Death at the Durbar

by Arjun Gaind

  “You seem to have run out of suspects, Sikander,” Malik Umar observed mordantly.

  “That is exactly what I thought, until I realised there was one person I had to failed to consider entirely, even though he was right under my nose the whole time.” He glared straight at the Captain. “You, Campbell. It was you who murdered Zahra.”

  Sikander sat back, waiting for Campbell to react. He had expected blustering—You must be joking, this is ridiculous. Or denial—Why on earth would I want her dead? Or even outrage—I am offended by such an accusation!

  Cambell chose none of the three. Instead, he merely offered Sikander one of his characteristically smug smiles.

  “I almost had you, didn’t I?” He shook his head sheepishly. “I almost managed to get the better of the legendary Sikander Singh.”

  “Good God,” Malik Umar exclaimed, sitting bolt upright. “You mean to say he’s right?”

  “You were very convincing, Captain. You really should have been an actor, not a soldier.”

  “When did you figure it out? What was it that gave me away?”

  “Actually, it was purely by chance. You had me properly fooled so completely, I never once suspected you. You almost got away with it, too, when the Viceroy ordered me to abandon my investigation. It was just your bad luck that I decided to disobey him, and decided to pay a visit to Charles Urban, the filmwallah who is chronicling the Durbar. While I was there, one of his assistants showed me some of the footage he had shot, and lo and behold, what should I see but the sight of you speaking to Zahra, face to face. I knew then it had to be you. After all, you were very insistent that you had never met her, but there you were, kissing her hand as clear as day, captured forever on celluloid.”

  “You win, Mr. Singh. I admit it, I was involved with her.” Campbell shrugged. “We met over a year ago. It was quite by accident. I had been seconded to Lahore last year, before my transfer came through, and one of my mess-mates took me to a kotha one evening, where I saw her perform.” He shuddered, overcome by a surge of barely repressed emotion. “I am not the sort of man to have his head turned by any woman, much less a dancing girl, but when I saw her, I was smitten. As was she, because it was Zahra who searched me out and made the first overture. It was folly, I know, for an officer to become involved with a native dancer. I knew my career would be over if we were found out, but how could I resist? She was so exquisite!”

  “But then my promotion came through, and I was assigned here, to oversee the logistics of the King Emperor’s Camp. It was my intention to make a clean break of it, but fate had something else in mind. Just when I thought I had left Zahra behind me, she turned up here, and that too under my very nose. I tried to avoid her, to tell her we could not see each other anymore, but alas, my blood was too weak to resist temptation.”

  “Did you love her?”

  “I suppose I did, as much as I am capable of it. There were times when I wanted to marry her, to make a life in some distant town, just the two of us, starting with a clean slate. I thought about doing it secretly, but I just couldn’t take the risk, not if I wanted a career in the Guards.”

  “Is that why you did it,” Malik Umar hissed, “to be rid of her?”

  “That is not how it happened, not at all.” Campbell’s voice caught in his throat. “It was all her fault. That night, I had every intention of breaking it off with her, but then, when we met, she told me she was with child. My child! A bastard’s bastard.” A bitter chuckle escaped his lips. “She was excited, delighted by the thought of bearing a son with me, but all I could think of was the fact that I was bringing another unwanted bastard into the world. I told her that she should go to one of the midwives in Lahore and have the child dropped. I even offered to pay for it, but she was appalled by the very suggestion. She began to cry, and so, I tried to console her. And then, I just don’t know what happened, sir. One moment she was in my arms, the next she was at my feet, dead.” He shook his head. “I cannot remember a thing. It was like a darkness settled over me. I recall imagining how easy it would be to kill her, to snap her neck, and then, when I recovered my senses, she was lying there, lifeless. I did not mean for her to die. I don’t know what came over me.

  “What else could I have done, sir? I couldn’t afford the scandal of siring a child with a nautch-wali. I couldn’t allow her to jeopardise everything that I had managed to achieve, my rank, my position, my reputation. No, I did not want to do it, but it is for the best that she is dead.”

  “But why the whole dog and pony show with her corpse? Why hang her up, like a trophy?”

  “I thought it would deflect attention from me, that when they found her here, in the King’s own reception tent, the burra sahibs would sweep the whole thing under the rug. It almost worked, but then, you came along. I never thought they would send for you, of all people, Mr. Singh. But when you turned up, I volunteered to be your shadow. I tried my best to steer you away from anything that would connect me to Zahra, but sadly, you are too damn clever for your own good.”

  As if by magic, a small pistol appeared in his hand, a snub nosed Webley Bulldog revolver.

  Malik Umar gave Campbell an astonished scowl. “You cannot be serious, man. Do you really think you will get away with this? Where will you go? Where will you hide? There isn’t a corner of the Empire where they will not hunt you down.”

  “I am sorry about this, but I don’t see what other choice I have.”

  He raised the gun, bringing the barrel to bear on Sikander’s chest. Sikander stiffened, bracing himself for the fatal blow. Could this be it, the end of the road? He had always believed he would live a long, full life, and die an old man, unhappy in his dotage, but now, confronted with the spectre of imminent doom, to his surprise,he found that he was neither afraid nor filled with regret. Instead, a calm filled him, a detachment so complete it was almost a bliss. I will face this head on, he decided, as I have confronted every adversity in my life. In his mind’s eye, he saw Helene’s face. “I am sorry, my beloved,” he whispered to himself. “I only wish we had more time.”

  Campbell held the pistol steady for one long moment, but then, with a groan, he let his arm fall to his side.

  “I cannot do it. I can’t shoot you down in cold blood.”

  Malik Umar sagged forward, letting out a long, slow sigh. Sikander remained motionless, struggling to slow his heartbeat, which was pounding, like a piston.

  “Surrender yourself to me, Campbell,” the Maharaja said softly. “I give you my word, I will do everything in my power to see you are treated fairly.” He turned to Malik Umar and gave him a curt nod. “Malik Umar will testify on my behalf, that whatever else my flaws, I am and always will be a man of my word.”

  Malik Umar’s brow knitted into a frown. Sikander feared he would refuse to play along, but after a brief pause, he shook his head grudgingly.

  “Yes, it is quite obvious you were not in your right mind when you killed Zahra. It is MacNaughten’s Rule. When you committed your crime, you were not cognizant of the nature and quality of the wrong you were doing. I will make sure the judge is apprised of that fact.”

  “I think not,” Campbell replied. “I do not deserve leniency, sir. What I deserve is to be punished. She was an innocent, and I killed her, and my child with her.”

  He glanced down at the pistol in his hand. Campbell turned it over contemplatively, biting his lip before looking back up at Sikander, his face grim with regret.

  “Could I have a moment alone, Your Highness?”

  It took Sikander a moment to understand.

  “Very well.” He said with a sigh. “Come along, Malik Umar. Let us step outside, and give the Captain some privacy.”

  Malik Umar was a bit slower on the uptake. Several heartbeats ticked by before he managed to grasp what Campbell intended to do.

  “Are you sure this is the path you want to take, Captain?” he
asked gently.

  Cocking the pistol, Campbell’s mouth twisted into one last smile. It was resigned, almost nervous, entirely devoid of the cocksureness which Sikander had come to expect from him.

  “At least this way, sir, I will save Simla a headache.”

  Squaring his shoulders, he let out a shuddering breath, and offered first Sikander and then Malik Umar a crisp salute.

  Sikander reciprocated the gesture, bringing one finger to his brow before he spun and hurried from the room. Outside, he sagged against the nearest tentpost. A numbness assailed him, the full realisation of how close he had come to death. Fumbling his cigarette case from his pocket, he struggled to get it open. His hands would not stop shivering. Even when he bundled his fingers into a fist, trying to will them to be still, to his dismay, they kept shaking, like they had a mind of their own.

  “What a damned mess!” Malik Umar said, coming up behind him. “Well, I suppose we should at least be glad it is over.” He clapped Sikander on his back. “Congratulations are in order, aren’t they? Well played, my friend! You found your murderer in the end. When I make my report to the Viceroy, I will make sure you get your due reward, don’t you worry?”

  Sikander turned to face his old friend, a bitterness swelling inside his chest. Ordinarily, when he concluded a case, it aroused a sense of achievement so potent it was nearly an exultation. But now, standing there, all he felt was an all-consuming weariness, accompanied by the urgent need to get away from it all, from Malik Umar, from the English, from the damned Durbar.

  “I don’t want your blasted reward,” he was about to say, but before he could, a loud exclamation forestalled him.

  “Mr. Singh, there you are!”

  Glancing around, Sikander saw Lord Dane approaching, followed closely by O’Dwyer and the Commisioner.

  “What seems to be the situation?” Lord Dane inquired, greeting him with a warm smile. “Why have you sent for us?

  Before Sikander could reply, a gunshot rang out from inside the tent, a flat crack of sound that roused the ravens sleeping in the trees and sent them scrabbling into the the sable sky, an unkindness of angry, beating wings.

  The Commisioner reacted first, fumbling his service Webley free from its holster, his eyes darting back and forth frantically as he searched for the origin of this unexpected report.

  O’Dwyer was a little more circumspect. He moved quickly to his left, seeking the nearest source of cover, which happened to be a large water barrel.

  As for Lord Dane, he froze stiff, shooting Sikander a frantic glare.

  “What on earth was that?”

  “It is Captain Campbell, I am afraid,” Malik Umar said, stepping forward. “He has had a dreadful accident.”

  Epilogue

  My beloved Helene,

  I pray this letter finds you in the halest of health. And I hope that even in Paris, where there are so many distractions to engage your attention, you think of me quite as often as I remember you.

  I regret that I have not been able to write this past week. To my delight, and Charan Singh’s undiminished dismay, a case cropped up, and most unexpectedly at that. I shall tell you more about it, all the gory details, when you return to Rajpore, but let it suffice for now to say, I was able to wrap everything up, and, that too very neatly, just in time for the King’s grand arrival in Delhi.

  About that, it turned out to be a truly damp affair. The Viceroy had arranged an elephant for King George, but he refused to ride upon it. Instead, he decided at the last minute to make his entry on horseback and that too in a Field Marshal’s uniform, rather than in his robes of state. As a result, the pomp and circumstance we had all expected was greatly reduced. In fact, the King looked more a sweaty cavalryman out on patrol than the Emperor of India. It was rather funny, actually. We were at the very far end of the viewing balcony at the Red Fort, and when the King and his entourage cantered by, Jagatjit commented, “Good God, is that him? He looks like a doorman at the Savoy.” I nearly fell over laughing, let me tell you.

  The actual Durbar went much more splendidly. There was a grand battue of all the regiments, and we were made to line up to greet the King, all the Maharajas and Nawabs of India, as resplendent as peacocks in our gilded finery. It was surely the strangest queue the world has ever seen, and I doubt there shall be another to match its grandeur, at least not during my lifetime. Everything was staged, of course. We had been put through the paces twice before, each of us told exactly what we had to do, which was to approach the King and offer a bow and then retreat the way we came. Trust the English to plan everything to the last detail! It all went off exactly as practised, with one glaring exception. My old mentor Baroda has managed to cause quite a scandal. For some reason, he refused to bow properly, and then turned his back on the King while leaving. Needless to say, he now finds himself in the very hottest of water. I wish I could help him somehow, but Ismail Bhakht has been very specific. I am to stay away from him until the furor dies down, lest I find myself in the proverbial soup as well.

  Speaking of scandals, another even more juicy one seems to be brewing, once again involving poor Sayaji Rao. It seems that his daughter, Indira, has decided to elope with my old friend Jitendra Narayan of Cooch Behar. It is all the talk of the Durbar camps. She sent a letter, I have heard, to inform Scindia that she was breaking off their engagement, which he in turn has forwarded to the Gaekwad asking, “Whatever does the Princess mean?” Poor fool! I am not an admirer of Scindia, as you well know, but what an unlucky fellow, to have your heart broken and your ego bruised all in one fell swoop. Why, it is almost enough to make me feel sorry for him! Well, almost, but not quite!

  This very morning, I was summoned to meet with the Viceroy. I have come to admire Hardinge. He is a fair man, and while I do not approve of his politics, I must admit, I much prefer him to his immediate predecessors. There is no duplicity with him, no subtext. I find that rather refreshing. It has been a very long time since I have felt able to take an Englishman at his word, but with him, I think there is hope for India.

  We enjoyed a brief supper together, and he was a most civil host. While he chose to take only leek soup, I was offered a fine magnum of Taittinger, and a quite superlative pâté, which his Lordship informed me had been imported from Vichy. I am enclosing the precise address. Perhaps you can pick up a case or two before you return so that we can enjoy it together.

  Anyway, halfway through our meal, we had a surprise visitor. It was none other than His Majesty himself. When he turned up, you can only imagine my surprise. Up close, George Almighty is a singularly unimpressive individual, let me tell you, with about the same regal bearing as a mouse. Not only is he very short, with abominable posture, but he also has a very low voice, speaking almost in a murmur. I had to strain to understand even a single word, and I am sure the poor man is convinced I have a dreadful case of Saint Fiacre’s curse, the way I kept leaning into him, like I could not bear to stand upright.

  In either case, it turned out he wished to thank me in person for my efforts to keep the Durbar from being ruined. As a reward for my services, he has offered to raise my salute to seventeen guns, which is a quite unprecedented escalation. He also invited me to visit him at Windsor, and it was hinted that perhaps I might be knighted as an Officer of the British Empire when the New Year’s Honours List is published.

  I am tempted to accept, I confess it. Just the thought of the furious look on Bhupinder’s fat face when he hears about my good fortune is reason enough. At the same time, though, I cannot help but be reminded of something that Baroda said to me very recently, that sooner or later, I shall have to pick a side between the English and India. I don’t know if it is madness or pragmatism, my love, but I have decided to refuse the King’s largesse. I am happy to stay Sikander Singh, plain old Maharaja of Rajpore, with my meager thirteen guns, so long as it leaves me free to pursue my passions. After all, what is that the old lin
e from Faustus? “What profits it a man to gain the world, only to lose his soul?”

  As you often remind me, I am not a romantic man, but this evening, as the sun wanes and the cool shadows of dusk settle around me like a shroud, I find myself thinking of you more than ever. Memories of you haunt me, the remembrance of the way your eyes flash when you are angry, and how you bite your lip when you are trying to concentrate. There is an ache inside me, for the caress of your hair upon my cheeks, and the taste of your lips on mine. This emptiness, this absence, will only be assuaged when you return to me.

  I lack the eloquence to tell you how much I miss you, so I leave you with these words by Valery, that most poignant of your countrymen.

  Si, de tes lèvres avancées,

  Tu prépares pour l’apaiser,

  À l’habitant de mes pensées

  La nourriture d’un baiser,

  Ne hâte pas cet acte tendre,

  Douceur d’être et de n’être pas,

  Car j’ai vécu de vous attendre,

  Et mon coeur n’était que vos pas.

  If, with your lips advancing,

  You are preparing to appease

  The inhabitant of my thoughts

  With the sustenance of a kiss,

  Do not hurry this tender act,

  Bliss of being and not being,

  For I have lived for waiting for you,

  And my heart was only your footsteps.

  Come back to me soon, my love.

  Fondly,

  your Sikander.

  Author’s Note

  There were three Coronation Durbars held in India. The first was organised by Lord Lytton in 1877 to commemorate Victoria’s ascension as the Empress of India. The second was in 1903, when Curzon was the Viceroy of India. The third and final Durbar was the grandest of them all, held in 1911 by Lord Hardinge to mark George V’s rise to the throne. It was also the first time a British monarch visited the subcontinent, which made it doubly significant.