Review
Praise for The Bombay Prince
Nominated for the Lefty Award for Best Historical Mystery
Nominated for the Agatha Award for Best Historical Novel
Featured as a great "summer read" in the Baltimore Sun, Milwaukee Journal-Sentinel, Minneapolis Star-Tribune, Capital Gazette, CrimeReads, and on Bookish.com
“The Bombay Prince is the third delightful installment of Sujata Massey's mystery series set in 1920s India. Heroine Perveen is much more than a sari-clad Miss Marple: she's Bombay's first female lawyer as well as a keenly intelligent sleuth, a trail-blazing woman balancing the weight of family tradition with her own dreams. Perveen's investigation into the mysterious death of a young university student coincides with the imperial visit of the future Edward VIII, and the resulting trail of breadcrumbs through royal receptions, street riots, squalid jails, and lavish hotels makes for a deliciously satisfying read!”
—Kate Quinn, New York Times bestselling author of The Rose Code
“Exceptional . . . Massey has never been better at pairing her redoubtable and impressive lead with a challenging murder to unravel.”
—Publishers Weekly, Starred Review
“Graceful prose and mastery of period detail . . . [The Bombay Prince] propels a rich story of female empowerment during a pivotal era.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“Mistry charges into both matters with her usual pointed but restrained anger toward India’s patriarchy and colonial rule.”
—Minneapolis Star-Tribune
“Massey’s lush descriptions and rich historical details are thoroughly transporting.”
—Carole E. Barrowman, Milwaukee Journal-Sentinel
“Massey is very good at evoking period details, but she really excels at illuminating the deeply ingrained restrictions imposed by racism, sexism and India’s caste system. Her historical research is thorough but worn lightly, and her concerns with social injustice are never preachy.”
—The Seattle Times
“The series anchor, Perveen Mistry, is one of the most delightful and engaging protagonists you’re likely to meet in historical fiction.”
—New York Journal of Books
“As she did in “The Widows of Malabar Hill” and “The Satapur Moonstone,” Massey continues Perveen’s personal and professional stories while fashioning an intricate plot that blends issues of history, culture and religion. A superior whodunit and a rousing affirmation of the universal impulse for freedom.”
—Fredericksburg Free Lance Star
“Highly recommended. If you're looking for your thrills via history then this is your book.”
—The Morning Blend, WTMJ-TV Milwaukee
“[A series] as much history for the historical fiction reader as it is for mystery.”
—Wisconsin Public Radio
“It is Perveen herself that makes this series such delightful reading. She is rendered with great humanness as a caring, generous role model . . . The author provides a rich representation of the world in which Perveen lives and works. Bombay in the 1920s, the Parsi community, and the recurring and familiar lovable characters all combine to give the reader a complete and enduring experience.”
—India Currents
“Massey effortlessly weaves together history, politics, romance and mystery in her latest.”
—BookReporter.com
“Another fine installment in a well-researched and vividly rendered series. Wherever Perveen Mistry goes next, readers are sure to follow.”
—Reviewing the Evidence
“Meticulously researched and entertainingly executed . . . Massey plots an intricate mystery well worth solving; even more impressive, however, are the seamlessly interwoven historical, political and social layers--suffocating colonialism, societal systems more concerned with appearance than equity, racial and gender disparities.”
—Shelf Awareness
“I loved that as much as this is a murder mystery, we also get to see a lot of the legal side of cases during this time period, including a court inquest, a lot of different voices, and how Perveen always thinks about how her behavior can impact any female lawyers that are coming up behind her. I always look forward to what is in store for Perveen.”
—BookRiot
“Massey brings us another stunning, intricate, and fast-paced historical mystery featuring her series sleuth, Perveen Mistry, the first and only female lawyer in 1920s India.”
—CrimeReads
“No need to have read the earlier two books of this series (The Widows of Malabar Hill, The Satapur Moonstone)—just plunge into this new release . . . Massey's skills are strengthening with each book, and this is definitely her best yet.”
—Kingdom Books
“[Perveen Mistry] undeniably lives in turbulent, interesting times and she’s right in the thick of it.”
—Criminal Element
Praise for the Perveen Mistry Novels
“Well-researched and convincing.”
—The Wall Street Journal
“Bright, determined . . . Perveen, whose aim is to help women and children, continues to engage us, thereby ensuring a long-running series.”
—The Seattle Times
“Marvelously plotted, richly detailed . . . This is a first-rate performance inaugurating a most promising series.”
—The Washington Post
“While Massey is illuminating a different struggle, this reflection of what we are living through at the moment makes it all the more powerful . . . This is a series of books no reader should miss.”
—Mystery Scene
“Perveen Mistry has all the pluck you want in a sleuthing lawyer, as well as a not-so-surprising—but decidedly welcome—proclivity for poking her nose into the business of others. The pages do indeed fly.”
—The Globe and Mail
“Ms. Massey develops wonderfully strong, endearing and thoughtful women who solve mysteries . . . Quick moving, suspenseful and good wins out in the end.”
—The Economist
“Fantastic.”
—The Christian Science Monitor
“Once again Massey does a superb job of combining a fascinating snapshot into 1920s British-ruled India with a top-notch mystery. She has created a strong, appealing heroine who is forging her own path in a rapidly changing world.”
—Library Journal, Starred Review
“Anyone who enjoys historical mysteries, strong female lead characters, and learning about a fascinating period in India's history must read Sujata Massey's excellent Perveen Mistry series.”
—Kittling Books
About the Author
Sujata Massey was born in England to parents from India and Germany, grew up in St. Paul, Minnesota, and lives in Baltimore, Maryland. She was a features reporter for the Baltimore Evening Sun before becoming a full-time novelist. The first Perveen Mistry novel, The Widows of Malabar Hill, was an international bestseller and won the Agatha, Macavity, and Mary Higgins Clark Awards. Visit her website at sujatamassey.com.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
Chapter 1
“Well done.”
Perveen Mistry spoke aloud as she slid the signed contracts into envelopes. Lighting a candle against a wax stick, she allowed a scarlet drop to fall on the back of each envelope. The final touch was pressing down the brass stamp engraved Mistry Law. It felt ridiculous to praise herself, but this rental contract had taken four months. Term sheets had passed back and forth between two men who seemed convinced that without yet another restriction, their respective honors would be stolen.
The truth was, the landlord and renter needed each other. Mistry Law’s client, Mr. Shah, sought an occupant for a bungalow on Cumballa Hill. Mr. Ahmad, an administrator at a shipping firm, was a well-qualified renter. Perveen had composed an agreement based on her past contracts for the landlord’s properties. But suddenly, her client wanted an amendment prohibiting the butchering of meat. Mr. Ahmad had crossed that out and written in capital letters that his wife had the right to cut and cook whatever she pleased. He also insisted that Mr. Shah replace a dying mango tree in the garden.
An adequate home was hard to find, especially a free-standing one. People from all across British India and the independent princely states were streaming into Bombay looking for good-paying work. The bungalows of the late nineteenth century were crumbling from decay, so the middle class made do with flats. Still, throughout the city most buildings stayed homogeneous in terms of religion, region, and language.
Perveen suspected that religious anxiety had infected her Parsi client and made the prospective Muslim renter react defensively. She’d sent each gentleman a polite letter reminding him that municipal taxes would rise in the new year, so he might wish to put a pause on all real estate activity until they saw the new rate.
The prospect of having an empty house when a tax bill was due led Mr. Shah to remove the butchering clause. Mr. Ahmad thanked him and removed his request for the landlord to replace the tree; however, he requested permission to make gardening improvements as the family saw fit. Perveen assured Mr. Shah that a tenant who made garden improvements at personal cost would improve property value and the landlord’s reputation.
Now the contracts were signed, sealed, and almost delivered.
Taking the envelopes in hand, she went to find Mustafa. The silver-haired giant who served as Mistry Law’s guard, butler, and receptionist was already coming upstairs. As he took the envelopes from her, he announced, “A young lady has come.”
“Lily?” She’d been expecting a delivery of biscuits and cake from Yazdani’s Café.
“No. She is named Miss Cuttingmaster.” Mustafa’s long, stiff mustache made an impressive show as he enunciated the name.
“What an unusual name. I suppose it is probably Muslim or Parsi,” Perveen mused.
Mustafa nodded. “You are correct, and I think this one has the face of an Irani. She said that Miss Hobson-Jones referred her to you.”
Perveen’s interest was piqued. Alice Hobson-Jones, Perveen’s best friend, was teaching mathematics at Woodburn College. Perhaps Miss Cuttingmaster was her student. “I’ll be right down. Would you kindly bring us some tea?”
“Already on the table.”
Perveen peeked through the half-open parlor door to observe her visitor. Miss Cuttingmaster sat on the edge of the plum velvet settee with a book in her lap. Her head was bent over it, showing a tumble of dark curls. Thin forearms peeped out from the sleeves of a crisp white cotton blouse worn under a drab tan sari. A khaki drill-cloth satchel rested against her legs.
“Kem cho.” Perveen greeted her in the Gujarati that many Parsis spoke together.
Quickly, Freny Cuttingmaster closed her book. “Yes. Good morning, ma’am, how should I address you? Should it be ‘esquire’?”
The young woman’s use of English was surprising, given that she wore homespun cloth favored by independence activists. However, English was also the chief language of the academic world, so perhaps that was why she chose to use it.
The room had enough seating for four, but instead of taking one of the Queen Anne wing chairs, Perveen sat a few feet from the student on the settee itself. Her hope was to put the stiff-seeming girl at ease. “My name is Perveen Mistry. I feel a little too young for ‘ma’am,’ and ‘esquire’ is mainly used in the United States for lawyers. May I have your good name?”
“It is Freny.” As she spoke, the girl edged away slightly. “I still don’t know what to call you. ‘Memsahib’ is a term mostly used for the British, so I won’t call you that. I don’t like ‘ma’am’ much, either.”
Perveen thought about the typical honorific used for Parsi women. “If you’d like, you may call me Perveen-bai.”
Freny nodded. “Perveen-bai, I am representing Woodburn College’s Student Union. We are seeking a legal consultation.”
Activism was on an uptick throughout Bombay. In recent months the famous lawyer Mohandas Gandhi had been gaining adherents with his calls for protest against British rule. Perveen longed to assist freedom fighters, but she was a solicitor, so her work was mostly contracts. “I am honored you thought of Mistry Law. Would you like to tell me your concern?”
Freny looked intently at Perveen. “We want to know if we have the right to stay away from college without being punished.”
Perveen mulled over the words. “I don’t think I understand. students are expected to attend classes as a condition of enrollment. Do you have a conflict with one of the lecturers?”
“Not at all. I’m in my second year, and I love my college.” She gave the book in her hands a squeeze. “Actually, we students would not be missing instruction on the day I’m thinking about, because classes that day are canceled.”
For this, the girl had come to Mistry Law? Trying not to sound irritated, Perveen said, “In your case, I think you would be forgiven a day off. Students often miss college for reasons of illness and family matters.”
“But it’s not that. It is political.” She pronounced the last word carefully, stressing its importance. “We want to be absent from college on the day the Prince of Wales enters Bombay. Did you know that Gandhiji has called a hartal?”
“Yes. I’ve seen the placards advising people to boycott the prince.” Perveen had noticed these renegade announcements next to the “Welcome Prince of Wales” signs posted by the government all over town. On Thursday, Edward would disembark at the Port of Bombay and begin a four-month tour of India. The arrival of the twenty-seven-year-old prince seemed like a promise of many more decades of British rule.
Freny leaned forward and spoke with hushed excitement. “We students put up some of the placards. We don’t want people attending the parade. However, the college principal said everyone must be present on the day of the prince’s arrival. Workers are building a special viewing stand in front of the college. We’re supposed to applaud that loathsome prince when he
parades along the Kennedy Sea-Face.”
Freny’s passionate speech left no question of her conviction. But what would the consequences be if she held back from school? “Does your Student Union have a faculty advisor?”
“Yes. Mr. Terrence Grady.” Freny’s lips turned up at the corners.
Perveen hoped that Freny didn’t have a crush. “Does Mr. Grady report about your club to the administration?”
“I don’t think so,” Freny answered after a moment. “He is an Irishman, and many Irish are not at all keen on being part of Britain. Mr. Grady confessed that because he’s an employee, he must come to school that day. He knows about the Student Union’s desire to stay back and urged us to follow our conscience.”
Perveen’s shoulders relaxed and she said, “He sounds like a fair man. What can you tell me about the college principal?”
“His name is Horace Virgil Atherton.” She spoke the name in staccato syllables, showing none of the warmth she’d had for Mr. Grady. “He’s a temporary principal who joined in October. Our regular principal is away on furlough. During the Christian scripture hour, before the chaplain speaks, Mr. Atherton sometimes addresses us. I’ve only heard him say things like we must stop crowding and pushing past each other in the galleries and stairs. Nothing about philosophy or the nature of education.”
Perveen snorted. “Your principal sounds better suited to supervising primary school. What reason does he have to talk about hallway behavior?”
Freny rewarded her with an appreciative smirk. “He thinks there is too much hustle and bustle, and someone could fall down. He said the college’s females could be injured, which was very annoying to my friends and me. We aren’t made of porcelain.”
“No. Bombay women are at least as strong as coconuts!” After Freny laughed, Perveen added, “Why are you in a Christian scripture class?”
“It’s not a mandatory course. However, roll call is taken at the start of that scripture class. So everyone goes, regardless of faith.”
“Are you saying that in order to be marked present, you must sit through a religious service?” Perveen paused, wondering if there were grounds for some kind of suit. “Woodburn College is a missionary institution, isn’t it?”
“Indeed. It was founded by Reverend Andrew Woodburn, Church of Scotland, who came to Bombay in 1810.”
“How do your parents feel about you having a Presbyterian college education?”
“My father says the college’s name carries weight and I will benefit from the other coursework.” Smiling wistfully, she added, “He’s the head tailor at the Hawthorn Shop. He boasts to his customers that I’m studying at Woodburn College.”
A tailor would be proud to send his daughter to one of the city’s oldest colleges. And now she understood how perfectly suited his name was. “Your father must be a tolerant person.”
“I would not say that.” Freny pointed directly at one of the wing chairs and chuckled. “My father would be annoyed by that chair.”
Perveen was mystified. “Why?”
“The red banding is torn. There, on the leg.”
Perveen followed her gaze to the chair, which she hadn’t ever inspected in such a close fashion. “Goodness, you’re right. That’s my father’s favorite chair. Perhaps he snagged it with his shoe. He crosses his leg and taps his foot sometimes. Back to our topic—does your father know about your support of independence?”
Freny looked down at her book, as if the answer might lie within. When she raised her face, her expression was sober. “I wanted to tell him, but it was difficult. He thinks I’m too young to understand.”
Perveen nodded in sympathy. “Fathers are like that. Are you saying that he doesn’t know that you’re one of the leaders in the group?”
Freny shook her head vehemently. “I’m not a leader. There are only two of us in the group who are female.”
“You say you aren’t a leader, but it’s a significant responsibility to gather a legal opinion for the group,” Perveen challenged. “Be proud of yourself.”
“I can’t. I only thought helping them was the right thing. I don’t want anyone to be hurt.” Straightening the book in her lap, Freny added, “And I think, just by visiting you, it might improve things.”
