A Very Pukka Murder

by Arjun Gaind

  In many ways, the Civil Lines epitomized all that was commendable about the British—organization, orderliness, and of course, cleanliness. But at the same time, it exposed their greatest flaw as well. In spite of its crowds and its filth, old Rajpore had a hectic charm, an undeniable vibrancy. But here, there was a sterility, a barrenness that was hard to avoid, not to mention a raggedness around the edges which was apparent when he took the time to look around more closely. His observant eyes could not help but notice that in more than one place, the walls of the cottages were scarred by web-works of musty cracks that no amount of fresh chuna could disguise, as if to suggest that the English were fighting a losing battle against the inevitable entropy of India’s heat and dust.

  Cresting the final rise that preceded the ornate wrought-iron main gate of the Residency, Sikander found that the native police had erected a hasty cordon of bamboo across the road to keep out unwanted interlopers. Not far from this flimsy barrier, rather a sizable crowd had gathered, a buzzing cluster of memsahibs congregated beneath the shady canopy of an immense Indian banyan. And at the heart of this gaily bedecked brood, slinking about like a shiny lizard, Sikander saw the rotund figure of the local newspaperman, Miller from the Rajpore Gazette, dressed in his usual rumpled white tropical suit and tattered straw boater, trying his level best to bribe his way past the trio of native policemen guarding the barricade.

  As the Rolls approached, one of the policeman, a red-turbaned Havildar with a large pot-belly, stepped out and raised one hand to obstruct the car’s passage. When he saw it was the Maharaja behind the wheel, he bowed hurriedly and waved him past the flimsy obstacle, snapping out an obsequious salaam.

  “Chalo, chalo,” he squawked to his compatriots. “Hurry up, you donkeys! Can you not see who it is?”

  Sikander eased past the gate when the guards pushed it open with a rusty screech, and brought the Rolls-Royce to a lurching stop at the berm of the gravel driveway, making sure to engage the parking brake. Even before he had turned off the engine, Charan Singh leaped from the passenger side, relief patent on his shaggy face to have solid ground beneath his feet once more. Stumbling slightly, he scurried around to hold open the door for his master. It was a cool morning. The air was tart with Himalayan frost. Sikander shivered slightly as he dismounted from the vehicle, rubbing his hands together to keep them warm. Grimacing as the circulation flooded back into his legs, he shucked off his driving gloves and tossed them onto the back seat. Next he removed the woolen army greatcoat he had belted around his waist, pausing with a moue of distaste as he noticed that several strands of lint had managed to adhere themselves to the thick silk of his tunic.

  Impatiently, he snapped his fingers, and Charan Singh retreated to the rear of the vehicle, where a capacious Goyard trunk had been strapped to the chassis, filled with the necessities required for any royal outing. Sikander was a great believer in being prepared for any eventuality. Inside the trunk could be found several bottles of mineral water, a haunch of baked venison, a brace of pickled partridges, two freshly baked loaves of rye bread, four bottles of Laurent Perrier Cuvée Blanc packed in a copper bucket of fresh ice, a large tin of his favored goose liver and truffle pâté, a jar of Wilkin and Sons marmalade, as well as two large oilskins, a canvas expedition tent, a full complement of mountaineering equipment, several lengths of rope and a comically large grappling hook which he had never found occasion to use, a pair of matched Holland & Holland .375 caliber hunting rifles, an expedition telescope and its accompanying tripod, and of course a large Gladstone bag containing a folding camera and his detective apparatus, complete with a magnifying glass and a fingerprinting kit.

  As Sikander waited, Charan Singh extracted a clothes-brush from inside the trunk and hurried forward to brush away every scrap of annoying lint from the Maharaja’s shoulders.

  “There you are, you little peacock!” he declared.

  Sikander was tempted to stick out his tongue at the old man, just like he had as a boy. Instead, he gave Charan Singh a withering glare. Turning, he marched toward the Resident’s bungalow, an obviously regal figure, even though he had done away with much of the pomp and circumstance with which most Maharajas chose to surround themselves. Sikander snorted as he recalled the spectacular tamasha that had ensued each time his grandfather had left the confines of the killa. The old man had been terribly old-fashioned, and insisted on playing the role of an Oriental despot to the hilt. He had refused to move an inch unless mounted high atop a gilded and brocaded elephant, seated beneath a chatri of pure gold, looking down at his subjects like an avatar of some imperious god, his progress heralded by a dozen trumpets and a retinue of some two hundred hangers-on, led by a cavalcade of twenty-four chobdars and bhaldars to announce his coming, accompanied by forty bannermen bearing the golden morchal standards of Rajpore. A bevy of thirty-six scantily clad serving girls had preceded his every step, tasked with strewing fragrant rose petals in his path so that the noxious odors of reality would not permeate his hallowed nostrils, followed by a troop of sixteen chamardars waving whisks made from yak tails, tasked with driving away any flies before they could disturb his Highness with their buzzing.

  Contrary to the Burra Maharaja, Sikander had little stomach for making a public spectacle of himself. Rather than cloaking himself in gilded robes and bedecking his body with gold and jewels until he looked like some pantomime caricature of a Turkish sultan, he preferred to dress simply and practically in a black high-necked doublet and a pair of spotless white riding trousers stitched to his precise specifications by the famed Parisian chemisier Charvet and tucked into supple black John Lobb calf-leather riding boots that came almost to his knees. Atop his head, he wore a royal blue pugree tied in the Sikh fashion, and around his neck, a matching cobalt ascot, also by Charvet, bound tightly into a Ruche knot and fastened with a peacock-shaped gold stickpin. Other than that, he wore little jewelry, his sole concession to ornament a pair of square emeralds in his ears and a single ring on his left hand, designed by Asprey and Garrard, a massive fifty-four-carat blue-white diamond cut in a distinctive Asscher octagon mounted upon a simple setting of silver, with the regal seal of Rajpore, a rampant lion, etched into its glittering face.

  Ordinarily, it was his habit to wear a ceremonial sword, but on this occasion, to allay the natural suspicion of English minds, since he was making an uninvited foray into the white township, he had chosen to leave it behind. Instead, he carried a handsome ebony cane topped by an ornate golden lion’s head with twin glittering rubies for eyes. Absently, he found himself tap-tapping it upon the gravel as he walked, like a blind man feeling out his passage. The cane seemed innocuous enough; only Sikander knew that disguised within its slender length was a short-bladed rapier, handcrafted for him by Kliegenthal of France. It wasn’t much of a weapon, and while Sikander knew that Charan Singh would gladly lay down his life before he let his master come to any harm, his innate paranoia wouldn’t allow him to visit the Angrezi settlement without the reassuring weight of a blade close at hand.

  Imperiously, he strode up the eucalyptus-lined pathway that led towards the bungalow, ignoring the inquisitive glances his advance drew from the crowd assembled outside the gate. It didn’t escape his notice that his unexpected arrival had managed to create quite an uproar, not only because of the mode of transport he had chosen, but also because Sikander was a native Indian striding deep into the heart of the English establishment and thus a creature to be viewed with suspicion. Many of the memsahibs took a breather from their gossip-mongering and turned to watch his progress. Those who had not heard of his reputation for sleuthing, peered in his direction with a mixture of bewilderment, curiosity, and distrust, wondering why an Indian monarch had decided to put in such an impromptu and unheralded appearance at the scene of a crime. A few stared with open disapproval, particularly two of the senior memsahibs whose crepey chicken necks bobbed up and down in choreographed condemnation, quite offended by the thought of
a native Indian invading the sanctity of what they considered their exclusively English domain. And yet others—like a young girl with flaming russet curls and a lovely complexion quite untainted by the harsh Indian sun—gazed at him with more than a little admiration in their eyes, for he cut a compelling figure, noble of bearing and dashing of demeanor.

  A few steps behind him, Charan Singh followed as faithfully as a hound, carrying the patent leather valise bearing Sikander’s sleuthing equipment in one hand, careful to keep at a respectable distance because he knew better than to intrude upon the Maharaja’s line of sight when he was in an investigatory frame of mind.

  As Sikander strolled slowly up the gentle incline of the driveway, almost like he were taking a leisurely constitutional, his sharp eyes swept from side to side, studying the scene, seeking out even the slightest hint of anything irregular. The bungalow was at the center of a self-contained estate, perhaps two acres in size. It was a long, low structure with chuna-whitewashed walls and a sloping, eaved roof covered with bright terra cotta tiles that seemed to glint beneath the sun, as though aflame. There were two floors, the upper storey bedecked by a thick mat of verdant ivy framing a row of Jalousie windows painted an appealing shade of bright blue, and a lower floor surmounted by a wide verandah bordered by a row of six polished teak pillars, between which a wooden railing stretched like a farmyard turnstile.

  Rather than directly approaching the front of the bungalow, the Maharaja decided to take a tour around the grounds first. Behind the main building he came across a smaller structure, ostensibly the guesthouse, and at a right angle to it, a small tin-roofed shed that he took to be the servant’s quarters. Behind that rose a large barn-like enclosure which was obviously the stable, since he sighted the Resident’s barouche half hidden away within its shadowy confines, an old-fashioned four-wheeled buggy with a collapsible roof.

  Between the main house and the guest quarters, in the shade of a stand of silver-barked eucalypti, he encountered a small garden, so well kept it made the Maharaja hum with approval. He noted that the Resident had been a fan of roses, mainly of the Chinese variety. The winter blossoms he had planted in careful rows were still in late bloom, blazing pink and yellow in a riot of unruly color. Briefly, the Maharaja paused to sniff at one of the flowers. Its sickly sweet odor filled his nostrils, making him feel a little dizzy and reminding him that in his hurry to get to the scene of the crime, he had neglected to take a proper breakfast.

  Sikander frowned, trying to ignore the insistent rumbling in his belly. Just then, the shrill clamor of loud voices from within the bungalow assailed his ears, causing him to quicken his steps. To his surprise, the front door was unguarded. Once inside, Sikander found himself in a large vestibule, bare except for a skeletal coat-rack. Beyond was a large parlor that took up the heart of the bungalow, an oblong room with polished hardwood floors and a high vaulted roof crisscrossed by bare rafters. The walls were papered in a hideously brown Lincrusta that was peeling from the humidity. A musty smell hung in the air, the faint odor of moldy wood and decay. Added to that, the room was much too dark, every ray of natural light blocked out by thick velvet curtains drawn tightly across the windows, thus making its interior oppressive, trapped in a perennial twilight.

  Sikander glanced around him curiously, pursing his lips in a faint moue of distaste. Like so many English residences, he thought the bungalow excessively furnished, every corner crammed with heavy Georgian furniture which he guessed the Resident must have imported specially from England. He winced as his eyes fell on a particularly egregious cupboard, a mahogany and rosewood monstrosity carved with enough gorgons and cherubs to give a man with even the slightest semblance of good taste nightmares for a week. Personally, the Maharaja preferred the modern when it came to decoration, simple furnishings and a lot of light, not this cave that made him feel claustrophobic, eager for a breath of fresh air.

  To his immediate right, a small Victorian chinoiserie table was topped by an alabaster vase filled with fresh white roses, their bright presence somehow out of place in this mausoleum of a house. Next to the table, a stairway led upwards toward the bedroom where the Resident’s unfortunate corpse waited, undoubtedly already moldering in the midday heat. Adjoining these stairs was a door which Sikander guessed was the way to the kitchen. Next to it, a long row of shelves stood, piled high with rows of musty books, little more than a tall stack of cloth-bound volumes of the Imperial Gazetteer that were almost half a century old and which Sikander guessed must have predated the Resident’s occupation of the bungalow.

  His circumnavigation ended before a pair of ornately embellished double doors. Judging by the clamor of loud voices emanating from behind them, Sikander deduced that this was where the argument that had assailed his ears with such strident volume was playing out. Rather than surrendering to his innate inquisitiveness and barging in, the Maharaja hesitated, easing open one of the doors a few inches so that he could eavesdrop on the confrontation unfolding within. Peering through this narrow gap, he saw a formal dining room. Inside, standing splay-footed in front of a mahogany sideboard, Superintendent Jardine’s barrel shape loomed as squat as a brick wall, his back turned to the Maharaja as he volubly chastised Magistrate Lowry’s more rotund figure which was hunched over in a chair, his head slumped forward in his hands.

  For a large man, Jardine’s voice was surprisingly shrill, so high-pitched that it made Sikander cringe. As he lurked by the door, witnessing the man’s thorough browbeating of Lowry, he found himself wishing that the Superintendent would be stricken by a sudden and miraculous attack of laryngitis, thus affording them all a moment of peace.

  Huddled on a bench behind the arguing Englishmen sat Munshi Ram. The Resident’s secretary looked even older than usual, the very portrait of a broken man, still sniffling and dabbing at his eyes with a corner of his dhoti, while at his feet the basset hound Bluebell, leashed firmly to a chair, was engaged in licking his private regions which such utter thoroughness that Sikander had to stifle a smirk.

  It was the Munshi who noticed the Maharaja’s presence first.

  With impressive haste, he tottered to his feet as quickly as he could, bowing creakily to pay his respects, but Sikander waved him back with a gentle gesture, indicating that he could dispense with the formalities.

  “Mr. Lowry,” he said, abandoning his sophomoric attempts at stealth and pushing through the doors now that he had been noticed. “I take it, my dear fellow, that you are the senior man present.”

  The Magistrate acknowledged him with a grateful nod, immeasurably relieved at being rescued from Superintendent Jardine’s invective. “Yes,” he said, bewildered, as if the thought had not occurred to him before, “I guess I am.”

  “Excellent! In that case, I would like your permission to view the body.”

  Before Lowry could grant his assent, Jardine hustled forward to bar the Maharaja’s passage. The Superintendent was a tall man, with the flaming complexion of a perennial sampler of arrack. While his shoulders were still wide, his belly was rapidly going to fat with the onset of middle age, straining the buttons of his uniform almost to splitting. Coupled with his bulging brow and hairy arms, it made his appearance seem almost simian. Sikander scowled, struggling to conceal his distaste. Even though it was not yet noon, already the underarms of the policeman’s chambray uniform were ringed with damp circlets of sweat, and from the strong vinegary stench emanating from him, Sikander guessed that Jardine was one of that noxious breed of old-fashioned Englishmen who believed that baths were injurious to one’s humors.

  “I am sorry to say,” the Superintendent snorted dismissively, “that you are not needed here.”

  With one sausage-like finger, he made as if to jab at the Maharaja’s chest, to emphasize his point, but before he could touch Sikander, Charan Singh, who had shadowed his master into the room and had been trying his best to stay inconspicuous, growled menacingly and stepped forward, holdi
ng up the Maharaja’s valise threateningly, as if it were a weapon. Dwarfed by the big Sikh, the Superintendent recoiled, eyeing the Maharaja’s manservant warily, unaccustomed to any displays of defiance from a native.

  “I must insist he leave immediately,” he barked at Lowry. “This is a gross obstruction of my duties. There has been a death here, sir, of a high-ranking British official, and that is a matter best left to trained officers of the law, not dilettantes who fancy themselves detectives.”

  “I think, Superintendent, that you will find that in Rajpore, I am the law,” Sikander said, refusing to rise to the bait and permit Jardine’s obvious impudence to goad him. “As for the matter of training, tell me, have you ever had the pleasure of studying Gabriel Tarde, or Quetelet, or Andre Michel-Guerry?”

  “They sound French to me,” Jardine said, with a massive frown.

  “Oh, that they are, Superintendent, although I do believe Quetelet might be Belgian. Nonetheless, that isn’t the point. These gentlemen happen to be pioneers in the field of a new science called criminology, a discipline I am more than familiar with.”

  Jardine grunted, a pig-like growl of disdain. “I don’t need any damned frogs to teach me about criminals. The only good thing the damned French ever did was run away every time they got into a scrap with us English.”

  “Come now, Mr. Jardine,” Lowry spoke up at last, “Let us not be rude. I think in this case, given the seriousness of the situation, we should defer to the Maharaja’s expertise.”

  He rose to his feet, stooping slightly in welcome, his fleshy mouth twisting in silent apology for Jardine’s belligerence. “We would be grateful for your help, Your Majesty. You will let the Maharaja through,” he commanded Jardine wearily, “and do everything in your power to render whatever assistance he may require.”