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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?”