by Arjun Gaind
“You knew him before his arrival in Rajpore then?”
“In a manner of speaking, yes.” The Captain hesitated again. “I was his batman for three seasons many years ago before I was promoted out of the ranks.”
“You were a ranker?” Sikander echoed, unable to withhold his astonishment.
Fletcher’s florid face darkened with barely repressed shame. “Aye, I started in the ranks, and spent almost a decade wearing a sergeant’s stripes.” Try as he might to sound nonchalant, he couldn’t prevent an edge of rancor from creeping into his voice. “I won my commission the hard way, on the battlefield during the Afghan Campaign.”
This was it, Sikander thought, the secret the Captain had been hiding, the crux of why he was so loath to speak of the past. He had begun his career as a humble rank-and-file soldier. That certainly explained much of his bucolic choler. While the old practice of buying rank had died out with the Victorian Age, it was common knowledge that in the rarefied atmosphere of the Officer’s Clubs and the Cantonments, rankers who jumped up the ladder were never welcome, unable to leave behind the taint of being common soldiers, especially with the memsahibs, who inevitably were even more snobbish than most maharanis. No wonder he is so embittered, Sikander thought. What man wouldn’t be sour, having worked twice as hard as any other soldier, only to end up on the wrong side of forty and still just a lowly Captain, posted to a small kingdom where there were lamentably few promotions to be had?
That also explained why he had resented the Major so thoroughly. It must have been difficult, even galling for him to have to take orders from a man he thought of as an armchair soldier, a fact that was doubly aggravated by their prior history together. No doubt the Major had treated him as an upstart, an inferior pulled up from the ranks. But was that enough of a reason for a man to turn to poison? No, it seemed a bit too shaky. There had to be more to the story.
“You know, Captain, I heard a very interesting rumor just yesterday, that you had a very public spat with the Major not two weeks ago.”
Fletcher’s eyes dilated, just a hint, and his lips gave the slightest of twitches, but for someone of Sikander’s caliber, that was more than enough to affirm that he was indeed sniffing up the right path.
“It was nothing, a minor disagreement, that’s all.”
“Is that so? Lowry insisted the two of you almost came to blows.”
The Captain let out a violent snort, not unlike a cornered boar.
“I should have known he would be spreading scurrilous rumors, that bloody molly.” He fixed Sikander with one jaundiced eye. “He’s a backdoor man, you know, and he was halfway in love with the Major, I tell you. Used to follow him around like a bitch in heat, sniffing at his hindquarters.” He cleared his throat, a guttural catarrh of pure disgust. “If you want a suspect, look no further than our exalted Magistrate!”
“I am well aware of Mr. Lowry’s proclivities. However, that does not change the fact that you had an argument with Major Russell, in public, and that you threatened to do him grave bodily harm.”
Fletcher’s face tightened, as if he had swallowed a fish-bone and it was caught in his throat. “That’s a damned lie!”
Sikander arched one sardonic eyebrow. “I believe your exact words were, ‘I’ll get you, you lying bastard, if it’s the last thing I do.’”
Fletcher leaped to his feet, looming over Sikander, the bulk of him dwarfing the Maharaja. His face gleamed as red as an overripe tomato, his eyes screaming bloody murder.
“I am not scared of you, blast you,” he hissed, pointedly showing no trace of deference. “I have faced down charging Afridis with naught but a cavalry saber and spat in death’s own eye. Nothing you can say or do will intimidate me.”
“You mistake my intentions,” Sikander said smoothly, not at all perturbed. “I am not trying to intimidate you. I am trying to help you.” He offered Fletcher a benign smile. “Let me make you an offer. If you stop beating about the bush and speak honestly with me, in exchange I shall endeavor to utilize my not inconsiderable influence in Simla to see you upped to Major, perhaps even appointed as our next Resident. What do you say?”
It was a reckless spur of the moment gamble. Judging by how a conflicting gamut of bewilderment and wariness played across the Captain’s features, Sikander worried he would decline. For a long and breathless moment, he was sure he had overplayed his hand, but then, to his relief, the stratagem worked. Fletcher gave the Maharaja a brisk nod, inspiring Sikander to draw a relieved breath. He had guessed the Captain’s price correctly.
“You’re right,” Fletcher whispered, “I hated Major Russell, as much as one man can despise another.”
“Then why, might I ask, did you insist on toadying up to him?”
“You wouldn’t understand,” Fletcher said. “You’ve had it all handed to you, and never had to struggle. But those less fortunate are often compelled to make choices that are distasteful.” He sighed. “Even though I loathed him, I still needed his patronage for advancement.”
“So the rumors are indeed true? He was going to help you get a promotion, but instead, he let you down?”
“Yes.” Fletcher almost groaned. “He made me a solemn promise, but it was a lie, a bloody, barefaced lie.”
“Why do you think he scuppered your chances?”
The Captain replied with a bitter chuckle. “It’s bloody obvious, isn’t it? Other than the fact that he was a vicious, self-righteous shite, Major High-and-Mighty Russell was a bigot. I am doubly damned, you see. Not only am I not what the Russells of the world consider a gentleman, it so happens that I was born here, in India.”
His voice hardened. “When I confronted him and asked why he had let me down, he told me to be content that I had made the rank of Captain. ‘That is far enough for the likes of you to rise,’ he said, ‘quite as far from the gutter as you deserve to get.’ The bastard! I fought my way to these epaulets, but he belittled me, as if I were a damned martinet.”
Fletcher’s face twisted into a scowl. “The truth of it, I think, is that he could not bear the thought of anyone having the same rank as him, not in Rajpore. He wanted to be the top dog in the kennel, and there was no way he would tolerate any rivals, especially not a lowborn ranker.”
“That sounds a fine motive for a man to do murder.”
It was a feint, a subtle probe of the man’s defenses which Fletcher brushed aside adroitly. “That’s a damn fool thing to say. I can think of half a dozen people who had a better motive to see the Major dead.” He gave Sikander a level stare. “Take that duffer Bates, for instance. Why, he had quite a spat with the Resident just the night before last, at the New Year’s Ball. They were going at it like a pair of junglee ferrets, and it would have ended in blood if I hadn’t intervened.”
“Ah, yes, about the ball. I believe you escorted the Major home.”
“Indeed, I did.”
“And when you left him at his bungalow, was that the last time you spoke to him?
“Yes.”
Sikander tried not to cackle with triumph. I have you now, he thought. You have just painted yourself into a corner, you lummox.
“You’re lying, Captain. I have it on good authority that you went back to the Residency later that very night. I had a most enlightening chat with Miss Jane, you see, the Major’s housekeeper, and she had some rather intriguing things to say about you.”
At the mention of Jane’s name, Fletcher’s already ruddy cheeks reddened even more, darkening to an uneasy scarlet.
“I heard that she had been stricken as well.” He looked at Sikander inquiringly, and for the first time, his adamant shell seemed to soften, revealing genuine emotion beneath. “Might I ask, is she well?”
This reaction seemed out of character for a man so gruff, surprising Sikander. He cares for her, he realized, and a very great deal, judging by the moonstruck look on his face
!
“Yes, she is recovering quite admirably.”
Fletcher let out a sigh of abject relief. “Thank the stars! I feared for the worst.”
“A fine woman, that Jane,” Sikander observed, “and unless I am mistaken, Captain, she seems to have caught your eye.”
Fletcher shifted in his seat guiltily, squirming like a schoolboy caught cheating in class. “A man could imagine settling down with a woman like her. Sadly, I fear I am not good enough for Miss Jane.”
There was such earnest sorrow in his voice, such boyish regret, that Sikander could not help but feel a twinge of sympathy. True, Fletcher was dour as only a Presbyterian could be, and blunt to the point of being offensive, but it was patent even to an imbecile that the Captain had some small shred of romance in his soul. Unfortunately, he was quite correct in his assumption that there was no way any woman, not just Jane, would wish to take up with a man like him, someone as deeply rigid in his habits and as brusque in his manners. Why, Sikander thought with a sniff, he probably treats his horses better than he treats people.
“Is that why you went back, to see Miss Jane?”
The Captain nodded. “I wanted to apologize to her for behaving so boorishly. I did not want to leave her with a low opinion of me.”
Sikander bit his lip, trying to use his finely tuned senses to determine if the man was lying to him once again, but everything about Fletcher—the earnestness in his tone, the poignancy writ on his face—led him to believe that he was telling the truth.
“Jane mentioned you had an argument with the Major? “
“I was trying to tell her how I felt, when he came upon us, and began to harangue me. He was most abusive, and told me to stay away from her.” He sniffed, an audible snort of disbelief. “It was like he thought that she belonged to him, that she was his property.”
Fletcher grimaced, choking back his revulsion. “And the worst part was that I had to just stand there and take it. What choice did I have? I knew I had to work with him. This is most likely my last posting, and I can’t risk endangering my pension, and so I made my peace and left.” He clenched his jaw so hard Sikander could hear his teeth grinding. “The bastard laughed at me, and tried to act magnanimous. He said he forgave me, that I was a fool for having aspirations that exceeded my station.”
“That must have got your blood boiling,” Sikander said. “Is that why you killed him?”
“For the last time, Mr. Singh, I had naught to do with his death.”
“And for the last time, Captain, I simply do not believe you.” Sikander decided to drop all pretense at being convivial. “This is what I think really happened. I think the Major made you a promise which he reneged upon, and then, to add fuel to the fire, he put an end to your attempt to seduce Jane. And in a fit of fury, I suspect, you poisoned him.”
Sikander had expected shock, followed by a requiem performance of his earlier outrage, but Fletcher took this accusation in his stride with considerable aplomb. “You have quite an imagination, Mr. Singh. Sadly, you haven’t a shred of proof to match it.”
On the contrary, Sikander thought, I have a whole bottle of proof, you presumptuous wart. He gave the Captain a piercing glare. “Tell me, are you a drinking man?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“It is a straightforward enough question. Do you partake, Captain, of harsh spirits?”
“I most certainly do not!”
“Really? Your complexion suggests otherwise.”
Fletcher bristled, lowering his brows and glowering at Sikander, his eyes filled with loathing. “When I was a younger man, I was a bit of a hellion who enjoyed a tot of gin from time to time, but I gave it up some years ago. My dyspepsia forbids it.”
“So you are not an aficionado of sherry, then? A devotee of Oloroso, perhaps, from Andalusia?”
“What is God’s name are you chattering on about?”
“Perhaps I should be clearer,” Sikander pressed on. “I happened to recover a bottle of wine from the scene of the crime, a very fine sherry to be precise, and upon examining its contents, I found it had been contaminated with rather a large amount of strychnine.”
“I don’t see what that has to do with me.”
“Oh, but it does, doesn’t it? As it happens, I acquired another very interesting tidbit of information from our esteemed Magistrate. When I questioned him, he told me that you provided him with that very bottle, and asked that he deliver it to the Resident as a gift.”
I have you now, Sikander thought jubilantly. This was it, what duelists called the coup de grace, the death stroke.
To Sikander’s dismay, Fletcher seemed not to miss a blink. “I think, Mr. Singh, that you have rather an overactive imagination.” Offering Sikander a level look, he sidestepped the Maharaja’s accusations as neatly as a fox dodging a courser. “Did I resent Russell? The answer is yes. I had good reason to. But did I kill him? I should think not. I admit it freely, the wine belonged to me. It was a gift from a friend in Cadiz, but as I said earlier, I am not a drinking man, and frankly, I wouldn’t know Oloroso from arrack. Lowry however is somewhat of a connoisseur, which is why I passed it on to him. As for how the strychnine got into the bottle in question, I suggest you take it up with him.”
His dour mouth curved into a grin. “Frankly, that is all I have to say on the matter.”
This brusque dismissal did not sit at all well with the Maharaja. He could not help but fume, wracking his brain, trying to think of something else he could try, some new ploy, but Fletcher had managed to outmaneuver him quite thoroughly.
“Let me leave you with another warning, Mr. Fletcher,” he said, keeping his voice absolutely deadpan. “I intend to find the man who killed the Major, and I will not rest until I uncover the truth. And if there is one thing you should know about me, it is that I always get my man.”
With this pronouncement, he rose to his feet, summoning up as much regal grace as he could manage as the Captain’s eyes followed him every inch of the way toward the front door.
Just as he was about to depart, Fletcher called after him, “Mr. Singh!”
“Yes, Captain?” Sikander turned to face the man.
“Do try and be careful where you stick that nose of yours, or who knows, you may just end up like the Major!”
His voice was so cool, so self-assured that it made the Maharaja’s hackles rise. “Is that a threat?” He snarled, clenching his fists. “Are you so foolish to try and threaten me?”
“Oh no…” Fletcher sat back with a contented sigh “…not at all, Your Majesty! To use your own words, ‘consider it a warning.’”
Chapter Twenty-four
Another dismal dusk, another dejected return to the killa.
Somewhere in the distance, a storm was gathering. The ozone tang of electricity hung in the air, accompanied by the humid groan of incipient rain. The sourness of the weather reflected Sikander’s temperament perfectly. This was the phase of an investigation he hated most, once the initial thrill of the chase had worn off and the clues started to pile up, all the myriad why’s and how’s, but no definite conclusions managed to present themselves, no patterns, no moments of eureka when he saw how everything touched everything else.
All he really wanted was to gulp down a bottle of Bollinger and then go straight to bed, but even as he crept into the Raj Vilas, Charan Singh was waiting to waylay him yet again.
“You have a visitor,” the big Sikh announced.
“Who is it?” Sikander inquired wearily. “Not that oaf Jardine, I hope.”
“No, it is the journalist, Miller.” He pronounced the word journalist with haughty disdain, as if it somehow tasted foul on his tongue. “He arrived about an hour ago, insisting that he needed to see you immediately.”
Sikander groaned. He was much too tired to endure another bout of Miller’s high strung gossiping.
&nb
sp; “Send him away. Tell him to come back tomorrow.”
“I tried, Sahib, but he would not budge. He told me to tell you that it was a matter of life and death” The big Sikh frowned, as if to suggest he did not have a very high opinion of Miller. “He is a very strange man, is he not?”
The Maharaja restrained a sigh. Typical Miller! Always so dramatic it could cause an actor heartburn. With him, everything was always a matter of life and death. There was never any middle ground. Most likely, he had turned up some abstruse, entirely insignificant piece of trivia, and that had been enough to send him into a tizzy, convinced that he had uncovered the key piece of evidence to unraveling the entire case. Briefly, he debated dismissing the man outright. But then, when he spared a moment to consider it, Sikander decided that whatever could have compelled Miller to abandon his beloved press and come all the way out to the Sona Killa was worth at least ten minutes of his time.
“Very well, I will see him. Where is he?”
“I put him in the Alhambra Room, Sahib. And I should warn you, he has already polished off a bottle and a half of your best wine.”
The Alhambra Room was located at the distant corner of the north wing, not far from the topiary gardens. It was a medium-sized salon, decorated in the Moorish style with bright Alizäres tiles from Granada and Andalusian tapestries from Cordoba. When Sikander arrived, he found that Miller had already made himself very comfortable. A roaring fire was blazing away in the fireplace, filling the room with a welcome warmth. He saw that the presswallah had ensconced himself deep into an overstuffed settee, noticing with some irritation that the man had removed his boots and was now wiggling his toes in a pair of Sikander’s handmade Italian slippers while enjoying a snifter of what the Maharaja assumed was his prize Rioja, as he intently perused a thick leather volume.