Death at the Durbar

by Arjun Gaind

  If he had imagined such blatant name-dropping would be quite enough to cow this pair, Sikander was sorely disappointed. The two gentlemen reacted very differently. Predictably, the large lieutenant, already rather displeased, started to bunch those immense shoulders of his, like an ox preparing to charge.

  “Enough of this rubbish!” he snarled. “We haven’t time to waste on games, sir. Our orders were explicit. Let’s just drag the fellow back by his boot-heels.”

  “Calm down, old boy,” Campbell admonished. “Do try and remember you’re a gentleman, not a blasted slogger, won’t you?”

  Turning back to Sikander, the Captain sighed and offered another one of those infuriating grins, as if to suggest he knew something the Maharaja did not.

  “Might I have a drink, Your Highness?”

  Sikander could not but help be amused by the man’s effrontery. In spite of the fact that every one of his instincts was telling him not to trust the Captain one bit, he found himself beginning to like this Campbell fellow. True, he was too presumptuous, but the man had a devil-may-care style to him, a cocky charm that Sikander could appreciate. He was astute enough to recognize a kindred spirit when he saw one. More than once, he had been called a rogue and a knave, and now, he saw the same quality in Captain Campbell—that willingness to ignore what anyone thought and march to the beat of your own drum.

  “Aren’t you on duty, Captain? Is it not forbidden to indulge in spirits while in uniform?”

  “Ordinarily, I would agree, but this once, let us make an exception.” He rubbed at his throat. “I am afraid the ride over has left me quite parched, and frankly, I won’t tell if you don’t.”

  “In that case, by all means, help yourself!” Sikander nodded, gesturing one hand towards the bottle of Abele.

  His lips could not help but curve into a smile as the Captain made a great show of picking up the bottle and sniffing its contents. After clucking his tongue appreciatively, he decanted a very generous measure into a slim tulip.

  “To the unknown, sir,” he exclaimed before quaffing the entire glassful in one Herculean swig.

  “What about your friend?’ Sikander pointed at the lieutenant, who was watching them with a dangerous glower, obviously still ticked off at having been spoken to like a child. “Wouldn’t he care for a glass?”

  “Oh, I doubt it,” Campbell replied. “Young Munro has a very narrow view of duty, I am sorry to report. He is a devil for always doing the right thing.”

  “And you are not?”

  “I have my moments, sir, but, not unlike yourself, I am a pragmatist, first and last.”

  With that declaration, he proceeded to pour himself another glass of wine.

  “The gentleman who sent us to fetch you warned me you would not agree to come along quite so meekly. If that was the case, then I was instructed to say,” Campbell straightened up, and recited in a lilting baritone, ‘“You must fathom the ocean; it contains all you need and desire. Why soil your hands searching the little ponds?’”

  Sikander’s back stiffened, and his smile wilted. He recognized that particular couplet all too well. It was a quotation from one of his favorite poets, the great Sufi mystic Farid, describing the difficult path a seeker after truth must follow, explaining how he must learn to ignore the obvious and teach himself to recognize the greater, higher meanings hidden beneath the mundane.

  Not only was it a fine stanza, but in this case, it offered a palpable clue as to who had dispatched these two officers. There was only one man who was aware of Sikander’s love of Farid’s poetry, and who had the wherewithal to send a Coldstream Captain scurrying about like a errand boy. And the worst part was that Sikander owed him a damn favor, which meant he could not in good conscience ignore this summons, no matter how intrusive it might be.

  He felt his insatiable curiosity flare to life, a ravenous anticipation gnawing at the pit of his stomach. This was Sikander’s most telling weakness, his greatest vice. Gold he was content to leave to the Nizam of Hyderabad, wine to the Gaekwad boys, polo ponies to his cousin Bhupinder of Patiala, and fast women to his dearest friend, Jagatjit of Kapurthala. But when it came to riddles, try as he might, Sikander just could not resist. They tantalized him, the way the slightest scent of a Château d’Yquem could move an oenophile to tears, or the merest taste of an Istrian truffle elevate a gourmand to ecstasy. The unknown, the enigmatic, the arcane, they sang to him, a litany quite as compelling as Circe’s song.

  If my guess about the identity of the man behind this cryptic message is indeed correct, he thought, then there was only one logical explanation why this mismatched pair had been sent to get me.

  It did not take a detective to deduce that some sort of garbar was afoot, but the fact that his particular abilities were required could only mean one thing:

  Someone was dead.

  And, judging by the urgency, he thought, it had to be someone rather important.

  Chapter Two

  “Very well, gentlemen,” Sikander said. “I will play your game.”

  “Wonderful!” Captain Campbell chuckled. “Oh, this is going to be a right bit of fun.” Grinning, he raised the bottle of Abele in mock toast. “I assure you, sir, you have made the right choice. Here’s to whatever twists and turns that may await as we travel down the path of adventure together!”

  Sikander resisted the urge to snort at such a florid declamation.

  “Would you mind stepping outside while I change into something more suitable?”

  “Ah, I am afraid there just isn’t time for that.” Discarding the now-empty bottle, Captain Campbell gave Munro a brisk nod, and the hulking lieutenant brusquely fetched a dun woolen Norfolk overcoat from a nearby coat-hanger, holding it out it toward Sikander. “As my friend said, we have our orders.”

  “This is ridiculous,” Sikander exclaimed. “I cannot possibly go traipsing about in my pajamas. It’s downright uncivilized.”

  “I apologize, sir,” Campbell responded, but it was patent from the glib expression on his face that he did not mean a word he was saying. For a moment, Sikander was tempted to stand his ground and refuse to cooperate with the man, if only to see if he was truly brash enough to make good on his threat to have him dragged away.

  In the end, however, it was his curiosity, ever profane, which won out. With ill grace, Sikander took the proffered coat, shrugging it on over his banyan and buckling the belt around his waist. Feeling a proper fool, he hurriedly exchanged his bedroom slippers for a pair of suede veldskoen boots. A quick glance at a nearby mirror reassured him that even in such outlandish garb, he still managed to cut a strikingly elegant figure. He was not a handsome man, not with that nose of his, which was as massive as the Matterhorn and quite managed to ruin the symmetry of his features, but even in a drab overcoat, it was obvious he was every bit a king. His hair was cut very short, and his beard trimmed into a neat pick-devant, in the style sometimes called the Charlie, as made famous by the first Charles. Ordinarily, he would have taken the trouble to don a pugree in the Sikh style, but since time was short, he helped himself to a felt homburg with a wide brim, placing it atop his head at rather a raffish angle.

  Examining himself cursorily, Sikander let out a satisfied grunt. Behind him, he saw Captain Campbell watching him, one inquisitive brow arched questioningly, his lips twisted into a bemused smirk.

  “If you are quite done admiring yourself, sir, we are on the clock,” he said, holding up his fob watch.

  He gave Munro a nod, and the large lieutenant wrenched open the door with an exaggerated bow.

  Sikander swept past him, only to come juddering to a halt right outside. It took just a moment for him to understand exactly why his manservant had failed to prevent this pair of obstreperous Englishmen from intruding upon his privacy. Charan Singh was a big man, almost six and a half feet tall, not counting his peaked pugree, and it had taken not one, but three g
uardsmen, to restrain him, keeping him pinioned firmly in place by holding his arms, which were manacled together at the wrists.

  When he saw his master, Charan Singh began to thrash about violently, trying to break free.

  “Huzoor, have these baboons hurt you?”

  Sikander’s patience, already fraying, came to an end as he noticed the deplorable condition his manservant was in. Obviously, the old Sikh had not failed to put up a valiant resistance. His left eye was swollen and his lip split, leaving him looking as battered as a prizefighter who had gone fifteen rounds with John L. Sullivan himself.

  “What is the meaning of this?” he snarled. “How dare you restrain my man?” He took one purposeful step towards the men holding Charan Singh. “Release him this instant.”

  It was a laughable sight. Sikander was a small man, just over five and a half feet tall, but his bearing was so regal it managed to intimidate the trio of guardsmen quite completely. Even though they were each a foot taller than he, they recoiled, taking an involuntary step backwards and releasing Charan Singh with the utmost alacrity.

  “Unshackle him,” Campbell barked. Munro stepped forward to oblige, unlocking Charan Singh’s restraints, but not before giving the big Sikh a sullen sneer, which made Sikander realise that he was most likely the one who had dared to treat his manservant so roughly. He swore beneath his breath, promising himself that he would find a way to get even with Lieutenant Munro, to pay him back double for every indignity heaped upon his faithful friend.

  As soon as he was free, the big Sikh let out a growl, and shuffled forward, clenching his fists. The sight of him advancing with such menace, as large as a battleship, would have been enough to make most men break into a sweat, but to Munro’s credit, he refused to retreat, hunching forward slightly, like a full-back preparing to take a tackle.

  For a heartbeat, Sikander was tempted to see how it played out. Charan Singh was as strong as an elephant, but judging by his width, the lieutenant seemed half a handful himself. If the two came to blows, Sikander mused, who would come out on top? He would always wager on Charan Singh to be the victor, but he had a feeling that Munro was not the sort to roll over and play dead. It could be quite a battle, he thought with a grin, as good as any exhibition bout.

  Sadly, before anything untoward could ensue, Campbell decided to intervene.

  “Back in your cage, Munro!” Turning to Charan Singh, he offered him a bow. “On behalf of my compatriot, I owe you an apology. Lieutenant Munro has tested you abominably and for that breach of good manners, I am truly sorry.”

  Charan Singh let out a sniff. His face remained stern, but he unclenched his fists and gave Campbell a brisk nod, mollified by his attempts at conciliation. Sikander found himself reevaluating his opinion of the Captain, if only by a smidgen. True, he was brash and his manner was tiresomely cocksure, but it was rare for any Occidental to show an Indian any courtesy, especially a servant. Perhaps there was more to him than met the eye.

  “Are you all right, you old bullock?” he inquired in Punjabi, but his tone was more worried than critical. The Sikh had always been more than a servant to Sikander. Although he maintained a careful distance in public, as befitted his position, Charan Singh was akin to a father to him. He had been his personal aide since his childhood, and was the one person Sikander trusted above all others, which explained his concern for the old Sikh’s well-being.

  “I am fine, sahib.” Charan Singh’s battered mouth twisted into a parody of a grin. “I am not so old that these boys could cause me any real harm.”

  “Are you sure?” Sikander joked. “I mean, at your age, it is so easy to break a hip.”

  The Sikh snorted volubly. “Speak for yourself, sahib!” He looked Sikander up and down with a critical sneer, his lip curling. “And where, may I ask, are you off to dressed so shabbily?”

  “I am going to accompany these fine gentlemen for a bit.”

  “Surely you cannot be serious, huzoor.” His eyes widened with disbelief. “I do not trust these…” he punctuated this admonition by giving Munro a particularly poisonous look, “…these sweaty white apes one bit.”

  “I should warn you, my dear fellow, some of us sweaty white apes speak rather decent Punjabi,” Campbell interjected, his accent perfect. He offered the Sikh a raffish grin. “Do not worry, old man. I will take good care of your master and ensure he comes to no harm. You have my word on that, as an officer and a gentleman.”

  From the expression of dubiety that flickered across Charan Singh’s face, it was clear he regarded Campbell neither as an officer, nor as a gentleman.

  “Perhaps I should accompany you,” he said.

  “I am afraid that is not possible,” the Captain replied before Sikander could, tapping his nose with one forefinger. “Hush hush, need to know, and all that!”

  “It will be fine. You stay here, old man. Decant a bottle of wine for me, a nice Romanée-Conti, I think. I should be back before the sediment has had time to settle.” He looked toward the Captain. “Have you a vehicle, or shall I have my driver ready my Rolls-Royce?”

  “We came prepared, sir,” Campbell replied. He led Sikander out of the hotel, where a car was waiting nearby, its engine idling with a throaty murmur. Sikander paused for a moment and gave it an admiring once-over. It was a Landaulet Tourer with an elongated coach, manufactured by the Standard Motor Company of London. This particular one was painted a striking shade of royal blue, with red lines around the windows, and a gilded crown emblazoned on both the driver’s door and the bonnet.

  “Is this the twenty hp, or the fifteen?” Sikander asked, making a slow circuit of the vehicle.

  “I have no clue,” Campbell retorted, holding open the passenger door. “Shall we, sir? Time, as they say, is of the utmost essence.”

  He waited until Sikander had taken one of the finely upholstered seats, which were covered in matching blue leather, before settling in beside the Maharaja, hemming him in neatly. Dour Lieutenant Munro mounted the driver’s seat, his weight making the carriage springs rock.

  “Chalo, chalo,” the Captain exclaimed, knocking on the roof. “Jaldi karo, Munro! Get moving, will you? We are already too bloody late!”

  As the car sped into motion, Campbell did not try to engage Sikander in further conversation. Instead, he leaned back and closed his eyes. It was only a matter of minutes before he let out a thunderous snore. Sikander cast an envious glance in his direction. He felt much too keyed up to rest. Instead, he peered out the window, watching his hotel recede, soon left behind. As names went, the Majestic was a misnomer, for there was certainly nothing even remotely majestic about the place. It was rather a drab affair, a cramped complex of four small bungalows surrounding a larger circuit house. There were cobwebs everywhere, the furniture was tattered, the beds musty, and the curtains needed a proper dusting. As for the bathrooms, the less said the better.

  Still, the Majestic had one very distinct advantage, which was, of course, its location. It was perfectly placed at the very heart of the Civil Lines, just across the road from the far grander Cecil Hotel and almost equidistant from the old walled city of Shahjahanabad and the sprawling Durbar camp, which lay about eight kilometers to the north, on the opposite side of the Delhi Ridge. It was also very close to the Delhi Club, and just a stone’s throw away from the railway station, where the King was due to arrive, and the Rajpur Road, along which he would make his grand procession toward the Coronation Amphitheater.

  Sikander had expected the car to turn north along the Alipur Road and then cross the ridge at the Flagstaff Tower. Instead, to his surprise, they looped to the west, taking the Ludlow Castle Road, which took them directly past the old British Residency. A breeze fanned against his face. Sikander wrinkled his nose as the noxious scent of the old city wafted into his nostrils. Cities, he had always thought, smelled like women. Paris, his favorite, was a courtesan, perfumed with mystery. L
ondon was an aging dowager, filled with secrets and regret. But Delhi smelled like a corpse long-buried, redolent of rot and decay and death.

  Of all the cities in India, Sikander loathed Delhi the most. Calcutta had an Imperial charm, and he did not mind Bombay, although its bustling energy felt a touch too mercantile for his tastes. Delhi, however, was a cold mausoleum, more a city of the dead than the living. There was an old legend about the city, that whichever dynasty anointed Delhi as its capital would be doomed to fall. Nine times that had come to pass—Hastinapur, Surajkund, Lalkot, Quila Rai Pithora, Jahapanah, Firozabad, Siri, Tughlakabad, and of course, Shahjahanbad. And each time, the curse had struck, leaving only ruins everywhere you turned, the remnants of empires long fallen, and kingdoms turned to dust.

  As the Standard maneuvered onto the Rajpur Road, Sikander found himself wondering if the English were even aware of this curse? Had they considered it when they had chosen this as the site for their great gathering? Most likely, they had disregarded it as mere superstition, as they were wont to do with most Indian beliefs. Sikander, however, despite his thoroughly modern attitudes, was not quite so quick to be dismissive. Where some men saw dogma, others chose to see truth. What was that line from Hamlet? “There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.”

  While he disliked the city, Sikander was smart enough to realise that it possessed an innately symbolic value, especially for the English. Not only was Delhi where the Silk Road ultimately ended, the culmination of Sher Shah Suri’s Sadak-e-Azam, but it had been the capital of the Mughal Empire for almost two hundred years. Most of all, this was where the Great Mutiny of 1857 had decisively been quashed, when the Siege of Delhi had culminated in the defeat of the rebels and poor old Bahadur Shah Zafar, the last of the Mughal emperors, had been toppled from the Peacock Throne.

  That meant that, to the British, there was no place with greater symbolic significance in the sub-continent, not even Plassey, which was exactly why Lord Lytton had chosen Delhi as the location for the first Durbar in 1877. In India, the tradition of holding Durbars was an ancient one. Essentially, it was an assembly of vassals and satraps coming together to pay homage and swear fealty to their overlord. While the practise had fallen out of favor with the splintering of the Mughal Empire, the English had decided to revive it. The pretext, of course, had been to commemorate Victoria’s coronation as the Empress of India, but the reality had been somewhat more political. After the tumult of the Great Mutiny, the English had been eager to reinforce their hold on India, particularly over the native principalities, and thus, under the guise of officially transferring power from the East India Company to the Crown, what had actually occurred was a grand exercise in saber-rattling meant to intimidate any potential rebels.