sense of urgency. “Your stepson,” Trevor said cautiously, “did indeed
write Her Majesty on your behalf before he left London.”
“And so Michael too has come to Bombay?” Weaver said. A sheen of perspiration
suddenly appeared upon his face and he rubbed his lips with the back of his hand. “He is with you?”
Dear God, but the discussion had gotten out of hand quickly and Trevor momentarily
sank back in his chair, unsure of how to continue. Weaver was a difficult man to label, that much was
certain. So cool at first and now so agitated, his mood shifting without warning, his eyes suddenly
darting around the room. And he seemed to have leapt to many assumptions without evidence – an

odd trait in a military man. Perhaps this abrupt change in affect was more the result of his present
predicament, and not a normal personality trait. But it was unquestionably fortunate that Weaver had
so quickly concluded that Geraldine was not with them in Bombay. If he had known otherwise, he
might have requested a meeting, which she would have insisted on granting, and Trevor couldn’t
fathom bringing Geraldine into such a place as this.
But the questions were the real issue. The fact that Trevor Welles was supposed to be
asking them, and not Anthony Weaver.
“Your stepson traveled separately,” Trevor finally conceded, for the man would surely
become aware of this fact shortly, whether he was the one to tell him or not. “I understand he is in
Bombay but I have not yet had the pleasure of making his acquaintance. I represent Scotland Yard and
have voyaged on order of the Queen. With this in mind, shall I assume I have your full cooperation?
And might we start with August 7, the morning your wife and Pulkit Sang died?”
Weaver sank back in his chair. “What of it? That morning was no different than any
other, at least not as far as I know. I didn’t see either Rose or Sang before I left the house.”
“Tell me everything that happened. Walk me through it step by step.”
Weaver sighed, as if the simplicity of the task was beneath him. The nervousness which
had seized him had passed as quickly as it came and he was once more his composed self. “I arose
and dressed. Rose and I sleep in different rooms, as I gather a Yard man such as yourself would have
already deduced.”
A small jab, but Trevor let it pass. “Did you go into the dining room to eat or take your
meal in your room?”
“I don’t breakfast,” Weaver said sharply, as if hunger upon awakening was some sort of
profound moral failure. “I rose, I dressed, I visited the WC, if you must know, but that was the only
room in the house I entered other than my own. I walked down the main hall and out the front door.
My driver Felix was there. Held the door for me, asked me if I needed an umbrella, pulled round the
carriage. He was the only one I saw.”
“You did not walk through the gardens?”
“I have already said that I did not.”
“Or the kitchen?”
“Why the devil should I go into the kitchen?”
“Where did you go upon leaving the house?”
“The Byculla, of course.”
Trevor raised his eyebrows.
“I go there every morning,” Weaver said. “Myself and some of the other pensioned
officers – we like to take our coffee and papers on the patio, discuss the business of the day.”
“Were you at the Club when Rose and Sang arrived?”
“Of course not. That was much later.”
“What time did you leave the Club?”
“10:15.”
“That is quite specific.”
Weaver shrugged. “A clock stands in the foyer.”
“So I understand. Which is why the butler could tell the authorities with great
confidence that your wife and her manservant arrived at 10:29. So they didn’t come much later at all,
did they? In fact, I would imagine you passed their carriage approaching the Club as your own
carriage departed.”

Weaver shook his head impatiently. “I departed by another route.”
“I am terribly new to Bombay, Secretary-General, having disembarked from my ship
only this very morning. But even my limited experience with the city is enough to make me question
the particulars of your story. First of all, what time did you arrive at the club and you say Felix was
the one to drive you?”
“A little after eight and yes, of course he did.”
“Felix appears to be a remarkable young man,” Trevor said, crossing his legs in an effort
to imply a nonchalance he did not feel. Anthony Weaver had gotten under his skin a bit, although he
wasn’t sure why. “Apparently capable of serving any number of functions within your household.
But even so, I do not see how he could fetch you from the club at 10:15 and deliver your wife there at
10:29.”
“No, no you misunderstand entirely,” Weaver said, in exasperation. He clearly liked
asking questions far more than he liked answering them. “Felix deposited me at the club just after
eight and then I sent him back to the house so that Rose would have use of the carriage at her leisure.
We only keep one carriage since I’ve been pensioned, if you must know, Inspector, and she feels the
need of it more frequently than I do. I left the Club by way of a hired coach. At 10:15, just as I said.”
“Is there any point in asking if you or anyone at the Club might know the driver’s name?”
An impatient shake of the head.
“Not even the butler?” Trevor persisted. “Perhaps the Club uses the same carriage
service repeatedly?”
“And if they do, why should I know? Ask them.”
“I shall. But another thing troubles me. Even in a hired coach, you should have passed
the carriage carrying your wife and Sang.”
“I told you, man. I went another way.”
“So you did say. But why? As we have discussed, my knowledge of Bombay is limited,
but my more widely-traveled friends have assured me that the English living here tend to hold to
certain districts, using certain roads. Both your home and the Byculla Club lie well within these
favored districts with a single road – I believe my notes said Bellham Street? – connecting them. So
why should you, as you say, go another way? Were you specifically hoping to avoid your wife’s
carriage?”
Perspiration was again dotting Weaver’s upper lip, as well as his high bare forehead.
He dabbed at both, looking at Trevor sourly.
“I am not your typical member of the Raj, Inspector,” he finally said. “And certainly not
some nervous tourist fresh off his boat. Do not forget that I commanded this territory. All of it, both
the high and the low. So I shall drive any road that I damn well please.”
“Even those which take you on highly indirect routes. What path home did you elect?”
“We went by the bay. Coolidge Runs, they call it.”
“Ah,” said Trevor. “Against all odds, I know it, for it originates at the dock, I believe.
Yes, a most indirect route. What should draw your attention there?”
A hesitation. “Sometimes I choose to drive by the Khajuraho temple.”
For the first time since this rather bizarre conversation had begun, Trevor felt genuine
surprise. “Why would you go by the temple?”
“I like it. And since my retirement I have an unmanly amount of leisure, so why should I
not indulge these little whims?”
“Did you go in?”

“I did not. “ Weaver’s eyes, still disconcertingly blue and bearing evidence that must
have been at some point a handsome man, pierced into Trevor’s. “Look, man, my most fervent hope
was to speak with Geraldine Bainbridge. That is why I wrote her, seeking not only her help, which I
suppose you may be able to provide, but her forgiveness, which only Geraldine can grant.” He
coughed. “There are a limited number of souls on earth in whom I feel any desire to confide, and
yours is not among them. No, certainly not you or anyone in your fine contingent from Scotland Yard.
So, help me if you choose. Or condemn me if you must. But either way, this interview has come to an
end.”
“Not quite. I still must fingerprint you.”
The old man looked at him in dismay. “What the devil does that mean?”

Chapter Eight
The Weaver House
3:15 PM
There is a secret to detection, and it’s a very simple one. Trevor had taught Davy the
basic concept the previous November, when he had first taken the young bobby under his mentorship.
But in the nine subsequent months, Davy liked to think he had improved upon and refined Trevor’s
method.
He kept this belief to himself, of course.
All you must do is get to know the focus of your investigation – be they the victim or the
suspect – well enough to understand how they spent their days. The time they customarily rose from
their beds, what they ate for breakfast, the route they took to work. For we humans are ritualized
creatures. We tend to live in certain ways, day after day and year after year, and once a detective
begins to understand each individual’s chosen modes of behavior, he can also see where the pattern
deviated. Why did the suspect awaken at six and not at seven? Skip his breakfast tea or forget his
morning paper? What made the carriage turn toward the hills and not the harbor? Why was the
locked door suddenly open or the barking dog silent?
For it is in the deviation of the pattern that the answer always lies. Trevor had decreed
one question to be at the heart of all good police work: What made this one particular day different
from all the others?
And thus Davy Mabrey arrived at the Weaver home with a determination to better
understand a typical morning in the household. He would need to collect fingerprints, true, but they
would most certainly be the fingerprints of the Weavers and their small staff and thus of little help. Of
little help, that was, unless he could discern the underlying pattern of the household and thus the
variation. Of little help, that was, unless he could find the one hand which touched something that it
should not have touched.
Seal had described the home as “secured” by which he evidently meant that the front
door was closed, but not locked, and that a sign had been posted warning the public away. Davy
doubted such signs were any more effective in Bombay than they were in London – likely less so,
since the wording was in English, a language the vast majority of the populace could not read. He
walked up the steps, through the door and down the large central hall, noting that the interior of the
house was more impressive than the exterior. The construction of homes in the tropics, he was
beginning to see, had more to do with counteracting the heat than with following any principles of
architecture. The outside of the Weaver house was composed of mortar block, a bit squat and
certainly unimposing. But inside the rooms continued to open into more rooms - at times even full
sections, as if the house was unfolding around him the longer he walked.
At least at first glance, nothing seemed amiss. Davy did a quick walk through to get the
lay of the land, as Trevor always called it, and then decided to start with Rose Weaver’s room.
It did not take much effort to ascertain which was hers. The majority of the bedrooms
had a neat but dispirited air, with the ornamentation generic and no details to reveal the personality of
the occupants. Evidently the Weavers were well prepared for guests who rarely came. The chambers
in the back, down a hall behind the kitchens, were smaller and evidently designated for the household
staff. Only three bedrooms distinguished themselves, and only one furthermore clearly belonged to a

lady. The pillows tossed about had a floral design, not unlike those Davy had observed in Geraldine
Bainbridge’s parlor, and the curtains had a rather defiant frilliness. As if Mrs. Weaver was saying
that she could not help what lay beyond the window, but she could control what was in this room, and
she was keeping it English right up to the screen. For when the frilly curtains were pulled back, Davy
found roughly woven strips of bamboo, jammed with bugs, their bodies so gummed together that it
was difficult to see the garden beyond.
Glancing about self-consciously, even though there was no one near to observe his
methodologies, Davy stretched out on Rose Weaver’s bed. Looked up at her ceiling with its great fan,
and was struck with the irony that while the woman had gone to such pains to fool herself into
thinking this room was somewhere in England, the first sight that greeted her eyes each morning stood
as irrefutable proof it was not. For this fan, gigantic and utilitarian, with the pulley and gears fully
evident, could only exist in India.
Davy sat up and viewed the room from the vantage of the bed. There was no table
nearby, so evidently Rose Weaver was not in the habit of reading in bed nor was it likely she took her
breakfast there. Once she was vertical, the first thing her gaze would fall on would be a portrait of
young man whom Davy assumed to be her son, Michael. It hung ponderously above the mantle, and
on closer inspection Davy saw that it actually was a photograph, but one that had been painted over in
a technique that was popular in some circles in London. He had never understood the logic of it
himself, for the overlay of paint always seemed to obliterate the individuality of the subject, turning
all British faces, no matter what their gender, age, or general disposition, into uniformly rosycheeked,
shiny-eyed children.
He would dust the mantle for prints, Davy decided, and the windowsill, the bedposts,
and the nearest table. But first he would look at the other bedrooms which clearly had been
occupied.
The Secretary-General’s room was across the hall and down two doors. This was a
little odd, was it not? Davy knew that not all husbands and wives chose to occupy the same beds,
especially those of the Weavers’ age and income level. No, the fact that Anthony and Rose no longer
slept together was not much of a clue at all, but his understanding was that married couples did
normally select adjoining rooms… and yet Mrs. Weaver was located a notable distance from Mr.
Weaver. There would be little chance of a nocturnal visit with this configuration. The retired
Secretary-General’s room was much as one would predict – leather armchair, bookshelf full of
military volumes, wire-rimmed spectacles still resting on a nearby table – but what struck Davy as
most significant was that the manservant, Pulkit Sang, evidently occupied the third bedroom. The one
that lay between Rose and Anthony.
Odd among odd it was, but irrefutable, for the third bedroom was as Indian as the other
two were Engish. A pallet rather than a bed. A bright carpet, great swaths of cloth tied across the
window, a bureau full of woven robes. And a bird cage, the small yellow creature within hopping
about excitedly until Davy obliged him with a handful of seeds from a nearby bowl and then covered
the cage to allow the creature to compose himself. The chirping almost immediately stopped.
He supposed it was possible Rose Weaver might opt to keep her bodyguard even closer
than her husband, but such a decision implied a heightened state of anxiety. Yet Anthony Weaver had
apparently insisted there had been no recent threats.
Even stranger, the room which had evidently been occupied by Sang was as large as that
of Rose and Anthony, implying he was treated more like a member of the family than a servant. Aside
from the bureau, the room was quite devoid of furniture, but Davy suspected that was more at the

equest of its occupant than anything else. For it was by far the most practically designed and
comfortable space he had seen in the house so far.
In fact, Sang’s room, unlike that of Rose and Anthony, had not merely a window but a
door granting access to the garden. Davy pushed it open and walked out.
After better than a week without watering, the garden was a sad affair. The plants
drooped. More of them were recognizable than Davy would have guessed – in fact, it reminded him
of a smaller and less productive version of the same plot of land his mother worked back in England.
Surprising too, that the garden would have more vegetables than flowers, but he supposed it
represented Rose Weaver’s attempt to produce at least an occasional basketful of English food.
Perhaps mix a few freshly picked peas in with the tinned ones to make it seem as if the whole lot of
them bore the true taste of home. Whether the attempt was valiant or pathetic, Davy could not say, but
either way the struggle was a doomed one.
The sight of the wilted peas, in fact, especially distressed him, for they were his
favorites and somewhat of a specialty of his beloved mum. She would never have allowed him to
pass a garden in such state without lifting a hand, and now, almost by instinct, he put down his tool kit
and looked about for a well. He found one in the courtyard’s only shaded corner, or at least a small
recess filled with cool water. There didn’t appear to be a bucket – odd that, too – but he stooped
with the dipper and began to systematically carry water from the well to the plants, splashing a bit
here and there.
Hard to say why he felt compelled to keep on with the task, not with the afternoon fading
and half his work still undone. Not to mention the fact the mistress of this garden would never be
returning to tend it. Chances were that no one would be returning to this house at all, which raised the
question of what to do with the bird. Davy sat back on his haunches surveying the scene. The plants
were not numerous, but it would take him quite some time to water the whole batch with a single
dipper. And then his eye fell on a bush in the corner of the plot, the only plant among them that he
could not readily call by name.
Noteworthy perhaps. He would pull the leaves and flowers, take a few of the pods back
to Tom.
And it was just then, just as he pushed from his gardener’s squat to his feet, that he saw
the second surprising thing in the garden: a woman.

Chapter Nine
The Byculla Club Bar
6:40 PM
“Was she Indian?”
“No, Sir, she didn’t look it,” Davy said, nervously swirling his cocktail. To travel posh
was one thing, but the Byculla Club was quite beyond him. “She wore that wrappy sort of robe the
local women wear, but her coloring indicated she was English.”
“They call it a sari,” Trevor said, swirling his own cocktail as well and making
peripheral note that the ice shards within must have come at great effort. “A British woman in Indian
clothes. Most strange. And she wouldn’t answer your question for why she was there?”
“It was more a shout than a question, Sir,” Davy admitted, moving aside on the divan to
accommodate the arrival of Rayley. “She startled me and I apparently startled her. I asked ‘Who are
you?’ but that’s when she ran.”
“Show Rayley what she dropped.”
Davy pulled one of the crime kit envelopes from the interior pocket of his ill-fitting linen
coat. His outfit for the evening was a contribution from a closet of Mrs. Tucker’s which had
evidently once belonged to her late and only somewhat lamented husband. And then he carefully
extracted an eyedropper, using care to touch only the tube and not the plunger.
“So our mystery woman dropped a dropper,” Rayley drawled, settling back on the
settee. “That is certainly convenient.”
“A little too convenient,” Trevor said. “Apparently she was there to plant evidence.”
“Or take the real evidence away,” Rayley said as Davy reverently replaced the dropper
into its envelope and then his pocket. “Those gadgets retract fluid as well as release it, do they not?”
“I dusted this for fingerprints,” Davy said. “But that’s as far as I got.” He recounted his
observations about the Weaver house to Rayley and Trevor as the three men sat in their little corner of
the great room, each of them periodically making his own unspoken observations of the scene before
them as they conversed.
“Save the dropper for Tom,” Trevor said when Davy’s story drew to its close. “As well
as the clippings from that strange plant you noted. And you can return to the house and finish your
work on the morrow.”
“It seems a waste of time to even be here,” Davy said fretfully. “With the house standing
unguarded and the lab work unfinished.”
“Oh, not a waste of time,” Trevor said, gazing out at the people mingling around the
room. They were elaborately dressed considering that the Byculla Club was a place they visited
daily and that they would be dining among people they had known for years. But even his untrained
eye could see that the women’s appearance was too fussy, with their clothes somehow out of date.
Emma, whose gown was without a bustle but rather featured a severe sort of drape to the side,
seemed to be attracting a good deal of envious attention from the other ladies.
They try to stay current with fashion from London, Trevor thought, but they have every
disadvantage, do they not? Everything must be brought in by ship at great expense and if they try to
reproduce British designs using the local materials and craftspeople, it always falls flat. Looks fake
and out of place, neither convincingly British nor truly Indian either.

“Not a waste of time at all,” he repeated. “For I have no doubt that all our suspects with
all their separate motives have most obligingly gathered themselves before us tonight. We must take
advantage of our seating at dinner to overhear the local gossip, to interview while making it appear
conversational. And do not trouble yourself, lad,” he added, with a glance toward Davy. “Whatever
business drove the English woman in Indian dress to the Weaver house, she clearly didn’t finish it.
My guess is that you shall see her again, very soon.”
***
“In this heat, a sari seems a quite sensible mode of clothing,” Emma said.
“Oh don’t let anyone overhear you,” giggled her companion, a giddy but quite friendly
young woman named Amy Morrow who had attached herself to Emma at the moment of their
introduction. Apparently any new visitor to the Byculla Club was a novelty and thus an automatic
source of entertainment. “People will think you’ve gone native and that will never do. Shall we have
another peg?”
“Peg?”
“It’s what we call the drinks,” Amy said with another giggle that shook her blonde curls.
“Because they’re so strong that the old people claim each one is a peg in your coffin.”
“Thank you for saying they are strong,” Emma said, laughing back despite herself. “For I
am quite dizzy and I feared it was the heat.”
“No it’s the gin, I assure you,” Amy said. “And let us do have another. One has to make
one’s own fun here in Bombay, you see.”
“And even dull things are more fun if you’re tipsy.”
“Just the point.” Amy shifted on her cushion and looked around the room with a
charmingly wrinkled nose. “From the outside, our social life perhaps appears to be acceptable. We
have our theatricals and parties and balls and each dinner, even the mundane ones, have eight
courses. You shall see what I mean when we are called in to dine. There will be this great gong and
we shall enter to find, each of us, a servant standing directly behind our chair. A man whose sole
purpose is to assure that our water glass is refilled after each sip and that each course of food is
simply upon us, poof, like some sort of Biblical miracle. And it disappears just the same. No, not
like the Bible. That’s quite the wrong comparison. More like a magician with his tricks.”
Emma laughed again. For all her curls and fripperies, Amy had a witty mind and seemed
more than willing to share her observations, which might be pertinent. Trevor had said many times
that when it came to crime solving, gossips were of far greater use than policemen.
“A servant behind every chair,” Emma mused. “Can you imagine what the cost would be
in London?”
“Labor is cheap here,” Amy said. “And so we dress up the natives in all manner of
livery and have them march about in any number of mindless tasks. It consoles us. Makes us think we
are important, or, better yet, home. And so our events are very grand, but somehow they are never
very gay.”
“You do sports?” Emma asked. “I understand they are popular among the women of the
Raj.”
“Oh, of course,” Amy said. “Archery, badminton, tennis when I’m here with Granny in
the city. In the provinces the women even try their hand at hunting and fishing. Otherwise we get so
bored. The men go to work and we…don’t go anywhere. So we shoot birds, or we paint them. It
doesn’t seem to make much difference. “
“And any social life revolves around the clubs, I take it? These little enclaves of

England?”
“Oh we’re much more English here than anyone is in England,” Amy said with a wicked
little chirp of mirth. “You shall get a proper dose of it at dinner, just you wait. Each party slogs
along at a comfortably familiar pace. The same conversations. Even the same arguments, circling
around us year after year. The etiquette is so rigid and so…pointless. There is an order of
precedence for everything. Who goes into the table first. Who speaks first, bows first. Granny
claims it all has something to do with the military, the fact that all English life in India began on army
posts, but I can’t make heads nor tails of it. I just always assume that as the youngest daughter of a
junior officer, I count last in all matters and so far no one has bothered to correct that impression.”
“I do hope we sit together at dinner, Amy,” Emma said, with a rush of affection. It was
so rare to meet a lively girl her own age, or perhaps it was just the gin.
“I would love that as well, but we shan’t,” Amy said. “We’re too valuable and so we
must be situated around the table at measured intervals, like diamonds in a crown. Oh, I assure you
it’s quite the truth,” she added, when Emma looked surprised. “Do you have any idea how rare single
girls are in Bombay? Especially those with all their body parts arranged in the proper order? At the
last dance I attended there were at least four times as many men as women and I waltzed until my feet
bled. That is not an exaggeration, I assure you. I felt the squish between my toes with every step.”
“All in service to the empire,” Emma said drily.
“But of course. I flatter myself that I have raised the morale of any number of men in the
district, all on my own.” Amy paused and laughed, clearly aware of the bawdy implications of her
statement, and then leaned forward to say her next lines with special emphasis. “But no matter where
we are seated tonight, we shall meet again soon, Emma Kelly, I shall see to that. In fact, why don’t I
make a few inquiries and ensure that you are invited to lawn tennis at Mrs. Keener’s tomorrow?
How does that sound?”
“Lawn tennis?” Emma said skeptically.
“Indeed. We shall partner, you and I, but I must tell you that it’s considered good form
to lose the first set to your hostess. That beastly order of precedence, you know.”
“That should not prove difficult,” said Emma. “For I have never picked up a tennis
racket in my life.”
***
“And how did you find the soul of Anthony Weaver?” Rayley asked. “Sufficiently
pensive?”
“Strangely variable,” Trevor said. They had been drinking now for the better part of an
hour with no sign that dinner was imminent. He was unaccustomed to this ritual called the cocktail
hour, normally taking only wine with his dinner at Geraldine’s or beer if he found himself acting the
bachelor at a London pub. It was a bit hard to monitor consumption under these circumstances, with
fresh trays of drinks appearing from behind the bar every few minutes. “The man showed abrupt
swings of mood I couldn’t account for by the questioning. One moment he is twisting in his seat,
wiping his brow, and behaving as if he is ready to jump from his skin. The next moment he is utterly
certainly sure of himself, trying to maneuver the questioning away from me as if he were still the
ranking officer and I was some sort of underling. All in all, not the sort of man I would have
imagined could ever have won the heart of Geraldine Bainbridge.”
“Interesting,” said Rayley. “Well, I’m sure thirty-two years ago they were both very
different people.”
“He doesn’t know she is here,” Trevor said. “He leapt to an assumption that she had

sent us, not accompanied us, and I decided to let him remain in that fallacy. I was afraid he’d ask to
see her.”
Rayley tilted his head. “What if she asks to see him? She surely will, as soon as she
gets her feet back under her from the sailing.”
“True enough,” Trevor said. “But I would like to forestall that meeting as long as
possible, at least until we hold a few more cards in our hands. He said he wanted her forgiveness,
which is likely true enough, but who knows what manner of falsehoods he is prepared to utter in his
quest for that benediction? Until we have a better grasp on the particulars, we’ll have no way of
separating confessed facts from confessed fantasy.” Trevor sat back in his chair and scanned the
room. “By the way, do you think I was too rough on Seal and Morass today?”
“I wouldn’t lose sleep over the matter. But I suppose that Morass is more accustomed to
military matters, which exists as a different world from civilian crime, and that Seal fondly imagined
he had come to India to shuffle paperwork around for a year or two and then move on to greener
fields. You can hardly hold them to the professional standards of Scotland Yard.”
Trevor shifted a bit uncomfortably in his seat, for he knew he had done precisely that.
“Seal has possibilities,” he finally ventured.
“You think so? Of the two, I would put my money on Morass.”
Just then Geraldine swept up, with a pair of young men in her wake. One was short,
ruddy, and moved with the confident manner of a man intent on a plan. The other – frail and bookish
with a heavy mustache – held back a bit, hovering on the periphery of the social circle.
“Darlings,” said Geraldine. “You must allow me to introduce Michael Everlee and
Jonathan Benson. Recently come from London, just as we have. And this is Trevor Welles, Rayley
Abrams, and David Mabrey. All of Scotland Yard.”
“Abrams?” Everlee said.
“Yes,” Rayley said evenly. “And did I catch your own name? Eversure?”
“Everlee,” the man replied. “Benson here is my attaché. Attache as in the word
‘attached,’ you understand. In a business sense, of course.”
“Oh of course,” Rayley said, just as evenly. Benson nodded in their general direction
but his gaze was fixed on a point just above their heads.
“Shall we sit?” asked Geraldine, choosing a chair as she spoke. “I was telling Mr.
Everlee that I had a long ago acquaintance with his mother and father. And stepfather as well.”
“But my dear Miss Bainbridge,” said Everlee, still standing. “As I told you out on the
terrace, there is no need to dissemble. I know well enough who you all are and why you are here.”
And we know your purpose as well, Trevor thought, keeping the socially required smile
plastered on his face.
Geraldine soldiered on. “Do sit just a minute, for it is such an honor to meet you,” she
said. “I understand you are the youngest man to have ever won an election to the House of Commons.
That is quite an accomplishment.”
“Yes, I shall be thirty-three next month,” Everlee said. “Which makes me the youngest
man to sit in Parliament.” The words had the false ring of an oft-repeated speech and after saying
them he looked restlessly around the room. “I hope you will forgive me if I don’t join you for the next
round of pegs, but, as I’m sure you can all imagine, this is not a social visit for me. I do appreciate
you for offering up your names so promptly. Yes, it was most helpful, and I shall see you again soon.”
And with that he bowed and even snapped his heels a bit, giving rise to unfortunate
comparisons with Bonaparte, then bustled away from the group, Benson trailing wordlessly behind.

“We shall all await that pleasure with bated breath,” murmured Geraldine, when the men
were safely out of earshot. “What a thoroughly unpleasant boy Roland sired, which is a pity. On first
impression, I must say Michael doesn’t seem half the man his father was, in either character or
stature. Roland stood well better than six feet, broad shouldered, the whole lot. And yet his son…”
“Is clearly trading on his family reputation to establish his rise in Parliament,” Rayley
finished. “For it’s hard to imagine he is climbing on the basis of his social charm.”
“The man he said was attached to him,” Davy asked. “Is he…”
“Most likely,” said Rayley. “That’s my impression.”
“Good fishing to have found the pair of them at all, Geraldine, “Trevor said. “What led
your attention toward Everlee in this great crowd?”
“Mrs. Tucker,” Geraldine said promptly. “She is hardly the most agreeable companion
with which to share cocktails, but she does know everyone at the Byculla Club and was quite happy
to help me ferret out the location of dear Rose’s long departed boy. A rather strange remark about this
not being a social evening, was it not? What would you imagine that means?”
But before Trevor could answer, the butler approached the group. He was dressed not
as the butler of a London club might be, but rather in garish colors of orchid and lime green, and was
festooned with more brass and silver than a military hero.
“Which of you is Mr. Abrams?” he said, with only the slightest hint of the sing-songy
Indian accent.
“I am he,” said Rayley. “As I suspect you are quite aware.”
“I regret that I must ask you to leave, Sir.”
“On what basis?” snapped Trevor, scrambling to his feet.
“The Byculla is a private club, Sir, and thus –“
“It’s all right, Welles,” said Rayley, also rising. “Perhaps this gentleman can find me a
carriage?”
“It’s far from all right,” Trevor said.
“I should say not,” said Geraldine. “We have come here as a united party, my good man,
and if necessary we shall leave as one.”
“No,” said Rayley. “No we shall not. A carriage, please. Tell me when it is here.” The
butler turned away and Rayley was aware that half the room was covertly observing their little drama
over the rims of their cocktail glasses . The other half was openly gaping.
“Come, Abrams,” said Trevor, “surely you see that buggered chap Everlee is at the root
of it all. You heard the way he repeated your name.”
“Yes, I did,” said Rayley. “Which is why I have been mentally preparing for my
departure ever since. It is truly to be expected, Trevor, Geraldine, and if Everlee hadn’t noted my
name, it was a matter of time before someone else did. A man cannot move through life without
introductions and I refuse to change to Adams, as did my brother. No, I refuse to try and pass.”
“I will come with you, Sir,” said Davy.
“It is not necessary,” Rayley said.
“I insist.”
“Ah,” said Rayley. “Make note of this, Welles. Our young Mr. Mabrey insists.”
“And right he is,” said Trevor, for the only thing more distressing that Rayley being
escorted from the club was the idea of him leaving alone. It rankled Trevor to think that by staying, as
they truly must, the rest of the group seemed to be giving tacit approval to Rayley’s ouster.
“We shall all come,” said Geraldine. “And we shall knock things over on the way out.”

“No,” Rayley said. “What you shall do is stay and finish the task of the evening, which
is to see if any of the people gathered within in this fine room are likely suspects or witnesses. And
we shall confer on the morrow, just as we always do.”
“But what shall the two of you eat?” said Geraldine, her mind running to trivial matters
as it often did when she was upset. “Dinner has not yet been served.”
Rayley chuckled. “I have a great curiosity about the local curries, haven’t you, Davy?”
“Yes, Sir,” Davy loyally lied. “We will find a shop that sells them on our way back to
Mrs. Tucker’s and eat ourselves full.”
“Stout lad,” said Rayley. “And so we are off, because our transport has evidently just
arrived,” he added, inclining his head toward the door where the blank-faced butler was waiting,
Rayley’s hat clasped pointedly in hand. “Don’t mention this to Emma and Tom, Welles, for it will
only distress them. If Emma asks where Davy and I have gone, as she most surely will, tell her I am
unwell and Davy has volunteered to see me back to our rooms.”
“Just as you wish,” Trevor said. “But I hate that you must always be the one to turn the
other cheek. Yes, I’m aware of the irony, so don’t bother to speak it, but God’s nightgown, man,
Geraldine’s right. Don’t you ever just want to break glass?”
It was yet another full hour longer before dinner was served. An hour in which Trevor
trawled the room, more distracted than he should have been, and only hoping that Geraldine, Tom, and
Emma were making better use of their time. At one point he passed Everlee holding court in a corner,
telling a seemingly impressed group of men about the latest turns in London politics. When Everlee
raised his cocktail toward Trevor in a mock salute, it was all he could do to keep from sailing across
the room and boxing the man's plump face.
` But otherwise he supposed it could be said that the Byculla Club was a reasonably
convivial crew. They got a bit louder the more they drank, but that was the case for any social
gathering, and it struck him as more significant that there was such a marked surplus of men in the
room. He recalled Gerry’s claim that even the plainest and dullest of girls could find a husband
among the men of the Raj and that certainly appeared to be accurate. The handful of young, attractive
women – of which Emma was certainly one – were seated within a virtual enclave of men, and being
obliged to turn this way and that, keeping track of multiple conversations as each of the fellows vied
for a few precious moments of feminine attention.
He missed the company of Rayley and Davy. Tom, of course, was in his social element,
as was Geraldine, and Emma was being fawned over so ostentatiously that one would think she was
on the verge of coronation. He was the one who didn’t fit in, who had no gift for gab. He paused to
gaze at a notice board which was crammed full of information about upcoming teas, sporting events,
and parties. He explored the bar (overstocked) and the library (understocked) and wandered out to
the terrace where he could barely make out the forms of the swimming pool and tennis courts in the
growing darkness.
Such a lot of toys, he thought.
And then at last came the gong, signaling them in to dinner.
Trevor walked back into the drawing room where the others were clustered, waiting to
be escorted into the dining room in some order that defined logical analysis. But they all appeared to
take it quite seriously and stood oddly silent, each waiting their turn, like a bridal party about to
proceed down the aisle. Tom, he noted, was ushered in with a pretty blonde girl – he had undeniable
luck, that boy – and Emma was on the arm of none other than Michael Everlee. Not so fortunate for

her, but a good stroke for the investigation, for perhaps she could gather from the man what, if
anything, he had learned about the Weaver case. Judging by Geraldine’s high color, she had not yet
recovered from the insult to Rayley, but she too was in the party clustered around Everlee.
Trevor’s group entered last. Impossible to tell what, if anything, that meant, but he was
no sooner seated than he extended his feet under the table and jumped.
His foot had found something hard. Hard and, after a moment of poking against it, even
rather cold.
He continued to nudge about, but the human foot is an improper instrument for
investigation, far less subtle than the hand. Abandoning his plastered social smile, Trevor was finally
forced to raise the tablecloth and peer beneath.
“It is ice,” whispered the elderly lady seated to his right. Trevor’s status, evaluated God
knows where or when, had evidently not been deemed high enough to earn him proximity to either a
young lady or an esteemed guest. If Rayley and Davy had remained, they probably would have been
seated out by the tennis courts. This woman, who had evidently waged centuries of war with the
tropical sun and lost, was looking at Trevor down the length of her nose with amusement.
“New to India, I take it,” she said.
“Less than a day,” he admitted.
“ Ah,” she said. “They say the first ten years are the hardest.”
“Is it customary to put blocks of ice under the table?”
“I wouldn’t say customary,” she said. “For it is too expensive a practice to be common.
But it is pleasant, is it not? Especially considering the layers of clothing we ladies are expected to
wear beneath our skirts. But all one has to do is prop one’s feet on a block of ice and voila, it is as if
a cool breeze is blowing right up the legs.”
Well, that was a rather unexpected observation. Most of the women Trevor knew would
rather die than admit they had legs, much less that they enjoyed the notion of a cool breeze running up
them.
“I am Trevor Welles,” he said.
“Scotland Yard,” she said, with a definitive nod. “I know all about it. We have so little
excitement here at the Byculla Club that of course your reputation has preceded you. I am Evangeline
Morrow.”
“A pleasure to meet you,” Trevor said, suspecting that for once the shallow statement
would be truthful. “But answer me this, Mrs. Morrow - how do they keep the ice under the table?”
“It rests on great silver trays,” she said, “which are placed under the table just before we
are called in to dine. We are to prop our feet on the ice while we can, you see, which is to say before
it sinks and melts and turns the floor into a puddle. Everyone in India is accustomed to propping up
his feet the minute he sits down, Detective, but don’t let them tell you that it is for comfort. It’s to
make it less likely you’ll be stung by a scorpion or bitten by a cobra.”
“Dear God,” said Trevor. “We have come to a most extraordinary land, have we not?”
“The country is indeed extraordinary,” Mrs. Morrow said, “for those plucky enough to
explore it. But I suppose you mean it is extraordinary the lengths we expatriates will go to in our
search for comfort. Have you noticed anything else about this table?”
“It glows.”
“Indeed it does. Can you imagine why?”
“It would appear that they have set electrical lamps on the floor at each corner of the
table”

“Bravo, Detective Welles. And can you further conjure the use of such a practice?”
“To draw the flying insects away from the legs of the diners?”
“Just that,” she said, with another vigorous nod. “A swarm of mosquitoes does so ruin a
dinner party.” She glanced down the table. “See the girl at the end there? With the ringlets? She is
my granddaughter and that fair-haired young man looking down her bosom, he is with your party as
well, is he not?”
“That would be Thomas Bainbridge,” Trevor said. “And, just as you have noticed, he is
our anatomical expert.”
“Good sort of family?”
“The very best sort. He’s rich.”
Mrs. Morrow cackled with amusement and Trevor found himself joining in.
Extraordinarily fine fortune after all, he thought, to have drawn this woman as a companion.
“The lady just there, with the feathers in her hat,” he continued, nodding in the opposite
direction, “is Tom’s great-aunt Geraldine Bainbridge. She is the only one of our number who can
claim to have traveled to India before.”
“So I hear,” said Mrs. Morrow, lifting her spoon to begin her soup. One of the
advantages of a servant behind every chair, Trevor noted, was that the entire room was able to begin
dining in tandem, rather than going through that awkward process of some being served before others
and waiting to begin. “She is an intimate of the Secretary-General?”
“She knew both of them long ago,” Trevor said. “He and his wife, that is. May I assume
you are likewise acquainted?”
“Everyone at the Byculla knows everyone else. Far too well, if you want my opinion.
Which you obviously do, for all the indirection of your approach.”
Trevor laughed again, nearly choking on his own soup. Turtle – heavily spiced and, all
in all, a bad choice for the heat of the room.
“Anthony and Rose Weaver,” Mrs. Morrow said, “were not happily married.”
Trevor looked at her out of the corner of his eye. “Who told you this?”
“Everyone knew. It was obvious.”
“And this is why their peers are content to believe that he killed her?”
“It doesn’t help his case, as I’m sure you can imagine and I must also confess that there
is excitement over the fact of a murder and an arrest. Such drama here among us at the Byculla Club,
where nothing ever happens. Before Rose and her manservant dropped dead in the great hall…well
the last bit of news was some debate over new curtains in the card room and the breathless scandal of
a man who got so drunk that he kissed his children’s nanny. So people care about the crime simply
because it is novel.”
“And not for the sake of the Weavers.”
“A disliked man killed a disliked woman. Nothing more to report.”
“Indeed,” Trevor said thoughtfully, putting down his spoon.
The soup was taken, another dish arrived.
“What precisely was so unpleasant about them?” Trevor asked when the servants
withdrew. He spoke quietly, for the conversation around them was muted and sporadic and he did not
wish to have his tete-a-tete with Mrs. Morrow overheard. “You said they were unhappily married,
but I daresay they were not the only couple in the Club to bear that stain, and, in fact, I have noticed
that the unhappily married are often quite popular among their social circles. They seem to take more
care to nurture friendships than those fortunate creatures who are cozy within the walls of their

wedded bliss.”
` “What an interesting remark,” Mrs. Morrow said, with some surprise. “But I assure you
that neither of the Weavers cultivated social standing. He was too pompous to socialize with any
man below him in rank and they were all, you see, below him in rank.”
“Earlier today he told me that he breakfasted daily with the other retired men, here at the
Club. Said he did just that on the morning that his wife was killed.”
“And so he likely did, if by breakfasting you mean a group of men sitting silently about a
drawing room, each reading their separate newspapers and eating their kippers. Women generally
demand more of their friendships, but Rose’s only true companions were her complaints and her
ailments.”
`
“Have you met their son?”
“No,” Mrs. Morrow said. “He draws attention as he sits among the group, as does
anyone new, but we have not been introduced. Have you?”
“Unfortunately, yes. My impression is that the man combines the worse traits of both
parents. The bombast of the stepfather and the weakness of the mother.”
“Ah,” said Mrs. Morrow. “Then ‘tis a pity indeed he was seated beside your friend, that
nice young Miss Kelly. Look at him working over her. Trying to debone her as if she were this little
squab.”
***
“The flowers are lovely, are they not?” Michael Everlee said, leaning so close to Emma
that she could smell his cologne. “Orchids, you know.”
“Yes,” Emma said vaguely, for she was struggling with the latest dish of the evening, a
dainty bird perched whole on a silver plate. “They are such a rarity at home, that it is a shock to see
them growing in such profusion.”
“They remind me of women, you know.”
“Women?” she said, even more vaguely.
“The shape. So reminiscent of certain delights.”
“Of course,” she said, not understanding at all. She was beginning to wonder if Everlee
was mad. He had talked incessantly since they were seated, but had revealed nothing of
consequence. Although the wine was flowing freely around the table he had also brought in a cocktail
from the drawing room, which she had thought rather crass, but she wasn’t sure. For a group who
held protocol in such high esteem, the Byculla Club seemed to have no rules about drinking
whatsoever.
Now Everlee raised this same cocktail glass in her direction and said “These are called
pegs and do you know why?”
“Because each one is a peg in your coffin?”
“Quite right,” he said, setting down the glass. “And so you are clever. What a profound
disappointment.”
“I say, Everlee,” said a man sitting across the table, leaning forward to disrupt their
conversation to Emma’s great relief. “Are you here to see the historical marker?”
It was a potentially painful question, Emma thought with a wince. Most of the people in
the room presumably knew that the marker the man referred to was a plaque that had been placed in
honor of Roland Everlee. While the Thursday Night Murder Games group had traveled through the
Suez, Geraldine had explained that construction was underway on a large memorial at the site of
Cawnpore, but that the project was far from complete. All that presently marked the spot was a well

where the bodies of so many victims had been thrown and a few scattered plaques reporting the deeds
of various martyrs. Roland Everlee first among them.
But Michael Everlee did not appear distressed by this mention of his father’s fate or by
the fact that the man on the other side of the table was so old and so drunk that he was all but
shouting. Rather he seemed quite pleased to have an excuse to no longer have to converse with a
clever woman, for he turned in his chair to more squarely face the man and answered, “No, Sir, this
time I travel on behalf of my other father. My stepfather, that is. Anthony Weaver. I have no doubt
everyone here tonight joins me in grieving the injustice he has suffered. Is still suffering, I should say,
for he sits even now in a common jail without a shred of true evidence brought against him.”
The table, already subdued, fell into a complete hush. People stopped eating. Eyes
flitted back and forth. Throats were cleared. Emma, her gaze falling upon a pink orchid directly in
her line of vision, suddenly grasped what Everlee had been insinuating and turned the color of the
flower.
And there’s the bell, thought Trevor. We are off to the races at last.
But he was wrong, for the topic of the Weaver arrest was dropped as quickly as it was
raised. Evidently while the members of the Byculla Club were quite comfortable discussing murders
which had happened thirty-two years in the past, they were far less at ease discussing an event which
had occurred two weeks ago.
“But you must go to Cawnpore while you’re here,” said the loud man, speaking a bit
nervously, like a host trying to save a dinner party that was about to run off the rails. “Lay flowers at
your father’s plaque. Tour the grounds so you can get a notion of what the memorial will look like
upon completion. It shall be glorious, I assure you.”
“Nothing has been the same since the mutiny,” said another man.
“Yes,” said another. “For it splits all time in half, does it not? The years before the
rebellion, the years after. We shall never sleep so sound again.”
“Mutiny? Rebellion?” bristled yet another, an angry voice from the far end of the table.
“Call it what it was. A slaughter. The Great Slaughter. For to use words like ‘mutiny’ or ‘rebellion’
implies that the savages had just cause. That there was some political imperative which required
them to murder unarmed women and children.”
At this last and most strident outburst, Trevor instinctively looked about to catch the eye
of Rayley, but of course the man wasn’t there. He was left to draw his own conclusions, based on the
reactions, or lack thereof, of his fellow diners. It appeared that rants about the mutiny – or rebellion,
or slaughter, or whatever term that particular speaker preferred – were a common occurrence at the
Byculla Club. A subject like the murder of Rose Everlee Weaver, while undeniably exciting, was a
bit too close at hand, which is why Michael Everlee’s provocative comments had gone unanswered.
Each person at the table was likely still sorting it out in his or her own mind, mulling over the levels
of guilt or innocence, and the scales of public opinion had not yet settled.
` But the mutiny? Dozens of women and children hacked to death and thrown into a
well? There was only one way to feel about that, so the subject was safe ground. So safe that each
speaker at the table undoubtedly knew his own lines, like an actor in a play. As for what the Indians in
the room thought, Trevor couldn’t hazard a guess. Each servant stood behind his appointed chair,
staring straight ahead impassively. They either didn’t understand what was being said around them,
or, more likely, had heard it so many times before that they had grown numb to the subject. Numb
even to the sound of their people being described as “the savages.”
“True,” said a voice. “The words one uses to describe something do matter. In

America, you know, citizens from the north describe their last great conflict as ‘the Civil War,’ a term
citizens in from the south shall never accept. They prefer ‘the War Between the States’ or even,
among the exceptionally bitter, ‘the War of Northern Aggression.’ History shall eventually declare that
one version of events is the accepted norm, but in the meantime, the words we use to define an event
matter greatly. They become our interim history in a way, what we must make do with until the true
historical muse finds her branch and perches there.”
These last lines struck Trevor as far more intelligent and fair-minded than the others
circulating around the table, so of course their speaker was promptly ignored. A general
conversational hubbub engulfed the table. The martyrs. The bodies. The memorials. The fact that
none of them could ever be quite so comfortable again. This country was frightening enough on its
own with the monsoons and storms, all the bugs and germs and snakes, but there had been a time when
they did not have to fear the Indian people themselves. But now even that comfort was gone.
It is their nightly song, Trevor thought. They should call in the violinist and set it to
music. As the voices swirled around him, Trevor leaned out in his seat to determine the identity of
the last speaker, the man who had spoken so eloquently about interim history.
To his vast surprise, he found it was Jonathan Benson.
***
“Will you be visiting the Taj Mahal during your visit?” Amy Morrow asked Tom, for she
was thoroughly tired of hearing talk of an event which, while admittedly ghastly, had taken place
years before she was born.
“I would love to,” Tom said. “But Agra lies three days travel to the north, or so I’m
told, and we are here on business. I doubt we shall have the time.”
“But you must see some of India,” Amy persisted. “That true and lovely India that exists
just beyond the cities. We go strawberry picking in the spring in the hills, you know, and no more than
an hour past the walls of Bombay, it is like another world. A paradise of green and pink.”
“I suppose it is too late for strawberries.”
“Far too late. But we can have a proper picnic.”
“I’d much prefer an improper one.”
“Oh dear,” said the girl, drawing back in mock alarm. “Are you one of those smooth city
men that Granny is always warning me about? It would be so lovely if you were.” She sighed and
stretched her arms above her head as if she had been traveling a great distance, then nodded in the
direction of the man on her other side, the bloodless young fellow Everlee had introduced as his
attaché.
“What do you make of this one?” Amy said in a lower voice. “He has scarcely said a
word all night beyond hello and that last strange outburst about the American War. I have tried twice
to engage him in flirtatious banter and he has ignored me most completely.”
“Then he must be blind as well as mute,” Tom said. “But why are you sinking so in your
seat? Have I bored you with my own attempts at conversation?”
“It’s the ice,” she said with a giggle. “As it melts, my feet lower in turn and I must slide
ever forward in my chair to keep contact with the last shards. It is delightfully cool, is it not?”
“Cool and almost gone, for I can feel none within my feet at all,” Tom said, but as he
moved to lift the tablecloth and look, the girl grabbed his wrist with faux alarm.
“A gentleman would never look beneath the table,” she said. “Especially if he knew that
a certain lady had slipped her shoes off and buried her bare feet in what’s left of the ice. It is like
immersing one’s toes into a lovely alpine lake at just the point in the evening when intoxication is at

its highest point and wit is at its lowest. It is generally the highlight of my dreary dinners at this club,
if you must know, but a gentleman would never take advantage of such knowledge. Especially if he
also knew that lamps placed beneath the table would afford him far too clear a look at those bare
feet.”
“True,” said Tom. “All true. But as luck would have it, I’m no gentleman.”
Amy laughed and tossed her head. “This is enough,” she said. “It stops here. Our
conversation tonight has been most scandalous. I have enjoyed it and I’ll wager you have too, even
though your orders undoubtedly were to search among the crowd for suspects, not to listen to simple
minded girls prattle on about strawberries and bare feet. We must admit that our chattering has
stretched the bounds which society allows and now converse of more general matters, must we not?”
“Only if you say so,” Tom said, settling back in his seat with a smile.
“Take note of the trophy on that shelf there,” Amy said, with another toss of the head. It
was a gesture she had evidently cultivated to show her curly hair off to its best advantage and the
stratagem was effective. “It is a prize taken in sport. Shooting, you see, and do you know what
makes it special among all the others in the room?” She looked at him impishly over the rim of her
large silver wine goblet. “I shall give you one hint. It involves the ladies of the club.”
“I dare not guess,” Tom said, looking about at other shelves placed about the room at
intervals, with similar bowls and platters of every size and shape decorating the walls in lieu of the
more conventional landscape paintings. “For it suddenly occurs to me that this room is quite full of
trophies. Won against other clubs in other districts, I take it? The Byculla Club must take its sporting
honor quite seriously if they-“
But here he broke off, for Amy had suddenly taken on a strange look. A far away stare,
and her mouth fell open. Not in a scream or a shout, but rather in a low queer sort of noise such as
that a wounded animal might make. Just as he was about to ask her what was wrong, the girl
convulsed, her body rising up from the chair all in a single arched unit, like that of a diver. Stiff, with
her head thrown back and her eyes wide with terror and rolled up in their sockets. The goblet in her
hand fell to the floor.
“Amy?” Tom cried, pushing to his own feet. “What has…”
But the spasm that had gripped her passed, just as quickly as it had come, and as she
sank back into her chair Tom noticed that beside her the attaché, that nameless and soundless fellow,
seemed gripped in the same sort of mania. He flopped to his side, thrashing, causing the woman
beside him to scream and the confusion and shouting ran up the table person by person, like a line of
falling dominoes.
***
` Within minutes, the dining room had been cleared of people, leaving only Trevor and
Tom with Amy and Jonathan Benson, both of whom were stretched out on a carpet in the corner of the
room. The girl was moving, the man was not.
“What is it?” Trevor asked tersely, stooping to join Tom on the floor.
“Electrical shock,” said Tom. “I don’t know why I didn’t think of the danger. The silver
trays holding cold water, a cluster of lamps beside them, with their wires being pushed this way and
that by people’s feet and legs in the course of the dinner. She told me she was putting her bare feet in
the water just before she convulsed.”
“So it was an accident?”
“Most certainly.”
“She is…”

“In shock,” Tom said, pulling the girl’s makeshift tablecloth blanket around her more
tightly. “In the most literal possible sense of the term. Her heart absorbed the jolt but she is young
and strong and the rhythm resumed of its own accord. Or perhaps she was just lucky. But as for the
attaché...”
Trevor rocked back on his heels with a sigh. Benson’s face was covered with another
table cloth and only the man’s shoes peeked out from his makeshift shroud. Boxy and black, Trevor
noted. A working man’s shoes, an Englishman’s shoes, standard issue at the Yard.
“His name was Benson. There’s no chance his heart will –“
“Restart on its own?” Tom regretfully shook his head. “Not after this much time. I did
chest massage, but the die is cast within seconds of the shock, I fear. The spirit either reclaims the
body or it does not.”
“It’s all so odd,” Trevor said, pulling his gaze away from the sad sight of the trousered
legs covered by the wine-stained sheet. “They say nothing ever happens at the Byculla Club. One
would conclude it was the dullest spot in all of India. And now three deaths in two weeks, very
nearly four. With a younger, frailer person it would have been four. You’re quite sure this couldn’t
have been rigged?”
“Take a look for yourself,” Tom said. “Although it seems electrocution would be an
extremely imprecise means of murder. We all sat at the same table, our feet on the same blocks of
ice. And we had been there for better than an hour before one of these two – most likely Benson,
based on the severity of his shock – happened to strike an exposed bit of wire with his foot. I’m
surprised something like this hasn’t happened before. When you look at the room more carefully it’s
all terribly showy but not so terribly well-maintained. They are quite proud of their electricity and
their plumbing – more than one person has bragged to me tonight about how modern the Bycylla Club
is - and yet who can say what manner of man installed this wiring or how well he knew his craft? So
you have frayed wires, silver on the table, silver under the table, pools of water, thirty or forty feet
moving about through the course of the night –“
While Tom was talking Trevor had moved to look under the table but it was all just as
Tom had described it – a great jumble of metal, wires, and water.
“You couldn’t put a fray in a wire at a certain point?” he said.
“Perhaps,” said Tom. “If you knew a certain person would be sitting at a certain place
and would touch the wire at a certain time. We shall ask to inspect the whole room tomorrow, of
course, although our list of places to inspect is growing by the moment and I feel this whole line of
inquiry is pointless. Why should anyone want to kill an attaché, the most unassuming man in the room,
much less a young girl? Amy told me she was the daughter of a junior officer stationed out from
Bombay, staying in the city for the summer with her grandmother. What sort of enemies could a
creature like that have?”
“Was Rose Everlee a threat? And yet she now lies dead.”
“Indeed, indeed, you’re right. We shall check every inch of wire tomorrow. But Trevor,
don’t let your imagination run away with you.”
There was a gentle tap at the door and Trevor crossed the room and pulled it open to
reveal Emma.
“An ambulance has been summoned,” she said. “And they swear it shall be here within
minutes. May I report back to the crowd in the card room on the condition of the injured? They are
most agitated, as you can imagine, especially Mrs. Morrow who is beside herself with concern for
her granddaughter. Mr. Everlee is behaving more as if his property has been damaged.”

“Tell Mrs. Morrow Amy will likely be fine,” Tom said quickly. “She is sleeping, which
is common after a shock, but earlier she was alert enough to tell me her name.”
Emma blinked. “And the man? Everlee said his name is Jonathan Benson.”
Trevor frowned. It was a familiar name, he had noted as much when Geraldine had
made her first introductions, but he couldn’t recall where he might have heard it. Of course it was a
common name as well, so perhaps it was pointless to even try and remember.
“I’m afraid his heart was stopped with the jolt and never restarted,” Tom said gently.
“So he is –“ Emma stood still, her hand to her mouth. “Everlee said something else too.
That the man wasn’t truly his attaché, but his bodyguard.”
“Everlee felt he needed a bodyguard?” Trevor asked skeptically.
“As did his mother,” Tom said. “But the bodyguards of this family don’t seem be faring
too well, do they?”
“Hush, Tom,” Emma said automatically. “There is no place for jokes when a man lies
dead before us even now. Besides, I find the revelation of Benson’s true role makes the matter even
more confusing. A bodyguard and the daughter of a junior officer….Who would want these two
people out of the way?”
“My question exactly,” Trevor said. “Tom thinks it was the work of sheer chance.”
“I was supposed…I was supposed to visit her tomorrow,” said Emma, looking at the
sleeping form of Amy. “She was to teach me lawn tennis.”
“Well, I doubt she will be up to lawn tennis, but you can certainly visit her in the
hospital,” Tom said. “I shall go with you, in the afternoon. In the meantime, report the news to those
waiting in the dining room and try not to look so distressed. Amy will recover.”
“Tomorrow,” Trevor said grimly, “will be a very busy day.”
“I told Geraldine I would take her to the temple in the morning,” Emma said. “A place
called Khajuraho which is supposed to be so scandalous that no virtuous woman can even drive by it
in a carriage. But that can wait. Would I be more help collecting evidence at this scene or going with
Davy to the Weaver house?”
“I don’t agree that the temple can wait,” Trevor said. “For Anthony Weaver mentioned
that same place to me in our initial interview. He said he drove by the temple on the morning that
Rose and Sang died and that this was why he did not pass their carriage. I thought it most strange. I
shall go with you.”
“Really, Trevor,” Emma said. “Geraldine and I can handle at least this one small task on
our own.”
“But I wish to go with you,” he said and then quickly amended the thought to add “and I
need to go with you as well. For I have a strange feeling that in Bombay all roads lead to the
Khajuraho temple.”

Chapter Ten
The Tucker House
August 29, 1889
12:32 AM
It had been an exhausting day followed by an equally exhausting evening, but it seemed
that none among them could find sleep.
In her room, Emma rose and wandered fretfully over to the bookcase, selecting at
random a handful of books grouped together, all written by a woman named Flora Annie Steel.
Settling into the armchair and switching on – with great caution – the lamp on the nearby table, she
began to skim each in turn and soon saw that the admirable Mrs. Steel employed, one might say,
certain similarities in her plots.
The heroine was always an Englishwoman. Young, fair, virginal. Her counterpart was
always an Indian man. Dark, brooding, throbbing in unspecified places with vaguely described
passions. Few paragraphs were spent in explaining what forces might have pulled these two unlikely
lovers together. What was it Mrs. Tucker had said earlier that day? Something along the lines of how
Emma must be careful because native men always craved white women. Apparently among the Raj
this assumption was too embedded to require analysis. As Emma flipped through the books she could
see that Mrs. Steel had envisioned a world in which Indian men were constantly seizing British girls -
kidnappings which always seemed to stop just short of rape, for any number of events, from sudden
thunderstorms to the arrival of cavalries, conveniently colluded to protect the virtue of Mrs. Steel’s
heroines.
Emma frowned and slid down in the chair, pulling the last book closer to her face. It
didn’t seem to her that a cloudburst, no matter how poetically described, would be enough to deter a
true rapist, but by the end of each book it was further revealed that the man once thought to be Indian
was truly English. He had been somehow abducted from away from his true family in infancy and
raised among the natives and then someone or something – perhaps that persistent rainstorm? – would
wash off the dust and reveal that his skin was white. Problem solved. The unsuitable man is proven
suitable after all. The potential rapist becomes the perfect husband and thus our story ends.
It was an absurdity, Emma thought, tossing the last book aside. An abomination.
Although, when one stopped to really think of it, reading these books was a bit like finding the boy
who stirred the ceiling fan. The eccentricities of the Raj all seemed horrid at first but were they really
any different than the sort of things which went on every day in London? In romances by British
authors, a young woman might be seduced by a stable hand only to learn that he was, in fact, truly the
lord of the manor. Forced to take on a disguise for some improbable reason or stolen from his crib
twenty years earlier by gypsies.
Emma looked up. The great fan, which she had learned was called a punkah, was still at
night, which was a relief. At least no small boy was forced to spend the night crouched in the
courtyard. Besides, the air was much cooler in the evening, just as everyone had promised it would
be, and almost absurdly fragrant. She rose from her chair and walked over to the door, pushed it
open, and walked outside, through the garden, feeling the breeze against her naked arms and ankles.
Other lamps were on in other rooms. Geraldine’s certainly, and then a row of lights from the
windows on the other side of the garden, representing, she supposed, the rooms of three of her

comrades. Apparently only one among them could sleep.
She wondered which room was Tom’s.
Such thoughts came often to Emma, no matter how much she tried to suppress them, and
on the heels of that image came an even less welcome one. The memory of Tom and Amy sitting
close at one end of the dinner table, oh so very clearly enjoying each other’s company while she was
stranded at the other end, saddled with the impossible Michael Everlee. Even she had to admit Tom
and Amy were well matched. Both fair and quick to laugh, much like impish children poking at each
other in church. Yes, they were a natural pair, while she…
She matched no one.
Perhaps I should search for my own Indian prince, Emma thought. Or at the very least a
stable boy with suspiciously good grammar. I should go back to my room this very instant, to my bed,
and pick up another book for instruction on how to find him.
Instead, she folded her arms across her chest and looked up at the unfamiliar sky. The
sky that had sheltered Geraldine and Anthony all those years ago and it occurred to her that the young
Gerry had been much like the characters in all of Mrs. Steel’s books – inexperienced and easily
duped. Only where those heroines were unable to see the hero that lurked beneath the skin of the
common man, Gerry had been unable to see the opposite. That her dashing young officer was about to
dash off. That her lover had loved another woman first and better. That the romantic twist of fortune
which had brought them together would be, in the end, a cruel twist. That the man she viewed as a
hero was merely a cad.
Is this the gist of all romances? Emma wondered, as the trees whipped around
themselves and jasmine filled the air. Is the plot of all love stories really so simple? That a woman
is never able to see who or what a man truly is… not until the very end of her story?
***
It was a heavy volume, but Tom was glad he had packed it. The Means of Death. An
ominous sounding title and one guaranteed to cause alarm in any unfortunate stranger who happened to
be sitting beside one on a train. But the book had a full section on poisons and that was all that
mattered. He had read through the list twice since retiring to bed and now his eyes were blurring as
he struggled to focus on the small print.
He hated this sort of feeling. Exhaustion, accompanied by the knowledge that when one
is this tired it is nearly impossible to sleep. He pushed to his feet and walked to the door which led
out into the garden. He was tempted to prop it open to the evening breeze but at least half of the
toxins listed in the tropical chapter were borne by animals and not plants. In other words they were
poisons capable of traveling on their own, danger that moved, death carried in fangs and barbs and
stingers and so – nice night or not – he could not bring himself to open his door.
But through the large glass plate he could see Emma.
She appeared almost as a ghost – a slender form in a white muslin nightdress, the folds
of which billowed in the wind. She is not like me, he thought. She fears nothing. She walks among
the dark garden like a shadowy Eve, confident in her majesty. And the sight of her there made him
curse out loud, although he could not have said why.
***
Thanks to Rayley’s time studying with the French, who had developed fingerprinting to a
fine art, the entire team had gotten quite adept with the brush and silica dust. But yet Davy still
practiced.
He knew he should be sleeping. Tomorrow would be there soon enough and it would

hold innumerable challenges, just as today had, and likely as many surprises. He should be
sleeping... but he couldn’t, and so instead he was standing at the door looking out into the courtyard
garden, pressing his thumb against the glass at different angles and then lifting his own print, over and
over. Davy had noticed Emma, of course. Both of the ladies’ rooms across the way had remained lit
and it had given him comfort to know that someone else was also awake, that he was not truly lost in
this great night alone.
His evening with Detective Abrams had been strangely pleasant. After having been
tossed from the Byculla Club, the two had begun to laugh. They had laughed in the carriage and made
rude jokes about the people they had met during the cocktail hour, especially Michael Everlee and his
attaché. Rayley had made a special point of mocking the Benson chap, with several plays on the title
“attaché” which Davy did not quite understand. But the words were French and thus presumably
smutty and Davy never felt more like one of the fellows, an equal among men, as on those rare
occasions when Detective Abrams would drink and talk of France.
And so he had laughed, even at the jokes that missed their mark, and they had stopped the
carriage and gotten out at some corner. Had bought curries from a street vendor and eaten as they
walked, staining their hands and shirts, singing as they had made their winding way back to the Tucker
House. It was not far. Bombay might be large, but this peapod of English within it was not, and so
they were back in their rooms within an hour of leaving the Byculla. If being thrown from the club
had stung his pride, Rayley had hidden it well. But when they had parted in the courtyard, each to go
his separate ways, he had slapped Davy on the shoulder and said “Thank you, man.”
And Davy had said “It was nothing.” It was not until he was in his room with the door
closed that it struck him. He had forgotten to say “Sir.”
***
Although he knew the particulars well, Rayley once again read the reports of Cawnpore.
He knew that to turn these pages and to run his fingertip over this print was to risk nightmares, or
perhaps not sleeping at all, for he was a sensitive sort. Certain images took hold of him and haunted
him for far too long. It was perhaps his singular failing as a policeman. He could still recall the
faces of each of the Ripper victims, the expression that had flitted across Isabel Blout’s pretty
features as she slipped from his grip on the Tower, the stupefied shudder of surprise which had
shaken that big Russian as he had died in the courtyard of the Winter Palace. Rayley suspected he
would carry these memories with him up until the moment of his own death.
Which was unfortunate, for of all the skills an investigator needed, chief among them
was the ability to forget. Not the facts, for history does indeed repeat itself, and criminal history
cycles through more quickly than any other kind. But one needed to forget the emotions which came
with the facts, and this Rayley could not do.
Nonetheless, he read.
The mutiny had started, more or less, in the fall of 1856, prompted by pockets of Indians
who had seemed to simultaneously decide, without consultation, that they were tired of British rule.
The cities remained relatively unaffected and thus the officers living within those cities remained
relatively unconcerned. But in the small country stations where a handful of English ruled over
armies of natives, incidents of violence escalated throughout the winter and into the spring. It was
said that in the country no white woman made a move without poison in her pocket, even if she was
merely walking outside to draw water or tend her garden. Better to have the means to die quickly
than to fall into the hands of the rebels. There was an occasional shot fired. A stone thrown through a
window, a challenge to military authority. Yes, two reported rapes. But these were isolated events,

and India was a large country. No one but a handful of men – Roland Everlee and Anthony Weaver
evidently among them – saw the potential for the violence to become widespread.
And the truly strange thing is that when it did, the mutineers appeared to have no plan.
They chose Cawnpore, a middling sized station, seemingly at random. It was relatively unguarded,
since the majority of the men had been drawn to other parts of the district that were thought to be in
greater danger. The station quickly fell under siege and remained that way for weeks.
Rayley could only surmise that for those trapped within the walls of the city, waiting for
help must have felt like hell. They were half-starved, lacking all medical care, shot at if they dared to
move near a door or window. But those within Cawnpore, terrified though they might be, must have
considered themselves the lucky ones. The stories from the countryside just outside the station walls
were far worse. Women hacked to death, thrown from windows to slowly die of their injuries in the
heat. Children hoisted on the points of swords, babies run through with rapiers. An old man set fire
to in his sickbed, a woman strangled while in the very process of giving birth.
Help was only two days away, but they didn’t know it. Three boatloads of English
attempted to escape Cawnpore at night, by the river. One hundred twenty-five men, women, and
children. Two boats were overtaken at once, the occupants slaughtered on the spot, until it was said
the river ran red with blood. The majority of the bodies, most dead but some reportedly still living,
were thrown down the Cawnpore well.
The boat which escaped was captured less than a mile up river, by a different branch of
the rebellion. Its passengers, almost exclusively women and children, were not killed but were rather
taken hostage and kept in a large schoolhouse. Perhaps a bit of hope flourished among these
survivors. They had certainly seen what had happened to the others but as the days went by and they
were still alive, it is possible they began to convince themselves that redemption was at hand. Their
husbands, fathers, sons, and brothers were returning from their various posts, spurred on by reports of
the horrors. They must have thought that the rebels intended to use them as bargaining chips, a way to
force the hand of the Raj into granting at least some of their demands.
Who can say why even that slight hope was not granted? The mutineers were a
disorganized army, subdivided into many groups, some more militant than others, all with their
separate aims. Perhaps the bloodthirsty lot that had killed the civilians in the other two boats caught
up with the branch that was more inclined toward hostage swapping and took matters into their own
hands. Perhaps the kidnappers got tired of waiting for their demands to be met. Either way, at some
point, prompted by apparently no particular incident, the school was overrun.
Stories of precisely what happened next varied. All were horrid. There were rumors
that the women were raped, which likely were true. Rumors that they were crucified, which likely
were not. Stories of women hanged by their hair, children bundled together and burned alive. There
are some among the Raj who still believe that the youngest English children were taken as slaves and
lived to this day among the natives, now adults and with no memory of their former families. But
whatever happened, it was a scene tailor made for revenge. The army arrived within hours of the
slaughter to find a schoolhouse splattered with blood, a well now so full of corpses that it was said
the stench traveled for miles. The mutineers were forced to lick the blood from the floorboards
before being executed and the number of Indians killed in retaliation for Cawnpore was reported in
Rayley’s papers to be “inexact.”
Inexact. That meant thousands. At least ten times the number of English who had
perished, this Rayley knew without question. Descriptions of men shot from cannons… or rather
strapped over the mouths of cannons that were then fired, obliterating the victims in the most

definitive manner possible. This method of “blowing away” a man, leaving no trace of his body for
burial or any such memorial service, was reserved for the worst of criminals and the report calmly
noted that “there was an intense period of such activity in the fall of 1857.” Were all those who were
blown away mutineers? Of course not. In most cases, their sole offense was likely nothing more than
the color of their skin. For Cawnpore had sparked a kind of hysteria in the English of India, a
hysteria which still had not entirely faded. Created a mistrust between the Raj and its subjects which
lingered to this day.
Rayley sighed. Removed his glasses and closed the folder. Hardly the best of bedtime
reading, but reviewing the story of Cawnpore made him all the more eager to speak to Anthony
Weaver. Trevor’s interview with the Secretary-General had been but the first of several, for they
planned a slow wearing down of the man’s haughtier, and Rayley made up his mind to press for the
right to speak to him next.
For there had been another notation in the report.
Not all the English of Cawnpore had made it to the fortress before the siege. Some small
pockets of farmers, either too far from the station to safely travel or too stubborn to believe the danger
was real, stayed in their homes. As the army made its way toward the city, Roland Everlee heard of
such a stranded family. A widow, a woman whose husband had died in the first days of the uprising,
left alone with her five children.
Everlee went himself to ensure that they were safe, ordering the rest of his unit to press
on to the fortress. He found the farmhouse but as he was packing the woman and her children into his
cart, the luckless family was swarmed by a band of mutineers. Everlee, the woman, and three
children were killed in the yard of the house. The other two children survived.
But… how?
Rayley frowned at the report. It was a typical military accounting - quite specific on
some issues and maddeningly vague in others. A five year old girl was spared, along with her infant
brother, but there was no explanation for how these children might have found their way back to
Bombay. The city was two hours from Cawnpore under the best of circumstances and the roads had
been cut by the rebels when the mutiny began. But somehow, as if through divine manifestation, it
was written that the children had been returned to Bombay. The baby boy died there some months
later, the report droned on, in one of the city’s frequent cholera epidemics. The girl was shipped back
to an aunt in England.
It had always been said that Cawnpore yielded no survivors. No eyewitnesses. No one
to tell its story. Just an army of husbands and fathers returning to find the walls of a schoolhouse
splattered with blood and their families gone, wiped from the earth. A few farmers in the highest
hills of the outlying districts never saw a single mutineer and thus likewise had no stories to tell. The
truth of Cawnpore, therefore, was to remain ever as inexact as the number of Indians who were killed
in revenge. An interim history, the language describing it uncertain, the official reports written by
those who had merely been nearby or who had arrived too late to know anything for certain.
That was, except for this lone child, this five year old girl. Her family name was
declared to be Sloane, her first name went unrecorded. She would be a grown woman now, Rayley
reflected. Near unto forty and it was doubtful she retained any memories of India or the family she
had lost there. And even if she did – even if she could shed some light on how two helpless children
had somehow managed to become the only survivors of the Great Mutiny – how on earth would they
ever find her?
***

Geraldine sat in her own bed, the stack of old letters beside her. They were in the order
that Anthony had written them, and tied with a pink ribbon. It had been many years since she had last
untied that ribbon. She had thrust this bundle into her valise at the last minute while packing, on the
off chance that something within them might be useful to Trevor in his investigation. Now, having
read each one slowly, her lips moving as she whispered each word aloud, she knew Anthony’s letters
held no clues, at least not of the sort that mattered to Scotland Yard.
But they proved that he had loved her.
And that was, in some ways, the hardest thing to bear.
The people at the Byculla Club tonight had been united in their claim that the Weavers
were thoroughly unlikeable people and Geraldine could certainly see how traits that were tolerable
when they had been young – his tendency toward great speeches, her fluttery insistence that she was
too delicate to survive even a moment of unfiltered reality – could harden into cruelty as they aged.
But still, it made her sad. Sad for Anthony and even for Rose.
No one mourned her. And no one feared for him. No one, that was, except his stepson.
Geraldine knew she and Michael Everlee were an unlikely pair. If they had met in London they
would have likely never shared a civil word between them and she still smarted with rage that Rayley
had been thrown from the club. But, improbable as they were, she also knew that she and Michael
shared a rare objective: They were the only two people in all of Bombay who gave a tinker’s dam
about the fate of Anthony Weaver.
Geraldine carefully sequenced the letters and retied the ribbon. They stood proof that at
one time there had been a different Anthony. A young man with tenderness who had loved her. Of
course, he had loved Rose as well but Geraldine now knew what she couldn’t have known then – that
it is possible for a man to love two women, to care for them and desire them in entirely different
ways. He had not lied to her. He had been genuinely torn.
When I marry you, he had written, in that moment I shall become a different man. A
better man than I could ever be on my own. For I am weak at times. My darling, I hope you never
have cause to know just how very weak a man can be.
***
Trevor alone slept the entirety of the night.
Before leaving the Byculla, he had sent a telegram. Or rather he had given one of the
Indian servants standing about a handful of coins and instructions. Go to the telegraph office and send
this message, these words he had scribbled on a sheet of Club stationery. He told the lad to wait all
the night if he must for a reply. Bring it to me at the Tucker House, do you understand?
And the boy must have understood. The number of coins Trevor had offered must have
bought a kind of loyalty.
For when he awakened at seven the next morning, Trevor found a note slipped under his
door. Scotland Yard had already replied to his inquiry.

Chapter Eleven
The Khajuraho Temple
9:20 AM
Upon approach, the Khajuraho temple looked a bit like a wedding cake – tiered, glowing
white, and ornamented with any amount of bric a brac. The whole effect struck Emma as vanilla
frosting, slathered on in great swirls and rosettes.
They were expected, thanks entirely to Gerry. She had spent her evening at the Byculla
Club doing exactly what she did best – talking to the other old ladies and finding out the background
story on all the particulars of the case. Before they had been called into dinner, she had spent an hour
in confidence with the same Mrs. Morrow who Trevor had so enjoyed meeting, and Mrs. Morrow, it
seemed, knew all there was to know about the Khajuraho temple.
It was not currently in use as a Hindu house of worship. This would have been clear
even without Mrs. Morrow’s help, for as they were escorted inside the entryway, Trevor, Emma, and
Gerry saw that the interior of the building was in complete disrepair. How apt, Emma thought. What
a perfect metaphor for the Raj. From the outside, it all looks quite the fortress – even beautiful if
your tastes run toward the fanciful – but once inside, you can immediately see that it is falling
apart.
Mrs. Morrow had informed Geraldine that the English in Bombay would have loved to
see the temple fall apart even further, for it was the site of some rather infamous mosaics. Whether
these mosaics were examples of art or pornography depended upon the eye of their beholder;
opinions were split between those who argued that these particular temple walls – situated
disconcertingly near the main road and thus visible to anyone foolish enough to pass that way –
should be razed as a moral danger or preserved as an archeological marvel.
Further complicating the issue was the placement of an orphanage within the temple
property. Years ago, when a wealthy Englishwoman had purchased the grounds, she had rather
indulgently allowed a missionary friend of hers to use part of the property as a girls home for children
who had been sired by British fathers and born to Indian mothers. The result of liaisons which their
fathers viewed as temporary dalliances and their mothers believed to be legal marriages, these girls
were welcomed by neither the whites nor the natives and existed in a sort of nether world, living
reminders of the perpetual mistrust between the two cultures.
The wealthy patroness soon died in one of the cholera epidemics which at times
threatened even the most prosperous sections of Bombay, leaving her ultimate plans for the property
unclear. There were those who argued convincingly that her intention was to have the Khajuraho
temple and all its vulgarities wiped from the face of the earth. There were others who argued, just as
convincingly, that the orphanage had taken root and was the source of good work and so now, decades
after the death of the patroness, the girls school bearing her name still stood, shielded by these
crumbling and controversial walls.
“More good sleuthing, Geraldine,” Trevor had said, as Gerry had related all this to them
in Mrs. Tucker’s carriage on the bumpy ride over. “And the current headmistress has agreed to see
us?”
“She is most certainly looking for patrons,” Geraldine had answered. “The upper class
of the Raj has shunned her because of where the school stands and I get the impression from Mrs.

Morrow that the poor woman is scraping by on next to nothing. I shall make a donation and thus we
shall be granted free access to everything she knows, including why Anthony would have been drawn
to this place.”
“And she shall talk freely, you imagine,” Trevor had said.
“I don’t see why not,” Geraldine had answered, fanning herself against the slowly
growing heat. “If this Miss Hoffman is as cloistered a creature as Mrs. Morrow claims, she
socializes with virtually none of her fellow expatriates. She may be the only English woman in
Bombay who remains unaware that a contingent from Scotland Yard has come to town.”
Now the three of them stood in the entryway, the ornamented white walls on one side of
them and cracked plaster ones on the other. Trevor was mulling over the fact he had never seen such
a startling contrast between a façade and the reality which lurked behind it, when he heard footsteps.
The young girl who had let them in was returning, followed by a middle aged woman - thirty-five
perhaps? Forty? - whose long stride was accommodated by the rather startling fact that she was
dressed in a man’s shirt and trousers.
This apparently was Leigh Ann Hoffman, headmistress to the school.
“I must apologize,” she said, walking directly to Gerry with her hand outstretched. “I
normally do not receive visitors in my work attire, but gardening, as I’m sure you can imagine, is best
done in the morning. I foolishly assumed you were like all the other English, determined to hold to
the London custom of afternoon visits even in the Bombay heat. The locals have a little joke about us,
you know. They say ‘only mad dogs and Englishmen go out in the midday sun.’”
“Indeed,” said Gerry, accepting the vigorous handshake and momentarily nonplussed.
She was normally the most unconventional person in any room and she wasn’t sure how to deal with
this surprising creature. “You needn’t apologize for your attire in this circle, but I am certain my note
said that we could come in the morning.”
` “Yes, it quite possibly did,” said Miss Hoffman, now extending her grimy palm in the
general direction of Emma. “But in Bombay, when one says ‘morning,’ it always means ‘afternoon.’”
“Ah,” said Geraldine quietly, and then they stumbled through a round of introductions,
after which Miss Hoffman ushered them back to what she called her private parlor. This “parlor”
turned out to be a collection of odd chairs seated on an open portico and through the broad white
columns they could see perhaps a dozen young women toiling in a large garden.
“This plot of land represents a good part of our sustenance,” Miss Hoffman said,
following Geraldine’s gaze, “so I trust you will further forgive me if I do not disrupt the girls at their
work. You don’t expect me to bring them over and have them sing to you or any of that nonsense, do
you?”
“Certainly not,” said Geraldine. “I am not that sort of philanthropist at all.”
Miss Hoffman looked at her levelly. “Miss Morrow told me you have an interest in
missionary work.”
“Not exactly,” Geraldine admitted. “I am not a great fan of organized religion, Miss
Hoffman, although I do at times concede that some of the charities financed by churches do good
work. Based on what Mrs. Morrow has told me, I suspect your orphanage is a cause I would find
worthy to support.”
“I prefer the term ‘school’ to ‘orphanage.’” Miss Hoffman said, pulling off her broad
brimmed hat to fan herself. “It stigmatizes the girls less, which is a crucial factor when it comes time
to find them husbands. And are you interested in mission work, Miss Kelly?”
“Even less than Geraldine,” Emma said.

“That is a pity,” Miss Hoffman said, with no apparent rancor. “For we very much need
young strong women like yourself throughout the district to do the female share of the work. The men
handle the important things, and the female missionaries look after the native women, their babies,
deal with issues of health and food supplies, that sort of thing.”
“Hmmm,” said Emma. If issues of health and food were deemed trivial, she wondered
what the important work of the men might be.
“Do you believe yourself to be typical of the women who come to India as
missionaries?” asked Trevor. He knew what Miss Hoffman’s answer would likely be, but they had to
start the interview somewhere.
“We seem to all of his have been drawn here for different reasons,” the woman
answered. “Or if one was born into the Raj, as I was, we all have different reasons for staying.
Some come to fight what they perceive as moral wickedness ,while others are here to instigate
reforms which they hope will improve the plight of the local people. And thus the most conservative
and most liberal souls of Britain work side by side in this hopeless endeavor. We are a strange
crew.”
“Hopeless?” Emma inquired.
“No one likes us,” Miss Hoffman said, with a sudden wide grin. It gave the impression
that she enjoyed being disliked, or at least that she wore her expulsion from the Raj as a private band
of honor. “The English look down on our work, the Indians resent it. Our little Bible services and
prayer groups are totally ineffectual in a land with so many religions, so many gods. You can’t even
begin to know who you’re working against. There are the Hindus and Muslims, of course, but also
the Parses, Sikhs, and Jains. Our percentage of conversions is abysmally low. In fact, I would say
any missionary in India who tried to measure his success on a numerical basis would promptly go
mad.”
“The same thing might be said of policemen in London,” Trevor said drily, earning him
another grin from the woman, whom he was beginning to like more with each passing minute.
“If the work is pointless, why do you stay?” Emma asked.
“The mission life is all I know,” Miss Hoffman answered. “And I like to imagine I am
helping, at least a little. These girls before us, of course… I raise them up and find them jobs or
husbands as best I can. And these wonders around me…the art in the temple… Ancient and
irreplaceable. As long as the school functions here, they can scarcely knock it all down around our
ears and so I console myself that, at least for now, I am protecting these marvels from the Raj.”
“You mean the wall,” Trevor said.
“Among other things. The mosaics are certainly the most famous of our treasures.”
"I’m surprised you admire them.”
For the first time, he saw a flash of indignation. “And why would you say that? Because
a missionary must automatically recoil at the sight of the human form? I assure, you, Detective, that
in the course of my work here I have seen many sights which would make you average church lady
back in London blush to her roots.”
“I am sure you have,” Trevor said. “And yet I noticed as we entered that the wall in
question has been draped entirely in muslin.”
Miss Hoffman laughed. “Oh that. Just a little ruse, Detective. A few days ago a local
women’s garden club came to me demanding the leveling of the wall and I suggested that it would be
faster and less expensive to merely cover it. Shield passersby from the vulgarity. Only I lacked the
funds, you see. And these fine ladies promised the money on the spot. They asked how much I would

need for the muslin and I named an outlandish figure, ten times what I predicted it to be. And so now
they can drive to the docks with no fear that their modest eyes will be accosted with the naked human
form and meanwhile…I have enough funds in hand to feed my girls for a month as well as a reputation
for reasonableness which may, let us all hope, lead to similar kind gifts in the future. And most
importantly, the wall still stands, its art intact beneath that ludicrous muslin drape. Who knows? In a
week or so we may find that the wind has blown away the muslin and another financial contribution to
the school may be requested and granted. It is a situation which seems to work well for everyone
involved.”
“How very practical you are,” Geraldine said, with genuine admiration in her voice.
“How resourceful are your strategies and how useful is your life. If I had stayed in India, I might
have ended up becoming someone much like you.”
“Or you might just as easily have gone down the well in Cawnpore.”
It was an extraordinarily harsh remark, so much so that Geraldine recoiled as if from a
slap. But Miss Hoffman, still serene, turned to Emma and Trevor with a smile. “And would the two
of you like to walk down and inspect the wall in question? I assure you that underneath its veil of
muslin, the face of the true India is still quite intact.”
***
“What would your Mrs. Steel think of this?” Trevor asked teasingly.
She had told him of the books on the carriage ride over and now he was searching for
any comment to fill the awkward silence. While Miss Hoffman and Gerry remained in the portico,
presumably to discuss the amount of the bank draft Gerry would be presenting to the school, Trevor
and Emma had followed the overgrown path which led from the garden to the walls. The muslin had
come down with a single pull to reveal –
Well, it was sexual, most certainly. And more directly so than either of them would have
guessed. When he had first learned of all the fuss the English ladies had raised about the immoral
temple walls, Trevor had assumed they were exaggerating. An exposed male shoulder, perhaps, or a
flash of a feminine leg, all more suggested than replicated in the imprecise lines of the mosaic tile.
But the falling muslin had instead exposed scenes of remarkable clarity and undeniable
detail, almost an instruction manual for the sexually illiterate. No wonder the Memsahibs had been
offended. The wall even had bells attached, a long stretch of small ones which tinkled with each
breeze, drawing the listener’s attention in the direction of the sound, where her startled eyes would
find phalluses of every shape and size as well as grand, swirling caves of color evidently meant to
represent the recesses of a woman.
The men and women in these scenes did not merely gaze upon each other with lascivious
intent, but had moved together in close congress. This scene before Trevor and Emma just now, for
example – the tilework was so fine that there was little doubt of what the man and woman were
doing, even though their position struck Trevor as most improbable. Improbable bordering on
impossible, but everyone claimed the Indians were a lithe race, capable of contortions Caucasian
bodies simply could not follow. The strangest thing of all was that their faces were fully turned
toward the observer, as if daring him to watch or even challenging him to enter into the debaucheries.
Trevor had the disconcerting notion that the woman, in fact, was giving him a wink of invitation.
“These walls go beyond even the fertile imagination of Mrs. Steel,” Emma said with a
shaky little laugh. “The mosaic work is remarkable, would you not say?”
“Indeed.”
“So you would agree they are art?”

“I would agree that they are remarkably well crafted. But art is different from
craftsmanship, wouldn’t you say? Different in intent?”
“I am not at all sure,” Emma said thoughtfully as Trevor pulled the muslin back into
place. There were four large panels of it, the wall being somewhere the length of a train car. Emma
had never been good at estimating measurements. She stood back as Trevor worked to cover the
pictures, chewing on her bottom lip. “At least seeing the wall explains why everyone is so upset
about this temple, why God-fearing Englishwomen refuse to even come down this street. But do you
think it also explains why Anthony Weaver did?”
“Possibly,” said Trevor, above the persistent fluttery noise of the bells, for each tug of
the curtain set off a fresh concert. “But the old duffer doesn’t strike me as a connoisseur of
pornography. No, I think it was something else that pulled him toward this temple.”
***
The Weaver House
10:50 AM
Rayley and Davy had finished dusting the Weaver house for prints, paying special
attention to the kitchen and the doorknobs in the occupied bedrooms. They were now taking a small
break in the back garden.
Or rather Rayley was taking a small break and Davy was compulsively watering the
plants.
“Can’t help it, Sir,” said Davy. “Me mum would have my head if I stood by and let a
patch of peas go to ruin.”
Rayley nodded absentmindedly, although the boy’s perpetual industry made him slightly
ashamed of his own need to rest. “That odd tree-like plant in the corner. That’s the one you took
samples of for Tom, I assume?”
“Yes, Sir. Never seen anything like it.”
“Nor have I,” said Rayley. “While everything else in the garden is easily identifiable.
The poor woman certainly tried to recreate her own little patch of England, did she not? Of course,
the very fact that tree stands so nakedly visible seems to exonerate it, for it seems that only a fool
would use a poison from his own garden to murder his wife.”
“Something else, Sir,” said Davy, putting down his ladle. “If you’ll follow me to Sang’s
room…”
The two men moved back into the shade of the house where the bedroom which had held
the manservant seemed the coolest and most inviting of the three they had dusted, partly because of the
cheerful colors and partly, Rayley assumed, because the furnishings were designed to counteract the
challenges of the environment. Davy walked straight up to a brass stand, and pulled off a dropcloth
to reveal a large and ornate birdcage made of rattan. Three onion-shaped domes were perched on top
in a reasonably effective imitation of the local architecture.
“See here, Sir,” he said, replenishing the bird’s level of food and water as he spoke.
“Yesterday when I fed the bird something about the situation niggled at me but I couldn’t think what.”
“How the bird survived two weeks without food?”
“Well, obviously it didn’t, Sir. Someone has been coming in to attend it, most likely the
English woman in the sari. No, something else seemed wrong in the situation, and then last night as I
was going to bed it hit me. There are two water bowls in this cage, two feeding dishes, two of those
little mirrored amusements. Which makes me wonder –“

“If there used to be two birds?”
“Just that, Sir.”
“Even if there were, I’m not sure it means anything,” said Rayley stepping forward to
better observe the little songbird, who stared back at him with shiny dark eyes. “Pets die.”
The bird tilted its head, as if offended by the crassness of his comment, and Rayley found
himself smiling at it. “What do you think, my good man?” he crooned. “Did you once have a little
friend?” And then, glancing about, Rayley added. “You know the longer I am in this house the more I
feel some sympathy for Michael Everlee.”
“Don’t see how you can, Sir. At least not after the way he acted towards you last night.”
“Going into someone’s home when they are not there,” Rayley mused, “gives you a
rather unique vantage point into their character. You’ve noticed the same, I’d wager. And as I study
this room, I am becoming increasingly convinced that it was Michael’s when he was a boy. Look
here, at these small divots notched into the doorframe. Meant to earmark the growth of a child, are
they not?”
“Most likely,” Davy said, ashamed he had not noticed. His mother had kept the same
sort of record for him and his three brothers, their vertical progress throughout the years each
documented against a different wall of the kitchen. “But the marks stop rather low, don’t they, Sir?”
“Probably when he left for school in England,” Rayley said softly, stooping to ponder the
highest mark. “He was but a little lad when they shipped him off. And a box of tin soldiers I noticed
in the window seat stands as further proof that a boy once claimed this room. One thing does not
entirely fit, however… I can’t claim to know much about the particulars of wedded bliss, but isn’t it
odd that the room of the child should be located between the rooms of the husband and wife?”
“Not as odd as the notion that a servant sleeps between them,” Davy said. “And
besides, we only know that the Secretary-General and Mrs. Weaver keep separate rooms now. In
their younger days they may have been more…companionable.”
“True,” Rayley said. “It may help to consider the family not as they are now, but as they
must once have been. Mrs. Weaver was what, in her early seventies, when she died? And her son
claims to be thirty-two. Which means the lady had one child, and that he was born unusually late in
life. The only reminder of her dead husband, and thus presumably very cherished. I am surprised she
would send him to England for schooling at all.”
“And look, Sir, at the tiles on the hearth,” Davy said. “Do you notice anything odd in
them?”
“They feature the animals of India,” Rayley said. “Rather plainly drawn and thus adding
credence to my theory this was once a nursery.”
“Yes, Sir,” said Davy. “But this particular elephant, last tile to the right, has five legs.”
With an indulgent chuckle, Rayley paused to inspect the creature. “See what I mean,
then? When you consider the young Michael, awakening in this sunny room, looking out into that
garden, and then he might -“
A thud from the hall stopped him. Rayley looked up at Davy over the top of his wirerimmed
glasses, his eyes shooting a warning. But Davy had heard it too and was already moving not
toward the sound but rather toward the door which led out into the garden. Clever, Rayley thought. If
the girl with the dropper has indeed returned, as Trevor predicted, she will not elude us this time.
With me approaching directly and young Mabrey waiting outside the door, we shall find out who
she is and why she has come.
***

The Khajuraho Temple
11:05 AM
“It is tea,” Miss Hoffman was saying, holding out a cup. “Cured locally and thus
perhaps not entirely as you expect it to taste, but tea nonetheless.”
Geraldine accepted the offering, noting that while the china on the tray was fine – and the
tray itself was silver and surprisingly well polished – none of the cups matched. The orphanage is
full of casts offs, she thought. Things as well as people. Mrs. Tucker had explained to her that travel
in India was so difficult that when a family received a post to a new station they would generally
leave everything they owned behind them and purchase new items when they arrived. The result was
presumably an abandoned trail of furniture, clothing, and niceties left all over India, some of which
had apparently ended up piecemeal at the girls’ school.
“And do put your feet on this stool, my dear,” Miss Hoffman added, as she handed a cup
to Emma. They had all four reconvened on the portico for their refreshment, which had been served
by a silent young girl with honey-colored skin and blue eyes.
“I know,” Emma murmured. “Scorpions and snakes. The twin curse of the
subcontinent. They venture even here, into the temple?”
“Especially here in the temple,” said Miss Hoffman. “They crave the coolness of the
tiles, just as we do.” She looked archly at Trevor as she passed him the last teacup. “I saw you
making note of our Catherine’s unique coloring, Detective. Quite striking, is she not?”
“Lovely,” Trevor said.
Miss Hoffman settled back in her seat. “Half breeds often are. One of the reasons I
shied at Miss Bainbridge’s use of the word ‘orphanage’ is that the majority of our girls are not
orphans, at least not in the literal sense of the word. In most cases one of their parents, or sometimes
both, is still alive. The unfortunate truth is that many British officers take Indian wives for the
duration of their service here. A handful of paperwork is produced and sometimes there is even a
ceremony which the women do not understand. But the men generally never intended to bring their
dark-skinned, barefooted consorts back to England, and when their tour of duty is over they simply
abandon them. I have heard of cases of women and children literally left wailing on the dock as the
men they depended on sailed out of sight. It is a problem the Raj is loathe to admit. The women are
disgraced, sometimes to the point where they take their own lives, the native culture being peculiarly
unsympathetic toward females who have lost their men. The offspring of these sham unions, if they
are lucky, end up in a place like this.”
“And what becomes of these children as they grow?” Geraldine asked.
Miss Hoffman shrugged and placed her teacup on a bright tile table. “It depends on the
particulars of the girl. Catherine, as you noticed, is quite fair, which bodes well for her chances. We
introduce them about, sometimes manage to marry them off to the junior officers. The younger,
randier men who might be willing to ignore a bit of Indian blood if the girl has been raised to British
standards. For others, we try to educate them well enough that they might become nannies, nurses,
that sort of thing. It is a source of status among the Raj to have light-skinned servants.”
`
“You say ‘we try,’” Geraldine said. “Who is this ‘we’?”
“I suppose it is more accurate to say that I try,” admitted Miss Hoffman. “The school
enjoys a few regular patrons, monies which come in anonymously. We are not a fashionable cause,
but I daresay there are some in Bombay who are prompted by conscience to keep a roof over our
heads.”

“You mean the fathers of the girls,” Trevor said. “Who feel guilt over the fate of their
abandoned daughters.”
Another shrug. “Possibly. As I said, the donations are anonymous.”
“A light skinned woman in a sari was seen at the Weaver House just yesterday,” Trevor
said. “When the officer noticed her, she ran.”
“Ah,” said Miss Hoffman. “That was likely Adelaide. She was an associate of the
Weavers, you see.”
“He said she looked fully British.”
“And perhaps she is. The paperwork on our charges is not always complete, as you
might guess.”
“He only wished to talk to her. Why did she run?”
“She is troubled.”
“Troubled by what?”
“Am I being interviewed, Detective? Is that what you believe your Miss Bainbridge has
bought with her donation? Access to information about my girls?”
That was precisely what Trevor believed Gerry had bought, but it was probably prudent
to avoid saying as much, at least for now. Looking at the woman sitting so placidly in front of him, he
tried another tack.
“But this woman is not a girl at all, is she? My officer estimated her to be close to forty
in age. And yet she remains a charge of yours, here at the school? ”
Miss Hoffman brushed back a strand of her hair. It was graying but still full and lustrous
and tied at an untidy knot in the back of her neck. There is something beautiful about her, Trevor
rather irrelevantly thought. And what strength it would take to toil against these hopeless odds year
after year, with so little friendship from your own kind. So little variation in your days.
“You are not the first to ask of Adelaide,” Miss Hoffman finally said. “A Mr. Seal from
the Viceroy Council was here just yesterday. I gather you sent him to round up all of the Weaver’s
household staff?”
Trevor raised an eyebrow. “She was a member of the household? That is what you
meant by the term ‘associate’? That she worked for them?”
“Not exactly.”
“Miss Hoffman,” Trevor said, trying to keep the exasperation out of his voice. “A
sizable bank draft is quite visibly folded and tucked into your pocket. We can argue the moral
subtleties of the situation all day long, but it will save everyone’s time and temper if you simply hand
over what we have bought. And please humor us by starting at the beginning.”
“Very well,” Miss Hoffman said, with no apparent resentment at his directness. We are
playing chess, this woman and I, Trevor thought. And she is rather enjoying it. Perhaps I am as
well. Or at least I would be enjoying it were Emma and Gerry not sitting right here, holding their
breath and waiting for me to make a foolish move.
“You ask for the beginning, but I do not know precisely where the beginning began,”
Miss Hoffman said. “For your officer’s estimate was likely correct. Adelaide came to this school as
a small child more than thirty years ago and has lived with us since. It was obvious at an early point
that she would not be one of the ones who married out or who was likely to find an elevated
employment.”
“You are saying she is mentally impaired?”
“I suspect the trouble lies more in her spirit than in her mind. But she remains, yes,

suspended in a somewhat childlike world. I did not deem it likely she would find any sort of position
at all until the day the Secretary-General came calling. He wanted a British girl for his wife, he said.
She required nursing. Some vague ailment that required the attentions of a fair-skinned attendant.”
“But you said Adelaide was unfit for elevated employment,” Emma broke in. “And now
you are suggesting she was trained as a nurse?”
“Excuse me,” Miss Hoffman said, abruptly pushing to her feet. She walked to the edge
of the portico and called out something to a couple of girls who were straggling toward the school
and they halted obediently, then stooped to drag a heavy black hose to a new part of the field.
“You speak Hindustani to your students?” Emma asked in surprise, when Miss Hoffman
turned back.
“Both Hindustani and English,” she answered. “The girls need to be equally capable in
both languages, for who knows what sort of life they’ll be called to?”
“Do some of them go into mission work as well?” Geraldine inquired.
“Some,” Miss Hoffman said, plopping down in her chair so emphatically that Trevor
noted there was something masculine in her movements. This is a strange business, he thought. She
has the charm of things which do not try to be charming and yet there is an abruptness in her
manner that is rather….well, he wouldn’t say she was unfeminine, for that sounded like a criticism.
Perhaps it was more accurate to say that Leigh Anne Hoffman was a half-breed of sorts herself.
She was not at all his type, his tastes leaning more toward dainty, ladylike girls of good
family, which made it all the more strange that he couldn’t seem to stop staring at her. Perhaps his
tastes were becoming more catholic as a result of his international travels - or perhaps he was
merely having a bit of trouble shaking off the lingering effects of viewing the erotic wall. His mind
kept drifting back to, of all things, the mosaic image of the woman’s face. The direct and almost
challenging way she observed those who had come to observe her, her unapologetic smile of delight.
It was not that she was merely doing what she was doing, it was that she appeared to be enjoying it.
Demanding more of it, in fact, extending some sort of invitation which Trevor had briefly imagined to
have been directed solely to him. The woman on the wall had the standard issue of female body
parts, of course, but that was not the core of her appeal. Thanks to the whores of Whitechapel he had
seen the bits and pieces often enough. But he had never seen that expression on an Englishwoman’s
face.
“It is hard for some of the girls to leave us,” Miss Hoffman was saying, all the while
crossing and uncrossing her legs in a manner Trevor found most distracting. “This is the only home
they have ever known, of course, and the alternatives are not always attractive. Faced with a choice
of marriage to a junior officer they’ve scarcely met or genteel servitude in the homes of the Raj,
perhaps it is not surprising that a few of them suddenly declare a devotion to Christianity just as they
are on the cusp of leaving the school.”
“This is what happened with Adelaide?” Geraldine asked. “She decided to become a
nurse rather than leave the school and take her chances in the broader world beyond?”
“She wasn’t really trained as a nurse,” Miss Hoffman said. “But then again, Mrs.
Weaver wasn’t really sick. As I mentioned, white servants give a Bombay household a certain
panache and within seconds of our interview I gathered that the Secretary-General was precisely the
sort of old windbag who would gladly pay for that panache.”
Geraldine had flushed at his unflattering summation of Anthony Weaver’s personality
but, having met the man but once, Trevor suspected Miss Hoffman’s evaluation of his motive was
accurate.

“He told me he drives by here sometimes, simply to observe the temple,” Trevor said.
“Said he did it on the morning of his wife’s death. Were you aware of that?”
She wasn’t. It showed on her face. “I have never seen him here,” Miss Hoffman said
slowly. “Other than the one time months ago, that is, when he came looking for a servant.”
“You wouldn’t,” Trevor said. “I doubt he ever left his carriage. So let us resume with
our history…Secretary-General Weaver makes his request and within days Adelaide had her first real
position, which I gather required little more than sitting beside an old woman and listening to her
complaints. But Mrs. Weaver has now been dead for almost two more weeks. Why would Adelaide
have gone back to an empty house where her services clearly were no longer required?”
“I have no notion,” Miss Hoffman said, still fussing with the wayward lock of hair.
“Perhaps she was happy there. Or perhaps she does not fully grasp what the changes to the household
mean.”
“You do not monitor her movements?”
“She is a grown woman, Detective, and I have twenty-three girls here for whom I am
solely responsible.”
“So she roams the streets unattended?”
“I suppose she does. Are you suggesting I bell her like a cat?”
“May we talk to her? If not now, when she returns?”
“If you wish, but you’ll get nothing. Nothing of any use in a legal sense. Adelaide is
prone to fantasies… perhaps one might even say hallucinations.”
“What is the source of her affliction? Did she suffer some sort of trauma?”
“I cannot say.”
“Cannot or will not?”
“Miss Hoffman,” Emma said, leaning forward, for she could read the telltale signs that
Trevor was on the verge of losing his temper. “I appreciate that the paperwork on Adelaide is just as
you say, incomplete, but perhaps something in it can help us. We are doing background checks and
interviews with everyone who was in the household the day Mrs. Weaver died.”
“I was told by Inspector Seal that Rose Weaver died in the foyer of the Byculla Club
early in the morning. What can that possibly have to do with Adelaide?”
“She did die at the Club,” Trevor said. “But we believed she was poisoned in her
home.”
“Poisoned?” For the first time since their arrival, Miss Hoffman appeared genuinely
shaken. She glanced toward the garden, where the girls were finishing their morning labors, a few of
them wandering back toward the house with their arms linked. Someone among them was singing.
“That is our best guess at this point,” Emma said. “So you can understand why we need
to talk to all the members of the household.”
“But she truly wasn’t a member of the household,” Miss Hoffman said. “She only
visited Mrs. Weaver for a few hours in the heat of the day. She came back here at night. Every night.
She would not have been there in the morning when this poisoning must have occurred. ”
“Indeed,” said Trevor. The woman’s protectiveness was quite touching, but he was glad
he had not mentioned the recovery of the medicine dropper. “No one is accusing Adelaide of
anything. But her papers….Might we have a look?”
Without answer, Miss Hoffman rose in one supple movement to her feet and went inside
the temple. When she was gone, Emma turned toward Trevor.
“It is a mistake to push her too hard.”

Trevor looked at Geraldine. “How much did you give her?”
“Four hundred pounds.”
“Dear God. Then I shall push her as hard as I like.”
“No, darling,” Gerry said. “Emma is quite right. Our Miss Hoffman knows something
that she is not telling us, this much is obvious. But just as obviously, her chief motivation is to protect
Adelaide. So if you –“
And then she broke off, for Miss Hoffman was walking back through the door. Although
she had been gone only moments, she seemed different, her assurance rather miraculously restored,
and she tossed a large folder down on the tile table beside the teacup.
“These are the earliest papers we have,” she said. “They go back to the late fifties and
if there is anything that tells you how and why Adelaide came to the temple, it will be in here.”
“What is her surname?” Emma asked, as Miss Hoffman opened the folder, releasing an
arc of dust into the air.
“The girls don’t have surnames. We give them English first names when they – ah, here
we are. 1857 is when she came, which would make her one of the first girls to be taken in and –“
She picked up the paper as if to read the faded ink more closely and it fell to dust in her
hands. No, it fell more like sand, Trevor thought, as if a solid thing had turned to liquid, the paper
crumbling into a thousand small pieces and raining down upon the slate floor.
They sat for a moment in silence. Then Trevor exhaled a low curse.
“How unfortunate,” Miss Hoffman said. “It’s those beastly white termites. They seem to
get into everything.”

Chapter Twelve
The Tucker House
12:50 PM
Joined by Inspectors Seal and Morass, the Thursday Night Murder Games Club
convened in the front parlor of the Tucker house just after luncheon to discuss the events of the day
thus far.
“She escaped you?” Trevor was saying skeptically. “You honestly expect me to accept
that a 40-year-old woman wearing a sari managed to outrun two far younger men, both conditioned to
the standards of Scotland Yard?”
“She out jumped us, is more like it, Sir,” Davy said. “Right over the garden wall she
went in a mad scramble and by the time Detective Abrams and I had gathered our wits enough to run
‘round it…”
“I don’t blame you for looking at us like that, Welles,” Rayley said wearily. “If I hadn’t
seen it myself I would never have believed it. The woman moved like a monkey.”
“Perhaps her circumstances have forced her to become good at evading men,” Emma
said. “Especially men in authority.”
“It is not the fact she escaped us that chews at my copper’s pride,” said Rayley. “It is
the fact she escaped us so easily. Almost casually. Emma’s right. This lady has been on the run in
one form or another all her life.”
“At least this time we know where to find her,” Trevor said. “I will return to the school
as soon as I can.”
“You shall return to the wall, you mean,” said Rayley, with a sly smile.
“No,” said Emma. “What he means is that he shall return to the curiously enchanting
Mrs. Hoffman with her strange teas and men’s trousers. You know our Trevor. Always the first to
sacrifice himself for the greater good.”
“That is quite enough,” said Trevor. Teasing was the norm among the six regulars, but
they couldn’t forget that Morass and Seal were present, and following the banter with entirely too
much interest. Trevor had briefly considered commandeering the only desk in the parlor to illustrate
to Seal that it was Scotland Yard and not the Viceroy who was really in charge here. But upon
reflection had elected instead to merely sit in one of the circled chairs and direct the discussion. He
would not allow a mere 48 hours of living among the Raj to turn him into a poser or, worse yet, a
bully.
“We shall move on to Tom and hope he can report more success,” Trevor said, pointedly
rustling his papers to remind them all this was an official meeting. “Please tell me that you are now
able to say definitively that poison was the murder weapon.”
“Define definitively,” Tom said with a rakish grin. “The blood samples were in far too
deep a state of decomposition to yield the sort of proof a British courtroom would require, but, thanks
to Inspector Morass, I was quickly able to identify the shrub Davy found growing in the Weaver
garden. Tell them what it is called, Inspector. Wait….wait for it. I promise you shall love this part.”
“The leaves were from a local plant that natives call ‘The Suicide Tree,’” Morass said.
“So named because its kernels, if brewed or ground up, release a toxin strong enough to stop the
human heart.”

“Remarkable, is it not?” said Tom, before any of the others could react. “The suicide
tree. Here in the botanical line up of suspects, we have a plant which virtually steps forward with a
full confession.” He consulted his notes. “Otherwise known as Cerbera Odollam, the suicide tree
looks a bit like a hedge, yielding a plant which resembles a mango. When you first split open the
kernels, the pulp inside is white but it turns violet the minute it is exposed to air, then black.”
“They say the taste is quite bitter,” said Morass, “but it can be concealed easily enough
in the local food, which features heaps of spices.”
“And who is this ‘they’ who can report so readily on the taste?” Seal asked. Evidently
he resented the fact that the lowly Morass had provided what appeared to be a valuable piece of the
puzzle, for his voice was cold and skeptical. “I would imagine that anyone who dined on this
particular fruit is not present to testify.”
“It doesn’t kill everyone who takes it,” Morass replied, his own voice cheerful and
agreeable.
“No,” said Tom. “Many, but not all. Apparently the suicide tree is most popular among
young people with dashed romantic hopes. The Romeos and Juliets of Bombay, if you will. While
Cerbera Odollam disrupts the heartbeat, certain strong and healthy hearts recover, much as we saw
the heartbeat of Amy Morrow resume last night after her shock. But in the Weaver-Sang case, the
dosage was certainly enough to kill two people in their seventies.”
“Residue from this plant was on the dropper Davy recovered?” Trevor asked hopefully.
“I would love to tell you it was,” Tom said. “But my tests were inconclusive.
Apparently Cerbera Odollam is odorless, colorless, and next to impossible to detect in an autopsy. In
other words, the perfect murder weapon.”
“It sounds like we’re narrowing in a bit,” said Davy, “for the kernels and leaves you
tested were from a plant growing in the Weaver garden, where Adelaide went each day to work. She
was standing right beside that tree, come to think of it, the first time I saw her. ”
“But what possible incentive could a woman like Adelaide have to kill Mrs. Weaver and
her bodyguard?” Emma asked, with a frown. “You heard Miss Hoffman. It sounds as if Adelaide
found her way to their door quite by chance, because Mrs. Weaver wanted an English-looking nurse.
A rather insulting reason to have been hired, but not an incentive to murder. And presumably she was
happy to have the job.”
“How long does it take the fruit of the suicide tree to work?” Trevor asked.
“Ah, a most apt question, for that is another reason I accept it as our most likely mean of
death,” Tom said. “I say, Trevor, it has suddenly struck me that the reason you are our leader is not
because you provide the best answers, but rather because you ask the best questions.”
“He is our leader because the Queen said he is,” Rayley said with another sly smile. He
knew that Trevor was often uncomfortable ordering around a fellow full detective but, as he had told
his friend many times, he was delighted with the arrangement. Rayley far preferred his role as
puckish intellectual to Trevor’s exhausting task of managing the spectrum of personalities contained
within the group.
“The poison?” Trevor rather testily reminded Tom. “One can only presume that it works
more quickly than the lot of you do?”
“Anywhere between ten and forty minutes, depending upon how much is ingested,” Tom
answered. “So Mrs. Weaver and Pulkit Sang most certainly could have taken in the poison at the
Weaver house and survived their brief ride to the Byculla Club, only to expire there, in the foyer.”
“They would have sickened during the ride, it seems,” Emma said.

“The suicide tree doesn’t make you expel,” said Morass. “Not like other poisons. None
of that agony and grabbing of the stomach, the diarrhea or the nausea. The heart just eventually slows
and stops.”
“A most considerate type of toxin,” Rayley murmured. “And quite perfect for all those
young lovers.”
“But really,” protested Geraldine. “I knew Rose, or at least the younger Rose, and I
can’t see her playing the part you have written for her in this little script. She hated Indian food,
refused anything at all spicy or flavorful, and most certainly would not have chosen a curry for
breakfast. And would she and her servant, no matter who closely linked the two were, have eaten the
same dish?”
“That is indeed problematic,” Trevor said.
“Not to mention that the method requires quite a bit of planning on the part of this
Adelaide,” said Seal. “If we consider culling the plant, cutting open the pod, extracting the kernels
and grinding their pulp. Then brewing and administering the residue by dropper. Would a half-wit
know how to do all that?”
“No one said she was a half-wit,” Emma said. “Only troubled.”
“So let us imagine that she has the skill to adequately go through the required steps,”
Tom said. “It only takes us back to Emma’s original question. What could possibly be her motive?”
They sat for a moment in silence.
“I do not want to condemn a girl I have never met,” Geraldine finally said. “Nor any of
the other household servants. But I can easily imagine that anyone in the employ of Rose Everlee
Weaver would fantasize about killing her a hundred times a day.”
“The lady was as bad as all that?” Trevor said with surprise. Gerry’s previous stories
had yielded a picture of a woman who was petulant and annoying, but that in itself was hardly enough
to prompt murder. If it was, the streets of London would be littered with feminine corpses.
“Her offenses to the spirits of those around her were never so large as to draw comment
or to allow her victim just cause to rail back at her,” Geraldine said. “It was rather like a thousand
little slights a day, until the accumulated effect was enough to drive anyone mad. Now that I consider
it, Rose Weaver was a bit of a slow-acting poison in her own way.”
Trevor raised an eyebrow. “Then why would two men so readily marry her?”
He regretted the question even as he asked it, but Geraldine did not flinch. “Some men
are challenged by critical, remote women, or so I have noticed. They marry them for the same reason
others climb Mont Blanc.”
“But once a man summits Mont Blanc, he plants his flag and leaves as soon as possible,”
Tom said airily. “While marriage to a cold woman goes on day after day, year after year.”
“Which brings us back to the husband,” said Rayley, as Trevor sighed and nodded.
***
Bombay Jail
1:16 PM
“We must make sure that they pin it on the Indian.”
“You are referring, I presume, to Pulkit Sang? Why do you not use his name? You know
it as well as I do.”
“All right then, we must pin it on Sang.”
“But he is dead.”

“All the more convenient.”
Anthony Weaver looked at his stepson with distaste. He had never felt particularly close
to Michael. The boy had been Rose’s child, through and through, and never more so than now, as he
paced the cell in an aggrieved manner that implied he was the primary victim in this entire matter.
“I did not kill your mother,” Anthony said, although the minute the words left his mouth
he heard how ridiculous they sounded and Michael turned toward him in exasperation.
“I know that. Do you think I don’t know that? The important thing is that the charges
against you must be dropped immediately so that the papers in London will forget any of this ever
happened. I face a confidence vote in the fall, you know.”
Ah, thought Anthony. So that is what brings young Michael so unexpectedly to my
side. The fear that a family scandal might derail his political career before it even really begins.
“We have had a bit of luck,” Michael went on, stopping to stare out of the only window
in the room. The view was uninspiring – a yard of dust baking in the midday sun. “There was an
incident last night at the Byculla Club which may serve to divert attention from your upcoming trail.
Two members of our dinner party suffered electrocution through some fluke of faulty wiring. I shall
pause now for you to make the predictable joke about how very shocking you find that news to be.”
“I was not about to make such a joke, I assure you. The victims are dead?”
“A young lady lives. The man dining beside her was pronounced dead on the spot. He
was my attaché, as fate would have it. The fellow had traveled from London with me.”
“Attache?” Anthony said. “An admirably vague word. My apologies on your loss.”
“Benson was a detective,” Michael said, resuming his agitated pacing. “Scotland Yard,
at one time, but retired.”
“It was murder?”
“Most probably not. But it is a distraction, you see, and that is the lucky part.
Distractions muddy the water.”
“It was not especially lucky for them.”
“As I said, the girl will recover and Benson...Benson knew full well the risks of his
profession,” Michael said. “Even welcomed them, you might say. I have noticed that some men
indirectly court death and he was precisely that type, choosing a dangerous line of work in lieu of a
more direct suicide. But now I find myself without his services just as I need them most. For we
must come up with some plausible reason for why Sang might have murdered Mother, and then killed
himself. Do you have any ideas? You’ve been sitting here in this cell for over two weeks so you
must have thought of something.”
“There is absolutely no reason Pulkit Sang would have killed your mother. He was the
most loyal and dedicated of servants.”
“Yes, yes, of course he was, but the jury doesn’t know that. They shall be inclined to
believe anything we say about him, will they not, he being both a native and not here to mount any
manner of defense?”
Weaver studied his stepson. “You have no curiosity about what really happened? We
are talking about the death of your mother, after all.”
”When the crisis is past, then perhaps I will have the time to be curious,” Michael said,
carelessly flinging himself into the cell’s one chair. With the movement, his jacket fell open, exposing
an expensively tailored shirt which barely stretched across his ample abdomen. His life in London is
utterly undisciplined, Weaver thought. He lives with no accountability to anyone except his
political party and they are too dazzled by the shield of his family name to notice what a flimsy

sort of creature lies beneath.
“Well, if your plan is to implicate poor Sang,” Weaver said mildly. “I am not sure how
an electrocution happening weeks after his death bolsters your case.”
“True, true, all true enough,” Michael said. “But perhaps they will conclude it was some
other Indian. I have reason to believe it was. The majordomo at the Byculla Club greeted me in a
most insolent manner when I arrived last night, so there is no telling what that fellow was about. He
was just like Sang, you know, as I have tried to tell you and Mother endless times. You keep the old
ones around too long and they begin to feel they own the place.”
Weaver stretched his legs out in front of him and coughed. “Your Benson was not the
only Scotland Yard detective in Bombay.”
“There is no need to be clever, for I met them last night. A chap named Welles
surrounded by the most bizarre gaggle of companions I have ever encountered. Women, Jews, and
schoolboys. I am only surprised he didn’t bring along a trained monkey.” Michael blew air from his
cheeks with an exaggerated huff of displeasure. “When I first heard of your arrest, I went to the
Queen for help, thinking she might send a letter authorizing my inquiry but she did me one better and
unleashed Scotland Yard on the matter. Can’t think why.”
“Perhaps they have kept her around too long and she thinks she owns the place.”
Michael ignored this. “These Yard chaps shall dig around in a most inconvenient
manner,” he said fitfully. “It is what they do.”
“I imagine so. But is that not what you want? As I have told you, I am an innocent man.
Anything they find shall only free me from this cell and leave you equally free to pursue your political
ambitions without the threat of scandal.”
“Perhaps. But in my experience with policemen, they lack all discretion. They may
raise issues which have nothing to do with the case.”
“Such as your relationship with Benson?”
Michael flushed. “I have nothing to hide.”
“Then you have nothing to fear.”
Michael looked at his stepfather with an exasperation bordering on contempt. “It would
appear that a lifetime in this backwater has made you simple minded. You say that you did not kill
Mother and I believe you. Now I tell you in all candor that my relationship with Benson was nothing
but business. But human lives can be so very complicated, can they not? Do you really wish to lay
every detail of your past exposed to the unblinking eyes of Scotland Yard?”
***
The Tucker House
1:52 PM
“On to the strange business of last night,” Trevor said. “Tom, you said you dropped by
to call on Amy Morrow after your time in the lab. You found her on the mend, I trust?”
“Admirably recovered and as giddily charming as ever,” Tom said. “Her grandmother is
quite the character as well, is she not? She was threatening to charge up to the Byculla Club and rip
out every wire from every wall with her own hands. Candles were good enough for her generation,
she said, and should suffice for ours.”
“She has a valid point,” said Geraldine.
“I’m happy to hear that the girl is better,” said Trevor. “Plans have been made for the
immediate transfer of Jonathan Benson’s remains to England.”

“That was fast,” Rayley said. “Who made the arrangements?”
“I did,” Trevor said. “With some assistance on the London end.” Trevor’s eyes flitted
toward his fellow detective. “He was Scotland Yard.”
“What?” Rayley said with an exclamation of surprise that ran through the group. “How
did you learn that?”
“His name sounded vaguely familiar when I met him,” Trevor said. “I thought little of it
at the time, since the world is probably full of Jonathan Bensons. But after his death I couldn’t shake
the notion that yes, perhaps his familiar name was significant. So I sent a telegram last night and
received a reply this morning. He wasn’t current Yard, you see, which is why none of us had ever met
him. He was retired.”
“Retired? The fellow looked no older than either of us,” Rayley said.
“Electively retired,” Trevor said.
“Because he was a homosexual?” Davy asked. Trevor smiled at him. The boy’s
tendency toward plain speaking rarely failed to move the discussion along.
“That is my assumption, that the rumors were persistent enough to curtail his career.
Since leaving the force seven years ago he has worked in various functions, serving as a bodyguard, a
consultant in security matters, and he has also done a bit of private detection work. Catching
wayward wives with their lovers, that sort of tawdry thing. Somehow Michael Everlee found him
and convinced him to travel to Bombay.”
“Why would a Scotland Yard detective, even a retired one, take on such a task as this?”
Seal protested. “It is hardly up to his standards.”
“Presumably Benson was a bit like Adelaide, grateful for any work at all,” Rayley said.
“The man’s inclinations were obvious enough that they may have cost him not only his post at the
Yard but also alienated any number of would-be clients. And at least Everlee offered him an
opportunity for true investigation into a murder case, something I can imagine he missed dreadfully. I
know I would.”
They were then interrupted by a rap at the door. Davy opened it and allowed in one of
the local policemen, dressed in his shapeless drabs, who gestured to Morass.
“So he wasn’t here as an attaché or even a bodyguard…” Emma said, “but rather as a
private detective? Looking for evidence to exonerate Anthony Weaver?”
“Indeed, and we shall go to his room and take possession of his papers before we ship
the body back to England,” said Trevor. “He had at least a two-day advantage over us, so who knows
what he might have found.” He looked down at his notes. “And now on the issue of fingerprints.
You have collected them, Davy?”
“Yes, Sir, and I have identified six distinct sets from the Weaver home. The medications
Mrs. Weaver took are kept in the kitchen but there weren’t as many prints there as I had hoped.”
“Not surprising,” Trevor murmured, still flipping through his notes. “If the timeline
Weaver gave me is right, and the majordomo at the Club confirms that it more or less is, there was
nearly an hour between the time Rose and Sang left the house and Anthony Weaver reentered it.
Plenty of opportunity for the cook and maid to set the kitchen to rights, and thus wipe away any
evidence in the process. What I find strange is that you identified six different sets of prints and there
were seven people who were regularly in the house: Anthony, Rose, Sang, Adelaide, Felix, the cook,
and the maid. Whose are missing?”
“That I won’t know, Sir, until I’ve printed everyone involved. We have the two dead
people’s, of course, thanks to those chopped off fingers and we have Secretary-General Weaver’s, but

the servants –“
“Speaking of such,” Morass said. “The driver Felix is here. One of my men has just
brought him in.”
“Good work,” said Trevor, hoping that the surprise even he heard in his voice was not
insulting. “What of the women?”
“We have found them as well,” Seal said quickly. “But unlike Felix, they speak not a
word of English.”
“Hardly an insurmountable problem,” Trevor said. “Hindustani?”
“I believe so. It is the most common language of the region.”
Trevor mused a minute. “Emma, Gerry, Davy…the three of you shall talk alone to the
cook and maid.”
“You don’t intend to use a detective?” Seal asked. “They may only be servants, but they
still might have observed much, especially any events which took place in the kitchen.”
“Yesterday you didn’t see the purpose of interviewing them at all,” Trevor said drily.
“And now you challenge the credentials of those who will? Well, you need not. Young Mabrey here
is an extraordinarily competent officer of the law, Emma is our linguist, and Geraldine, even thought
it was in the past, knew both Secretary-General and Mrs. Weaver. She may think to ask things the rest
of us would not. And I suspect the presence of the ladies on our team may relax the ladies under
questioning. I daresay they’ve seen enough white Englishmen in their time.”
“And I threaten no one,” Davy said.
“And he threatens no one,” Trevor agreed with a smile. “Which makes him the biggest
threat on the team.”
“All very well,” Emma said. “But none of us speak Hindustani, so I am afraid we are
back to having to ask some law officer to come with us to translate. Surely you have such a man,
Inspector Seal? Or you, Inspector Morass? Someone who can serve as an intermediary?”
“Leigh Anne Hoffman speaks the native tongue,” Geraldine said slowly. “We heard her
shouting out to the girls in the garden, do you recall?”
“Yes, indeed,” said Emma. “You are right.”
Trevor nodded too. “The perfect solution. Rather than taking the female servants to the
police station, which will certainly intimidate them into silence, or even bringing them here, with so
many of us to sit in our circle and stare, we shall ask that they be delivered to the girls’ school. That
little porch with the garden is quite the place. You can all ask your questions, and I suspect that in
light of Gerry’s generosity, Miss Hoffman will be pleased to assist us by translating. Then Davy can
take their fingerprints and perhaps even those of Adelaide. Oh and interview her. That’s the essential
part. We have no real evidence that she is either emotionally or mentally handicapped, only hearsay,
and there’s certainly a chance she has plenty to say on the subject of Rose Everlee Weaver. If the three
of you can manage all that, I can move on to Benson’s quarters and collect his notes.”
“We can manage it,” Emma said.
“I have no doubt,” Trevor said. “But if you deem your conversations with Adelaide and
the maids to be unsuccessful or if you note anything strange in Miss Hoffman’s manner – stranger than
usual, I mean – we can haul them all down to the station and try our luck there. But the more I think of
it, the more I think a genteel conversation among ladies in the garden might yield more than scaring
the witnesses to death with a show of masculine power. I trust your instincts completely.”
“Thank you,” Emma said, and they exchanged a direct smile.
“Speaking of the girls’ school, and thus the Khajuraho Temple, it sounds as if the two of

you had quite an interesting morning there,” Tom drawled. “I take it you found time to view the
famous erotic wall?”
“The three of us had quite an interesting morning,” Geraldine said archly, much to
Emma’s relief.
“And did you see the wall, Auntie? My guess would be ‘no,’ since you do not appear to
have been struck blind.”
“I did not have the pleasure. Emma and Trevor quite abandoned me, claiming the walk
down to the wall was too treacherous for an old lady to undertake. Thus they explored this
archeological marvel alone while I was forced to sit in a garden and pretend to drink the most
wretched cup of tea I have experienced since Victoria took the throne.”
“And was it an archeological marvel?” Tom asked.
“It was,” Emma said, folding her hands into her lap.
“Ah,” said Tom. “Well, it is good to hear that at least some of us are enjoying our time
in India.”
“You seemed to be enjoying it well enough at the club last night,” Emma said. “And I
thought the two of us were going together this afternoon to the hospital to visit Amy, yet it seems you
have already interrupted your busy day to pay her a call.”
“Quite the case,” said Tom. “I would imagine I was holding her limp little hand at
precisely the same instant that you and Trevor were compelled by duty to investigate the erotic wall
at the bottom of the hill upon which stands the infamous Khajuraho temple.”
“Children, children,” Trevor said. “Shall we try to maintain our focus? Morass, why
don’t you have them bring in Felix? As both valet and driver, I suspect he is our best opportunity to
verify the sequence of events on the morning Rose Everlee and Pulkit Sang died.”
***
The Gardens of the Khajuraho Temple
3:20 PM
She looked down at the small stiff creature in her hand. It was still, terribly still, and
this saddened her. She sang to it, some melody she remembered from her childhood. Something her
mother used to sing – a lullaby, most likely, or some sort of folk tune now reduced to the softest and
most off-key of drones.
The garden was empty this time of day, since the girls had gone in for their afternoon
naps. There was no one to watch as Adelaide stooped in the dust, carefully parting a mound of dirt
and placing the yellow bird into the furrow. You cannot plant birds, this she knew. They do not grow
up from the ground, erupting to life like melons or gourds. And yet she indulged the thought, just for a
moment, of a tree full of yellow birds. A tree stretching toward the sun and releasing its bright
feathered fruits, one by one, into the sapphire sky.
And now the bird was buried. One small heap in the dust among the many and she knew
that the minute she pulled her eyes from the spot it would be impossible to find it again. Adelaide
did not know any prayers by heart. Religion had never been her forte, but she sang her lullaby once
again and hoped it was enough.
***
The Tucker House
3:25 PM

“My uncle get me job,” said Felix.
He was an intelligent boy – they could see that at once. His eyes had scanned the circle
of questioners with neither fear nor artifice. And his English was good, far better than Trevor had
dared to hope. Felix had recounted the sequence of events on the morning of August 7 and his
recollections had perfectly matched Anthony Weaver’s story. No, he had said, with a gentle
certainty. They had passed nothing unusual on their short ride to the club, no one had impeded their
progress, and neither Mrs. Weaver nor Pulkit Sang had seemed at all ill. Sang had ridden up front
beside him, as a matter of fact, and had been his usual cheery self.
But when the line of questioning turned to how he had first found himself living with the
Weavers, the interview became immediately more interesting.
“Who is your uncle?” Trevor asked.
“Pulkit Sang the brother of my mother’s mother, yes?”
“Indeed, “said Trevor, with surprise. So Sang had used his seniority within the Weaver
household to procure a post for his great-nephew. “I did not realize you were related. Please accept
my condolences for your loss.”
The phrase seemed to confuse the lad. He said nothing in response but merely sat
blinking.
“Your great-uncle had worked for the Weavers for a long time, yes?” asked Rayley. “Do
you know why and when they first hired him as a bodyguard?”
“Yes. He was not bodyguard all at once. He was valet to the sahib, as I am now.”
“He worked for the Secretary-General? He was originally a servant to Mr. Weaver?”
Rayley said in some confusion.
“Yes. No. He worked for the first Secretary-General. His name” – and here the boy
hesitated, as if pulling up something from the deepest recesses of memory – “Ro-lund Eb-er-nee.”
The group looked about at each other with uncertainty on every face. There had never
been any hint that Pulkit Sang’s length of service extended that far back. That he had been with the
Everlee-Weaver household prior to the slaughter of ’57, that he had served not only Rose’s second
husband, but her first one as well.
“Well, that is quite cozy,” Tom finally drawled. “Anthony Weaver inherited Roland
Everlee’s valet as well as his wife.”
Trevor nodded to Rayley to continue.
“Let me make sure that we all understand each other, Felix,” Rayley said. “You are
saying that your uncle first served Roland Everlee?”
A single emphatic nod. “In army.”
“He went with Everlee into the field? He traveled with him during the – “'
"War. Yes."
***
“You mean the mutiny?” Rayley persisted. “You realize we are asking about 1857?”
Since Felix was too young to have any personal memory of these events, he was
obviously going solely on stories he had been told from his grandmother and great-uncle. But he
responded with confidence and enunciated carefully. “Uncle went to Cawnpore.”
At this simple sentence all the air seemed to go out of the room for Trevor.
“You are quite sure of this?” Rayley croaked.
Felix bobbed his head. “Uncle go with Sahib Eb-er-nee to house with lady and
children. Sahib try to save, but sword go through him.”

“And your uncle described that day to you? The day Roland Everlee was killed?”
Felix paused, perhaps uncertain of the word “described.” Rayley tried again.
“What did he tell you of that day?”
“Take children from house. Two. Wish to bring more but sword. Uncle tell me Sahib
Eberlee good man. Best white man.”
Ah, thought Rayley. And so this is how the two children survived the raid. “Your Uncle
Pulkit,” he said. “He brought the two white children back to Bombay?”
“Yes. Guns and fire everywhere. He put children in cart.”
***
“Well, that was quite the revelation,” Emma said, when Felix had been escorted from the
room by Davy to offer his fingerprints to the growing collection. “I thought no one survived
Cawnpore.”
“No white person survived Cawnpore,” Trevor said grimly. “I imagine quite a few of
the Indian rebels got away.”
“But Sang was with the English,” Emma said. “Servant to their highest ranking officer
and thus, to turn the phrase, playing for the wrong team. Why would the Indian rebels not have set
upon him too?”
Rayley leaned back in his chair. “I reread the reports of Cawnpore just last night. Quite
a few of the top ranking officers brought their menservants with them into battle. These fellows,
Sang, and the rest, must have occupied a strange perch. Dark skinned, Hindi, quite possibly with
friends and relatives among the rebels but still, just as Emma says, standing on the white side of the
divide.”
“Did your report mention what happened to any of these servants once the battle began?”
Tom asked. “I can imagine several scenarios. Perhaps some of the servants were killed beside their
masters. Others may have changed allegiance once they were engulfed and thus escaped. Or who
knows, there may have been plants for the rebellion among these menservants all along. That would
be rather a coup for the mutineers, would it not? To have spies posing as servants for the Raj?”
Rayley shook his head. “The report only mentioned them in passing and certainly shed
no light on their ultimate fate.”
“Another thing occurs to me,” said Trevor. “Every man of my generation was raised to
admire Roland Everlee. He was considered the very best of everything British, just as Felix said.
But exactly how did his legend begin? If every white Englishman at Cawnpore was slain, who
returned with the tale of Everlee’s great sacrifice?”
“Precisely what I was wondering last night,” Rayley said. “The stories were told, the
report said…which is all very well, but told by whom?”
“Are you suggesting it was Pulkit Sang?” Emma said, literally twisting in her seat with
excitement. “That the man who now lies dead in the Byculla Club kitchen was also the primary agent
of Roland Everlee’s near canonization? It seems bizarre that anyone in the Raj would even listen to
the account of an Indian servant, but who else could it have been?”
` “You were a grown woman at the time, Geraldine,” Trevor said. “How was the event
reported?”
“I only read the accounts of London newspapers, darling,” Geraldine said. “And you
know how they color the truth in search of a good story. Two children escaped. I don’t recall any
mention of how, or what might have happened to them later.”
“The baby boy was soon dead of cholera,” Rayley said. “And the girl was shipped to

elatives in England. At least according to the official military report, which I’m beginning to think
was more propaganda than legitimate reportage. The English had been trounced, after all. Shown to
be incapable of defending their own women and children. The Raj needed a hero and Roland
Everlee fit the bill. So yes, of course they embraced the story of his noble sacrifice, even if the
details came from the tongue of an Indian manservant.”
“Tom,” Trevor said shortly. “Fetch Felix back.”
Tom did as he was told, for once without question, and returned in a minute with both
Davy and Felix, who was gingerly holding out a hand in front of him. His right fingertips were
already inked.
“Felix,” said Trevor, “you told us that your uncle put the children in a cart. All the
reports claim that the roads between Bombay and Cawnpore were blocked by the mutineers. Do you
know how he managed to get this cart back to the city without being overrun in the process?”
The boy pursed his lips thoughtfully, the pause stretching to such length that Trevor was
beginning to think he had not understood the question. Perhaps he should have couched it in plainer
language. Just as he was about to try again, Felix spoke.
“Uncle not say. He said he lie on top of children. Guns and smoke. He…cover them
with his body like…like quilt on English bed, he say.”
“He lay over the children?” Trevor said. “Shielded them with his body? If that was the
case, who drove the cart?”
“Sahib Weaver,” Felix said matter-of-factly.
“Anthony Weaver went with them to rescue the family?” Trevor exploded, glancing at
Geraldine who had literally jumped to her feet with this news. “You are sure this is what your uncle
told you?”
The boy nodded, with wide eyes. The extreme reaction to his last statement seemed to
have stunned him and he looked rather guiltily down at his ink-stained hand.
“Felix,” Rayley said gently. “Your uncle told you Roland Everlee was the best white
man. What did he tell you about Anthony Weaver?”
“He say Sahib Weaver take care of our family,” Felix said. “For all days. And this he
do. Yes? This he do?”

Chapter Thirteen
A Carriage in the British District
2:20 PM
The meeting concluded at two and then the group dispersed, each one moving to his or
her assigned task. Tom returned to the club to investigate the wiring which had delivered the shock to
Amy Morrow and Jonathan Benson the previous evening. Seal and Morass bustled off to, in the
words of Morass, “scare up” the female servants of the Weaver household and Trevor suspected that
for once this was not a mere figure of speech. After sending a note to Miss Hoffman to alert her that
they would indeed be returning in the midday sun, Emma, Davy, and Gerry borrowed Mrs. Tucker’s
carriage and set off in the direction of the temple.
And Rayley and Trevor hired a cab to take them in the opposite direction, to the
gentleman’s rooming house where Jonathan Benson had been staying before he was killed.
Apparently Gerry’s airy claim that there were no hotels in Bombay was not entirely accurate. More
likely what she meant was that there were few which accepted both male and female travelers and
fewer yet which approached the levels of comfort to which she had spent a lifetime becoming
accustomed.
But there were boarding houses aplenty for the men of the Raj, the majority of them
probably just like the one now before Rayley and Trevor – a large but humbly appointed dwelling
with any number of small rooms for lease. This house is a charmless affair, Trevor thought, as the
landlord, with a glance at their paperwork, readily escorted them down the hall to Benson’s room.
And not so very different from my own bachelor’s quarters back in London. Buildings without
women always seemed to him strangely abandoned, no matter how many men might climb their stairs
or walk their halls.
“The poor chap is paid up full for the week,” the landlord said, before leaving them at
the door, a remark Trevor initially found irrelevant. But upon reflection he supposed the fellow was
suggesting that Benson – or more likely Michael Everlee – had rented the room for a set number of
days and thus that Benson’s things would remain there unmoved and unmolested throughout that
period of time. Which was fortunate indeed, for otherwise the man’s personal effects might have
been packed up in careless haste and stored somewhere, thus diminishing Trevor and Rayley’s chance
to get an impression of his personality.
“Just as one might expect to find it,” Rayley said, breaking into his thoughts.
“ Umm…” Trevor said noncommittally. What he assumed his friend meant was that
Benson’s room was absolutely neat, without any clothing scattered about or any remains of food or
drink. The small desk in the corner was well ordered and Rayley moved to it at once, leaving Trevor
to reflect that Rayley must keep his own room with the same sort of militaristic precision as this one.
Trevor’s own personal quarters looked more as if a handbomb had been recently deployed.
“See here,” said Rayley, handing Trevor a small framed daguerreotype. “It must be from
the fifties, before the mutiny, and thus is a bit unusual for its era, is it not?”
“Indeed,” said Trevor, accepting the photograph and sitting down on Benson’s unmussed
bed. Photography had not become in vogue for your average middle class family until the last few
years, but here in his hands was an early example of the art, showing two officers in uniform standing
side by side and staring straight ahead, as if into some uncertain future.

“Weaver and Everlee, I presume,” Rayley said. “Back in their salad days.”
“It would seem so,” Trevor said. “The one on the left is definitely Anthony Weaver and
the other is…well, note the braiding on his shoulders and the insignia. I do not pretend to fathom the
many levels of the Raj but he is without question the more highly decorated of the two. I wonder how
and why Benson came to possess this picture.”
“The how is almost certainly through Michael Everlee,” said Rayley, sitting down
beside Trevor on the bed, but with hesitation, as if he found the act somewhat disrespectful to
Benson. “He must have carried the picture with him through the years.”
“Or else he recently took it from the Weaver home,” Trevor said, squinting down at the
faces of the two men. “I cannot fully shake the impression that he beat us to the crime scene, no
matter what Seal claims.”
“The photograph doesn’t seem to yield evidence in and of itself,” said Rayley.
“Unusually good work for its time, yes, but beyond that, just the image of Secretary-General and his
lieutenant. Do you make anything more of it?”
“Have you heard of this chap they call Freud?” Trevor asked abruptly.
“Sigmund Freud? I’ve read a bit of him. Why?”
“You know he says that biology is destiny.”
“Yes…” Rayley said cautiously. “But I believe that remark was made in reference to the
differences between how men and women think.”
“Ah,” said Trevor. “Well, if the fellow can explain that great mystery to the world, we
should bring him to England and have him knighted on the spot. But this picture reminded me of
Everlee’s remarks at the dinner table last evening. It was after you left, of course, but someone asked
him if he had come to see his father’s memorial plaque and he said quite pointedly that he had
traveled to India because of his other father. Meaning his stepfather, of course. Anthony Weaver.”
“And?”
Trevor glanced up from the photograph. “I do not entirely know what I am saying. Just
that it must be strange for a boy to grow up with two fathers – one by way of genetics and the other by
way of training. Under those circumstances, which would you imagine would have the greater
influence – the biology of his father or the ideology of his stepfather?”
“If I could answer that, I should demand to be knighted along with Freud,” Rayley said
with a soft laugh. “It is a question for the sages, is it not?”
“They look rather alike in the picture.”
“All men in uniform look rather alike.”
“I suppose,” said Trevor, “but it strikes me once again how entwined the fates of Roland
Everlee and Anthony Weaver truly are. They served in the same unit, were caught in the same battle,
lived in the same house, even married the same woman. One of them raised the other’s child as his
own.”
“And yet one lived and one died,” Rayley said, pushing up from the bed and moving
back toward the desk. “In the most crucial and ultimate sense, their destinies diverged.”
“Do you think Felix’s story about the children taken from that farmhouse is correct?”
Trevor asked.
“Almost certainly.”
“And the baby boy died and the girl was sent from India?”
“So claimed the report,” Rayley said, leafing through a notebook. “Last night I briefly
indulged the fantasy we might find the girl, who would now be close to forty and presumably still in

England. But it is bad luck that she is female and thus her adult name is probably no longer Sloane.”
“Even if we found her,” Trevor said, “the odds are that she would not remember anything
that would help us.”
Rayley glanced up. “You think not? I’m torn on the issue. I remember a few things from
the time I was five, with certain impressions which I believe may have originated even earlier. And
something as traumatic as what that poor little girl must have witnessed - Ah, Welles, look, see here.”
He handed Trevor the notebook, which was turned to a page where Benson had drawn a
small chart, some business with numbers and percentages that Trevor found impossible to
understand. But at the bottom of the page two notes jumped out immediately.
TOO MUCH FOR EIGHT STONE. FOURTEEN?
LAUDANUM?
***
The Byculla Club
2:49 PM
And, a bit further down…
Tom had been crouched on the floor of the Byculla Club dining room for the better part
of an hour, painstakingly working his way through the tangle of wires which connected the lamps
which had been set beneath the table the evening before.
The trouble, he thought, rocking so far back on his heels that he actually rolled back with
a plop to his bum, wasn’t that he couldn’t find a fray in the cords. The problem was that he had found
a dozen. Either the electrocution of Jonathan Benson and Amy Morrow had been accidental –
prompted by nothing more than their unfortunate placement at the table – or the plan to kill them had
been so fiendishly intricate that he didn’t have a notion of where to start. Emma had told him about
the order of precedence and Trevor had commented on it too…apparently the Byculla Club set a great
store around the sequence in which certain members entered and left a room. Which in theory
suggested that someone might have known where Amy and Benson had been sitting…
But no. It seemed unlikely. Had anyone even known either of them would be there, that
Michael Everlee would drag along an attaché or that Mrs. Morrow’s granddaughter would be visiting
from the districts?
Besides, Tom’s mind kept drifting back to the difference between poison and
electrocution as a murder method and they seemed to be the fruits of very different sorts of minds.
Poisoning someone seemed to be so…well, there was no other way to say it. Poisoning was so
primal, and thus so native, while electrocution was so very modern, and thus so British. India was
full of toxins, and if local legend was to be believed, the locals used them with regularity to dispatch
both themselves and their enemies. But it would have to be a rare Englishman, one with significant
experience of the flora and fauna of the subcontinent, to understand the particulars of this ‘suicide
tree’ and how its fruit should be administered.
And the electricity….even fewer people would be able to calculate the workings of
that. Someone last night, during that endless cocktail hour before dinner, had laughed and said that the
servants at the Club would have nothing to do with the electrical lights and refused to turn them on

and off, leaving that solemn task to a high ranking member of the Club. The man telling the story had
chortled with amusement over the Indian mistrust of electricity, but as it turns out the servants were
quite right to demur, for the tangle of frayed wires before Tom now on the floor only confirmed what
he had thought the evening before.
The real surprise was not that an electrocution happened, but that it had not happened
long before now.
Which is not to say that a clever British man, wishing to avoid detection, would not go
with the more primitive means of poison or that a clever Indian might just as easily divert attention
from his crime by choosing to use the white man’s weapon against him. The members of the Thursday
Night Murder Games Club had discussed this all many times. It was a mistake for a detective to
assume a killer was brilliant. But it could be an even larger mistake to assume that he was not.
***
The Gardens of the Khajuraho Temple
3:20 PM
Trevor often referred to Emma as the group’s “linguist,” a rather fancy tern which
always made her uncomfortable. It seemed to imply years of training and a thorough knowledge of
dozens of languages rather than the three she could manage reasonably well.
But still… at the heart of it, perhaps being a linguist really did come down to little more
than the ability to recognize patterns, specifically patterns of sound, and Emma had not been on the
portico for more than a few minutes when she had realized that both the Weaver maid and cook were
saying the same phrase over and over.
It would appear that the women were being most cooperative. They had entered the
girls’ school in much the manner Trevor had predicted, with more curiosity than trepidation. Both of
them readily answered the questions which Davy asked and Miss Hoffman translated, the cook
customarily going first, affirming that her status in the household was higher than that of the maid.
So far they had revealed few facts of interest. The morning of the murders had seemed
no different than all others. Sahib Weaver had risen first and gone to his Club, just as his custom.
Neither woman had seen him, but the maid had heard the front door close when he and Felix left, and
had used that as the signal to tidy the man’s room. He did not breakfast. Never did. Shortly after her
husband’s departure, Mrs. Weaver had risen and rang for her tray, which was brought to the sitting
room. The tray held her beloved biscuits and jam, as well as a pot of morning tea which the lady
preferred weak and watery, and her medication. Pulkit Sang ate in the kitchen as he always did and
made up his own breakfast from the remains of the previous evening’s curry.
“Is the curry just for the servants?” Emma had asked Davy and the question had trickled
to and fro through all the various speakers until the somewhat surprising answer returned. No,
Secretary-General Anthony Weaver, unlike his wife, was a devotee of native cooking, and liked
curries as well.
“What sort of medication did Mrs. Weaver take?” Geraldine asked and once again
everyone in the circle had to participate before the answer returned. Neither the cook nor the maid
knew the name of the drug. All that fell under the domain of the nurse.
“Nurse?” Geraldine had said sharply, turning directly to Miss Hoffman. “You told us
she was quite untrained and hired only to listen to Rose’s complaints, a thankless function which I too
have served in my day. But am I to take it that Adelaide also was responsible for monitoring Rose’s
medication?”

“Monitoring medication is a rather grand term,” Miss Hoffman replied, with only the
slightest flush of discomfort. “But Adelaide can certainly manage to take spoon out a powder from a
bottle and place it in a cup.”
“So could a maid or a cook,” Geraldine said.
“As I believe I adequately explained this morning,” Miss Hoffman said evenly, “the
households of the Raj are often built more on ceremony than practicality. Of course any one could
place the medication on the tray. It is even possible that Mrs. Weaver, horror of all horrors, might
open her own bottle and spoon out her own powder. But I believe a couple like the Weavers who sit,
stand, and lie on ceremony, would prefer the notion that the household nurse, no matter how badly
trained she might be, performed this task.”
“We need to talk to Adelaide,” Davy said. “Where is she?”
Miss Hoffman pretended to look about. “I cannot say.”
“No one ever seems to quite know where Adelaide is,” Emma said. “She did not return
for luncheon or even for tea?”
“Adelaide is a mercurial creature,” Miss Hoffman answered, “and I place no restraints
on her. But I assure you this afternoon, just as I tried to assure you this morning, talking to her will
not yield the bounty of information that you seem to expect. Adelaide’s limitations, her….profound
disinterest in the events of the world around her….they all assure that, even though she may have been
the one to put the medicine in the cup and then on the tray, she knew nothing about what sort of
medication it was or even when Mrs. Weaver would ultimately swallow the draught. The preparation
was simply one of her routine tasks.”
“Adelaide has returned to the Weaver household at least twice,” Davy said. “I know, for
I have seen her there twice myself.”
“Do not waste too much time reading anything into that, Detective,” Miss Hoffman said
with an airy wave of her hand. “Are you even a Detective? You seem so young. But to answer your
question, I am not sure Adelaide fully grasps that the household has changed and her services are no
longer needed.”
“I am an officer and not a detective,” Davy said evenly. “Might Adelaide feel
compelled to return to that she might feed a pet bird?”
A small hesitation on the part of Miss Hoffman. “She might. Now, is there anything else
you would like to ask these good women, or might we all return to the responsibilities of our day?”
It was an earnest attempt to change the subject, but it did not work.
“Might you send one of your students to look for Adelaide now?” Davy said, carrying on
precisely as if the woman had not spoken. “I would like to ask her some questions regarding Mrs.
Weaver’s medication and she must be fingerprinted as well.”
“No, I shall not,” said Miss Hoffman. “I can hardly unleash a group of young girls on the
harsh streets of Bombay in a pointless search for a woman who is both frightened and skilled at
hiding. In fact, Adelaide has the ability to make herself all but invisible when she wishes. It is an
almost animalistic skill, one I sometimes envy. I assure you that Adelaide will resurface only when
she is ready, and not a moment before.”
“So you see her rather like a dog,” Emma said. “She will come along home when she
gets hungry, is that your point?”
Miss Hoffman did not answer, but merely smiled. Despite the affectations of the hand
flapping, she was by far the most composed member of the circle. Geraldine was in a state of such
agitation that Emma was afraid she would make herself ill in the heat or, at the very least, demand that

her bank draft be returned.
Hardly anyone ever says no to Gerry, Emma thought. She is unaccustomed to the
experience of having her requests denied or being treated with such cheerful and persistent
rudeness. At least Davy and I, with our working class roots, are better equipped to deal with the
Miss Hoffmans of the world.
“Very well,” Davy said, with the equanimity of a man who indeed had met many Leigh
Anne Hoffmans in his lifetime, and was sure to meet many more. “Then you must expect me to return
this evening when we can only assume Adelaide will come dragging back to food and cot and I can
fingerprint and question her then. She speaks English, so we shall not have to bother you to sit in on
that interview, which I’m sure will be a great relief to everyone.”
Sharp fellow, Emma thought, with a small smile of her own. In refusing to summon
Adelaide now – for Emma was all but certain the woman was somewhere within the schoolhouse –
Miss Hoffman had also forfeited her right to be present when Adelaide was questioned.
“And now on to our final question,” Davy continued calmly. His apprenticeship to
Trevor had taught him that to gloat over an advantage during an interview was to risk nullifying it and
besides, there was no reason to humiliate Miss Hoffman. He suspected they would need her services
yet again before this business was complete. “Will you please ask these ladies to sequence what
happened within the household after Mrs. Weaver and Sang left for the Club?”
The answers to this inquiry yielded nothing of note beyond a confirmation of what
Anthony Weaver had earlier told Trevor. Felix had taken the Secretary-General to the Byculla and
then returned to wait for the departure of Mrs. Weaver and Sang. After they too rolled off in the
general direction of the Club, the maid and cook had cleaned the remainder of the house, including the
kitchen.
Yes, nothing new to note and yet it was during all this tedious back and forth that Emma
once again heard the same phrase being repeated over and over. Miss Hoffman would spew out a
series of syllables – one could only hope she was honestly asking Davy’s question – which was
invariably answered by the women as with something that sounded like “thick high.” Sometimes they
said a few words more, and sometimes not
This “thick high” Emma thought. What does it mean?
“And so may I assume that we are at last finished?” Miss Hoffman said, when the final
question had been asked and answered. “I do not wish to limit my service to you, but it is time to
begin thinking of what I shall prepare for dinner. Would you care to stay? I am making one of my
curries and I flatter myself that, despite my English heritage, a lifetime in Bombay has somewhat
given me the knack.”
“Thank you, but we must be going,” said Geraldine. “You have been an angel of
patience but we have kept you from your many duties far too long.”
Gerry is up to something, Emma thought. Otherwise she would not be so civil to
someone who is oh-so-clearly playing us for a pack of fools.
“Oh, but one other thing - last night at the Byculla Club,” Geraldine continued, her voice
dripping with honey, “all the members were talking of a picnic planned for Friday. I believe that is
the day after tomorrow, is it not? Of course it is. One gets so confused about dates when on holiday.
But, as I was saying… a group is going out to admire the latest additions to the glorious Cawnpore
memorial. You know, the new plaques and that sort of thing. It should be a gay little trip.”
A gay little trip? Emma thought, looking at Davy, who seemed equally unsure of where
Gerry was going with all this. A gay little trip to the site of a slaughter?

“You and your girls must go with us,” Geraldine was saying. “All of you, including
Adelaide. It promises to be such a fine respite from the heat of the city and the monotony of daily life,
don’t you agree?”
“We do not associate with members of the Byculla Club,” Miss Hoffman responded
quickly, although this sudden tack by Gerry seemed to have thrown her a bit off her game. “By mutual
consent.”
“Yes, what a group of prigs they are, I quite agree,” Gerry said. She flopped her hand
around in an arch imitation of Miss Hoffman’s earlier move although Emma doubted anyone other
than she was aware of how thoroughly Gerry was mocking the woman. “But there may be potential
patrons lurking among their ranks, might there not, and when they see how lovely your girls
are….how perfectly suited for both matrimony and employment… Oh, I quite insist you all come,
Miss Hoffman. Your students deserve the outing. And if you are concerned about the expense, let me
insist on inviting you as my guests. We shall need how many carts for transport of your students,
would you guess? Three? Four?”
Bravo to you, my friend, Emma thought. There is no cost to going on a picnic, anyone
knows that. But in offering to pay that nonexistent cost you are once again bribing Miss Hoffman
to cooperate with our investigation. For if there is one thing this woman cannot resist, it is the
offer of money. And if Adelaide comes too, we shall have every chance to observe her, talk to her,
draw her away, however briefly, from Miss Hoffman’s protection.
“Five carts, I should think,” blurted out Miss Hoffman. “We shall have to hire five to get
them all there and that…that might be costly.”
“Ah,” said Geraldine. “Five carts, indeed. We certainly cannot allow the girls to be
crushed all together and uncomfortable. So we are speaking of… perhaps another hundred pounds, I
should think? Davy, please fetch my check book from the carriage.”
***
A Gentleman’s Rooming House in the English District
3:36 PM
“What the deuce are the two of you are doing here?”
Both Trevor and Rayley were so absorbed in the small notebook that they jumped at the
sound of the voice. Michael Everlee was standing in the doorframe, glaring.
“We are going through Jonathan Benson’s personal effects and his notes,” Trevor said,
“as I imagine is quite obvious. But save your outrage for another day. Everything in this room counts
as evidence and our paperwork from the Queen allows us full access.”
“Evidence?” Everlee asked, with a trace of contempt in his voice. “So may I take it that
you are now prepared to admit that Benson was murdered?”
“Detective Welles was referring to evidence in the murder of your mother,” Rayley said
amiably. “Benson was here as a detective, was he not? A detective under the guise of a bodyguard?”
“I fail to see why I should allow you to - “
“Look, Everlee,” Trevor said. “You know the options as well as I do. We can either
scrap like junkyard dogs, or we can work together in this strange affair. It is entirely your call.”
Everlee's eyes moved from one detective to the other with suspicion. “Benson told me
his investigation had just begun…”
“But he was on to something, was he not?” Rayley said. “This notebook is full of his
jottings. Like this address here, does it mean anything to you?” He turned the book toward Everlee

who read quickly, then shook his head.
“Or this rather painstakingly drawn chart,” Rayley continued. “The numbers make little
sense to us, but they most likely relate to the idea of poison. Dosages? It appears that someone trying
to figure out how to give enough of the serum of a certain plant to stop the heart, but not to stop it
immediately. Death on a certain timetable…was that what our killer was attempting to orchestrate?”
Everlee blinked but said nothing. Rayley persisted. “Do you have any idea why he
would write the word ‘laudanum’ with a question mark to follow?”
Now Everlee turned away, feigning a sudden interest in an indifferent landscape hung on
a wall. “Benson,” he said after a moment’s pause, “had promised me the utmost in discretion. It even
said as much on his business card. ‘Discretion is the better part of valor,’ it said, right there on the
card.”
“And you shall have the same level of discretion from us,” Rayley said, “as long as the
facts in question do not relate to the murder. I take it your mother was….ill?”
“Yes, ill,” Everlee said, turning back toward him. “She suffered from a nervous
affliction which required relief at the dawning of day…and sometimes in the evening as well.”
Trevor was glad that Rayley was handling the questioning. Not only was he better at this
sort of indirect and gentle grilling – even using restraint with a man who had so grievously insulted
him the very night before – but Trevor was not sure he could have kept the skepticism from his face.
Rose Weaver was imbibing laudanum both morning and night? If that were true, the real mystery was
how the woman could remain on her feet. Trevor had once taken a small dosage of the opiate from a
well-meaning dentist and had not only lost an entire afternoon, but had found himself in serious
discussion with a houseplant.
She must have had a full addiction, he thought. To have ingested laudanum on such a
steady basis and still have been able to socially function.
“And this was the medication she took every morning?” Rayley said. “As everyone in
the household was doubtlessly aware?”
"His chart….”
“Yes, the chart,” Rayley said, handing Everlee the notebook again. “Can you make heads
or tails of these columns of numbers?”
“I cannot say for sure…”
“I realize that. Tell me what you think.”
“I received a letter from my mother before I left England,” Everlee blurted in a sudden
rush of words. “It arrived on the same day I got notice of her death, which made it all the more
poignant to read, as I trust you gentlemen can imagine. In it she mentioned, somewhat in passing, that
one of her songbirds had been found dead in its cage the day before. She kept two of them, you see. I
showed the letter to Benson, of course, it being the last missive I would receive from her, and he
seemed to feel it was significant. Thought perhaps that whoever wanted to poison Mother might have
practiced on the little bird. And then we found the dropper…”
“The dropper?” Trevor broke in. “Where?”
Everlee began to pace. “It was against police orders…”
“God’s nightgown, man,” said Trevor. “We aren’t going to charge you with illegal
entrance into your boyhood home. You surely know these are not the sort of sins we’ve come to India
to prosecute, so please – put your pride or caution or whatever is troubling you aside, and tell us
whatever you know.”
“We went to the house the day we arrived in Bombay,” Everlee said in another rush of

words. He seemed to be the sort of man who went through life tightly wound, choosing every word
and mannerism to create a specific impression. But Trevor had noticed that when these careful men
finally dropped their guard, they often became the most readily confessional of all. Now Everlee
wandered over to the small window and looked out of it, turning his back to the detectives.
“Because of the bird and the nature of mother’s death,” he said, “Benson already suspected poison.
So he walked straight to the kitchen and picked up everything he could find that might relate. And
there was a tree in the garden that intrigued him as well, although I can’t say why.”
“He was ahead of us in every way,” Trevor murmured and Rayley nodded. This one
man had found as much as the lot of them all together. Benson must have been good at his job before
the Yard sacked him.
Everlee remained turned to the window. “I don’t know entirely what theory he was
working on. He preferred not to share ideas before he was certain, he said. Did not want to falsely
raise a client’s hopes. But I suspect that chart represents his efforts to ascertain how much poison it
would take to kill people of various sizes. A small amount for a bird, more of course for a human…”
“Ah, then this bit about eight stone makes sense,” Rayley said. “Your mother was a
small woman?” He could not quite bring himself to admit to Everlee that he himself had gazed upon
her ravaged body, that he knew her to have been no heavier than a girl.
The man at the window nodded.
“About eight stone?”
“If that.”
“But Benson’s notes read Too much for eight stone. Fourteen?” Rayley said, with a
glance down at the notebook. “Something he found in the dropper must have indicated that the dosage
was higher than it would have taken to kill a small woman. Fourteen stone…that is enough for a very
large man.”
“I suppose,” Everlee said, turning at last to look at the two detectives, who were still
sitting shoulder to shoulder on the bed. “But I never understood what difference any of that would
make. Why would a killer bother to compute dosage and use a dropper with the care of a physician?
If I were going to poison someone I would give them a great amount to make sure the job was done.”
“Indeed,” said Rayley. “And that would be fine if you intended to kill them in their
beds. But if you wished to give them just enough poison to bring on a delayed reaction – to give them
time to be far from your house when they died….”
“Ah,” said Everlee. “Yes, I see. Our killer did not only wish to kill but to make it seem
that the death was from natural causes. At mother’s age heart failure would not attract comment,
especially if her collapse was witnessed by any number of people at the Byculla Club.”
“Quite,” said Rayley, “but the plan went awry when Sang died too. Do you have any
notion why her manservant might have taken your mother’s medication?”
“None.”
“Laudanum is highly addictive,” Trevor said, pushing up from the bed and moving
aimlessly across the room before finally coming to rest against the doorframe.
Everlee considered this with narrowed eyes. “What are you suggesting?”
“Only that not everyone who takes opiates does so for medicinal reasons. There may
have been others in the household using the medication prescribed for your mother. It would hardly
be the first time this had happened, that one person in a family becomes the procurer, in a way, of
medication for them all. There is no need to bristle at these words, Sir, for I repeat Rayley’s
promise. The only facts which will emerge from this room are those which are strictly pertinent to

the murder investigation.”
“I do not wish to seem slow, Sir, but I repeat: What are you suggesting?”
Trevor shifted his weight. “Your stepfather is a large man, is he not? About fourteen
stone?”
“ Of course,” said Rayley, turning to face Trevor in a manner that made the bedsprings
squeak. “But of course. We were fools not to see it earlier.”
“Then I must be a true fool,” said Everlee, his eyes darting back and forth between
them. “For I do not see it even now. What is the meaning of Benson’s bloody chart?”
“If the dosage was calculated not for a human body of eight stone, such as your mother,”
Trevor said, “but rather a body of fourteen stone, like your stepfather, it throws an entirely new light
upon the case. One I think you should welcome.”
“And why is that?”
“Because it suggests that Anthony Weaver was not the killer,” Trevor answered, as
Rayley snapped the notebook closed. “That instead, he was more likely the intended victim.”
***
The Gardens of the Khajuraho Temple
3:50 PM
Poor Davy. He seemed to always find himself stuck with the fingerprinting. Emma
imagined it to be tedious work, yet Davy always went willingly to the task. She supposed that
Geraldine might likewise grow tired of writing out bank checks, which seemed to be her most
consistent contribution to the work of the group, but writing a check was precisely what Gerry was
doing at the moment. And for the second time that day, Leigh Anne Hoffman was watching the
process with an almost obscene amount of pleasure.
At least the activity on the portico gave Emma the chance to slip from the group
unobserved and make her way to the garden. It was all but deserted this time of day, the girls
presumably spending their afternoons inside, in some sort of rest or study. But during their
unsatisfactory interview of the maid and cook, Emma had noticed a single girl enter the garden. The
same pretty one who had served them tea that morning. She believed Miss Hoffman had called her
Catherine.
“Excuse me,” Emma ventured, picking her way through the neatly planted rows and with
a guilty glance back over her shoulder at the portico. “But might you answer a question for me?”
The girl was cutting herbs with a small scissor. Mint, parsley, and some others Emma
did not recognize. She rose from her crouch gracefully and nodded.
“You speak both English and Hindustani, do you not?”
Another nod.
“I have heard a phrase in Hindustani which I do not understand,” Emma said. Actually
she had heard a great number of Hindustani phrases she didn’t understand, but she was especially
curious about the syllables the cook and maid had uttered at the start of nearly every reply. “It sounds
a bit like the English words ‘thick high’” she said. “And they bobbed their heads as they said it.”
The girl smiled, a gentle smile of understanding. She was like a child too, Emma
noted. A tall and very pretty child. She supposed it was natural Miss Hoffman would try to shield
her young charges from the society which had given them such a cruel start in life and that dwelling
within a garden which furthermore dwelt inside a temple might give the girls a severely limited view
of the world….but still, innocence of this sort did not seem to serve them. She wondered if they were

eally as prepared for marriage or employment as Miss Hoffman had claimed.
“It means ‘Yes, as you would wish it,’” the girl said.
“So they are words of agreement?”
The girl nodded. “You say them at the end of a prayer as well,” she said. “Much like
‘Amen.’”
Emma stepped back, leaving Catherine to return to her task. So she was right. Leigh
Anne Hoffman had indeed been framing the questions in a certain manner, putting words in the
women’s mouths, doing what the Americans called “leading the witness.” These interviews were
useless, save for the fact that they showed Miss Hoffman was prepared to thwart them at all turns, not
only those involving Adelaide. She would have to tell Trevor at once.
But as Emma turned, her thin summer boots slipping in the moist earth of the garden, she
found herself face to face with none other than Miss Hoffman herself.
“If you wish to speak to any of my girls, Miss Kelly,” the woman said, “you do not need
to slip away like a thief in the night. All you must do is simply ask.”
“Your girls?” Emma asked, as they both instinctively stepped out of earshot from the
kneeling Catherine. “It would seem to me that they are young women in their own right.”
“Some more so than others,” Miss Hoffman said, in a rather self-satisfied tone of voice,
as they turned to walk back toward the portico where Gerry and Davy waited, along with the darkfingered
servants.
“You are quite cavalier about this all,” Emma said. “Considering that three people are
dead.”
“Three?” Miss Hoffman said. “But I understood that the young Morrow girl was
recovering nicely from her shock.”
“She is. I mean Rose Everlee Weaver, Pulkit Sang, and Jonathan Benson.”
The woman suddenly froze in her tracks. “Pulkit Sang, you say?”
“Mrs. Weaver’s manservant. He expired within a few feet of his mistress that morning at
the Byculla Club, which is the only reason we are even here in Bombay.”
“They died together?”
“Indeed. In fact, it was their near simultaneous demise that revealed the event to be a
murder and not a natural death. Thus you might say that Sang is the one who thwarted the killer’s
clever plans, just as a bodyguard is supposed to do, even if he accomplished his task posthumously.
Wildly ironic, is it not?”
“But I did not know….”
Emma looked at Miss Hoffman curiously. During the limited time she had spent with
Leigh Anne Hoffman she had seen a variety of emotions seize the strong features of the woman’s
face. But they always seemed to do a swift dance before settling into an expression of calm selfassurance,
as if Miss Hoffman had written the story of the world for her own personal amusement.
As if it were impossible for any person to say anything she had not thought of first. This was the first
time Emma had seen Miss Hoffman honestly struggle to regain her composure.
“Two people expired that morning in the lobby of the Byculla Club,” Emma repeated.
“You were not aware of this?”
“So little gossip comes to me here,” said Miss Hoffman. “I do not go to the Club, of
course, and few people…”
“Did you know the man?”
Miss Hoffman shook her head. The initial shock had passed now and she seemed to be

composing herself a bit. Pulling herself back to her full height, she took a shaky step or two in the
direction of the portico.
“I met him but once,” she said. “On Adelaide’s first day of employment I escorted her to
the Weaver house and Sang greeted us…he greeted us with the greatest courtesy. Which was
noteworthy, for so few people really look at Adelaide, you see. She is a walking reminder of an
aspect of India that everyone, both light and dark, would dearly like to forget. But Sang bowed and
took us both on a tour of the entire house. Showed us everything she might be expected to do, which
was not much. It was as if he sensed she might be unnerved by a strange place and I might be hesitant
to leave her there. He seemed a kind man.”
“Yes,” Emma said. For just this brief instant the mask of superiority had dropped and
she found she liked the face which lay beneath. Her opinion of Miss Hoffman shifted, at least for the
moment, and she felt an irrational urge to take the woman’s arm, to steady her as she weaved on her
feet. “That is my impression as well, although I knew him, of course, even less than you.”
“Will he be mourned?” Miss Hoffman asked, a bit hollowly.
“He will,” Emma said, Felix’s face flashing before her. He had mentioned a mother and
grandmother as well and then an unwelcome image tumbled in with the others: the dark days after
Mary’s death. Trevor had told her that parties were held in Mary’s honor all over the East End of
London, innumerable glasses of ale raised in her memory. It wasn’t a plaque or a statue, or even a
headstone. Certainly there was no school bearing her name. But if the question was “Who mourns
the poor among us? Who mourns the servants, the paupers, the whores?” the answer appeared to be
“Many.”
“His death was not even mentioned in the newspapers,” Miss Hoffman continued
fretfully. “Just one more Indian, deemed unworthy of notice.”
“True enough,” said Emma. “But of the three who died, I have no doubt that Pulkit Sang
shall be missed the most.”

Chapter Fourteen
The Tucker House
6:40 PM
“Laudanum is extraordinarily bitter to the taste,” Tom said. They had all reconvened in
Mrs. Tucker’s parlor to once again confer, this time on the findings of the afternoon. Exhaustion was
etched on the face of every person seated in the circle and they had all promised each other that they
would tumble into their beds early tonight.
“Bitter in the same way that residue from the suicide tree might be?” Trevor asked.
“Having never sampled Cerbera Odollam, I could not draw such a comparison,” Tom
answered, before cheerfully adding, “Oh dear, I seem to have made a slip. All right then, I’ll confess
to an occasional dose of laudanum. I doubt anyone makes it through medical school without sampling
the wares now and then.”
“Tom,” Geraldine said disapprovingly. “They say it is most addictive.”
“And they are quite right,” Tom admitted. “Whoever ‘they’ may be. I’ve always
wondered about this nameless group of people, this gang of ‘theys’ who always seem to be so certain
about what others should do.” He turned back to Trevor. “But if you are suggesting that someone
might willingly swallow Cerbera Odollam, believing it to be their normal dose of prescribed
laudanum, I suppose that it is possible. Both are bitter to the taste, yes, and laudanum has a reddish
brown color, not that different from the dark shade the kernels of the Cerbera Odollam turn after
exposure to air.”
“All right then, let us follow this thread of assumption and see where it leads,” Trevor
said. “What if the poison was not administered through a highly spiced food like a curry, but rather
through the medication of Rose Weaver?”
“You sound quite sure of yourself,” Emma said.
“Do not let him fool you with his Socratic question,” Rayley said with a smile. “Trevor
and I know for a fact that Rose Weaver took laudanum every morning because her son Michael told us
so. Confessed it to us as we all stood in Jonathan Benson’s rented room along with a good deal of
claptrap about his mother being ill and finding her little songbird dead.”
“Songbird?” Davy repeated.
“Yes, for you were quite right, lad,” Rayley said. “The little yellow bird we found in the
Weaver house once had a little yellow friend. Strange to think how random life and death can be. A
hand reaches into a wicker cage and one creature lives while the other dies.”
“Do you think Rose’s use of laudanum was well known among the Weaver’s
contemporaries and servants?” Emma asked. “Widely enough that anyone would consider it a likely
vehicle for poison?”
“Rose was a habitual user of opium even back when I knew her in the fifties,” Geraldine
said matter-of-factly. “She would walk out of a room in a most agitated manner and walk back in a
few minutes later with an utterly serene demeanor. Most likely everyone knew.”
“Good heavens, Geraldine,” Trevor said in exasperation. “Might you have mentioned
this earlier?”
“How was I to know it was relevant, darling?” Geraldine asked, flicking some sort of
crawling bug from her arm as she spoke, and then fanning herself with vigor. The sun was sinking but

the air outside the open windows had not yet cooled to the lusciousness of evening. “Almost all the
women in the Raj had their little pills and potions and a woman like Rose more than most. I
remember that her traveling satchel rattled and clanked like a great group of brass bells whenever I
would venture to move it. Ah, that satchel. She wouldn’t let it out of her sight.”
“So what do we make of that?” Rayley said thoughtfully. “If she had been relying on
opium in some form ever since the fifties she was almost certainly an addict of the highest order by
the time she died. Would her doctor confess to providing the opiates if we manage to find him?”
“We can find her doctor in the snap of a finger,” Tom said. “He is no doubt a member of
the Byculla Club, that small circle, and he will confess, I venture, with great alacrity simply because
he will not see it as a confession. There are two groups of people who look upon drug addiction
without shame, my dear detectives, and that is the very rich and the very poor. They discuss their
medications openly, while middle class citizens might hide the needle or the pillbox. If Rose
Weaver’s laudanum was given to her by a doctor, then I would venture she took it as casually as you
might take a bicarbonate of soda. And I would further venture that she was not the only person in her
household who was an addict.”
“I know I said we might follow a thread of assumption,” Trevor said with a sigh. “But
let us not spin it out for miles. Whyever would you say all that?”
“Did you see how much alcohol was consumed last night at the Byculla Club?” Tom
asked wryly. “Even I was given pause. And it was all of them – young, old, male, female – the
whole lot drinking with a steadiness that would put a group of cavalry officers under the table. We
all were feeling the effects by the end of that so-called cocktail hour, while the members of the Club
merely proceeded into dinner and took up another round of pegs. I would bet my pocket watch that
the entire Raj is riddled with alcoholics and addicts.”
“You don’t have a pocket watch,” Trevor said.
“Quite right. Then I shall wager yours.”
“Tom’s observations are sound,” Geraldine said. “I have never known women who
drink like these women drink…not then and not now. And the pills… Rose was not the only one of
the chaperones whose satchels were rattling, I assure you of that.” She looked at Trevor with a
serious expression. “I believe it starts because they are all so very bored. So much leisure, you
know, without even the duties of motherhood to distract them, since the squadrons of nannies and the
British boarding schools lift their children from their arms at almost the moment of birth. It is as if
they are trapped eternally in a railway station, waiting for a train which never seems to arrive. And if
one’s entire day is filled with nothing but sitting about the house or the Club, why not have a glass of
wine with luncheon, or a bottle? Why not have a bit of opium to distract the mind as well as soothe
the body?”
“It happens in London too,” Tom said. “Among a certain class. And I daresay the
doctors are especially lax when a patient is the age of Rose Weaver. It is not ethical, I know this,
Trevor, so don’t you glower like that at me. But it is expedient. A woman comes to her physician, full
of vague complaints, and it is all too easy to sedate her – and thus silence her - and tell yourself that
you will deal with the effects later. But of course, if the patient is in her seventies, the doctor likely
believes that he will never have to deal with the effects. Even if she becomes dependent upon the
medication, the odds are she will die of something else first.”
“That’s all very well,” said Trevor. “But why would you say that Rose was not the only
addict in the household?”
“Two reasons,” said Tom. “Addiction is frequently shared by spouses or family

members. One person is the designated patient, if you will. The one who is officially sick in the eyes
of the world and the physician. Rose apparently volunteered for this role decades ago, according to
Auntie Gerry, and has played it throughout the years marvelously well. She procures the medication
for everyone.”
“Quite a stretch,” Trevor said.
“You saw the Secretary-General,” Tom said. “How did he look to you? Twitching?
Sweating? Did his thoughts jump around? Was there any indication he might have been in the throes
of an enforced opium withdrawal?” When Trevor remained silent, biting his lip, Tom moved in for
this final thrust. “And that ‘Fourteen?’ here in Benson’s notes… Evidently he meant that there was
far more poison than was needed for a woman of Rose Weaver’s diminutive size. But Anthony
Weaver is a large man, is he not? Would you say fourteen stone?”
“He was hale and hearty back in his day,” Gerry said. “I believe you are right, darling,
and that Anthony was the intended target all along.”
Although Trevor had mused over the same possibility himself only hours earlier, for
some reason he resisted the theory when it came so readily from the mouths of Tom and Geraldine.
They could consider the fact Weaver was the target, true, but they must not rush to it too quickly. He
strained to reel the group in before they leapt entirely beyond the bounds of what they could actually
prove.
“So let us say for the sake of argument that someone within the household did indeed
know that both Rose and Anthony Weaver were availing themselves of her prescribed laudanum,” he
said. “And let us further accept that this person then decided to use that laudanum to murder one or
both of them. It still leaves us with a very vexing question. How did Pulkit Sang end up dead?”
“Quite right,” said Rayley. “Sang’s death was the first fact which prompted the case and
it remains the most challenging. It’s hard to fathom that the whole household would be awash in
opiates, including the servant. I believe we should indeed pursue this line of thinking about the
medication but still not entirely abandon our original theory, that the poison was hidden in one of the
notably spicy local dishes. Based on the ones Davy and I sampled last night, I could readily believe
that our killer could hide an entire bush of Cerbera Odollam in a single pot of chicken curry without
the slightest risk of detection. Or they might sneak in a barrel of gunpowder, for that matter. The, um,
let us say explosive qualities of the local cuisine are the perfect cover for poisoning. Within an hour
of the meal, it becomes difficult to ascertain if one is dying or merely digesting.”
“What size is Sang?” Trevor asked Tom, above the general laughter.
“Always hard to estimate when a body is horizontal and not vertical, but I’d venture he
was middling. Somewhere between eight and fourteen stone, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“Everyone in this room is somewhere between eight and fourteen stone,” Emma said,
continuing to laugh. “That’s quite a span of weight.”
“So a dosage is concocted,” Trevor mused, parenthetically noting that Emma's estimation
of his own weight was quite generous. “Benson believed it was more than was needed to fell Rose,
and in fact enough to kill her rather large husband. And apparently, based on the fact we have two
bodies, it was also enough to kill a very small woman and a middling sized man.”
“Over time,” Rayley said. “As much as thirty minutes elapsed between the point where
Rose and Sang must have ingested the substance and the time they died.”
“I find it easier to believe Sang took laudanum than to believe Rose ate a curry,”
Geraldine said.
“I cannot say I agree, Miss Bainbridge,” Rayley said. “Whyever would Pulkit Sang

ingest his mistress’s medication?”
“For the same reason everyone else did,” Davy broke in. “He liked it. You saw the
Weaver home, Sir, just as I did. Sang did not live as an ordinary servant. He must have been more a
member of the family based on the size and location of his room and you yourself called it queer, Sir,
that he would sleep right there on a pillow between his sir and madam.”
“Do you have another reason for saying this, Davy?” Trevor asked. Experience had
taught him that although Davy spoke rarely, his words carried weight. The boy would never venture a
comment merely to hear the sound of his own voice, a discretion that set him apart from the others in
the group.
“We hadn’t come to the fingerprints, Sir, so I was waiting my turn to report,” Davy said.
“But I have seen something in the pattern. The kitchen was wiped clean of prints, which is not
surprising in light of the fact that the cook and maid had plenty of time to straighten up after Rose
Weaver left the house on the morning of her death. The tops and surfaces of everything quite properly
scrubbed down, but the knobs on the drawers….”
“Ah yes,” said Geraldine. “I am always telling Gage to wipe the knobs but he never
does.”
“There is a large chest of drawers in the corner of the kitchen,” Davy said. “All of them
filled with items you might expect to find for the business of cooking and eating. Save for one. An
empty drawer, in the top left side, rather small. A perfect size for medicinal bottles and the like and
so I took special care in dusting it….”
“Whose prints were on it?” Trevor asked.
“It is a bit curious, Sir,” Davy said. “Both those of the maid and the cook, which is to be
expected, and then Sang and Mr. Weaver, which seemed less so. Not those of Mrs. Weaver, nor those
of Felix. And there were no unidentified prints which might belong to this Adelaide character who
cannot be cornered long enough to be printed.”
“Sang and Mr. Weaver, you say?” Rayley asked with genuine surprise.
“Anthony Weaver was quite specific that he had not gone into the kitchen on the morning
of the deaths,” Trevor said, “which still could be true, I suppose. Those fingerprints could have been
on the knob for days. Good work, Davy, to lift four separate sets from a single drawer knob. And
this does give us something to chew on. First of all, I can think of very little reason why a bodyguard
and the master of the household should be rummaging around the kitchen. Secondly, why were those
of the nurse so pointedly missing? If Davy is right about this drawer being the spot where Rose kept
her medication, and if Miss Hoffman is correct is saying that Adelaide was the one to lay out that
medication….”
“Miss Hoffman does know at least a bit about the Weaver household routine,” Emma
said. “For she told me today that she escorted Adelaide to the Weaver home on the first morning that
she went to work there. She claimed it was to ensure that the environment was suitable for a woman
of Adelaide’s unique temperament and limitations and to get some notion of what her responsibilities
would be. She might have seen where the medication was kept and precisely what Adelaide was
expected to do with it in her role as nurse…”
“Then we can simply ask her,” Rayley said. “We do not want to put too much stock in
these fingerprints until we have confirmed that particular empty drawer was indeed where the
medication was kept.” He took off his glasses and polished the lenses on his sleeve, his eyes looking
surprisingly different without their customary shell. “If Miss Hoffman can verify the steps of this
routine then I will be inclined to drop my role of devil’s advocate and say that yes, the laudanum and

not some random curry was the vehicle of the poison. It is admittedly strange that one drawer in a
kitchen should be utterly empty.”
“We can ask her, but we dare not trust her answer,” Emma said. “I feel like Davy,
jumping ahead in the order to make my report, but I noticed today that when Davy was asking the
questions and Miss Hoffman was translating, that the cook and the maid always began their answers
with the same two syllables. Something that sounded like the English words ‘thick high.’”
“Do you have any idea what this means?” Trevor asked.
“Yes, for I asked one of the schoolgirls. Your pretty Catherine, in fact. The words mean
something along the lines of ‘As you say’ or even ‘Amen.’”
“So Miss Hoffman was nudging the cook and housekeeper toward certain answers,”
Rayley said thoughtfully.
“Interesting, but perhaps not as damning as it sounds,” Trevor said. “It is very hard to
ask questions with utter impartiality, as we all know through our own experience. One of the key
things the Yard teaches trainees is how to avoid our natural human tendency to lead the witness. Miss
Hoffman has no such training and may have been phrasing her questions badly through sheer
inexperience.”
“You need not always be so quick to defend her,” Emma said.
“I am not defending her, I assure you,” Trevor said, looking at Emma directly. “She is a
complex creature, and I find her likeable one moment and disagreeable the next. In that sense, she is
much like the accused, Anthony Weaver, who seemed to also have a strange split in his manner. Calm
and rational one moment, then swept up with agitation.”
“Just as a man in an enforced state of opium withdrawal might be expected to behave,”
Tom said smugly.
“Wash the devil and hang him to dry,” Trevor said. “I suppose it is incumbent upon me
to concede the point. I shall interview Weaver again on the morrow, or perhaps you’d like to give it a
crack this time, Rayley. And Emma, are you suggesting that we need to interview the cook and the
maid yet again? Do you believe Miss Hoffman misled them to any significant degree?”
“Obviously it is hard to say,” Emma replied, and then added. “But she and I had an
interesting encounter later in the garden. She did not know that Pulkit Sang was dead, and the
information seemed to sadden her. Genuinely sadden her, I mean, far beyond the automatic statement
of regret when you learn someone has died. She said she had met him when she first took Adelaide to
the Weaver home and that Sang had treated them with great courtesy. Something that I gather has been
a rare experience for both women.”
“We shall see Miss Hoffman again soon enough,” said Geraldine. “And Adelaide as
well. I have persuaded them to join us at the Byculla Club picnic which is scheduled for Friday.”
“Picnic?” Trevor said. “A chance to observe the complicated citizenry of the Byculla
Club is always welcome, and this might be our one crack at Adelaide and her fingerprints. But I am
not sure we all have time for a picnic. You go, Geraldine, and you too Emma and of course Davy.
You can report back to us if – “
“But I think we should all come,” Geraldine said. “This is no ladies’ outing to the berry
fields, Trevor. They are going to Cawnpore. A new piece of the memorial is being dedicated. A
plaque commemorating the exploits of Roland Everlee and the very subject was mentioned at dinner
last night, do you remember? They keep talking about how marvelous the memorial will be upon
completion, although at the rate things move in Bombay I doubt any among us will live to see it. In the
meantime, they seem to be quite content to affix plaques to heaps of rubble and mutter at how this

must never happen again.” Geraldine looked around the circle. “But the point is that I believe a
sizable contingent of the Club will be traveling to witness this latest gesture of tribute. Certainly
everyone who has piqued our interest to date.”
“Including Miss Hoffman and the totality of her pupils,” Emma said drily. “Gerry bought
their presence with a sizable check.”
“Another one?” said Trevor. “Before this business is over, the school shall have to tear
down its erotic wall not to silence the memsahibs, but to make way for a statue dedicated their
greatest benefactor, Geraldine Bainbridge.”
“Perhaps they can simply summon a mosaic master and add my image to the existing
wall,” Gerry responded, sending a wave of mirth around the room and causing Trevor to
uncomfortably flush.
“Auntie,” said Tom, unscrewing his flash to add a dash of gin to his afternoon tea. “You
are utterly beyond redemption.”
“It runs in the family,” Geraldine said.

Chapter Fifteen
August 30, 1889
8:20 AM
The next morning, Trevor and Davy set off early in a rented carriage to visit the address
that Jonathan Benson had written in his notebook. After a brief ride to the mouth of a narrow street,
they found themselves standing in front of another rooming house quite similar in appearance to the
one Trevor and Rayley had visited the day before. But the landlord of this new establishment assured
them that there was one large difference; he did not let rooms to “transients,” but rather only to
“gentlemen of standing,” by which Trevor could only assume he meant those who were stationed in
India for long stretches of time. The landlord, profoundly unimpressed by their Scotland Yard
credentials, furthermore refused to tell them the name of the man who had let Room 5, much less grant
them access. If it all hadn’t been so thoroughly inconvenient, Trevor would have admired the man’s
staunch defense of his tenants’ privacy. He could only hope his own landlady back in London would
stand half so firm in guarding his own should a similar matter ever arise. Somehow he rather doubted
that she would.
“So where to now, Sir?” Davy asked as they leaned against the building across the
alleyway from the boarding house.
“Let us give it a little longer,” Trevor said, nibbling at a bowl of breakfast rice he had
bought from a vendor on the corner. “The house seems to be astir with men rising and preparing to
leave for their places of employment. The fellow we seek may present himself on this sidewalk soon
enough.”
“But how shall we know which man resides in Room 5?” Davy asked.
“I suppose we shall have to ask every man who leaves the building for his room
number,” Trevor said. “And hope that they are more intimidated by the mention of the words
‘Scotland Yard’ than their landlord proved to be.”
“We could be stuck here all morning, Sir,” Davy said. “Leave me to do it if you will, so
that you can move on to some other task. Is not Detective Abrams setting out to interview the
Secretary-General?”
“Oh, I believe my time is better spent here,” Trevor said. “The waiting is tedious, I
know, but I think it is possible that the man boarding in Room 5 is also the one who tipped Benson off
about the use of poison. Not only had Benson very carefully recorded this address on the same page
as his dosage chart, but the landlord’s remark about ‘gentlemen of standing’ actually gives me some
hope. Whomever we are seeking at this address has evidently lived in India for some time, at least
long enough to have a better understanding of the local flora and fauna than most Europeans. So I
believe we should –“
And just at that moment the front door of the rooming house opened and a man exited.
He was heavy and ponderous of movement but his clothing indicated that he indeed had lived in India
long enough to develop an understanding of what the climate demanded. He wore a light linen suit, a
deep-domed woven hat and, although the day was cloudless, he carried an umbrella in one meaty
hand.
The minute his foot struck the sidewalk he saw them, and he seemed to know at once that
he was caught. He exhaled sharply, a gesture Trevor saw in the rise and fall of his great shoulders,

although they were standing too far away from the man to hear the sound.
And then, with resignation, Hubert Morass turned to them and tipped his hat.
***
The Byculla Club
8:55 AM
“Good God,” said Tom, removing his jacket and attempting to shake off some of the
water before handing it to the Byculla Club majordomo. “I have spent a lifetime in England and never
felt rain like that.”
“Late summer brings the monsoons,” said a man who had arrived at the door at about the
same time as Tom. “Torrential rain coming without warning, a cloudless sky turning dark within
minutes.”
“How did you know to bring an umbrella?” Tom said, accepting a towel from the
majordomo, who appeared to be equally prepared to handle murder, monsoons, and the unexpected
arrival of Jews.
The man smiled. “After living in Bombay for a while you begin to smell when the rains
are coming.”
“Perhaps you can help me,” Tom said. He started to introduce himself but then thought
the better of it. Announcing you were on police business was a double-edged sword, as he had
learned over the past year. It made some people chatter nervously and others clam up entirely. “I
understand the older men of the Club meet here to breakfast in the morning? I am seeking a doctor.”
“You are ill?” said the man, as Tom mopped the rainwater from his face and patted his
hair, then returned the towel to the majordomo.
“I come on behalf of my aunt,” Tom said, improvising quickly. “My elderly aunt. The
long voyage from England has not agreed with her.”
“Then you are looking for Dr. Tuft,” the man said, pointing through a set of double
doors. “The retired gentlemen generally sit on the terrace but this morning, the rain has undoubtedly
driven them all into the library. You will know him because he has a tuft of hair on his head, which is
quite the little joke, although the good doctor is the only one who does not seem to be in on it.”
“Thank you,” said Tom. The man nodded and departed in the other direction leaving
Tom standing uncertainly in the foyer, wondering if it were better form to put on a wet jacket or to
enter the library in shirtsleeves. As if reading his mind, the majordomo very pointedly held out his
wet jacket.
Of course, thought Tom, wincing with discomfort as he pulled it on. Tradition trumps
practicality, form matters far more than function. Welcome to India.
***
The Tucker House
9:20 AM
“I do not feel entirely comfortable with any of this,” Geraldine said to Emma. “The two
of us should not be conducting interviews without Trevor’s permission.”
“If he sent us to interrogate the cook and maid once, I hardly see why he should object if
we choose to interview them a second time,” Emma said reasonably. “Besides, you are acting as if I
am sneaking about behind him, while in truth I did not concoct this plan until well after he had left this
morning with Davy. Think of it, Geraldine. It is obvious that our earlier interview, the one

translated by Miss Hoffman, is utterly tainted, no matter how inclined Trevor might be to give the
woman the benefit of the doubt. Felix will be a far more objective translator.”
“That is not what worries me,’ Geraldine said. “Yes, it is all quite fine for us to talk to
the servants a second time and yes, Felix is well-suited for the task. It is your plan to meet them at the
Weaver house that raises the stakes, to use a phrase my nephew Cecil would always say. I do not
think Trevor would like the idea of the two of us traipsing through a crime scene unattended.”
“Then we shall take care not to traipse,” said Emma, busily scribbling a note as she
spoke. “And neither shall we cavort, sashay, nor flounce. Meeting in the Weaver home makes
complete sense, Gerry, which you know as well as I do. This way the three servants can not merely
talk us through the morning routine of the household, they shall also act it out for our benefit, including
the business about this mysterious empty drawer which Davy suspects once held Rose Weaver’s
medication. We have an address for Felix and he doubtlessly knows where we might find the women,
so we shall send Mrs. Tucker’s driver to round them up and take them back to the Weaver house.
Both Rayley and Davy claim it stands quite open for inspection.”
“The idea is sound,” Gerry said. “But that isn’t the point. Trevor would not want us to
proceed without one of the men with us. He has said as much to me many times, that you and I are not
to take matters into our own hands in a situation which may be dangerous.”
“The men have scattered,” Emma said, folding the note and copying Felix’s address on
the outside of an envelope. “Heaven knows when they shall return and this is something useful we
can do in the meantime. Besides, I scarcely think investigating a kitchen counts as danger.” She
paused to look up at Geraldine curiously. “I have never known you to hesitate to act without male
protection. What is behind all this?”
“Trevor already thinks I am too old and frail for these journeys,” Geraldine said
fretfully. “If I disobey one of his direct orders, he shall cast me from the Murder Games Club
entirely.”
“Do not be ridiculous, Gerry,” Emma said, cramming the note inside the envelope.
“Trevor would never sack you, no matter what you did. You’re the money.”
***
The Byculla Club
9:20 AM
Tom found the library much as he expected it – a long, dark-paneled room with more
sporting trophies than books lining the shelves. The worn Oriental rug was dotted with chairs, each
of which held an elderly man with his nose thrust in a paper. One of the heads sticking out from one
of the papers displayed a wild tuff of silver hair protruding from a bald scalp, making its owner look
much like a molting cockatoo. Tom approached with confidence.
“Doctor Tufts?”
The man looked up from his reading. The financial section, Tom noted, glancing down.
A London paper and God knows how out of date.
“My name is Tom Bainbridge,” Tom said, holding out his palm. “Recently traveled from
England with my aunt, who is now unfortunately taken ill so I –“
“I know who you are, young man,” said the doctor, rattling his paper in lieu of a
handshake. “We met just two nights ago and yesterday afternoon you were here at the club on your
hands and knees, going through that great mass of wire in the dining room.”
“Indeed,” said Tom. “Please forgive me. I met so many people on that eventful evening.”

“I was also introduced to your aunt at that time,” Dr. Tufts said. “And she struck me as
one of the heartiest women of her age I had ever met, certainly not the sort who would swoon at her
first sight of Bombay. So you needn’t dissemble and pretend you have come on her behalf. You are
one of those Scotland Yard investigators, are you not? Here to badger me about my former patient,
Rose Weaver?”
“Indeed I am, Sir, and should we find a more private place to confer?” Tom asked,
dropping his voice, for the doctor, like many older people who were losing their hearing, tended to
talk in a bellow. The other five or six men scattered around the room were staring pointedly at their
own newspapers, but Tom had no doubt they were eavesdropping.
“And where would you like to sit?” asked the doctor. “The terrace?” This question was
followed by disconcerting bark of laughter, for the rain outside the large arched windows had not
abated in the least.
“Let us step into the dining room,” said Tom. “It is still being held as a crime scene and
is thus private.”
“Crime scene?” the doctor snorted, but he did fold his paper and push to his feet. “The
only crime which took place in that room was ignorant negligence, which you have doubtlessly
already concluded if you have half a brain. And you look as if you do. They told me you are studying
medicine?”
Tom nodded and the two men proceeded past their audience of listeners from the library,
down the hall, and into the dining room. It was even darker there, the low-hanging sky beyond the
single window offering little illumination, and Tom glanced around for a candle.
“Here,” said the doctor. He reached for a heavy-looking candelabra, which he lifted
from a sideboard with surprising ease. He deposited it on the table with one hand, digging in his
jacket pocket for a match with another, while Tom pulled out the chairs.
“Now what have you really come to ask me?” the doctor said, when they were seated,
the candle offering a comfortable glow. After a moment of consideration, Tom stood and pulled off
his damp jacket, draping it over the back of his chair to dry. Tufts did not seem to be a man who
stood on ceremony.
“We have come to understand that Rose Weaver was a habitual user of laudanum,” he
began.
Tufts nodded. “She was, but you need not lay that one at my feet. She was already an
addict when I met her.”
Given Gerry’s description of her voyage on the Weeping Susan, Tom was not surprised,
although he was slightly nonplussed by Tuft’s ready use of the word addict. Most doctors in London
shied away from the term. “So you are suggesting that she first began taking the drug during her visit
to England?”
“Yes, and the problem is hardly uncommon among my patients,” Tufts said. “The middle
or upper classes, especially the ladies, have a certain pattern. They have their first experience with
opiates for legitimate reasons - a toothache, childbirth, some minor injury- and they find they like the
effects. They come to India already a habitual user and in short order realize that the subcontinent
opens up a cornucopia of botanical options. You shall witness the bounty yourself if you have the
chance to leave the city during your visit. Barely twenty minutes from Bombay there are poppies
growing in every field.”
“Did Rose Weaver have any underlying ailment?” he asked.
“Nothing other than the standard aches and pains of her age,” Tufts said. “And the

accumulated effects of the laudanum itself, of course. But she handled those quite well. Had no
noteworthy issues of alertness or balance that I could tell.”
“You are quite frank about prescribing a drug which had no medical benefit.”
“I shouldn’t say it had no benefit. Have you ever witnessed opiate withdrawal, young
man? It is not a pretty thing, even for the young and strong, and there was little reason to put a seventy
year old woman through the process. She was not the worst I have seen. Not even close.”
“Did she go though her medication especially quickly? Require more bottles than would
seem likely?”
Tufts frowned in the flickering candlelight. “Are you asking if her dependence was
worsening?”
“No, I am asking if you think it was possible that someone else was sharing her
prescription.”
“Ah,” the doctor said. “Well...perhaps, and, if so I imagine his pain was real enough.
Traumatic injuries such as those sustained in war can continue to torment a patient through the years,
as I suspect you know. And everything seems to hurt a little more as one ages, as I suspect you do not
know.”
“Weaver has a war wound?”
The doctor frowned. “Not that I’m aware. I was speaking of that Indian fellow who
was Rose’s shadow. Followed her all the way into death, as it turns out. Pulkit Sang.”
“Ah,” said Tom, realization dawning at last. “So she procured laudanum for her loyal
servant as well as herself.”
The doctor’s frown deepened. “’Procured’ is a rather odd term, my lad, so watch what
you are implying. I daresay many white families in Bombay provide medication for members of their
household staff. The natives have no access to doctors, at least not real ones. They have those
swamis who chant and offer up their foul-smelling herbs. My understanding is that Sang had been in
Rose’s service for many years. That he had been wounded, in fact, while attending her first husband
on one of his campaigns. There is no crime in her impulse to allay the man’s suffering.”
Tom shook his head. “You misunderstand me, Sir. Now that I better grasp the situation I
also see nothing odd in the fact that Rose and Sang might share her laudanum. My original question
was based on the idea that her current husband might also have shared it.”
“Anthony Weaver? Entirely possible.”
“And this does not concern you? That a completely healthy person might also have
fallen under the spell of this – what did you call it? – this botanical cornucopia?”
The doctor snorted. “There is no such thing as a seventy year old person who has spent
the majority of his life living in India who is also completely healthy. The climate takes its toll, my
young Mr. Bainbridge, in more ways than you and I have time to discuss. Anthony Weaver has had a
cough for as long as I’ve known him. He has been treated for asthma and pleurisy and for a time I
suspected pneumonia. But the man has stumbled on, as have his lungs, so that I can only conclude that
he is being taken by a disease that moves slowly, methodically, and ultimately successfully.”
Tom winced. “Cancer?”
The doctor nodded. “My guess is that he will be dead within the year.”
***
The Bombay Jail
10:20 AM

The man does not seem at all well, Rayley thought, taking in his first good look at the
infamous Anthony Weaver. Trevor was right – it was hard to fathom Geraldine ever falling in love
with such a ridiculous specimen of masculinity. Although he had been presumably doing nothing
more than languishing in his jail cell when the young soldier came to fetch him, Weaver was outfitted
in a rumpled linen jacket with a bright red cravat tied around his neck.
Rayley hardly knew what to make of such an affectation, but Trevor had warned him that
the Secretary-General was likely to try and take charge of the interrogation, so at least he was
prepared. Weaver was barely seated when Rayley fired the first question, and he fired it hard and
fast.
“We know you were at Cawnpore in the fall of 1857,” he said, “along with Roland
Everlee and his valet Pulkit Sang. Sang told his nephew that you drove a cart carrying him and the
two surviving Sloane children back to Bombay. Why did you never report this fact to the
authorities?”
It was quite a barrage of information, little of it likely welcome, but Weaver did not
hesitate or even blink before answering. “I did not wish for my name to be included in the reports.”
“Why not?”
“It might have looked as if I ran from the heat of battle.”
“So what if you did? Presumably your goal was to save the lives of two innocent
children.”
“Indeed. But not everyone in the military would have understood this. Emotions within
the Raj ran very high in 1857, Detective. You have just produced a sympathetic evaluation of the
situation, which the passage of time tends to encourage. But immediately following the mutiny, with
so many British women and children dead, my friends and colleagues might not have been so
generous in their evaluation of my motives.”
He was probably right. Rayley took a moment to observe the man sitting before him.
Weaver was not as jumpy as Trevor had described and his answers, at least so far, had been rational
and calm. If he had earlier been struggling with opiate withdrawal, it would appear that the drug had
now loosened its grip on his system…
But then again, the man was perspiring freely. In fact, in the momentary silence which
engulfed the small room, Weaver unknotted his cravat and dabbed at his forehead.
“What happened on that day?” Rayley asked. “The day Roland Everlee died?”
Weaver looked at him directly, the eyes within the pockets of sagging skin still piercing.
“What could that matter after so much time? It bears no correlation on the matter at hand.”
“I am not so convinced of that, Secretary-General,” Rayley said. “Pulkit Sang does lie
dead beside your wife.”
“Yes,” Weaver said. “Yes, indeed he does.”
“And I will admit,” Rayley said, “to a good deal of personal curiosity about Cawnpore.
I have read the reports recently, you see, and find that what they do not say is even more intriguing
than what they do. You are the only man alive who knows what happened. If you do not speak, the
truth will die with you.”
Weaver smiled. “And that has been my precise intention for the last thirty-two years,
Detective. To have the true story of Cawnpore die with me.”
I could bluster and show my credentials, Rayley thought. But to what end? He is an
old man and quite alone in the world, with very little left to lose. We have nothing to threaten him
with, and likewise, nothing to offer him. Freedom from this jail cell, a few more miserable years of

life, the restoration of his reputation among others of his kind…these are pale incentives for a man
so near the end.
And then inspiration struck.
Rayley waited for the old man to finish wiping his brow and retie his cravat before
saying, slowly and with great emphasis on every syllable, the one sentence which might prompt
cooperation from Anthony Weaver.
“Geraldine Bainbridge has traveled with us from London.”
For a moment, Weaver did not react at all, making Rayley wonder if he had misjudged
the situation. But when the man finally spoke, his voice trembled with emotion.
“You say Geraldine is here? In Bombay?”
“Do you wish to speak with her?”
“More than anything.”
“And so you shall. If you cooperate.”
“What do you want from me?”
“Just what I said. The story of a single day.”
Weaver leaned back in his chair. Silence once again engulfed the room and Rayley
waited. Weaver was stalling to give himself time to control his nerves, this much he knew, but
Geraldine was Rayley’s only bait. If the chance to see her was not enticing enough to prompt some
sort of confession, then this interview would come to a rapid end.
After a moment Weaver smiled again, but with less self-assurance than he had displayed
the first time. “But how will you know,” he asked, “if I am telling you this slippery thing you call the
truth? As you have said yourself, I am the only person who knows what happened that day, so it
seems I could concoct any tale which suits my fancy and you would have no choice but to believe
me.”
He is bluffing, Rayley thought. Very well. So shall I.
“The last two days have given me some notion of what you are about to tell us,” he said.
“We have interviewed Felix, you see, and he was full of information. It would appear the boy was
his great-uncle’s confidant.” Weaver, Rayley noted with satisfaction, appeared disconcerted at this
notion and was once again unknotting his ridiculous neck scarf. “If your story matches that of Sang,
and furthermore fills in a few of the details that Felix was unable to provide, then you shall be
rewarded for both your truthfulness and your thoroughness. Geraldine is very eager to see you.”
Now this last line was a blatant lie. Geraldine appeared to have no interest in visiting
Weaver, which now that Rayley stopped to consider it, was in itself rather odd. Why had she traveled
thousands of miles to defend the man but then, once she set foot in Bombay, never expressed the
slightest desire to come to his jail cell?”
But the lie had the desired effect. The smile had utterly left Anthony Weaver now and he
gazed up thoughtfully, as if wondering where to begin.
“Our entire unit was headed in the direction of Cawnpore,” he finally said. “We were
traveling with great urgency for we had no idea that the women and children who had been
imprisoned in the schoolhouse were already dead. As we moved east through the rural districts out
from the fort, we had encountered several stranded families and…and the remains of stranded
families whom the mutineers had found first. We got word of a woman living alone with five young
children, on a farm just outside the fort. She was a widow, you see, her late husband taken from our
own unit, and Roland insisted we go there at once and assure ourselves of her safety. Or at least that
he and I go there while the rest of the men pressed on toward the schoolhouse.”

“And Sang was with you.”
Weaver nodded and swallowed. His throat was clearly dry, his voice weak from lack of
use. Rayley pushed a pitcher of water across the table toward him with one hand and a glass with the
other. Weaver poured and drank lustily, even slurping a bit, then sat back to resume his tale.
“Sang went everywhere with us. He never left Roland’s side.”
“And you traveled in a cart,” Rayley prompted, happy that he did have this one small
detail with which to possibly frighten the man. But Weaver merely looked at him, his expression a bit
vague with memory, and nodded again.
“Yes, a pony cart,” he said. “When we got to the farmhouse we found the family not only
alive but quite unaware of any impending danger. We were pushing them to hurry but the woman….it
is not good to speak ill of the dead, I suppose, but Mrs. Sloane was a fool. She was trying to pack, to
take some sort of silver with her and a cot for the little ones. We kept saying no, that we must hurry,
but news traveled slowly in those days and misinformation was rampant in the outlying areas. She
had no idea how bad the mutiny was…she had not seen what we had seen as we passed the homes of
her neighbors and Roland was trying not to alarm her. Being his usual gentlemanly self. Careful with
the ladies, he always said. We had to be so very careful with the ladies. I suppose marriage to Rose
had convinced him that they would shatter like fine china at the slightest provocation. The woman
seemed to be under the impression that she would only be going to Bombay for a few days, almost
like a holiday, before returning to the farmhouse with her children. And so Mrs. Sloane was….she
was trying to put things in a basket. Food for the little ones and nappies for the baby and then, just
like a shot, they were upon us. At least a dozen mutineers. We smelled smoke…”
He paused. “Burning people from their homes was a favorite trick of the rebels. The
farmhouses we had passed had all been burned or partially so, with the slain bodies in the yard, the
women and children shot or hacked to death as they tried to escape the flames. And so when I
smelled smoke, I ran. Ran out the door and to the cart.”
“With two of the children.”
“No,” Weaver said. “No. If honesty is the price I must pay for my sins, then at least let
me pay it in full. Roland thrust two of the children in my direction. Put them into my arms and then…
I sat them back down, I believe. Dropped them, threw them, placed them gently in their beds…this I
cannot tell you. Only that I discarded the children in some manner and then I ran. Had I reached the
pony cart first, I further assure you that would have deserted them all. It was panic. I cannot begin to
describe my impulse, much less defend it.”
Rayley struggled not to let emotion show on his face. After all, he was trying to maintain
the fiction that Felix had shared far more of the story than he actually had. So it would not do to rail
or shout at the old fop, a man so calmly describing an act of the most appalling cowardice that it was
as if he were reading a scene from a book.
“It was Sang who must have picked two children back up,” Weaver continued. “An
infant and a little girl of about five or six years. How he managed to carry the both of them and still
make it to the pony cart at the same time as me that I did, I cannot say. Plus he had been grazed with a
shot. There was blood on his shirt, blood which had seeped through onto the blanket which wrapped
the baby. It was my initial thought that the child was the one hurt. No matter. During the entire event it
was as if Sang moved with an almost supernatural strength and purpose, or perhaps it was just more
that my own reactions were dulled by shock. What was happening in the house we had left behind, I
cannot tell you. Roland and Mrs. Sloane presumably tried to steer the other children toward safety. I
can only state that when I arrived at the cart Sang was right on my heels. He put the children in the

ack and turned again toward the house, but by then…”
Another pause, another sip of water.
“By then they were engulfed,” Weaver finally said. “I stood up in the bed of the cart, and
saw it all. Mrs. Sloane run through, along with the toddler she was carrying in her arms. A single
thrust for them both, quite expedient. The oldest child, a boy of maybe seven? Eight? He got quite
far on his own, to the edge of the yard before they caught him. And Roland….he emerged through the
door last, which is just as of course it would be. Of course he would ensure that the others were out
of the burning house before he would leave it, and he saw Mrs. Sloane and the child dying there in the
yard, the small boy slain in the corner. Saw them at once, of course, and the horror of it was so
complete that for a moment he froze.”
“As for what he was thinking, how much he understood…” Weaver said, “I am not
entirely sure. And if you think I am a heartless creature for telling you this story with dry eyes and a
steady voice, let me assure you that this calmness is borne only of repetition. I have relived this
morning in my mind every day of my life, Detective. Some version of it, at least. Memory is a rather
imperfect vehicle, even when not further hampered by guilt, and each time I recall the scene, it is a
little different. Did Roland look at me, there in the farmyard, at that moment when he knew his death
was imminent? Did he see me standing in the cart, did he know that I was on the verge of deserting
the lot of them?” Weaver shrugged. “Most likely he did not, and this image that I carry, his
expression of disgust and condemnation, is entirely the fruit of my own imagination. For the yard was
utter bedlam, you see. Roland was struck from behind. The child he was carrying, the fifth little
Sloane, tumbled from his arms. I do not know what happened to it. Nothing good, I suppose.”
Rayley was too stunned by this matter-of-fact description of hell to respond. The two
men sat for some time in an utter silence, broken only by a far-away tinkling of some sort of bell.
“You condemn me,” Weaver finally said.
“I could not have done it,” Rayley said.
“How can any man say what he would do or not do in the heat of such a moment?”
Rayley looked at the notes in his lap, pretending to be absorbed in the words written on
the paper, which actually swam before his eyes. Weaver’s statement was true enough. He had never
been in war, never found himself caught up in a slaughter of the sort that Weaver described.
Whenever he arrived at a crime scene, the danger was always passed.
“I cannot say I would never panic and run,” he finally answered with honestly. “But the
moment you describe, the one where you stood in the cart and looked back over the farmyard… The
moment when you saw your best friend engulfed…”
“You believe you would have reentered the fray. That if it were Welles on point of
sword, you would go back.”
“I do.”
“And yet he surpasses you,” Weaver said. “Stands above you in importance, just as
Roland did me. I cannot think why this would be – my brief experience with the two of you suggests
you may possess the finer mind – so I can only imagine that certain twists of fate have been unkind to
you in the same way they were unkind to me. Your Hebrew faith, perhaps? Or some other accident of
birth?”
Weaver waited a moment for a confirmation which Rayley did not provide, and then
continued. “Roland and I first met as schoolfellows, you know. He was two years older, a prefect
when I was a mere novice, and he was remained just that, always a step ahead. He was the one with
the perfect marks, the admirable post, the heavier insignia on his jacket, a larger house – “

“And Rose.”
“And Rose. Of course there was always the issue of Rose. I was lost the minute I saw
her. Her beauty, of course, and that extraordinary delicacy. It is easy for a young man, inexperienced
with women, to misread such fragility as proof of something finer. To convince himself that there is
some sort of magic within which much be shielded at all costs.”
“But she was married when you met her. To your superior and to your friend.”
Weaver nodded thoughtfully. “You know, for years I told myself that I wanted Rose
despite the fact she was Roland’s wife but in moments of self-truth - those rare kinds you sometimes
find in the bottom of the brandy bottle - I admit that it was more likely I wanted her not despite but
precisely because he had her first.” Weaver looked at Rayley with challenging eyes. “Is your own
superior and friend Trevor Welles married, Detective Abrams?”
“No. And neither am I.”
“Then that particular Rubicon of masculine friendship has yet to be crossed. But still
you seem quite certain you would turned back and tried to save him, would have joyfully rushed into
the very jaws of death, all in the name of loyalty. Do you believe that he would do the same for you?”
Rayley nodded. “I am even more certain of that.”
“Then you would both be dead, along with the two innocent children and the noble
manservant. If you will pardon the observation, Detective, for two rational men that is a highly
irrational response.”
“So you would have me believe you were motivated more by pragmatism than by
cowardice.”
Weaver shrugged. “Believe what you wish. As I said, even my own interpretation of
this most central day of my life has shifted over time and my self-condemnation has risen and fallen
like an ocean tide. I only know this: By the time Sang and I reached the pony cart, Mrs. Sloane and
her remaining three children and Roland were all either dead or dying. To rush back in at that point
would have only raised the death toll. Even Sang understood the cruel realities of the situation. He
turned toward the burning farmhouse – and then he turned back. Leapt into the back of the cart with
the blood seeping through his shirt and we were off.”
“How did you manage to return to Bombay when the rebels had cut the roads?” Rayley
asked, pointedly moving the discussion along. For Weaver was right about one thing. There was no
point in imagining what he would have done, or speculating on how he and Trevor might better handle
such an impossible situation. The reality was the here and now – not only Weaver’s confession, but
the light his words were shedding on so many things that happened later.
“As luck would have it, not all the roads were cut,” Weaver said. “Presumably the
mutineers who had been ambushing travelers were part of the same murderous crew who had
descended on the farmhouse. While they were busy slaughtering the people they found there, we
escaped. I cannot claim to remember much about the trip back. The cries of the children, the heat of
the day….” Weaver shook his head. “But perhaps that is all just another fancy. I can tell you this.
The farther I drove the more certain I became that no one could ever know I was at Cawnpore. The
confusion of that time, Detective, with such terror and so much death… It worked to my advantage.
No one knew exactly where anyone was, men were deserting their posts left and right to search for
their families, people were dashing about looking for protection….”
“You did not enter Bombay at all, did you?”
Weaver took another drink of water, gave another cough. “I pulled over in the shadow of
the city gates,” he said. “Told Sang I would look after him. Him and his family forever and ever, just

as Sahib Everlee would have wanted me to do. He knew at once what I was saying. He was a clever
man. Or perhaps he was just intuitive, in the way dark-skinned people so often are. He alone drove
the children through the gates of the city, all the while proclaiming tales of the noble Roland Everlee,
and I lost myself in the shadows of a barroom outside the wall, accompanied by a handful of other
deserters. When I emerged into the light a few days later, I beheld a different world.”
“Sang took the children to the home of Rose Everlee?”
“I suppose. What else would he have done?”
“You suppose? You never asked what happened to them later?”
“Why should I? You must remember that my official story was that I had never laid eyes
on the Sloane children, but rather traveled with my unit directly to Cawnpore.” Weaver coughed. “I
believe Rose said they were shipped back to England. Some distant relative doubtlessly took them
in.”
“Doubtlessly,” Rayley said, not bothering to hide the sarcasm in his voice. Did Weaver
really expect him to believe he had sent the children to his lover’s care and yet the two of them had
never discussed what became of those children? But he decided to press on, at least for the moment,
to other matters. “I understand that Rose was carrying Everlee’s child when he died?”
“She was.”
“And that after she gave birth to her son Michael, you married her? Sang remained in the
household?”
“Just as you say.”
“That must have been most difficult. Living year after year with a man who knew the
truth about your behavior on that dreadful day. How could you bear the reproach in his eyes?”
“Easily, because there was none,” Weaver said. “There is something in their Hindu
religion, I believe, that makes the Indians see the past in a different way than we do. They behold
time as circular rather than linear and, oddly enough, this belief seems to free them from a duty to
remember. Sang never harked back to the day we put the children in the cart, not in a single word or
gesture. The only reproach I had to bear was in the eyes of the man I saw each morning in my shaving
mirror.” Weaver wiped his forehead again. “I have spent the last thirty-two years attempting to
atone for the impulse of a single moment. I raised Roland’s son with every advantage. I shielded his
wife from any realties which might have proven impossible to bear. And I kept Sang and his relatives
in comfort. Does any of that erase the past? Of course it does not, Detective, and yet it is the truth.”
Rayley had little doubt of this. No man would make up such a self-damning story, even
one with the gallows in sight. And it explained so much – Weaver’s willingness to take on the tedious
Rose and her tedious son, Sang’s elevated status within the Weaver household, Weaver’s palpable
self-loathing, which was perhaps strong enough to push him into a dependency on opium….
Ah yes. The opium. Rayley made another effort to pull his thoughts back to the present
and changed tack again.
“So your wife never knew what happened in Cawnpore?”
“Very little of it.”
“By which you mean she never knew that you stood passively by and watched her first
husband die.”
“My marriage to Rose has been…complex. As I would imagine are all marriages of
long standing.”
True, but I will wager that few unions begin with the tortured history of this one,
Rayley thought. Dear God, what a miserable household it must have been for all these years. So

many memories to contend with, so many ghosts hovering in every corner.
Weaver attempted to clear his throat, with very little apparent success. He has been
talking for some time, Rayley thought, and vocalizing things which have, for half a lifetime, gone
unspoken. These facts might have made Rayley feel sympathy for anyone else, but it was hard to
muster any compassion for the figure sitting before him now, old and frail though the man was. Old
and frail and – for Tom was likely right – suffering mightily without the medicinal comforts he had
found within his wife’s bottle of reddish-brown powder.
“Are you quite well, Secretary-General?” Rayley asked coolly. “Would a visit from
your family doctor render you better able to withstand the rigors of interrogation?”
Weaver looked at him with watery eyes. “What the devil do you mean by that?”
“We know that your wife took daily doses of laudanum. We think it is highly likely that
you did as well.”
To Rayley’s surprise, the man laughed. “Everyone in Bombay takes laudanum.”
“You see no shame in it?”
“Comparatively speaking, no I do not.”
“So may I assume that you did not attempt to hide your usage from your household staff?”
Weaver gave another ugly cough. “There is no point in attempting to hide anything from
one’s household staff. No man is a hero to his valet, as I believe some writer once said and I suppose
that fact would be especially true in my case.” But the change in questioning did spark a certain level
of interest, for Weaver turned to face Rayley more fully and continued. “But yes, everyone within my
household was aware that on certain challenging mornings, I would take a sip or two of Rose’s
draught. What of it?”
“For your sake, that is a good thing.”
“Why? Because it allows you to paint me as even more of a degenerate than you already
believe me to be?”
Rayley shook his head. “Our working theory is that the poison which killed Rose and
Sang was likely administered through her morning medication. If it was also known that you shared
her cup on a regular basis, there is a possibility that the poison was meant for you.” When Weaver
responded to this news with little more than a blank stare. Rayley elaborated. “A clever lawyer
could use this fact to create doubt in the mind of a jury. Enough doubt to have you exonerated.”
“Exonerated? Is that what I am to be?”
“Of this latest crime, yes. Perhaps. No one can ever truly say.”
“And am I ever to be forgiven of my previous failings?”
“I do not know,” Rayley said. “But I rather doubt it, because it would seem that
everyone who might have forgiven you is dead. You might someday find a way to forgive yourself,
but I cannot see how. “
“Nor can I,” said Weaver. He cleared his throat a final time and struggled to straighten
himself within his seat, to become once again the very model of military bearing. “So now I sit here
before you, Detective Abrams. The lone survivor of Cawnpore. The monster of the Raj. A wretched
excuse for an officer, or a friend. But I have cooperated in every way that you have requested, have
answered every question and confessed every sin. When shall I see my Geraldine?”

Chapter Sixteen
A Tea House in Bombay
9:20 AM
“Yes, Benson and I were working together,” Morass said. “He came to me the first day
he was in Bombay and offered me a deal. He claimed that he simply wanted enough evidence to get
Secretary-General Weaver out of jail and assured me that if I helped him accrue it, he would in turn
help me find the true killer. And he further promised, of course, that I would get singular credit for
solving the case.”
The three men had sat in the small tea room for some time going through the notebook,
and Morass had readily acknowledged that Benson’s calculations on the poison dosages were based
on information he himself had provided.
“According to Tom, you knew at once that the poison was from the suicide tree,” Trevor
said. “What made you so certain?”
“Do you mind if I swap this tea for a beer?”
“Not at all,” said Trevor. “Assuming we can find a place that will pull a pint at this
unlikely hour.”
With a grin, Morass waved at the woman leaning morosely against the counter, who
disappeared behind a small curtain and promptly returned with a mug of froth. “Proprietors in the
British section of Bombay,” Morass said by way of explanation, “most often serve multiple
functions. This fine lady will not only provide both a pint and a cuppa upon request, but would
probably also be willing to pull a tooth or measure us for boots.”
“Indeed,” said Trevor, studying his own cup. The pint looked tempting, but it was not
yet midmorning and he had to keep up a certain standard for Davy. “I believe we were speaking of
the poison?”
“Ah yes,” said Morass, speckles of foam now dotting his mustache, the overall effect
looking a bit like seaweed caught in a receding tide. “I have toiled here in the Bombay Presidency
for eleven years, Detective, and have had quite a few opportunities to study the properties of the
suicide tree.”
“As a murder weapon?”
Morass shook his shaggy head. “My first experience was with a young soldier who had
dosed himself. Military life does not suit everyone, especially not military life in India. Apparently
some local swami had told the miserable boy that if he took sap from the seed in a moderate amount
he would sicken enough to be discharged and sent back to England. He was no more than eighteen, I
would wager, and he gave it a try. His heart was indeed damaged but not stopped, at least not
permanently, and he was shipped home to live out his life as a invalid. I daresay he began to regret
his decision soon enough.” Morass shook his head. “But before he left, as he lay in the military
hospital gaining enough strength for the voyage, he confessed all to a chaplain. The chaplain came to
me, being the sort who was more afraid of his commander than his God, and I assured the lad he
would not be prosecuted for desertion if he told me everything. He did, and was a good source of
information. Explained to me precisely how much he had taken and how he had prepared it…After
that I kept an eye out for the symptoms in subsequent cases.”
“You did not mention any of this to Henry Seal?” Trevor asked.

Morass sniggered. “Hardly. Fewer than six months on the continent and yet that one is
striding around barking orders, just because he comes from the side of the Viceroy. Seal would be the
last one I would tell.”
It is so much like life back in London, Trevor thought. All the different divisions, each
protecting their own turf and each eager for the glory of the arrest. How many criminals have
walked away because the local coppers resented the outside intrusion of Scotland Yard and failed
to share every shred of evidence or every theory?
“The day I went to the Weaver house to dust for fingerprints I found a dropper,” Davy
said. “That was how it was done, was it not? How the poison was mixed into the medicine, I
mean?”
` “Ah, lad, so you found a dropper, did you?” said Morass, wiping his mouth with his
sleeve. “Well so did I. Yes, that most certainly was how it was done. Thanks to Benson, I knew that
Mrs. Weaver liked her oblivion to come to her in a liquid form.” Morass lifted his mug and winked.
“As I do myself, so cheers to the lady wherever her soul may be.”
“Who measured the dosage?” Trevor asked.
“According to Felix,” Morass said, “she had her nurse lay out the powder, which was
later diluted with warm water to form a sort of broth. Can’t fathom how the old bird could manage
the taste, but the point is that it would’ve been easy enough to add a bit of the toxin to the dosage. I
found the dropper the first time I went to the Weaver house, all crusted at the tip. Between what the
young soldier had told me about his half-fatal dosage all those years ago and the markings on the
dropper, Benson was convinced he could figure out how much poison had been administered.”
“What was his reason for doing that?” Trevor asked mildly.
“You cannot guess?” Morass said, just as mildly. “But of course you can, and you are
playing a game with me. Benson’s goal was not to prove poison as a means of death, or even that the
poison had been mixed in Mrs. Weaver’s medication. This much would be self-evident if the case
ever came before a judge and jury. No, his goal was to prove that the amount of poison had been
calculated to kill a large man. The Secretary-General himself. To cast him as the intended victim and
not the perpetrator.” He looked at Trevor keenly. “We were never sure of the actual dosages, you
understand. I doubt anyone could have been. We were just trying to create enough reasonable doubt
that the prison doors would swing open releasing Anthony Weaver. Then Benson’s client Michael
Everlee could return to England with his family reputation unsullied. Benson, I assure you, did not
give a whore’s ass why Rose Weaver had truly been killed or who might have done it.”
“Are you sure?” Trevor said, stung that a lowly military inspector would dismiss a
Scotland Yard detective – or even a former one- so quickly. He remembered Benson’s thoughtful
comments about history on the evening he was killed, and he had not seemed like a shallow or
mercenary man. “His notes were quite detailed. As was his chart.”
Morass snorted. “Benson was merely the mathematician,” he said. “I was the
detective.”
“You seem a strange pair to take up together at all,” Davy said. “If you do not mind me
saying so, Sir.”
“I like you all the better for saying so,” said Morass, waving his empty mug in the
direction of the woman, who once again disappeared behind the curtain. “Jonathan Benson was a
fancy man who, if left to his druthers, would have undoubtedly preferred to partner up with Seal.
Spend his time in India riding about in a carriage with the royal insignia on the side. But he knew that
the Viceroy’s office would never stoop to work with a hired investigator, a man paid by the hour.

Would never tell him what they knew. Assuming they did know anything, that is, which I doubt. So he
threw his lot in with us boys on the military side, who had at least tried to mount a proper
investigation.” Morass turned to Davy, who was drinking neither tea nor beer, but merely sitting with
his hands folded in front of him, like a well-behaved child in church.
“I should like to learn this fingerprinting technique you boast of so freely,” he said, in a
tone that was more of an order than a request. “None of the lads in my division have even seen a kit.”
“I can show you the basic technique,” Davy said. “How to lift a print when there is only
one to be lifted and it’s nice and squarely placed. But I must warn you that the reality of a crime
scene is often more complex. Multiple people might touch the item in question or they might grasp it
or touch it indirectly so that you only have a partial print.”
“So you think a plain copper from the field canna do it? Is that what you’re saying?”
“I am a plain copper from the field,” Davy said, “and I believe Detective Welles will
tell you I am the best on our team with the kit. I’m just saying it takes practice.”
“You said that Benson’s goal was to get Weaver out of jail and your goal was to get
credit for the arrest,” Trevor said, shifting the subject back to the matter at hand. “And yet it seems
the majority of your shared efforts were directed only toward the first objective, the exoneration of
Weaver. Hardly seems fair.”
Morass shrugged his meaty shoulders. “We were but two days into the investigation
when Benson was killed. Perhaps the man would have come around and helped me as I helped him.
Hard to say.”
“You seem admirably sanguine about the inequities in the partnership,” Trevor said.
“Did Benson offer you money? Payment for your information?”
“What if he did? The facts are still the facts.” Morass leaned back as the woman set the
second mug of beer in front of him. “Twasn’t like it was a bribe or anything, so you need not look
down your nose at the working man, Detective. Benson said it was only proper that he split his fee
with me since we were splitting the work, and I figured that was as right a way to look at it as any.”
Morass raised the mug and drank long and deep, then put it down with a clatter.
“And it isn’t as if anyone was trying to pin it on an innocent man,” he went on
defensively, as if either Trevor or Davy had accused him of something. “Or let a bad one go free. I
never for one moment thought that Anthony Weaver killed his wife and his manservant. Do you?”
“No,” Trevor admitted. “I don’t like the fellow, but even so… My guess is that the
wrong man sits in jail.”
“So there you go.”
“And you are telling us everything?”
Morass smiled and picked up the mug. “Of course.”
Bollacks, thought Trevor. You play the fool with me just as you doubtlessly did with
Seal, holding back twice as much as you give. But it is enough for now.
***
The Weaver House
10:20 AM
Emma and Geraldine stood on the broad porch of the Weaver house and watched Felix
approach with the cook and the maid. The cook and the maid, Emma thought. That is all anyone
has ever called them, including me. I wonder if they even have names.
But as the three servants climbed the steep concrete stairs, she smiled in what she hoped

was the same reassuring manner that she had seen Trevor use so many times. Felix led the way
through the door. Doors, she should better say, for there were two of them: a heavy wooden one
meant to lock out trouble, just as any house in London might have, and, behind it, a lighter door with a
mesh panel in the front. Designed to allow a cooling breeze to pass through, she noted upon closer
inspection, but to stop any flies or bugs from entering with it.
“Felix?” she said. “What do you call this thing? This door with a screen in it?”
“It is a screened door, Memsahib.”
“Ah,” Emma said. “Just so. Well, it is ingenious.”
The five of them moved through the foyer and formal sitting room toward the back of the
house, where a broad kitchen seemed to serve as the buffer between the large airy bedrooms of the
Weavers and the small, darkened rooms of their servants.
“Tell them to show us everything that was done on the morning Mrs. Weaver died,”
Emma instructed, while Geraldine sat down upon a stool placed at a small work table and prepared
to make notes. “Start with the moment they heard signs that the Secretary-General was awake.”
Felix chattered something and the two women promptly moved into action, doing a most
effective pantomime of the events of a typical morning in the Weaver household. Evidently Anthony
Weaver had been telling the truth about not breakfasting at home for Emma saw no evidence that
either woman was preparing anything for him although Felix, entering into the action, quite
dramatically acted out the eating of his own curry and then pretended to leave via a side door,
presumably to prepare the carriage.
“So Mr. Weaver required nothing from the kitchen, am I reading that right?” Emma said
to Felix, who hovered at the door. “Yet his departure was the signal to begin preparing a tray for his
wife?”
“Yes, Memsahib,” Felix said. “See, they lay out tray and boil the water…”
“For morning tea?”
“For medicine.”
“Ah,” said Emma. “And how is that done?”
A few words from Felix and the women sprang back into action. A small rectangular
silver tray was produced and a singular cup without a saucer was placed on it.
“Nurse lays out tray and cup the afternoon before, when she leaves,” Felix said to Emma
and Geraldine. “Powder already in cup. In morning, cook heats the water and pours over top.”
“The laudanum lies exposed in the cup from late afternoon until the next morning?”
Emma asked with dismay. Anyone within the household would have the chance to tamper with it.
“Where was the medication stored?”
Felix pointed at a small drawer, evidentially the same one Davy had fingerprinted.
“And what was the purpose of the dropper?” Emma asked.
The boy frowned in uncertainty and she made the same pinching motion with her fingers
that Trevor had demonstrated the day before. “Go on tray with cup,” he said. Now he did the
pinching motion himself. “Lady put in tea.”
“What do you make of this?” Emma asked Geraldine, who was keenly observing the
tableau from across the kitchen. “Say it back to me as you see it, so that we might help each other
think.”
“The biggest revelation seems to be that the murder of Rose Weaver and Pulkit Sang
might have been set in motion the night before their death,” Geraldine said. “If so, we have been
focusing on the wrong time frame. Adelaide would set out the mixture before she left for the day. A

cup with laudanum powder and a dropper lay out on a tray in the kitchen all through the afternoon and
night, providing ample opportunity for anyone within the household to add anything they chose. And
in the morning, hot water was poured over the powder, as indeed must have happened every day.
Rose was evidently the one who used the dropper, to put as much of the mixture as she required in her
morning cup of tea. She dosed herself, to put it another way.”
Emma nodded and turned back to Sang. “What would happen to the cup with the
laudanum mixture after Mrs. Weaver had her breakfast? Who would wash the cup?”
Felix said something to the cook who said something to the maid. The maid said
something to the cook who turned and repeated it to Felix. Emma waited.
“The cup would sit unwashed on its tray until nurse come back,” Felix said. “Only nurse
touch cup.”
“But Adelaide’s fingerprints were the only ones not on the drawer knob,” Geraldine
said. “If they are telling us the truth it would seem hers would have been the only ones we found
there.”
“Unless she wore gloves,” Emma mused. “But would she be that clever? Fingerprinting
is scarcely known in Europe and Tom said even the ranking officers were hesitant to try the technique
here.” She turned back to Felix. “Ask them if, at times, the Secretary-General and Sang would take a
dropperful of the laudanum as well.”
But this time the chain of translation was unnecessary.
“Lady take in morning,” Felix said with confidence, not bothering to confirm this
information with the women. “Then Uncle in kitchen when he had his breakfast. Just a “- and here he
made the pinching motion which Emma was coming to understand was the new symbol for murder –
“and then cup sit until Sahib Weaver come home. He take also, if he please, and then nurse wash cup
when she come in afternoon.”
Emma sank back uncertainly against the table while the nurse and cook stood watching
her with wide solemn eyes. “But it would seem this flies in the face of Trevor’s theory,” she said to
Geraldine. “The theory we’ve all been working under, at least unofficially, for the last two days. For
if the killer knew that Anthony Weaver was customarily the last one to partake of the laudanum, he
was likely not the target.”
***
The Khajuraho Temple
3:50 PM
“Come in, my dear,” Miss Hoffman said. “There is no one here to frighten you.”
Adelaide slowly made her way into the kitchen of the schoolhouse. It was a makeshift
affair to be sure, for Hindu temples customarily do not have kitchens. In fact, the entire operation of
the school was a tribute to one woman’s unfailing ability to improvise, for Leigh Anne Hoffman had
created a dormitory fit for a group of young girls from a high-ceilinged prayer room and classrooms
from porches. This kitchen had once been a storage shed and the working vegetable garden beyond it
had been full of statuary. After being assured by a visiting Cambridge professor that the art within the
courtyard was mundane, Leigh Anne had used a rope and her own body weight to topple the Hindu
deities, one by one. The concrete bases where they once had stood surveying their realm still existed
among the neat rows of peas, potatoes, beets, and carrots. The girls now perched on them to water
the garden, keeping their feet from the mud and looking like small goddesses themselves.
“Come in,” Miss Hoffman repeated. “Take up a knife, will you, dear? And start on the

onions.”
Adelaide entered slowly. “You are just starting the curry?”
It was an apt question, for the curries were usually made in the morning and allowed to
stew down in a great pot all day. The distillation of flavor was a slow process in India, just like
everything else.
Miss Hoffman shook her head. “The soup for this evening is already on the stove. This
curry is for the morrow.”
“The morrow?” Adelaide said, picking up the knife and reaching for the cutting board.
“What happens on the morrow?”
“We picnic,” said Miss Hoffman.

Chapter Seventeen
The Road Between Bombay and Cawnpore
August 31, 1889
8:20 AM
After the monsoon of the day before, the landscape was intoxicatingly lush. It looks like
the drawing of Eden in my childhood Bible, Emma thought. Flowers seemed to have arisen as if by
magic from the rocky soil, their leaves revealing shades of green more varied than even the loveliest
districts of England could boast. Emerald upon sage upon grey upon moss, they turned in the breeze
as if to welcome any pilgrim that passed.
According to the tales being shared by Emma’s fellow travelers, she concluded there
were any number of hill stations out from Bombay, each of them an easy drive for those seeking to
escape the city in summer. Mahableshwar was the most popular for day trips, largely because of its
terraced strawberry beds which offered not only large plump bites of sweetness but also beautiful
views of the harbor. Darjeeling, where the majority of the region’s tea was grown, was said to be
very wet, indeed the wettest district of them all, and thus not so popular for outings. It was ironic, of
course, that the teas which the English held in such high esteem – indeed, the teas upon which some
would say they had built their entire culture – came from India and yet the tea actually consumed in
India was rarely considered to be up to the British standard. Geraldine, who took this particular kind
of investigation most to heart, had gotten to the bottom of the matter first. The tea itself was fine. It
was the local water, laced with that ubiquitous quinine, that was responsible for the harsh taste of the
brew.
It was far past strawberry season, so they were not going to Mahableshwar. And since
they wished to picnic in fair weather, they were not going to Darjeeling. Instead they went…well, of
course they were going to Cawnpour. To enjoy the landscape, the change of climate, a variation from
the daily routine. Not only to picnic but also see the new plaque which had been laid out in memory
of Roland Everlee. And perhaps to catch a murderer on the way.
***
“Do you wish to know the great joke of it all?” Amy Morrow confided to Emma, leaning
in so close that her blonde ringlets – which had come through their electrocution ordeal remarkably
unscathed – actually grazed Emma’s cheek.
“And what, pray tell, is the great joke of it all?” Emma asked. The two girls had been
bouncing along in their pony cart for well over an hour, yet the promised hills of Cawnpore seemed to
be staying precisely the same distance away, hovering on the horizon in a rose-colored mist. There
were perhaps forty people in their processional, turning Geraldine’s little picnic into more of an
expedition. Eleven pony carts in all, four of them simply to carry the food and some enormous sort of
tent which Emma could only assume would be set up on their arrival to shield them from the natural
elements.
To shield them…and to somewhat obliterate the entire purpose of going on a picnic. But
Emma had already gathered that logic was not the forte of the Raj.
In the carts ahead, a group of Miss Hoffman’s schoolgirls chatted like magpies,
squirming about and pulling the ribbons tied on each other’s hair in a manner that cheered Emma,
simply because it was so very normal. Everyone else in the large party seemed vaguely ill at ease.

Miss Hoffman, sitting across from the girls and defiantly wearing her gardening ensemble, had not
said a word since their departure and Mrs. Tucker had brought along a great mass of knitting to
distract her during her journey, although how she could keep her stitches straight amid all this jostle,
Emma had no idea. Even Amy’s grandmother and Geraldine seemed uncharacteristically subdued.
Emma turned to look at the carriage behind her, which held a smattering of the men, but the squeaking
and rattling of the cart was so pronounced that it was impossible to overhear what, if anything, they
were saying.
“The great joke of it all is that I always claimed nothing which happened at the Byculla
Club could ever shock me,” Amy said with a breathless laugh. “But I was proven wrong, wasn’t I?”
“In a most spectacular fashion,” Emma said with a smile. “I think it is marvelously
sporting of you to come out today at all.”
“Oh, but if I had stayed in Bombay I was at greater risk of dying from boredom,” Amy
said. “Can you imagine the old ladies in a circle on Granny’s porch, all of them staring at me as if
they expected that I might somehow take flight at any moment, and sending the servants for cup after
cup of tea? I needed some diversion. Something other than the visits from Tom, that is.”
Visits? The plural form of the word was certainly informative. But before Emma could
answer, Amy leaned in again for another whispered confidence.
“What is truly shocking now is that our missionary friend has come in trousers.”
“Miss Hoffman has a penchant for men’s clothing,” Emma whispered back. “And for
providing her own manner of jolts to society.” It seemed rude to be gossiping about the woman right
in front of her face, but the jangle of the carts blanketed all other noise and besides, Miss Hoffman
appeared to be quite oblivious to anything happening around her. She was staring into the distance
with a pensive frown, as if she were trying to sort out a difficult mathematics problem in her head.
“But they are quite practical for our situation, are they not?”
“Without question, but they set her apart in a way that I suspect does not serve her larger
aims,” Amy answered. “The Raj does not like unconventional women. If we do anything other than
fawn over our men and breed their babies, they squawk as if we were letting down all of England.”
“I should think the Raj would welcome Miss Hoffman’s work at the school,” Emma said,
“no matter what the woman chooses to wear. She is, after all, helping to cover up any number of
sins.”
“You mean the erotic wall?”
“I mean the half-breed girls.”
“Ah yes, of course,” said Amy, craning her neck to consider the cart just ahead. “Some
of them seem nearly as English as we do.”
“I should have come to visit you.”
“You have been busy.”
“Not nearly so busy as Tom, and yet he has managed to make the trip…”
“Three times,” Amy said promptly. “You don’t mind, do you? Tell me the truth. ”
The truth? The truth is that I like this girl, Emma thought. She is direct and funny and
pretty and brave and perhaps that’s the worst of it, that I can perfectly understand why he would
want to drive out to see her. Why he would be willing to sit among that flock of nervous old ladies
just for the chance to hold her hand. Hold it in that way he has, which is somewhat like a doctor
and somewhat like a lover, that gesture he makes which simultaneously takes your pulse and
strokes your palm.
“I do not mind in the least,” Emma said.

“Because I have the impression that you and he are rather like sister and brother.”
Well, that was a dash of cold water to the face. Emma stiffened. “He told you that?”
“Not at all,” Amy said. “It is merely what I gathered upon observation. But tell me if I
am wrong and he shall find the door bolted the next time he calls. There are far too many men in
Bombay for the pair of us to find ourselves at odds.” She giggled. “It would be as silly as fighting
over a strawberry while standing in the middle of a strawberry field.”
“You aren’t wrong,” Emma said, turning her gaze once again to the men’s cart. Tom was
leaning back against the back wall, a broad hat shielding his face, his legs stretched before him and
his arms folded across his chest. Sleeping, she supposed, even though the cart swayed and the sun
rose and the animosity among the travelers was nearly palpable. None of that concerned him. He
could sleep anywhere, through anything. It was one of the things about him that she most envied.
“You aren’t wrong,” she said again. “Tom and I are indeed like brother and sister. In the
most bizarre sort of family, that is.”
***
“I know that you have been to India,” said Mrs. Morrow to Geraldine. “But have you
ever before traveled to Cawnpore?”
“I have not,” Geraldine answered, peering toward the other side of the pony cart, where
Emma and Amy were apparently in deep conference on some vital matter. Their parasols were tilted
sharply against the sun, one rose colored and the other turquoise, forming two agreeable spots of
color among the drab garb of the older ladies, as if they girls themselves were wildflowers pushing
their brave way up amid a group of rocks. “I left Bombay the year before the rebellion, you see, at the
insistence of my fiancé.”
It was a slip. She never used the word fiancé, not even when thinking of Anthony in the
private chambers of her own mind. And the bright-eyed Mrs. Morrow was on the tidbit of
information at once, like a bird spotting a morsel from a great distance.
“I believe I may have heard,” she said delicately, “that you were Anthony Weaver’s
betrothed before he married Rose?”
Coming from another woman’s mouth, it might have been a dreadfully presumptuous
question, but Gerry did not mind. It would be a relief to be able to speak freely about the matter, to
confess to one sympathetic soul what had truly brought her to India. Of course Mrs. Turner was
listening too, despite the silly ruse that she was absorbed in the task of her knitting, but Geraldine
decided there was very little reason to demur. They were three women of a certain age, were they
not, crammed together in a miserable pony cart on their way to a half-built memorial? It was likely
they had all suffered their share of disappointments and tragedy throughout the years and that the
others were in no position to judge her past mistakes.
“I came on the fishing fleet,” she said. “I trust you are familiar with the term?”
“Indeed,” said Mrs. Morrow with a chuckle. “It brought me here as well.”
“Then you recall what it was like to land among this city of bachelors and find yourself
beset upon at once. I had experienced very little courtship back in England, and certainly not
courtship at such a breakneck pace.”
“One of the girls who came over with me,” said Mrs. Morrow, “was actually proposed
to as she made her way down the gangplank. A man on the dock declared himself on his very first
sight of her. Of course, she was uniquely blessed by Venus, but still –“ She tilted her chin. “To be
pursued so avidly is simultaneously flattering and insulting, is it not? And also a little frightening,
especially for a girl used to the way things work back in England. “

“When the men came down to greet our ship it was madness,” Geraldine said. “The
image I most recall is that the Weeping Susan also carried a large crate of Devonshire apples. I
wondered at it when we started and even though we were caught in the doldrums –“
“The doldrums!” exclaimed Mrs. Morrow with the unfeigned horror of a woman who
had survived many voyages in equatorial waters.
“How ghastly for you,” said Mrs. Turner, putting down her knitting at last.
“Indeed it was,” Geraldine said automatically. “But even as we drifted, with our
supplies of tinned food dwindling every day and the passengers near panic, the captain still would not
let us eat the apples. He said they were of great value, you see, although none of us really caught his
meaning at the time. We could not understand that for men stranded in an unfamiliar environment,
even a brief taste of the familiar can become the most fiercely desired luxury of all. When we finally
managed to make it to Bombay, the apples were delivered and uncrated even before the passengers
disembarked. I can still see that scene, the men snatching at them with such animalistic fervor, even
though the prices the captain demanded were scandalous, and then walking along the dock, munching
the apples and looking up at all of us. This cluster of girls and women, standing together at the railing
wondering if we had made a dreadful mistake.”
Now Mrs. Tucker and Mrs. Morrow both chortled with genuine mirth. “English men
grow tired of tropical fruits and tropical women soon enough,” Mrs. Morrow said. “But if you were
caught in the doldrums, I am surprised the apples survived the trip.”
“Oh, they teetered on the very edge of ferment,” said Geraldine, laughing too. “Although
I suppose the same could be said for a few of the women. But it hardly mattered. You could be
considered unremarkable, even homely, back in London, but once you crossed the equator a definite
magic took place. You were suddenly the loveliest woman alive. Some of the girls were….what did
we call them? Memory fails me.”
“Do you mean the ones who were known to be flirtatious? Eager to use the situation to
their upmost advantage?” Mrs. Tucker said. “The Raj calls them spins, for they spin from one man to
another, always looking for a better opportunity. Some of the especially pretty and ambitious ones
can propel their way to the very top of the social order, even today.”
“Yes, spins, that is quite the term,” Geraldine said. “They somehow always managed to
find themselves seated beside the most powerful man in any room, even on occasions when the
officers were not in uniform. I suppose there is a bit of a learned art to it, or perhaps it is more of an
inborn skill. But others, me among them, were frightened by the intensity of the men. Their
desperation, almost, the way they would declare their adoration within hours of meeting you. And
that is how I found myself engaged to Anthony Weaver.”
“Weaver was desperate?” Mrs. Morrow asked with a quizzical frown. “I find that
scenario hard to picture. He has a certain manner and bearing that seems to imply….a certain air of
entitlement, you know, as if success has always come easily to him.”
Geraldine took a deep breath. This next was a part of the story she had never shared
with anyone and she was not entirely sure what compelled her to share it now, with two strangers
bumping along beside her a pony cart. But the memory had come flooding back with vivid detail –
the colors and smells of that night, the way her heart had thudded in her chest.
“No, Anthony was most certainly not desperate,” she said. “In fact, he did me a kindness. I was
at a dinner party and trying to get away from one particularly persistent young man. He had proposed
over the soup and then again over the terrine and the entrée and was gearing up for this fourth try over
a bowl of raspberry ice when I blurted out I was engaged to Anthony. I don’t know why I said it. It

certainly wasn’t true and I was merely trying to discourage this pimply-faced boy. But my statement
circulated throughout the party like a whirlwind.”
“Oh dear,” said Mrs. Morrow. “You couldn’t find him in time to explain?”
Geraldine shook her head. “As we moved to the drawing room after dinner, someone
congratulated him. They made a great fuss. The entire room fell silent. He was standing just beside
Rose, that is what I remember best, for she turned away and linked her arm through that of her
husband just in the moment that someone loudly congratulated Anthony on his engagement to me. And
Roland, ever the man at the ready, made a charming toast and glasses were raised all around. Port for
the men and sherry for the ladies, I remember that too, odd detail. And Anthony looked at me….”
“He was angry?” asked Mrs. Tucker.
Geraldine shook her head again. “If he was, he hid it well. Our eyes locked. He had
never proposed, of course, and most likely had no intention of doing so. I was a dalliance, a
distraction. But he was too much the gentleman to fail me. He let Roland toast us and he accepted the
congratulations of the room as if he were the happiest man alive.”
“So he did not reveal your outright lie to the others of your social circle,” Mrs. Tucker
said with some surprise. “That was certainly gentlemanly of him and out of character with the man I
ultimately came to know. But whatever made you say that the two of you were engaged when you
knew he might well have denied it on the spot?”
“Complete foolishness,” Geraldine said. “Or a wishful thought uttered aloud, perhaps. I
was quite smitten with Anthony in those days and may have misread certain things as meaning more
than they did.” She sniffed and straightened in her seat. “But yes, he was a gentleman, both that night
and in the weeks to follow. Although I can only imagine what playing along might have cost him in
his….in his personal life.”
“He was Rose’s paramour?” Mrs. Morrow asked quietly. “Even then?”
Geraldine nodded.
“Good heavens,” said Mrs. Tucker. “Are you suggesting that while Roland Everlee still
lived that his wife and his closest friend –“
“Ours was a sham engagement,” Geraldine said. “Anthony loved another. Even so, he
might have gone through with it. I was convenient, you see. The perfect mask to hide behind, just as
poor Roland must also have been.”
“So what happened?” Mrs. Morrow asked. “What ended the sham?”
Geraldine sighed and tilted her parasol to take in the sight of the walls of Cawnpore,
which at last seemed to have moved a bit closer during their conversation.
“The mutiny happened.”
***
Hubert Morass was drunk. It was not yet – and here Davy consulted his pocket watch
for confirmation – nine in the morning and nonetheless the man’s face was flushed, his speech slightly
slurred and his movements a little too tucked in. He was trying very hard to conceal his condition,
but Davy had long ago noticed that those who are intoxicated often behave in an overly cautious
manner. They speak more slowly and enunciate their words more carefully. They keep their elbows
tight to their sides and their feet drawn carefully beneath them and planted just a little too far apart, as
if they were prepared for sudden shifts in the universe.
This all would have been obvious to anyone who was looking carefully but, other than
Davy, no one was looking carefully. Most of the women were riding up ahead, Tom was sleeping,
and both Trevor and Rayley were raptly observing Adelaide, who was seated in the final cart of the

processional. She had abandoned her customary sari for the trip, although whether this decision was
hers or that of Miss Hoffman, no one could say. Nor had Adelaide joined her mentor and teacher in
wearing trousers, but was rather garbed in a shapeless grey dress far too large for her, the most
unattractive and unremarkable of all possible outfits. She sat among the youngest students, looking
like a governess or someone’s spinster aunt, gazing out into the countryside and ignoring the little
girls, who squirmed joyfully about the cart like a litter of puppies.
We read her all wrong, Davy thought. The sari, which seemed such a bizarre choice
the first time we saw her, was not an attempt to make a political statement or spit in the face of the
Raj. For a woman who spends most of her time on the streets – not within the English district, but
in the true heart of Bombay – the sari is an attempt to avoid notice. And here today, among the
members of the Byculla Club who would find a sari so intriguing, she had opted not to wear it at
all. She has instead taken up disguise as a nanny, has swathed herself from head to toe in British
broadcloth. The woman’s goal is singular: to blend in as well as possible anywhere she goes. To
avoid attracting the eye, to be remarkably unremarkable.
She has spent her life in hiding, Davy continued to mull, and I would wager that it
began long before Rose Weaver died. I wonder what the deuce has happened to this Adelaide to
leave her with such a distrust of society. Something, obviously. Something very bad.
***
“You know,” Trevor said to Rayley, struggling not to shout even though the clanking of
the carriage was enough to reduce all conversations to an exercise in lip-reading. “it occurs to me
that our little group may have been unconsciously guilty of the same offenses as those of the Raj.”
“What on earth are you talking about, Welles?”
“Perhaps we have been too quick to dismiss the Indian role in all this, to assume that the
dark skinned men about us are simple creatures with simple motives, a kindly race meant to be patted
on the head like a pack of spaniels.”
“You are being quite obscure. And your example overreaches. I for one have never
patted an Indian like a dog.” Rayley leaned in. “So tell me what you’re going for.”
“We have entertained the idea that the poison was meant for Rose. We have entertained
the idea that the poison was meant for Weaver. But we have never discussed the possibility that the
draught was intended for Pulkit Sang. What if he were not an accidental victim but the true target all
along?”
Rayley paused to chew the notion over. “What could be the motive?”
Trevor shrugged. “Can’t say, but we haven’t come up with a convincing motive for why
someone would kill Rose or Weaver either. Because he was a servant, we have leapt to the
assumption that he had no private life, no history, and ignored the possibility he might have had
enemies of his own. I keep thinking about what that Dr. Tufts fellow told Tom about the English
sharing medications with their household staff. If it were known that Rose, Weaver, and Sang had all
on occasion imbibed a few drops from the laudanum mixture, any of the three could be the intended
victim.”
“Or all three.”
Trevor’s brow puckered. “Why? What offense might they have shared in common?”
Rayley looked at the hill in the distance. The not-so-far distance now and he shivered
as he pondered the sad ruins of what had once been a mighty fortress. The ruins which now held
nothing more than plaques and statues and a well, a well which had thirty-two years ago had been
stacked high with bodies. The bodies of men, women, and children, the dead and the dying, all left to

meet their fates in a hopeless hole of misery, baking under the brutal sun. He wished he had never
read the report. It had haunted him over the last two days and the story that Anthony Weaver had
shared in the jail had only added to the horror. Laid a patina of particulars over the generalized
carnage, given faces and names to a few of the victims. It was detail, Rayley knew, which made the
horrid horrible. A man could ride through scenes of slaughter stone-faced and collapse into sobs at
the sight of an ownerless doll lying on the ground. A cemetery was a place to picnic, but a singular
grave was a place to mourn.
“But they did share one thing,” Rayley said to Trevor, “and I believe this one thing led to
the deaths of two of them and the arrest of the third. They all knew, to varying degrees, the truth of
what happened at Cawnpore.”

Chapter Eighteen
Did she remember or did she just think that she did?
That, of course, was always the question.
The images which had swirled through her mind for the last thirty years might have been
fragments of stories she’d been told, books she had read, even shards left from a dream. She was a
great dreamer. Whole worlds would come to her as she slumbered…
And sometimes they would linger, in the morning, after she awakened in her narrow cot.
A nun’s cot, the headmistress of the school used to call it. Certainly not broad enough to
accommodate two bodies. And although you might not think of it to look at her, she had lived her
entire life as a nun. There was an austerity to her days. A solitude. She kept separate from everyone,
even the other girls at the school.
No. “Girls” was not the proper word. For she was a woman now, at least by the
measure of the calendar. Even though she knew the peculiar limitations of her life would prompt
some people to consider less than fully female. Her virginity, for example. No man had ever touched
her.
No. Again, that is not the full and proper truth. What she means to say is that a man has
not touched her in the sexual sense – in what some people mysteriously call “the Biblical sense.” But
a man did touch her once. He scooped her up when she was but a child. Ran with her across a
burning yard, through a swirl of shouts and screams and threats. He saved her life.
That was what last night’s dream had been about.
She could close her eyes and see the scene in perfect detail. A brown hand reaching. A
brown arm circling her waist. The voice, foreign but gentle, saying words she did not understand.
Her baby brother in his other arm, the children rolling towards each other across the man’s chest until
they were almost folded together into one child.
Through the bright sunlight and the smoke they had run – sunlight and smoke would
forever be fused in her mind as a dreadful combination, the epitome of torment – until she at last had
been dumped atop the rough floorboards of a cart. The baby tumbled, none too gently, beyond her.
When she had tried to stand and look back for her mother, the arm had lowered again, but more
firmly. The strange voice had ordered her not to move.
Lie still, the brown man had told her. Lie as still as death.
In later years the irony of his statement would bring a searing pain to her chest. For
while she had obediently lay just as he told her, the baby crushed to her side, the brown man had leapt
into the cart and they had ridden from that yard of destruction. The cart had rolled and rumbled. The
driver, whoever he was, did not seem to know his craft. Under the ceaseless sun they had ridden,
until the noise and mayhem of the farmyard finally faded, until the baby had sobbed himself into a
shuddering sleep and at one point the brown hand had reached in yet again, to lift her head and pour
water in her mouth, water from a canvas bag.
And then sleep must have come for her as well. Merciful sleep, or perhaps just a type of
shock.
Because the next thing she saw with clarity was the ceiling of a room. She was in a
house, in a bed, and the wail of the baby from the next room had wakened her. She called for her
mother, of course she did, but the brown man was there in an instant. He fed her, wiped her brow.

And when she dared once more, this final time, to ask for her mother, a kindly shake of his head told
her everything.
This was her new life.
It was not a bad one. The room was large and full of breezes. The bed was soft, the
food was plentiful. Servants came and went, bringing some things and taking others away and there
was one woman who was light skinned and clearly not a servant. She came less frequently than the
others. As she looked at the bed that held the girl, her brow lowering as if something displeased her.
The child slid down in the bed and feigned sleep.
Then – on the morning of the third day, perhaps the fourth - the child at last ventured from
her bed. She waited until the room was empty, then she stood, crossed the room, pushed open the
door and found herself in a garden. A beautiful garden. The most beautiful garden she had ever seen.
The entire house must be enchanted, she decided. She had never had a room of her own or even a bed
of her own. But here she had both, and soon enough a new dress, a lovely blue color, and a dolly to
hold. At home her only dolly had been the real baby and he was disagreeable, always crying or
wetting or demanding the limited attention of their mother. But now, for the first time in her brief life,
the girl was the center of attention. The servants fussed over her. When she had eaten a certain plum
pudding with enthusiasm, a duplicate had appeared the next day. One of the women brushed her
snarled mass of brown hair, tied it up in a great bow and turned her toward the mirror.
This must be me, the child though. The farmhouse had possessed no mirror, so this was
the first time she had ever gazed upon her own face. She was quite pretty.
Therefore…why did they not keep her?
The question would torture her for years to come. Because one morning, without
warning, a carriage came. She was bundled into it along with the dolly and the blue dress. Taken to
the orphanage where the blue dress was torn and the doll’s face cracked before the end of the first
week. And there, throughout the years, she had convinced herself that her brief time in paradise had
been no more than a dream.
That was, until a certain day when an older gentleman had called, claiming he needed a
nurse for his wife.
She had been taken to a house. A fine house, certainly, but nowhere near so fine as the
house hidden away in her memory. Is any scene ever quite as grand as our childhood hearts have
painted it? She might not have known it was the same place at all if it hadn’t been for the elephant.
The elephant with five legs.
Her conscious mind began to wage war against her unconscious one. It was entirely
unlikely that she had ever been in this house before. Why would they have sent her away and – even
stranger – why would they have returned so many years later to bring her back? And yet the elephant
greeted her - still beneath his palm tree, still with his great-earred face turned toward her bearing his
rakish smile - as if to say that her exile from this paradise must have been the true dream.
Almost immediately, confirmation came. The brown man was also still there, and still
kind. He did not appear to recognize her, but why should he? More than thirty years had passed since
he had grabbed the shrieking child from the farmyard and the woman standing before him now was a
changed creature. He showed her through the house and spoke words of instruction that she did not
fully understand. But she nodded briskly, as if it all were clear. She attempted to look modest,
grateful, for she knew this was what was expected. Despite her shock and confusion, she came to
understand that a nurse was needed to care for the white woman. The same chilling lady who had
looked upon her with displeasure so long ago, but who was now much older, stooped and defeated by

the years. And the man who had hired her, the one who was to pay her wages? His face was familiar
too. He had been in the farmyard on the day of hell. He was the one who had driven the carriage.
And he was also the one who had later taken her to the orphanage.
Her first impressions of the house had been confusing to the point of being nightmarish,
but over time she came to accept the truth and to fill in even more detail. She began to notice pictures
all through the house of a boy. A boy gradually growing up, just as boys always do. A photograph at
three or four, pulling a wagon. Then older, maybe seven, looking serious in what must have been his
first school uniform. The boy on the steps of a church, on the shore of a beach, the boy laughing and
then pensive. A picture of him in his teens, on a gay boat…was this a yacht? She had heard the term
but never seen a picture. And finally the great portrait of him just on the brink of manhood, this time
with paint dabbed on top of the photograph, hanging like royalty in his mother’s room.
Through the years she had, of course, wondered what had ever become of her baby
brother. But she had imagined his fate to be a masculine parallel of her own – that he had been taken
to a home for foundling boys. Now she could see the truth.
She had been rejected, but he had been kept.
Whenever she was alone in the pale woman’s bedroom she would walk up to the portrait
and consider it. A garish thing it was, the man’s cheeks tinted a ludicrous shade of pink. But there
was no doubt that the face staring out at her was the face of her father. Her brother had been not only
kept, but cherished. Simon had not only lived, he had become the son of a wealthy household.
If she had been able to stop and think of it, she might have understood. Simon was the
right age for an adoption. Could be more readily passed off as a true child of the pale woman, while
where there was no way to explain the sudden presence of a five-year-old girl without raising any
number of inconvenient questions. Not to mention that she had been old enough to have a memory –
fragmented but still there and damn inconvenient. While he, an infant, had none.
But of course she had not been able to stop and think. All she could do was despise
them. The fury hardened in her heart, day after day. The pale woman and the large man, the twin
demons of her banishment. She hated them, but she hated discreetly and she hated with patience. She
devoted herself to understanding the rituals of the household. How the brown powder was to be
scooped out into the thin white cup. The cup that the kitchen staff whispered was used by both the
woman and the man.
She plotted her measurements with care, for she was not the fool the world took her for.
She knew a bit of math and she knew the sort of tree that would help her. One of them so obligingly
grew in the garden of the Weaver household, the very garden she had explored as a child. Even more
dotted the grounds of the orphanage. Enough that she could practice and plan. The suicide tree, they
called it, in acknowledgement that while there are those who cling stubbornly to life, no matter what
pain it might have dealt them, there were also those who pursued death with equal fervor.
Death did not frighten her. It had been, one might say, the only true constant of her life.
Her father had been killed in the first week of the uprising, her mother run through in the very
doorframe of her house. Her big brother Artie and her younger brother Allen and her sister
Kathleen…all dead. Only she and Simon had escaped and now Simon was someone else. A man
named Michael Everlee, a man who lived half a world away, a man who wore silk and rode in fine
carriages while she….
Her plan had met with mixed results. The woman was dead and while her husband
lived, the word had come from the street that they had put him in the jail. She had seen a newspaper
with his picture on the cover. ACCUSED the headline had screamed. ACCUSED. So she had not

managed to kill them both, but she had killed the pale woman and sent the big man, most probably, to
the gallows. Which would have been quite enough…
Only there had been a grave error.
Somehow the brown man too lay dead.
And this was not at all what she had planned. In killing her tormentors she had also
managed to slay her savior. And then, before she could even absorb this news, had come the equally
dreadful realization that someone knew what she had done. Someone was on to her, knew her true
identity, that the castoff from the orphanage was the blood sister of a rising politician, the rejected
ward of a great house, a survivor of the allegedly unsurvivable Cawnpore.
This would not do.
Now she sits in a pony cart. Another one, yes, only this time she is jostling her way
towards Cawnpore and not away from it. She is surrounded by squirming, chattering girls but she
does not really hear them. Her eyes are fixed on the distance, on a misty fortress which she does not
remember and yet she must have spent the first five years of her life somewhere quite close to this
place. Perhaps on the other side of this hill, or maybe the one over there.
Another homecoming, she thinks, and her mouth twists. She does not bother to hide the
expression. No one ever pays attention to her, do they? Her invisibility has been both the blessing
and the curse of her life.
Between her feet is wedged a pot of curry. It is a perfectly fine curry. Anyone in the
procession might take a bowl without fear. But in her pocket is a vial of brown liquid. The liquid
she now sees she must administer carefully, at the last minute, to make sure it finds its true mark. For
she is clever, far smarter than any of the people in these cursed carts could ever know.
She will not make the same mistake twice.

Chapter Nineteen
Cawnpore
11:20 AM
Upon their arrival at the base of Cawnpore, everyone scrambled from the carts. There
was no official host or hostess to oversee the outing, so it would have been a dreadful thrash had the
servants not proven so admirably efficient.
Within minutes of the approach of the final cart, they had unloaded the tent on the dusty
flat at the bottom of the hill and within a few more minutes, there was a canopy billowing in the
breeze, offering shade. Hampers with food followed, and a grand block of ice, unwrapped from a
white cloth and slid into a shallow tray. Emma shuddered at the very sight of it. She looked around
for Amy, but did not see her. Walking with Tom, perhaps?
After the long ride, Emma found she needed to take a walk of her own. She pulled away
from the chattering group and looked about for some privacy. There was likely to be a tent for this
purpose as well, a much smaller little enclave of dark muslin with a chamber pot inside, and although
she found the pieces of the traveling W.C. easily enough, no one had yet turned a hand to assembling
it. Emma sighed and looked up toward the hill. She would have to improvise.
***
The servants set up the long table, positioned the ice, and then unpacked the food.
Through a sort of tacit arrangement, the woman who had provided each dish stepped forward to claim
her contribution and to arrange the plate as she saw fit. Geraldine, who lacked a kitchen – and indeed
any inclination to cook even if she had been given access to Mrs. Tucker’s – had supplied a variety of
breads from a shop she had been assured was the finest patisserie within Bombay. It was likely the
only patisserie in Bombay, she reflected, as she fanned the croissants, slices of yeast bread, and
poppyseed rolls out across a tray. For the thousandth time since coming to India, she gave silent
thanks that such silly ceremonies were not part of her daily life. Back in London she had her cook
and butler Gage to deal with the soul-numbing details of entertaining friends. And the women of the
Raj of course had their servants as well – even the middle class boasting a far greater contingent than
anyone would expect, thanks to the plethora of locals willing to work for a shilling. Yet it would seem
that the local standard was for the memsahibs to at least pretend to have produced the food they
brought to picnics and other Byculla Club socials. For they now fluttered around the tables, no doubt
interrupting the legitimate servants from their legitimate work, all of them making a great fuss over
their individual dishes.
We have come at great effort to Cawnpore, Geraldine thought, brushing back a strand of
hair with a floury hand, and yet, now that we are here, it would seem that the entire group is
determined to ignore Cawnpore. For here we all stand at the base of the hill, at the very foot of
the ruined fortress, and yet none of our party has made a move to go higher. We busy ourselves
with the mechanics of the picnic, and thus delay the moment when we climb up to see the
crumbling walls, the plaques embedded in them and, most of all, the well. The well where so many
people died for the crime of…
For the crime of being just like us, she concluded, giving up on arranging the tray in any
artful fashion and stepping back from the table. The crime of being white, and foreign, and careless
with this power which was conferred upon us, so random and so unearned.

Leigh Anne Hoffman, perhaps in acknowledgement that she had brought the greatest
number of guests to the picnic, had also brought the largest offering of food. An enormous pot of what
– if her olfactory senses had not failed her – Geraldine took to be curry. Such a dish would have to
be reheated after the journey, which made it a defiantly illogical choice for a picnic. Now the woman
supervised the building of a small fire just outside the tent and the lowering of a large black pot
within the nest of smoldering embers. Miss Hoffman was drawing a disparate amount of attention,
effort, and native manpower to her task of readying the curry, which Geraldine suspected was
somewhat the point.
“Look at me,” the simmering brew all but shouted. “Along a table groaning with the
weight of aspic salads, roasted chickens, and lemon cakes, I shall stand alone. An unapologetically
Indian dish, and no one shall dare to imply that I am out of place here.” Leigh Anne Hoffman’s food
was a reflection of the woman herself: Determined to be outrageous. Miss Hoffman crouched before
the fire which warmed her angry curry, poking resolutely at the embers with a stick.
And nearly hidden within the folds of the nearest tent, Gerry further noted, stood Miss
Hoffman’s most intriguing student. Adelaide. Neither moving, talking, working, or even taking note
of her surroundings. Simply watching and waiting as her headmistress prepared the curry. Any
number of unwrapped baskets of food and chilled tins of beverages were clustered around the
woman’s feet, making her seem as if she were almost trapped by the excessive bounty of the picnic.
We must get Adelaide apart and talk to her, Gerry thought. But it shan’t be an easy
task as long as Miss Hoffman is close. For she does seem to view the woman as her pet puppy…
and she keeps her on a very short leash.
***
“You want a beer?” Morass said, gesturing toward the tin bucket he had lugged from the
pony cart, and which now was wedged between his feet. He had broken a bit off from the activity of
the picnic and Tom had wandered after him until the two men were out of earshot, considerably
downwind from the others, who smoked and paced and stole periodic glances at the ruins.
“I am always in want of a beer,” Tom answered, honestly enough. “Is it cold?”
“And would it matter so much, if I said it wasn’t? Would you wander your way down to
the next pub where conditions are better?”
Tom laughed, for the man was right. They had been cast out on a flat and sandy plain,
with nothing to tempt the eye or offer comfort. There was indeed a breeze, this much he had to
acknowledge, for the breezes were the reason the Raj most often gave for fleeing the city for the
country. And yes, the air did blow, although it carried any manner of dust and leaves along with it.
“Perhaps I should wait until after the food has been served,” Tom said.
Morass shrugged. “Suit yourself. I’m near to the bottom of this jug as it is, although
there are two more waiting by the tent.”
“Where is Seal?” Tom asked. “He seems to have disappeared the minute our
processional stopped.”
“Stuck to Michael Everlee like silkweed to trousers,” Morass said, with a jerk of his
thumb toward the hill behind him. “They’re a fine pair, are they not? It would seem that since
Benson got himself killed that our Mr. Everlee has decided to change his approach. Decided to work
with the Viceroy rather than the military.”
Well, that explained the man’s dark mood. The fact he was drinking hard and early. The
money had dried up. Michael Everlee must have quite sensibly concluded that Benson had extracted
all the information from Morass that the military side of the investigation had to give, and changed his

focus to cooperating with the Viceroy. Tom pushed back the brim of his hat and studied the ruins. He
could indeed see three men working their way slowly up the broken steps leading to the crumbling
fortress gate: Seal leading the way, Everlee following in a bizarre bright gold jacket, and lastly a
man Tom could not name, but who he remembered from the Byculla Club dinner. The old deaf one
who had been so insistent that Everlee must come to Cawnpore to view the plaque laid in honor of his
true father.
“You think I drink too much, do you?”
Tom turned back to Morass, startled by this sudden shift in tone.
“I do not judge you, my friend. It is usually the job of others, in fact, to tell me that I
drink too much.”
“Yet you turned away from my offer of beer.”
“Only until after luncheon. It is my only rule.” Tom shut his eyes and saw his brother
Cecil’s face floating in the speckled darkness. Cecil the Troubled, that should be the man’s moniker
should he ever, God forbid, find himself at the helm of an empire. At what point in time had Cecil
began drinking before noon and had that truly been the start of his moral demise?
Morass studied him through red-rimmed eyes. “And who set this rule?”
“I suppose I set it myself,” said Tom. In order to cover his unease, he again shifted the
subject. “How did you and Davy come along with the fingerprinting tutorial?”
But Morass was not mollified. “You find this amusing, that I wished to learn such a
skill?”
Tom sighed and decided to leave the man to his self-pity and his beer. Something told
him this was going to be a very long day.
But when he looked back toward the ruins, he noted with surprise that he could now see
the figure of Emma on the hill as well, picking her cautious way down the rubble from another
direction. She was wearing a brilliantly white blouse and skirt that he had seen her in several times
before – she had bought the outfit before their sail to Russia at the beginning of the summer, based on
her charmingly naïve assumption that grand ladies always wore white at sea. The soot-belching
engines of the Queen’s yacht had soon taught the girl that wearing her cherished new garb was more
of a romantic affectation that a practical choice of travel clothing, but Emma had made the precise
same mistake here today. For Tom suspected that the decision to wear starched white clothing to a
dusty ruin would shortly reveal itself to be an even greater sartorial mistake, if it hadn’t already.
Emma was also carrying a large parasol in a bluish-green color, which she had tilted to protect
herself from the sun, and Tom wondered where she had gone on her own, so far from the others, and if
she might lose her footing on the way back. He should go and help her.
“I do not judge you in any way, man, I assure you,” Tom said to Morass. “And I have no
doubt that the two of us shall share a brew soon enough. But in the meantime, might I ask you…
Where is the plaque bearing tribute to Roland Everlee’s sacrifice actually located?”
“In the most important spot in all of Cawnpore,” Morass said, turning the tin jug up and
shaking the final drops into his cup. “At the bloody well.”
***
The fat man in the lemon-colored suit must be her brother. She watches him from the
shade of a tent canopy as he climbs up the hill with two other men. Important men, evidently - at least
that would be her guess based on their clothing - and by the way they are all waving about their arms,
she can only conclude that they are making important speeches as they walk.
There can be little doubt that this is Simon – or rather Michael Everlee, and he lives in

London, far away from this dusty and inconsequential place. Oxford, Covant Gardens, Savile Row,
even the Houses of Parliament…the components of her brother’s city life mean very little to her.
They are nothing but pictures in a book she’s seen once or twice, places that she understands to be
centers of power. Men’s power, white power, English power. The shrieking baby thrown so
carelessly into a cart thirty-two years ago has grown into a man of influence, one declared to have a
promising future.
She tilts her head and considers the figure above her. He is walking up the hill with a
surprisingly slow and unsteady gait for one so young. She wonders if she likes him. He is the only
true relative she has in the world and her heart surprised her by leaping at the first sight of him. His
face is strangely familiar – not just from the pictures he has studied in the Weaver household, but also
because it prompts memories of her father. A face once only dimly recalled, but now the indulgent
smile of her dear Da comes back to her in a rush, and she is suddenly weak, clutching the
insubstantial cloth wall of the tent in an effort to steady herself.
The men are almost up the hill. They are climbing, it would appear, to the heart of the
ruins, to the infamous well which now bears a plaque in honor of Roland Everlee. Roland Everlee,
the hero of Cawnpore, the man her brother believes is his father. A thought occurs to her and for a
moment it gives her pause. It would seem that of the two of them, Michael is the one who was given
everything, but she does have one thing which he likely, for all his fine clothes and fashionable
houses, will never possess.
She has the truth.
Her hands steal down her sides, the palms running over her rough clothing. The money
waits in one pocket. The glass dropper waits in another. Her fingers close resolutely around it, her
thumb running nervously over the rubber plug. She must not grow sentimental. She must not fall
down her own well of memory, for she has other business here in Cawnpore. Serious business.
She must confront her blackmailer and finish this, once and for all.
***
“That is it?” Michael Everlee asked, his voice flat with disbelief. For the famed well of
Cawnpore looked precisely like any other well.
“Here is the plaque,” said the old man from the Byculla Club, some chap named Norton
who had yammered incessantly as they had made their slow climb up the unreliable steps. He said it
eagerly and pointed a shaky finger toward a brass plaque, already dulled by dust.
“Indeed,” said Everlee, looking about. The well had been engulfed in a snarl of green
vines, which had grown up from the center and spilled down the sides. It resembles a hand, he
thought. A long-fingered green hand reaching out from below the earth to choke everything within
sight.
“Are the bodies…” Everlee asked weakly, and then broke off. The other two men
looked at him expectantly. They were both older, but he supposed he surpassed them socially and that
is why they held back in respectful silence. Or perhaps they mistook this shiver of fear that had
overtaken him for a deeper emotion. Grief, most likely, or nostalgia for a man he had never known.
“Are the bodies of the victims still in the well?” Everlee finally managed. “Or were
they removed?”
“Oh, extricated and given a proper Christian burial, of course,” Norton said in
confidence, although Seal had begun talking at the same time.
“My understanding is that this is a burial site as well as a shrine,” he was saying, before
he broke awkwardly off in deference to the older man.

“Their families would certainly claim them, man,” Norton said in an offended tone.
“But in many cases whole families perished, “Seal responded. “And thus there was no
one to demand the return of any remains. Cawnpore happened in the midst of a military emergency,”
he added, with a guilty look in Everlee’s direction, as if the young politician from England had come
to India to pass judgment on them all. “And in times of war, the reclaiming and identification of
bodies can be a dicey business, even civilian bodies.” Then his eyes nervously fluttered toward the
infuriated Norton, who clearly did not like the notion that they were standing above a hole crammed
with skeletons, the slight frames of women and children among them.
Everlee waved his hand dismissively, as if to indicate it did not matter either way, and
both of the men fell silent. It was hard to say which of them was correct – most likely Seal, since
experience had taught Everlee that the darkest explanation was generally the one that was also closest
to the truth. But he was shaken by the image, bodies piled upon bodies, fusing throughout the years
into one undignified and inhuman mass of calcium and rubble, an finger sticking out here and there, a
vine poking its way through a lonely eye socket, some wayward pocketwatch or wedding ring the
only remaining evidence of what had once been an individual life.
The vines, he thinks, stepping closer to the well and steeling himself to look into the
leafy green pit. They grow to cover all these things that we cannot bear to look upon. Cannot bear
to remember.
“Would you care to lay flowers?” Norton inquired. He no doubt meant to speak
respectfully, but his deafness had rendered him incapable of discriminating between levels of volume
and the question came out in a shout. “We have brought them, you know. Wreaths waiting down in
the carts.”
“No,” said Everlee, stepping back, his hand grazing a plump green leaf as he retreated.
“It would appear that nature has provided all the tribute that Cawnpore will ever need.”
***
The dropper hovers. She glances around but no one is watching her. This time she does
not bother to calculate the dosage or worry about whether the bitter syrup of the suicide tree will
bring death within minutes or hours.
She squeezes and then sits back with a satisfied sigh.
***
They ate informally, at various times and places around the cluster of tents. Miss
Hoffman’s girls started with their familiar curry, but then slowly began to branch out to the other
dishes. They were tentative at first, approaching the unfamiliar foods from the side, as one might
approach a sleeping animal, and sampling only a spoonful. But soon they were enthusiastically
gobbling down the salads and terrines, carrying their heaping plates out to the lawn where their
headmistress had put down blankets for their use.
“So at least we can rest assured that there is nothing wrong with the curry,” Rayley said
drily, observing the scene. “Or any of the other dishes, for that matter. It is a heartwarming thing to
observe the appetites of the young, is it not?”
“We must find a way to cut Adelaide out of the herd,” Trevor said, glancing about. “For
it seems Miss Hoffman has temporarily relaxed her vigilance. I don’t see her at all, do you?”
Rayley shook his head and looked up the hill where small parties of people, in straggling
groups of two or three, were at last beginning their pilgrimage toward the well. He had imagined
some sort of maudlin ceremony, for he had seen a great pile of wreathes in one of the carts and his
brief stint at the Byculla Club had been enough to convince him that its membership contained its fair

share of pontificators and preachers. But it would seem that the viewing of the plaque was to be as
disorganized and sporadic as the eating of the midday meal, with each mourner making the climb in
his or her own time.
Trevor was likewise surveying the scene, but his attention was focused on the
whereabouts of the other members of the Murder Games Club. Tom and Emma, he noticed, were
sitting around a small table which also held the pretty little Amy Morrow. Geraldine was among a
larger group at a larger table and as Trevor continued to watch he noted that Michael Everlee and
Henry Seal were pulling up chairs and preparing to join them. From the ostentatious way in which
both of the men brushed the dust from their pant legs, Trevor could only conclude that their own climb
was behind them.
Morass was right, Trevor thought. They fit together perfectly. Trying so hard to seem
important. Clinging to their titles and insignia.
“All the particulars of our little story seem to be visible and accounted for,” Rayley said,
breaking into his thoughts. “Save for Miss Hoffman, Hubert Morass, and Davy. Where would you
imagine that unlikely trio might have gone?”
“There appear to be only three things to do on this outing,” Trevor said. “Eat, urinate,
and view the well. If they were doing the first, we could see them. The second task is one I doubt
they would undertake together. So we can only assume they have climbed beyond that rise there and
are headed toward the well.”
“Shall I follow?” asked Rayley. “Things might go better with Adelaide if we do not
both beset her at once.”
“Let’s do the opposite,” Trevor said. “I shall climb and you shall stay. You have a
gentler interrogation style, one more suited for a skittish creature like Adelaide.”
“Very well,” said Rayley, pushing to his feet. “But don’t forget she has already outrun
me once.”
***
“Would you like a beer?” asked Morass.
“I dare not,” said Leigh Anne Hoffman.
“Come now,” he said, straining his neck to look in all directions, using the exaggerated
pantomime of a comedic actor. “No one is here to see to see the missionary take communion with the
sinner. Your students are below, gobbling every bit of food which is not bolted down, and the
worthies of Bombay are above us, laying wreathes and loudly lamenting the passing of an era. I
suspect no one is looking for the likes of you and me.”
“You are probably right,” she said with a shrug. “One of the bonuses of being utterly
expendable to society is plenty of free time.”
He laughed, showing his small, yellowed teeth, and scooted a bit over on his flat rock to
make room for her.
“Have you eaten?” she asked.
“Not yet. I shall make my way down to the tent in due time.”
If you try to walk downhill in your state you shall likely begin to tumble and roll all
the way back to Bombay, she thought. Morass was clearly drunk, but exactly how drunk was hard to
say.
“I have brought a bit of my curry,” she said, sitting down beside him and beginning to
unwrap a bowl from its canvas cloth. “Do you like curry, or are you one of those English who are
determined to stay English no matter what?”

“I like it well enough,” he said. “But I’d bother you to taste it first if you don’t mind.”
“So we’ve come to that.”
He puffed out his cheeks and exhaled. “It weren’t as if you and I were ever friends.”
He had a point. She steadied the bowl, which was perched on her knees, and them
further unwrapped a small napkin which had been tucked inside the canvas, extracting a spoon. She
shook the spoon in his face for emphasis, dragged it through the top of the curry, and popped it in her
mouth.
They sat for a moment.
“See?” she said. “I live.”
“So you do,” he said, taking the spoon from her hand and the bowl from her knees. “And
as we share a bowl, I suppose we must also share a glass.”
“Then this is a communion indeed,” she said. “When was the last time you were in a
church, Inspector Morass?”
The question amused him and he leaned back, roaring in laughter.
“Hush,” she said suddenly. “I hear someone.”
“I tell you, no one is about. Drink your beer.”
She accepted the cup and took a sip, then wrinkled her nose.
“The missionary is not much of a drinker.”
“Not much of a drinker of beer. But you are right. We are a pair of outcasts and thus we
must – Wait. That sound again. I tell you, someone is watching from those bushes.”
With a sigh, he placed his bowl of curry on a rock and pushed his sizable frame to his
feet. Lumbered over to the small patch of scrubby bushes which so alarmed her and made a great
show of pushing the branches first one way and then the next.
“We are quite alone.”
“I am a foolish woman,” she said, as he returned to the flat rock and resumed his place.
“The events of the last few weeks have made me see danger in every shadow.” She handed him back
the glass. “But you are right in saying I have no head for spirits. You must finish the beer alone.”
***
Adelaide had watched as Miss Hoffman had stepped back from the kettle with a ladle
and poured a measure of curry into a bowl. She had watched as the woman had wrapped the bowl in
a cloth, selected a spoon and napkin, and ventured away from the collection of picnickers, heading
toward a copse of trees halfway up the hill. It was not unlike her friend to choose to eat alone –
Miss Hoffman was the most solitary and secretive of creatures – but something in her manner today
had alarmed Adelaide. And when ten minutes or more had passed without the woman returning,
Adelaide’s worry grew more pronounced. She rolled away from her sprawl on one of the blankets
and, with a hand in each pocket, began to walk toward the trees.
But she had taken no more than a dozen steps when he intercepted her. The small man
with the large eyeglasses whom she had first seen in the Weaver’s garden. She had escaped him then,
but there was no escape now.
He approached her with a slight smile, an extended hand of friendship.
“ Adelaide?” he said. “My name is Rayley Abrams. Is there some chance we could find
a quiet place to talk?”
***
To call it a path was a joke. Now that he was halfway up the hill, Trevor could better
understand why the others had been picking their way so slowly. For the carpet of loose rubble made

every step a treacherous business. He paused to wipe his brow and to survey the scene below.
Rayley had managed to get Adelaide out of the group and the two now sat apart from the others, in
chairs that he must have hastily pulled inside the folds of a supply tent. They were positioned in a
literal tete-e-tete, their foreheads nearly touching as they strained towards each other.
Hurry it up, Abrams, Trevor thought. Miss Hoffman shall be back from wherever she
has gone soon enough and then your interview with Adelaide will abruptly end.
And just with that thought, Trevor’s foot moved. It skidded from beneath him but he
managed to right himself, although the task required him to flap his arms in a ludicrous manner. But
just as he regained his footing, he slipped again and he realized, to his horror, that it was not that he
was slipping…The entire hill was in motion. He felt the vibration before he heard it, but then, in an
instant, a shout rose up from the people above him and Trevor saw one of the school girls sliding
toward him, bouncing through the rubble on her bum and shrieking at a volume that could awaken the
dead.
They were caught in a rockslide.
He reached for the schoolgirl to slow her descent – she looked rather like a child
sledding without a sled – and in the process once again lost his own footing. The two of them tumbled
inelegantly down the hill, Trevor struggling to shield the girl and absorb the worst of the jolts of the
descent. He was dimly aware that they were not the only ones in motion…at least a half dozen
people had been upended to some degree and were shouting and screaming as they skidded to a dusty
halt.
Then…a moment of silence. Trevor, lying flat on his back with the child clutched to his
chest, looked into the bright blue sky and risked an exhalation. Had it stopped? Were they safe?
A second wave of shrieking, more insistent than the first, answered those hopeful
questions in the negative. Trevor cautiously craned his neck and looked up the hill.
The rocks were no longer sliding, this he could see. The people who had been carried
with them were perched in their various positions along the dusty slope. But a new challenge was
upon them in the form of a wasp nest which had evidently been unearthed in the slide. A swarm of
creatures poured out, swirling in the reddish dust before pausing to taste the flesh of a pair of orphans
who had come to rest near them.
Gently pushing the wailing girl aside, Trevor strained to see the rest of the scene.
People from the tents were streaming out to go to the aid of those caught in the rockslide, while a few
others were picking their way down from higher points on the hill. Tom had emerged from one of the
dining tents with a knife in one hand and a tablecloth in the other. The logic of these items became
apparent the moment he reached the girls who had been stung, for he slashed their clothing from them
with a few well placed turns of his knife, thus releasing the wasps which had been caught within their
pinafores. The winged tormenters flew free as he swiftly draped the tablecloth around both girls,
who were clinging together in their misery.
Rayley was suddenly looming over Trevor saying “Are you all right, man?”
Trevor nodded shakily, his eyes and mouth both so full of dust that he did not trust his
tongue to speak.
“I think so,” he finally managed. “See to the child.”
Rayley lifted the girl from Trevor’s chest and carried her down to the flat where, under
shouted orders from Tom, a bit of a field hospital was being established beneath the tent awnings.
Emma and Geraldine had evidently cleared one of the tables of its dishes and were beginning to aid
the victims as they were being carried or otherwise assisted down the hill. Trevor sat up and

gingerly felt his ribs, then took a minute to catch his breath and assess the situation. He was sore, but
nothing appeared to be broken, and he suspected that the injuries of the others were similarly minor.
Turned ankles, bruises, and, of course, wasp stings… but as long as no one was allergic to the venom,
it would appear that the group would come through this little shock well enough.
“It’s positively Biblical, is it not?” said Rayley, who had returned and was now
extending a hand toward his friend. Trevor took the hand and, with a wince, allowed the far slighter
man to help pull him to his feet. “Massacres and rockslides and now we are beset with swarms of
insects. How many disasters can one cursed piece of land sustain?”
Trevor rocked from foot to foot, trying out his joints and concluding that nothing was
sprained. He would ache tomorrow, but it could have been far worse. “Is anyone hurt?”
“The child you rolled with is fine.”
“Hardly surprising, since she had the good luck to fall on the greatest pillow in
Bombay,” said Trevor, patting his stomach.
“The stung girls appear to have gotten the worst of it,” Rayley continued, “but Miss
Hoffman has reached the tent and managed to calm them. Tom is preparing to concoct some sort of
paste of mud and cooking herbs which he swears will relieve their misery. The speed and
resourcefulness of that boy never fail to amaze me. It makes you wonder what he could accomplish if
he wasn’t an alcoholic.”
“An alcoholic?” Trevor said. “What do you mean?”
“It’s a term the Swiss use,” Rayley said. “For a person who doesn’t merely enjoy a
drink, but who has to have it. Someone who is drawn to spirits the way an addict is drawn to his
drug.”
Trevor weaved, once again unsteady on his feet. He knew Tom liked his drink, but what boy his
age didn’t? Rayley’s diagnosis, made so matter-of-factly and with so little apparent judgment, pulled
him up short.
“Come now, Welles, surely you’ve noticed,” Rayley said amiably, “but I shan’t use the
word if it offends you. And I suppose if any among us can afford to sacrifice a few brains cells to the
whisky bottle and still perform brilliantly, it’s Tom.”
Trevor looked up toward the top of the hill, unsure of what to say next. It would appear
that seven people had been caught in the rockslide and carried at least some distance, but they were
all either on their feet and being assisted toward the tent or already receiving medical aid. Tom would
smear his mud paste on the stung girls and the rest would likely be treated for no more than bumps,
bruises and sprains. All things considered, they were damn lucky.
“Do you think it was an accident?” Rayley asked, in a lowered tone of voice.
“An accident? What else could it have been?”
Rayley was now looking at him with a worried frown, the skin above his eyebrows
puckered. “I say, Welles, you seem rather vague. Are you sure you didn’t bump your head in the
descent? Let us at least get you out of this sun.”
“Where’s Davy?”
“What?”
“I see all the others, but….do you truly think someone could have started the rockslide?”
Rayley squinted up the hill. “It’s possible. The rocks were so small and loose that
every single souls who has climbed the hill has returned complaining that he all but lost his footing
once or twice. It seems that if someone wanted to give a couple of the larger boulders a kick, they
could easily set off a cataclysm of this magnitude. “

“But why?”
“Ah, but that’s the eternal question of this entire case, isn’t it, Welles? We have crimes
aplenty but with no apparent motive for any of them. I imagine that if we could find the why of the
matter, the who, what, where, and when would follow in short order.”
Trevor slowly turned, feeling the traitorous pebbles crunch beneath his feet and counting
out loud. “There are thirty-six people within sight. And we started with…”
“Thirty eight.”
“You’re sure?”
Rayley nodded. “I counted during the ride in the cart. I had to have something to do.”
“Davy is still missing. Who else?”
“Hubert Morass.”
“Damn. You’re right, of course you are. What sort of mischief might the two of them
have gotten into?”
“They aren’t necessarily together and Morass has most likely passed out,” said Rayley.
“I’ll go up the hill the back way and look for them, and you go down to the tent and let Tom give you a
quick look-see. I still think you may have struck your head.”
“Thank you for your confidence in my powers of reason,” Trevor said drily. “I was a bit
stunned at first, I will admit, but I believe I am beginning to regain my senses. Let us both go up the
back way and see if we can find – ah, but here he is now.”
For Davy had broken over the crest of the hill and was moving swiftly toward them. He
was picking his way effortlessly through the rubble, Trevor noticed with chagrin - the surefootedness
and the balance of the young would always be a bit of an unintentional affront - and on those rare
times when he did slide, the boy righted himself with ease. He arrived in front of them within
seconds and Trevor’s ego was partly mollified by the fact that at least Davy at least had the tact to
appear breathless.
“Did you hear the landslide?” Rayley was saying. “We’ve accounted for everyone
except you and Morass.”
“I know, Sir. Know where he is.”
“Catch your breath, lad,” Trevor said sharply, for Davy’s eyes were wild with emotion.
“Has something happened to Morass? Has he fallen?”
“I’ll get Tom,” Rayley said, turning toward the tent.
“No need, Sir,” said Davy, wiping the perspiration from his brow as Trevor. “Yes,
Morass has fallen, or was pushed…”
“Pushed?” said Trevor.
“Yes, Sir, but it wasn’t in any rockslide. He lies at the bottom of the Cawnpore well.”
***
It took them quite some time to get the body of Hubert Morass up from the well.
Fortunately there were plenty of ropes in the pony cart and adequate manpower to pull the man’s
sizable frame from its resting place, but there was no way around the fact that someone would first
have to climb down the well and attach the ropes to his body. Davy volunteered at once and Tom
insisted upon going with him.
“I must do a quick postmortem on the spot, for any evidence we get from the body we’ll
have to get now,” Tom said grimly. “The corpse undoubtedly will be disturbed by the process of
pulling it up. What am I saying? Distrubed, my ass. We’ll break half his bones in the process.”
“Yes,” Davy said. “Tom and I will carry down our kits and get the bulk of it, won’t we,

Sirs? Before we risk trying to move him.”
And so both of the young men stood still while ropes were tied beneath their armpits and
crossed behind their backs, forming a sort of harness. Trevor wandered over to the well and looked
down, only to see the startling visage of Hubert Morass lying flat atop a virtual bed of moss and
tangled vines. Flat on his back in his white linen suit, with his florid face upturned to the sky, he was
without question the most peaceful corpse Trevor had ever beheld. He looked, in fact, like a character
from a child’s story book, some friendly troll or gnome of the forest, caught napping in a leafy bower.
It was a scene of such tranquility that it was easy to forget that just below Morass’s resting place lay
dozens more bodies.
“Would you like a drink before you descend?” Trevor said quietly to Tom.
“You’re not offering me his beer, I’m hoping,” Tom said, and his laugh was just a little
too loud, which for the first time betrayed his nerves. “For that dreadful sludge was most likely the
vehicle of his death. Or at least whatever was in it drugged the man enough to make him easy prey.”
“No I’m not suggesting you drink up the evidence,” Trevor said, for the large tin jug had
been set aside as part of the investigation. “But I wager that someone here has a flask if you need to
steady your nerves.”
Tom shook his head, so resolutely that Trevor wondered if Rayley had been right about
his blithe charge of alcoholism. Trevor glanced toward Rayley to see if he had made note of the
exchange, but Rayley was preoccupied in checking the knots in Davy’s harness and did not return his
glance. It would be a delicate business, dangling two men into a well of such legendary depth… even
without factoring in what this particular well held and the fact the whole bloody place seemed
cursed. Trevor was only glad that Emma and Geraldine were not here to witness the process. After
Morass’s body had been discovered, the women, the injured, the servants, and the older men had been
dispatched back to Bombay. Michael Everlee, although young and relatively able-bodied, had
elected to depart with the ladies. Two pony carts and five men remained behind to complete the task
of retrieving Morass’s body from the well.
“Nothing about today was a picnic, was it?” Tom said, and with that game little joke,
they began. The two men were slowly lowered down the well, clutching their evidence cases to their
chests and kicking the vines loose as they descended. Morass appeared to have broken through
several layers of greenery in his fall, but the well was still choked with vegetation, which the boys
dispatched as best they could. When they at last reached the point where Morass lay, Rayley called
for a halt and Seal and Trevor stopped lowering.
“Work fast,” Rayley called down the well. There were no trees or walls nearby to help
anchor the rope so the men up top were going to have to simply hold on while the two down below
gathered their evidence.
“Don’t worry,” came Tom’s tense reply. “We shall.”
He untied his medical kit from the end of his rope while Davy was likewise freeing his
examination kit from his own. Tom checked Morass’s face for the foam and spittle which so often
indicate poison, but found none, and a quick inventory of the man’s limbs revealed no broken bones.
In fact, there was no evidence of blood or bruising anywhere. It would appear that Morass had sat
down on the edge of the well wall and simply toppled backward. His fall had been a relatively
gentle one, the vegetation first slowing and the ultimately halting his progress. At this depth, Tom
thought, looking up, any cry for help would have doubtlessly been heard, and to test his theory he
called up to the men above. They responded readily, and even when Rayley ventured further away,
almost halfway down the hill, he could still hear Tom’s cries.

“So he was likely either dead or unconscious when he fell,” Rayley said to Trevor as he
walked back. Trevor merely nodded, blinking the sweat from his eyes. The strain of holding Tom on
the rope was taking its toll, but Rayley did not bother offering to spell him. They both knew that if
Trevor had grown tired with the effort, it would likely defeat Rayley within minutes. There was no
need to further contribute to the ever-growing body count of Cawnpore.
“Or that’s what the rockslide was for,” Seal offered, struggling to control his own
breath. “A distraction. Noise to cover the shouts.”
Rayley shook his head. “A distraction, surely, but if the murderer was trying to use a
rockslide to obscure his victim’s cries for help, the timing would have had to be perfect. Too
perfect. And Morass looks so much at peace that I don’t think he struggled at all. No kicking or
shouting, no efforts to climb, which would have likely only made him drop farther. Tom is probably
right. He went into the well either heavily drugged or already dead.”
Trevor nodded, and shifted the rope slightly in his hands.
Down below, Davy’s search was proving more fruitful than Tom’s, for he had found a
drinking glass clutched in Morass’s chubby hand. An odd thing in itself, for any man caught in the act
of falling would likely release whatever he held in an instinctive effort to try and stop himself.
Morass, however, had clutched his beer glass to the bitter end and when Davy carefully loosened it
from his grip and held it to the light above, he could see that the glass bore fingerprints. Impossible
to verify until he was able to dust the glass in a more suitable setting, but even in this preliminary
perusal, Davy could see that there were the prints you would expect – the full beefy thumb and fingers
of Morass himself, placed precisely where a drinker would have put them – and also another set.
Smaller, lighter, made by someone who had touched the glass but likely not gripped it.
“Good work, man,” Davy murmured, using his tongs to carefully wrap the glass in a
cotton cloth.
“Thank you,” Tom murmured back in erroneous reply. “And see here, there’s something
else in his pocket.”
“What’s that?” Rayley called from above.
“He was holding a glass when he fell,” Tom called back. “And there are a hundred
pounds in the inner pocket of his jacket. Rather much for a servant of the Raj, wouldn’t you say?”
“Rather much indeed,” muttered Seal, now shifting the rope which was sustaining Davy.
He too was showing signs of strain – not merely the weight of the rope, but also the dawning
knowledge that his rival had most likely died because he had learned something that Seal had not.
“Drop the other rope,” Tom called.
Rayley tossed the end of a third rope down the well which Davy and Tom tied to
Morass’s belt and then looped around his arms and legs and tied again. They signaled when the task
was done and then the others hauled them up. It was an inelegant process, smacking both men against
the stone wall of the well at several points, but Davy valiantly held on to the drinking glass, which he
was already coming to regard as Morass’s final legacy to the case. After Tom and Davy had been
hauled over the side of the well, they both sat for a moment on the ground, catching their breath and
rubbing their wounds. Then they rose and, in silence, all five men turned their dwindling collective
strength to reeling in Morass. When he too was back on the adobe bricks of the courtyard, they all
dropped down to their bums and simply sat, gasping for air. Rayley brought a canteen which was
passed around, and finally Tom and Davy began picking at their rope harnesses.
“So what do we have?” gasped Trevor.
“He went into the well far easier than he came out,” Tom replied. “Dead when he fell,

most likely.”
But Davy was shaking his head. “A dead man couldn’t have held the glass. And he did,
he clutched it throughout the whole fall. That takes a lot of will.”
Trevor nodded, noting that even though they had been through far greater rigors, both
Davy and Tom were speaking in complete sentences, while he could barely utter five consecutive
words. He really needed to lay off the cheeses and take more exercise.
“There are prints on the glass, at least two sets visible to the naked eye,” Davy
continued. “His own, of course, and a smaller lighter set. When I taught him how to print just
yesterday I noticed he was a quick study. Grasped not only the technique, but also all the ways in
which it could be used. I have no doubt he not only preserved the glass for our benefit, but that he
also contrived to get this second set of prints on the glass. He wanted us to know who he was with at
the end, you see.”
“He knew he was going to die?” Seal said with disbelief. “And his last act was to get
the killer to touch a beer glass?”
“It’s the money that explains it all,” said Rayley. “Why would he carry such a vast sum
on a picnic? But he wouldn’t, of course. That’s just the point. Someone must have given it to him
here.”
“He was blackmailing the killer,” Trevor said flatly. “It’s the only thing that makes
sense.”
“Are you sure?” asked Davy, his expression hidden as he fiddled with a knot.
Trevor glanced at the face of the dead man lying just beside them, sprawled across the
bricks almost as if he was merely one more member of their exhausted party. “We know the man’s
nature,” he said gently, for Davy was obviously resistant to the notion that his promising pupil in the
art of fingerprinting had brought about his own death through greed. “If he sold information to
Benson, it’s a small moral leap from that to blackmail. He undoubtedly wished to learn fingerprinting
for just that purpose, so he could collect incriminating prints and thus hold even more control over the
killer.”
“The hundred dollars seals it,” Rayley added, also without glee. “It would take a servant
of the Raj a long time to collect that sum through honest labor. And in fact it may, along with the
fingerprint, give us even more ammunition for an arrest and conviction. How many people among us
today would have access to that sort of money?”
“Almost anyone from the Byculla Club,” Seal said.
“And Michael Everlee,” added Tom. “But neither the orphans nor the servants could
likely produce such a sum.”
“Well, let us get the body back to Bombay for a more thorough exam,” Trevor said,
struggling to his feet. “And a decent military burial too, when the time comes. For no matter the
man’s ethical failings, he was quite a detective, for he has managed to give us our first clear motive of
the entire case. His killer murdered him in order to prevent further attempts at extortion. And if that
glass which Morass took such care to preserve on his way down and Davy took such care to preserve
on his way up does indeed hold a clear print, then we must thank Hubert Morass for bringing closure
to our little story…for being one of the few victims who have also managed to solve the case of their
own murder. For he will have told us not only who killed him, but why.” Trevor stretched, thinking
that between his tumble down the hill and the way his shoulders had knotted with the effort of holding
the rope, he would be lucky if he could rise from his bed on the morrow. “Why are you frowning so,
Davy? I said we would give the man his proper due and the military police will accept that Morass

died in the line of duty.”
“Isn’t that, Sir,” said Davy, throwing the last of the criss-crossed ropes off his chest and
also rising to his feet. “It’s just that I remembered something. A hundred pounds is exactly how much
Miss Bainbridge gave to Miss Hoffman. Saw her write the check myself, you see, the day before
yesterday.”

Chapter Twenty
The Tucker House
11:17 PM
They were informed that they would very shortly be leaving Mrs. Tucker’s house. She
wanted them packed and gone just after breakfast the next morning. The group of them brought death,
she said.
Yes, of course, she understood that Rose Weaver’s murder predated their arrival in
Bombay. She could hardly lay that one at their feet. But since then…an electrocution, a landslide, a
swarm of wasps, and a poisoning, all in such short order? She had been an agreeable hostess, had she
not? Been willing to present them in society – yes, even Detective Abrams, and did they remember
that part? That she had risked her good name to bring him too within the hallowed gates of the
Byculla Club? She had allowed them to turn her parlor into an interrogation room, to bring servants
in the front door rather than through the back. To stir up strange potions in her teacups and mark all
her windows with silica dust.
But a murder in the midst of a picnic had been the last straw. She had her reputation to
consider. It was, in many ways, all she had left.
Geraldine had wheedled. Waved about handfuls of money. But Mrs. Tucker had stood
firm. It was late, so she agreed not to turn them onto the streets at this godless hour. But come the
first rays of morning, they must go.
So the members of the Thursday Night Murder Games Club found themselves again at the
end of an exhausting day but unable to rest. Geraldine had sent a hastily-scribbled note to Mrs.
Morrow, hoping against hope that her new friend might at least find room for her and Emma. The men
had resigned themselves that they would have to stay in the barracks adjacent to the jail – an irony,
that – for even a cursory inquiry about the sort of boarding houses where Benson and Morass had
stayed had revealed that none of these fine establishments was willing to take Rayley.
“Just one more incentive to wrap this devil of a case up quickly,” Trevor said to Rayley
and Davy just before he entered his room. “There were nearly forty people at that picnic and let us
pray we won’t have to fingerprint them all. We shall start with Miss Hoffman and Adelaide, of
course, and with any luck we shan’t have to go further… ” He paused and leaned against the
doorframe of the room. “Despite having seen it myself, I find it hard to accept that Hubert Morass is
dead. I remember him sitting there like a big-eyed baby, drinking his morning beer and swearing that
he had told us everything he knew. Told us everything, my eye.”
“Rest while you can,” Rayley responded, also paused in the doorway to his own room.
“For yes, tomorrow will bring a flurry of fingerprinting, including bringing the ink to people who will
be offended by the gesture, who will argue with us and stall in a thousand ways, I’ll wager. “
“We have our letter from the –“
“Quite. We have our letter from the Queen. Which only means that they will submit, not
that they will like it.”
“The hundred pounds, Sirs…” Davy said tentatively, his hand on the knob of his own
door. “We are certain it is the result of blackmail?”
“I can think of no other reason Morass would be carrying that sort of sum to a picnic,”
Trevor said. “He was undoubtedly killed just after he was paid off.”

“Troubling, that,” Rayley said. “Why wouldn’t the blackmailer, who is also presumably
the killer, have taken the money back before he or she departed? It’s a tidy sum, so you think they
would have been tempted to pull it from Morass’s pocket for its own sake. And beyond that, the
killer must have realized he was leaving behind a crucial piece of evidence.”
“Interrupted in the act is all I can imagine,” Trevor said. “With so many people coming
and going, that makes a certain sense. Or perhaps the poison hit Morass more quickly than
anticipated…”
“But that’s another puzzle in and of itself, that poison,” Rayley said. “He must have
imbibed it through the beer, of course, since he was the only one who drank it. But he had been
drinking like a fish all morning, even during the ride out. Why did the poison take so long to hit him?
Could it be that one of the tins of beer was tainted and the others were not?”
“Entirely possible,” said Trevor. “We can only give thanks that Tom didn’t join him in
his cups. And speaking of Tom, I imagine he will be able to verify the poison once we get all the
evidence moved to the jail tomorrow. It shall be our new base of operations.”
“What sort of studies does he plan?” Rayley asked. “They say the fruit of the suicide
tree is beyond detection.”
“I can only imagine he plans to serve some luckless animal the dregs of the brew and see
if it dies,” said Trevor. “And if it was indeed the beer, then the glass in Morass’s hand should tell us
everything else we need to know. But for now, to bed with us all. This might be our last good night’s
sleep for some time.”
***
The garden at night was cool. Whereas it seemed that in England there were only two
seasons – miserable summer and even more miserable winter – in India there were also two: day and
night. For no matter how blistering and nauseating the heat of the afternoon, it always seemed to give
way to just this, the magic of the evening.
Wandering, seeking this solace for the last time, Tom found Emma in the middle of the
garden, sitting on one of the scattered woven chairs. She held a candle in one hand and, in the other, a
volume by Mary Flora Steel.
She was wearing her nightgown. Sufficient to cover the shape of her body in the
darkness and yet it was improper that he should come upon her so. Improper that the two of them
might be alone at this hour with only a single candle to remind them of reality and the birds so very
loud.
“You are reading?” he said. That much was obvious, but a man had to start somewhere.
She let the book drop closed in her lap. She did not appear to be the least flustered at
being found in her nightgown or the fact the two of them were so thoroughly alone. “It is only a
romance,” she said airily. “I found in the bookcase. Some silly thing by a woman named Mrs. Steel,
some trifle about a half-blood Indian prince and his unswerving devotion to the most ridiculous girl
who ever left England. “
“Ah,” he said. “But is it diverting?”
“Surprisingly so. I know precisely how their tale will end and yet I cannot seem to
resist reading it, line by line, right up until the last page and their final embrace.” She laughed. “I
suppose you think it foolish of me to bring both book and candle to the garden.”
“Not at all. The day was so confusing. Perhaps we all seek the comfort of a story
whose ending we already know.”
“But it isn’t just tonight, for you see, I have come out in the garden each evening we’ve

een in Bombay. It is my reward. A small payment for having survived the heat and clamor of the
day.”
“I know. I have watched you.” Tom gestured toward the men’s side of the courtyard
with the four glowing windows, lined up as regular and symmetrical as a line of soldiers. “I daresay
we all have.”
She made no response to this, although she did glance in the direction of the windows.
“And I further daresay,” Tom went on, “that we have all dismissed the British gardens of
Bombay too quickly. For they are the one common denominator of each place we have visited to
date, are they not? Even the jail has a sort of mean garden, and it is easy to mock these patches of
green as just one more example of Raj nostalgia, just one more doomed attempt to recreate England in
the tropics. But then the sun falls and you see that what the gardeners have really engendered are
little pockets of paradise within the city, places which are neither fully Indian nor fully English but
rather exist as a world into themselves.”
Emma nodded, although the candle was now down at her waist and he likely could not
see her face. “Tonight is the most appealing yet. Perhaps it is because the moon is finally full.”
“Ah, the moon,” Tom said, turning to look up at the sky. “Yes, but of course there would
be one. Utterly and precisely round, as if a child has used the bottom of his drinking glass to draw it.
This is the just sort of night when you would think Mrs. Tucker and her staff would move our beds
into the garden and allow us a full viewing of the canopy above. Which makes me wonder if they
ever do, or if this is just one more romantic claim our hostess makes to lure her boarders in just
before she forces them back out. When we are expelled from this Eden tomorrow she will no doubt
stand at the gate holding a fiery sword.”
Emma laughed. “I find it easy to picture. And with that thought, I should go back to my
room. I must pack my things for Geraldine says…well, fiery sword or not, she seems under the
impression that we shall be required to leave very early in the morning.”
“Do not go just yet. Sit a minute more and let us talk. It seems…” He hesitated, for
trying to pull up the memory was like recalling a dream. “Something about you in that gown seems so
familiar. You with your hair down and your feet bare and looking so different than you do in the light
of day. It seems that we have sat together, just the two of us, like this before? Or am I wrong?”
“You are not wrong.”
He paused before speaking, both because he was not sure of the accuracy of the memory
and because, even if he were right, there was no way of known how Emma might react. “Was it at
Aunt Gerry’s house just after the Ripper took Mary? You were drugged and I was drunk and it was
all such a muddle.”
Emma nodded again.
“I thought it was…I am sorry, Emma. It is nothing short of horrid that I could not
remember until now.”
“But you have come close to remembering at times, have you not? At least bits and
pieces? I have seen it in your face.”
“I kept assuring myself that I must have been wrong, mistaking a dream for reality.” He
hesitated, compelled to ask the next question, even thought he wasn’t sure he could handle the
answer. “Was I –“
“You were gentle. I was willing. There is nothing to apologize for.”
“Nothing to apologize for?” he said, although her answer did bring him a bit of relief.
“It would seem that I have everything in the world to apologize for.”

“I assure you, not at all.”
“You are too forgiving.”
“It is not a matter of forgiveness…That night is my fondest memory.”
“It is? I wish I could say the same.” Tom craned his head and looked up at the moon.
Despite the fact that it was indeed full - almost mockingly so, as if Mary Flora Steel herself had
ordered it up precisely for this occasion - the vegetation was so lush that he could not see Emma at
all. Could not even guess if she was sitting or standing. If she was angry or smiling.
“Try as I have, I cannot bring the total image to mind,” he finally admitted. “And so the
memory of that night is just one more thing that the liquor has taken from me. It sometimes seems that
I watch my entire life from a distance. That I see it like a theatrical in which I am both the player and
the audience.”
She did not answer. They sat in silence until he worked up the nerve to risk another
question.
“Was that the only time?”
“So far.”
So far?
So far? Possibly the two most stunning words in the English language. Two syllables
that were enough to send the world spinning, to turn a man’s life upside down.
“Lift your candle, Emma” he said. “Please. I want to see you.”
But she did not comply. Whatever was to happen next was evidently to be on her terms,
and so he was left to stand there, weaving slightly on his feet and looking down into the darkness
which had yielded her voice.
“You hesitate,” she said calmly, after a torturous pause. “Some caution or compulsion is
holding you back. But you mustn’t think that I would make the same mistake as Gerry.”
“And what mistake is that?”
“I would never assume that a man wishes to marry me simply because he wishes to bed
me. I understand that these are entirely different impulses. That they come, one might say, from
different hemispheres on the globe.” She laughed. “England and India demand different things, and
what satisfies one might not please the other. I know this, so you need never again tell me that you are
sorry.”
“No,” he said, hoping that he understood what she was saying, for Emma was very
strange tonight. Very strange indeed. “If I seem to hesitate, it isn’t for that reason. Not at all.”
Another silence, filled only by the breeze and the birds.
“So you are thinking that lovers should be well matched and that you and I are not,”
Emma said flatly. “And on this point, you are so clearly right that I will not attempt to argue. I have
seen your childhood home, and I assure you that the entirety of mine could fit within your drawing
room. No, you need not think that I fail to understand the gulf between our stations in life, because the
minute I glimpsed Rosemoral it only confirmed everything I had ever suspected…“ She hesitated.
“And yet…should I tell you that despite all my time with Geraldine, despite the fact that I have even
helped with her bookkeeping, that I still was shocked by the size of the estate? It is one thing to know
a man is rich, born from old money. It is quite another to see that wealth stacked around you, stone by
stone.”
“You misunderstand me completely.”
“Do I? I don’t see how I could, for Mrs. Steel has explained it all so well. Some
couples are destined to meet in the parlor but others, alas, only in the garden. Suitable companions

only when it is very late and very dark. You need not try to spare my feelings. I know full well that I
am not good enough for you.”
“Will you hush? Will you hush and draw breath for a minute? Of course you are good
enough for me. You are as fine as silk. Our problem, Emma….”
“ Ah yes, please, tell me now. What is our problem?”
“You have seen my home, yes, and you have seen my family. Leanna is married and
William is soon to be. Both admirably matched, just as you say. Hannah and William love nothing so
much as to stroll the grounds of Rosemoral, pointing first in one direction and then the other. All the
while discussing what sort of shed or what marvelous breed of cattle or worthy plant they shall
deposit here or there. We have spoken of an Eden and they intend to build just that, those two, which
they shall then entrust to Leanna and John. And what my brother began, my sister shall finish. Yes,
Leanna and her own admirably suitable husband shall expand this little paradise to include health
care and legal rights for all.”
“What does any of this have to do with us?”
“I will never marry. I will not have children. These are decisions I made long ago.
And I shall tell you something now that I have never told anyone. I am a dark seed.”
To his surprise, and somewhat to his offense, she laughed.
“Dark seed?” she said. “Is that a medical term you learned at Cambridge?”
“Listen to me,” he said fiercely. It was hard to argue with a woman you couldn’t see, a
woman who was little more than a disembodied voice in the darkness. “I am trying to explain
something and it is a truth I have never uttered aloud. Never even articulated fully to myself. The
Bainbridge family is split, and not only in the way that everyone imagines. William and Leanna are
like my grandfather….they build things. They always have. When we were children, they would
make forts and doll houses and railroads. They were always creating for some wonderful little
world, then climbing within it and shutting the door. And my brother Cecil and I would then come
crashing in, you see, just like our father - determined to destroy whatever it was that they had just so
painstakingly built. Anything good and proper, we were compelled to attack it, and can you even
imagine what I am saying? I remember one time, at Brighton on holiday… Have you been there?” She
shook her head, another gesture which he could not see, a limitation which scarcely mattered, for he
rushed on with his thought. “Leanna had worked all morning on a sand castle and I kicked it. Simply
kicked it level for reasons I cannot say. I can still hear the sound of her screaming in fury. She said
she hated me.”
“And you find all this unusual? Really, Tom, it is how children play. How siblings
sometimes talk to one another.”
“No. No, Emma, it is more than that. All my life I told myself that my destructive
impulses were nothing more than my older brother leading me astray. And now Cecil is gone and I
see…I see I am still flawed. That the forces which corrupted my brother and my father live deep
within me too.”
“None of this makes your soul unique,” Emma said. “We all have our bitter secrets,
relatives whose motives are mysterious to us, pieces of the family history we try to keep hidden.
What of my sister Mary?”
“What of her?”
“She left a respectable job to walk the streets. There are many women forced into
prostitution. Not so many, I would guess, who choose it.”
“That is an entirely different situation.”

“Why? Because we were poor? Because we were women? Both situations limited our
options, as I shall be the first to admit. And yet we had employment, a roof over our heads, a safe
place in the social order. But Mary did not find that enough. She did not like being a governess. She
pulled against the leash. And now it is my turn to ask if you understand what I am saying. My sister
preferred to –“
“That has nothing to do with you.”
“It has everything to do with me, for I have the same impulses. When I saw the wall
with Trevor…or that night back in Mayfair… Yes, on that night so long ago, I was upset. Yes, I had
encountered death on that day just as I have on this one, but still I…”
“You were vulnerable and I was drunk. The fault lay entirely with me. I should never
have come to you under those circumstances.”
“But you didn’t come to me, Tom, that’s just the point. I came to you. And in the hours
that followed, perhaps you used me, perhaps I used you….or here is a rather large thought. What if
no fault lies with either of us? What if we were merely human beings following a human impulse?
Being no more than what our God had made us to be?”
This last remark startled him perhaps most of all. He had been raised to assume without
question that there was always some fault, some failure of the will in every situation, and that usually
it was his.
“And now shall you move to America? Take up with the transcendentalists and run
naked through the open meadows proclaiming free love for all?”
She chuckled. “It hasn’t gone as far as all that. But you tell me you are like Cecil and
who is to say that there is not some small part of me that is like Mary?”
“You cannot compare a single night with me to her unfathomable decision to walk the
streets. The actions arise from utterly different impulses.”
“In degree, perhaps, but not in intent.” She paused and her voice changed. Became
softer and more thoughtful. “If you are a destroyer by nature, as you claim, then why would have
chosen to become a doctor?”
“I’m not sure I have. My studies in Cambridge have been disrupted so that I might
indulge a compulsion, arisen from God knows what infirm part of my brain, to look over and over
again upon the face of death. And who knows when I shall return to school?”
She lifted an arm and pointed, a gesture exaggerated enough that even the small and
flickering candle rendered it quite clear.
“My room,” she said, “is over there.”
“And mine,” he added with an identical movement, “lies in that direction. You shall
now go one way and I shall go another and this conversation – while too extraordinary to ever be
forgotten – shall not be referred to again.”
“You shouldn’t drink so much, you know. It makes you morose.”
“It is drink that makes me everything that I am, Emma, which is just what I am trying to
tell you.” He rattled his glass and she could hear the bell-like tinkle of ice within. “Drink makes me
clever and clumsy, amorous or sleepy or hungry or bold.”
“They say it is medicinal in this heat.”
“Ah. Shall I tell you one of the ugly little secrets of the medical profession? One of
many? The only difference between a medicine and a poison lies in the dosage.” He held his cup to
her candlelight. “Look into this glass and tell me what you see.”
“A splash, most likely of gin.”

“And I see the end of me. I am under the power of alcohol, Emma, and I have been ever
since you first knew me. This glass and a thousand of his brothers shall someday end my life. But I’ll
be damned if I let it take you down with me.”
“I understand. We shall not marry. Not have children. You could not have been more
clear. But shall you now come with me? In England we may be worlds apart but here in India, my
room is not so very far from yours.”
He exhaled and drained the glass, then tossed it into the grass. “Of course. Despite my
bold speeches, was there ever any doubt? And then perhaps afterwards we might find a child’s
sandcastle and kick it to the ground.”
“Perhaps we shall.”
“You knew from the start, I presume, that this was an argument you would win.”
“I suspected as much,” she said, standing up and tossing her romance in the same
direction as his empty glass. Let Mrs. Tucker and her servants find them both there in the morning
light and wonder at the cause. “But Tom,” she added “you must promise me one thing.”
“Anything,” he said, reaching for her hand.
“No one must know of this night. Or of others like it, should they occur.”
“Of course not,” he said, although her words were oddly stinging. “This shall be our
guilty secret, yours and mine.”
“Especially not Trevor.”
Now that was worse than a sting. It was a slap. So deftly placed that it might have
derailed any man who was less drunk or less aroused. Tom knew that he could ask her what she
meant, but he also knew there was no answer she could give that would please him and besides, her
hand was cool and soft. The air smelled of something exotic and, just as she said, her room was not
so very far from his.
“Especially not Trevor,” he obediently echoed and they walked together toward the light.

Chapter Twenty-One
Bombay Jail
September 1, 1889
9:20 AM
Rabbits do not like beer. Davy had to wrap the protesting creature in a folded bedsheet
while Tom forced a plunger full of beer down its throat. For a time there was no change. It hopped
around the small holding cell within the jail – the room Tom had turned into his makeshift laboratory
– with a palpable relief for having escaped his oppressors. But gradually the hops became more
diagonal. Less enthusiastic. And precisely four minutes after the beer had been flushed into its
unwilling body, the rabbit lay dead.
“All right,” Tom said, making notes in his leather-bound book. “The beer was the
vehicle of death, at least that much is clear.” His voice faltered for just a minute, remembering the
plump hand of Morass offering a glass to him, and how close he had come to accepting it. “Now on
to the fingerprints.”
“You finish the autopsy, for I can handle those,” Davy said, gazing with dismay at the
lifeless form of the rabbit. He had kept a brood as pets as a child. “Detective Abrams has offered to
go to the school to print Miss Hoffman, Adelaide, and the other students, which means there won’t be
nearly so many left for me. Seal has sent round a contingent of men to round up the other picnickers
and bring them here in groups of five or so. “
“What fun we all shall have,” said Tom, looking around their cramped quarters with
resignation, for the morning had not gone especially well so far. Mrs. Morrow had offered a room to
Emma and Gerry, but when the men arrived at the jail, they were told the barracks were full and that
they would be forced to sleep within cells in the attached jail. Rayley had fussed in his usual manner
– the other three could go to any boarding house in town, he had said. There was no need for them to
take up such ludicrously unsuitable lodgings on his account.
But Trevor had stood firm. Any establishment which would not welcome Rayley would
not enjoy profit from the rest of the team.
And so they now occupied six adjacent cells of the Bombay military jail. Four cells
would serve as bedrooms, one as an interrogation room and fingerprinting lab, and the sixth as a
morgue. The body of Hubert Morass rested in it now, the corpse stretched on the narrow cot and
staring up at the ceiling, much in the manner of a prisoner awaiting his fate.
Meanwhile the jail’s sole living occupant, Anthony Weaver, was being moved to the
infirmary to make room for the needs of Scotland Yard. Both Tom and Davy froze in their tasks as the
man was shuffled out. He was not handcuffed. Apparently Weaver’s jailers had concluded that
anyone so old and frail was hardly an escape risk. He slowly turned his neck to peer into the room
where the two young men were toiling as he passed, his watery blue eyes scanning the cell with acute
interest.
And Tom and Davy each returned the stare, for this was the first time either of them had
actually seen Weaver. Tom considered him first in his role as a doting nephew – how could this
shuffling old man ever have captured the heart of his wonderfully vibrant Aunt Gerry? - and then as a
doctor. Weaver did have the air of a man who was slowly loosening his hold on life, a man whose
fingers were being pulled from their earthly grip one by one. Cancer, Dr. Tufts had said. Cancer

combined with old age and an almost palpable sense of spiritual malaise. No matter what evidence
would be stacked either for or against the man, his time on this earthly plane was clearly limited.
We are no longer fighting to exonerate Weaver, Tom thought. Perhaps we never really
were. We are fighting to bring a sense of justice, however belated, to a wretched situation. To
ensure that the long-ago disaster known as Cawnpore claims no more victims.
Davy too considered the man who was passing, but he was thinking of the bright-eyed
face of Felix, how the boy had cheerfully repeated his uncle’s words. That Sahib Weaver would care
for his family for all days. This old man is guilty of so many things, Davy thought. Cowardice.
Desertion of military duty. Desertion of a friend, which is far worse. Infidelity, betrayal, an
indirect sort of blackmail, an addiction to opiates, an addiction to power. Lying about a thousand
matters both large and small. Breaking the enormous heart of the most worthy woman I have ever
met, save me mum.
And yet…and yet he looks so very ordinary.
And then Weaver was led from view and both Tom and Davy promptly went back to
their work. Tom gave the dead rabbit to a passing attendant with explicit instructions that the creature
was to be disposed of, and not become the basis of someone’s evening supper. He then turned his
attention to cutting the ivory linen trousers off the lifeless form of Hubert Morass in start of the formal
autopsy, while Davy moved into the second of the working cells to greet the picnickers he would be
required to fingerprint. The first to arrive was a gaggle of the Byculla Club servants who had
accompanied the members on their ill-fated holiday. Although Davy knew it was highly unlikely any
of their prints would prove to be significant, his heart was still pounding as he sat up his equipment.
He had only given Hubert Morass one lesson in fingerprinting and yet the man had
absorbed the information well. For as he had not only managed to hold on to the cup as he dropped
into the well, but he had earlier somehow managed to get whomever he had been conversing with to
touch the glass in question. Davy knew that Trevor was right. Morass undoubtedly wished to obtain
this fingerprint for the most self-serving of all possible motives: he was a blackmailer collecting even
further evidence to hold against his victim. But still…in taking care to both obtain and preserve a
perfect fingerprint, Morass had also handed Davy the sort of clear evidence that is rare in detection.
All I have to do now, Davy thought, waving in the cluster of servants, who were wideeyed
with fear at the strangeness of their surroundings, is manage not to muck it up.
***
The Office of Hubert Morass
9:35 AM
Nine months earlier, when he had dove from a dock while chasing a man he believed to
be Jack the Ripper, Trevor Welles had undergone a mystical experience.
Admittedly, that statement sounds rather metaphysical and grand, since most people
would expect mystical experiences to be accompanied by seraphim, harps, thunderclaps, and the
like. Trevor’s moment of insight had been grimmer and darker, as cold as the waters of the Thames
on a November midnight. The truth had not enveloped him gently, like angelic arms. It had stabbed
him like a blade pushed decisively into his chest.
You will never have him, the vision said. The Ripper will never be yours. Accept this,
and save what you can.
This singular moment of clarity was the reason that Trevor was able to maintain his
equanimity in the sort of cases where his fellow Scotland Yard detectives became paralyzed with

frustration. Yes, of course he still felt the ache of each case which was not closed with an arrest… the
muddled regret that came when one felt as much sympathy for the criminal as the victim… the sense
that to be a forensics officer was to always show up just a little too late. Even while he pushed for
more scientific methodology within the Yard, Trevor accepted that forensics would never be an exact
science. The key was to learn from the dead and learn fast. To grieve your errors, but to grieve them
quickly. To indulge your self-recrimination, but only for an instant, and then your eyes must turn
resolutely from the past to the future. For that is the only way a man will ever be able to save what he
can.
Trevor stood gazing down into an evidence box in the office of Hubert Morass. It was
always tricky to study the notes and souvenirs of another lawman and try to recreate exactly the line
of logic the man had been following. Back in Paris in the spring, Trevor had struggled even to
understand the notes of his friend Rayley and, based on the way the man had kept his boarding house
room and his generally disheveled appearance, Trevor suspected that Morass was not the sort to
keep spotless records.
But he was wrong, for Morass had recorded his evidence with true military precision.
There was a file on his studies with the suicide tree, offering estimates of how much poison it would
take to kill a man versus a woman, or to kill slowly in lieu of killing quickly. Benson had evidently
got his own chart straight from the work of Morass. Another file offered a timeline of events
surrounding the murders, showing that Morass had drawn much the same conclusions as the contingent
from Scotland Yard. A final file held photographs. A sad image of Rose Weaver and Pulkit Sang on
the floor of the Byculla Club lobby, their feet all but touching, sprawled as if they were sleeping.
Several shots of the kitchen of the Weaver household, including Sang’s bedroom, the suicide tree in
the garden, and the very drawer in the kitchen where Davy had surmised Rose Weaver’s medication
had been kept. A duplicate of the portrait of Weaver and Everlee in military uniform that they had
found in Benson’s quarters.
Trevor leaned back with a sigh and stretched. He had awakened as bruised and knotted
as he feared, and the mad scramble to leave Mrs. Tucker’s house and set up a base of operations in
the jail had put him in a foul mood. And of course it also stung a little to admit that the drunkard
Morass and the displaced Benson had together managed to create such a logical and compelling
sequence of events. The two men who now lay dead had managed to trump the team from Scotland
Yard at every turn.
There was one final picture in the file. Trevor extracted it and lifted it to the light.
He held in his hand an aged photograph, showing a family. It was not an especially good
example of the art of photography, true, but it a still represented a remarkable indulgence for a middle
class family of the era. In the picture a husband, wife, and four children all stared straight ahead,
awkwardly grouped and ill-at-ease in their Sunday clothing. The woman held a wadded blanket
which presumably contained an infant. From the familiar striped wallpaper and a palm tree placed to
the side, Trevor concluded that this portrait was taken at the same location as the one he had seen of
Anthony Weaver and Roland Everlee – most likely taken the same day, for a watery blue stamp in the
corner declared the month to be December, 1856. When he turned the photograph, he was rewarded
with just what he hoped to find – someone had carefully printed the names of the people photographed
on the back.
He was holding in his hand a picture of the Sloane family, taken merely months before
their deaths. The members were listed, left to right. The pencil marks had faded through the years, but
the names were still legible.

Trevor flipped the photograph back over and considered the faces of the doomed. The
father, looking every inch the career military man, holding a toddler on his knee, the boy echoing his
father’s stiff bearing. The oldest child, also a boy – evidently the brave little lad who had made it all
the way to the edge of his yard before the mutineers overtook him – sat on the floor at his father’s feet,
surrounded by a collection of tin toy soldiers. The mother, clutching the infant while her two
daughters stood flanking her on either side. The photograph was likely her idea, a memento before
her husband joined his unit, quite possibly arranged with the help of his commander, Roland Everlee.
The photograph was speckled with the years and creased in several places. Heaven
knows how either Morass or Benson had come to possess such an item. Trevor flipped again to the
back and read the names. Rebecca Sloane, holding her son Simon. The baby’s face was not visible
in the portrait. Leigh Sloane, a colonel, holding his son Allen. Another son, Arthur, on the floor. A
toddler girl named Kathleen clinging to the edge of their mother’s skirt and then, standing rather
aloofly on the other side…
The eldest daughter of the household. Evidently named after her father. Leigh Anne
Sloane.
***
The Khajuraho Temple
9:45 AM
“Shall we be friends, you and I?” Rayley said, extending a hand toward Adelaide. “Our
conversation was interrupted yesterday, but I hoped we might continue it today.”
“No,” she said. “You lie. You do not come to talk to me. You come to steal…” And
here she looked down at her fingertips, as if unsure of the word.
“I have come to collect your fingerprints, that’s true,” said Rayley. “But it isn’t stealing,
not at all. For that is the thing about fingerprints. I can take them and yet you still have them. They
are like photographs, do you see?”
She looked at him blankly.
“Like photographs taken of the very ends of your fingers,” Rayley continued. Something
about the woman’s stare made him feel guilty. “Have you ever had your photograph taken?”
***
The Office of Hubert Morass
9:50 AM
The baby, Simon, had grown to be the man now known as Michael Everlee. That was
the easy part. On the first night they had all met him, back at the Byculla Club, Everlee had bragged he
was one of the youngest men in Parliament. Thirty-three in September, which was precisely the age
of the faceless infant in the picture. Rebecca and her husband Leigh? Both dead. Their elder sons
and younger daughter? Also gone. But the oldest girl, just like the youngest boy, lived on.
And the orphanage had not changed her given name.
Trevor stood. Walked briskly from the rooms of the police station and across the barren
courtyard to the adjacent jail. He passed Davy, in a cell and pressing the hand of some valet or
carriage boy into the pad of ink, and made his way to the next cell, where Tom was extracting blood
from the half-naked form of Hubert Morass. He looked up as Trevor entered.
“Go to Mrs. Morrow’s home at once and fetch your aunt,” Trevor said. “And then make
sure Weaver is comfortable enough to talk to her. Really talk. We can create an evidence trail if need

e, but I suspect a confession will be much faster.”

Chapter Twenty-Two
Bombay Jail Infirmary
10:32 AM
If I ever find myself arrested in Bombay, Tom thought, I must remember to pretend to
be ill. For the infirmary was a far more agreeable setting than the jail, a bedroom in the warden’s
own home. In fact, propped as he was in a high bed with a fan lazily circulating overhead, Anthony
Weaver looked more like a family guest than an inmate.
Tom entered the room and introduced himself. Weaver was uninterested in the news he
was with Scotland Yard, but stirred when Tom added the fact he was also Geraldine Bainbridge’s
grand- nephew. And when Tom further explained that Gerry was waiting for Weaver only a few feet
away, in the parlor, the man visibly shivered with emotion.
“Help me wash my face and comb my hair, boy,” Weaver said. “I don’t have a proper
shirt, but I…”
“Yes, I will help you,” Tom said, surprised and a bit impressed the old man could still
muster a tone of authority after all he’d been through. “And I can also offer you a bit of laudanum if
you think it will help you compose your mind.”
Weaver’s gaze flitted wildly around the room. “A week ago…”
Tom nodded briskly. “I know. A week ago you would have sold your soul for such an
offer and the worst of the withdrawal is past you now. I assure you that my purpose is not to force you
back into the grip of addiction, merely to give you a very small dose of the drug. Just enough to help
you master your nerves. And only if you want it.”
“You are ensuring I will be pliable to any plan you have in mind.”
Tom hesitated. Judging by what Dr. Tufts had told him as well as the man’s
extraordinary pallor, Tom concluded that Weaver’s level of discomfort must be significant. But just
as he was preparing to withdraw his offer, the man looked at him with exhausted eyes and said, “Just
do not make me nonsensical, boy. For my sweet Gerry has come to me at last.”
“Not too much,” Tom promised. “Only enough to soften the edge.”
“The edge,” Weaver said softly and rolled up his sleeve, readying for the injection. By
the way he tightened his fist and rolled his arm toward Tom to expose the best veins, Tom knew he
was dealing with a veteran of the opiate wars.
Ten minutes later Weaver emerged from the room washed, combed, shaved, and wearing
a fresh shirt. Geraldine turned from where she was standing by a parlor window. For a moment,
neither of them spoke.
“Geraldine,” Weaver finally managed to croak. “You are exactly the same.”
“I most certainly am not,” she replied. “Although I will admit that I am less changed
than you are. That is the advantage of having been plain in one’s youth. The thief of time doesn’t find
quite so much to steal.”
Weaver brayed a bark of laughter. “And your spirit is as intact as your face.” He
gestured toward a small table and settee where the warden’s wife – the same romantic woman who
had readily surrendered one of her husband’s clean shirts for this early morning tryst between two
long-separated lovers – had placed a pot of breakfast tea and an assortment of biscuits. “Let us sit
and talk,” he said. “I have confessed first to your friend Welles and then to your friend Abrams,

telling them so many stories that I am like one of those excavation sites in Egypt or Pompeii, stripped
layer by layer of anything valuable I have to yield.”
Geraldine smiled and moved toward the settee. “Knowing you, Anthony, I rather doubt
that. You have always known how to hold something back.”
“Just so,” he said, joining her. “The best of my secrets have all been saved for you.”
***
The Bombay Jail
10:40 AM
Rayley burst into the jail cell. “So here we go at last,” he gasped. “The fingerprints of
Adelaide and Leigh Anne Hoffman. Surely one of them will match those on the glass.”
Davy looked up. “They raised no resistance?”
“Not as much as I would have guessed. Adelaide is terrified of anything new, but the
Hoffman woman….I get the sense she understands the jig is up.” Rayley looked around the small
cell. “Where is Tom?”
***
Bombay Jail Infirmary
10:40 AM
“Rose was never actually pregnant, you see,” Anthony was saying. “Of all the lies
which were told in the year of the mutiny, that is the one, in retrospect, which seems the most
pivotal.”
Tom, who sat unobtrusively in the corner taking notes, noted that Weaver’s voice was
calm. Good. He had hit the dosage right. Enough to dull the man’s pain but not enough to render him,
in his own words, “nonsensical.”
“Rose was not pregnant,” Geraldine echoed with a pensive frown. “I don’t know why I
didn’t consider that possibility. I knew, of course, that the reason she had journeyed from India to
London in the first place was to consult with doctors there. She never confided the exact nature of her
ailment, but it was obvious she was nearing forty and had never borne a child.”
“The physicians in London told her that motherhood was impossible,” Weaver said.
“You traveled with her, in both directions?”
Weaver winced with memory, even though everyone in the room was aware that far
worse confessions were likely coming. “I accompanied Rose only at Roland’s insistence. She felt
guilty over not having given him a son and Roland feared that if the news from the London doctors
was discouraging, as would likely be the case, she might collapse. He did not want her to be alone.”
“But yet, he did not go with her himself.”
“He was Secretary-General of the Presidency in a time of growing unrest. You know
Roland. All duty. I was expendable.”
Geraldine’s expression did not change. “You and Rose were lovers, even then?”
Another spasm crossed Weaver’s face, but it was less intense this time. “We became so
while we were in London. When the doctors told her that she was likely barren, she was of course
inconsolable…”
“Which didn’t stop you from trying to console her.”
Weaver leaned toward her. “The story I must tell you, Geraldine, is not a pretty one.
But I believe that if you can bear to listen, and if I can bear to tell it, that it may bring peace to us

oth. The truth is that I was attracted to Rose’s sorrow. Her fragility, her delicacy…even her
weeping. All of these things served to make her somehow finer in my foolish, mawkish eyes.”
“It strikes me as the great mystery of all time,’ Geraldine said, “why a man will ruin
himself in the pursuit of a certain kind of woman.” Her voice held a trace of bitterness, an emotion
she rarely indulged. But even after so many years, the advantages that the Roses of the world held
over the Geraldines of the world still smarted. An intelligent and passionate woman with an
unfortunate face might be packed off to England, and thus obscurity, on the order of a selfish shrew
who chance had blessed with a symmetrical profile and slender waist.
Weaver was looking at her sharply, as if intrigued by this sudden display of anger. “And
I suppose you are suggesting that no woman has ever dashed herself on the rocks out of love for an
unworthy man? I think we need not indulge that fantasy, my dearest, not when we sit here in this
charming little parlor with the truth all around us. Life is never fair, and romantic love is the least
fair of all.”
“So you became her lover in England,” Geraldine said, making no comment on this last
observation. There was no comment to make, for she knew that he was right. “No doubt the very
night she turned to you in tears over her doctors’ damning diagnosis.”
He nodded. “Quite true. And the fact I knew she would not conceive even managed to
alleviate my guilt in taking Roland’s wife into my bed. For this is a man’s greatest fear, you know.
That he will be cuckolded in this most primal way. That he will raise another man’s child, believing
it to be his own.” Weaver reached for his cup of tea. “Upon our return to Bombay, Rose told her
husband quite honestly what her doctors had said, that it was unlikely she would ever become
pregnant. The situation twisted only later, after the uprisings began. Roland wanted to send her back
to England until the danger had passed.”
“As you sent me.”
“As I sent you.”
“To be rid of me.”
In the corner, Tom frowned. Neither of the older people seemed to notice. They had a
score to settle, and not much time to do it.
“My motives were mixed,” Weaver said. “I cared for you, Geraldine, very deeply. You
know the circumstances of our engagement, as well as I do.” He gave another bark of a laugh. “It
was hardly moonlight and lilies, was it, my darling? But once we found ourselves socially yoked, I
found much merit in the idea.”
“Much merit in the idea? You are a sweet talker, Anthony, even now.”
“You have guessed half of the rest already, no doubt,” he said, “but let me tell you just
the same. Yes, you and I may have stumbled into physical intimacy based on my miscalculation, and
then we stumbled into a betrothal based a miscalculation of your own. One might say our entire
relationship was accidental. And yet….once I got used to the idea, I began to see that it might be my
salvation. Rather I should say that I hoped you might be my salvation.”
Geraldine appeared to be absorbed in the trifling task of selecting a biscuit from the tray.
“But you were all youth and strength and charm. Whatever could you have needed saving from?”
“Come now, Gerry, don’t be a fool. I needed what every other man needs. To be pulled
from my smallness, my fear, my tendency to always take the easy downhill road. I needed to be saved
from the darkness in my heart. And you might have done that – been more of an angel of fortune than a
mistake – had it not been for Rose.”
“She did not wish to return to London.”

“She did not.” He shrugged. “And she called it ‘home,’ strange to report. I remember
her most specifically saying ‘I will never go home.’ Of course all British citizens call England
‘home,’ even those who have lived the entirety of their lives in India.”
“With me gone, she knew she could reclaim you,” Geraldine said, her voice having
dropped almost to a whisper.
Weaver nodded. “I can’t think why. She never loved me. I was a dalliance, but you
know how it is with a child and a toy. She might put it down in boredom but the minute another child
shows interest… she was jealous of you.“
“Bosh. Rose Everlee would never have been jealous of the likes of Geraldine
Bainbridge,” Gerry said, leaning back against the soft settee and closing her eyes as a memory drifted
by. The image of Rose’s hands on the rails of the Weeping Susan as the ship made its long-delayed
entrance into Bombay harbor. The two women had stood side by side, and Geraldine had happened
to notice their four hands, lined up and gripping the railing. Rose’s were small, white, dainty, and
bejeweled. Her own had been large, blunt, and unadorned. “I have come prepared to listen to
anything you want to tell me, Anthony, and to accept it as the truth. But the one thing I know deep in
my soul is that Rose would have never feared me.”
“Perhaps she didn’t at first,” Weaver said, pouring more tea. “In fact, I shall confess we
laughed about it, that night after you and I became so awkwardly engaged. She said you would be the
perfect cover for our affair and I shall further risk your rage by reporting that she described you as
vague. ‘Vague,’ she said, ‘in the way bookish women so often are.’ But in time, as you and I became
closer, as I unwisely confessed that my affection for you was growing…”
He stopped. A silence fell over the room.
“You know, once….” Weaver finally said, after sipping his tea, “I was walking through
the compound and found one of the soldiers kissing his sweetheart. An English girl, and heaven
knows how he had managed to smuggle her through the gates. I reprimanded him, of course. Had the
girl delivered back to her parents in disgrace. He was furious at being caught and, just as the girl was
packed into her carriage, he said to me ‘You are too old to remember how it feels.’ But he was
wrong, for no matter how old I become I shall never forget that night on the Weeping Susan. The
first. That endless night without sleep. You know the one.”
“I know the one,” said Geraldine.
Tom stopped mid-scribble. Someone had to be there to take notes…and to ensure this
meeting did not become too much for either Weaver or Geraldine. But it was damn awkward being
forced to overhear their story in such detail, to stay alert without drawing any attention to himself,
especially considering he’d had no more than an hour of sleep himself the night before.
“So our separation was all of Rose’s devising,” Geraldine was saying, glancing at Tom
as she gamely tried to get the discussion back on track. She was taking Trevor’s orders to get the full
story seriously, no matter how much some of Weaver’s comments must have stung her, and Tom
admired her all the more for it. God knows, his own mind was darting all over the place.
Weaver chuckled at the jealousy in Geraldine’s voice, a little pleased to think he could
stir that much emotion in a woman, even now. “Well, Rose could hardly devise the Mutiny, could
she? That was real, and so was the danger, as I imagine history has shown us clearly enough. So you
were not merely sent to England to free up space in my bed, but also for your own protection.”
“And this is the point in your story where I suppose I am to thank you?”
He raised an elegantly thin white eyebrow. “You might. Considering what happened
later.”

“I can only assume that Rose lied yet again to Roland? Told him that the doctors were
wrong and she was now somehow magically with child?”
Weaver nodded. “He came rushing up to me one morning at the Club on a wave of
jubilation. A miracle had occurred, he said. He and Rose were to be parents at last.” He coughed.
“I was appalled, of course. She had never discussed this plan with me. But when I confronted her
about it later, she was all laughter and light. It was her way to make sure she stayed in India, she
said, and she could claim to lose the baby at some point in the future. Miscarriages were common in
women her age, after all, especially in a region with such abysmal health care and unsanitary
conditions.”
“Forgive me,” Geraldine said. “But I am struggling to understand the sequence of
events. You and I became engaged, just as you say, quite by accident. But then you decided that you
liked me, that I was to be somehow the vehicle of your salvation, and Rose became jealous. At the
same time, the threat of mutiny was rising and officers were sending their families back to England in
droves. Rose saw it as the chance to get rid of me. I was packed off to England, while she concocted
a false pregnancy to both give herself an excuse to both remain with you and to keep poor deluded
Roland at bay. If he believed this late-life baby to be his one chance at fatherhood I’m sure he would
not dream of touching her and risking a miscarriage. The story, up to that point, does make a sort of
cruel sense.”
Weaver nodded. “And you told it wonderfully well.”
“But then there really was a child? The faked pregnancy somehow resulted in a real
son?”
Weaver coughed again. “Ah yes, Michael. He was both the complication of some plans,
and the solution to others. Rose thought of it, of course. She was the one who thought of everything.
In the confusion following the mutiny, no one stopped to count the months of a gestation. There were
so many dead and missing and such a complete breakdown of communication all across the
subcontinent. Rose said that if she was not merely a widow, but a widow with a baby, that she would
receive double the pension, and double the sympathy as well.”
“And there would be double the incentive for the two of you to marry quickly. Claiming
responsibility for your fallen comrade’s fatherless boy. Rather touching. But if you were truly
already beginning to have doubts about Rose…why did you play into her fiction?”
Weaver looked at her, his blue eyes misty with memory. “Cawnpore changed everything,
Geraldine. Changed us all. There were events that – Your Detective Abrams? I trust he told you
everything?”
“He said that you had spent a lifetime sickened with regret that you could only save two
of the children while the rest were left to perish with their mother and Roland.”
“That is what he said?” Weaver gave a shaky exhalation. “He is a good man, your
Jewish detective.”
“The finest I have ever known,” Geraldine said. “Well, one of the two finest. You
needn’t look at me like that. You aren’t the other.”
“I daresay I am not.”
“Is this the end of your story?”
“Not quite.” Weaver took yet another sip of tea. “As I said, the confusion following the
mutiny played into our hands. No one asked precisely when the child was born and if Michael was a
bit too sizable a baby to have been the result of Rose’s feigned pregnancy, this trivial fact did not
merit much mention in those dark days, when not even the Viceroy could hazard a guess of how many

British citizens had been killed. We told our friends in the hill district that Rose delivered in Bombay
and our friends in Bombay that she had spent her confinement in the country. And we married
quietly. A military chaplain. Strangers for witnesses.”
“That’s sad.”
The blue eyes struggled to focus. “You feel sorry for us? After the betrayal you suffered
at our hands?”
Geraldine smiled. “You did me a favor, Anthony, albeit by accident. I was never
intended for sacrifice on the altar of matrimony and while being an unwanted spinster is a pitiable
state, nothing is more romantically appealing than a woman who lost her great love through a tragic
event. Whenever someone would be crass enough to ask me why I never married, all I would have to
do is cast down my eyes and say ‘I was engaged and then….Cawnpore.’ That one simple word could
silence even the most determined biddy at once, I assure you, and made me the object of fascination
among my social circle.”
Weaver smiled too. “It pleases me to think someone benefited from Rose’s mad
scheme.”
“Michael benefitted.”
“Yes, I suppose he did.”
“But the girl –“
Weaver blinked. “Was an impossible age to explain away with a fiction and besides,
she kept crying for her mother. Yes, I buckled to the pressure which Rose applied and yes, I drove the
child to the orphanage. But I followed her progress through the years. Supported her from afar.
Provided funds.”
“You told Trevor that you drove past the temple where the school is housed on the
morning Rose and Sang died.”
“And so I did, just as I had made that journey on many previous occasions. I used hired
carriages for these visits, since young Felix was a chattering sort who reported every fact to his
uncle.”
“You would go in? Speak to the girl?”
Weaver shook his head. “I would simply have the driver park the carriage and then I
would sit in silence and stare at the gate. Struggle again to make peace with my conscience. I
suppose you think me a coward, Geraldine. A man who spent his entire life in the thrall of his wife’s
machinations. Unable to do the right thing, even when it was clear what the right thing would be.”
“Rose did not recognize the girl? When you went to the school in search of a white
nurse and retuned with the child she had thrown into the jaws of fate?”
“More than thirty years had passed.”
“I suppose that thirty years could be either an eon or the blink of an eye depending upon
one’s perspective. For it would seem that the girl remembered the house. Or your face and that of
Rose and even Sang. Something triggered a memory which was strong enough to evoke…to evoke a
passion that wiped out the last thirty years and turned her once again to the child who had played in
those rooms. Had slept in those beds. ”
“Ah,” said Weaver. “So she did remember her days within our house. I always
wondered, but her face…on the rare occasions in which I saw her, she never made a sign. “
“The rare occasions? She came every afternoon to attend Rose, did she not?”
“No…only a few times with the nurse. To assure we would be good to her, I suppose,
and not demand any services which were beyond that poor creature’s limited capacities to perform.”

Geraldine’s heart, which had spent this entire odd audience in a sort of suspended
stupor, began to beat more quickly. “Anthony,” she said. “Whatever are you saying? “
“The child I took to the orphanage thirty-two years ago…” Weaver said. “She grew up
smart and strong and defiant and ultimately became the headmistress of the school. She assumed a
new surname at some point in the process, as I gather they all do. You hate me for not saving her, I
can see it on your face, and no doubt she hates me too, even though…” He broke off as realization
hit, belated and painful.
“When she realized who we were, she hated us too,” he finally said. “Hated us enough
to murder. Or rather enough to teach that Adelaide creature how to kill in her stead.”
“Adelaide is not the child you carried from Cawnpore?” Geraldine asked hollowly,
although she already knew the answer.
“No,” said Anthony. “Of course not. What a notion. The child I deposited at the
orphanage thirty-two years ago, has grown up to be the woman they call Leigh Anne Hoffman.”
***
Bombay Jail
11:10 AM
“There are only two sets of fingerprints on the glass Hubert Morass held as he toppled
into the well of Cawnpore,” Davy said. “His own and, just as suspected, those of Miss Hoffman.”
At first no one reacted to this announcement. Emma, Trevor, and Rayley all sat in
silence. It was Henry Seal who found his voice first.
“I will get the full credit for the arrest, I assume?”
“Fine,” Trevor said with distaste. The politics of police work, which marched on even
in the most ghastly and blood-soaked of circumstances, had always repelled him. But the Scotland
Yard crew had no interest in the ultimate prosecution of Leigh Anne Hoffman – in fact, he himself
hoped to be far away, somewhere along the waters of the Indian Ocean, when that woman met her
fate.
“Morass is the one who solved the case,” Davy said flatly. “That glass yielded the two
most perfect prints I have ever seen. He turned the vessel perfectly, presented it to her just so…”
“And I shall see that he gets a posthumous commission,” Seal said, barely restraining
himself from rubbing his hands together in glee. “It would mean a bigger pension for his family…did
he have one?”
“He lived alone,” Trevor said shortly. Like me. Like me and Rayley and Benson and
so many of us. Take note, young Davy. You have your family of birth around you now, but within a
few years, you shall see what a lonely business this copper work truly can be.
“Promise me two things,” he said to Seal. “That Secretary-General Weaver will be
released immediately and that Leigh Anne Hoffman won’t be arrested until after we sail.”
“Gladly.”
“What will happen to Adelaide?” Emma mused aloud. “And all the girls in Miss
Hoffman's school? For here we have a killer who has created much benefit with her life. It seems a
good many innocents shall suffer in her absence.”
“I agree, it is a disheartening business,” said Rayley. “All losers, no winners, unless
you count Anthony Weaver, and I somehow doubt he shall enjoy his freedom very much.”
“It would seem some good would have to come out of this somehow,” Emma went on.
“I can’t bear the thought that our bloody English justice system has cast all those little girls out upon

the street.”
But Trevor was all business. “Rayley, I want you to go down to the shipyard and see to
our paperwork. Show them the Queen’s letter, for with any luck we can arrange passage on this
evening’s departure. Now that our business is concluded, it is best we leave Bombay at once. And I
will send a message to the jail informing Tom and Geraldine of these latest developments, and Emma,
you must explain the situation to Mrs. Morrow. You need to return to her house to pack your things
and those of Geraldine no matter what, and besides….somehow I suspect she and her granddaughter
shall play further into this matter before all is done. I shall accompany Inspector Seal to the station
house to make my final report, and Davy, you take the news to Michael Everlee. If I read the man
right, he is undoubtedly as eager to depart this country as the rest of us.”
“The news, Sir?”
“That his stepfather is being set free. His purpose here in Bombay is done.”
“But the rest of it, Sir? The bit about how he came to live with the Weavers and the truth
about who Leigh Anne Hoffman truly is?”
“Use your discretion.”
“My…discretion, Sir?”
“Absolutely.” Trevor picked up his woven dome hat, the one he had bought merely two
days before but which was already stained with sweat and streaked with dust, and nodded briskly at
Seal. “Let us hurry with our paperwork, you and I,” he said. “And give us until sunset before you set
your wheels of justice into motion. It’s just as Emma says, but if we try, we may still be able to
extract some small sliver of good from this hopeless mess.”
***
The Belvedere Hotel – Bombay
12:50 PM
“You are telling me I have a sister?”
Michael Everlee was blinking back tears. He strained toward Davy with such intense
hope that for a moment the boy faltered.
“Yes,” he finally conceded. “Two of the five children of the Sloane family were rescued
on the day of the Cawnpore attack. You were an infant and your sister was nearly six years old.”
And now he will ask, Davy thought. He will ask the inevitable question, which is how
one of the children ended up being adopted by the Weavers, to live a life of privilege, and the other
was deposited at an orphanage, to fend for herself.
But Everlee asked no such question. His face, in fact, was glowing with joy.
“I always knew I wasn’t their proper son,” he said, leaping up to resume his
characteristic pacing. “Not really. For I displeased them, you see, in a dozen small ways. Oh yes,
Officer, they gave me all the finer things, but they …they never really cared for me. Even as a child I
knew that I was there to serve a need, to be the required heir and proof of something – although
precisely what my presence was meant to prove, I never understood until today. They sent me off to
England as early as they decently could, and there I stayed.”
“Your last name gave you certain privileges,” Davy said mildly, hoping his voice was
devoid of reproach. For neither he nor any of his brothers had gotten past primary school and he had
never set foot within the walls of Parliament.
“They worked to set me forth with their agenda,” Everlee said, “but I never fit the
prototype of what they wanted in a son. As you have likely noticed, Inspector, I have certain

inclinations…Oh, do not misunderstand me. I am like Jonathan Benson, the very soul of discretion,
and still they found means to mock me.” He stopped pacing and turned to face Davy. “But now it all
is clear. For I am not the son of the great Roland Everlee or even his pale echo, Anthony Weaver.
No, not at all. I stand before you the youngest child of some middling officer who most likely
managed to get himself killed the first day of the mutiny.”
But with this the obvious thought finally dawned and Everlee cocked his head. “My
older sister,” he said. “Why would they take her to the orphanage and not me?”
“She was too old to be passed off as a blood child,” Davy said. “It seems your mother -
pardon me, I mean Mrs. Weaver – had concocted some fiction about being with child before the
mutiny began. She didn’t want to be shipped back to London with the other ladies.”
“A fictional pregnancy? But surely her husband… Or her doctor…”
“Husbands can be hoodwinked and doctors can be bought.”
Everlee grimaced and resumed pacing. “That’s no surprise. Apparently anyone or
anything can be bought in Bombay. So Rose had concocted this story to allow her to stay close to her
lover, Weaver?
Davy nodded, taking note of how quickly “mother” and “father” had become “Rose” and
“Weaver.”
“Apparently,” he said. “Weaver has confessed that they were prepared to announce an
equally false miscarriage in due time.”
“Ah,” said Everlee, his nimble politician’s mind grasping the implications at once. “But
then came the uprising, and Roland’s death, and the unexpected boon of two children. The girl quite
the wrong age but the boy just about perfect to carry their fiction to fruition. For a widow holding the
hero’s child in her arms is an even more pitiable figure, is she not? And the man who steps in swiftly
to marry her and raise that child, even more admirable? I was not kept because I was loved. I was
kept because I was useful. The truth is sometimes a bitter pill to swallow, is it not, Officer Mabrey?”
“Sometimes,” said Davy, but he would have described the truth as being more like one
of the elephants he had seen at the waterfront. A cumbersome thing, which has to be prodded into
motion. But when it finally begins to move, then Davy knew that the unchecked truth could rapidly
become a danger, stumbling through the square and injuring any number of innocent bystanders.
“What became of my sister, Officer Mabrey? Tell me. For you know her story, I can see
it in your face.”
Davy hesitated, genuinely unsure of what to do next. Two souls had made a lasting
impression on his young heart. One was Trevor, with his notebooks and microscopes and
fingerprinting kits and – most of all - his insistence on the truth. The truth at all costs, even when it
was painful and inconvenient. The other was his mum. Davy could see her standing out in their
scrappy little yard, pinning a wet sheet to a sagging clothesline and saying, “Kindness, love. It’s what
matters most in the end.”
Everlee was prepared to accept that his sister was Adelaide, not Leigh Anne. In truth he
and his sister were very much alike - both had risen through their wits and tenacity to the top of the
heap, even if her heap was an orphanage for half-breeds and his heap was Parliament. But instead he
had been quick to assume his sister was a woman who had found herself a total outcast, someone who
had spent her entire life fitting in neither here nor there.
He accepts it, thought Davy, for he too has always felt like an outcast. In this whole
tangle of good and evil, it is Adelaide and Everlee who are somehow a pair.
Davy considered the man before him. He was a thoroughly unpleasant creature on many

levels – pompous and bullying, not above trying to force the hand of the Queen herself or getting
Rayley thrown from the Byculla Club. The man who was so uncaring when his lackey Benson was
killed, and so willing to bribe Morass to bring convenient information to light and leave other, less
useful, facts in the shadows. But Davy could also see the rejected child who lived within. His
evaluation of the Weavers and their motives was undoubtedly apt. They didn’t want him - they
wanted the pictures, the proof of his existence, the convenience of an heir. It was the child Michael
who proved them to be a family and not a nest of vipers.
He has been alone and lonely all his life, Davy thought. And what of Adelaide? Her
youth had been even more brutish and solitary. Would it really be such a grave miscarriage of
justice if these two ended up together? Believed themselves to be a proper family?
“The Weavers did not give me much,” Everlee was saying. “Not in terms of love and
understanding. But they did give me a hero’s name and a large inheritance and I promise you I shall
use both, Officer Mabrey, to rectify the slights my sister has suffered. She shall have not only the best
doctors London can offer, but she shall recover in my home and when she is well, I shall introduce
her…”
His voice trailed off and Davy’s imagination was left to finish the thought. He was
struck with the vision of Adelaide scrambling over the garden wall, her legs splayed and arms
grasping like those of an ape. Could this man really introduce such a woman to his political allies in
London as his sister?
But from the set of Everlee’s chin, there was no doubt he intended to try. His
determination to have family, at long last family, seemed to override every doubt.
Trevor said some good might come of all this, thought Davy. It is up to me to see that
it does.
“So your trip to India has given you back your sister,” Davy said to Everlee, who was
now unashamedly wiping tears and even nose drippings onto the sleeve of his Savile Row suit. “And
a sister is a fine thing to have, is it not? I have often wished that I could claim as much.”
“True, true.” Everlee paused. “But will she be prosecuted?”
Davy swallowed. The question would require another lie, this one more convoluted
than the first. For it was a lie mixed with the truth and they were, in the end, the trickier kind. For a
moment he almost sympathized with the icy Rose Weaver, who had found herself caught in the snare
of a faked pregnancy and thus forced to tell one mistruth after another to protect the first.
“Any doctor, whether bought by a bribe or not,” he finally said “would readily testify
that Adelaide is not in possession of her full senses. She did not plan the crimes herself, but was
merely acting on orders issued by her headmistress, a woman with a most powerful personality and
whom Adelaide viewed as a figure of absolute authority.”
“I know this Miss Hoffman,” Everlee said with a shudder. “And she is bad business
indeed. That day at Cawnpore- “
“Yesterday.”
“Yesterday?” Everlee frowned. “Yes, you are right, it was merely yesterday. Anyway,
at one point when I was descending the hill I found Miss Hoffman simply standing there at the bottom
and staring up at me. The expression on her face was most disconcerting. I would readily believe
that woman to be capable of anything.”
Davy forced himself to feign a shrug. “The important thing is that Trevor has convinced
Seal it is unlikely a jury would convict Adelaide. If the case were heard in London, a judge will
most merely refer her to the care of an asylum. Or more likely, in lieu of an institution, to a doting

elative who swears to fend for her.”
“And that I shall,” said Everlee. “She shall have the most advanced practitioners in
London, not these half-wits of the Raj. And I believe the change of scenery shall do her good as
well. Get her away from this place and all its memories – even those memories that we don’t
precisely know we remember, if you follow my drift.”
“I do,” said Davy. The man’s desire to save this woman – and thus himself in the
process – was touching, and therefore worthy of the lie. They were both innocents, after all, their
lives knocked off course in earliest childhood, forced to live out fates that were never fully their own.
I am becoming the dissembler of the group, Davy thought. Dispensing justice along the shape of my
own conscience, and all I can say in my defense is that the two times I have failed to come forward
with all I knew of the truth, I was in Russia and then in India. Lands not my own, places where I
have taken no vow to enforce the law of the realm. If all of this had happened in England, it would
end much differently…I would be forced to say “But this girl is not your sister. Your blood sister,
to use the painfully apt term, goes by the name of Leigh Ann Hoffman and she will be arrested this
afternoon for the murders of three people.” But we are not in England. We are in India where the
only task I have committed to is the freedom of Anthony Weaver. That has been accomplished, and
thus I can allow my sympathies to override my honesty.
“So you say that your group is sailing today,” Michael said, returning to himself a little
as he wiped his face. “On the Fortitude in midafternoon? I wish to go as well. Shall we ride
together to the dock, the three of us? For I plan to hire a driver to take me to that wretched temple and
collect my sister at once.”
“Yes, with any luck we might all be on the same ship,” Davy said. “But you must go on
to the dock without me. I have one more stop to make before I bid a final farewell to India.”
“Ah, India,” Michael said, at last fishing a handkerchief from a pocket and giving his
nose a proper blow. “It confounded us all, did it not? And yet it is still as miraculous and as
spiritual as everyone claims it to be. Do you think you shall ever return?”
“Absolutely not,” Davy said.
Michael smiled. “Nor shall I.”
***
Bombay Jail Infirmary
12:50 PM
Tom ripped open the envelope and scanned the message. Then he glanced toward
Geraldine and Weaver, who had both fallen silent at last. They sat shoulder to shoulder on the small
sofa, holding their empty cups.
“The fingerprints on the glass in Hubert Morass’s hand matched those of Leigh Anne
Hoffman,” Tom said. “Which means, Secretary-General, that you will likely be freed later today.”
And with that, he rose and slipped out the door. Weaver’s comments were no longer relevant, at least
not to the charge of the murders, and Tom wanted to allow the two of them to say goodbye in private.
“So I am to be dismissed,” Weaver said, after the echo of Tom’s slamming door finally
subsided.
“Congratulations,” Geraldine said.
“I owe this to you,” he said.
“You owe me nothing,” she said, pushing to her feet. “I must go.”
“And I shall go with you,” he said, grabbing her hand. “Or I shall entreat you to stay

with me…”
“Anthony, really. This is not necessary.”
He looked up at her. In this pose, the man cast back into the soft cushions of the settee,
the woman on her feet, looking down, they were in a bizarre parody of a proposal. He clutched at her
fingertips with fervor.
“Gerry…I meant everything I said. If I had married you back in the fifties I should have
been a very different sort of man. A better man.”
He is likely right, Gerry thought, looking down at their hands. Both wrinkled. His
trembling. For men rise or fall based entirely on what the women in their lives demand of them.
“I must go with you,” he said again. “Back to London. Bombay holds nothing for me
now.”
She shook her head. “You belong here, Anthony. You always did.”
Now he released her hand and struggled to his feet. “It is not too late,” he said, his
voice quavering, his eyes wild with fear. “Not too late at all. You could have saved me then, and you
might still save me now. Give me something to live for, my darling. Rehabilitate me, challenge me,
dangle a purpose in front of me so I might even yet find, at this late point, an incentive to stand and
walk.”
Good God, thought Geraldine, stepping back. Was he always like this? What a fool I
have been.
“Anthony,” she said firmly. “Do come to the door and compose yourself enough to bid
me a proper goodbye. I am 69 years old and only God knows how many years I have left or how they
shall play themselves out. But you must try to understand me when I say this. I expect more from my
life than the opportunity to be useful to a man.”

Chapter Twenty-Three
Bombay Jail
1:10 PM
When Geraldine stepped from the front door of the warden’s house she found Trevor
waiting for her under a palm tree.
“I am quite well, I assure you,” she said, even before he could speak. “Have you come
here expecting me to shriek or swoon?”
“Hardly,” he said, offering her his arm. “I simply thought we could walk a little. See a
bit of Bombay.”
“Starting with the jailyard?”
He laughed and they made their way out the gates and up the street a bit in
companionable silence.
“Are you disappointed?” Trevor finally asked. “You have passed many years and
traveled many miles only to come to the end of your quest and find a man who is so…”
“Ordinary?”
“I suppose that is the proper word.”
“I have come to a conclusion,” Geraldine said, picking idly at one of her gloves.
“And what might that be?”
“That it is a mistake to look up an old lover. Now don’t you snicker at me, Trevor, for I
am quite serious. When one begins to fondly wonder whatever happened to their beloved Anthony or
Roberta or Joe or Anne or Willie, one should…you know. Just keep wondering.”
“I have come to a conclusion too,” Trevor said.
“And what is that?”
“That when someone seeks revenge, especially for slights long in the past, the collateral
damage is always more than intended. The pain that you inflict upon yourself and other innocents is
double that which strikes your intended victim. When revenge is the motive, it seems to affect the
aim. The hand begins to shake and the bullet can fly…very far from the intended target.”
“You regret the bit with the woman,” Geraldine observed gently. “You take no
satisfaction in turning her over to Seal and his heartless brethren within the Viceroy’s office.”
“That shall be the story of my life, I fear,” Trevor said with an unconvincing laugh as
they stepped aside to allow a shopkeeper shake a dusty broom. “Have them carve it on my
tombstone. Here lies Trevor Welles. He regrets the bit with the woman.”
“You believe Miss Hoffman’s rage was justified?”
“Justified? That is a tricky word. I believe it is understandable. And yet three people –
one of them a man whose behavior was utterly blameless – lie dead.”
“She is not responsible for the electrocution at the Club?”
Trevor shook his head. “An accident, that one. But with three more deaths laid at her
feet…” His voice trailed off uncertainly for he did not wish to finish the thought. The truth of the
matter is that with three murders on the Viceroy books, Leigh Anne Hoffman would almost certainly
hang.
As if reading his thoughts, Geraldine quickly said, “She never meant to kill Sang.”
“I imagine she never meant to do half the things she dd. Tragedies exist in every life, it

seems, even in those which seem prosperous and normal and happy. You can’t always tell by
people’s faces, but at any time on any city street, the wounded walk among us, undetected.”
“Undetected that is, until a detective comes along.”
Trevor shrugged. “I don’t make claim to understand the human heart, Geraldine. Not
half so well as a poet, or even a priest.”
“A woman can be wrong about a man.”
“I daresay she can.”
“And men…are sometimes wrong about women. They often fail to see the most
important things about them, even when they stand in plain view.” And before he could ask her what
on earth she meant by that, she abruptly asked, “Where are the others?”
“Tom has moved back to the jail to clear out our things,” Trevor said. “Emma is packing
for the two of you, and Rayley has gone down at the docks trying to finagle us all onto the next ship
out of Bombay. You have no objection to leaving today, I trust?”
She shook her head. Quite vigorously. “And Davy?”
“I’m not entirely sure where he is,” Trevor admitted, as he guided Geraldine carefully
around a gash of missing cobblestones. “He only said he has one final task before he is prepared to
say goodbye to India.”
***
The Cliffs Above Bombay Harbor
1:27 PM
It was not much of a cage, Davy thought. A determined bird could have broken through
the fragile bamboo walls at any point. Pecked or chewed her way free and found the broader world
that lay just beyond.
He had carried the cage to the cliff on the hills beyond the Weaver House, a moderate
walk which had caused great agitation to the bird. She had hopped from perch to perch within her
flimsy palace, looking around with her bright black eyes and chirping in the manner of a question.
Where are we going? she seemed to ask. And shall I like it when we get there?
As he neared the edge of the cliff, Davy paused. Bombay lay dozing in the midday heat
beneath him - the glittering harbor, the exalted waterfront buildings, the bright colored huts and
hovels behind. He could see their own steamer with its immense gangplank, no doubt trembling and
belching as the engines began to be fired up, the ship as anxious as a racehorse in the slot. Within
hours he would be aboard it, and India would be just one more thing behind him. One more story for
his grandchildren.
He pulled open the door of the cage and it cracked in his hand. Brittle and insubstantial.
Tentatively, carefully, he reached for the bird.
She drew back. Or perhaps he was the one to hesitate. It occurred to Davy he had been
thinking of the little yellow songbird as female all along, based largely on its seeming helplessness
and sweetness, and his own somewhat irrational desire to protect it. But males can become trapped
as well, can they not? Men as well as women often need someone to lead them out of their captivity,
to illustrate how easily the walls surrounding them can crumble and snap.
Davy’s hand closed around the feathers. He could feel the rapidly beating heart of the
bird, the tremor of the untried wings. Would it even know how to fly? he wondered, for the creature
had likely spent its entire life within this ornamental cage. So he did not toss it into the air in a
flamboyant manner and thus risk the irony of throwing it to certain death. Instead he merely opened

his palm and said “This is the world.”
The bird appeared to consider the remark. Hopped a bit on his palm, looked over the
precipice of his fingers and then, with a sort of awkward jump, flapped its way to a patch of grass at
Davy’s feet. There it sat among the green grass, a fluttering invitation to larger, stronger birds of
prey.
This was a mistake, Davy fretted. Too much freedom can be fatal, especially when it is
unfamiliar.
But just as he thought this, the bird hopped, and then again, as if testing both its wings
and its confidence. Slowly, unsteadily, it flapped a few feet in the air. He held his breath as it rose a
bit more, leaving the ground behind it. And finally the bird climbed higher, into the sky.
Davy crushed the remains of the cage within his hands. The curved walls, the grand
onion dome, the little perches and the small mirrors. They crumbled to his feet as he continued to
watch that small yellow dot in the sky, growing even smaller, and smaller yet.
Of course it’s a girl, he thought. The way it looks at you so helplessly and then leaves,
all at once, without looking back. “You are welcome, milady,” he called after the tiny bird. “’Twas
my pleasure to serve.” And he stood guard there on the cliff until he could no longer see her at all
***
The Khajuraho Temple
2:40 PM
“We have faced death together once before, you and I,” the old man said. The words
were murmured gently and without malice. Even the setting was companionable. Two heavy English
rockers pulled in close congress on a portico, both of them facing the blazing sun.
The woman sitting beside him – younger, but not young – stretched out her legs and
propped them onto a woven footstool. The legs, muscular from years of hard work, were encased in
khaki trousers, much like women wear on safari. Yet this woman had never been on safari, nor had
she ever dined in a restaurant, been examined by a doctor, or taken a lover into her bed. Her life had
been both very big and very small and now, sunk low into reflection just as a human must be in these
circumstances, she felt a pang for every road she had left untraveled.
“Yes, we have faced death,” she said to the man and her voice, like his, was pleasant
and conversational. “In fact, as I recall, you attempted to throw me into the very jaws of it.”
“But you lived, did you not? And I have spent my life trying to make amends for that
singular day.”
“You have come to ask my forgiveness?” she asked brusquely.
“I know it is too late for that,” Anthony Weaver said to Leigh Anne Hoffman. “Your fate
diverged from that of Michael, it is true. But it is not because you were a girl as you undoubtedly
think. It was your age. I was afraid that you might remember. That you might someday ask me about
that day on the outskirts of Cawnpore.”
“I did remember.”
“It was Rose’s idea to take you to the orphanage,” he said, as if such a thing might matter
now. “That part was all Rose’s idea.”
“Then I am not sorry that I killed her,” Leigh Anne said matter-of-factly. “Even though
my draught was aimed at you. Would you like tea?”
“I’d rather have something stronger.”
“I have that as well.”

“Truly? I am surprised.”
“The running of a girls’ school, Secretary-General, is not the unalloyed joy you seem to
think it is. At times through the years my solitude has been almost unendurable. So I have made
friends with the bottle.”
“But I did fund this school,” he blurted out after her, as she rose and went to the small
cabinet where she kept her malted scotch. “And I drove past it almost every day. Not with Felix, of
course, my regular boy. But any time I had a private coach I would direct the driver, just here, see that
tree at the top of the road? I think I wanted to assure myself that you…”
He broke off, unsure of what to say next. It seemed almost as if they were the only two
human beings left in the world. Where were the girls from the school? he wondered parenthetically.
It was so silent here under the portico, looking out at her great garden. The only sound was the distant
tinkling of the bells that lined the erotic wall.
She has covered the profanity of the wall, he thought, but she has not silenced it.
“I was your benefactor,” he said in a weak conclusion and then gulped the scotch she had
handed him. It was not a fine one. No, not fine at all. Some cheap, inferior brew and it burned his
throat. “I was that anonymous donor who sustained your work, over and again throughout the many
years. If you had known that, would have still tried to poison me?”
She shrugged. “It was the elephant, you know.”
Rough or not, he took more of the scotch. “The elephant?”
“The tile in the hearth with the five-legged elephant. I remembered so little of your
home. How long was I there, before you and Rose decided that I must disappear?”
Weaver shook his head. “I don’t know. Only a few weeks.”
“Only a few weeks,” she echoed, staring out into the sun. “And I was undoubtedly in
shock, having seen all that I had seen. But that elephant with five legs – such a whimsical mistake by
the artist, just the sort of thing a child might notice and remember.“ She looked at him now, directly in
the eyes for the first time. “I never knew your name, of course. Never knew the identity of the man
who would have so happily abandoned me and my baby brother to certain slaughter. Never knew
what became of him, or your wife, or of the kind Indian who scooped us up when you ran, who
carried us to the cart and forced you, against your will, to drive us out of that burning barnyard. I
might never have known that you married Roland Everlee’s widow, that the two of you were still in
Bombay, or that you had raised Michael as your own son. Never would have put any of it together at
all - that is, without Adelaide.”
“But that was just another way I tried to help you,” Weaver blurted out, wiping sweat
from his brow. “When Rose said she wanted an English nurse, I hired one from your stable, a girl
who might have otherwise been a financial burden to you all your life. If you recall, I sent a note -“
“I do recall the note,” Leigh Anne said. “And we shall add your hiring of Adelaide to
your long list of saintly acts. But she was a special girl, an unusual one, and she had to be treated in a
certain way. So on the first day of her employment I escorted her to your house – It was Sang who
greeted us and something in his kindness…”
She shook her head, as if to erase the memory. “I cannot say that seeing the house is
what did it, or even seeing Sang again. Something in the situation struck me, but I never would have
put it all together without Adelaide. Soon after she began attending your wife she came home one day
telling me about a tile in one of the bedrooms. Telling me it had an elephant with five legs… “ Miss
Hoffman laughed, not with bitterness for once, but in genuine delight. “Adelaide has a child-like
mind, Secretary-General. She came to us from a brothel where her mother sold her virginity when

she was but six years old. It burns the heart even to think of it, that there are men with such urges in
the world and women so willing to accommodate them.“
“The world is a horror,” Weaver said. “Just when one thinks he has heard every
possible sad tale, another arises.”
She shrugged. “True enough. But for purposes of my story, it would seem that
Adelaide’s mind somehow froze at that point, the point of her cruel defloration, and it was never to
grow further into adulthood. She and I were delivered to the school the same year, can you imagine?
Both of us had managed to arrive at the age of six having already outlived our usefulness to the
civilized world and thus were destined to be thrown away like yesterday’s garbage. We were
companions of a sort through the years until I grew up and she…did not. I must confess she has
always been a bit like a sister to me, both of our childhoods having been ripped in half by a singular
event. It was hard to imagine her future. Hard to imagine any place she might find refuge beyond the
school. So when the note came asking for an English nurse, I sent her.”
“The task was not arduous,” Weaver said. “You must have realized she would not
actually have to perform any nursing duties.”
Leigh Anne nodded. “But I knew nothing of the family making the request, other than the
fact they were prepared to pay handsomely for her limited services. It was only when Adelaide
returned that day, telling tales of the elephant with five legs that the memories came flooding back. I
realized for the first time that the house where I had stayed after my rescue must be here in Bombay
and I did some investigation…”
“You had her poison Rose.”
Another laugh, a bell-like sound. “Actually, if you recall, I tried to have her poison you.
But unfortunately our dear Adelaide lacks focus and thus is not an ideal accomplice in the art of
murder. She told me you took your sips of the laudanum in the evening, sometimes before she left.
And so I had her bring residue from the pods of our own suicide tree, just like the one you so
obligingly grew within your own garden. Did you know the dark purpose of that particular flower?
No, I rather doubt you did.”
“I did not take the laudanum every night,” Weaver said. “Only on those evenings
when….” He paused, mopped his brow. The sun had burned the entire garden into a single white hot
light.
“Only on those evenings when the memories rose up against your will?” Leigh Anne
asked gently. “On those nights that you knew that without the draught, sleep would prove
impossible?” She sat back with an exhalation. “We are much alike, as fate would have it, Secretary-
General. I struggle with insomnia myself.”
“If I had sipped a bit of the mixture that night,” Weaver said hollowly, “then your plan
would have been perfection. The morning would have found me sleeping an eternal sleep. And in a
man near unto seventy, there would have been no investigation at all.”
“Plans,” Leigh Anne said. “We make them and fate unmakes them. I am sorry beyond all
measure that Pulkit Sang was taken, although if you are speaking the truth about Rose’s role in my
banishment I cannot claim any particular sorrow on her behalf.”
“My wife,” Weaver said tonelessly. “She was a cold and heartless monster. I wanted
her and then I had her…and our life was a hopeless hell.”
“Indeed?” said Miss Hoffman. “Then perhaps the hand of God was working in the
mistake. His mysterious ways, and all that sort of rot. “
“People might say that you are a very unusual sort of missionary, Miss Hoffman.”

“And they might further add that you make a highly unlikely war hero, Secretary-General
Weaver.”
Despite it all, he chuckled. There was a certain pleasure to be found in her company.
“So here we sit,” he said. “The only two survivors - save of course Michael who
doesn’t know himself to be such - of the slaughter the world calls Cawnpore. That is something, is it
not?”
He raised his tumbler in a salute and, after a moment of hesitation, she followed suit.
This rough scotch grows easier to swallow in time, he thought. Like so many things.
“Where is Adelaide now?”
“Simon, or rather Michael, departed the school just minutes before you arrived. You no
doubt passed his carriage with your own. He stood right here before me and announced he had come
for his sister. His dear sister Adelaide Sloane. It was a rather strange moment, I assure you.”
Weaver shook his head, unsure whether to laugh or cry. “That fool of a boy…”
“That well-funded fool of a boy. His expression was insolent, but his words were like
honey to the soul. He said he wished to benefit the school which had shielded Adelaide for so many
years.”
“You took money in exchange for that poor wretch of a woman? So now you can add
slavetrading to your list of accomplishments.”
Leigh Anne bobbed her head, the long strands of graying hair tumbling around her face.
It makes her look like some mad Greek goddess, Weaver thought, or some mermaid of the sea.
“Yes, I handed her over,” Leigh Anne said. “What would become of her if I didn’t?
And the money…it is enough to keep the school going for some time, no matter what.”
No matter what, he thought, taking a longer swig of Scotch. She knows what is coming.
And when he sat down his glass and looked over at her, she indeed was observing him
keenly. “How much do the authorities have?”
“I am afraid they have your fingerprint on a glass that policeman was holding when he
fell into the well. Or rather when you pushed him, I suppose. They seem to think that in itself is
enough.”
She nodded slowly. “Which means there isn’t much time.”
“The Scotland Yard detectives are boarding the afternoon ship, which is scheduled to
depart at three. And then the locals are free to move in and take all the credit.”
“So I have an hour?”
“Perhaps two. The dockworkers are not efficient.”
She paused, looked out into the garden. He did not have the impression that she was
particularly upset by his words, and she was not at all surprised.
“Then we have come, you and I, at last to the end.”
“It would appear so.” He sipped again and looked past her. “Your garden is lovely.”
“Thank you. My mother kept an English garden. It is the only thing I remember of her.”
“Ah. So did my wife.”
“There is nothing quite like an English garden, is there?”
“It is the very apex of civilization.”
And then they sat for a minute in silence. She might have been my daughter, Weaver
thought, the foolish notion bringing the hot sting of tears to his eyes. And it occurs to me now, far too
late, that I would have very much liked to have had a daughter.
“I was about,” Leigh Anne said slowly, “to have a bowl of curry. A late luncheon, one

might say, or perhaps an early tea. And what of you, Secretary-General? Have you come to dine with
me at last?”
“Yes,” he said, wiping a single unmanly tear from his sun-leathered creek. “We shall eat
from the same bowl, you and I.”

Chapter Twenty-Four
Bombay Harbor
3:30 PM
“Well, that was a bloody jumble,” Rayley said irritably. “The dockmaster’s office
seems to be run with the same efficiency as everything else in Bombay. Thank God we had the
Queen’s letter with which to threaten the man. The royal seal seemed to speed things up from an ooze
to a crawl.”
“I do believe you drew the worst of the day’s tasks,” Trevor said with a chuckle. “But
no fear. We shall have four days of absolute leisure on the ship and as far as I’m concerned, we
should all spend them dead drunk.”
Rayley looked about. “Speaking of which, where’s Tom?”
“Shopping the little waterfront stalls with Emma. And Davy is lurking about scouting
allies and rivals for shuffleboard, and Gerry is standing in the one bit of shade on this whole damn
dock. Here, rest before you have a heat stroke, my man, and I shall round them up.”
Rayley nodded and leaned against a fence. The passengers traveling posh were allowed
up the gangplank first, which gave one a bit of a preview of what the next four days at sea were going
to be like. He watched as the dour-faced men in tweed queued up with their preoccupied, nervously
chattering wives trailing behind them. And further behind even yet, came the children and the nannies,
and the dogs.
“They look precisely like the same group we came over with last week,” Emma said.
She and Tom had come up beside him with dozens of gaily wrapped parcels in their arms.
“Just so,” Rayley said. “I suspect that’s rather the whole point.”
“See here, darling,” Tom said. “Give me your packages to carry so you can hold on to
the gangplank railing.”
“Don’t call me ‘darling,’” she said, but she handed him the packages nonetheless.
“But I call everyone ‘darling.’”
“I know. Which is precisely why I don’t want you to use the term with me.”
Trevor, Geraldine, and Davy now wandered up as well, apparently deep in
conversation.
“What shall happen to the students at the school?” Gerry was asking.
“Ask Emma,” Trevor said.
“Mrs. Morrow and Amy have agreed to supervise the girls until a suitable headmistress
can be found,” Emma said. “Of course, Mrs. Morrow is too elderly and Amy is too young to be up to
the task on a permanent basis, but I have no doubt they shall hold matters together for a while.”
“And the school received a sizable endowment today,” Trevor said, with a sidelong
glance at Davy. “Enough to attract a most excellent headmistress in due time. At least that is the
rumor.”
“Gerry…” Emma said. “You are far too generous.”
“Geraldine’s pursestrings have remained tied for once,” Trevor said. “My understanding
is that the monies came from Michael Everlee.”
“Just look at them,” Rayley said, and he inclined his pointed chin in the general direction
of Adelaide and Michael, who were at the top of the gangplank and positioned to be the first on the

ship. “It would appear that he truly is taking her back with him to London.”
“A family reunited,” Trevor said drily. “At least in a manner of speaking.”
But Geraldine was nodding in approval, as Emma, Tom, and Davy moved ahead of the
older members of the party, chattering among themselves as they approached the base of the
gangplank.
“Does it matter if they do not share the same blood?” Gerry said, moving toward the ship
herself, but at a more measured pace. “Just believing himself to be part of a genuine family might
make Everlee a changed man. Look there, just now. Note how gently he is assisting her over the
rough boards.”
“It is uncharacteristic, I agree” Trevor said.
“Oh dear, I know that tone of voice too well,” Geraldine said, with a wink at Rayley. “It
is the detective speaking, and not the man. Are you about to tell me that it is essential these poor
souls be confronted with the truth? Or can we just declare that the white termites ate up every piece
of documentation at the school and leave it at that?”
Trevor smiled. “Seal is on his way to arrest Leigh Anne Hoffman in this very moment,
so justice has been served in the murders of Rose Weaver, Pulkit Sang, and Hubert Morass. And that,
I assure you, is the only truth that matters to me. Besides,” he added, smoothing his mustache, “I
doubt that any of us shall see either of them ever again.”
“Quite so,” Rayley said. “And they do seem rather – dare I say it? He is smiling and so
is she. It would seem that we have our happy ending, at least in one regard.”
“And that’s all very well,” said Geraldine, as a whistle sounded, signaling the straggling
members of first class to approach. “At least while we’re in transit through neutral waters. But
Michael runs with a very elite crowd back in London, and it’s difficult to imagine how a woman of
Adelaide’s complex history shall fare among that level of society.”
“Difficult indeed,” Trevor said, with a small private smile.
“She will be an innocent among a pack of tigers.”
“Tigers, you say? Dear me. How dreadful. Abrams, have you noticed any tigers
roaming the streets of Mayfair?”
“Frequently, Welles. They lurk behind every dustbin.”
“You both can stop your foolishness, both of you, for I am deadly serious. The drawing
rooms of London are as barbarous as any jungle.” Geraldine pulled herself up to her full height, the
plumes of her hat bobbing in the waterfront breeze. “Perhaps I might take it upon myself to help her.”
Trevor offered Geraldine his arm as they turned toward the gangplank. “But of course
you shall.”

What’s Real?
The Indian Rebellion (sometimes called the Great Mutiny) of 1857 was a real event, as is the
tragedy of Cawnpore, although the unfortunate Sloane family is a figment of my imagination, as are all
the members of the Byculla Club. The Club itself was quite real, as is the suicide tree, a marvelous
tropical plant which some still consider the perfect murder weapon. Nonetheless, the crimes
described within City of Bells are entirely fictional, as is the Everlee-Weaver family and Miss
Hoffman’s school for girls.
I am beholding to Margaret MacMillian, author of Women of the Raj, for many of the details
describing the sometimes terrifying, sometimes tedious lives of British women living in India in the
middle of the nineteenth century. If this story has intrigued you, I urge you to pick up her excellent
nonfiction book for further research. Thanks also to Shirley Butterworth and Second Star Publishing
for their help with editing and cover design.
Three of the names used in the novel are the names of real people. Leigh Ann Hoffman won the
right to be a villain in a charity auction, and Pulkit Sang is a friend who dances at the same ballroom
studio as I do. Henry Seal is the name of an old boyfriend who was (and is) a wonderful man and
nothing like the self-satisfied character in the book. Thanks for loaning me your names, guys!

What’s next?
Next up is a bargain-priced novella for the Christmas season. The Angel of Hever Castle takes
Trevor and Rayley to the childhood home of Anne Boleyn, which has fallen into neglect and become
an artist colony. There they will encounter a runaway heiress, an unscrupulous seducer, a portrait
which changes faces, and perhaps even the ghost of the beheaded queen.
The next novel in the series, City of Stone, will be released in late spring, 2014.
To receive notification about the release of upcoming volumes in the City of Mystery series,
either follow the City of Mystery page on Facebook or send your email address to
cityofmystery@gmail.com. And reviews on Amazon or Goodreads are always appreciated!