An Exclusive Excerpt from Nev Merch’s Debut Novel

In 1892, Bombay is the center of British India. Nearby, Captain Jim Agnihotri lies in Poona military hospital recovering from a skirmish on the wild northern frontier, with little to do but re-read the tales of his idol, Sherlock Holmes, and browse the daily papers. The case that catches Captain Jim’s attention is being called the crime of the century: Two women fell from the busy university’s clock tower in broad daylight.

Set against the vibrant backdrop of colonial India, Nev March’s award-winning lyrical debut, Murder in Old Bombay, brings this tumultuous historical age to life. Read an excerpt:

Four weeks had passed since young Mr. Adi Framji’s letter had burned through my fog in army hospital. Having persuaded the editor of the Chronicle of my seriousness, I rode a tonga through red gulmohur trees and stately houses to plead my case to the reclusive Mr. Framji. At the entrance to a great white house on Malabar Hill, a turbaned gateman disappeared through an ornate door with my calling card: Captain James Agnihotri, The Chronicle of India, Bombay.

Now standing atop a sweep of stairs outside Framji Mansion, I hoped to meet the man whose words would not leave me: They are gone but I remain.

Filled with trepidation, I breathed in the crisp morning air. Bougainvillea danced in the breeze beside fluted pillars, and scattered pink petals over smooth marble. The blooms’ wasted beauty struck a poignant note, echoing the tragic loss a few months past. Adi Framji’s wife and sister had fallen to their deaths from the university clock tower. Had the two women committed suicide, or were they murdered? The trial had failed to resolve the question for lack of evidence. Since young Mr. Framji had never spoken with the press, an interview could be the making of my new career. Hat in hand, I waited.

I’d either be told that Mr. Framji, student of law, son of a Parsee land-owner and now the bereaved widower, was “not at home” or I’d be granted the interview I requested last week. He had not replied to my note. I might have waited, but I was eager to establish myself as a journalist.

As I fingered the brim of my hat, the man returned, saying, “Adi Sahib will see you.”

I entered a marble foyer, and followed him to a morning room where light filtered through the greenery.

“Hello. I’m Adi.”

A thin, pale young man stood beside a wide desk, one hand splayed on the dark wood. Here was no invalid, I saw. He approached with a confident step. His immaculate white shirt and crisp collar framed lean features. A wide, bony forehead rose above narrow nose and clean-shaven jaw. He studied me through wire-rimmed glasses, gaze sharp but not unkind.

He saw a tall fellow with the arms and shoulders of a boxer and short-cropped hair that would not lie flat over one ear. The pale English complexion from my unknown father had weathered during my years on the Frontier. His eyes flickered over my military mustache and plain attire without inflection, yet I felt measured in some undefinable way.

“Jim, sir.” I stepped forward to shake hands. “My condolences on your loss.”

“Thank you. Military?” His grip was firm, his palm dry and smooth. “Fourteenth Light Dragoons, until recently. Stationed in Burma and the Northwest Frontier.”

“Cavalry. And now a journalist,” he said.

I attempted a smile. “Joined the Chronicle two weeks ago.”

Why the urge to explain my journalistic inexperience? We’d just met, but his pale, almost waxen pallor drew my attention. After the gruelling trial and uproar in the press, he had reason to dislike, if not despise, newsmen, yet he’d admitted me. Why?

Waving me to the settee, he took a chair beside it. Behind him, heavy bookshelves lined the wall—thick tomes, dark spines aligned, not ornamental, but substantial. Legal books, I supposed.

I expected the usual pleasantries: weather, how long in Bombay and so on, before I could broach the interview.

Instead, young Mr. Framji asked, “Why did you leave the army, Captain?”

 

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