Page 43 of Six Days in Bombay

He nodded. “So how do you intend to salvage your reputation?”

I went to the other room and came back with the stack of paintings and the paper with Mira’s handwriting. “Miss Novak left these paintings in my care along with this note.”

He read the note. Then he examined the paintings one by one, taking his time. He turned each of them over. Finally, he said, “Wasn’t she a brilliant painter? The colors! And the composition is stunning.” He considered the note. “The sinitials on the paintings match the names in the note.”

“Yes. I believe theSstands for me, Sona.”

“And who or what areP,PoandJ?”

“They’re people who mattered to Miss Novak. A lifelong girlfriend. A former painting tutor. Her art dealer.” I paused. “I think I’m meant to deliver these paintings to their new owners. And they may tell me things about her I don’t yet know or need to know in order to exonerate myself.”

He put a gnarled finger across his mouth, deep in thought. “Where are these friends?”

“Petra is in Prague. Josephine is in Paris. And Paolo is in Florence.”

“What if what you find isn’t what you expected?”

“What do you mean?”

He paused, as if he were organizing his thoughts. “You seem to be enchanted by Miss Novak. You have an impression of her. I hear she was charming. She was bright. She was generous. But you only knew her for six days. The deeper you delve into her past relationships, you may encounter versions of her that surprise you. Versions that may confuse you.”

I straightened my spine. “I’m a good judge of character, Doctor. I think I understood her in a way that wouldn’t have changed had I known her for six years.”

His tone was mild. “It’s just that people are not always what they seem, my dear.”

His expression carried the weight of eight decades. “Where is your family, Nurse Falstaff?”

“There was only my mother.” My eyes stung. “She’s gone now.”

“And your father?”

I hesitated. Anytime I thought of my father, I felt ashamed or angry or embarrassed. By way of an answer, I went to my cabin and brought the photo of Owen Falstaff with me.

Dr. Stoddard took the photo from me. “I see the resemblance.” Then, “What happened to him?”

My face was hot with shame. “He lives in England. With his family.” I hadn’t realized I was rubbing my hands together, hard, until they started to hurt.

The doctor regarded me for a long moment. “A casualty of the British Raj.” He paused. “But that’s still not all, is it?”

My eyes begged him not to force it out of me. It was too painful. He would think less of me when he found out. He might leave me at Cairo and send me back to Bombay.

His eyes twinkled. “Unless you’ve murdered someone, my dear, I think it’s safe to tell me. You aren’t planning on a second act, are you?”

I choked on a laugh and started coughing.

“I think, my girl, it’s time we moved on to the Glenlivet. Port wine is only for backgammon and gin rummy.”

Picking up the phone, I asked the steward to bring the scotch. By the time he arrived, I had put the photo back in my trunk. The steward poured our scotch into two lowballs. When he left, Dr. Stoddard ordered me to drink first. I took a sip. I’d never had scotch. The alcohol burned as it slid down my throat but then turned into a warm blanket in my belly.

The doctor watched my reaction and smiled. He lifted his glass. “Go on.”

I told him about my father leaving us when I was three. I told him about my brother, Rajat, who died not long after. I told him about my mother having no idea my father was married until the day he left and confessed everything.

“Hmm.” We sipped our scotch. “So you’re going to Prague, Paris and Florence, correct?” He paused, his expression brightening. “Now how about London?”

“What about it?”

“You’re not going to visit your father?”

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