A Very Pukka Murder

by Arjun Gaind

  “He’s lying! They’re all liars, these native bastards.” He turned to look at Lowry, trying to garner the Magistrate’s support. “Look, just give me twenty minutes in a cell with the little bugger, and I promise you, I will get a confession out of him. Oh, he poisoned the Resident; I know it in my bones. Probably got caught stealing, and didn’t want a beating. How’s that for a motive, huh?”

  “Bravo, Superintendent,” Sikander said dryly. “That’s absolutely brilliant, as shaky a piece of sophistry as I have ever encountered, with one regrettable exception, I am afraid. You see, the Resident was not poisoned by a mushroom.”

  “What makes you so sure of that…?”

  “Well, for one thing, if you take a careful look at the mushrooms we have here, you will realize that not a single one is of a poisonous variety.”

  Jardine frowned, too bellicose to take the Maharaja at his word. Obstinately, he picked up a particularly dangerous-looking mushroom from the basket and held it up, a large specimen with a bright orange cap and stem.“What about this one, eh?”

  “Ah, that is the Caesar mushroom. Amanita Caesarea. It is really quite delicious. You grill it with some butter, and some thyme…”

  “And this one?” Jardine held up another even more ominous-looking piece of fungus, with a dirty brown cap covered with strange dark scales that resembled a bird’s plumage.

  “That is a Dryad’s saddle, I believe. It goes very well with a nice, dry white wine.”

  “This one has to be poisonous,” Jardine said tenaciously, holding up one last morel, this one bright yellow, with a wrinkled cap shaped somewhat like a funnel.

  “Oh my!” Sikander clapped his hands together in delight. “Craterellus lateritius. You have no idea how rare these can be.” Beaming, he grabbed the mushroom from Jardine, and then, to a collective gasp, took a large bite. “Absolutely marvelous! A delicious specimen, if somewhat immature.” Smacking his lips, he offered the remainder back to Jardine. “Here, why don’t you try it? It tastes rather like an apricot.”

  The Superintendent snorted brusquely, giving Sikander a look that was far more poisonous than any mushroom could ever be. “That doesn’t prove anything,” he groused. “Murderers don’t just leave evidence lying about, do they…? For all we know, Major Russell could have eaten the poisonous one.”

  Sikander tried not to laugh. “Very good, Mr. Jardine,” he said patiently, as if he were speaking to a child. “That is certainly a possibility, just as it is equally possible that the Major was killed by a magic spell, or perhaps by a malevolent djinn bent upon unearthly revenge. However, being a keen amateur botanist, the one thing I can testify to quite conclusively is that there are few species of fungi in Rajpore that can kill a man, particularly at this time of year. It’s because of the cold weather, I believe, which can really be quite harsh on plant growth. Of course, if you doubt my word, I would be happy to lend you my copy of Hooker’s Flora so that you may verify my conclusions for yourself. I also have an excellent edition of Ainsworth and Bisby I could let you have if you wish to explore the science of mycology in greater scientific detail.”

  Lowry struggled to stifle a smile as Jardine’s expression darkened, galled by the Maharaja’s blatant needling. “There’ll be no need for that,” he hissed through clenched teeth.

  “Marvelous!” Sikander said expansively. “Now, as I was saying, we are both entirely correct in our assumption that the Resident was poisoned. However, what remains to be established is precisely which poison was used. Luckily, at this juncture, I believe I can provide an answer to that riddle.” He paused, as theatrically as an actor about to deliver a grand denouement, reveling at being the center of attention.“Without a shred of doubt, I am convinced that it was a substance called strychnine that killed the Major.”

  “Good God!” Lowry gasped. As for Jardine, he glowered at the Maharaja, his face tight with mistrust.

  “I don’t understand. Is this another of your theories, Mister Singh?”

  “Not at all,” Sikander said. “I have more than enough proof to back up my assertion.” He looked squarely at the Superintendent. “When you examined the Major’s corpse, you must surely have noticed his unearthly expression. That is what is called Risus Sardonicus, Satan’s smile, a condition that occurs to anyone who has suffered an overdose of strychnine. Also, the way his spine is arched so prominently, it suggests opisthotonus, the severe paroxysms that victims of such cases undergo just before they suffocate.”

  “Are you confident of this, Your Highness?” Lowry said, trying not to let his skepticism show. “It seems rather unbelievable. I mean, where does one even find this strychnine? You can’t just buy it in a shop, can you?”

  “Oh, to the contrary, it is dreadfully easy to come by. Nux vomica, for one, is a derivative of strychnine and is quite commonly used as a tonic. Besides, the tree is native to India and grows wild. All one has to do is get their hands on some of the fruit, and presto, you have all the poison you need. Of course, I cannot be absolutely definite until I have carried out a few laboratory tests, but I can say that I have more than a little faith in my analysis. The evidence never lies, Mr. Lowry, and from what I have observed upstairs, it was strychnine that killed Major Russell. I am willing to stake my reputation on it.”

  His face hardened. “Someone wanted the Resident to die slowly and painfully. Someone who was clever enough to know his habits and patient enough to wait for the perfect opportunity to strike. And most of all, someone who hated him a great deal and wanted him to suffer terribly.”

  “But why…?” Lowry asked. “Why would anyone want to kill poor Will?”

  “That, my dear man,” Sikander replied, “is precisely what I intend to find out.”

  Chapter Seven

  In spite of this persuasive explanation, Superintendent Jardine remained as intractable as a mule.

  “This is all utter conjecture.” He let out rather a forceful sniff. “As far as I can see, the case is open and shut. The native cook is to blame. If only you will allow me to question him further…”

  “Mr. Jardine,” the Magistrate interjected, “would you be so kind as to step outside and check that the crowd is not getting out of hand?”

  “Here,” He offered Jardine his dog’s leash. “Please take Bluebell with you. She gets terribly impatient when she is cooped up inside for too long.”

  “You must be joking,” Jardine objected, aghast at the thought of being reduced to little more than a glorified dog-walker. “This is intolerable! I have yet to conclude my inquiry!”

  “Do as I say, please,” Lowry commanded, an edge of steel hardening his ordinarily placid voice. “I would like to speak to his Majesty in private.”

  Clenching his fists, the Superintendent gave first Lowry and then Sikander an irate scowl, before taking one half-step forward. For a moment, the Maharaja thought the man meant to assault him. His hand dropped to the Kliegenthal cane, bracing himself. Behind him, he sensed Charan Singh stiffen, preparing to intervene. Sikander stilled him with the barest nod of his neck. His lips twisted into a sardonic smile as he held Jardine’s gaze levelly, challenging him, almost hoping that he would resort to belligerence so that Sikander could put him firmly in his place for once and for all.

  This tense impasse held for two long heartbeats until at last something in Jardine seemed to deflate. His shoulders slumped in visible defeat, and he snatched the leash from Lowry’s hand. Muttering angrily under his breath, he shuffled away, tugging at poor Bluebell so viciously that she let out a rather affronted yelp.

  “I fear you have made yourself an enemy, your Highness,” Lowry said.

  “I couldn’t care less, not as long as he stays well out of my way. Can you see to that?”

  “I shall try, but the Superintendent is a very headstrong man.” Lowry shuddered. “Good lord, what is the world coming to when a man is poisoned in his own home?”
<
br />   Shaking his head, he offered Sikander a sorrowful nod. “Do let me know if there is anything else I can do for you.”

  This was precisely the opening the Maharaja had been waiting for. “Actually, now that you mention it, I was hoping we could have a bit of a chat. I have a few questions about Major Russell, concerning his history and his habits, and your opinions, of course, about what sort of man he was, so that I can build a mental picture of his personality. I find that in getting to know a victim, you also manage to learn a lot about his murderer.”

  At the mention of the Resident’s name, Lowry’s eyes widened with palpable distrust. “I don’t see how I could help you,” he said woodenly. “We were no longer close, the Major and I.”

  Sikander forced himself to smile, trying to allay the man’s obvious misgivings, baring such an expanse of perfectly polished teeth that he could feel the seldom used muscles in his jaw stretching and creaking with complaint.

  “Come now, Nicholas,” he said, purposely using the man’s first name to try and disarm him. “It is well known that you are one of the most erudite gentlemen in Rajpore. And your time on the bench, it has given you a fine understanding of human nature. If anyone can help me, surely it is you.”

  As he had hoped, flattery was indeed the key to thawing Lowry’s reservations. His chest swelled with pride, and his plump features broke into a pontifical grin.

  “Well, I guess I can spare a few minutes, if it helps.” Turning, he waddled goutily into the parlor. Sikander followed after him, gritting his teeth impatiently as the man made a great show of pulling out a chair and offering it to the Maharaja. With a brusque nod, he sat down, eager to begin asking the many questions frothing at his lips.

  To his chagrin, he was forced to wait, because rather than taking a seat himself, Lowry decided to shuffle over to a large cabinet abutting the bookshelves. Opening it with a rasping creak, he spent what felt like an eternity rummaging through its shelves, before proudly brandishing a dusty, corked bottle.

  “Ah, so that’s where he hid it, the clever bugger,” he exclaimed, bringing the bottle and two dented silver stirrup cups back to the table and easing his rotund frame into a chair directly opposite the Maharaja. Sikander pursed his lips, watching impatiently as he struggled to pry loose the bottle’s cork, which seemed to be jammed as firmly in place as the proverbial sword in the stone. When it did finally pop free, it came away in a cloud of musty dust that made Lowry sneeze violently. Sniffling, the Englishman proceeded to pour out a generous measure of muddy liquid, which appeared to be medicinal brandy, into each cup, one of which he pushed towards Sikander with a wink.

  “It isn’t quite the finest malmsey, but I find myself sorely in need of a drink after this morning’s trials.”

  Sikander declined politely with a curt shake of his head. While he was as parched as a wanderer lost in the Sahara, he had no desire to try a glass of something as obviously turpentinish as the Magistrate’s brandy. “I am afraid that I am still recovering from yesterday’s festivities, but why don’t you go ahead?”

  Shrugging, Lowry put the cup to his lips and quaffed it in a single, eager swig. He then picked up the second cup as well and greedily gulped down its contents before settling back with a voluble groan, his cheeks gleaming bright red from the fiery spirit.

  “God, he’s really gone, isn’t he…?” He sighed loudly, his corpulent frame shivering. Glancing up at the ceiling, he crossed himself, a devoutly superstitious gesture, as if he were afraid the corpse in the bedroom above their heads could somehow overhear them. “I just saw him last night, you know. He seemed in perfect health.”

  The Magistrate shook his head sadly, almost as though he still couldn’t believe that the Major was well and truly dead. “You know, I always thought old Will was indestructible. He fought in Burma and Baluchistan, and then the Afghan war, and never once took a wound, not even during the rout at Maiwand. He made it through it all, and not a scratch on him, and now he’s gone, like this…Gosh, how dreadful!”

  He let out a most unmanly sob. Sikander averted his face hastily so that the man would not see how embarrassed he was to have to bear witness to such a public display of grief. The Maharaja was a man who believed in keeping his feelings closely guarded. From childhood, he had been trained to keep a perpetually detached expression on his face, to remain as emotionless as the Buddha himself, because in the game of kings, even the slightest flicker of sentiment at the wrong time could give his opponents a precarious advantage over him. But now, confronted with open emotion, he found himself thoroughly nauseated. Nonetheless, Sikander kept his face composed, letting the Magistrate regain control of himself before continuing with his questions.

  “From the way you speak of him, it seems you had known Major Russell a long time?”

  “Yes!” Lowry nodded, his jowls wobbling in garrulous agreement. “Will and I were at Cambridge together. He was a year ahead of me at Magdalene, and took me under his wing and protected me from the attentions of the senior lads, if you know what I mean.”

  “I have always wondered what the Resident was like as a boy. Was he just as stiff and aloof?”

  “Absolutely! Will was always a stuffed shirt. We are the same age, you know. I shall be forty-three this summer, and he was just a few months older, but he always acted like he was so much more mature, even when we were boys.” His voice grew pensive. “Of course, he was unbearably brilliant. An exceptional scholar, mind you. The Masters were quite dazzled by his skills in languages, but he did not make friends easily. Neither did I, for that matter. I was a slack Bob, you see, didn’t play cricket or row, and to make things worse, I was a poor colleger, attending school on a scholarship, which made me quite the object of scorn for the wealthier fellows. But Will, he was always there to watch out for me. He got me through the worst of it, he did.”

  “Do you happen to know anything about his antecedents, his family history?”

  “He told me he grew up in a small village in Kent, I believe. He said that his father was a soldier, a Captain in the Hussars. He died at Sebastopol, when Will was very young, and his mother remarried.”

  “Were they a wealthy family?”

  “Oh no, not at all. His father died deeply in debt, and his stepfather did not get along with Will, and turned him out when he was just sixteen. Luckily, his father had made an arrangement so that he could attend Charterhouse, and then he won a Catholic bursary to Cambridge.” He sighed, his rotund face shiny with remembrance. “I think that was what drew us to each other. We were both as poor as church mice. But unlike me, Will was the ambitious one, bloody well ambitious enough for the both of us. He always wanted to be someone, you know. He wanted to be important, powerful, a proper nob, not a humble drone, like me.”

  Shaking his head, Lowry leaned forward and fumbled with the bottle, pouring himself another generous dram of brandy, which he guzzled with even greater alacrity than before.

  “He left Cambridge early, and came out to India long before I did, to take up a writer’s position in Calcutta. I took up practice in Gray’s Inn for a bit, but it didn’t suit my temperament. I was lucky, though. I had an uncle who was a bit of a Nabob with connections in the India Office and he got me a position out here.”

  Lowry frowned, pausing to collect his breath. “By the time I arrived, it turned out that Will had managed to make quite a name for himself. He was Deputy Commissioner for Khairpur by then, if I recall, but he had to abdicate hurriedly, I believe, under a bit of a cloud.”

  “And why was that?” Sikander said, leaning forward interestedly as he sensed a hint of scandal.

  “I am not sure, and I wouldn’t want to put down on him. There was some salacious gossip, something about a garbarh of some kind. Who knows if it was even true?” He looked at the Maharaja cautiously, a shadow of unease flickering across his face, a sudden wariness. “Will wasn’t an easy man to like, Your Highness.” Lowry
spoke slowly, as if he were choosing his words with great care. “He was often priggish, and much too full of himself. Worst of all, the poor fellow had great expectations, sir, aspirations that were staggeringly vaulting.”

  Sikander frowned, sensing a deep bitterness behind the Magistrate’s words. Mentally, he took note of it. There was something else here, something Lowry was not being completely honest about, a rivalry perhaps, or a resentment, which he would have to investigate further.

  At that moment however, he chose not to interrupt the Magistrate. “After Khairpur, Will was at Makran, and then at Sirmur for a bit, I believe, and finally, here at Rajpore, sir, just after your mother’s unfortunate passing.”

  “And you stayed in touch with him throughout?”

  Lowry shrugged, indicating the negative. “Oh no! The truth is I lost track of him after he left Cambridge. I regret to say we had a bit of a falling out.”

  With that declaration, the Magistrate fell silent, peering into the empty glass in his hand with a brooding expression on his face, as if he were searching its depths for some measure of reassurance.

  “How did you happen to find yourself here, in Rajpore?” Sikander asked politely after a momentary pause.

  “Oh, that was Will’s doing, strangely enough,” Lowry said sadly. “I hadn’t heard from him in years, until last Christmas, when he wrote and asked me to take up the Magistrate’s post here.”

  “It was an offer which I accepted, with some eagerness, I might add.” He smiled weakly. “I am…I was not like Will, sir. I never did have his ability, his drive.”

  “Come now, Mr. Lowry, there is no need to be so self-effacing. You seem like a fine enough fellow.”

  “It is kind of you to say so, but I know the truth about myself. I am a venial man. I drink and eat too much, and on most mornings it takes all my strength to drag myself to the cutcherry and maintain a solemn face as I listen to the cases brought before me.” He groaned. “God, if only I could go back in time and change the choices I have made…” Lowry seemed to realize that he was babbling, and he paused, collecting himself with an embarrassed grimace. “The truth, Your Majesty, is that I just do not possess the drive to be much more than a humble district Magistrate. But Will, he would have made it all the way to the governorship of Punjab, I tell you, if it wasn’t for this unfortunate incident.”