The Spiritualist Read online

  “Yes, Sir. I personally delivered the cheque to Mr. Holoway yesterday evening.”

  “Please make sure there is no delay from the next month,” said Camleman, “I don’t like talking to Holloway, he smells like he bathes in onion and garlic sauce from China Town. Garlic is, according to Prof. Trezeguet’s latest research, rather bad for your brain. It makes the nerves responsible for logical thinking lethargic and inefficient.”

  Mr. Camleman sniffed pompously at his esoteric comment. He then scribbled something on the blank paper before crossing it and chucking the paper in a bin under the table. He took up another piece of paper and started writing upon it. Promptly he realized that Maya was still standing in his cabin. He put the pen in the inkwell and looked up grunting at her.

  “I had something to show you, sir,” said Maya and, summoning all the strength in her frame, took the few steps to Mr. Camleman’s desk. She kept the papers she held upon the letter that Camleman had been writing spoiling the still-wet ink. Mr. Camleman snatched the letter from under the papers but the ink had smeared already. He grunted again and chucked the paper in the bin glaring at Maya.

  “What’s this,” he asked Maya, flipping absently through the papers.

  “Sir,” said Maya shuffling her feet, “I have been working at the Bombay Detective Agency for six months now, and for some time I have been meaning to tell you that I think I deserve more…”

  “If you want a raise then I am sorry I cannot give you that,” snapped Mr. Camleman, “The finances of the agency have never been worse. There simply are no cases to solve. Either the criminals of Cardim have begun to respect the law or the police have suddenly become incredibly competent.”

  “No, Sir. I want a change of work. Well, no not exactly a change of work, only some additional work.”

  Mr. Camleman scrutinized her from above his spectacles, running his fingers through his long grey beard. “Are you asking me to give you the job of the cleaner boy?”

  “No, sir, not at all. I want to investigate cases.”

  There was a discernible change on Mr. Camleman’s countenance. His eyebrows slung up in surprise and his lips came together clenched tight even as he began to rap his fingers lightly on the table.

  “I am sorry Miss Mitchel,” he managed after some time, “I don’t think I heard you properly.”

  “Umm… I think you did sir. I want to become a detective. I don’t want any additional money but I want to investigate cases. And don’t worry, I’ll do the job that I am currently doing as well. No problem in that.”

  Mr. Camleman was still lost for words. He took up the bundle of papers that Maya had given her but failed to look properly through them.

  “You want to become a detective!” he exclaimed, “But why?”

  Maya was slightly distressed by the question. It seemed illogical. She wanted to become a detective because she wanted to become a detective. Wasn’t that reason enough?

  “I think I’ll do well as a detective sir,” she said simply.

  But Camleman was not convinced. In fact, he seemed to think of all this as absurd. As if Maya was trying to play a practical joke on him.

  “But that is impossible Maya,” he said, “all our detectives and researchers are distinguished men. We cannot recruit just anyone to help us solve crimes. That would make no sense.”

  Maya shuffled her feet uneasily thinking of a suitable reply to counter Camleman’s statements.

  “But sir,” she pointed to the papers that she had compiled, “I do have an experience of solving criminal cases. You can take a look at those papers. I am obviously not as experienced as some of the others here, but I too have a claim to certain fame. I have also already read your book on becoming a detective.”

  “If only a book could make you a proper detective.”

  “But Mr. Camleman…”

  Henry Camleman had had enough. He pushed the bundle of papers towards Maya, “I am sorry Maya but I am in no mood for any further conversation on this. You know that we are all very busy in the case of Randall Williams – the convict who escaped from the Vasco Prison. It’s been a long time since anything so interesting has come up and I want to focus all my energies on this case. There is a reward of 10,000 Cowries on his head and I would like the Bombay detective Agency to get it. If you read yesterday’s paper you would know that there has been another interesting development, Randall’s brother has been found murdered, I am sure this has something to do with him.”

  “But Sir,” Maya was not prepared to give up so easily, “just give me one chance. It would cost you no money. I am sure I would not disappoint you.”

  Camleman pulled the papers back, rocking his head in disbelief at the persistence of Maya. How did this woman get such absurd ideas? He tried to give the papers another consideration but stopped short once more. “It’s ludicrous Maya,” he said, “I cannot let a woman be a part of the job. It’s dirty, this work that we do. We deal with all the wrong kinds of people and tread to places where respectable women will not step in a thousand years. You will not be able to do any job. This job is not meant for a woman.”

  “But sir I have experience in dealing with the sort of people you are referring to. You do not know my background but I grew up with many such people. I think I can handle just fine.”

  Mr. Camleman rocked his head. He was running short of words but still could not bring himself to accept Maya’s proposal.

  “I am sorry Maya. I cannot let this happen, it is madness and I am not the sole authority in the matter. Even if I do give the approval I doubt others will. And the timing that you bring this up couldn’t have been worse. Everyone is just busy about this case of the escaped prisoner. There is a lot of money involved and I intend to focus on it. Please let me do it.”

  Maya shuffled her feet. She was on the verge of defeat but decided to give one last try.

  “But isn’t it unfair sir,” said she vehemently, “that just because I am a woman you are trying to strip me of an opportunity. We live in Cardim Free city where all men and women are equal.”

  Mr. Camleman seemed thoroughly irritated by Maya’s persistence. And this farce about gender equality which had been making waves in Cardim lately was just the sort of rubbish that he tended to dislike. Women and men were not made equal, physically or mentally. Today all these foolish gypsy women were asking to do men’s jobs, tomorrow they would ask men to do women’s jobs. It was ridiculous! Could men carry children in their stomachs?

  Henry Camleman decided to teach Maya a lesson. He looked straight into Maya’s eyes, “You think you are prepared,” he said in a stern expressionless voice, “then answer these questions and I would know how ready you are for being a detective in my agency.”

  Maya straightened up, ready for the test.

  “A middle-aged male committed suicide by shooting himself in the forehead. A Webley Bull Dog revolver was found in his right hand, the man was found to be right-handed as well. The area around the circular 11 cm entry wound on the right temple was littered with black marks and singed slightly. What can you deduce from this information?”

  Maya recalled the book about ballistics and firearms injury. She remembered vaguely the image of a rifle on the first page of the book and the cover, which had crinkled from moisture.

  “A suicide would generally mean a contact shot,” she said apprehensively, “that is the gun should have been in contact with the right temple. In a contact shot, the blackening you mentioned upon the temple is generally absent. Further, since the shot was on the skull, a hard bone, the wound should have been star-shaped, not circular if it was a contact shot. The black specks that you mentioned are caused due to gunpowder driving into the skin. That would not happen in a contact shot, only if the gun was at a distance of around 2-3 feet from the target. I don’t think a man can shoot himself from a distance of 2 feet so I would be inclined to say that the man did not shoot himself but was shot by someone else. It wasn’t a suicide but a murder.”

 
; If Henry Camleman was impressed, he did not let it show, instead he shrugged and continued.

  “A 63-year-old man was found dead in his room. A physician pronounced the cause of death to be an asthmatic attack. Though the man was not a patient of asthma, he had visited a physician a couple of days before his death complaining about breathing difficulties. After his death, the old man’s inheritance went to his nephew who, incidentally, worked with the same physician that the old man had visited to complain about his breathing difficulties. Suspecting potential foul play, the body was examined by an anatomist expert in toxicology but he found no traces of any poison in the body. That coupled with the fact that the old man was having difficulties in breathing already convinced the magistrate of the innocence of the nephew and he was acquitted of any guilt. Would you say the decision was correct?”

  “The data is not enough,” said Maya, “It is very suspicious, though, that one day the old man, who had no history of respiratory ailment, goes to the physician where his nephew worked, to complain about breathing problem and a few days later he is found dead by an asthmatic attack. It feels too coincidental at first glance. That the nephew was acquitted just based on the toxicology test does not seem prudent. Cyanide poisoning which causes death by impacting the respiratory system could cause similar symptoms to asthma and its traces disappear from the body rapidly after death. It is possible that the nephew could have planned to use the opportunity of the old man facing breathing issues and poisoned him by cyanide so that it seemed like his uncle died of an ailment while he was in fact poisoned. But this is pure conjecture and we need more data to support this theory.”

  Henry Camleman could not find many flaws in Maya’s reply. The woman seemed to be faring well and this did not bode well for the old man and his agency. He scratched his chin for half a minute before coming up with his next question.

  “An intelligent criminal,” said he in an expressionless voice, “escapes from the Vasco Prison after hijacking a police hansom and comes out through the North Gate on the Boulevard Avenue. As soon as he comes out of the gate, the guards stationed there recognize him and begin to chase him in their horse hansoms. Which route should the criminal take so that he has the greatest chance to escape?”

  Maya tried to picture the map of Sophia. According to the handbook written by Mr. Camleman, having a knowledge of the localities, roads, and streets of Cardim was paramount to the success of a detective working in the city. She had spent many nights trying to memorize each and every detail of Cardim but did not think she had been very successful in her endeavor. Memorizing the world’s biggest city was no simple task.

  “As the criminal stands on the Boulevard Avenue,” said Maya slowly thinking while speaking, “he has two choices. He could turn right to Vasco or he could turn left to New Cardim. Let's say he chooses to turn right. In two hundred yards he would come to Cardim Bank’s building from where he could either take another right to the Temple Bridge Market or he could take a left to the Cahira beach. The temple bridge Market is too crowded to give his hansom any chance to escape while if he turned towards the beach again he would run out of space to escape. So from the North gate of the prison, he should turn left to New Cardim, then two miles on the Boulevard avenue from the Tripoli Square he should take left on the Anthill road which is generally devoid of traffic and would give him a great chance to escape from the clutches of the chasing High Guards.”

  Camleman grinned in triumph. “Ha!” he said, “you are wrong. You forgot that he was an intelligent criminal Miss Mitchell and his aim was to escape, not escape in his carriage. And any intelligent criminal would know that it is far more prudent to take a right from the North Gate make it to the Temple Bridge Market, then disembark and melt into the crowd rather than take a left and invite the guards to a chase on an empty road.”

  He threw Maya’s credentials across the table. “You are not prepared,” he sniggered, “there is still a lot to be learned.”

  Maya’s face dropped. She thought she had done reasonably well, but then Henry Camleman was only looking for one reason to reject her and she had given him that. She picked the papers forlornly and turned to leave struggling to resist jumping upon the table and giving Mr. Camleman a punch upon his long nose.

  “Wait,” she heard Camleman’s voice behind her as she reached the door.

  “You need to improve,” said the old man once she had turned and walked over to him, “I think I have a case with which you can prune your skills.”

  Camleman handed Maya the letter which he had been reading when she had entered the room.

  “My friend is a paranormal researcher and spiritualist,” said Camleman, “One of those people who think that when men die they become spirits and stay back. Years ago, when both of us were teaching at the university, we had a 50 Cowrie bet that he would, one day, before either of us died, prove the existence of spirits to me. He now claims that he has the proof.”

  Maya took the letter and glanced over at the tidy handwriting. He was an old man, she gathered from a single white hair upon the paper (and also the fact that he was Camleman’s friend), rather portly from the impression his hand had made when he had leaned on the paper while writing, as well as left-handed from the direction of the ink smear on the paper.

  “I want you to investigate his claims,” said Camleman, “Obviously I want to win this bet. Let’s see if you can prove to him that there are no spirits in his house. You can find more details in the letter. Now off you go and do not disturb me.”

  Maya smiled at Camleman, mumbled a thanks, and drifted out of the room. Albeit an inconsequential one, she had her first official case and she intended to solve it at any cost

  THREE

  Death Comes to All

  The hansom stopped in the middle of Steel Mill Street in Vasco. It was late evening and the cobbled street, wet with the rain from the previous night, shimmered in the glare of the gas lights. Maya got down from the cab, her feet landing in one of the many gilded puddles, and surveyed her surroundings. On both sides of the street were single-storeyed gabled stone houses, each fronted by a well-maintained garden. This was one of the older parts of Vasco and the houses were in remarkable condition given their age. The house that she had an appointment in, however, stood out as a singular blot on the well-maintained locality. It seemed to have been the subject of decades of neglect. Ivy clung to the walls of the house, the roof tiles, once orange, were black with age and the garden in front was overgrown by an army of shrubs. A small jasmine bush grew in the middle of the garden, shading a stone bench upon which creepers crawled like tropical snakes. The garden was surrounded by a shabby, untrimmed hedge broken by a small wrought iron gate. The façade of the house had three large windows, one to the right of the main door and two more to the left, while the building was flanked on both sides by other houses, with no space in between.

  Maya crossed the gravel path threading the garden and knocked the door casting one glance upon her appearance. She was wearing the same long black skirt and a loose white blouse which she had worn to the office in the morning. Her hair was tied in a bun and she had no hat upon her head. She had considered wearing one of her better dresses for the occasion, to be in a more presentable state for her first case, but after fretting for half an hour about which dress to wear, had given up and not changed at all. Dressing up always made her nervous. In any case, she doubted that any dress could make her look even marginally attractive. She possessed features which no dress or cosmetic could possibly conceal – a tall bony frame with hardly any bosom, bushy jet black hair, two large brown eyes, and a claw-like nose upon an angular face. Maisie, her room partner, who spent most of her day experimenting with cosmetics, had once remarked that God must have been distracted while crafting her and had forgotten to put any feminine qualities inside.

  What these qualities exactly meant, Maya had very little clue and she cared naught for them.

  In the glow of the lamp hanging on a hook beside the door,
Maya noticed that her blouse had a large spot in the front where she had spilled tea in the morning. Her skirt too was creased and laden with a generous amount of dirt. Maya dusted her skirt to make herself slightly more presentable.

  The door opened and a fat, short man, bare-feet and in white trousers and shirt opened the door. He had a thick crop of silver hair upon his head, a rotund jovial face, and green eyes. In each of the five fingers of his right hand he wore thick rings, each with a different colored stone, while around his neck were at least half a dozen beaded garlands. Maya deduced from his appearance and the book in his hand, “History of Spirit Worship in Ancient America” that this was Prof. Mortemius Chinew. The old man studied Maya for a few moments, trying to gauge the purpose of her visit.

  “I am sorry,” he said after some time in a shrill childlike voice, “if you are here for the position of a maid which I had advertised for, you’ll have to accept my apologies. Moin, my caretaker, is not here and I would very much like him to take the interview before employing anyone. You can though, if you like, still make tea for me. If I like your tea I would drop in a good word for you. You see, I still can influence his decision.”

  “Hello Professor,” said Maya blushing, “I am not here to interview to be your maid. I am Maya Mitchell and I work for Professor Henry Camleman. He has sent me to verify your claims of the presence of spirits in your house.”

  The mention of Henry Camleman brought a look of familiarity upon the old man’s face. He smiled and invited Maya inside.

  “Please pardon me miss for mistaking you. I did not expect that Henry would give my letter any thought,” said Prof. Chinew, leading her into the living room, “but it seems he values 50 Cowries more than I thought.”

  The large living room was filled with unopened wooden crates and boxes. There was a single wooden chair for furniture and a pile of books lay on the floor in a corner. A large wooden box, seemingly used as a table, was littered by papers, ink, and pens. Chinew took up a rag and dusted the chair before offering it to Maya.