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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.