A Very Pukka Murder

by Arjun Gaind

  Sikander grunted as understanding dawned. That explained a great deal about the Captain and his uncommon valor. He would have had to be twice as brave as any other officer, twice as diligent, twice as dedicated to make up for having only half the blood.

  “How sure are you of all this? How credible are your sources?” he asked Miller sternly, unwilling to use the information if it was simply gossip.

  “I am willing to stake my reputation on it. To tell the truth, there is part of me that almost pities the poor bugger. By all accounts, he is a hell of a cavalryman. Why, if he had been born in Blighty, he would have been a Colonel by now for certain, but sadly, he is just an aging Captain.”

  With that pronouncement, Miller picked up the bell that lay atop the table and rang it shrilly, summoning a bearer and commanding him to bring a fresh bottle of gin. “Would you care for anything, Your Highness?”

  Sikander raised one hand in curt refusal, waiting for the waiter to leave before he continued. “There is one more person I would like to know about. His name is Bates, I think?”

  Miller’s plump features hardened with loathing.

  “Ah, the young Lieutenant.” The presswallah wrinkled his nose in disgust. “A presumptuous little git, that one. He will not last long, not in India.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “He has great expectations, sir, and in India, great expectations are the death of a man. The only way to survive here is to learn that sooner or later life makes fools of us all. We have no control over the future. What is to be will be.” He gave the Maharaja a mischievous smirk. “Karma, I believe your people call it. No matter how hard we try to evade it, fate always comes full circle to kick you in the arse when you least expect it.”

  Sikander smiled, amused by the man’s colorful grasp of Hindu philosophy. “What can you tell me about the Lieutenant’s background?”

  “I don’t know much, beyond the fact that he is the only son of a famous father,” Miller said, “and as such, an utterly rotten little brat.” He shuddered, barely able to contain his aversion. “Perhaps you have heard of his father, The Right Honorable Major General Ernest Bates KCB DSO.”

  “I cannot say I have.”

  “Oh, it was a bit before your time, I imagine. The elder Bates was a true despot, an empire builder in the mold of Clive and Roberts of Kandahar. He did very well out of the Afghan War. Made quite a fortune plundering the Hill Tribes and settled down to a life of utter dissipation in Staffordshire, I believe. But of course, it didn’t last. He squandered away all his wealth at dice and card-play, until he was drowning in debt, with his creditors clamoring for his neck.”

  “What happened to him?” Sikander asked solemnly, although he had some notion of what the answer would be even as he asked the question.

  Miller mimed putting a gun to his head and pulling the trigger. “He chose to take the gentleman’s way out. Sadly, his demise left his wife responsible for his debts. The poor woman barely had enough left after paying off his creditors to buy their son a commission with his old regiment, and even then, all she could afford was a lowly Lieutenant’s posting.

  “Since his arrival in India, the boy hasn’t done much to distinguish himself. He was at Calcutta for a while but they sent him here, to get rid of his complaining, I suspect. He’s a sour, bilious sort, very superior, fancies himself to be Wellington reborn. To the best of my knowledge, he doesn’t mix much with the local officers and spends most of his time with rather a bad crowd, a ragtag of errant young rankers who are far too fond of drinking and carousing and gambling at cockfights. If my sources are to be believed, he has managed to amass quite a considerable set of debts himself in his short time here in Rajpore. Like father like son, I guess.” An expression of utter contempt flashed across his avuncular face. “I must confess, I have a low opinion of the Lieutenant. He’s a tyro of the worst kind, and his only redeeming feature happens to be that he has the good sense to be married to an absolutely charming creature.”

  “Ah, this must be the young lady who caused all the trouble between the Major and Mr. Bates at the New Year’s Ball.”

  “Yes, poor thing!” Miller sighed, “You know, I don’t blame the Major for taking a pass at her. She really is quite lovely.” He smiled, as if the thought of admitting that a woman was beautiful embarrassed him. “Utterly wasted on young Bates of course. The boy hasn’t the class or the character to do her justice. Poor thing, she deserves a real man, someone like you, Your Majesty, a man to be reckoned with.”

  Sikander dismissed this blatant attempt at sycophancy with a snort.

  “Tell me, in your opinion, is the Lieutenant the sort of man who is capable of doing another man any real harm?”

  Miller stifled a giggle, shaking his head like he could not believe his ears. “Oh no, he’s as weak as milk, that one. That is why I am sure he has no future here in India. This is a place for men with stern wills and strong stomachs who aren’t afraid to take risks, but poor Bates, he has no backbone. He expects to be rewarded because of who his father was, but what he fails to realize is that in India reputations have to be earned. A man must make a name for himself, or that is the end of his career.”

  “So you don’t think him capable of murder?”

  “I…I really can’t say, sir. We are all capable of murder, given the right circumstances.”

  Sikander gave him an inquiring look. “Even you, Mr. Miller? I always took you for a pacifist.”

  The plump Englishman shrugged, a shudder that quivered through him like a grand mal. “Who can tell, Your Highness? By nature, I am a peaceful man, but in my chest there beats the heart of my Celtic ancestors. Who knows, if I were pushed far enough even I might be compelled to do something drastic.”

  “But not Lieutenant Bates?”

  “I think not, no. He is a poltroon, sir, and as such, I believe he lacks the determination to take a man’s life.”

  Sikander clenched his jaw, trying not to let his frustration show. “But he had ample motive,” he argued. “In front of more than five hundred witnesses, he made dire threats towards the Major, and the man was trying to seduce his wife.”

  Miller grunted. “Perhaps, I guess it is possible, although I doubt it.” He lowered his voice once more. “From what I have heard, our friend the Lieutenant prefers his meat somewhat darker. In fact, he is quite a regular visitor to the journeyman’s brothel in the old city.”

  Sikander did a double-take, genuinely surprised. “Really?”

  “Indeed, sir. As it happens, the young lady he visits has offered on several occasions to sell me an affidavit that could definitely put an end to our friendly Lieutenant’s career.” Miller exhaled noisily. “Oh, his poor wife, to be trapped in such a loveless marriage! What a damnable waste!”

  “What is her name, this paragon of female virtue with whom you seem so smitten?”

  Miller grinned like a lovelorn schoolboy. “Grace,” he intoned reverently, “her name is Grace.” He laughed. “It is quite appropriate really, and suits her well. You will see what I mean when you meet with her.”

  “Grace Bates,” Sikander said, grimacing. “Poor thing indeed! She sounds dreadful, like one of Miss Austen’s caricatures.”

  “Oh, appearances can be deceiving, I assure you. The lovely Mrs. Bates may seem fragile when you first encounter her, as delicate as Sevres crystal, but personally, I believe the young lady is a lot stronger than she likes to let on. If anything, I think she is probably more capable of murder than her tiresome husband.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “I suspect the young lady has hidden depths, Your Highness. If you only knew her story.” Miller’s voice wavered, tremulous with sympathy. “She is an orphan, you see. She lost both her parents to consumption when she was just a wee bairn and spent her childhood in an orphanage. I imagine she would probably have ended up as a housemaid or a par
son’s wife, but the girl ran away and came out to India looking for a husband.”

  “Is that how she found Bates?”

  “Yes, she was a sea bride. They both sailed out on the same ship, and poor man, he became utterly besotted with her. But why she agreed to marry him, I will never understand. I can only surmise she never realized that he was just as penniless as she was. But then you know what the bard said, ‘Love is merely a madness’!”

  Sikander listened to this story with great interest. Miller’s account of the Lieutenant’s wife intrigued him. The presswallah’s description of Mrs. Bates certainly did not match up with the mental notion of the wilting violet that the Maharaja had conceived in his mind. Up to that moment, he had imagined a weak, easily malleable woman whom he had assumed to be a victim. But this portrait that Miller painted of her suggested quite the opposite, depicting her as a woman of some strength and determination, who had demonstrated the courage to come to India to make a life for herself.

  “I would love to speak with Mrs. Bates,” he said. “Perhaps you could arrange an introduction for me, Mr. Miller.”

  “I would if I could, Your Majesty,” Miller said apologetically, “but we move in different circles. However, I am certain you could catch her at Mrs. Fitzgerald’s garden party tomorrow afternoon.”

  Sikander groaned, an exclamation that made Miller grin. Mrs. Fitzgerald was the most determined and relentless social climber in Rajpore. Each month, she held the most abominable of garden parties on the second weekend, and made sure to invite the most influential people in Rajpore. Of course, she made it a point to send the Maharaja an invitation each time, but he always declined politely. The last thing he wanted was to spend a day at some parvenu’s soiree being gawked at as if he were some sort of exotic peacock.

  Sikander frowned. He had assumed the party would have been canceled given the Major’s untimely demise, but it seemed that Mrs. Fitzgerald was determined to brazen it out and had decided to soldier on in spite of the unfortunate timing, a development which in hindsight was perfectly in character for a creature so tiresomely jejune.

  Miller chose that moment to lean forward and say, “If it isn’t too forward of me, might I give you some advice?”

  “And what will this cost me?”

  “Nothing at all,” Miller responded, “This once, my services are for free. All I ask is a moment to say my piece.”

  “Very well! Go ahead.”

  Miller paused, as if he were carefully considering his words before articulating them into vocality. “I think it would be best for you if this once, you just let things lie. Walk away. Permit the dead to rest in peace. There is nothing to be gained here, no clean endings. And nobody will thank you for your efforts or your troubles, I promise you.”

  Sikander fixed him with a disapproving sneer. “Is that what you intend to do? Print the Major’s death was a suicide, and leave it at that.”

  Miller returned his stare with an almost Buddhist composure. “Yes, if that is what they tell me to do.” He winced. “Frankly, I don’t know why you care. The Major will not be missed much, now will he?”

  “That’s just it, Mr. Miller. I don’t care about the Major. What I care about is the truth.”

  Miller laughed. “The truth! Surely you can’t be that naïve, sir. The truth is a mutable thing. It changes, depending to how you choose to interpret it.”

  “Perhaps you are right,” Sikander said coldly, “but regardless, I still intend to track down the man responsible for the Major’s death.”

  “And what are you going to do once you find the culprit?”

  “Do, Mr. Miller!” Now it was Sikander’s turn to snort with derision. “Why, I am not going to do anything. Justice is best left to the proper authorities. All that I intend to do is solve this mystery before anyone else can.”

  “But why?” Miller asked, as if he just couldn’t understand Sikander’s motivation. “Why is this so important to you? To the best of my knowledge, you despised Major Russell even more than I did.”

  “Yes,” Sikander replied, “I disliked him. But that will not stop me from moving heaven and hell to find out who killed him.” He smiled, a narrow twist of his lips that was almost a sneer. “You see, I cannot bear to leave things unfinished. It just isn’t in my nature.

  “Besides, my dear fellow, this is the most fun I have had in months!”

  Chapter Fifteen

  It was dark by the time Sikander returned to the Raj Vilas.

  His disposition, which had been so exuberant that morning, had taken a decided turn toward the grim. The initial enthusiasm that had so consumed him when he embarked upon his investigation had long since dulled, replaced instead by a sense of fatigue, as if somehow his very bones had turned to rubber.

  Bringing the Rolls to a halt, wearily, Sikander dismounted. For a change, rather than using the front door and having to put up with the usual ceremonies of foot-washing and abject prostration from his underlings, he decided to enter the palace through a private entrance at the back of the building, very near the stables.

  The Raj Vilas was immense, a fully contained world in itself. Spread across twenty-six sprawling acres, it comprised two wings with a total of eighty-four rooms, amongst which were six throne rooms, five banquet halls, seven temples, a grand ballroom with a domed skylight made of Belgian crystal, a well-stocked armory, a viewing room and a theater with a full-sized stage, a heated swimming pool, a gymnasium, a greenhouse, a terrarium, an observatory with a modern telescope, and what was widely considered one of the finest libraries in India.

  Sikander himself occupied the entire top floor of the west wing, an opulent suite of six rooms that were his private domain. To his surprise, as he entered his chambers, he found Charan Singh waiting for him, looking even gloomier than was usual.

  “Forgive me, Huzoor,” The big Sikh greeted Sikander with a grimace so despairing it was almost comical. “I warned him you had forbidden it, but Jardine Sahib would not listen. He has taken possession of the Major’s body.”

  Sikander let out a voluble curse, and shot Charan Singh a deeply irate look.

  “Blast it! That was the only evidence we had!”

  Unable to meet his accusing eyes, the big Sikh stared fixedly down at the floor, too afraid to face his master’s wrath.

  “There was nothing I could do, Sahib. He had a warrant signed by the Magistrate.”

  Sikander bit his tongue, choking down the torrent of recriminations threatening to bubble forth. It would be only too easy to vent his rage on Charan Singh, but the truth was it wasn’t his fault at all. Bloody Jardine! Sikander hissed with irritation. He could guess exactly what the bumbling oaf’s next move would be. No doubt he intended to go after Jane to take her into custody, but Sikander was too smart to be outmaneuvered so easily, not without putting up some semblance of a fight.

  “Go to the Imperial Hotel immediately,” he commanded the big Sikh. “Take an escort of a dozen men. Once you get there, I want you to bring the English memsahib back here. Use a covered carriage, and under no circumstances are you to allow that silly donkey of a Superintendent anywhere near her, do you understand?”

  Charan Singh’s morose expression receded, his face lighting up with the faintest hint of self-satisfaction. “I foresaw that is what you would desire, Sahib. The memsahib is already here, in the east wing, under close guard. I took the liberty of fetching her earlier this evening.”

  Sikander breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank the heavens! Perhaps you aren’t quite useless after all!”

  Charan Singh responded with a mordant sniff, and made a great show of bowing to the Maharaja. “Will that be all, Sahib?”

  “Yes, you may go,” Sikander started to say, but then he recalled there was one other piece of business that had quite slipped his mind. “Wait! Tell me, have we had an invitation from that dreadful Mrs. Fitzgerald this month?”


  “Indeed, we have. It arrived a week ago, requesting your presence at a soiree that is being held tomorrow afternoon. I took the liberty of having a rather curt refusal penned by one of the royal scribes, and intend to dispatch it in the morning.”

  “Cancel that,” Sikander said. “Instead, send a message telling her that I will be pleased to attend.”

  This announcement elicited an effusive sneer from the old Sikh, his upper lip curling with such distaste that he looked like he had bitten into a particularly bitter lemon. “Surely you are not serious? It is…it is beneath your dignity, Your Majesty. Think of what people will say!”

  Sikander rolled his eyes. In some ways, the old Sikh was an even bigger snob than he had ever been, and inevitably, that meant that he was always more concerned about the Maharaja’s social standing than Sikander was himself. “Oh, for once, just do as you’re told, you fat lump!”

  Charan Singh responded to this rebuke with a rigid scowl. Muttering to himself, he left, but not before giving Sikander one last glare and then slamming the door shut behind him to illustrate his disapproval.

  Once he was alone, Sikander shucked off his rumpled clothes, and changed into a pair of velvet trousers and a silk smoking jacket before making his way to the room directly beneath his suite. Once this had been part of his grandfather’s sprawling harem, that secret world of the zenana hidden away from prying eyes, but upon taking the throne, Sikander had retired all of the Burra Maharaja’s aging concubines with handsome pensions, and spent a small fortune to turn the vacated space into a haven dedicated to the pursuit of his diverse and often esoteric interests. Now, half the area was taken up by his library, a vast collection encompassing a truly bewildering array of subjects, as diverse as zoology and anthropology and of course, his passion, criminology. Next to the library was a fully equipped scientific laboratory and his private study, and beyond that, his favorite place in the palace, his music room.