The Widows of Malabar Hill by Sujata Massey

Author:Sujata Massey
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Literary Fiction
Publisher: Soho Press
Published: 2017-10-31T18:13:56+00:00

1921

17

Black Fingerprints

Bombay, February 1921

At the Farid bungalow, Perveen sat on a rosewood chair and watched Sub-Inspector K. J. Singh shake black powder across the floor.

The dark powder, late afternoon heat, and the stench of blood had brought up memories of the Sodawallas’ home: both the horrible little room and the foyer where she had stenciled for hours over the months.

What was going on now felt like a nightmare. And although Perveen might avert her eyes from Faisal Mukri’s body, she felt a duty to remain.

Knowing her father would expect her to report on every detail of the situation, Perveen had asked to stay. It was a nervy thing to do, and Perveen had been surprised that the sub-inspector had allowed her to linger. As the fingerprinting continued, she realized her presence gave the sub-inspector a chance to show off. After all, his boss hadn’t yet arrived, and she was the first female lawyer he’d ever met.

Sub-Inspector Singh had swiftly dispersed the thick black powder over everything: the marble floor, the walls, and the furniture. He was making a mess of this elegant old house, but she supposed it couldn’t be avoided. She studied the junior police officer, who wore a neatly trimmed beard and had an impressively large dark-green turban. Unlike ordinary Indian constables, who wore blue tunics with pantaloons, the sub-inspector wore the crisp white uniform of jacket and trousers of the Imperial Police.

The golden-brown bridle-leather briefcase, which had originally been underneath Mr. Mukri’s body, now lay blackened with powder. She eyed it, wondering how she’d be able to convince the sub-inspector to return it. As one of very few Indians in police administration, he would probably not want to give the impression he would cut another Indian a favor.

“Are you finding many impressions?” Perveen asked in a friendly tone.

He gave her a supercilious look. “I was trained in Calcutta in the Henry Fingerprint Classification System. I don’t suppose you know that fingerprinting science began in India?”

“I didn’t know,” she said honestly. “About how many fingerprints are on file in Bombay?”

“Over forty-five thousand,” he said with pride. “In these times, whenever a man is arrested, his fingerprints are taken.”

“Are there only criminals’ fingerprints on record?”

“Not exactly. Almost every sweeper and guard is requested to let us take impressions. We saw no guard at the gate. That is already suspicious. My inspector, Mr. R. H. Vaughan, will certainly pursue him.”

Feeling jittery, Perveen tried not to concentrate on her private suppositions that at least one of the women on the other side of the screen might have been involved with Mukri’s death. She was supposed to defend them, not throw them to the wolves.

Perveen studied the hallway, wondering if she might notice something important. She surveyed everything: the floral mosaics on the walls that bore splatters of the blood, the velvet stool that was knocked over, and the open door to a bedroom.

Perhaps this was where Mr. Mukri had slept. As Sub-Inspector Singh kept dusting, she got up and entered the room.

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