by Arjun Gaind
His voice tapered off, lapsing into despairing silence. He hunched over the table, cradling his head in his hands, as if speaking of the past had worn him out completely.
“You mentioned several times the Major left Cambridge prematurely? Would you happen to know why?”
Lowry stiffened. “I am afraid that I don’t remember. It was a long time ago.”
It was an obvious lie, and Sikander was not at all convinced by this fumbling denial. “He is dead, Mr. Lowry. The truth cannot hurt him now, but it may very well help me apprehend his killer.”
The Englishman bit his lip, struggling visibly. “It was one of Will’s most closely guarded secrets. You see, he was sent down just before he could take the finals. That is why he had to leave.”
This explanation managed to arouse Sikander’s curiosity. What could have happened to have Major Russell expelled from Cambridge? It took a lot for a college, even a Cambridge one, to send a man down. Sikander knew that for a fact, from personal experience. He had nearly been sent down himself while at Caius for supposedly ungentlemanly behavior, but had been exceedingly fortunate that the authorities were very careful before taking this most drastic of steps. After all, a sending down could smear a gentleman’s reputation and ruin his prospects almost entirely. Russell would have had to have done something truly dreadful to have been turned out from Cambridge, guilty of a sin so unmitigated that it would have left the senior collegians no other choice.
“Would you happen to know why he was sent down?”
“No.” The Magistrate shook his head with great finality. “I have no idea, and this time, I am not lying, I assure you.”
He gave Sikander a pained, almost offended look. “That really is all I can say, Your Highness. The truth is that I lost touch with Will a long time ago. You know how it is with old friends? When you meet after a long interlude, sometimes there is a discomfort too difficult to surmount. Some people change, and find it easy to forget their own sins, whilst others are cursed to remember.” With that cryptic remark, Lowry fell silent.
Sikander waited for him to say something else, but he remained adamantly close-mouthed, staring down at the floor, his expression grim with regret.
“If it isn’t too much of an imposition, might I ask, why exactly you and the Major had a falling-out, all those years ago?”
The Magistrate winced, darting a furtive glance at the Maharaja. “It is a private matter, and frankly, I would much rather leave it in the past,” he mumbled. His voice tapered away, the words catching in his throat. “Will that be all, your Highness?” Extracting a silver hunter from the pocket of his waistcoat, he peered down at its dial with a squint. “I really should be getting back to the City Palace.”
“I am grateful for your patience, Mr. Lowry. I have just a few more questions. You say you last saw Major Russell last night. Was that at the Ball?”
“Ah yes! The Ball.” This subject seemed to cheer Lowry up immeasurably. “As it so happens, I was elected as the Chairman of the organizing committee this year, and we pulled off a bit of a triumph, if I may say so myself!”
Lowry sat up, and offered Sikander an avuncular grin. “In fact, I think I looked particularly elegant last night,” he smiled, as vain as a peacock. “I had a brand new suit made just for the occasion, you see, crushed red velvet with a high collar and ruffled sleeves.”
Lowry looked to the Maharaja, eager for his approval. “Personally, I find that red can be quite slimming, don’t you think, Your Majesty?”
Even an entire vat of crimson dye couldn’t make you look anything but corpulent, Sikander wanted to reply, but instead, he cleared his throat rather pointedly, cutting the Magistrate off just as he was about to launch into an extended description of the hors d’oeuvres.
“What time did the Resident arrive?”
“Oh, he came in at about eight-thirty, I think. Yes, I am sure of it. I remember distinctly, I was chatting with Lady Fitzgerald, and she had just asked me the time.”
“Was he alone, or did he have an escort?”
“No, he was quite alone.” Lowry’s mouth twisted into a grimace. “In fact, I am almost certain he had come there straight from his duftar.”
“What makes you so sure of that?”
“Well, he hadn’t even bothered to change, for one thing. Even though the invitation clearly called for tie and tails, he was wearing his day-suit. And then, when I came out to welcome him, he was downright rude to me.”
Lowry sounded quite hurt at this recollection. His face purpled with an echo of outrage.
“Rude? In what way?”
“Why, he told me that…that I looked like a giant tomato!”
Sikander stifled a grin, trying to maintain a professional demeanor. “Is that all? Did he say anything else?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact, he took me aside and said he wanted to speak to me privately. He told me that I should come find him before he left, and that it was a matter of the utmost importance.”
“And did you have a chance to speak to him?”
“No, I came looking for him when there was a lull in the festivities, but sadly, he had already departed.
“And what time was that?”
“Oh, an hour or so before midnight, I think. Let’s see.” The Magistrate wrinkled his brow. “Hmm, he was chatting with Captain Fletcher, and then he enjoyed a dance with a very pretty young lady. And then, of course, there was the altercation he had with that foolish young officer.”
“An altercation, you say? What sort of altercation, and who was this officer exactly?”
“Oh, he’s the pretty young woman’s husband, in fact. A harmless enough lad, just a little too big for his boots, that’s all. His name is Bates, Peter or Paul, one or the other. He is the son of Lieutenant Colonel Ernest Bates, of Chitral fame. Perhaps you have heard of him?”
“I cannot say I have.”
“Never mind, it isn’t important anyway.” He shrugged. “Young Bates, he’s our new Quartermaster over at the Cantonment. I must say, fresh from Sandhurst and thinks he is Caesar reborn. He kept pestering the Major to have him sent onward to a better posting, but Will refused to get involved. I think that was what the argument was all about.”
Lowry snorted disdainfully, wrinkling his nose in patent disgust. “It was just hot air, of course. Lieutenant Bates is the sort of jumped-up bounder who likes to show off, he is.”
“What do you mean?”
“Oh, it’s just a lot of little things. He wears his hair unfashionably long, you see, and primps and curls it like a woman, for one, and the silly bugger likes to carry a sword, of all things, like he’s some sort of modern-day Cavalier. And if that isn’t bad enough, he is always telling everyone that he has high and mighty connections at the Foreign Office who are watching out for him. As if there is a grain of truth in that, hah? If the poor fool had such great and powerful friends, I wonder, how did he end up stuck in Rajpore in the first place?
“Not that Rajpore is such a bad place, mind you,” the Magistrate added hurriedly. “It’s a fine posting, really, Your Majesty. It’s just that for a young officer looking for quick advancement, it can be a dead end, especially since you have done such a fine job of keeping the peace.”
“Yes, of course,” Sikander said absently, barely noticing this ham-handed attempt at sycophancy. He was more interested in what the Magistrate had indirectly divulged about Lieutenant Bates. So the man was a popinjay who had been angling for a transfer but had been frustrated repeatedly by the Resident, to the point where it had resulted in a public quarrel between the two men. It was this confrontation that intrigued Sikander more than anything else. It took a lot to push an English gentleman to a point where he was willing to put aside propriety and make a public spectacle of himself, particularly at the Rajpore season’s most celebrated social event, not to mention risking damaging his career irrev
ocably by arguing with a senior officer in front of half of the city’s most influential residents.
“You say the Resident left before midnight…?
“Yes, he was feeling rather poorly by then, I think. He had a bit of a dizzy spell, and Captain Fletcher offered to escort him back to his cottage.”
“And the Lieutenant? What time did he depart the Ball?”
“Oh, I had him packed off well before the Major, and that wife of his with him, the little minx. I can confirm they were long gone by the time Will and the Captain departed.”
“Hmmm.” Sikander wrinkled his nose, as if he smelt something odd. “So Fletcher was very possibly the last person to speak with the Resident before he died, and the first to find his body this morning? How very convenient!”
Lowry sat bolt upright.
“Good heavens,” he exclaimed, struggling to contain his astonishment. “I didn’t realize that before.”
He leaned forward, coming so close that Sikander winced, put off by the reek of cheap brandy on the Englishman’s breath.
“Do you think he did it? That he’s the one who, you know…” He ran one finger across his own plump neck with a loud clack of his tongue, macabrely enacting a gruesome decapitation.
“Why?” Sikander retorted. “Can you think of any reason that Fletcher would want to see the Resident harmed?”
“Oh, no, of course not.” Lowry shook his head. “Captain Fletcher is a very respectable man, a pukka fellow, if there ever was one.”
As an afterthought however, he made a great show of wrinkling his brow quizzically.
“Although…now that I do stop and think of it, I happened to hear about a rather angry exchange between Will and the good Captain a few weeks ago. I wonder, what was that all about…?”
Sikander arched one sardonic brow. The man was so transparent it was almost insulting. It was obvious he bore a personal resentment against the Captain, which explained why he was so eager to steer Sikander towards him as a suspect.
“I thought they were the dearest of friends?”
“Oh, they were, indeed, but if the scuttlebutt is to be believed, I think they had some sort of kerfuffle recently.”
Sucking in his breath, he cast a wary eye first left then right, as if he were afraid of being overheard. “I really think you should talk to the Captain, Your Highness.”
There was something in his tone, a whiff of insistence bordering on anxiety, that made Sikander’s nostrils flare with suspicion. The man was far too quick to be helpful. Even though the Maharaja hated to look a gift horse in the mouth, Sikander had more than enough experience with interrogations to sense that Lowry’s willingness to volunteer information had to arise from motives that were not entirely charitable. No, the Magistrate was hiding something, most likely some fact that might serve to incriminate himself, given how eager he was to name others as suspects.
Sadly, before he could delve deeper into Lowry’s motivations, the Magistrate’s dog began to howl, a throaty lament that made him sit up impatiently. “I should really be getting poor old Bluebell home,” he said. “It is long past time for her breakfast, and you know how bitches get when they aren’t fed, eh?”
Lowry smiled tentatively, exposing an expanse of cracked and yellowing teeth, but the Maharaja noticed that his eyes remained sullen, watching Sikander with an almost reptilian intensity.
Even though he was quite irritated at being left with so many half-answered questions, Sikander suppressed his exasperation.
“Thank you very much for your time,” he said, “You have been very helpful.”
“Of course, Your Majesty,” Lowry responded. “Always glad to be of assistance! Do remember that when Simla asks you to recommend someone to take Will’s place, won’t you?”
Lowry rose to his feet, teetering slightly from the after-effects of his trio of brandies. It took him a moment to compose himself before he felt stable enough to lurch toward the door, but before he could leave, Sikander was struck by a sudden afterthought.
“A moment, Mr. Lowry,” he exclaimed, raising one hand to delay the Magistrate’s unsteady departure. “You have been more than kind, but there are two more favors I am afraid I must ask of you.”
Lowry halted, and turned to face Sikander with bleary eyes. “What more can I do for you?”
“First, I would be grateful if you would allow my doctor, Roy, to examine the Resident’s body and perform an inquest.”
At this request, Lowry’s face tightened. “I am afraid I cannot consent to that.”
“Why not?” Sikander asked, taken aback by such an adamant dismissal. “Is it not customary for the detectives at Scotland Yard to hold a public inquest to ascertain the causes of a man’s death, particularly when it is a violent murder? All that I am asking is that we hold a similar autopsy and permit Dr. Roy to confirm my suspicions that the Resident was indeed poisoned? Is that such an unreasonable expectation?”
“Not at all,” Lowry replied with a civility so overbearing that it was almost condescending, “and much as I would like to help you, I regret to say that it would be highly improper for me to allow a native doctor to examine Major Russell, especially one with as colorful a reputation as your Dr. Roy.”
He gave Sikander an apologetic shrug. “Might I suggest an alternative instead?” he offered. “Why don’t I have Dr. Mason examine the body, and share his findings with you?”
Sikander raised one eyebrow. “And this would be the same Dr. Mason who still believes that bleeding and trepanation are both legitimate medical procedures…?”
“I am afraid that there is no other English doctor in Rajpore, Your Highness. If you truly wish an inquest, then I am sorry to say that Dr. Mason is the only person who can perform it. If he permits it, your man Roy may attend and assist him.”
“Very well,” the Maharaja declared acidly at last when he realized the Magistrate was bent upon being intractable, “I don’t see what other choice I have.”
“And your second request?”
“I would like very much to interview the Munshi, as well as the Major’s other servants.”
“I…I am not sure that Superintendent Jardine would approve, Your Majesty.”
“Oh, come along now, Mr. Lowry, surely you can accommodate this one whim of mine. I have come all this way in the heat.”
Predictably, Lowry quailed before Sikander’s intransigence, wilting like a piece of soggy lettuce.
“Very well,” he said resignedly. “I will see what I can arrange.”
Chapter Eight
With a clap of his hands, Lowry summoned a native Havildar from outside.
“Go and fetch the Major Sahib’s servants at once,” he commanded the man who answered the call, a pock-skinned, squint-eyed Bihari who looked more a villain than a policeman. “Tell them that the Maharaja of Rajpore wishes to interrogate them, and that they are to co-operate fully, or else.”
As the Havildar scurried away, Sikander stifled a yawn.
“Good man!” Waving one indolent hand, he dismissed the Magistrate. “You may leave now. And have someone bring me a glass of lemon water, will you? I find that all this talking has left me quite parched.”
Lowry stiffened, his pride sorely wounded at being spoken to like a mere attendant.
“Is that all? Would you like me to have someone fetch you a snack as well? Some fresh fruit perhaps?” He directed a wintry look at the Maharaja, his eyes so scathing that they could have curdled milk, but Sikander did not notice. He had already lost interest in the Magistrate, his formidable intellect now focused squarely on the riddle at hand.
Aggrieved at being treated with such contempt, Lowry waddled away in a huff, leaving Sikander to consider what he had discovered in the Major’s bedroom. As far as the Maharaja knew, there were five conceivable reasons why any man was driven to commit murder—greed, rage, jeal
ousy, revenge, and pride. Which one of them had been the cause for the Resident’s death? Had he any enemies who would profit from murdering him? Or was this a case of retribution? Had the Resident managed to offend someone to such a degree that they had decided to get rid of him, a scorned woman perhaps, or a wounded husband? Or was the killer someone he knew, someone who had ready access to his quarters, which certainly explained how the poison had come to be administered? Was it someone who had once been his friend but had come to hate the Resident so much and envy his success that he had been driven to poison him? Someone like Lowry, perhaps, however mild-mannered the man may have seemed at first glance?
What was taking that damn Havildar so long? Abruptly, Sikander found himself haunted by an inexplicable unease, an intuitive inkling that there was something that he was missing, nagging at him, like a piece of corn stuck in his hind teeth. Impatiently, he sprang to his feet, and crossed over to the bookshelves lining the wall nearest the kitchen, leaning forward to take a closer look at their dusty inhabitants. The first three shelves held nothing of interest, but as he scrutinized the fourth, the very top shelf, his eyes settled upon one book in particular, a thick volume bound in expensive red calfskin with gilt-edged pages that immediately gripped his interest. Sikander pulled the book out, leafing open a page at random. He had hoped it would be something interesting, but it turned out to be a rather long-winded biography of Gordon of Khartoum. Wincing, he slapped it shut and was about to replace it when he noticed that there was something half-hidden behind its nearest neighbor, secreted away in one corner, a volume so slim that he would have missed it entirely had it not been partially uncovered by his inquisitive rearrangement of the Resident’s meager library.
