by Arjun Gaind
To his dismay, the club was rather too crowded for comfort. Sikander grimaced, barely able to swallow his distaste. He should have remembered it was a half holiday, and as a result, the place was packed to the rafters, every table in the verandah taken, by a multitude of unfriendly white faces, mostly local families, he guessed, complete with their grubby little children, running around screaming at the top of their voices as if they were possessed by demons. As he had dreaded, his entrance caused a minor sensation. It began with the table nearest the door where a knot of plump Englishmen sat enjoying a kettle of tea under the watchful eye of a white-coated bearer. As Sikander passed, they paused and turned to glower at him, their faces livid with annoyance, as if to suggest that he was just another unwanted interloper who had forced his way into their little haven of Englishness. And then, like a row of dominoes being knocked over, it spread from table to table, neck after neck swiveling to look in his direction, the hubbub of conversation slowly withering away to a gaunt silence until it seemed to him every single eye in the club was staring straight at him.
Ignoring the humid hostility thickening the air, Sikander raised a hand and beckoned at the Abdar, the head steward, who was standing rigidly behind a long serving table at the center of the verandah. The man came rushing, almost tripping over in his haste to respond. Sikander knew him very well. His name was Harpreet Singh, and he was one of Charan Singh’s innumerable siblings, albeit a smaller, more rotund version of the Maharaja’s faithful manservant. In fact, it was at Sikander’s recommendation that he had secured this very position, and in exchange, it was his job to make sure the Maharaja was kept well supplied with information, passing on the rumors and gossip that he inevitably overheard from the Sahibs as they spent their evenings in the determined pursuit of relaxation.
“Yes, Huzoor?” Harpreet Singh inquired. Inclining his head, he performed a complicated salutation, raising one hand to his forehead to claw at his forelock.
“I was hoping to speak with Captain Fletcher.”
The Abdar nodded and pulled out a battered fob-watch from his vest, gazing down at its well-worn dial with a frown. “I believe that he can presently be found in the card room. If you wish it, sir, I shall endeavor to fetch him for you.”
“No,” Sikander said, “Send a bearer. I need to have a word with you.”
“Of course.” Swiveling, the Abdar called for a nearby waiter, a gangly young teenager with barely the first scruff of manhood on his chin, and barked out a series of instructions in Punjabi, sending the boy hurrying away.
“I have told him to fetch the Captain immediately,” he explained, turning back to the Maharaja. “How else may I be of service to Your Magnificence?”
“I wanted to chat about the Resident Sahib for a moment,” Sikander started to say, but the Abdar forestalled him with a frantic bob of his head.
“Please, not here,” he whispered, clearing his throat pointedly, as if to remind Sikander that a hundred hostile eyes were watching. “Would you care to step into the ballroom?”
Sikander understood the man’s need for discretion all too well and obliged his request, following Harpreet Singh through the wide glass doors into the Grand Ballroom, a handsome oak-panelled room with a high, barrel-vaulted ceiling. Inside, he saw that the remnants of last night’s festivities were still being cleared away. Nearby, a gaunt sweeper, as ancient as a wraith, hunched over on his haunches, slowly polishing the floor to a greasy luster with what smelled like a mixture of linseed oil and Murphy’s soap. The Abdar hissed and immediately, the sweeper ceased his labors and retreated, leaving his work incomplete, as did the pack of servants who were folding away the tables and stacking wooden chairs against the wall.
“Forgive my rudeness, Sahib,” Harpreet Singh apologized, “but after what has happened this morning, the English are on edge. Jardine Sahib has been making a fuss all day.”
“Of course,” Sikander commiserated. “I don’t want to get you into any trouble. I just have a few quick questions about the New Year’s Ball last night. I heard there was a bit of an altercation.”
“Yes, indeed,” the Abdar replied. “It was a real tamasha. The Major Sahib got into a heated argument with another officer. It almost brought the evening crashing to a premature halt.”
“Do you by any chance happen to know what set the argument off?”
“Oh, I saw it all.” Harpreet Singh smiled conspiratorially. “The Major arrived quite late and spent some time chatting with Fletcher Sahib, but then, a young memsahib approached him. Together, they retired to a discreet spot upstairs, on the back balcony, and, how shall I put this delicately, after a brief conversation, they began to kiss, Huzoor.”
“Is that so?” Sikander said, trying not to let his excitement show. “Are you certain what you witnessed was entirely romantic? Couldn’t the Major have been making an advance, forcing himself upon the poor girl?”
“Forgive my presumption for daring to contradict you, Huzoor,” Harpreet Singh said with a leer, “but it was consensual, of that I am confident.”
“Are you absolutely certain?”
“Oh, by golly, yes! The two of them were going at it like a pair of langurs in mating season.”
“Describe this chaste young woman to me, will you?” Sikander tried to keep his voice businesslike, even though inside he was seething to get on with chasing down this mysterious memsahib who had inspired such drama at the Ball.
“Oh, she was a pari, Your Highness, one of the Apsaras come to life.” The Abdar let out a low wolf whistle, squeezing a shrill breath through his front teeth. “Skin like silk, eyes as blue as a midsummer sky. Now that is the kind of woman a man prays will keep him warm on the coldest winter’s night.”
Sikander gave him an amused wink. “You have the heart of a poet, Harpreet Singh.”
The Abdar laughed. “I appreciate beauty, Sahib, especially since I have been cursed with a wife who is as ugly as an ogre.”
Sikander nodded his head appreciatively at this witticism. “Let us backtrack for a moment. You say you saw the Major and this memsahib kissing? What happened after that?”
“What always happens?” The Abdar gave a stoic shrug. “The pretty lady’s husband showed up. A tall young lieutenant, built like a scarecrow with a face as ugly as a gargoyle’s. I thought it was a tragedy that someone as delectable as she was wasted on the likes of him.” He shuddered. “He was a real challah, Huzoor. The Resident Sahib was holding court out on the lawn, about a half hour after I saw him being amorous with the memsahib, when this Lieutenant just walked up to him in front of everyone, and actually slapped him across the face with a glove. Can you believe that?”
Sikander pursed his lips. “How did the Major respond to this challenge?”
“Oh, he looked ready to kill the boy, but thankfully, before they could come to blows, Fletcher Sahib jumped in and put a stop to it.” He grimaced. “It was quite a scandal, let me tell you. Lowry Sahib came and dragged the young Lieutenant away, and expelled him from the club, along with the unfortunate memsahib.”
“What about the Resident?”
“Oh, he didn’t linger much longer either. He left about ten minutes later, in the company of Captain Fletcher,” he said with a shrug. “That was about all the excitement for the night. The party went on for a little longer, until an hour or so after midnight. At the latest, it would have been around one-fifteen, give or take a few minutes.”
A shiver of excitement ran down the Maharaja’s spine. Thanks to Harpreet Singh, he now had the time-line of events he needed, and a halfway decent one at that. The Major had left an hour before the party ended, between eleven and eleven-fifteen. However, Sikander’s examination of the crime scene had led him to believe that the Major had been poisoned between three and five a.m., which meant that whatever had killed him had to have been introduced into his system after he had departed the ball.
“
Personally, I am convinced it was the Lieutenant who murdered the Resident Sahib, Huzoor,” Harpreet Singh interjected. “What do you think?”
Sikander gave the Abdar a sour glare. He really had no interest in the man’s opinions, and besides, it was much too early in the game to jump to such a wild conclusion, and certainly not without subjecting the errant Lieutenant to rigorous questioning first.
Just as he was about to recommend that Harpreet Singh stick to waiting tables and leave the detecting to him, he felt a knot in his stomach, a sixth sense warning him that he was being watched. Spinning around, he saw Fletcher standing framed in the glass doorway of the ballroom, staring daggers in his direction, his coarse features twisted into an expression of pure malevolence.
As their eyes met, the Captain turned and scurried away with great alacrity. Immediately, Sikander bid a rushed farewell to Harpreet Singh, and dashed after Fletcher, eager to stop him before he could slip away. Like a tornado, he stormed out of the ballroom, barging through the doors with such haste that one of the glass windows cracked right down the middle, only to crash headlong into the squint-eyed young waiter the Abdar had deputed to summon the Captain, very nearly bowling him off his feet.
As soon as the man managed to regain his balance, he greeted the Maharaja with a wary bow. “Your Highness, I regret to say, the Captain is not at the club at present.”
Sikander scowled. “How can that be? I just saw him, standing right here,” he started to say, but the boy gulped and interrupted him in mid-sentence.
“Forgive me, Sahib,” he groaned with a sheepish look, “but you must be mistaken. He is not here.”
A formless rage clenched inside Sikander’s chest, so overpowering that it made his head throb. His face turned a startling shade of purple, and two livid veins pulsed in his temples. Before he knew it, he had clenched his fists and taken a half step forward.
“Do you take me for a fool?” He thundered, so loud that it was almost deafening. Immediately, in unison, fifty English necks swiveled to watch the Maharaja, their collective eyes gleaming with appalled curiosity.
“Sahib,” the waiter yelped, “I am only the messenger.”
With those words, he squeezed shut his eyes, preparing himself to silently take whatever punishment the Maharaja chose to dish out. This hapless gesture of acquiescence was what made Sikander pause. He couldn’t just vent his irritation on this poor fool. He was only a pawn, Captain Fletcher’s catspaw, who had no choice but to do as he had been ordered.
It was the Captain who was ducking him, but why?
Why was he avoiding the Maharaja so assiduously, unless he had something to hide?
Chapter Fourteen
“Get out of my sight!”
“Oh, bless you, Sahib,” the boy intoned, and backed away with a speed that would have put a rabbit to shame. As for Sikander, he spun on his heel and headed toward the exit, eager to get out of the club as soon as possible, away from the British half of Rajpore altogether and back within the borders of his own territory.
Sadly, before he could make good his escape, a large man who had been seated in one secluded corner of the verandah beneath the shade of a garish red and blue lawn umbrella leaped up and waved at him eagerly.
“Your Majesty! Yoo hoo!”
It was Miller, the local presswallah. In spite of his irritation, Sikander’s mouth twisted into an involuntary smile. At first glance, the man cut a comical figure, the very epitome of a Falstaffian buffoon. He was extraordinarily corpulent, with three voluminous chins and a pink sweaty moon of a face, which when coupled with his propensity for rumpled white tropical suits, left him looking rather like a downed dirigible. Behind this bumbling exterior though, there hid a formidable intelligence. Like Sikander, Miller was a polymath, the sort of man who took an interest in anything and everything. Perhaps that was why Sikander had always had a soft spot for the acerbic Englishman. He was the only person in Rajpore the Maharaja could have an unrestrained conversation with, a marvelously erudite man whose company he had always found immensely diverting. Best of all, the presswallah knew all the local English gossip. He kept a vast network of informers—servants and bearers and ayahs and durjees and dhobis—on his payroll, and they kept him apprised of every little development happening in the English town, from the most mundane of conflicts to the most salacious of scandals.
As Sikander altered his path to approach Miller’s table, the plump Englishman collapsed backwards into his chair with such violence that its wicker legs creaked alarmingly, as if to voice complaint.
“Forgive me, Your Majesty,” he exclaimed. “This humidity, it saps me terribly.”
Letting out an exaggerated groan, he removed his hat with one limp hand and began to fan himself desultorily. Sikander smiled as he saw Miller’s foppishly long hair. It was another one of the presswallah’s well-documented eccentricities, a mane of silken curls as golden as a sunrise, which he insisted on wearing in ringlets, like a Cavalier. On a woman, it would have been somewhat becoming, but on a man the size of Miller, all it accomplished was to render his appearance even more incongruous. And then of course, there was the perfume. In addition to his lamentable taste in haberdashery, Miller had a bizarre preference for cheap cologne. He seemed to bathe in it until the musk surrounded him like a fragrant cloud, but sadly it did little to disguise his smell, which was quite piquant, a rank odor of sweat and gin and printer’s ink that made Sikander feel more than a little queasy.
“Well,” Miller said as the Maharaja took the chair opposite him, pulling it as far back as he could to avoid being overcome by the miasma of the man’s stench, “it seems we are finally rid of Major Russell, yes.”
With an insolent flourish, Miller gathered up a glass and raised it in mock-salute. Sikander guessed it was probably filled to the brim with Gordon’s gin. Even though it was not yet four o’clock, he could tell from Miller’s ruddy cheeks that as usual the presswallah was already half drunk, well on his way to being truly pickled before the sun had even set.
“Here’s to good riddance,” he exclaimed recklessly with no regard for who happened to overhear him, “May the bugger rot in purgatory for all eternity.”
With that declaration, he downed the glass’ contents in one vast gulp, before slapping it back down onto the table with an unlikely vehemence.
“Why, Mr. Miller,” Sikander said, taken aback by the acid in his voice, “I was not aware you felt so strongly against the Major.”
“Ha!” Miller hissed. “He was an asinine jackass who seemed to believe that the independent press existed only to serve his whims and fancies. In fact, the last time we spoke, he promised me in no uncertain terms that he would have me locked up like a common criminal if I ever dared to slander him in print.”
Abruptly, he leaned forward to fix Sikander with a penetrating glare. “Rumor has it that you think his death was a murder, not a suicide.”
He peered at Sikander keenly, trying to deduce something from his expression, but the Maharaja was a past-master at keeping his emotions well hidden.
“I have heard another rumor that you are poking about trying to find the killer.”
“Perhaps…I haven’t quite made up my mind about it yet.” He held Miller’s stare with a level, poker face, offering him the slightest of smiles. “In fact, I was hoping you could help me with that.”
Miller laughed, a great booming clamor of noise that made Sikander grimace, as if he had been struck physically. “I thought as much,” he smirked. “How could I possibly help you? I am just a humble journalist.”
“Come now, Mr. Miller, don’t play coy. You have a rare talent for secrets, both for keeping and uncovering them.”
Miller brushed this compliment away with a dismissive wave of one hand, but Sikander could see from his expression that he was inordinately pleased by this remark. He meant every word. In spite of his flaws, Ernest Miller was an ex
traordinarily useful creature. His position at the Rajpore Gazette coupled with his skill at poking about in other people’s business made him a very valuable asset for the Maharaja. Not only was he an excellent editor who ran the Gazette with an iron fist but, for lack of a better phrase, Miller was a bloodhound, apt at sniffing out secrets. He had a unique propensity for finding usable information where most others only saw random and disconnected facts, and his files were as voluminous as they came, his intelligence sources second only to Sikander’s own chief minister, the redoubtable Ismail Bhakht.
“What do you need from me?” Miller asked, frowning speculatively.
“I want to know whatever you can tell me about the Major’s private life.”
The journalist’s mouth split into a cocky smile. “If I did happen to have such information, Your Highness, I might wonder what I have to gain by revealing it to you.”
“I am sure we could come to some arrangement, provided of course that what you know is worth paying for,” Sikander responded with an equally hawkish grin.
Miller’s eyes narrowed until he seemed almost porcine, and he licked his lips greedily.
“Very well,” he said. “Where would you like to begin?”
Sikander leaned forward, lowering his voice to a murmur. “When I spoke with Mr. Lowry earlier, he mentioned that he was at Cambridge with the Major, but Russell was sent down. Would you happen to know why? I imagine it must have been quite a scandal.”
“I have no doubt it was,” Miller said, looking rather embarrassed. He shrugged, a vast quiver that seemed to cascade through him in a cataclysm of loose flesh. “Sadly, sir, I must admit I do not know.”