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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?”