P RAI S E FOR

T H E S ATA P U R MOON STON E

An Amazon Best Book of the Month

A Book Riot Read or Dead Most Anticipated Mystery Novel
A CrimeReads Most Anticipated Crime & Mystery Novel
A CrimeReads Best Historical Crime Novel
A BookBub Most Anticipated Mystery Novel
A Goodreads Most Anticipated Mysteries and Thrillers of Spring
A CrimeReads Best Historical Crime Novel

‘Simply put, The Satapur Moonstone is a flawless gem. Historical

mysteries don’t get any better than this.’
New York Journal of Books

‘One of my favourite books of the year.’

Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine

‘Bright, determined . . . Perveen continues to engage us.’

The Seattle Times

‘[The Satapur Moonstone] has the most delicious sense of suspense.

It’s not necessary to read A Murder at Malabar Hill before under-
taking The Satapur Moonstone, but why deny yourself the pleasure
of experiencing two excellent novels? Needless to say, I am eagerly
awaiting the third book!’
Kittling Books

‘. . . even better than the series’ impressive debut . . . The winning,

self-sufficient Perveen should be able to sustain a long series.’
Publishers Weekly (starred review)

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‘Massey does a superb job of combining a fascinating snapshot into
1920s British-ruled India with a top-notch mystery.’
Library Journal (starred review)

‘[A] well-researched and convincing historical adventure.’

Wall Street Journal

‘[The Satapur Moonstone] will certainly please readers looking for an

engaging new female lead.’
Booklist

‘A meticulous engagement with another era, and another country,

whose conflicts of power reverberate into the contemporary.’
Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine

‘Massey devotes ample time to illustrating the politics and culture

of a remote Indian princely state and the personalities of a new
cast . . . The characters, even the unpleasant ones, are all intriguing,
and the investigation unfolds naturally.’
The Historical Novel Society

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Books by the Author
Z
THE PERVEEN MISTRY SERIES
A Murder at Malabar Hill
(also called The Widows of Malabar Hill )
The Satapur Moonstone

INDIA BOOKS
India Gray: Historical Fiction
The Sleeping Dictionary

JAPAN BOOKS
The Kizuna Coast
Shimura Trouble
Girl in a Box
The Typhoon Lover
The Pearl Diver
The Samurai’s Daughter
The Bride’s Kimono
The Floating Girl
The Flower Master
Zen Attitude
The Salaryman’s Wife

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Sujata Massey
the
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moonstone

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First published in Australia and New Zealand by Allen & Unwin in 2020
First published in the United States in 2019 by Soho Press, Inc

Copyright © Sujata Massey 2019

Published by arrangement with Soho Press, New York, through Rights

People, London.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in

any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying,
recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior
permission in writing from the publisher. The Australian Copyright Act 1968
(the Act) allows a maximum of one chapter or 10 per cent of this book, whichever
is the greater, to be photocopied by any educational institution for its educational
purposes provided that the educational institution (or body that administers it) has
given a remuneration notice to the Copyright Agency (Australia) under the Act.

Allen & Unwin

83 Alexander Street
Crows Nest NSW 2065
Australia
Phone: (61 2) 8425 0100
Email: info@[Link]
Web: [Link]

A catalogue record for this

book is available from the
National Library of Australia

ISBN 978 1 76052 942 0

Internal Janine Agro

Maps by Philip Schwartzberg
Printed and bound in Australia by Griffin Press, part of Ovato

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

The paper in this book is FSC® certified.

FSC® promotes environmentally responsible,
socially beneficial and economically viable
management of the world’s forests.

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 THE ROYA L FAMILY 
OF S ATAPU R
Mohan Rao
1856-1911 ( 1876
Putlabai of
Dewas sr.
1861-

$Swaroop
1886- ( 1912
Vijaya of
Sangli
1896

$
Mahendra Rao
1878-1919
( 1905
Keya of Bhor
(Mirabai)
1889-

$ $ $

Pratap Rao Jiva Rao Padmabai
1907-1920 1911- 1914-


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1
TH E RI D I NG R ING

P erveen Mistry sighed, adjusting her hat on her sweating

brow. It was six-thirty in the morning and already eighty-two
degrees. Cantering around the riding ring at the Royal Western
India Turf Club, never quite keeping up with her friend Alice,
was vigorous exercise.
Alice Hobson-Jones was cantering on a large bay, Kumar, who
had been born from racing stock. He’d wound up as an exercise
horse because his stature was a few hands too short for the race-
track. Still, Kumar was a prince of a horse, and since Alice was
almost six feet tall, their union dominated the ring.
Perveen, five feet three inches, had been delighted to be
assigned a female pony, which she had assumed would be gen-
tler. Dolly was so short Perveen had been able to swing herself
over the saddle without being propped up by the grooms, an
awkward ritual she’d had to repeat most of the times she’d ridden.
However, the little horse was hardly amenable to the directions
Perveen tapped out with her feet. She was no horsewoman, and
it seemed that Dolly sensed it.
Still, this horseback ride was less frightening than the times Per-
veen had ridden huge animals during house-party weekends Alice
had brought her to in England. Now the shoe was on the other
foot. Perveen had come home to practice law in Bombay, and Alice
was on an extended visit trying to find a teaching position. In a
city where the Mistrys had resided for almost 350 years, Perveen’s
family connections opened doors, and it looked likely that Alice
would be hired as a lecturer in mathematics at Wilson College.

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2 S U J ATA M A S S E Y

Alice had campaigned hard to get Perveen to awaken early

enough to ride at six o’clock three times that week. At the outset,
it had seemed like a pleasant idea. The rains had stopped, making
the city navigable, although as the sun rose, it became a hot and
windy place again.
As Perveen came around the ring, she noticed Alice’s father,
Sir David Hobson-Jones, standing at the edge. He was a Western
India Turf Club trustee, despite the fact that he’d been in Bombay
for only two years. That was the kind of thing that happened
when one was part of the governor’s ring of top three councillors.
Sir David smiled, making a sweeping gesture with his hand.
Perveen trotted around the ring, concentrating on keeping her
back straight. As she passed Sir David, he made the same gesture,
only more vigorously.
He was calling her over.
She felt her stomach sink. Perhaps he’d come to say someone
in the club had complained about an Indian rider; she was the
only one she’d seen.
Perveen hated to kick the filly, but this was the way she’d
been taught to make horses move. Dolly ignored her. It was not
until Perveen kicked a few more times that the horse reluctantly
walked from the ring into the area near the gate where grooms
waited to assist. A scrawny boy held the horse while she half-fell
off. She was brushing her dusty hands on the sides of her split
skirt when Sir David strolled up. He wore a sharp white suit that
looked utterly unsuitable for riding.
“Good morning, Sir David. Did you ride earlier?” She tried
to sound less shaken than she felt. If Perveen was going to be
thrown out of the European-established club because of her race,
she could not let the matter pass without protest. But Sir David
didn’t know she was a member of the Indian National Congress,
an all-Indian group advocating for civil rights. He understood
only that she was his daughter Alice’s former classmate at Oxford,
a young woman who was rising in Bombay’s legal scene.

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T H E S ATA P U R M O O N S T O N E 3

He shook his head. “I came for a quick breakfast before going

over to the Secretariat. The eggs are very good here. Would you
care to join me?”
So she wasn’t being thrown out, which was good news. Still,
she disliked the idea of going off without telling Alice.
“But I’m . . .” Perveen gestured at her riding clothing,
which was not a sporty tweed habit like Alice wore but a light
cotton jacket and a voluminous split skirt, the slightly out-
moded garment her mother had presented her with as being
suitable for an Indian woman doing something as outré as
horseback riding.
“Don’t give it another thought. People wear riding clothes on
the veranda. I’ll be the odd one out.”
She still felt uneasy. “But Alice—”
“She’ll know where to find us.” Lowering his voice, the gov-
ernor’s chief councillor said, “I’ve business to discuss with you
anyway, before she arrives.”

Business was a welcome prospect for a Bombay lawyer who was

well known but not as busy as she’d like. In the ladies’ lounge,
Perveen scrubbed the track’s dust from her face and hands and
brushed out her hair before fixing it up again in a coronet. She
left off the pith helmet she’d been wearing, although its absence
revealed a bright red line running straight across her forehead.
Walking out to the veranda, she felt multiple pairs of English
eyes on her. Was it because she’d been seen with Sir David, or was
it the silly split skirt?
Sir David waved encouragingly at her, and this set off a chorus
of whispers.
“I’ve taken the liberty of ordering you breakfast,” he said.
“You go straight to work after this, don’t you?”
“I try to open up the office before eight,” she said, putting on
her best business voice. “It’s the only time one can attack one’s
papers without interruption.”

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4 S U J ATA M A S S E Y

“Yes. As I mentioned, I may have a good prospect for Mistry

Law.”
She leaned forward so eagerly she almost knocked her empty
teacup out of its saucer. “Does someone you know need a lawyer?”
A slender waiter in a crisp, high-necked jacket righted her
cup and poured a golden stream of Darjeeling into it. Sir David
smiled benevolently. “Yes. I do.”
She looked at him hard. Was he in trouble at work? “Remember
that I’m a solicitor. The Bombay court does not yet allow women
advocates to approach the bench, but my father can—”
“That is irrelevant,” he said, cutting off the rest of her expla-
nation. “Have you heard of the Kolhapur Agency?”
She was surprised by the simple question. Spooning sugar into
her cup, she said, “Certainly. It’s the branch of the civil service
that oversees Kolhapur State and falls under purview of Bombay
Presidency.”
“It’s a bit more than that,” he said. “The Kolhapur Agency has
authority over twenty-five princely and feudal states in Western
India. The agency’s officers are political agents and residents who
maintain relationships between British India and these states.”
Perveen was embarrassed she hadn’t known how many states
were overseen by the Kolhapur Agency. But why was he asking
about it, anyway?
The young waiter came back with a plate of scrambled eggs,
toast, and kippers for each of them. The eggs looked fluffy, the toast
appropriately buttered, but Perveen did not like kippers. She
resolved to try one, out of courtesy to her host.
It was like that with the British. An Indian could not prosper
without contact with them, but one did not have to become a
Britisher in habits. As she shook green chilies over her eggs, she
considered the picture that Sir David was painting. Although the
British government had power over approximately 61 percent of
the subcontinent, the rest of India was a patchwork of large and
small states and landholdings ruled by Hindus, Muslims, and a

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few Sikhs. In exchange for being exempted from British rule,

many royals paid tributes to the British, most often soldiers in
the form of cash and crops. And as Sir David indicated, the states
still had to cooperate with the desires of the political agents.
Sir David slid one of the kippers into his mouth, chewed
with relish, and continued the conversation. “At the moment, the
Agency is challenged. They’ve sent out a request for help finding
a legal investigator to step in and assist with business in one of
their northernmost states.”
“How interesting,” said Perveen, the wheels already turning
as she thought about the suitable lawyers she might refer. “Tell
me more. How long has the position been open? And how much
time will the job take?”
“The matter came up at a meeting last week, and the others
agreed with me that you are probably the only person in India
who could do it.”
Perveen almost lost her grip on her teacup but steadied herself.
The hell if she’d be the one to work for Britain, which had kept
India under its elephant feet since the 1600s. But she had to be
diplomatic. Carefully, she said, “I’m honored that you’d consider
me for a government position, but I’d never leave my father’s
practice. He just promoted me to partner last month.”
“Congratulations! But you do serve clients who are willing to
pay a fair rate—isn’t that the reason to have a firm?”
Perveen nodded warily.
“Rest assured this is a one-off job—it will probably take a
week, with a little more billing time afterward when you’re back
in Bombay writing the report.” He paused. “Have you tried a
kipper yet? They’re made from a local fish, not the usual Scottish
herring.”
A tiny, bony local fish that she considered bait, not good
eating. Reluctantly, she put it in her mouth. As she chewed the
unpleasant fish, she thought.
Things weren’t especially busy at the office; she had a few

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6 S U J ATA M A S S E Y

contracts to finish, but the prospect of more than a week’s work

for a prestigious employer would please her father, Jamshedji
Mistry, who saw the British as allies, not adversaries. Still, it was
out of town, and he wouldn’t like that. Working some eggs over
the top of the rest of the kippers, which she was determined to
avoid, Perveen said, “Kolhapur is more than three hundred miles
from Bombay. Is that where I’d have to go?”
“Not quite that far. Have you heard of Satapur?”
“It’s a minuscule state somewhere in the Sahyadri Mountains.”
Perveen remembered its shape, rather like a rabbit posed on hind
legs, from her school geography book. “I don’t know that I could
point to it on a map or name its ruler.”
“It’s just forty square miles,” he said. “And there isn’t a royal
sitting on the gaddi at the moment. His Majesty Mahendra Rao
died two years ago from the cholera. His son, the maharaja Jiva
Rao, is just ten years old.”
Perveen tried to imagine the situation at hand. “So although
Jiva Rao is already the maharaja in name, it will be at least eight
years till he takes power. Does his mother rule until then?”
“Women don’t hold power in most princely states. Because
Satapur’s ruler is underage, the state’s decisions are made by its
prime minister and our political agent, who happens to reside
at the circuit house on the border between Satapur and the hill
station of Khandala.”
“Running a princely state must be a challenge for a British
political agent,” Perveen said skeptically, “especially if he’s not
even living in the palace.”
Sir David waved a dismissive hand. “A palace minister does
the day-to-day, sending reports to Mr. Sandringham on all that
transpires. And the prime minister, Prince Swaroop of Satapur, is
the maharaja’s uncle, so that’s cozy.”
Perveen took a bite of toast. Buttered toast was one thing the
British did very well. “What can you tell me about the political
agent?”

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“Colin Wythe Sandringham has been at the post for about ten
months. He is responsible for the well-being of the royal children
and the late maharaja’s widow.”
“What children? You only mentioned Prince Jiva Rao.”
“He has a little sister, but I don’t know her name.”
Perveen didn’t like the way he had almost forgotten about the
princess, nor that he had labeled the young maharaja’s mother a
widow, when she should have been called a queen. Pointedly, she
asked, “What is the maharani’s given name?”
“Mirabai.” He pronounced the name slowly, in his Oxbridge
accent. “At least she’s not alone—the late Maharaja Mahendra
Rao’s mother, the dowager maharani, is still ruling the zenana. I
don’t recall her name.”
Of course, she thought. Sir David was better than most English
administrators—and he certainly had been respectful of her own
professional accomplishments—but he seemed to share the
common belief that the vast majority of Indian women were
faceless, nameless, and passive.
He sipped his tea. “I think it’s splendid the mother and
daughter-in-law have each other for company. But according to
Mr. Sandringham, a bitter dispute has arisen between the two
maharanis about the prince’s education.”
This was a common enough problem, regardless of whether
one had royal blood. In Perveen’s own family, there had been
disagreements about whether she should study law, as her father
wished, or literature, which was her own choice. It hadn’t been
until she’d been out of school for years that she had realized
practicing law could bring her a lot more excitement in life than
analyzing novels.
Unaware of her thoughts, Sir David continued. “Maharaja
Jiva Rao’s mother wishes him to attend Ludgrove, where several
other Indian princes are studying. But the grandmother, who still
sees herself as superior to her daughter-in-law, doesn’t want him
to go.”

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Perveen had finished everything except the kippers. She wanted

something sweet to take the edge off. She signaled the waiter.
“Have you any guavas?”
He grimaced. “No good ones today, memsahib.”
“Very well. I’ll take another piece of toast.” She turned back to
Sir David. “Where in India is Prince Jiva Rao studying?”
“In the palace. He receives lessons from the Indian tutor who
taught the last two generations of maharajas.”
“I suppose he could be a good teacher. Certainly an experi-
enced one,” Perveen said, imagining this man would be over sixty.
“These are answers you could find out for us when you visit
the palace. Mr. Sandringham paid a call in September, but he was
not admitted due to the maharanis’ custom of seclusion.”
“Hindu maharanis often observe purdah,” Perveen said. “If
the agent is determined, he should return and ask to speak to
each lady through a screen. That is common when purdah ladies
are needed to testify in a court of law.”
“Going back to try again has its problems. You see, Mr. San-
dringham is a cripple,” Sir David said bluntly.
“A cripple!” Perveen’s eyes widened. She was quite surprised
the British had put someone with a disability in a position of
great responsibility and dispatched him far into the countryside.
Probably he had a gigantic staff to assist him. How else could one
manage?
“Others in the Kolhapur Agency suggested sending him again;
however, I don’t wish to compromise his health when the inter-
view with purdah ladies could be accomplished with more ease
by a woman lawyer.”
Sir David remembered what she’d done in Malabar Hill at the
beginning of the year. She felt a rush of gratitude, knowing how
easily things could have gone another way. Few lawyers could
help women in seclusion, and she’d been involved in just such
a case. Women who observed purdah could not meet with men
outside of their immediate families. Nodding, she said, “You

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wish me to get behind the curtain, interview both maharanis,

and report my opinion on the maharaja’s schooling.”
“There’s another aspect to the interview,” Sir David said.
“There are ongoing concerns about land improvement, such as
bringing in railway lines, building dams, and so forth. What the
maharanis and any other nobles in the palace think about these
possibilities is valuable knowledge.”
“It truly is an investigator’s job.” Perveen took a bite of toast
and chewed slowly, allowing herself time to think. This sounded
like a straightforward consulting assignment. And the twenty-five
states included in the Kolhapur group were home to hundreds of
royal women. If word slipped through their purdah screens that a
lady lawyer stood ready to assist with their concerns, Mistry Law
might receive a tremendous number of new clients.
But what was the financial value of the endeavor? Sir David
might hope she’d perform the job at a discounted rate due to
their connection. But the British government wouldn’t get away
with underpaying her the way they did Indians in general. They
wanted her. She had power.
Pursing her lips, she said, “I’m trying to fathom how this job
could be billed.”
He answered promptly. “Twenty rupees a day—the salary of a
district sub-inspector.”
Not terrible, but nothing to boast to her father about. She
shrugged.
“However, your traveling expenses would be on par with a
commissioner’s. All rail travel will be first class, and you’ll be able
to stay in rest bungalows for ICS officers as needed. There will
either be some horseback riding or palanquin travel.”
“A palanquin is one of those awful boxes on poles, isn’t it?”
She had a dislike of closed-in spaces.
“Sandringham suggested it. He says that part of the route is
not easily negotiated by horses. Local men handle the palanquin,
start to finish. And you’ll enjoy the scenery as you travel.”

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She raised a cynical eyebrow.

“The Sahyadri Mountains are beautiful beyond compare. This
month is post-rainy season. It is at least fifteen degrees cooler
than Bombay.” He finished with a flourish, reminding her of the
hawkers near the Royal Bombay Yacht Club who proclaimed
the splendor of the tourist boat ride out to Elephanta Island.
Gentle rains in the mountains sounded better than the hot
winds of early October in Bombay, but she didn’t want to seem
too excited. “There’s always a load of contract work at our office.
Making twenty rupees sitting at my desk isn’t hard to do in a
day’s time.”
He was silent for a moment and then grunted. “Understood.
I’m fairly sure I can persuade them to commit twenty-five rupees
per day.”
This was phenomenal. Keeping a poker face, she said, “Duly
noted.”
Her happy reverie was interrupted when Alice strode onto
the veranda, showing no signs of having washed hands or face.
“Hallo, Perveen! Here you are!”
“Sorry. Your father invited me to breakfast. I hope you weren’t
worried that I’d vanished.”
“Not at all. Has he convinced you to take the job yet?”
“What? You knew about it?” Perveen’s gaze went from her
friend to the smug-looking Sir David.
“Why else do you think we’ve been riding around the ring all
week?” Alice yawned. “I’ve been refreshing your skills.”
“How dare you trick me?” Perveen hooted with laughter. She
was relieved and excited, but she didn’t want Alice to keep secrets
from her. “You’re a dreadful excuse for a friend.”
Alice grinned and said, “Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth.”

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A V I S I TO R TO K H A NDA L A

A ditya, the official jester attached to Satapur Palace, was feeling

sore from a long horseback ride. Satapur Palace was four hills
away from the Khandala Railway Station. Because of the thick fog
and broken, muddy paths, the journey had taken six hours instead
of five. The sun had just risen when he’d set off on a short, sturdy
gray mare. People had traveled the narrow path for centuries, so it
was easy to see where to go; but the long summer’s rains had left it
treacherously slippery. He had been in a constant battle to keep the
nervous horse moving forward to reach Khandala Station.
Now he sat half-hidden in the shadow of the station’s roof. He
preferred traveling to trying his jokes on the palace’s people, who
had given up laughing years before. He’d had a cup of tea and
was smoking his third cheroot. There were no travelers waiting to
board, but sticking to the schedule, the train would still stop. He
anticipated the people on board would step out and exclaim at the
beauty of the tall, silent green hills, the streams of water running
down them like silver tears. All this nonsense he’d heard before.
The horn sounded well before the black steam engine train
chugged up to the platform. A young conductor opened the door
and jumped out, and a small flood of local boys appeared from
out of the trees, quickly tying red scarves around their heads to
signify their status as coolies approved by the stationmaster.
Khandala was most popular in spring, when it was a delightful
respite from Bombay’s heat. In rainy season, the hill station became
unreachable. The rains were so long and hard that the train, which
ran a steep route from Neral Junction, temporarily stopped.

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Aditya watched an elderly man totter out of the train’s general

section, followed by two more men and a family.
The conductor was poised at the steps of the first-class car-
riage, looking impatient. A boy sprang down, easily balancing
a small trunk on his head. From the warm brown leather and
geometric golden pattern, Aditya recognized it as Louis Vuitton,
a brand favored by both Europeans and wealthy Indians.
Aditya moved out of the shadows to get a closer look. A dainty
foot in a beige leather boot emerged before its owner: an Indian
woman swathed in a butter-yellow sari embroidered in blue
and gray paisley designs. She wore a white lace-trimmed blouse
underneath her silk sari, which made her look like some of the
wealthy Parsi women he’d seen at the races and society parties
in Poona. Yet instead of a delicate parasol, she carried a brown
bridle-leather briefcase.
He gaped at the briefcase, not quite believing his eyes. It must
have belonged to her husband, who was surely coming off the
train, too. Her husband would be the P. J. Mistry, Esquire, men-
tioned in the letters the maharanis had received.
But nobody else stepped off the train.
As if feeling his gaze, the woman turned. Impertinent greenish-
brown eyes regarded him from above a hooked nose—a Parsi
nose; of that he was certain.
Aditya felt deflated. His body was sore from the long journey,
and now the lawyer everyone was worried about hadn’t come.
The lady turned from him to speak to the coolie who’d
unloaded her suitcase. She gave him a coin; although Aditya
could not see what it was, he guessed it was more than the usual
paisa, because the boy had pressed it to his forehead and was
beaming like a fool.
Idly, he wondered why she was going on holiday by herself.
Perhaps she was meeting someone; Khandala was popular with
Europeans and wealthy Indians.
A man dressed in shabby brown clothing came out of the

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train’s third-class compartment, carrying a sack marked with the

symbol of the Imperial Mail. He dropped it on the platform.
As if on cue, the region’s only postal cart, a small wooden
stagecoach driven by two locals, Pratik and his teenaged son,
Charan, came up the rough path. Aditya was friendly with them,
but he drew back because he didn’t want them to call out to him.
“You’re late!” The stationmaster rebuked them loud enough
for Aditya to hear. “It’s not just letters that are waiting. There is
a memsahib.”
“What is late, and what is early?” was the amiable response of
Pratik. Pratik lumbered down from the driver’s seat and took a
long stretch before accepting the bundle of mail.
Aditya was startled to see Charan approach the woman. Aditya
could not make out her reply, but Charan began gesturing as if
she should follow him. When she reached the postal cart, the
boy pulled down the back gate. From his watching place, Aditya
could see the woman’s shoulders curling downward as she looked
inside. Perhaps she was afraid.
Aditya soon realized the woman traveler had stooped for rea-
sons of practicality. She placed her right foot on Charan’s hands,
which he had clasped together, making a step for her. In the next
instant, she’d tumbled into the back of the postal cart, clutching
the briefcase to her chest. As she fell, her sari flared, and he
glimpsed cinnamon-colored skin over the top of her kidskin
boots. This was a titillating sight, something he could exaggerate
into an unseemly joke for the palace.
Charan latched the back of the wagon and went swiftly to the
bench seat at the front. Aditya watched as the young man seated
himself next to his father and took the sack of mail between his
ankles.
Pratik rapped the horses with one stroke of his whip, and they
were off.

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TH E AG E N T O F S ATA P UR

“M iss Perveen Mistry?”

Perveen opened her eyes, and then shut them fast in
response to a harsh white light.
“Welcome to Satapur,” boomed a cheerful English voice. “I
hope you aren’t feeling poorly?”
“No, I’m fine. I must have dozed off,” Perveen said, struggling
into a sitting position. How undignified she must have looked—
she hadn’t meant to arrive this way, especially in front of the
Englishman who was presumably the Satapur agent. “I can’t see
you with that light in my eyes.”
The light swung away from her eyes. “Sorry! I’m Colin San-
dringham. I’m here to walk you up to the circuit house. That
is—if you’re P. J. Mistry, Esquire.”
She was confused because Sir David had mentioned the man
having a disability. “I am indeed. And it was most kind of you to
meet me. It must have been a dismal wait in the dark.”
“Oh, I was on the veranda until ten minutes ago. I saw the
lantern and knew it had to be the postal cart. Pratik, how are
you?” He said the last bit in English-accented Marathi.
The postman answered, “Well enough. I also have letters for you.”
“What time is it?” Perveen wondered how long she’d been
sleeping.
“It’s about six-thirty,” Mr. Sandringham said.
Perveen stretched her legs down the four feet of space between
the cart and the ground. As she touched the earth, she felt the
telltale sinking of mud. She bit back the Gujarati curse that

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came to mind. She was wearing brand-new beige kidskin boots

that buttoned up to the ankle, a special pair that her mother,
Camellia, and sister-in-law, Gulnaz, had helped her buy a day
earlier in Bombay.
“How practical!” Camellia had enthused. “They cover the
whole foot and even the ankle. With all the traveling in the moun-
tains, they will serve you better than sandals.”
“But you mustn’t wear them in the palace!” Gulnaz warned.
“English boots don’t suit saris. The palace’s maharanis will prob-
ably wear jeweled slippers. Perveen, you can borrow the ones
from my wedding trousseau. I hardly wore them.”
Perveen wistfully remembered her own bridal trousseau:
dozens of fine silk saris, embroidered cashmere shawls, and fancy
slippers like the ones Gulnaz had. Four years earlier, Perveen had
abandoned the loot in Calcutta, along with her marriage. In her
new life as a lawyer, she dressed practically—but she sometimes
missed what she’d once owned.
“I’m not worried about you being in a palace,” Camellia had
fretted. “As Pappa said, when stories go around about this job,
it could promote the law firm. But I worry about you traveling
alone in the wilderness. If something happens, you might never
be found!”
“It won’t be like that,” Perveen had promised. But if her
mother had known she’d traveled three hours in the back of a
postal cart—treated like luggage, rather than a lady—she’d want
Perveen to turn right around and go back to Bombay.
Perveen stood, stretching. The closed-in cart had been musty
with the scent of damp paper. Now she breathed in refreshing
cool air. Sir David had been correct about the weather. She won-
dered about the rest.
Mr. Sandringham’s voice cut into her thoughts. “Can you see
well enough to follow me up to the circuit house?”
“Yes. I’m glad to stand and move about.” She rotated her
ankles, feeling her feet come back to life.

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“Please follow me closely; there are obstacles along the path.

We’re a quarter mile away, and we’ll walk near a bluff with a
rather steep drop. What did you bring?”
She knew from experience it was important not to let her
Swaine Adeney briefcase out of her hands. “I’ve got two pieces.
I can carry my briefcase myself, but I’m afraid the trunk is too
heavy.”
“Charan and Pratik will bring it up—and in thanks I’ll offer
them a chance to stay the night. Rain has been coming in fits and
starts, and I wasn’t sure if the cart would make it.”
“Do you typically bring people up by postal cart?” she asked,
following along in the wake of the bobbing lantern he held. He
leaned toward his right, where she caught sight of a walking stick.
So he was lame; that was hardly what she’d call being crippled.
“I’m afraid tonga carts are only at the station when weather is
dry. But the post comes on every train, and it’s met by these two
postmen. Hence, we’ve developed a system.”
“That seems efficient.” She didn’t want to say the ride had
been comfortable, because it hadn’t been. But there was no reason
to complain. She was still in shock that the Kolhapur Agency
had confirmed her to serve as a “lady legal investigator.” They
must not have heard she was a supporter of Mohandas Gandhi,
the freedom activist who was agitating throughout Bombay
against British products. Perveen’s father, Jamshedji, had been
worried about Perveen’s attendance at Gandhiji’s most recent
public meeting. If the government thought that Mistry Law
was aligning itself with political protest, the firm’s property taxes
could be raised. It had happened to others.
But Perveen was thrilled that Gandhiji had spoken to her
directly in their shared language, Gujarati. He’d asked if she
could encourage more women to join the cause.
The maharanis she was about to meet were fabulously wealthy.
Would she be brave enough to bring up the idea of supporting
the freedom movement? Would that be in conflict with her

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assigned job to recommend a plan for Prince Jiva Rao’s educa-

tion and to understand the family’s sentiments about the state’s
development?
Absolutely it would be.
Perveen sighed inwardly and kept her eyes on the dark shape
of Mr. Sandringham.
“When the sun’s shining tomorrow, you’ll see some spectac-
ular views!” he called back to her. “It’s thick jungle, but from
Marshall Point, one can see the five surrounding hills.”
“Yes,” Perveen said, feeling slightly breathless from the uphill
climb. She wasn’t used to exerting herself.
“It’s only a bit farther.”
Indeed, they’d come up to a stone path lined by torches illu-
minating the way to a massive house with a steeply pitched roof.
A lantern hanging from the porch’s center shone on a dark brown
monkey settled inside an eave. The nestled monkey had a fluffy
lion’s ruff of golden hair.
Perveen sighed with pleasure. “I’ve never seen that type of
monkey.”
In the half light, Sandringham smiled. “He’s a lion-tailed
macaque. I call him Hanuman, after the monkey god in the
Rāmāyana.”
Perveen had noted earlier he spoke some Marathi, and now it
sounded as if he’d read the Hindu epic. “He has a most intelli-
gent face,” she said, keeping her eyes on the monkey, who looked
impassively at her. “And he looks so calm. He’s quite different
from the gray monkeys one sees in the city.”
“Those gray monkeys—the rhesus—always look absolutely
disgusted with us.” With a snort, he added, “It’s as if they’re
pointing out we’ve destroyed their habitat. But there are no paved
streets or high buildings here. Hanuman’s family lives in the trees
out back, and they have plenty of sources of food.”
As the two of them came into the warm golden light of the
veranda, Perveen saw Mr. Sandringham in full. He was a young

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civil service officer, perhaps still under thirty, although his wire-
rimmed glasses gave him an aura of intellectualism. But he did
not wear the typical linen suit that ICS officers like Sir David
did. Instead, his lanky frame was clothed in a rumpled white
shirt with an ink stain on the chest pocket and wrinkled khaki
jodhpurs tucked into riding boots. Sandringham looked like a
scholar who’d stumbled into the jungle—and his uses of zoolog-
ical nomenclature and the Rāmāyana added to that impression.
She belatedly realized he was also studying her. He blinked
behind his glasses and said, “It’s the oddest thing, but you look
familiar. Where have we met?”
There were Parsi families who socialized regularly with the
British for the sake of advancement, but the Mistrys weren’t like
that. Perveen’s only British friend in India was Alice Hobson-
Jones, whom Perveen had met during her Oxford days. “I don’t
recall a meeting. Have you worked in Bombay?”
“No, all my postings have been in the mofussil.”
“If you’ve been in the countryside, we haven’t met.” She
shrugged, wanting to put the matter to rest. She had liked him
better in the dark, when he’d been talking about monkeys and
the land.
A thin, silver-haired old man wearing a homespun lungi and
vest came out of the bungalow and took the trunk on his head.
He turned neatly and practically skipped up the stairs and into
the house.
“Who is that spry gentleman?” Perveen inquired as she went
up the few stairs that led to a long, wide veranda covered in red
and green encaustic tiles, more practical than wood in such a
damp climate. Behind the veranda, the whitewashed circuit
house was a long, utilitarian rectangle with a dozen doors facing
outward. The windows were covered by heavy shutters—more
defense against the rains.
“Rama. He’s the head bearer, who cooks and does . . . other
important things.”

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“He seems very strong for an old man!” Perveen wondered what
the other important things he did were. She followed Mr. San-
dringham, whose limp was now clearly visible. She wondered if
he’d been hurt in the war but decided it was too personal to ask.
“Your room is on the end here. I’m sure you’ll want time for
rest and washing up. But first, let’s go into the office so you can
sign the guest book. We maintain records of all who’ve stayed
here going back to the 1870s.”
The high-ceilinged room was lit only by a hurricane lamp
burning on the table. There was a series of glass-doored cabinets
with books and folios stored within, and a big teak desk with a
marble top. Mr. Sandringham ushered her toward the desk and
the book lying on it, its leather cover smudged with mildew. He
opened it up to a page full of names written in many variations
of cursive handwriting, followed by dates, addresses, and short
personal messages. The last line showed a visitor with a date in
the previous week. He was Graham Andrews, MD: a doctor,
most likely in the Indian Medical Service. The names above Dr.
Andrews’s were also English. Perhaps she was the first Indian to
stay in the circuit house. It was the kind of thing her father would
have been proud of, but that made her uneasy.
Perveen picked up the waiting fountain pen, filled it with ink,
and neatly wrote P. J. Mistry and the address of the firm on the
line.
“When you leave, you may write your comments on the expe-
rience!” Sandringham said brightly.
This immediately made her nervous. “Actually, the person on
the line above me didn’t comment.”
“That’s because Dr. Andrews is a regular caller. His surgery is a
few miles away. He dines here at least once weekly,” he said, looking
down at the page. “Perhaps we’ll see him tonight or tomorrow.”
So they were friends.
Turning her attention back to the room, she noticed that
behind the table there stood a high-backed chair that looked fit

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for a judge. Along the side of the room were more high-backed
chairs.
“This place is called the circuit house. Do you preside over a
court?” she asked, wondering if she should have addressed him
differently.
“Oh, no!” He gave a light chuckle. “I’ve no judicial degree.
Judges from nearby courts travel in when needed.”
“But this is princely India, not British India. How could you
hold trials here?”
“In cases of conflict. Theoretically, a citizen could say the
maharaja had treated him unfairly and ask for a second opinion.
Just as a judge must preside here if one of the maharanis chooses
to argue against our decision on the maharaja’s schooling.”
Perveen knew the government expected her to broker an agree-
ment between the royal women. If she didn’t accomplish it, she
would have failed. Pushing down her feeling of anxiety, she tried
to change the subject. “It’s a lovely building, but rather remote.
How does Mrs. Sandringham like living so far from civilization?”
“Sorry?” His narrow eyebrows rose.
“I was asking about your wife.”
A slow flush spread over his cheeks. “I’m afraid I have no better
half. Typically, bachelors are given remote posts like this one.”
Perveen went rigid. Had Sir David known all along Colin
Sandringham was a bachelor? Her father would never have
accepted the prospect of her staying overnight in a solitary
male’s dwelling. Now her name was written in the guest book.
There was a chance this evidence of her staying under a single
man’s roof could spread all around Poona and Bombay. It could
ruin her good name.
Mr. Sandringham spoke quickly, as if he’d realized she wasn’t
pleased by the situation. “Besides Rama, there’s Hari, who helps
him in the house, and Mohit, who works with horses in the stable.
Hari sleeps on the veranda, and Rama and Mohit share a hut in
the garden. There is additional space for servants traveling with

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guests, and that is where Charan and Pratik will bunk tonight.
We have the protection of a guard dog, Desi, who will be loose
from after suppertime into the morning hours. Nothing’s ever
happened here—but if you feel nervous, ring the bell, and we’ll
all come running.”
Except that he couldn’t run. And he seemed to think the
danger to her was from the outside, not from him. Striving to
sound neutral, she said, “This is a remarkable bungalow with
an interesting arrangement of rooms, all stretched out along the
veranda. Is it typical of British officer housing?”
“Yes. These mountain bungalows need to be built quickly,
between rains, and all materials for building are hauled up by
donkey. You may have noticed the house has a very steep pitched
roof to allow rain to drain quickly.”
“Yes. That is sensible.” Perveen’s family had a construction
company that had built offices and bungalows in Bombay for
more than two hundred years, and she had an intuitive feeling
for buildings. This looked like what her late grandfather would
have called a pukka house—well built and free of defect—
although it was relatively modest, with none of the ornate
moldings and inlaid marble tile designs that were a feature
of her own family’s home. Was Sandringham’s character also
pukka? That was the question.
“You asked about the arrangement of the rooms,” San-
dringham said, interrupting her thoughts. “The tall double doors
at the veranda’s center lead to the drawing room and dining room,
where we’ll eat tonight. Cooking’s done in a separate house out
back. Now that you’ve arrived, I’d like to give Rama our order for
supper. Firstly, do you eat chicken?”
“Certainly.” She had endured English cooking for three years,
so she could imagine how dreadful supper would be.
“Good, because it’s all we have. Rama has a repertoire of just
ten chicken dishes. I’ll let you choose which one.”
She nodded, thinking this was a surprising way to offer

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hospitality. But then again, he was a bachelor. Everything was

bound to be topsy-turvy.
“We can offer you chicken kabob. Chicken cutlets. Roast
chicken. Curried or stewed chicken!” Mr. Sandringham affected
the accent and manner of a Cockney hawker. “Boiled chicken.
Smothered chicken. Fried chicken. Chicken mince. Chicken
biryani.”
Perveen’s anxiety was somewhat lessened by his silliness and at
hearing Indian dishes were a possibility for dinner. “I’m curious
about smothered chicken. It sounds rather mysterious.”
“Chicken splayed apart, dusted with spices, and pressed
between hot rocks. I like it as well, but it takes an hour.”
She nodded, imagining the flavor. Food could take her mind
off many tensions. “I don’t mind. I’ll use the time to freshen up.”
Rama had already lit the sconces and candles in her rooms, so
Perveen spent the next hour unpacking and looking around. The
long, stone-floored bathroom had an old-fashioned commode
with a wooden seat and a bucket of water for flushing—this was
better than she’d anticipated, although there was no sink with taps,
just a washbasin on a teak stand with a round mirror behind it.
A deep zinc tub was filled with warm water. She realized that
the water must have been heated on the fire she’d seen blazing in
a pit in the garden, and some poor lackey must have quickly car-
ried buckets through a short doorway to fill the tub. The lifestyle
of the place, with its lack of electricity, running water, and indoor
stoves, was reminiscent of a half century earlier. She would never
have imagined a British officer in 1921 would live this way; but
if he could manage, so would she.
Perveen picked up a fresh bar of soap that smelled like neem
leaves. Scrubbing away the dirt and sweat from her long ride in
the post wagon, she decided that Sandringham was strange for
an Englishman. She had been expecting someone like Sir David,
and from Sandringham’s accent, she guessed he came from the
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about it. And at least he hadn’t requested Rama make a boiled

chicken; he’d let her choose what she wanted.
After Perveen had bathed, put on a wrapper, and gone back to
her bedroom, she opened up her Vuitton trunk and lifted out the
saris, each folded into a perfect square by Gulnaz, who had lent
them to Perveen. She looked at the layers of glowing pink, cream,
and light green silk: very fancy saris Gulnaz had deemed appro-
priate for hobnobbing with maharanis. Perveen feared creasing
them, so she picked one of her own saris, a blue watered silk
shot through with golden threads. It was a subtly formal sari
that was heavy enough to offer warmth against the cool evening
air. Underneath, she wore a silk blouse with gold embroidery
on the cuffs, which came to just above her wrists. She was glad
of the long sleeves because she’d heard the whining of a few
mosquitoes making practice laps before beginning the night’s
work.
“You could catch dengue,” her mother had warned when they
were talking about safety precautions for the trip. “Do not go
about after dark. And watch your step in the gardens. Perveen,
I’m not at all convinced it’s a good idea you take this job for the
government.”
“Two days’ work that pays as much as twenty client hours,”
Perveen had told her. “All travel expenses covered and a good
chance for more work with royalty in the area. Pappa will be so
pleased after I’m done.”
She’d counted on all of that—but not how strange and far-
away this world would seem. Worrying about mosquito bites
would be the least of her concerns.

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