by Arjun Gaind
“Well, Huzoor,” Charan Singh said, trying to keep his voice light to obscure his obvious distaste as he watched his master curiously, “what do you think happened to him…?”
“I have the beginnings of a theory,” the Maharaja replied, “but I need some more time. A theory is like a good curry, old man. You have to let it simmer, stay on the boil for a while. Besides,” he beamed genially, “it’s not like the Resident is in a hurry, is he?”
Charan Singh groaned at this awful attempt at humor and shot his master a look of pained disgust. “The fat Superintendent seems to be quite certain that this is a suicide.”
“The Superintendent is a fool,” Sikander retorted, “and I doubt he would know the difference between a suicide and a murder, even if he were the victim of either one.”
“Forgive my impertinence, Your Majesty, but what makes you so sure he is wrong?”
Rolling his eyes, the Maharaja stifled a sigh. Charan Singh was admirably faithful, but he simply could not help but play the role of devil’s advocate. It came to him all too naturally, for it was his innate tendency to accept things at face value. He was a soldier after all, and it did not suit a soldier to ask too many questions. Sikander on the other hand refused to accept anything at its word. It was his natural condition to question everything, and it would be anathema to his very character if he conceded so easily, not without making a thorough investigation first.
“I mentioned a man named Michel-Guerry to the Superintendent earlier,” he said indulgently. “Tell me, old man, have you ever heard of him?”
Charan Singh snorted, recognizing this question for what it was, the prelude to one of Sikander’s habitual dissertations about some abstruse subject or the other.
“Of course not, Sahib, I am an illiterate soldier. What do I know of these things?”
“Oh, he was a terribly interesting fellow, a Frenchman, the son of a poor building contractor who educated himself and became a lawyer, and then wrote a truly monumental book called An Essay on the Moral Statistics of France.”
Charan Singh mimed a shudder. “It sounds utterly dreadful, Huzoor.”
Sikander nodded, cracking a wry smile. “In many ways it is, a piece of writing so unbearably pedantic that it would put all but the most dedicated scholars to sleep. But at the same time, amidst reams and reams of mind-numbing numbers, Michel-Guerry managed to discover something truly amazing.
“He was an amateur cartographer, you see, a map-maker, and he devised a series of six maps based on fifty years of crime statistics, which was interesting enough in itself, but what really caught my eye was that one of the maps actually charted out the suicides in France according to different regions.”
Sikander paused, staring at Charan Singh, his eyes gleaming with boyish enthusiasm.
“Think of it for a moment, old man. An atlas of suicide. Why, it absolutely boggles the mind!”
“Very good, Sahib, but what in God’s name does your Frenchman’s map have to do with our Major’s death?”
Sikander rolled his eyes. “It has everything to do with this case. You see, while compiling this map, Michel-Guerry collected together all the suicide notes left behind for over a half a decade to try and analyze not just why, but how people decided to kill themselves. And do you know what he realized? That when they took their own lives, young men generally favored pistols, while older men chose to hang themselves.”
The Maharaja held up one hand, miming a noose.
“You see, my friend, the fact is that when it comes to suicide, males resort to poison very, very rarely. It’s a woman’s way out, not a man’s.”
“Poison!” Charan Singh gawked. “Do you mean to say that the Major was poisoned?”
“Yes,” Sikander shrugged, “I am almost certain he was.”
Chapter Six
“What makes you so sure of that, eh?” A belligerent voice announced. “Are you a blooming magician now?”
Sikander turned to see Jardine looming at the door, flanked closely by the Magistrate, Lowry, whose eyes widened with horror as they settled on his friend’s ghastly corpse. The Maharaja tried not to scowl, infuriated by the thinly veiled disrespect in the Superintendent’s manner. Part of him, the Sikander who was sick of being insulted so flagrantly, wanted nothing more than to respond by berating the man, hurling curses at him. But another, more circumspect instinct warned him to hold his tongue, that getting him to lose his equilibrium was exactly what Jardine was trying to achieve, so that he could have him removed from the case.
Instead of surrendering to the onrush of bile burning in his throat like acid, Sikander concentrated his attention on his trousers, whose sharply creased knees had become somewhat wrinkled when he had knelt to examine the Resident’s body. Clucking with agitation, he rubbed against the expensive broadcloth, trying to restore some semblance of its pristine neatness.
“If you bother to actually examine the corpse, Mr. Jardine,” he said, “it is quite obvious that the Major did not kill himself. For one thing, you will see that he died a very violent and painful death. In my experience, I have found that victims of suicide prefer to take the path of least resistance, and ordinarily choose a way out that is as painless as possible. In fact, if you take a look in the cupboard, you will find a revolver in there. If the Resident really wanted to take his own life, why didn’t he shoot himself? It’s quicker and less painful, and certainly less complicated, don’t you think?”
“That’s all well and good, but how do you explain the door being locked from inside?”
Sikander waved a hand dismissively. “That’s simple enough. I am almost certain that is one of our friend William Cobbett’s infamous red herrings.” He cleared his throat. “Of course, there are elaborate answers we could grab at, if you wanted to waste your time and my own. We could theorize that the murderer had a duplicate key, or that this is a conspiracy of some sort, a grand plot to rob of us of Major Russell’s tedious company, but I suspect the explanation is somewhat more mundane.”
Sikander arched an eyebrow at the Superintendent. “Tell me, Mr. Jardine, have you ever read an author named Gaston Leroux…?”
In reply, the Englishman shook his head with almost clownish vehemence. “I told you, I don’t have time to read Frenchy rubbish. I am a hard-working man, I am.”
“Of course you are,” the Maharaja retorted. “The very epitome of John Bull reborn. Rule Britannia, death to the Frogs, and all that. Still, if you do happen to have an evening to spare, I recommend Leroux highly, particularly his most recent book, The Mystery of the Yellow Room. It really is an excellent bit of writing, perhaps one of the finest mystery stories I have had the pleasure to read.”
“I fail to see what that has to do with the Resident’s death.”
“Oh, I think it has everything to do with Major Russell’s unfortunate demise. You see, the story begins with a young woman being discovered beaten to death inside a locked room. Leroux’s detective, a very intelligent journalist named Rouletabille, is perplexed by how she was killed, and after a dazzling example of logical analysis, he manages to deduce that the murderer, who incidentally also happens to be the chief detective investigating the case, never entered the room at all. As it turns out, the young lady was beaten rather severely some time before she died when she and the policeman in question had a lover’s tiff, and then she succumbed to her injuries after locking herself into the room for the night.”
“What are you trying to suggest?” Jardine bristled. “Are you insinuating that I had something to do with this?”
“Of course not. I wouldn’t expect you to have the imagination.” Sikander sighed. “The reason I mention Leroux, and the fact that makes the book so interesting, is that he based it on an actual case. Some eight years ago—or was it ten, never mind, I really am getting old—but in either case, Elisabeth, the Empress of Austria-Hungary, was assaulted by an anarchist who stabb
ed her in her heart with a needle. However, the wound was so narrow that it didn’t kill her immediately, and she walked away, apparently in perfect health, only to collapse some hours later and hemorrhage to death after she had locked herself in her room.”
“And you think someone stuck a needle in the Resident…?”
“Of course not, Mr. Jardine. Don’t be purposely obtuse. What I am trying to say is that whatever killed Major Russell occurred before he retired for the night and locked the door behind him as was his habit. That is what I believe happened here. The substance that killed the Resident was administered to him sometime late last evening, but its fatal effects only seized him much later, when he was overcome by a paroxysm which claimed his life while he lay in bed. That explains the locked door perfectly. It’s really quite obvious.”
“Hah!” Jardine snorted. “That’s a pretty piece of supposition, Mr. Singh. Perhaps you should have been a writer of penny dreadfuls like your Frenchman, heh?”
Sikander stiffened. Abruptly, he found himself overcome by the keen desire to hit the man, a single swift jab to the soft spot below his Adam’s apple, before taking a step back and watching Jardine choke to death on his own vomit, just like the Resident had.
It took all of his rapidly fraying gravitas to keep his face impassive. “Tell me, Superintendent, what do you believe the cause of death was?”
“Why, poison of course,” Jardine grunted. “I have to agree with you there. It is really quite obvious that the Resident was poisoned.”
“Very good,” Sikander said. “And pray tell, who do you think would want to poison Major Russell? Who are your suspects?”
“It doesn’t really matter,” Jardine said pointedly. “That is precisely what I have been trying to explain. You see, while you have been up here, crawling about on your knees, I have already solved the crime.”
Jardine’s florid face broke into a grin, distended by a smile so vast that it would have put the Cheshire Cat to shame. “What do you think of that, eh?”
“Can this be true, sir?” Lowry asked Sikander, his bewilderment suggesting he could not fathom a universe in which Jardine could possibly achieve such a feat of deduction.
Though inwardly he was equally baffled by this unexpected revelation, the Maharaja made a tremendous effort to keep his expression neutral. “The Superintendent certainly seems to believe so,” he replied softly, “though personally, I think it would be best to reserve judgment until we have had a chance to determine whether he is correct for ourselves.”
“Oh, I can assure you, I have Major Russell’s killer in custody,” Jardine crowed. “Would you care to meet him, Your Majesty?”
“I would dearly love that, yes,” Sikander said demurely, refusing to show his vexation even though the fatuous look of self satisfaction on the Englishman’s face was causing his hackles to rise.
“Come along then,” Jardine declared with an asinine chuckle before turning and plodding away. After a heartbeat, Sikander followed with a most unprincely alacrity, with Lowry hard at his heels. The Superintendent led them back downstairs. Coming to a stop outside the kitchen, he pulled open the door, beckoning impatiently with one brawny hand that they should pass through. Inside, most of the space in the small, smoke-stained room was taken up by a large wood-burning iron stove and chimney. Opposite it stood a row of stained cabinets and a cast-iron ice box, arranged at a right angle to a wooden counter and a tall metal barrel filled with stagnant water. At the base of this drum, squatting on his haunches, an elderly man cowered, so portly and well fleshed that he could only be the khansameh.
When the Maharaja entered, he scrabbled desperately towards him, whimpering and pressing one hand to his eye, which was swollen half shut.
“Help me,” he gasped in Punjabi, “I beg of you.”
“Silence,” Jardine growled, shaking one callused hand at him. “You shut your bloody darkie mouth.”
A frisson of absolute disgust shuddered through Sikander. It was bad enough that the man had the gall to insult him, but it was nothing short of appalling that Jardine had the chutzpah to treat one of his subjects with such brutality, and that, too, right in front of the Maharaja.
“What exactly is going on here?” he snarled, his voice taut with barely repressed outrage.
“Well,” Jardine announced, “while you were wasting your time poking around upstairs, I was able to deduce that this is the villain who murdered the Major so brutally.”
“Him?” Sikander exclaimed, barely able to contain his surprise. “This fellow? Really?”
“Indeed! I am sure of it.”
“And how, might I ask, did you arrive at this most unshakeable of conclusions?”
Sadly, sarcasm was quite wasted on Jardine’s thick hide. “It was simple enough!” He gloated. “All it took was a bit of good old-fashioned police work. The Resident, it seems, was inordinately fond of mushrooms, and this rogue here,” he pointed at the cook, who shrank away from the accusation, “he was the one who was responsible for gathering them.”
As pompous as a peacock, Jardine strutted to the counter and gathered up a small wicker basket filled to the brim with mud daubed morels, proffering them at Sikander, inviting him to examine them.
“This knave has admitted that he picked a fresh lot of mushrooms just yesterday, from which he prepared an omelet for the Major’s supper last evening.” Jardine smiled and puffed out his chest self-importantly. “From that singular snippet of information, Mr. Singh, it took me only a moment to deduce that he obviously slipped a poisonous specimen into the dish intended for the Resident’s table. That, I believe, was the cause of Russell Sahib’s unfortunate demise.”
Sikander smiled, bemused by Jardine’s posturing. He raised his hands and gently applauded, in mock approbation of the Superintendent’s performance.
“I must confess, that is a most interesting theory, my dear Jardine.” He picked up one speckled mushroom and sniffed at it tentatively before replacing it with exaggerated carefulness. “But what makes you so certain that this hapless fellow is the culprit? I have found that people rarely kill without a reason. Tell me, what possible motive could this poor fool possibly have to murder the Resident of Rajpore, and thus render himself without employment?”
“Come now,” Jardine hissed hotly, his face reddening. “You know how these bloody natives are! All that they want is to kill the Gora Sahibs. My father saw a hundred of these bloodthirsty little bastards during the Mutiny, I tell you. Bloody insolent wogs! Don’t know their blooming place, do they?”
Sikander flinched at this flood of invective. “You do realize, Superintendent,” he said frostily, “that I am a bloody wog as well.”
Jardine blanched as the immensity of his gaffe dawned upon him.
“Oh, I didn’t mean that way.” Reluctantly, he bowed his head, a half-hearted apology if ever there was one. “Of course I wasn’t talking about you. You’re a pukka sort of native, a man of good birth and upbringing. I meant these low caste heathen scum. They have no breeding, no education. Why, they’re little more than animals. They’d kill a man in the blink of an eye, they would.”
Sikander ignored his blustering and turned to the khansameh. “Do you know who I am?” he asked imperiously, in perfect Punjabi.
The man gazed up at him, cringing visibly. “Of course, Sahib,” his voice wavered as he stammered a hesitant reply. “You are the sun and the moon to me. You are my father, and I am your loyal servant.”
Sikander fixed the man with a stern stare. “Then you know that it will do you no good to lie to me? I am your Maharaja, your Lord and Master, and if you dare to lie, I shall have your skin flayed from your body. Do you understand?”
“Lie, Sahib?” The man said, recoiling before the intensity of Sikander’s pale eyes. “Why would I lie to you? I am but a worm, unworthy of even being in your presence.”
“Enough of tha
t! This fat white baboon, he thinks that you killed the Resident Sahib. Tell me now, is this true?”
The man’s eyes widened in shock, and he shook his head vehemently. “By golly, Sahib, do not even think such a thing! Why would I kill the Burra Sahib? Without him, I have no livelihood. I will starve on the streets.” Letting out a vast groan, he threw himself at Sikander’s feet. “Please, you must believe me. I swear by the spirits of my ancestors, I have done nothing.”
It was as convincing a denial as Sikander had ever witnessed.
“Very well, I believe you.”
“You are a star fallen to Earth, Sahib, a god reborn in human guise, unlike this nasty Angrez, who smells like a pile of manure, this English donkey, this son of a pox-ridden whore who seeks to blame me for another man’s crime.”
“What is your name?” Sikander asked, unsure of whether to be amused or mortified by the colorfulness of the cook’s vocabulary.
“I am Khayyam, your Eminence,” the man replied, performing an elaborate kornish. “Like the poet, only I create my poetry with a spoon and saucepan, not a quill.”
Sikander grinned, delighted by the man’s theatricality. “For now, you may go, Khayyam, but stay close by. I have many questions for you.”
“I am yours to command, Huzoor.”
Springing up, he dashed for the door, but not before taking a moment to make an exceedingly rude gesture at Jardine with his thumb and forefinger.
“What on Earth do you think you’re doing?” Jardine exclaimed, reaching out to grab at Khayyam as he shuffled by. “He’s my prisoner, he is. I intend to question him further, once I can get an interpreter who speaks his bloody foreign tongue.”
“Let me save you some time, Mr. Jardine,” Sikander said. “The man denies everything, and I believe him.”
