Death at the Durbar

by Arjun Gaind

  Even as he mulled over how to overcome that obstacle, a pang of acid in his gut reminded him that he was missing something, something important.

  “Hold on a minute,” Campbell said. “Tell me, Sergeant, did the girl have any unofficial visitors?”

  Sikander gave the Captain a sour look. That was the very question he had been about to ask, but the cheeky bastard had beaten him to it.

  The sergeant looked reluctant to answer, his pupils widening with dismay.

  “Don’t worry,” Campbell interjected, beating Sikander to the draw once again. “You are amongst friends here. There will be no repercussions or recriminations, I assure you.”

  “There was a munshi, sir, from the Maharaja of Kashmir. He had a letter for the young lady, which he insisted on delivering personally. There was another native as well, an elderly fellow who claimed to be her uncle, who asked to meet with her briefly. And there were two English memsahibs, one of whom, a young lady, insisted on speaking with her in person.” The sergeant’s face reddened, as if he was embarrassed, and he offered Campbell an apologetic look. “That is all I know, Captain.”

  “Thank you, Brother Macgregor. You have been very helpful.”

  He turned to Sikander, seeking his agreement.

  “Yes, you may go, Sergeant. Return to your duties.”

  This time, the sergeant snapped out a curt salute, so crisp it could have felled a redwood. As he swiveled and marched away, Campbell let out a sigh. “Well, this is quite a pickle, isn’t it? Should we consider all of the people in the register suspects, sir?”

  “Perhaps,” Sikander replied, pursing his lips. “We certainly cannot be sure they are not involved until we speak to each of them and ascertain why they came to see the girl.”

  “Well, I for one, do not envy you that task, Sikander,” Malik Umar rose to his feet, stretching his back with a groan. “If you will excuse me, I will leave you to get on with it. Captain, do try not to irritate the Maharaja too much, will you? As for you, Sikander, give the lad a chance, and try not to stir up too much trouble, for once.

  “Good luck, gentlemen. Now, if you will excuse me, the King, it seems, is unwilling to mount an elephant, which means I must go and find him a suitable nag to ride.”

  Chapter Seven

  “Well, Mr. Singh,” Campbell said, offering Sikander a comradely grin, “it looks like we are stuck with each other!”

  The easy familiarity with which he said the word “we” rankled Sikander. There is no “we,” he wanted to shout. Like the Mariner, I am burdened with you. You are the proverbial albatross around my neck.

  It took all of his willpower to hold his tongue. The Captain was a difficult man to dislike, with his handsome features and affable grin, but that was exactly why Sikander found it easy to distrust the man so readily. In his experience, it was the fellows who were overly confident of themselves who turned out to be the most fickle in character. Those were the ones who always chose their interests over anyone else’s, who inevitably left you hanging when push came to shove.

  “So,” Campbell continued, apparently immune to the antipathy being exuded from Sikander’s every pore, “where would you like to begin?”

  Damn the man. Why did he have to be so earnest, so enthusiastic? It was bloody well annoying. Biting back a surge of irritation, Sikander considered this question. The logical approach would be to question each of the visitors that the sergeant had mentioned, but given the lateness of the hour, he simply could not go calling on such luminaries as the Nizam and the Maharaja of Kashmir, nor could he charge in mob-handed to question Bhupinder or any of the others, not without alerting every press wallah west of Aden. No, that would have to wait until morning, which meant there was only one choice for him for the present.

  “As I mentioned to Malik Umar, the girl was not killed here. What we must do next is locate the actual site of the murder. Tell me, Captain, where was the girl being quartered? I assume she was not being kept here, in this very tent.”

  “No, not at all. We had placed her in the servants’ enclave, just across the compound.”

  “Don’t tell me, man. Show me.”

  “Yes, of course!” Spinning on one heel, he nearly tripped in his haste to oblige Sikander. The Maharaja stifled a smile, following Campbell as he hurried back out of the reception pavilion, scurrying across the pristinely manicured lawn, before taking an abrupt left turn onto a narrow path which culminated in a small cluster of tents located directly behind the Circuit House, hidden away from plain sight in the shadow of a large water cistern. This must be where the servants were housed, Sikander assumed, for they were little more than military bell-tents laid out in a neat row.

  Campbell led him to the last of the tents, a solitary grey one that seemed out of place amid its dun neighbors, as though it had been thrown up rather hastily.

  “In there. That is where she was staying.”

  Sikander ducked into the tent. Inside, it was shadowy, cool, surprisingly quiet, the thick canvas very successfully managing to block out the hustle and bustle of camp life. Campbell was about to enter behind him, but Sikander forestalled him with a gesture.

  “Give me a moment,” he said. “I have a system I like to follow.” Standing perfectly still, he soaked in his surroundings. The tent was small, about twelve feet by fifteen, with a peaked roof and a tarpaulin covered floor. A muslin curtain divided the space into two small rooms: a tiny reception area with a folding table and two camp chairs, and a sleeping area furnished with a low campaign bed and a chest of drawers and a lantern.

  At the base of the bed, three Ross and Company steamer trunks were stacked in an untidy heap. Sikander approached them, kneeling down to examine their base, squinting with intense concentration.

  “This is where she was killed.”

  “What makes you think that?” Campbell said from the doorway.

  “The dust, Captain! Look at the dust beneath the bed and the dresser. It is the insignificant things that say the most.”

  “What am I supposed to be seeing?” Campbell asked, dutifully gazing where Sikander was pointing.

  “Scuff marks, there and there. You can see that the furniture has been moved around. And the tarpaulin base-sheet does not quite line up properly, not like it should.” He frowned. “This, I surmise, is where the girl was strangled. There was a struggle, and while the murderer tried to tidy up afterwards, I suspect he was hurried, and missed a thing or two.”

  “Are you sure?” Campbell sounded entirely unconvinced.

  “An educated guess, but yes, I am almost certain. Just as I am certain that the killer had to be someone who knew her, or was known to her.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “She let him in here, didn’t she? That can only mean that she knew the man, or that she did not think he would harm her.”

  The doubt in Campbell’s voice was palpable. “I don’t know, sir. I am no expert, but it all seems a bit far-fetched to me.”

  Sikander ignored the Captain’s questioning tone.

  “That is the one thing we agree about, Captain, that you are no expert.” Sikander let out a sniff and rose back to his feet. “Tell me, Campbell, where is her entourage? These nautch-wallis always have a staff they travel with, a maid, a coterie of musicians, a guard or two. Go track them down for me, will you? I wish to have a word with them.”

  “Ah.” Campbell’s grin returned, twice as wide as before. “I am glad to say that I predicted that eventuality as well.”

  Bringing his thumb and forefinger to his lips, he let out a piercing whistle. A moment later, a very curious duo was ushered into the tent, herded along by none other than the taciturn sergeant.

  The first was a girl, not more than fifteen, a pale wraith clad in a rather tight embroidered bodice and a loose skirt. While her figure was nicely rounded in all the appropriate places, sadly she had b
een cursed with exceptionally protuberant teeth, plus her eyes were placed much too far apart, rather giving her the look of a surprised frog.

  The second person was a mirasi, Sikander guessed, an itinerant minstrel. He was certainly dressed like one. His lanky frame was draped in a red silk kurta and a tight mirrored silver waistcoat, with a bracelet made of bells clinking on one wrist. His age was about twenty or thereabouts and he was narrow-faced like a fox, with drooping eyes and carefully oiled hair.

  “You are the maid, I am guessing,” Sikander said to the girl, deciding to address her first.

  She did not reply, keeping her head pointed firmly downwards, refusing to meet either his eye or the Captain’s.

  “Didn’t you hear the Maharaja?” Campbell echoed, his voice rising several octaves. “Answer him, damn you!”

  “She cannot, sahib,” the boy piped up. “She is a mute. She cannot communicate in words, only with signs.”

  “And you understand these signs?”

  “I do.” The boy made a ham-handed attempt at a courtly bow. “I am Salim, master of the tabla and, on occasion, also the flute. I am at your service, huzoor.”

  “Tell me, Salim, were you the only musician in Zahra’s service?”

  “I was not in her service, huzoor. I am a free player, and I was contracted to perform in accompaniment with her, along with two others, a shehnai-wala and a sarangi-ustad. They are due to arrive this evening.”

  Sikander wrinkled his brow. It was not an uncommon practise for musicians to be contracted for a single performance, which meant that the boy would likely be of little use as a witness.

  The girl, on the other hand, could prove to be more helpful.

  “I am going to ask her several questions,” Sikander said, turning to face the maid once more, “and you will translate her answers for me.”

  He held up a handful of coins, offering them to Salim the musician, who accepted them eagerly.

  “As you command, Your Majesty. I am at your service.”

  “I want a verbatim translation. Word for word. Is that clear?”

  “Of course!” Salim replied with a wounded expression, as if he were horrified that Sikander would assume he was anything less than honest.

  “You are Zahra’s maid, yes?”

  The girl nodded, accompanied by a gesture of affirmation that needed no translation.

  “How long have you served her?”

  “Several months,” Salim translated as the girl gesticulated. “I was taken into her service when her last contract ran out. My cousin served her before that, and she recommended me because of my skill at braiding hair.”

  “Tell me, was your mistress involved with anyone?”

  “Involved, sir?” Her fingers danced out in reply, feigning confusion.

  “Did she have a gentleman caller?” Sikander said, fascinated by the nimble intricacy of the girl’s gestures. “A lover?”

  The girl blushed, a deep crimson. “How can I answer that?” This time, though, there was the slightest hesitation, an imperceptible tremor to her motions that told Sikander that she was hiding something quite as loudly as if she had shouted it out.

  “Come now, my dear, you are not telling me the whole truth. You servants, you see and hear everything. Your mistress was a beautiful woman, and I doubt she led a life of celibacy. And let us be honest. There is no way your mistress could have taken a lover without you being aware of it.” He fixed her with a stern look. “Stop trying to protect her. She is gone, and unless you want her murderer to go free, you must tell me everything you know, the unvarnished truth.”

  The girl blanched, and then shook her head. “There was a man, I think,” she sighed. “The mistress seemed much happier lately, like she was in love. And she told me, a few days ago, that she would soon be leaving this life and settling down, and promised to take me with her.”

  “Who was he? Was he a native, or an Angrez?”

  “I do not know his identity, sir. I never met him. The mistress was very discreet.”

  Sikander bit back a curse. It would have been too easy if the girl had known who Zahra’s mystery lover was. “When was the last time you saw your mistress?”

  Again, the girl wavered slightly, darting a nervous glance first at Salim, and then quite surprisingly, toward Sergeant Macgregor before shyly answering with her hands.

  “Yesterday, sahib,” the musician interjected, “just after two. I can corroborate that. We went to the badshashi mela together to see the acrobats.”

  He gave the girl a nod, as if to insinuate the two of them were involved. Sikander raised an inquiring brow, and she flushed, confirming his suspicions.

  “What time did you return?”

  “Very late, huzoor,” the boy replied too quickly, “after dark.”

  Something about his manner struck Sikander as much too glib. “Is what he is saying true?” he asked the girl.

  Rather than replying, once again, she turned to the musician. Her fingers blurred through a rapid sequence of signs, and she moaned, a shrill half-sound, as if to signify her frustration.

  “What did she say?”

  “She agrees with me, huzoor,” the boy insisted.

  “That is not what she said,” Sikander growled. “As it happens, I can read enough of the signs to deduce that much.”

  The Captain bunched his fists menacingly and took one half step forward. Salim backed away, but to Sikander’s surprise, his eyes shifted to the sergeant, giving him a wide-eyed look, utterly brimming with desperation.

  “What are you hiding, Salim? And how is the sergeant involved in this?”

  “Help me, sahib,” Salim squealed at Macgregor. “You promised us we would be safe.”

  He fell to his knees, starting to blubber like a child caught cheating. “Forgive me, huzoor. It is not my fault. He forced us. We had no choice.”

  Both Sikander and Campbell turned to face Macgregor, who looked about ready to bolt.

  “What is the meaning of this, Macgregor?” Campbell hissed.

  The Scotsman hung his head in shame. “I fear I have not been entirely honest with you. Something else happened yesterday involving the young lady, something I did not mention to you earlier.” He wrung his hands, his face drawn into a piteous grimace. “There was a private performance, sir, where the young lady danced for several gentlemen. I was assigned to arrange it, and commanded to keep it a secret.”

  “What? Who were these gentlemen?”

  “I am reluctant to reveal their identities, sir.” He gave Sikander a despairing look. “They can destroy me in the blink of an eye.”

  “If you do not tell me their names,” Sikander snarled, “I will destroy you, I assure you of that. I shall have you stripped of your rank and clapped into irons if you do not tell us every last thing you know, damn you!”

  The sergeant blanched, but remained obdurate. “I cannot help you,” he bleated. “They are too powerful.”

  “Hold on a minute,” Captain Campbell said. “I think I know who he is protecting. There is only one group of gentlemen who could scare someone like our sergeant here quite so thoroughly.” He turned to Macgregor. “You don’t have to say a word, Sergeant. Just nod if I am correct. Tell me, are you speaking of the Guppies? Are they the ones who had Zahra stage a private nautch last evening?”

  Macgregor remained stock still, as rigid as a golem for a long minute, until finally, he gave the slightest dip of his chin, a tremor so reluctant it was nearly imperceptible.

  “And who, pray tell, are these Guppies?” Sikander asked Campbell, as the Captain turned to him, beaming triumphantly.

  “Oh, there are six or seven of them. Boy Hardinge and of course Prince Battenberg, and an assortment of well-born hangers-on. They are the boys about town, the beau monde of the Durbar, as it were.”

  “But the Guppies? I don’t
understand.”

  “Ah, of course! Let me explain. They are the sons of powerful men, you see, the big fish, the scions who will inherit the reins of power and steer the Empire one day.” His voice sounded bitter. “That makes them the little fish, hence the Guppies. They are a raucous, madcap bunch, and have been raising holy hell these last few days, running as wild as a pack of jackals without their parents to rein them in.”

  “Well then let us go and have a chat with these little fish of yours right now, shall we?” Sikander dusted his hands, struggling to restrain his excitement. “Where do you surmise we can find them at this late hour? The Club perhaps? Or the Viceregal Camp?”

  “Actually, sir, I think they shall be in the Old City. That is where they go to play cards each evening.”

  “Excellent! Then it is to the Old City we shall go as well, and with the greatest of haste.”

  “One moment, sir! What about Macgregor? What shall I do with him?”

  “I don’t really care,” Sikander said with a snort. “At last, we have a lead, and a very proper one at that.”

  Chapter Eight

  Despite having spent a good deal of time in England, both as a student and as an adult, there were still a great many things about the British which Sikander found extremely bewildering—their reluctance to bathe every day, for one, and their refusal to drink tea without milk and sugar. The way they seemed to become ever more polite as they grew angry, and their fascination with baked beans and roast beef, not to mention their constant preoccupation with the weather. But if there was one thing that truly confounded him, it was their peculiarly adjustable sense of morality. Take the British attitude toward gambling, which was quite as double a standard as their acceptance of prostitution. While the Church considered it a venial sin to gamble, with priests preaching eternal damnation from their pulpits for any who dared to make a wager, amongst the beau monde in London, particularly the younger generation, gambling was a way of life. In fact, amongst certain circles of the aristocracy, a man was not considered a gentleman until he knew how to gracefully lose at cards.