Page 82 of Six Days in Bombay

“And I came here.” He removed his hat to wave a fly away from my shoulder. “Who is the patron saint of lost causes, my dear?”

I frowned, thinking. “Saint Jude, I think?”

“We must go pay him a visit when we return to Bombay.”

That coaxed a smile from me. Dr. Stoddard had taken a flight from Istanbul as soon as he received my telegram. Edward was leaving for his new post in Bombay, and if I hadn’t caught his father in time, he’d be on the same flight.

“I had a postcard from Mishra a few weeks ago. From Paris.” He was looking at three young women in sleeveless blouses walking past and laughing at something one of them had said. “Wondered if you ran into him.”

I avoided his eyes. “Paris is a big city.”

The doctor took a moment. He nodded. “Quite so.”

“Do you feel better? About Elizabeth?”

“Let’s see… I feel better about leaving her all those years ago. But I do not feel better about her,” he said dryly. Then he used his cane to stand upright and offered me his arm. “Shall we go home, my dear?”

BOMBAY

Chapter 13

Bombay

June 1937

Filip Bartos was handsome in the way men are when they wear the right clothes and Brylcreem their hair. But the man who answered the door was different from the Filip Bartos I had seen twice at Wadia Hospital and at the Singh party. This one looked like a man haunted. The hollows under his eyes told me he hadn’t been sleeping well. He’d been clean-shaven when I’d last seen him at the hospital after Mira’s death. Now he was scratching three days of stubble on his chin.

When he saw me at his threshold, recognition flickered in his eyes.

“You’re the nurse.”

“Sona Falstaff.”

His smile was faint. “Mira liked you. She felt she could talk to you about anything.”

I couldn’t speak for a moment. “May I come in, Mr. Bartos?”

“Of course, of course! Apologies!” He moved out of the way quickly, as if he had awoken from a trance. He wore a shirt that had probably been white a week ago. His eyes were bloodshot and his hair needed a good washing.

* * *

Six weeks had passed since Mira’s death. Yet, the apartment was still mourning her. There were coffee cups on tables and chairs—some empty, some half-full, the coffee long gone cold. Men’s shirts, trousers and socks lay on the floor or on the sofa. The air was stale, the heat in the room oppressive. Outside, it was a sweltering ninety degrees, the humidity high enough to water houseplants. The collar of my blouse was already damp. I fought the urge to open the windows and start the fan; it wasn’t my house.

I sat at the edge of an armchair. Not for the first time did I ask myself what I hoped to achieve. Was I here to have him relieve me of the weight I’d been carrying around since Mira’s death? How much of what I’d learned about her in the past several weeks should I share with her husband?

Filip’s cheeks were hollow, which concerned the nurse in me. “Have you eaten lately, Mr. Bartos?”

He waved an open arm about the living room. “Yes. Don’t worry.” He took a seat on the sofa. “I’m sorry I have run out of coffee.”

“Please don’t trouble yourself.”

We sat for a few minutes in silence. I waited. Eventually, he asked, “How may I assist?”

I touched my hat, a maroon beret, which matched my summer dress. I’d bought it upon my return to Bombay. “I’m here because of Miss Novak.” I paused. “I didn’t have a chance to tell you how sorry I am. I couldn’t face you after…” I swallowed, my mouth suddenly dry. “I miss her terribly. I think about her all the time, as I imagine you do. You may know that after she died, the Matron of Wadia’s let me go. The board seemed to think I’d overdosed your wife with morphine. But I want you to know I hadn’t anything to do with that. I would never ever have hurt Miss Novak.” I realized I was leaning toward himfrom across the coffee table, trying to reach him through his haze of misery.

He stared at me blankly.

I continued, “For the few days I knew her, she and I talked as if we’d known each other forever. Like we were sisters. She was so worldly, something I was in awe of—and envious of. I loved the way she seemed to move through life.” I stopped. “I need you to believe that harming Mira was not something I was capable of, even by accident.” I’d intended to sound confident, self-assured. Instead, I sounded desperate.

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