by Arjun Gaind
He stared at Sikander, as if to challenge him to refute the logic of this assertion. The Maharaja spared a long moment to consider his explanation very carefully. On the face of it, it made ample sense. Why would he kill the Major indeed? The man had been his meal ticket, his passport to a better life, and by the Munshi’s own admission, he had been a willing accessory, which pretty much negated Sikander’s earlier theory that he was being blackmailed by the Major. In addition, his demeanor and his bearing, which were defiant rather than evasive, told Sikander he was not lying. That made it even more difficult for him to accept the Munshi’s guilt. The man was a fool and a charlatan, but he was no killer, not unless every one of Sikander’s instincts had been thoroughly fooled.
The Maharaja clenched his teeth, frustrated. He was so sure he had been on the brink of solving the case, especially when the Munshi tried to shoot him, but now, it was like he had been pushed back to square one.
“Huzoor,” Charan Singh interjected, “don’t tell me you believe this hogwash?”
“I don’t know what to believe.” Sikander exhaled solemnly, a perplexed sigh. “This is what I want you to do. Take him back to the killa, and throw him in the cell next to the Gurkha. Make sure you keep them apart, and for God’s sake, do not let Gurung Bahadur find out he was the Major’s procurer. The last thing I need is one of my two best suspects killing the other in a fit of bloody rage.”
“I shall depute one of my sons to do as you command.”
“No, do it yourself. I don’t trust anyone else.”
“Are you certain that is a good idea, Sahib? Every time I leave you alone, you manage to get yourself into some trouble or the other.”
“Stop acting like my mother, you ox, and for once, just do as you’re told.”
Charan Singh looked resigned. “At least tell me where you are going, Sahib, in case you need help later?”
The answer to that question was a fairly obvious one. If the Munshi’s story was to be believed and he was indeed innocent, that left the Maharaja with only one more suspect to pursue.
“I think it is time that I paid a visit to Captain Fletcher,” Sikander said, pursing his lips, “and found out exactly why he has been avoiding me.”
Chapter Twenty-three
Captain Augustus Fletcher had always believed himself to be an intrepid man.
It wasn’t that he was particularly brave. Rather, he was blessed to have been born with a complete lack of imagination, a trait that when coupled with a brutal, amoral nature, made for an exceptional cavalryman.
Sadly, as the era of the horse soldier drew to a close and the age of artillery began, Fletcher had found that he and his kind were becoming obsolete. That was his greatest lament, that the art of mounted warfare, which he had spent his whole life mastering, had changed beyond his comprehension. There was no more nobility in it, no honor and no fanfare, no more reckless charges to the breach. No, war had become a game, played by armchair generals who had never stared death in the eye, never known how it felt to ride into the valley of death. And the worst part was that there was no place for old warriors like Fletcher in this new world. He had become what he most despised, a relic, like a lame horse, good only to be put down for once and for all.
This feeling of uselessness had only intensified as he aged, beginning as an ache in his gouty legs and then gradually spreading through his squat body, a dissatisfaction that never quite seemed to leave him. Where had it all gone wrong? Where had his career, once so filled with promise, taken a turn downhill? Now nearing fifty and still a mere Captain, Fletcher had become convinced that he had been treated unfairly, that for far too long the advancement he deserved had been awarded to those he judged to be of lesser ability. As a result, the reckless bravado that had so marked his character in his youth had soured, turned to a bitter rancor, a hostility to which he had become addicted, as surely as some men become addicted to opium or strong spirits.
The only time this resentment receded, other than when he was on horseback, was when he was running. Unlike most of the English officer class, who preferred to spend their spare time guzzling vast amounts of arrack at the club, Fletcher was a keen middle-distance runner. There was nothing he found quite as calming as a brisk five-miler, losing himself in the monotony of his stride, his heart pumping, the ever-present ache in his knees and ankles fading until all his problems seemed inconsequential, until all that mattered was the dull thump of the road beneath his heels and the sweet gasp of each tortuous breath in his lungs.
On this particular day, he had found he needed that respite even more than usual. It was the fault of that damn Maharaja, curse his bones. The jumped-up kaffir had been stalking him, like a hunter chasing down a buck, and twice, Fletcher had only been able to avoid him by the narrowest of margins, first ducking him at the club the day before, and then just about managing to escape from Mrs. Fitzgerald’s charming gala before the man had been able to corner him with his tiresome questions.
Upon returning from the Ross Common, his mood had been gray, to say the least, and Fletcher had changed quickly into shorts and singlet and canvas shoes before setting out at a lively pace, taking his favorite route, a twisting, steep mountain trail that led to the Cantonment and back again. It had taken him the better part of two hours to cover the distance, which was just over seven miles, and by the time Fletcher returned to his quarters, it was nearing dusk. To his surprise, as he strode up his driveway, he noticed that the front door of the house was wide open. On the verandah, the night lanterns had not been lit, and the interior of the bungalow was swathed in shadows, so dark that he had could scarcely discern any palpable shapes amidst the murk.
“Boy,” he shouted, calling for his servant, eager to give him a piece of his mind, “Where have you gotten to, you donkey?” Like every bloody Indian, the boy was worse than useless. The silly bugger was probably fast asleep, wrapped up in his blankets somewhere! Blast the lazy scoundrel! You just couldn’t trust these natives to do their jobs, Fletcher thought angrily, no more than you could expect them to remember their place!
Once more he called for the boy, but yet again, he did not present himself, not even when a dangerous edge crept into the Captain’s voice, that rancorous promise of violence to come. Fletcher let out another, more voluble curse, and pottered through the living room in the direction of the kitchen, stubbing his toe twice on pieces of furniture before he managed to find a storm lantern, which he lit before remembering he had forgotten to close the front door.
“Just you wait,” he bellowed, “when I get my hands on you, boy, I will have your hide off, I swear it.”
“You had better change out of those sweaty clothes, Captain, before you catch your death of cold,” a voice said, interrupting his tirade. Fletcher let out a mighty squeal, and the lantern went clattering to the floor. His heart racing, one of his hands reached instinctively for his service revolver before he realized he was out of uniform and thus unarmed. Scowling, he struggled to see who it was that had spoken, but all he could make out was a dull shape standing in the living room, as shadowy as a wraith. As if on cue, a matchstick flared, casting a dim penumbra of radiance. In this half light, Fletcher recognized the Maharaja of Rajpore’s gaunt, sardonic face watching him, his lips curving into a smirk as he lit a cigarette.
“What the devil?” Fletcher screeched, barely able to believe his eyes. “You? What in blazes are you doing here?”
“Good evening, Captain.” Sikander exhaled a cloud of fragrant smoke. Nonchalantly, he crossed over to sink down into the Captain’s favorite armchair, looking perfectly relaxed, dressed in a high-necked tunic of rich woven brocade so resplendent it made Fletcher feel like a beggar.
“Get out!” Fletcher snarled, taking one furious step forward. “Get out of my house, you…you…”
“Come now, Captain,” Sikander interrupted him. “Calm down before you give yourself a conniption. Why don’t you s
it down so that we can enjoy a civilized cup of tea together?”
Fletcher’s mouth fell open, barely able to swallow such barefaced cheek. It had been years since anyone had dared to order him around, not since he had taken command of the Rajpore Cavalry. True to his innately belligerent nature, he was tempted to rebel, to tell the Maharaja to bugger off. There was no reason he had to allow the man to question him like a common criminal. As far as Fletcher was concerned, royalty or not, he was just a jumped-up nigger, and he despised everything about the man—his manner, so unconcerned it bordered upon languorous, and his posture, the way he sat atop the chair like it was a throne, as if he owned everything and everyone around him.
To his dismay, inexplicably, his tongue refused to obey him. It was nothing short of uncanny, as if the man had cast a spell on him. Fletcher had heard the usual gossip, that the Maharaja possessed some sort of mystical ability that made it impossible for anyone to lie to him, but he had brushed such rumors away as nothing more than native superstition. But now that Sikander was sitting right there in front of him, watching him with those frigid eyes, Fletcher felt his resolve seeping away. In person, there was indeed something magnetic about the man, a deeply disconcerting, almost hypnotic quality that caused even him, a hardened soldier with a lifetime spent on the front lines, to falter. Some primal, vestigial instinct for self-preservation deep within the Captain’s subconscious, that very essence of compliance that awakens when a predator comes face-to-face with a larger, more powerful beast, reacted automatically to the air of cold command in Sikander’s voice, compelling Fletcher to retreat meekly to a nearby chair without a word of complaint.
“That’s much better,” the Maharaja crooned. “Now do tell, why have you been avoiding me?”
“I most certainly have not!” Fletcher replied, rather too shrilly to be believable.
“I tried to approach you at the club just yesterday, and then at Mrs. Fitzgerald’s garden party earlier this afternoon, but on both occasions, you took the first opportunity you had to run away from me. You do realize how suspicious that makes you look, don’t you, Mr. Fletcher?”
“It’s Captain Fletcher,” the Englishman replied pointedly, “and my duties keep me very busy, far too busy to waste time gabbling with the likes of you. Besides, why are you even interested in Russell’s death? It is public knowledge that you didn’t particularly care for the Resident.”
Sikander’s reply to this question was a dazzlingly impish grin. “I am bored, my dear fellow. Frankly, this is the most fun I have had in months.”
Fletcher refused to be disarmed by the man, in spite of his charming manner. Instead, his sneer deepened, until his face looked as craggy as a cliff.
“You sicken me,” he hissed. “A man has died, a good man, and you are acting like it is all just a merry lark.”
Sikander did not seem terribly put out by such patent hostility. Leaning forward, he peered at Fletcher, examining him so closely that the Captain was quite unnerved. With most men, you could at least guess what they were thinking. You could sense some emotion, gain some insight into their character from their expression and demeanor, but with the Maharaja, he had a way of looking straight through you, as if you were transparent. And his eyes, those awful eyes, as icy and inscrutable as a fjord, they remained utterly expressionless. There was nothing there, no anger, no hatred, no calculation, just a coldness so glacial that it made Fletcher feel like he was caught in a blizzard.
“I do not expect you to understand my motives, Mr. Fletcher, or to even be civil, but I assure you, you will cooperate with me.”
“And if I do not?”
Sikander’s smile widened, until his lean face seemed as cadaverous as a skull. “I make a bad enemy, Mr. Fletcher. I would advise you to test my patience at your own peril.”
“Damn you,” the Captain bunched his fists so hard his knuckles cracked. “Is that a threat?”
To his surprise, the Maharaja chuckled, and shook his head indulgently, as if he were speaking with a child. “Not at all! I don’t make threats, my dear fellow. That was a warning. Either tell me what I want to know, or I promise you, I will do everything in my power to ruin you.” The Maharaja sat back, staring at Fletcher as if he were little more than an insect. “It shouldn’t be too difficult, really. A whisper in the right ear, a small bribe, maybe a favor or two called in from some people I know in Simla, and you will be drummed out of your precious regiment without further ado. A penniless old man, no rank, no pension, the laughing stock of the Officer’s Mess. Is that what you want, Captain?”
Even as he made this bare-faced threat, Sikander’s voice remained perfectly matter-of-fact, as though he were speaking about something entirely mundane, the weather, perhaps, or the cricket scores. A chill ran down Captain Fletcher’s spine. The Maharaja seemed so utterly insouciant that for the first time, he felt an inkling of genuine trepidation, an emotion he had not experienced for decades, not since he had been a raw ensign, praying on his knees before his first skirmish.
Could the man really be quite that ruthless? Yes, he realized, as he glared at Sikander, the black bastard meant every single word. Fletcher tried not to shudder, knowing that he had lost the battle even before the first salvo had been fired. Whatever defiance still kindled within him fizzled like a damp lucifer. His broad shoulders sagged. Abruptly, he seemed to age a decade, looking for the first time an old man, gray and exhausted.
“Very well.” He raised his hands to indicate capitulation, “Ask your blasted questions!”
Sikander tried not to gloat. He had indeed read the man correctly. Not only was he a soldier to the core, accustomed to obeying orders instinctively, but his limited imagination meant that when faced with a challenge, rather than trying to find the clever way out, Fletcher would always choose to keep his head down, and seek cover, so to speak.
“I thought we could begin with a bit of background. Tell me, Captain, how long is it now that you have served in Rajpore?”
This question, though harmless enough on the face of it, was one he had chosen very deliberately, with the specific intent of softening up the Captain. If there was one truth Sikander was more than certain of, it was that no man past the age of forty could resist talking about himself, and he doubted that Fletcher, albeit a taciturn sort, would forsake the opportunity to wax eloquent about his career.
“It has been eleven years now, and six of those have been as Commandant of Cavalry. I was seconded here in ’97, as a Lieutenant, and gazetted Captain in ’02, during the Ghazi campaign. A paltan of some two hundred Pathans had crossed at the Ramala Pass and were raising unholy hell amidst the border villages, but my men sent those bloody savages scarpering back to where they came from, and they haven’t dared to show their hairy faces since.” His face glowed with pride, so suffused with self-satisfaction that it made Sikander want to pity him, the poor bastard, reveling in glories long past.
“I take it, then, that you are happy here?”
“It’s a decent enough posting, I suppose.” Fletcher replied, non-committal. “A bit too tame for the likes of me nowadays, but the old Resident, now there was a proper gentleman. He took me under his wing, you see, and told me that when he retired, he would recommend me for his post, but the best laid plans…” He shrugged. “The job went to Major Russell instead, and that was that.”
His resentment was only too obvious, but was this bitterness directed towards the authorities in Simla, or at the man who had trumped his promotion? The former could be dismissed as the fault of a choleric temperament, but the latter, given enough time, could have deepened into genuine hatred, and there, Sikander thought, lay a possible motive, certainly palpable enough to be explored in more depth. “Tell me, what did you think of Major Russell?”
“What do you mean?”
The Maharaja gave the Captain a level look, pursing his lips impatiently. “Please, don’t be facetious. You worked wi
th Russell, every single day. Surely you have an opinion as to what sort of man he was?”
Fletcher hesitated, an overly long pause before continuing blandly, as though to suggest he was selecting his words with great caution. “He was an effective administrator with a fine track record.”
Sikander interrupted him with a brusque slash of one hand.
“Stop wasting my time,” he growled. “I don’t want you to eulogize the man. I want to know what you thought of him, one soldier to another.”
“Don’t you call him a soldier,” Fletcher snarled, even before he had realized it. He bit his lip, as if he knew he had said too much. The pause stretched out as he considered whether it would be in his best interest to backtrack, before he decided to continue, made brash by impulsive disregard. “The Major may have had the clusters on his shoulders, but he was no soldier, not a pukka one.”
Such an outburst was exactly what Sikander had been hoping for. So Lowry had not been exaggerating after all. There had indeed been bad blood between the Major and the Captain. Sikander frowned, watching the man contemplatively. Once again, Fletcher’s body language was broadcasting much more than his lips had revealed. His reluctance to speak of the past, the vehemence in his tone, which had been rather petulant up to that point, the way his shoulders were squared and his jaw stiff and clenched, it was a classic defensive posture, an observation that made the Maharaja’s instincts flare with suspicion. The Captain was definitely hiding something, but what?
“For a man who has just lost a friend, you don’t seem very aggrieved.”
“Why should I be? Will Russell was no friend of mine.”
“That is not what I have heard. I was told you were very close, at least until recently.”
“I thought so too, but I realize now that I was mistaken. Certainly, I spent a good amount of time with him, and on occasion, I was called upon to be his confidante, but in retrospect, I have to confess that I barely knew the man.” He sighed, growing uncharacteristically pensive. “I doubt anyone knew the real Will Russell. He had always been like that, even as a young man, as aloof as a Jesuit.”