Death at the Durbar

by Arjun Gaind

  “What sort of wager?”

  “A sparring match. Charan Singh against your champion. One fall. If my man is able to topple your behemoth, you shall answer my questions.”

  Bhupinder’s eyes narrowed. “And if he loses?”

  “Then you can have my latest acquisition,” Sikander said. “It is the new Rolls-Royce, the Corgi, with a limousine chassis in ivory and gold by Pullman. It is due to be delivered in six weeks. Consider it your property if Charan Singh takes a fall.”

  A long moment passed as his cousin weighed the bet, before he let out a shrill laugh.

  “You are a fool, Sikander Singh, and I shall use your car for a garbage scow once I have won it, so that all of Patiala will always know how chock full of shit you are.”

  Sikander ignored this jibe, turning instead to face his manservant.

  “Well, old man, what do you think?” he inquired, one brow curving into a question mark.

  The big Sikh rolled his eyes, studying Kikkar Singh with pursed lips for a long minute, before giving a shrug and beginning to unbutton his tunic with unhurried nonchalance.

  “Why is it, sahib, that when you set out to investigate a case, I am the one who always ends up getting a hiding?”

  “Oh, come on, you can take him easily. It will be simpler than trying to get a kiss from your wife.”

  “That’s easy for you to say, sahib. Not only are you unmarried, but you don’t have to grapple with this monster. Besides, my wife is worth the trouble, unlike this brute.”

  Stripping down to his singlet, he unraveled his pugree carefully and handed it to Captain Campbell for safekeeping, before giving first Sikander and then Bhupinder a deep bow. As he turned and strode out of the pavilion and descended into the wrestling ring, Sikander could not help but be struck by the contrast between the two men. His manservant was taller by a few inches, his carefully oiled beard giving him a leonine air. In spite of his advancing age, he remained as well muscled as a prizefighter, his physique obviously having lost none of its strength. Nevertheless, Kikkar Singh seemed to dwarf him, making up for this discrepancy in height by sheer girth. Not only was he almost twice as wide as Charan Singh, he was at least forty kilos heavier, with simian arms and a hairy belly which made him seem more like a gorilla than a man.

  It was obvious Kikkar Singh thought he had this match in the bag, because when Charan Singh came to a stop in front of him, he let out a laugh before turning to jabber at his entourage, pointing and laughing as he rattled off a string of colorful insults.

  Charan Singh ignoring his heckling, and began to stretch, raising his arms over his head and smoothly leaning forward to touch his toes. This impressive display of elasticity did not awe Kikar Singh at all. In response, he bunched his massive chest, slapping his hairy belly as he rolled his shoulders, making the muscles of his trapeziums jut out like boulders. Calling out for a nearby servant, he snatched up a mug of cool milk and guzzled it down in one vast gulp, before letting out an immense belch in Charan Singh’s face with a insolent sneer.

  “Go home, Papaji,” he hissed, “This is not an old man’s game.”

  Charan Singh responded with a snort. “Has anyone told you that you smell?” he replied, wrinkling his nose. “When was the last time you took a bath?”

  The champion’s sneer dissolved into a scowl. “I am going to enjoy hurting you.”

  Charan Singh feigned a yawn, and reached up to cinch his hair into a tight topknot, so that it would not unravel. “Do your best, fatso.”

  Kikkar Singh quite obviously had no interest in subtlety. Instead of taking the time to circle his opponent, and suss out his strengths and weaknesses, he merely lowered his head, and gave a grunt, before lumbering straight forward, like a rhino at the charge.

  To his credit, the old Sikh did not back away, not one inch. Most men would have quaked in their boots at being confronted by such a behemoth bearing down with bloody murder writ on his face. Charan Singh, however, remained unflappable. Even as the champion swung one fist at his chest, the Sikh sidestepped him, demonstrating an impressive speed.

  “Is that the best you have?” he inquired, even as Kikkar Singh blundered to a stop, his expression thunderous.

  Letting out an irate growl, the wrestler charged forward again, crouching low this time, trying to sweep Charan Singh off his feet. Once again, the Sikh dodged away, leaping backward with a young man’s agility.

  “Stand still, blast you!” Kikkar Singh grunted, breathing heavily, already visibly winded. “This is a bout, not a damned dance.”

  “Very well!” Charan Singh responded. Cracking his knuckles, he held out one hand, offering it to Kikkar Singh. The wrestler’s mouth curved into a feral grin, recognising this gesture for what it was, the traditional challenge inviting him to a test of brute strength.

  With a guffaw, he enveloped the old Sikh’s hand in one hirsute paw. It was obvious he was convinced he could easily overpower the older man, crush his fingers as if they were but kindling. However, to his dismay, Charan Singh did not even blink. Instead, he held resolute, even as the champion squeezed down with all his might, exerting every ounce of power he could summon, the veins in his forehead bulging as if he was having an apoplexy.

  A minute passed, then two, before Charan Singh reached out to grasp Kikkar Singh’s shoulder, a move the champion quickly reciprocated, until they were leaning into each other, like two mighty elephants, each trying to push his opponent off balance. Kikkar Singh’s massive shoulders bunched, his face reddening as he struggled to bring his superior weight to bear, trying to overpower Charan Singh by sheer burden of mass. It almost worked. Slowly, Charan Singh took one step backward, then another, but then, his jaw clenched, and he brought Kikkar Singh to a stop. The champion’s eyes widened. He let out the faintest of sighs as he realised he was being outmatched, his arms shivering as Charan Singh’s vise-like grip held him firmly in place for a moment.

  The big Sikh remained expressionless, his forearms bunching like pistons as he began to push his opponent backwards, inch by tortuous inch. The champion writhed, trying to resist, but Charan Singh proved inexorable. Kikkar Singh’s back slowly arched, until he was bent almost at an angle of sixty degrees. Just as he was on the very brink of losing his balance, the old Sikh exclaimed, “Hah!” and with blinding swiftness, turned one hip, tossing Kikkar Singh cleanly off his feet, using his own momentum to send him crashing to the ground in a disgruntled heap.

  A stunned silence descended, the spectators unable to believe what they had just witnessed, until Sikander let out a triumphant laugh.

  “Well done!” He clapped his hands delightedly. “Perhaps you still have some good years left after all, you old goat.”

  “I am glad that you enjoyed the show, huzoor,” Charan Singh retorted. He exited the ring, leaving Kikkar Singh lying prone amidst the dust, watching him with an expression of unmitigated awe, unable to believe that he had been manhandled so easily. Retreating to the pavilion, he approached Captain Campbell, who returned his tunic and pugree with an admiring smile. “Now, if you will excuse me, I shall make myself presentable, if you please.”

  “Of course,” Sikander said expansively. “Take as long as you need. You have earned it.”

  Leaving the old Sikh to seek out a mirror so that he could re-tie his turban, Sikander turned to his cousin, utterly unable to resist the urge to gloat.

  “Well, it looks like my man won, doesn’t it?”

  Bhupinder was not at all pleased, his brows merging into one bushy glare. “The old fool cheated. He used some sort of judo. The bet is off.”

  “Is it?” Sikander turned to the Englishman, seeking his opinion. “What do you say, Brigadier?”

  Granville-Bruce responded with a shrug. “You did say one fall, Your Majesty. No other conditions were specified.” He gave Sikander a comradely wink. “I am afraid that you will have to acknowledge def
eat to the Maharaja of Rajpore after all.”

  “Bah!” Bhupinder offered Sikander a poisonous scowl. “If your oaf has hurt my champion and he loses against the pahalwan from Lahore, I will hold you personally responsible.” Snapping his fingers, he summoned a bearer carrying a silver claret pitcher filled with what appeared to be pomegranate cordial. Without offering a drop to either Sikander or the Brigadier-General, he quaffed the whole jug in one enormous swallow, before crossing to his throne and settling into it with an expression of absolute irritation on his bearded face.

  “Go on then, crow, ask your blasted questions. Make it quick. I am a very busy man.”

  “I believe you paid a visit to the Imperial camp yesterday?”

  “What of it? I am on the Durbar Committee, aren’t I?”

  “So you were there on official business?”

  “Of course. We are gifting a very handsome parure to Her Imperial Highness, my wife and I, on behalf of the Council of Maharanis. I went to make sure it was ready for presentation.”

  “Then you did not happen to pay a visit to a nautch girl named Zahra?”

  “What business is that of yours, eh?” Bhupinder growled, even more belligerent than usual. His eyes narrowed, and he sat up, looming over Sikander. One could almost hear the cogs in his brain, ticking away, as he tried to put two and two together, to ascertain why Sikander had bought up the nautch girl. “Wait a moment! Did you try to buy her as well? Were you one of the fools Kapurthala beat out? Is that why you have come to me, to try and ask me for help to get that wench?”

  Sikander hid a smile. For all his worldliness, Bhupinder was as predictable as a child. The only two measures he could conceive of were money and sex, and quite typically, he had assumed that it was those two things that had brought Sikander to his door, a misapprehension that Sikander was only too happy to exploit.

  “You have seen right through me,” he said, giving Campbell a nod, to remind him to hold his tongue and play along. “I am here about the girl.”

  “Of course, you should have thought twice before trying to put one over Bhupinder Singh of Patiala.” His cousin puffed up his immense chest, sounding even more self-satisfied than usual. “Still, let me give you a warning, Sikander, because I was fond of your mother, may the Gurus protect her soul. The girl is a waste of time, a dead end.”

  “Why do you say that? Is she not quite as comely as they say?”

  “On the contrary!” Bhupinder’s eyes lit up, a gleam which Sikander had only ever seen when he was speaking of horses or women. “She is breathtaking, a houri come to life. In fact, that was the very reason I paid the camp a visit. You see, I had heard of Scindia, Alwar, and Kapurthala’s bidding war, and I wanted to see if this particular courtesan lived up to the legend. As it turned out, she was every bit as ravishing as rumor had it. In fact, I decided I wanted her for myself, so I made her an offer on the spot.”

  “You tried to buy her?”

  “Oh, no. I told her I would marry her.”

  “You did not?” Sikander’s mouth fell open in disbelief.

  “Yes, I offered her the opportunity to be one of my lesser begums.”

  “Don’t you have enough wives already, Bhupinder?”

  His cousin’s face stiffened, his eyes flashing with scorn. “What a pompous little creature you are, Sikander. You think yourself better than me. You call my little pleasures vices, and imagine I am weak, venial. But you are the one who is wrong, not I.” He leaned forward. “Tell me, what is the point of living if you do not take pleasure from your senses? Why wake up each morning if not for the delights of taste and smell and touch? I have no interest in being like you, cousin, in drinking myself to a stupor each evening and coming alive only when someone drops dead. I want to live, damn you. I want to suck the marrow from every moment of every day. Is that so wrong?”

  “Tell me, how did the girl react to your proposal?”

  “She refused,” Bhupinder grimaced, brimming with outrage. “Can you believe it? She dared to reject me.”

  Sikander pursed his lips. It could be a possible motive. Bhupinder was well known for having a short temper and was undoubtedly unaccustomed to being rebuffed, especially by courtesans—but was pique enough of a reason to strangle someone? He had to admit it seemed like quite a stretch, a recognition that Bhupinder affirmed just a moment later.

  “She said her heart belonged to another.” He turned to the Brigadier. “If she had taken my offer, she would have had everything, comfort, wealth, status, but instead she chose love. Ha! What a load of codswallop! I told her as much, didn’t I, Granville-Bruce?”

  “You did, indeed.”

  “You were with him when he visited Zahra.”

  “I was.” Granville-Bruce frowned. “A lovely child, but rather naïve, I think, to have rejected such a generous overture.”

  Bhupinder let out a vast snort. “She’ll change her tune, sooner or later. Mark my words, the moment she realises what is best for her, she will come crawling to me, begging to take my offer.”

  This declaration served to confirm what Sikander had suspected all along, that Bhupinder was not involved in Zahra’s murder at all.

  “One last question, cousin. Did you happen to notice anything out of the ordinary when you visited with Zahra? Anything suspicious?”

  “What is that supposed to mean?” Bhupinder gave Sikander a piercing look, beginning to realise perhaps that he had misread his intentions.“What mischief are you up to now?”

  Rising to his feet, he stabbed one corpulent finger at Sikander’s face. “I have no more patience for your nonsense. This interview is over. Both of you, get out.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Upon emerging from the Patiala pavilion, Sikander saw Charan Singh engaged heatedly in discussion with his brother.

  “What is wrong?” he asked the big Sikh. “Is there a problem?”

  “Ram Singh has some information for you,” Charan Singh replied. “Will you speak to him?”

  “You go and fetch the car,” Sikander commanded, offering his manservant a nod. As he lumbered away to fulfill his orders, Ram Singh approached Sikander, clearing his throat pointedly.

  “Could I have a moment, huzoor?”

  “Of course, Ram Singh. What is the matter?”

  “In private, if you please.” He offered Campbell an apologetic look. “I mean no offense, Captain sahib.”

  “And none is taken,” Campbell said gallantly. “Actually, I will ask you to excuse me as well, Your Highness. I need an hour to myself.”

  Sikander was taken aback by this unexpected volte-face. Until now, Campbell had insisted on obeying his orders to the letter, sticking as close to him as a rash. But now, he seemed almost eager to get away, a reversal that left Sikander nothing if not curious.

  “Are you unwell, Campbell? A touch of the croup perhaps?”

  “Not at all, sir.” He gave Sikander a hesitant smile. “Actually, I think I have a lead I would like to follow.”

  “Is that so? Do tell!”

  “Not just yet, sir. Let me see if my hunch pans out.” He gave Sikander a brief bow. “I shall see you a bit later.”

  As soon as the Captain departed, Sikander turned back to Ram Singh, who had been patiently waiting for him to conclude his conversation.

  “Tell me what is bothering you?”

  “There is a rumor, huzoor, that someone was murdered in the Imperial Camp. Is that why you are here?”

  Sikander stiffened. “I cannot speak of it, Ram Singh, even with you.”

  “I understand. I have only one question, sahib. Is Bhupinder Singh-ji a suspect?”

  Sikander pursed his lips, tempted to refuse to answer. However, when he saw the concern in Ram Singh’s eyes, he could not help but feel a pang of empathy.

  “I think it is safe to say that he is not. My cousin is overly self-i
ndulgent and much too selfish, but he is not a criminal, of that I am sure.”

  “Excellent!” Ram Singh’s shoulders sagged with visible relief. “I try my best, sir, to keep his wilder urges restrained, but the Maharaja Sahib does not always choose to listen.”

  “You are a loyal man, Ram Singh. Bhupinder is lucky to have you.”

  Ram Singh’s face softened at these words of praise. “I am grateful for your candor, sahib. Perhaps I can repay you with some information.” He glanced around, as if to ensure they were not being overheard. “When we arrived at the Imperial camp to see the nautch girl, she was not alone. A gentleman was leaving her quarters when I went there to inquire if she would spare a moment to speak with my master.”

  “Is that so? Did you recognise this gentleman?”

  “As a matter of fact, I did, huzoor. It was the Maharaja of Indore.”

  This revelation took Sikander entirely by surprise. Indore was not on the list the Scottish sergeant had disclosed, nor had his name come up with Zahra’s entourage. What could have compelled the Holkar to visit Zahra, and in secret? Whatever it was, Sikander thought, knowing Indore’s reputation, it had to be somewhat nefarious.

  “Are you sure, Ram Singhji?”

  “I am willing to stake my good name on it. I have nothing but the greatest respect for the Holkar sahib, which is why I was so taken aback to chance upon him in such questionable circumstances.” He bit his lip, looking very troubled. “He seemed somewhat angry, sir. I tried to greet him, but he stamped past me without a word of acknowledgment. It looked to me that he was quite furious with the young woman for some reason.”

  Sikander frowned, unsure what to make of this testimony. It was hearsay of the most tenuous kind, but he knew Ram Singh well enough to accept the man at his word. Not only was he Charan Singh’s kin, but he was a truly honest man.

  “I do not mean to cast aspersions, huzoor. I just thought you might find this information useful.”