Death at the Durbar

by Arjun Gaind

  “Exactly!” Sikander chuckled. “In typical Jagatjit fashion, he sent off for a coterie of dancing girls, and when they arrived, we were treated to what turned out to be quite a dramatic evening.”

  His eyes misted over once more. “One of them, the lead performer, she was quite famous at the time. A Watul gypsy who performed by the name of Wazeeran. Perhaps you may have heard of her?”

  Malik Umar shook his head.

  “It doesn’t matter.” Sikander smiled wistfully. “She was spectacular, as pale and ethereal as a wisp of moonlight, barely taller than a child but with the kind of statuesque figure that moves poets to epiphany. And those eyes! I did not realise what enticing really means until I gazed into those eyes of hers.” His shoulders quivered as an involuntary spasm of embarrassment gripped him. “I am not the sort of man who considers paying for a woman’s affections, Malik Umar, but for once, when I set eyes on Wazeeran, even I was tempted. I admit it.”

  “That night, we were treated to her signature performance, which was a snake dance, performed in the gypsy style. It was quite magnificent, watching her swirl and shimmer and sway, clad in six layers of veiled silk and translucent muslin, almost as intoxicating as a drug. About halfway through the show, her daughter came out and joined her, this little imp of a thing who could not have been more than four or five years old, leaping and prancing about with great chutzpah. She was the mongoose, you see, just as Wazeeran was a cobra. They had rehearsed it until it was quite electrifying. First one would rush forward, and immediately the other would back away, and then the reverse, back and forth, as blindingly quick as any real snake and mongoose locked in battle.”

  “And that child was?” Malik Umar bobbed his neck in the direction of room where the dead girl lay, seeking affirmation.

  Sikander nodded. “When the performance was over, very briefly, I contemplated making an overture toward Wazeeran. We all did, I think, but I couldn’t go through with it. Perhaps it was my natural reticence, or the fact that she was accompanied by a child, but I decided to retire for the evening and drown my amorous intentions in a jeroboam of Dom Pérignon.

  “A little after four in the morning, I was roused by a piercing scream. Naturally, I rushed to see what had happened. It seemed to have emanated from the servants’ quarters, and when I reached there, to my dismay, I found…” He paused, his voice catching in his throat. “It was Wazeeran. She had been murdered most brutally. I think she had been ravaged first. Her clothes were torn, and she was naked from the waist down.” His voice remained quite deadpan, as if he was reading aloud from a report. “The list of her other injuries was really quite shocking. Both her wrists had been bound, and she had been beaten quite severely, her cheekbones and her jaw cracked in three places. There were knife cuts all over her arms and face, which led me to believe that the killer had tortured her for some time before finally slitting her neck and leaving her to bleed to death.

  “We found the child hiding nearby, inside a trunk filled with stage props and costumes. I believe that Wazeeran must have secreted her there, and that the poor thing had witnessed the whole sordid event, crouched there, watching her mother being tortured and beaten and then murdered.” He shivered. “I tried to question her, but she had quite lost her voice, stricken dumb from the trauma of what she had endured.”

  The disgust on Malik Umar’s face matched Sikander’s own. “Who was the murderer? Did you manage to track him down?”

  Sikander let out an anguished groan. “That’s just it. I never did find out. Don’t get me wrong. I dearly wanted to chase down who had killed her. With every breath in my chest, I wanted to apprehend the culprit who had wreaked such horrors on Wazeeran, if for no other reason than to protect the daughter from his cruel attentions. Sadly, who would let a nineteen-year-old carry out a murder investigation? I protested, I begged, I even tried to threaten to go to the press, but it was all to no avail. Ganga Singhji, who has no stomach for even a hint of scandal, wanted the matter swept under the rug immediately. By the time the sun rose, his men had disposed of the corpse, the dance troupe had been paid handsomely to hold their tongues and packed off back to Lahore, and this poor creature,” he let out a weary sigh, “she was long gone.”

  Grimacing, he rose and crossed to the door that led to the inner chamber, his features distorted by an expression of pure regret. “That was the last time I saw her, but now, in a way, I cannot help but feel I am to blame that she is lying here today, such a broken wreck.”

  “It most certainly is not! How could you have prevented her demise, Sikander? You are only human, after all.”

  “I could have saved her, Malik Umar. I should have tried harder. I could have rescued her from this life. I could have made sure she never became a nautch-wali. I could have apprehended her mother’s murderer. I could have done so much, but I did not.” Sikander’s face contorted with guilt. “I failed her, my friend. I am responsible for her death as much as the man who actually performed the deed.”

  “You are being too hard on yourself, Sikander. She made her own choices. You could no more have saved her than I could.”

  Sikander shook his head, as stubborn as a child. “No, this is my fault, at least partially. I could not help her when I had the chance. But I promise you, I will not permit her death to go unavenged. I will find the man who killed her, I swear it, or my name is not Sikander Singh.”

  Chapter Six

  “Very well, Sikander, I shall try to assist you as best as I can. Tell me, what do you need from me?”

  “I think the first thing we must ascertain, Malik Umar, is how a nautch girl came to be in the royal compound in the first place. I mean, she didn’t just wander in here. Someone had to have brought her here, someone with influence enough to gain access to such a closely guarded enclosure.”

  “Perhaps I can help with that,” a voice said from behind them.

  Captain Campbell stood framed in the entrance-way, wearing that annoyingly sardonic smile that Sikander had so come to loathe, even though he had known the man for a matter of hours.

  “Ah, Campbell, good man! I was just about to send for you. Sikander, I take it the two of you have met.”

  “Indeed, we have,” Sikander replied, his voice so wintry it could have frozen water to ice.

  “Capital! Captain, answer the Maharaja of Rajpore’s question, if you please.”

  “Certainly!” Campbell offered Sikander a rather an ironic salute. “You see, Your Majesty, I am the one who brought her here.”

  “What? You and Zahra were involved?” Sikander squawked, jumping to the most obvious conclusion.

  “Oh, no!” He shook his head. “She was a gift, sir, for the King from the Maharaja of Kapurthala.”

  Sikander frowned, bewildered. Why on earth would Jagatjit Singh send the King of England a nautch girl, of all things? It was true that the Maharajas and Nawabs of India were all going a little mad trying to outdo each other offering the King Emperor the most expensive tokens of admiration they could afford, but a dancer? That was a decidedly odd choice, even given Jagatjit’s picturesque reputation for eccentricity.

  Campbell seemed to read his mind, because he proceeded to offer an explanation. “When the Duke of Connaught made his tour of India some years ago, he had the opportunity to watch a bevy of Kashmiri girls perform, and had been quite enchanted. As a result, months ago, while the plans for the Durbar were being finalized, the King had made a passing aside expressing his desire to witness something similar. I imagine that when the Maharaja heard about this, he purchased the nautch girl as a small token of his affection for the King.”

  It was a reasonable enough explanation, but somehow, it did not quite sit well with Sikander. Still, he realized he had no choice but to accept it at face value, at least not until he had the time to ask Jagatjit a few questions face to face.

  “Tell me, Malik Umar,” he asked, turning to his old classmate, �
��who is in charge of camp security?”

  “Why, that would be me,” Campbell said, butting in once again, to Sikander’s vexation. He looked to Malik Umar for confirmation, and received a curt nod of affirmation in return.

  “In that case, Captain Campbell, I would like to speak with whoever was the Officer of the Day yesterday. I need to know how many visitors Zahara had, and exactly who they were.”

  Campbell gave Sikander another of his cocksure grins. “As it happens, I anticipated just such a request. Your Majesty, Mr. Khan, would you excuse me for a moment?”

  Turning, he swept out of the room, as theatrical as Iago departing the stage. Sikander rolled his eyes, and gave Malik Umar a withering frown.

  “I really do not like that fellow.”

  “Well, that’s just too bad, Sikander,” Malik Umar responded with a twinkle in his eye. “It seems that you are going to be stuck with him, at least for the duration.”

  Sikander’s frown deepened into a scowl. “Whatever do you mean?”

  “I am sorry to say, my friend, that the Captain will be accompanying you on your investigations.”

  This declaration made Sikander sit bolt upright. “I should think not,” he snarled, bristling with indignation. “I have no need for either an assistant or a babysitter, Malik Umar. I will not stand for it.”

  “Unfortunately, this time around, you have no choice in the matter. Lord Hardinge was quite insistent. In fact, he made that the condition for your involvement, that you have an English officer as your shadow. After all, we can’t have you traipsing about through the encampments without someone to watch over you, now can we?” He offered Sikander a sarcastic smile. “Besides, don’t write off Captain Campbell so quickly. I think you will find him very useful. He’s quite the wag about camp, I’m told. Not only does he know damn nearly everyone, he is a very personable chap, I assure you.”

  “Is that so? From the way he talks and acts, I thought him a bit of a blackguard.”

  “Oh, no, actually, he is rather the opposite.” Malik Umar leaned forward. “Surely you have heard the story of the Honorable Bastard?”

  Sikander shook his head. “I have not, but do tell.”

  Malik Umar grinned, delighted by the prospect of sharing a bit of gossip that Sikander did not already know.

  “He’s a hell of a soldier. Was up for the VC during the Boer War. Won a French Legion of Honor in China, and was one of the first through the wall at Gyantse Dzong. Mentioned in regimental despatches seventeen times, which is a staggering number.”

  “Is that why they call him the Honorable Bastard, because of his battlefield prowess?”

  “Not quite.” Malik Umar lowered his voice to a conspiratorial murmur. “That particular sobriquet is because of the stories surrounding his parenthood. You see, when the Duke of Connaught was commanding the Bombay garrison, rumor has it he became rather enamored of a beautiful young Scotswoman named Hannah Campbell, the daughter of a well-to-do cotton merchant. In fact, it was said that they maintained a discreet liaison, that she was his mistress briefly until he returned to England.”

  “You mean to say...?”

  “Yes, if the grapevine is to be believed, then our dear Captain has royal blood. Illegitimately, of course—the Duke has never acknowledged him publicly—but he is as much a Hanoverian as our new King.”

  “Is there any proof of that?” Sikander said, not bothering to hide his skepticism.

  “Not really. Unless of course you consider the fact that he began as a humble infantry lieutenant, but was then offered a commission as a Captain in the Coldstream Guards not five years ago. Not to mention that he has been appointed the steward in charge of camp security, in spite of several finer-born and better-connected candidates. How do you think he managed to swing that honor, eh?”

  Sikander scowled. As evidence went, while not one hundred percent, it was certainly persuasive. Officers of the line did not suddenly gain offers to transfer to elite regiments, especially those based in England. Not only was it highly irregular, it was a bloody expensive enterprise, to boot, and most men could never afford it, not without patronage. There were only two reasons Sikander could conceive to explain Campbell’s sudden and unexpected advancement. Either the man had the greatest of good fortune, or he had powerful connections watching over him.

  “Whoever his antecedents may be, I do not want or need him. I work best alone,” Sikander said, his face mulish.

  “This is not a request, I am afraid. Either you take Campbell, or you can return to your hotel, and Commissioner French shall be granted his wish.” Malik Umar’s shoulders twitched, a sympathetic shrug. “The choice is yours, Sikander.”

  The unequivocal tone of his voice made it clear to Sikander that he meant business. For a moment, he was tempted to call Malik Umar out, to march away and wash his hands of the whole mess. But in the end, as always, it was his curiosity that won out.

  “Very well.” He let out a frustrated sigh. “I’ll take him, but make sure he knows to stay out of my way.”

  “Excellent!” Malik Umar gave him a knowing smile, as if he had been sure this was exactly how things would turn out. “Personally, I think you will be glad to have him around. I have been told he can handle himself. In fact, that was why I accepted his offer when he volunteered.”

  “He volunteered?” Sikander said, his lips compressing, but before Malik Umar could answer, he was cut short by the Captain’s triumphant return.

  “Do forgive the delay, gentlemen,” Campbell said, holding open the flap of the tent behind him. “Come in, Sergeant, won’t you?”

  In response to this command, a soldier came marching in, high-stepping like one of the Life Guards on parade. He was a grizzled specimen, about forty years old, wearing the sash of a regimental sergeant-major. Another Scotsman, Sikander inferred, since he was clad in kilt and sporran, a member of Gordon’s Highlanders, judging from the blue-and-green pattern of his tartan.

  He halted opposite Sikander and Malik Umar, his hobnailed boots clattering as he came to attention. However, he did not snap out a salute, perhaps because they were natives, an omission which caused Malik Umar’s cheeks to darken with obvious displeasure.

  “This is Sergeant Major Macgregor,” Campbell said by way of introduction. “As it happens, he was on duty yesterday, serving as the commandant of the guard.”

  “Ah, excellent!” Sikander said. “I have a few questions for you, Sergeant. Tell me, did the nautch girl Zahra have very many visitors yesterday?”

  To his surprise, the man did not respond. Instead, his gaze stayed fixed straight ahead, staring blankly into the middle distance, as expressionless as a statue.

  “I asked you a question, Sergeant.”

  Once more, the man remained obdurate, so stiff he may well have been carved of stone.

  “Are you impaired in some way?” Malik Umar hissed, his temper fraying. “Answer the Maharaja, damn you.”

  “He will not speak to you, sir,” Campbell spoke up. “He’s from Selkirk, and these Souters, they are legendary for their close-mouthedness.”

  “Well, how am I expected to question him if he will not answer my questions?”

  “Let me have a go, will you?”

  Without waiting for permission, Campbell approached the sergeant.

  “I am a traveler, Brother Macgregor, from the west.”

  The sergeant reacted to this cryptic declaration with a furrowing of his brow. “And what is it that you are seeking?” He said in a lilting brogue, breaking his silence.

  “I have come east, searching for illumination.”

  With that, Campbell held out his left hand, splaying his fingers. After a moment’s hesitation, the sergeant took it, a complicated grip where he placed his thumb between the Captain’s first and second knuckles and enveloped his palm in his fist.

  “What the bloody hell
is going on?” Malik Umar murmured.

  “The sergeant is a Mason, and so is the Captain, it seems,” Sikander replied, recognizing the handshake for what it was, the greeting shared by two masters of the craft.

  “See,” Malik Umar said, “he is proving useful already.”

  The Captain released the sergeant’s hand and turned to face him. “I think you will find the Sergeant slightly more cooperative now, Your Majesty.”

  Sikander bit back a snort, and said, “Well, Sergeant?”

  “The young lady you mentioned had several official visitors. Six, to be precise.”

  “Would you happen to recall the identity of these visitors?”

  “I recorded them in the visitors’ ledger, as I was instructed to do.”

  “And where is this ledger now?”

  “I have it right here.” He held up a brown canvas-bound register, offering it to Campbell, rather than Sikander, much to the Maharaja’s annoyance.

  “Let’s have a look.” Campbell took the book and opened it, leafing through the pages slowly, biting his lower lip.

  “Give it to me,” Sikander growled, snapping his fingers impatiently.

  “Just a moment, sir. Ah, here we are!” The Captain ran one finger down the page. “The Nizam of Hyderabad. The Maharaja of Patiala. The Maharaja of Alwar. The Maharaja of Gwalior. The Maharani of Bharatpur. And, last but not least, there was a journalist of some kind, a Mr. Urban, who had a letter of introduction from the Home Office.” He let out a low whistle, proffering the book at Sikander. “That is quite a list.”

  “Yes,” Sikander said, “it most certainly is.” He scanned the page, his brow wrinkled with dismay. If these were his suspects, he thought, he was in for a thoroughly tumultuous investigation. Not only were these some of the senior-most potentates in India, but each of them could buy and sell a minor monarch like himself several times over. Frankly, he doubted he would be able to get in to see most of them, much less interrogate them as potential murderers.