Death at the Durbar

by Arjun Gaind

  As if to illustrate this very thought, the commissioner turned to the second man, and appealed to him plaintively.

  “Must we have him here? The Punjab Police can handle this, I assure you.” The commissioner’s sneer was withering. “Good heavens, just look at him. He has not even taken the trouble to dress appropriately.”

  Sikander’s face reddened. The commissioner’s salvo had hit far too close to home for comfort. By nature, he was an exceedingly fastidious man, and in spite of his best attempts to seem diffident, he could not help but fight back a frisson of embarrassment. What a fool he must look!

  “Come now, Colonel,” interjected the second man, a handsome, well-proportioned gentleman with a bristling handlebar moustache and silver hair that was receding into a widow’s peak, “let us not be hasty. After all, never judge a book and all that, eh?” He offered Sikander an impish grin. “Louis Dane,” he offered by way of introduction. “Thank you for answering our invitation so promptly, and please, do let me apologize for the commissioner’s rudeness.”

  Sikander’s eyes widened. The great Dane himself! Now that was a surprise. This was the lieutenant governor of the Punjab, perhaps the second most powerful man in the whole hierarchy of British India, answering only to the Viceroy himself. Not only was he powerful enough to make and break Maharajas with a single stroke of his pen, he was also rumored to be unimpeachably honest, an Englishman of the old school, as Sikander’s venerable minister, Ismail Bhakht had described him admiringly. However, that was not what made it so startling to see him here, knee-deep in whatever nefarious mess had compelled Malik Umar to summon Sikander in such a hasty fashion. No, it was unexpected because the Great Dane had a reputation for being a man who went to great lengths to keep a low profile. In fact, he was said to be so shy of publicity that he had never consented to have his portrait painted, nor allowed himself to be photographed.

  So this was the man who had single-handedly made a seemingly impossible endeavor like the Durbar possible, Sikander thought, giving him an appreciative nod. He had expected a paunchy old relic, but the Great Dane exuded vitality, as energetic as a greyhound.

  “And I am O’Dwyer,” the man next him said. A stout, steel-jawed specimen with cold eyes, and prematurely graying hair worn high and tight with a side parting, he made no effort to shake the Maharaja’s hand, nor did he bow.

  Sikander eyed him warily. Their paths had never crossed before, but he had heard of Michael O’Dwyer. He was said to be an up-and-comer, one of Curzon’s chosen boys, with a great gift for problem-solving and a knack for turning up when things went bad. He was also a bigot and, if rumor was to be believed, very handy with his fists, a halfway decent prizefighter who had won several bouts in his youth. All in all, a very dangerous man, Sikander thought, and undoubtedly, one on whose good side it was best to stay firmly planted.

  Unfortunately, that was a bridge, it seemed, that had been well and truly burned. Sikander was accustomed to the fact that people reacted to him rather strongly. Either they found him intriguing, or they tended to take an immediate aversion. In this instance, it looked to be the latter, judging by the expression of naked antipathy on O’Dwyer’s face as he returned Sikander’s scrutiny without blinking, like a lion eyeing a rival.

  “I am afraid I must agree with the commissioner,’’ he said, deferring to the last of the group, the only gentleman of the lot who was seated. “Despite his formidable reputation, we simply cannot allow Mr. Singh to poke about. What if the news were to get out? We just cannot risk a scandal, not this close to His Majesty’s impending arrival. No, the risk is far too great.”

  The seated man leaned forward, and Sikander got his first good look at his face. Until that moment, it had been obscured from his sight by the swooping back of his chosen chair, but now, Sikander saw that he was a handsome older man, with a slim moustache worn en brosse and piercing eyes. Abruptly, recognition dawned. While he had never met this gentleman before, he had seen his photograph often enough, on the front page of every broadsheet for the last few months.

  This was none other than the Viceroy of India himself, Lord Hardinge, the highest ranked Englishman in India, second in power only to the Earl of Crewe in London.

  Unlike his predecessors, Curzon, who had been a vain peacock of a man, and Lord Minto, who had been rather a nonentity, Charles Hardinge was said to be a sensible, conservative sort. A career diplomat who had previously been the permanent Under Secretary at the Foreign Office, his tenure as Viceroy had certainly begun well, with the implementation of several reforms and an earnest attempt to support Indian immigrants in South Africa. Unlike Curzon, he was not given to ostentatious displays and was said to be a straight-shooter, preferring a more private, businesslike approach to administration, which was very much in line with what Asquith and the Liberals desired. And, while there was a pernicious rumor that Hardinge disliked Indians, thinking them inferior to Europeans, Sikander could not help but admit a flicker of admiration for the man. Most people would have gone mad trying to put together as mammoth an exercise as the Delhi Durbar, but somehow Lord Hardinge had managed to bring the whole thing together, managing not just the logistics of shipping in fifty regiments and the engineering obstacles of uprooting entire villages, but also juggling the capricious egos of more than a hundred Indian princes, a breed that was not renowned for being cooperative.

  Being confronted by Hardinge himself was the last thing Sikander had expected. His mind raced frantically. Malik Umar had been insistent he was not in any trouble, but could he have been lying? No, he concluded, he had been on his very best behavior for months, which meant this gathering was not about him. This was something else, something altogether more dire to have brought men of such stature together for a secret meeting. The cloak and dagger suggested it was something they wanted kept quiet, which could only mean it threatened the Durbar, and the fact that they had brought him into the royal encampment in such a clandestine fashion could only mean there was a mystery that needed to be solved. A murder most likely, but who? Who could it be?

  “I take it, Mr. Singh, that you know who I am,” Lord Hardinge said, rising to his feet wearily.

  “I do, indeed.” Though he was more than a little intimidated, Sikander was determined to brazen it out, although he was well aware that the bedraggled overcoat he wore made a less-than-arresting first impression.

  “John Simpson speaks very highly of you, as does Mr. Hayat Khan here,” Hardinge said, sounding entirely unconvinced.

  Sikander offered Malik Umar a very cool look. “I was not aware that I was important enough to be discussed by such exalted personages.”

  Hardinge remained unmoved by his sarcasm. “You are said to be very talented at finding answers that elude most men. Tell me, is it true that you possess mystic powers, that you are able to perceive that which others cannot?”

  O’Dwyer let out an audible snort. “Balderdash!” He exclaimed, in a voice so acidic it could have melted steel. “Utter tripe!”

  “Mr. O’Dwyer is quite right,” Sikander smiled. “What some men consider magic or mysticism is merely a matter of keen observation, the skill of a well-trained eye. For example, it does not take a magician to see that Mr. Dane here is an avid philatelist or that Mr. O’Dwyer needs less beef and more vegetables in his diet, or that you, Your Lordship, had a bowl of asparagus soup for lunch.”

  “He’s right,” Dane declared, his eyes widening with amazement. “I do collect stamps! In fact, I was just organizing one of my albums when you sent for me. How on earth did you guess that?”

  “It was a simple enough deduction, sir,” Sikander said, enjoying being the center of attention as he always did. “When you shook hands with me, I felt the gummy residue on your thumb and forefinger, which my nose quickly recognized as stamp adhesive. As for my conjecture that Lord Hardinge imbibed asparagus soup, once again, we can thank my nose. Asparagus, you see, has a very distinctive o
dor that is easily discernible. And your Mr. O’Dwyer, I can tell from his posture and his inability to stand still for too long, that he suffers from a case of piles, which is why I suggested he imbibe more fiber and less meat.”

  “Oh, very well done!” The Great Dane stifled an amused snigger. As for O’Dwyer, he turned red as a beet. Sikander cursed himself for letting his sharp tongue get away from him. If he had any doubt that O’Dwyer disliked him, that was erased by the poisonous glare now directed at him. Once again, his brashness had made him an enemy, and he had a feeling O’Dwyer was not the sort of man who forgot a slight or forgave one.

  “It was asparagus tart, but yes, I can see Mr. Hayat Khan was dead on.” With that declaration, Lord Hardinge finally offered the Maharaja a rather morose smile. “You are, indeed, perfect for the job, Mr. Singh.”

  “And what job might that be, Your Lordship?”

  “All in due time.” The Viceroy’s brow furrowed. “First, I need your word, as a prince and a gentleman, that you will keep what you are about to see and hear completely confidential.”

  Sikander resisted the urge to roll his eyes. My word, indeed, he wanted to snort. To a man like Hardinge, with a predictably Victorian world view, a man’s word may have held great value. But to someone like Sikander, who was pragmatic enough to understand that if there was one great and universal truth in the world, it was that all men lied, which meant that any assurances he offered the Viceroy would be exactly that, mere words.

  But at the same time, he was also astute enough to realise that if he did not at least go through the motions, his curiosity, which was now fully aroused, would go unsatisfied.

  “Consider my lips sealed.”

  “This is no joking matter, Mr. Singh. Let me make this clear. If you breathe one word, if there is one leak in the newspapers, I shall not rest until you are rewarded with the direst of consequences. Is that understood?”

  His cold eyes bored into Sikander’s own, and for once, it was the Maharaja who blinked first.

  “I understand,” he said, an involuntary shiver running down his spine. Hardinge’s ominous, no-nonsense reputation as someone not to be trifled with was well deserved, it seemed. From the looks of it, the man’s sense of humor had been clinically excised. “You have my word, sir, on my honor and Rajpore’s.”

  “Very well.” Hardinge gave Malik Umar a curt nod. “Go on, then. Show him.”

  Chapter Four

  “You must excuse me, gentlemen. Matters of state await.” Lord Hardinge fixed Sikander with a stern scowl. “Mr. Singh, I will leave you to your devices, but not without a warning. Do not muck this up. You simply have to resolve this affair at the very latest by tomorrow evening, before the King and his entourage arrive. Is that clear?”

  The Viceroy turned and hurried away, followed closely by Louis Dane, who paused long enough to offer Sikander a sympathetic grin. “Good luck! You are going to need it, I think.”

  Malik Umar stepped up, taking Sikander by the arm. “Come along then, old man! Let us get started, shall we?”

  “I cannot help but repeat my objections, Mr. Khan,” Commissioner French exclaimed. “I still think the Punjab Police can handle this matter without the Maharaja of Rajpore’s help.”

  “I agree,” O’Dwyer chimed in a moment later. “The police are professionals. Mr. Singh, while undoubtedly clever, is merely a dilettante.”

  Malik Umar grimaced, looking from one gentleman to the next, his nostrils flaring with barely repressed exasperation.

  “The Punjab Police, while undoubtedly competent, are a blunt instrument. What we need now is precision, subtlety, circumspection. We cannot afford a public investigation, not with half the newspaper wallahs in India sniffing about for a story. No, what we need is a discreet investigation, and from what I know of Mr. Singh, his cleverness, as you put it so succinctly, is exceeded only by his good sense.”

  “But still, Mr. Khan, he is an outsider,” the commissioner protested.

  Malik Umar cut him off with a most unsubtle grunt. “Enough! We have wasted far too much time already.”

  Turning back to Sikander, he beckoned for him to follow, leading him not toward the exit so recently used by Hardinge, but rather to a curtained portal at the back of the room that he had not noticed earlier.

  “This way!” Malik Umar pulled back the curtain and ushered Sikander into the next room. It was a much smaller enclosure than the first, the Diwan-i-Khas, Sikander guessed, the King’s private sanctum, as opposed to the Diwan-I-Am, the public reception hall. Here, he saw none of the regal opulence that had so blinded him previously. Instead, the room had an almost utilitarian feel. There was an open fire crackling beneath a cast-iron chimney. Hanging from a chain above, a cast-iron electric chandelier swayed gently. The carpets underfoot were not expensive silk, but rather woven Bikaner durries, and the furniture was very homely, more suited to a traveling officer’s quarters than the chambers assigned to the King of England.

  At the far end of the room hung two paintings. The first was the usual portrait of Queen Victoria and her husband, looking like a pair of pugnacious horses. Next to it hung what was undoubtedly a Stubbs, a rather grisly piece that was not quite to Sikander’s taste, depicting a lion attacking a horse, chosen, no doubt, to give the place a Colonial flavor.

  However, that was not what engaged Sikander’s attention. What caught his eye was the dead woman hanging from one of the tent’s rafters, swaying back and forth gently, even though there was no hint of a breeze.

  “Now you see the cause for our urgency,” Malik Umar explained. “She was found this morning, just after reveille. Nobody can understand or explain how she got here, inside the King’s private atelier.” He shuddered. “We have been very lucky so far. Can you imagine what a disaster it would be if the press wallahs found out? What a godawful scandal that on the very eve of His Majesty’s Coronation celebration, a dead girl should be found in his personal chambers?”

  Sikander pursed his lips. Malik Umar was certainly right about that. There were far too many newspaper wallahs sniffing about, not to mention the film contingent, all of whom had come to cover the Grand Durbar, some from as far away as America. To call what would ensue if something like this became public a mere scandal was the grossest of understatements. Not only would it be a severe embarrassment to the Royal family, but this was just the sort of mess that could shake the very foundation of the British Empire itself, perhaps even topple the incumbent Liberal government, not to mention that it would irrevocably ruin a very expensive spectacle on which Hardinge had already spent over a hundred thousand pounds.

  “I made certain no one touched the corpse. They wanted to cut her down, but I insisted that the crime scene remained pristine.” He offered Sikander a grimace. “What do you think happened here, old man?”

  “Give me a moment to take a look around,” Sikander said. With those words, his face seemed to change, a dispassionate mask descending. From the inside pocket of his jacket, he pulled a pair of gloves, slipping them carefully onto his hands. However, rather than approaching the body directly, he chose to made a slow circuit of the room, touching a tapestry here, caressing a piece of marble statuary there.

  To those unfamiliar with his techniques, it might have looked like Sikander was wasting time, but this was actually a vital part of his process, a ritual he had devised in imitation of the legendary Eugene Vidocq. In his opinion, there was no better way to get a sense of the scene, to discern if there were any clues worth recording, any traces left behind by the killer that might offer an indication of his identity. To Sikander’s chagrin, nothing seemed particularly out of the ordinary. There was no mess, no blood, no signs of a struggle. Even the rug beneath the corpse, a Savonnerie, he noted absently, was unwrinkled.

  Out of the periphery of his vision, he noticed that Commissioner French and O’Dwyer had followed him into the room. They stood by the door, whispering
to each other, eyeing him with nearly identical expressions of smirking contempt. Frowning, Sikander bit back his irritation and finally approached the corpse. Rather than examining it directly, he came to a stop behind it, some two feet away. Closing his eyes, he tried to clear his mind, to sharpen his ephemeral senses to a razor’s edge, seeking that elusive state of clarity that Fichte and the German Idealists had described as higher intuition.

  “What on earth is he doing?” the commissioner’s voice exclaimed behind him. “Is he working some kind of fakir’s trick?”

  “This is a waste of time, I declare,” O’Dwyer’s deep bass chimed in. “The man is a poseur.”

  “Shhh, don’t distract him.” Malik Umar spoke this time, offering encouragement. “Go on, old boy, work your magic.”

  Sikander took a deep breath, trying his mightiest to ignore their carping. As always, the usual desolation he felt when faced with a corpse gripped him. How could he not but surrender to tragedy? Just yesterday, this had been a living, breathing human being, but now, all that remained was rotting meat, all its dreams and hopes snuffed out, extinguished in one fell stroke.

  This melancholy did not last long. Very quickly, it was transformed into a familiar tingling, the excitement that always seized him when he was about to begin an investigation, followed by a pang of regret as he chastised himself for being such a ghoul.

  Delicately, like a sculptor making his first cut, Sikander reached out and turned the body until it faced him. She was little more than a girl, really, not more than nineteen, her arms still soft with pubescent fat. In life, she must have been very beautiful. He could detect some vestiges of that beauty, since below the neck she was entirely naked, except for a belt of gold mohurs surrounding her hips. Her breasts were perfect, dark-nippled and as voluptuous as ripe mangoes, her stomach taut, crowned by a pearl ensconced in her navel, her waist so tiny that he could have encompassed it with one hand, and her legs supple, as strong and slender as willow branches.