by Arjun Gaind
“Mr. Jardine is correct,” he started to say. “This is highly irregular…”
“You’re absolutely correct, Mr. Simpson,” Sikander cut him off. “This has been a most irregular case. Let us not drag it out any further than we need to, shall we?” He gave the man from Simla a very theatrical shrug. “Why not let this tamasha end here, in this very room? I am certain you can count on the confidentiality of the people we have gathered here today. After all, don’t each of them have a vested interest in holding their tongues, considering that if the truth were to get out, it would ruin them all? Not to mention the fact that it would cause Simla to irrevocably lose face.
“That is the last thing I desire, Mr. Simpson, to cause the British Government any further embarrassment. I mean, isn’t it bad enough that a senior officer was killed? We certainly don’t need the newspapers asking questions about his background, do we, poking about trying to ascertain how a deviant with such a spotty record was even allowed to rise to such a position? God forbid, all sort of shameful stories might come out!”
Sikander offered Simpson an angelic grin. Judging by the grimace he received in return, he was sure that he had pushed the man too far. Damn it, he thought, why couldn’t I just have reined it in a little? Why did I have to try and turn the screw just that extra little bit?
To his relief, less than a heartbeat later, the man’s craggy features broke into a grudging smile.
“Oh, well done!” he said. “Well played, Your Highness! A daring gambit, but you are indeed correct. The last thing Simla needs is any more embarrassment.”
He rose to his feet with a military precision, and offered Jane a careful bow.
“As far as the Government is concerned, this is quite obviously a case of death by misadventure. I can only hope, Madame, that you find good fortune in Australia.”
“Thank you, both of you. I do not know what to say.” Jane staggered to her feet, clutching Sikander’s envelope as if it were a life-raft, rendered more than a little unsteady by all that had just happened.
Unexpectedly, Fletcher rose in symphony with her. “If you will excuse me,” he said, with abashed respectfulness, “I have a few things I should like to say to Miss Jane.”
“I suspected you might,” Sikander said, and gave Charan Singh a nod. The big Sikh offered Captain Fletcher an envelope as well, a twin to the one he had handed to Jane just a few moments previously. “I thought Miss Jane would need an escort to keep her safe on her journey, so I took the liberty of booking the adjoining cabin for you.”
Confusion flickered across the Captain’s gruff countenance, temptation warring against trepidation.
“Why would you do something like this, after how appallingly I have behaved?”
“I am not doing it for you, Captain. I am doing it for Jane. She needs a good man, and in spite of your utter lack of manners, I suspect you are one.”
The man’s face softened. “I was wrong about you, Mr. Singh,” he said, his voice thick, unused to emotion.
“Good luck. I trust you will take good care of her.”
With a brisk nod, Fletcher took the envelope from Charan Singh. Smiling tentatively, he moved towards Jane, a strangely vulnerable expression on his dour face as he offered her his arm, as if for support. Jane studied him contemplatively, and after a moment’s hesitation, placed her hand in his, letting him steer her toward the door, and beyond it, to freedom.
Barely had they taken two steps when Jardine sprang to his feet.
“You cannot be serious,” he growled, trying to scuttle around the table so that he could cut Jane off. “You cannot really mean to just let that little bint walk out of here? She’s a killer, damn your eyes.”
“That’s quite enough out of you,” Sikander snapped, dropping all pretense at being convivial. “I have taken all that I can endure of your incessant whining, Mr. Jardine.” He gave the Superintendent a sour frown. “Might I remind you that you are at least partially culpable for this mess? Not only did you fail to comprehend Major Russell’s character, and turned a blind eye to his cruel mistreatment of Gurung Bahadur’s innocent sister, but then you compounded that oversight by trying to cripple my investigation at every turn. I cannot tell whether it is because you are a bungler by nature, or if you were secretly on the Major’s payroll, but I assure you, I intend to have a word with the new Resident once he arrives about whether you should be permitted to continue as my Superintendent.”
“How dare you? If anyone deserves to be censured, it is you, for letting a murderer walk free….”
Jardine’s visage reddened till he looked ready to explode, but before he could grow any more combative, Mr. Simpson intervened.
“You may leave us, Mr. Jardine.”
His voice was perfectly calm, but it had an edge to it, an unequivocality so commanding it left the Superintendent entirely at a loss for words.
“But …but…”
Simpson did not say another word. Instead, he merely raised one forefinger, as if he was scolding a recalcitrant child. For a moment, judging by the sheer aggressiveness of the glare Jardine directed towards him, Sikander thought he was about to assault the man. But whatever he saw reflected on Simpson’s face soon put an end to the Superintendent’s bellicosity, leaving him so chilled that he shivered, before turning and lumbering away.
Sikander hid a grin. It was impressive, really, and done as deftly as a matador delivering the estocada to a rampaging bull. Perhaps Mr. Simpson from Simla was someone he could come to like, after all.
“Would you care to tie up the loose ends, Your Majesty?” Simpson indicated Sikander’s guests who were watching him in a daze, “or shall I?”
“I’ll take care of it.” Squaring his shoulders, he turned first to Mrs. Bates, who held his gaze with a sullen majesty. “You perplex me, Madame, I admit it. Try as I might, I cannot understand why you chose to marry the Lieutenant. Perhaps it was merely pragmatism, or perhaps you truly love him, but the only thing of which I am sure is that you deserve each other.”
He let out a resigned sigh. “I could have your husband’s career ended, after the way he behaved, but instead, I am going to do the worst thing I can think of. I am going to give him exactly what he wants. Once the new Resident arrives, I shall put in a request asking for him to be transferred out of Rajpore at the earliest, preferably to the frontier.”
Mrs. Bates let out a groan, but before she could voice a word of objection, Sikander went on. “I doubt we shall ever meet again, but I feel it is my duty to leave you with a warning. Beauty fades, love falters, but character is timeless. I can only hope you will come to understand that someday when you are older.”
This advice sadly fell upon deaf ears, it seemed, for Mrs. Bates rose to her feet with a scowl so acidic it could have melted steel.
“You are a dreadful, cruel man,” she hissed, “and someday, when you receive your comeuppance, I can only hope I am there to witness it.”
Even as she stormed off in a righteous huff, Sikander turned to the Gurkha. “I cannot say I approve of your behavior, Gurung Bahadur, but I understand your motives all too well. In some respect, I too must accept a measure of responsibility for the death of your sister, perhaps not explicitly, but implicitly. After all, it is my fault that the Major was able to get away with his depravity for so long. If I had been more observant, more suspicious, perhaps your sister might not have felt the need to take her own life. As a result, I feel I must make reparations to you. I cannot correct the wrong that was done to you. I cannot restore your sister to life, but what I can do is give you a second chance. I believe you to be a good man, an honorable man, and I will not let the life of a good man be destroyed by the deeds of an evil one.
“So…I have need of a gamekeeper for the Imperial Lodge at Ranibagh. If you are willing, then I would like to swear you into my service. Tell me, Gurung Bahadur, will you serve me?”
&
nbsp; The Gurkha’s grim visage distorted, overwhelmed by emotion, and he fell to his knees at the Maharaja’s feet.
“I am your man,” he said, his voice wavering with gratitude. “From now until death takes me, I am your loyal servant, on my honor I swear it,”
Behind Sikander, Charan Singh bobbed his head in unsaid approval, and one of the guards stepped forward to lead the Gurkha away. Meanwhile, the Maharaja offered the Magistrate a troubled frown.
“As for you, Mr. Lowry, let me be clear. I disapprove of people like you.” He bit his tongue, reminding himself not to say too much. “You are a venial man, a weak man, but I am nothing if not fair. If I can give Gurung Bahadur a second chance, how can I, in good conscience, deny you the same? You were the Major’s victim as much as Miss Jane, and I can only hope that now that you have been extricated from his influence, you will strive to redeem yourself. That is why I am willing to let you stay on here in Rajpore as the Magistrate, should you wish it.”
“Oh, yes!” Lowry let out a sigh of abject relief. “Thank you, Your Highness. I will not let you down, I assure you.”
“I should hope not. Understand this, you are on probation and I will be watching you very carefully. One misstep, and you will be on the next express out of Rajpore. Is that clear?”
Lowry gave him a nod, and rose and quickly waddled away, worried perhaps that Sikander would change his mind.
“Which leaves us with you, Munshi Ram,” Sikander’s tone grew stern. “You have twenty-four hours to evict yourself from the borders of my kingdom. If you are still here after that time, I shall have you arrested.”
“But my family? My grandchildren?” the Munshi exclaimed piteously.
“They may accompany you, or they may remain here, that is their choice, but all your holdings are hereby confiscated. The land which you have misappropriated, it shall be returned to its rightful owners, the war widows for whom it was intended.”
“Curse you,” the Munshi sprang to his feet, his teeth bared in a snarl, “May you rot for all eternity!”
“I have been cursed by better men than you,” Sikander replied, “and I am still here.” With a snap of his fingers, he commanded Charan Singh to take him away. He then returned to his chair and collapsed into it with a satisfied groan.
That left only him, Helene, Miller, and Mr. Simpson still seated at the dinner-table. “That was quite an entertaining evening, Your Majesty,” Miller tottered upright, clapping his hands together in mock applause, “Would you be so kind as to have one of your men drive me back to the English Town? I fear I have drunk rather too much!”
“Of course, Mr. Miller,” Sikander gave the rotund presswallah an affectionate grin, “And thank you, of course, for your help.”
“It was nothing at all.” The presswallah doffed his hat, and then wandered away, weaving from side to side precariously.
“Aren’t you forgetting something?” Helene said, giving Sikander a pout. “Isn’t there someone else you should thank?”
Next to her, Simpson waited, a watchful expression on his face. “I am grateful to you too, Mr. Simpson, for your assistance.” Sikander said rather grudgingly, as if it pained him to be civil to an Englishman.
Simpson smiled and said, “And I am glad to say that my superiors were quite wrong about you. That was well done, very well-handled indeed. It is going to be a pleasure to serve with you, Mr. Singh”
“Do you mean to say…?” The Maharaja’s mouth fell open as he grasped the gist of what the man from Simla was suggesting.
“Indeed, it seems the Burra Sahibs have decided in their infinite wisdom that I am to be the next Resident of Rajpore.” His grin grew even wider, gratified to have gotten one over on Sikander. “And might I suggest that as our first official act, we spare a moment to get our stories to match before I submit my report to Simla?”
“That’s an excellent idea,” Sikander retorted, recovering quickly to let out a booming laugh of his own, “but I am afraid that will have to wait just a bit longer. First, I intend to ask Madame Beauchamp here to dance.”
Beaming, he held out one hand toward Helene. “It seems like a shame to let the occasion go to waste.”
Helene let out a snort of bemusement, and daintily took his hand. On cue, Charan Singh nodded at the bandleader, and the orchestra launched energetically into a resounding habañera.
“Excuse me, Mr. Simpson.” Sikander gave the new Resident a wink, and slipped his hand around Helene’s narrow waist possessively. Sweeping her out onto the dance floor, he began to guide her through the complex moves of a contradanza. As always, they were good together, seeming to fit into each other perfectly. Helene was close enough to him he could sense her pulse quickening, a rouge coloring her cheeks when she surrendered to his lead. He spun her around once, twice, thrice as if she weighed nothing, and she responded by letting out a throaty chuckle.
“I thought you are supposed to apprehend the killer in the end,” she said, “not help her get away.”
“On the contrary, my love,” Sikander responded with a shrug, “as far as I am concerned, my work here is done. I set out to solve the mystery of the Major’s death, and wah, what a pukka murder it has turned out to be!”
Helene gave him a very odd look, as if she was seeing him for the first time, even though they had known each other intimately for years.
“You know, Sikander Singh,” she whispered, arching her neck to smear a kiss on his cheek, “there are times when I cannot help but think that you are a very peculiar man.”
Sikander laughed, and took her in his arms, bending low to dip her almost to the ground, causing Helene to squeal with delight.
Perhaps I was wrong to jump to conclusions quite so quickly, he thought, feeling rather satisfied with himself.
Maybe, just maybe, 1909 was going to be a good year after all.
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