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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