Death at the Durbar

by Arjun Gaind

  For the first time, Jey Singh’s smile wavered, and a shadow fell across his features. “I have no idea what you are talking about.”

  “Come on, how can you have forgotten Wazeeran? She was exquisite! And didn’t she have a daughter, what was her name?” Sikander snapped his fingers theatrically, making Jey Singh flinch. “Ah, yes, Zahra! That’s what it was. I wonder what happened to her.”

  Whatever else his flaws, Jey Singh was not stupid. Like a predator sensing a trap, his face stiffened, his smile melting entirely away.

  “Well, this has been interesting,” he declared. “I would love to stay longer, but I really should make sure my horse has been stabled properly.

  As he stood, Sikander nodded at Campbell, who moved quickly to place himself squarely in his way.

  “Let me lay my cards on the table, Jey Singh. I am here because the nautch girl I just mentioned to you, Zahra, was found murdered yesterday in the King Emperor’s camp, and I have been entrusted by the Viceroy with the task of finding her killer.”

  This declaration was met by the slightest widening of Alwar’s eyes, accompanied by a grim sparkle of interest, but Sikander could not quite identify what emotion it signified. Was it guilt or something else, pleasure perhaps, the vicarious thrill of a voyeur?

  “What does any of that have to do with me?” His expression remained deadpan, as emotionless as a cadaver.

  “Did you not bid for her contract in Lahore, only to lose to Kapurthala? Did you not, upon failing to engage her services, publicly swear that if she would not be your property, then you would not permit her to belong to anyone else? And finally, did you not pay her a visit the day before yesterday, which ended with her asking you to leave her alone?”

  “You are grasping at straws,” Jey Singh replied with a nonchalant smirk. That was when Sikander saw it, the madness in his eyes, barely held in check.

  “Does it not strike you as strange, that this girl should be killed in exactly the same way her mother was murdered all those years ago in Bikaner? And that you just happened to be present on both occasions?”

  Most normal men would have been ruffled by such questions, but Jey Singh remained as unflappable as a Hessian. In fact, he seemed to be enjoying himself, judging by how readily his smirk deepened into a wicked grin.

  “I could say the same thing of you, couldn’t I? What if you’re the murderer? You could be trying to implicate me to deflect attention from yourself, for all we know.”

  “That’s very clever, Jey Singh, but this is what I believe happened. I think you killed Zahra’s mother all those years ago. I always suspected it, but I was unable to prove anything, which is why you got away scot-free. Or so you thought until you encountered Zahra again. She recognised you, didn’t she? You knew she was the only witness to her mother’s death, and you grew terrified that she would expose you to the English. That is why you tried to buy her contract, to get her in your grasp, but when she evaded your clutches, you decided to pay her a visit. What was your plan? Did you offer to pay her off, to buy her silence? Or did you threaten her?”

  He knew he was goading the man, but that was exactly his intent, to push Jey Singh to his breaking point. And it worked. In the blink of an eye, his composure fell apart. With an involuntary twitch of his lips, the reckless smile collapsed, replaced instead by a snarl.

  “I do not have to listen to this rubbish.” His face reddened, his voice rising to a screech so shrill that it echoed through the pavilion. “How dare you accuse me, you…you upstart? I have had men beaten to death for less.”

  This was the real Jey Singh, Sikander realised. Now that he had lost control, the inner savage stood revealed in all its dark glory, his teeth bared, his hands clenched into claws, flecks of spittle flying from his lips like froth.

  “Calm down, sir,” Campbell said, trying to reason with Jey Singh, but he ignored Campbell like he did not exist. His focus remained fixed on Sikander and he took one angry step forward, as if intending to assault him physically.

  Most men would have fled in the face of such overwhelming fury, but it was not in Sikander’s nature to retreat.

  “You do not scare me, Jey Singh.” Sikander stared him down. “When Wazeeran was murdered, my hands were tied, but this time around, I have no intention of giving up. If I find a single piece of evidence connecting you to Zahra’s death—one hair, one fingerprint—I will not rest until I bring you down. You can count on that.”

  To his surprise, Jey Singh’s response was a complete turnaround. Rather than becoming further incensed by such a naked threat, he let out a cackle.

  “What a fool you are, Sikander Singh!” Unexpectedly, he lunged forward, seizing his shoulders. He was surprisingly strong, those seemingly slim arms corded with muscle from hours spent swinging a polo mallet. Sikander was not accustomed to being manhandled, but effortlessly, Jey Singh enveloped him into a parody of an embrace.

  “Do you want the truth, you foolish boy? Then here it is.” He leaned in so close that Sikander was terrified the man was about to kiss him. “Yes, I killed that whore all those years ago. I wanted to bed her, but when I made a proposition, she dared to rebuff my advances. She insisted she was only a performer, not a courtesan. I cannot stand to be rejected and so, in a fit, I strangled her with my bare hands. There, now you know the truth. And there is nothing you can do about it. There is no evidence, is there? And, without evidence, there is no crime. Even I know that.”

  His voice was matter-of-fact, devoid of a single shred of regret or remorse. Sikander clenched his jaw so hard that his head hurt. Unfortunately, Jey Singh was right. It was far too late to get justice for Wazeeran. The trail had long since gone cold. If he took what he had to the Viceroy, at best it would be his word against Alwar’s, and that was a fight Jey Singh would always win.

  “You bastard,” he hissed.

  “A bastard I may be, my dear fellow, but I am one who has an alibi cast in iron.”

  Jey Singh took a step back, raising his voice. “There is no way I could possibly have killed your nautch girl. I was at the Fusilers’ Ball from seven till two in the morning. You are welcome to check with their commanding officer, Colonel Gordon. I am sure he will be happy to vouch for me. As a matter of fact, you can check with his wife, as well, although she may not be quite too eager to corroborate my whereabouts, considering some of the things we did to each other bordered on the illegal.”

  Alwar giggled, as shrill as a cuckoo. “Once again, I win, Sikander Singh. And just like all those years ago, there really is nothing you can do about it.”

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Jey Singh’s laughter bit at Sikander, as painful as the lash of a whip.

  “You think you are better than me, don’t you, Sikander Singh? But the truth is that we are one and the same. We are both barbarians, excited only by the iniquity that hides behind the thin veneer of civilization, the violence and the cruelty of human nature that other, lesser men are afraid to confront.” His lips curled into a snarl. “The only difference between us is that I revel in my darkness, embrace it. But you, you poor fool, you try to deny it. That is why you will never get the better of me.”

  With that declaration, Jey Singh gave him a parting wink before striding back to join his company. Sikander could do nothing but seethe. It took all his wherewithal to hold back his rage. Part of him wanted to kill Alwar, to reach out and strangle him on the spot, just as he had throttled Wazeeran, to choke the life from him until that supercilious smile was wiped away.

  Unfortunately, while it was anathema to his nature to allow a killer to go free, he knew there was nothing he could do to Jey Singh, not just yet. Perhaps at a later date, he would be able to give the man a rightly deserved comeuppance, but for now, his hands were as good as tied. This was the feeling Sikander despised most of all, the sensation of helplessness that gripped him. What made it infinitely worse was that he knew, deep dow
n, that Alwar was right. There was indeed a darkness inside him, a void that he could never quite fill. That was why he was drawn to the perverse and the profane, because he found what others considered normal boring. The only time Sikander felt truly alive was when he was confronted by death and sin and blood. Did that make him as bad as Alwar? For once, he found he was afraid, terrified of even trying to answer that question.

  “What’s wrong, sir?” Campbell piped up. “You seem terribly out of sorts.”

  “It’s nothing, just a headache coming on.”

  “Would you like to return to your hotel?”

  “No, I still have to question Holkar and Scindia.” Sikander gave Campbell an apologetic shrug. “You cannot come with me, I’m afraid, Captain. Lady Bute’s ball is by invitation only.”

  Campbell did not seem unduly ruffled. “That will be fine, sir. I have to make a report anyway to the Viceroy, update him about our progress. If you would be so kind as to drop me off at the Bombay Camp, I am scheduled to meet him there at six o’clock.”

  “Of course! Once he has dropped me off, my driver will take you wherever you need to go.”

  Upon returning to the Rolls, Sikander struggled to compose himself, to regain some measure of his equilibrium and prepare himself for the upcoming ordeal. Although the Captain tried to strike up a conversation several times, he held his tongue resolutely, refusing to be engaged. Instead, he leaned back, and let the vibrations of the road seep into his bones, lulling him into a state of half-sleep.

  The venue chosen by Lord and Lady Bute for their extravaganza was the Indore camp, which was located directly opposite Patiala’s enclosure. While there had been a great many formals and fêtes hosted by the English over the preceding weeks, this was intended to be the pièce de résistance, the last party before the King arrived and the actual Durbar celebrations began full-tilt.

  Sikander only knew the hosts very vaguely. He had met the Marquis at Ascot a few times, and recalled him as a shy, rather self-effacing Scotsman with a fine pair of whiskers who was mad for shooting and Baroque architecture. As for his wife, he had never encountered her personally, but she had a reputation for being rather formidable. Augusta Crichton-Stuart was said to be a relentless woman, both in temperament and ambition. She was renowned for being what the French called a Rastignac, a determined social climber.

  Ordinarily, Sikander went to great lengths to avoid such gatherings. He found them tedious, not just the ostentation and the inane competitiveness, but also the crowds. The raucous din of hundreds of voices talking at the same time, the press of bodies surrounding him to the point of suffocation—not to mention the smells of perfume and sweat and gingivitis, all mingling into one noxious stench, just the very thought of which was quite enough to make him nauseous. However, on this occasion, he had broken from habit for one reason alone. He had heard that both Indore and Scindia would be in attendance, which meant he could tackle two of his remaining suspects at the same time. And it was time that was most paramount, for that was the commodity which was most in short shrift, as Sikander was well aware.

  Abruptly, the Rolls slowed almost to a crawl. Sikander leaned out to find that there was a long line arrayed outside the camp’s entrance, moving forward with tiresome slowness as each vehicle and carriage paused to disgorge grandee after gaily dressed grandee. Rather than waiting his turn, he waved farewell to Campbell and dismounted early, choosing to walk the rest of the way to the gate, which was a massive domed chattri across which a white banner had been furled, emblazoned with the words “Long live the King.”

  After presenting his invitation, he was escorted into the camp by a page, where an ornate shamiana had been erected for the festivities. Around it, an array of Chinoiserie screens had been arranged to create a promenade, illuminated by myriad paper lanterns hung at strategic intervals, giving the whole place an atmosphere of shadowy glamor. Grudgingly, Sikander had to admit Lady Bute had managed to do an admirable job, for the end result was exceedingly elegant, very much to his taste.

  Inside the tent, he found that the Hussar Band had been tasked with providing the evening’s musical entertainment. They were in the midst of mangling one of Chopin’s mazurkas, belting it out with rather stilted bonhomie. Sikander paused, studying the room. It seemed to be peopled by a preponderance of white faces. A few of them he recognized. There was Earl Mar and Kellie, done up in his customary green and gold, accompanied by his wife, Violet, who had once made a pass at Sikander, and who now gave him a saucy grin as she flounced by. Behind them, he saw Lord Cadogan, a doddering old gent who had caused quite a scandal by marrying his cousin, a beautiful young redhead with an impressive prow. She was chatting with an old friend of Sikander’s, Beatrice Forbes, the Countess of Granard, who was the most prominent of the American “dollar” princesses. On her right, stood the grande dame of London society, Evelyn James, who was deep in conversation with one of the Rothschilds and the famous Australian soprano, Nellie Melba.

  Out on the dance floor, a giggling covey of young duchesses—Norfolk, Hamilton, and Montrose—were taking a turn under the watchful eyes of their glowering husbands. Behind them, he saw his hostess, a handsome woman done up in purple tussar, who held his gaze briefly, and then dismissed him when she recognized he was not a senior potentate.

  At the far side of the tent, Sikander saw the Brigadier waving at him frantically, trying to catch his attention. He looked very out of sorts, dressed in an ill-fitting evening suit for a change rather than his customary uniform.

  “My goodness, Brigadier,” Sikander greeted him with a warm smile, glad to find a friendly face. “Don’t you clean up well?”

  “Oh, stop being snide.” He shrugged, very nearly splitting the seams of his jacket’s shoulders. “I received your invitation, here I am, though I still cannot understand why you have called me here, into this den of overdressed monkeys.”

  “Ha!” Sikander laughed, realizing that Granville-Bruce had made a rare witticism. “Well done! As to why I asked you to come, here is the reason now.” He gestured toward the entrance, where Miss Cavendish was making an arrival, escorted, as always, by her chaperone. Sikander smiled appreciatively. She looked radiant, dressed in a simple Callot Soeurs cocktail dress, in a very becoming shade of metallic green which perfectly offset her fiery hair. Beside her stood Miss Eaton, overshadowed, outfitted in a heavy satin gown which made her seem even more pugnacious than normal.

  “You found her,” the Brigadier gasped, his mouth falling open with surprise.

  “I did. And might I say, my dear fellow, you have exquisite taste. Why, if I did not have Helene in my life, I might be tempted to take a pass at the memsahib myself.”

  Granville-Bruce blushed a deep crimson, fidgeting with his tie nervously. “Introduce me, won’t you?” His voice quavered. It was quite funny, Sikander thought. Here was a man who felt no fear charging into the midst of a rampaging horde of Afridis, but now, confronted with a beautiful woman, he was reduced to being as gormless as a griffin.

  “Come along then.” Crossing the floor, he greeted Miss Cavendish with a wave. “How wonderful to see you, Madam! And you, too, Miss Eaton.” He nodded at Granville-Bruce, who was cowering behind him, pulling at his moustache. “This is Brigadier Granville-Bruce, the hero of Nepal. He has been waiting to meet you very eagerly.”

  “My dear,” Granville-Bruce said as he bumbled forward. Much to Sikander’s surprise, he held a hand out, not to Miss Cavendish, but to Miss Eaton. “Would you care to dance?”

  For once, Sikander found himself utterly at a loss for words, goggling as Miss Eaton took the Brigadier’s outstretched hand with a shy smile, allowing herself to be shepherded out onto the dance floor.

  “Isn’t that wonderful!” Miss Cavendish exclaimed, clapping her hands together in delight. “It seems that Miss Eaton has found an admirer.”

  “How very unexpected!” Sikander murmured as Granville-Bruce proc
eeded to lead his partner into the first steps of a spirited Viennese waltz, moving with a surprising elegance for a man his size. Sikander could not help but shake his head bemusedly. Even if he were floundering as a detective, he thought, it seemed his career as a matchmaker was certainly flourishing.

  “I did not realise the Brigadier could dance quite so well.”

  “Can you, sir?” With an impish chuckle, Miss Cavendish looped her arm into the crook of his elbow. “Come along, let us find out.”

  Even though she was being rather too forward for his liking, Sikander allowed himself to be herded along. They faced each other, Sikander placing one hand very lightly on her elbow, maintaining a respectable distance as he swirled her gracefully across the dance floor. She was a tall woman, but he handled her effortlessly, as if she weighed nothing. Miss Cavendish beamed, leaning into him, almost resting her forehead against his chest, so close he could smell her scent, oleander and vanilla underpinned by a hint of amber.

  Inexplicably, this cachet reminded Sikander of Helene. It had been some weeks since she had departed for France, and he had almost forgotten how reassuring it felt to hold a woman close to him. Sikander let out a sigh, an inchoate sense of regret tearing at him as he realised how deeply he missed Helene. Dancing with her had been effortless, like a wisp of wind. With Miss Cavendish, it was very different. She kept trying to take the lead, and rather than holding her tongue and losing herself in the music, she kept chattering on, trying to make small talk.

  Sikander tuned her out, instead using their circuit to glance around the room to see if he could pick out any of the people he had come to interview. Abruptly, he felt an itching at the base of his spine, some primal instinct warning him that he was being watched. Swiveling his neck, he saw that he was being observed rather keenly by none other than the other host of this soirée, the Maharaja of Indore.

  Indore was a nineteen-gun kingdom, located in the heartland of Central India encompassing an area roughly the size of Sicily. Like Gwalior, Nagpur, and Dewas, it was yet another of the principalities established after the collapse of the Maratha Empire. Its founder, Malhar Rao, had been one of Peshwa Bajirao’s most valiant generals, and after his demise, had slowly consolidated power until he controlled most of the Plateau of Malwa. His descendants had initially opposed the English in the three Anglo-Maratha wars, but finally, in 1818, in typical Maratha fashion, they had turned coat and become a British protectorate.