“My parents were deeply into jazz,” she said. “They were from Calcutta and there was this famous club called Trinca’s on Park Street. You know I visited there last September—there was a wedding. It’s all changed now but there used to be this great jazz scene, that’s where they met. My parents, not the relatives who were getting married.”

The jacket had a line of crudely made badges down the left-hand lapel, the type you could stamp out with a hand press. I surreptitiously read them while Ms. Ghosh expounded upon the innovative jazz scene that flourished in India after the war. ROCK AGAINST RACISM, ANTI-NAZI LEAGUE, DON’T BLAME ME I DIDN’T VOTE TORY—slogans from the 1980s, most from before I was born.

Ms. Ghosh was just telling me about the time Duke Ellington played at the Winter Palace—the hotel in Calcutta, not the birthplace of the Russian revolution—when I decided that it was time to put the conversation back on track. I asked whether she was aware of any sudden deaths among her members, particularly during or just after a gig.

Ms. Ghosh gave me a long skeptical look.

“Are you having me on?” she asked.

“We’re looking into suspicious deaths among musicians,” I said. “This is just a preliminary inquiry. The deaths might have looked like the result of exhaustion or drug or alcohol abuse. Have you seen anything like that?”

“In jazz musicians,” she said. “Are you kidding? If they haven’t got at least one bad habit we don’t let them in the union.” She laughed, I didn’t, she noticed and stopped. “Are we talking murders here?”

“We don’t know at this stage,” I said. “We’re just acting on information received.”

“I can’t think of anyone off the top of my head,” she said. “I can look up my records tomorrow if you like.”

“That would be really helpful.” I gave her my card. “Could you do it first thing?”

“Sure,” she said. “Do you know those guys are staring at you?”

I turned to find the irregulars watching me from the eaves of the beer tent. Max gave me a wave.

“You don’t want to be talking to him, miss,” called James. “He’s the jazz police.”

I said good-bye to Ms. Ghosh and hoped that she still took me seriously enough to look up the information I wanted. To make it up to me the irregulars agreed to buy me a drink.

“What are you doing here?” I asked.

“Where the jazzman sups there sup I,” said James.

“We were supposed to be playing the festival,” said Daniel. “But without Cyrus …” He shrugged.

“You couldn’t get anyone else?” I asked.

“Not without lowering our standards,” said James.

“Which admittedly were already pretty low,” said Max. “I don’t suppose you play.”

I shook my head.

“Pity,” he said. “We were going to play the Arches next week.”