by Arjun Gaind
“Is there anything else you can tell me, Madame?”
The old crone wrinkled her brow thoughtfully. “Perhaps…there is one other thing. The boy was a Gurkha, I think.”
Sikander gasped. Like two pieces of a puzzle fitting together, suddenly something seemed to click into place in his mind. A saturnine visage flashed across his eyes, the remembrance of a Nepali face he had seen just a few hours earlier.
“Are you sure that he was a Gurkha, Madame?”
“Yes,” she said, ambivalent at first, but then with strengthening confidence, “I am certain of it. He had one of those odd knives, I remember. It was almost as long as my arm. Only Gurkhas carry them, don’t they?”
Sikander leaned forward, his excitement threatening to overpower him.
“Tell me, this Gurkha, did he have a scar on his face, shaped like a question mark?” he asked eagerly, his voice trembling as he mimicked a line jagging from his eye to his lip.
“Yes, that is the man!” Her wrinkled eyes widened with surprise. “He did have a scar, just as you described it.”
Sikander bit back a curse. That clinched it. It was the syce, there was no doubt of it. After all, how many Gurkhas with disfiguring scars were wandering around Rajpore?
Hastily, he sprang to his feet. “Well, Madame, this has certainly been most enlightening, but I must leave now.”
The old woman responded with another lustrous smirk, as lascivious as a teenager.
“Why don’t you stay a while longer, Your Majesty? I have a few young ladies in my coterie who could make your visit even more interesting. There is a very lovely young Malay who has just joined us who does things that would make you weep.”
She looked at the Maharaja expectantly, but Sikander shook his head.
“While that is a very tempting offer, Madame, I am afraid that I must decline. Perhaps another time.” He gave the old woman a contrite smile. “Dosvidaniya, and thank you for your time. I wish you the very best.”
“And you, my dear boy. May the gods give you wisdom, and may you always find shelter in a storm.”
Barely had she finished mouthing that benediction than Sikander offered Madame Krasnivaya a brisk bow, and bolted for the door. Shouldering it aside, he broke into a run, very nearly bowling over the majordomo, who had been kneeling just outside, trying to eavesdrop on their conversation with his ear pressed to the jamb.
Impatiently, he dashed down the spiral staircase, taking three steps at a time, trying not to trip over his feet.
At last, he had a proper suspect. The syce, of all people, Sikander thought. To think that the man had been firmly in his grasp, and he had just let him walk away. What was happening to him? First he had missed Lowry’s obvious duplicity, and now this…He shuddered, recalling Charan Singh’s unkind jibe.
Maybe he really was getting old!
Chapter Seventeen
The trip from the Sona Killa to Mrs. Ponsonby’s Academy had taken Sikander a little over an hour. He made the return journey in record time, covering the distance in just under half that duration.
Upon arriving back at the Raj Vilas, the first person he sent for was his manservant.
“Back so soon, Huzoor?” Charan Singh exclaimed, taking in his master’s bedraggled appearance. “Well, wasn’t that quick? Perhaps it is time I introduced you to my hakim. He has a fine reputation for helping a man whose spirits are, ahem, flagging.”
“Stop playing the fool, you old goat!” Sikander growled. “Get a flying squad together immediately, and go arrest the Gurkha!”
Charan Singh obviously had several even more ribald comments up his sleeve, but faced with such barely repressed urgency, his face stiffened, his manner changing from playful to serious.
“Gurkha, Sahib?” he echoed, bewildered.
“The Major’s syce, of course! What other Gurkha could I possibly mean?”
“You wish me to arrest this man?”
“Yes! Have him picked up immediately. I don’t want too much of a tamasha, and make sure that no word leaks out to the English, especially that buffoon Jardine.”
“I shall take care of it myself, Your Grace.”
“Good! Now get out of my way, you elephant. I need a large drink, and quick.”
“Hold on, Sahib!” The big Sikh interjected. “Your drink will have to be postponed. The chief minister is waiting for you. He insisted you see him as soon as you return.”
This announcement caused a frisson of unease to ripple down Sikander’s spine. His weekly meeting with Ismail Bhakht wasn’t scheduled until the day after tomorrow, and this unannounced appearance was unexpected, to say the least. What was Ismail Chacha doing here? What crisis could have compelled him to come calling this early in the morning?
“Would you like me to ask him to come back later?”
“No, I shall see him now. Where is he?”
“In the Miniature Gallery, Huzoor.”
“Very good,” Sikander said. “Now go and take the Gurkha into custody. I will interrogate him later, once I have met with Ismail Chacha.”
“As you wish.” Charan Singh offered Sikander a curious look. “Might I inquire, what was his crime?”
“That is none of your business. Now, off with you, you orangutan, go make yourself useful!”
The Miniature Gallery was on the second floor of the palace, very close to the Observatory. Ironically, the name was quite a misnomer. If anything, it was one of the largest rooms in the Raj Vilas, an amalgamation of three sitting rooms that had been merged together to create a vast vaulted space the size of a barn. This had been Sikander’s father’s most favored refuge, the sanctum to which he retreated to indulge his favorite pastime, which had been the recreation of miniature models of famous battlefields. Hence the name, the Miniature Room, for every inch of space within was crowded by more than a dozen exactingly produced dioramas. There was a precise replica of Leonidas’ stand at Thermopylae, with each of the Spartans wearing cuirasses wrought from real gold, and a scale model of the Battle of Actium, with a line of galleys afloat amidst a miniature lake filled with actual water. In the distant corner stood the diorama his father had been working on when he died, a incomplete rendering of Waterloo, with a variety of half-painted hussars and bare metal horses lying scattered messily across a denuded field made from real grass and dotted with tiny trees. Next to it was Sikander’s personal favorite, a mechanical myriorama of Sevastopol and the infamous Charge of the Light Brigade, complete with horses mounted on rails that actually moved at the flick of a switch and miniscule cannon that shot miniature grapeshot accompanied by puffs of smoke and tiny bursts of black powder.
Even though it had been years since he had found the time to visit the place, Sikander had exceedingly fond memories of this room from his childhood. He paused in the doorway, smiling as he recalled the hours he had spent there watching his father line up his lead soldiers and knock them down, mimicking the roar of cannons and the rattle of guns with his lips as he told Sikander of these legendary battlefields, like a child playing with his favorite toys. Why, if he closed his eyes, it was like he could almost smell the pungent scent of paint and glue hanging in the air, evoking a pang of nostalgia that ached like an old wound.
Sikander halted beside the myriorama of the Light Brigade, and lifted the cloth cover draped over it, folding it back reverently. A cloud of dust swirled up to assail his nostrils, making him cough. Underneath, the diorama was in sad state. The baize landscape was tattered and several of the papier-mâché hillocks that made up the Crimean Peninsula had collapsed into themselves. Most of the Light Brigade’s mounts had toppled from their rails, and Lord Cardigan seemed to have lost his head. As Sikander wound the crank on the side of the diorama, and released the lever that activated the mechanism, his only reward was a dull clank and a resounding groan as if to suggest the springs had long since reached their demise.
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br /> “Such is the way of life, my boy,” a reedy voice cackled. “Whether man or machine, we must all break someday. “
The Maharaja turned to find Ismail Bhakht watching him, seated in a high-backed chair atop the raised proscenium at the far end of the room. At first glance, he seemed an unassuming man, more like a doddering old teacher of Urdu shayari in his woolen sherwani and Kashmiri Karakul cap than a senior statesman. But it took only one glance into his eyes to see that this was a man cast from the same mold as Kautilya or Machiavelli, with a mind as sharp as a saber of Toledo steel. Sikander gazed up at his wizened face, trying as he always did to guess exactly how old Ismail Chacha was. He had to be somewhere between eighty and ninety, but try as he might, Sikander had never been able to ascertain his exact age. In fact, in spite of his most assiduous investigations, he had been entirely unable to unearth a single fact about Ismail Bhakht’s antecedents before he had come to Rajpore and taken up service with his grandfather.
There were, of course, countless stories about his past, largely rumors cloaked in hearsay wrapped in legend. One persistent myth insisted he was really the Burra Maharaja’s bastard brother, the illegitimate offspring of an illicit affair Sikander’s great-grandfather had with a Lucknowi courtesan. Another legend claimed that he had once been a holy man, a learned Hafiz who had lost his faith and thus turned away from the path of the devout. And then of course there was Sikander’s favorite, the story which he had always felt summed the man up best, that he was an orphan who had once pick-pocketed Sikander’s grandfather, only to be adopted by him when he was apprehended. There was some proof to support that at least, considering the loyalty with which he had served three generations of Sikander’s family. Sadly, most of the people who could have corroborated any of these rumors were long dead and buried, and the few that were still alive, like Charan Singh, refused outright to speak a word of ill about the chief minister.
Sikander guessed that this reticence came not from fear, but rather from a deep and abiding respect, an emotion that he felt himself, along with an immense affection for the old man. He could count the people he trusted implicitly on the fingers of one hand, but beyond a doubt, Ismail Bhakht would be among the top of the list. In that respect, he had much in common with Charan Singh. The giant Sikh and the ancient Mussulman were both loyal to a fault and lived only to serve the Maharaja. But unlike Charan Singh, who indulged his every whim as obediently as a dog, Ismail Chacha preferred to treat Sikander like a favored student whom he was tasked with educating in the ways of the world. While occasionally this attitude could be condescending, Sikander was wise enough to know that everything Ismail Chacha did was not just in his best interest but also for the ultimate welfare of Rajpore, and that he was genuinely fortunate to have someone of the old man’s wit and dedication in his service.
“I see you have had rather an eventful night,” the old man said, with one of his trademark grins, more suited to the lips of a ruffian than the first minister of a princely state. With a flick of his wrist that was more a command than a request, he invited Sikander to take the armchair opposite his own, a tall directoire-style bergère. “Forgive me if I do not rise and bow, Majesty. I am an old man, and my knees are not as limber as they used to be.”
“That’s fine,” Sikander said, taking the proffered seat. “You look in fine form, if I may say.”
“I wish I could say the same about you,” the old man said with a twinkle in his eyes. “Frankly, I am surprised to see you awake this early. Has the world turned upside down? Can it be the sun has risen in the west? Is north now south and day now night?”
“Oh, I have been a busy boy this morning. I presume you have heard about Major Russell being poisoned.”
“Indeed, I have.” The minister let out a knowing sigh. “I have also heard that you have taken it upon yourself to investigate this tragic affair. “
“Someone has to,” Sikander said, bracing himself for yet another lecture about propriety. “Charan Singh thinks it is unsuitable for me to go poking about in such matters, that it is beneath my dignity. Do you intend to say the same thing?”
“You have always had a fine idea of what is beneath you, my boy, and you have always made it a point to do exactly as you please. Frankly, I have neither the desire nor the patience to correct you. As you can see plainly from my wizened countenance, I am not your mother.” Ismail Bhakht cackled, inordinately pleased by this brocard. “I should warn you, though, that Simla has dispatched a man to look into this mess, a special investigator named Simpson. I received a telegram confirming that he will be here very soon, perhaps even as early as tomorrow.”
“Is that so?” This bit of news threw rather a large spanner in the works. The last thing Sikander needed was another amateur obstructing his investigation, causing it to grind to a halt. Jardine was tiresome enough, but a glorified accountant from Simla, with the full backing of the Burra Sahibs in the India Office, no doubt he would be even more obstructive. “Do we know anything about this Simpson? “
“I have heard rather ominous things. The British like to send him out when they want to teach native princes a lesson for stepping out of line. Your friend Jagatjit endured his company most recently when he was assigned to Kapurthala last year to audit his spending habits. I believe Simpson made quite a nuisance of himself. By all accounts, he is a very tedious sort.” The old man smiled wanly. “If rumor is to be believed, he is said to be entirely incorruptible.”
“Good heavens!” Sikander exclaimed. “Whatever are we to do with such a creature?”
Ismail Chacha offered him an apologetic shrug. “Do not lose heart, my boy. There is time still before he shows up, more than enough for you to work your particular magic. Come on then, tell me, have you any theories yet about who may have killed our beloved Resident?”
“I have a few notions.” Sikander could not help but emit a frustrated sigh. “This case…it’s a difficult one. It’s surprising really how many people abhorred the Major.”
“Who have you spoken with so far?”
“Quite a few people! Lowry for one, and the Major’s servants, and of course, your old friend, Madame Krasnivaya.”
“Ah, the lovely Russian! How is she?” Ismail Bhakht’s mouth split into a moonstruck grin that belonged on the face of a lovelorn teenager rather than on his ancient visage. His eyes gleaming, he leaned forward, his nostrils flaring slightly, as if he detected the scent of impending gossip. “What did she have to say?”
“Well, if she is to be believed, it seems our dear Major liked to hurt women, especially girls of a tender age.”
Sikander had imagined Ismail Bhakht would be at least as shocked as he had been when he had first learned of the Major’s sordid inclinations, but to his surprise, his reaction was quite the opposite of what the Maharaja had expected.
For a long minute, the Chief Minister remained silent, close-mouthed, before offering the Maharaja a grave nod. “I fear, Your Majesty, that I have not been entirely honest with you. You see, I have been aware of the Major’s…ahem…peculiarities for quite some time now.”
“You have?” Sikander exclaimed, astonished. “For God’s sake, why did you not tell me?”
“What good would it have done? Like yourself, I was understandably irate when I found out about his deviant tendencies, but when it comes to matters in the English hemisphere, we are as powerless to intervene as eunuchs. And frankly, if I had breathed a word to you, you would have gone off half-cocked and caused a tamasha, and the Major would simply have denied everything and made us look like fools.”
The blunt veracity of this statement rankled intensely. The old man was correct, of course, as always. There was damnably little Sikander could have done to stop the Major. True, he could have tried to smear the man using Miller, but that would have left him open to libel, and knowing the Major, he would have pounced at a chance to come after Sikander personally. Perhaps he could h
ave tried to bring pressure through his contacts in Simla, but the truth of the matter was that as the Resident Officer, Russell had been pretty much inviolate, impervious to any challenge he could have made. A more reckless prince might have decided to have the man murdered, but Sikander was not bloodthirsty enough to resort to such an extreme solution—although, the same, he realized with a shiver, could not be said for Ismail Bhakht.
“You didn’t have anything to with this, did you?”
Part of him expected a confession there and then. Sikander knew the Chief Minister well enough to realize that the old man would not think twice about taking the law into his own hands. He was as cold-blooded as a cobra, and wouldn’t miss a wink of sleep over having a man murdered. And poison was definitely his oeuvre. Ismail Bhakht had always been an exceedingly subtle man, and what more subtle way was there to remove someone from the picture than by feeding him half a pint of strychnine?
To his unmitigated relief, rather than confirming his worst fears, the old man burst into a gale of reedy laughter.
“Oh, very good!” he cackled. “I was wondering how long it would take for that macabre mind of yours to arrive at that conclusion.” The old man shook his head, fixing Sikander with shiny eyes. “In reply to your impertinent question, I should hope, my boy, that you have better suspects than me.”
“Actually, I believe I do,” Sikander replied. “In fact, I believe I know exactly who killed the Major.”
“Who?” The old man sat up, intrigued. “Is it one of the Angrez?”
“No, I think it was the Major’s syce.”
The old man’s eyebrows lifted imperceptibly, but for someone as poker-faced as Ismail Bhakht, it was as good as a gasp. “The syce? What does he have to do with anything, Huzoor?”
