by Arjun Gaind
“In the end, he fell to the ground, exhausted. As he lay there, the boy raised his silver spear, and said, ‘I shall do to you what you wanted to do to me. I will kill you slowly until you beg for death.’
“And that is what he did. He took six days to kill the monster, cutting him a thousand times. And each time the beast screamed with pain, the boy laughed, louder and louder until at last, the monster begged him to end its misery. In the end, the hero cut off the beast’s head from which he made a helmet, and flayed its skin, from which he fashioned himself a cloak. Wrapped in this gruesome prize, he headed back to the village, dreaming of how the villagers would greet him, with an ovation of joy, and salutations aplenty praising his valor.
“As he reached the outskirts of the village, he saw a pretty girl, working in the field. ‘Hallo,’ he said, ‘it is I, the hero. I have returned triumphant. The monster is dead.’ He had expected the girl would laugh and embrace him, perhaps even give him a kiss, but instead, she let out a wail and ran away, leaving him behind.
“This happened again and again. ‘Wait,’ the boy said, ‘it is I, the hero who slayed the monster,’ but whoever he tried to approach fled from him, screaming with fear. Naturally, the hero was perplexed. Why are they afraid? he wondered. Did I not slay the beast and save them? Why do they run away from me?
“He found the answer to that question a few moments later. At the center of the village, there was a well, and as he paused, leaning thirstily over its rim to draw a bucket from which to drink, he realized why the villagers were avoiding him. What he saw was that the helmet made from the monster’s head and the cloak of monster skin had merged with his own flesh, and he had become a monster, just like the beast he had set out to slay.”
The Gurkha gave Sikander a level frown.
“I do not claim to be a good man, Sahib. I have done terrible things in battle, but whatever sins I may have to my name, they were accrued in the name of duty and honor. I am a warrior, from a clan of warriors. From childhood, we are taught to live according to a code. Protect the weak. Face your enemy and never retreat. Never harm those who cannot fight back, and never let a wrong go unavenged. I may not be rich or powerful, but these are my beliefs, and I have tried to adhere to them for one simple reason, because without honor, a man is just an animal.
“Unfortunately, Your Majesty, we live in a time when it is difficult to tell monsters apart from men. They hide amongst us, often in plain sight. That Angrez, he may have been the Resident, but for any man to inflict such horrors on a helpless woman; it is clear to me that he had no honor. Did I wish to take his life? More than anything, yes.”
Gurung Bahadur scowled. “I gave up everything, Sahib. I resigned my commission. I sold what little property I had, and came here. I was convinced at first that the old woman was the one who was responsible, but when I confronted her, she told me what the Major had done to my sister. I confess, I found it hard to believe that a Sahib with such a famed reputation would behave in such a barbaric way, and so I decided I would seek out the Major and discern for myself what kind of man he was.
“It was not easy getting close to him, Your Majesty. Not only was I a native, which made egress into the English town difficult, but also, I could not reveal my military past, because I did not wish the man to peg onto my true identity. Instead, I was forced to seek out an old friend who had served with me in Tibet, who was able to help me secure a sinecure at the Residency.” He frowned. “I had to use most of my savings to pay a hefty bribe to the Major’s Munshi, who ensured that I would take up position as his syce, even though such menial labor was beneath a man of my military experience. All so I could watch him, Sahib. I watched the Major and waited, for months, and everything I saw only made me sure that he was an evil, rabid man, fully deserving of what was coming to him.”
“So you poisoned him, you admit it?”
The Gurkha shook his head.
“Oh no, I only wish I had! I had every intention of killing the Major, but, to my chagrin, I did not have a chance to put my plan into action. Someone else beat me to it.”
“You truly expect me to believe that?” Sikander retorted with a snort.
“I do not care what you believe, Sahib. All that I care is that he received his comeuppance. My only regret is that he died so easily. If I had had my way, I would have taken my time, made sure he suffered the way he made my sister suffer. I would have made him endure the same pain, the same agony.” He pursed his lips, watching Sikander proudly. “I am willing to accept whatever fate you may choose for me. Put me on trial. Hang me, I will go to my death willingly now that that bastard is in hell.”
With that, the Gurkha fell silent. His words, albeit brutal, had managed to touch something primal in Sikander’s heart. If I were in his place, he found himself wondering, would I have acted any differently? Much as Sikander prided himself on being a rational man, he knew only too well the answer to that question was a resounding no. If anyone had dared to harm a single hair on Helene’s head, he would have had them beaten to death in plain sight, regardless of the political or legal ramifications.
This realization left him rather discomfited. How could he condemn a man for doing what he would have done himself, had their places been reversed?
“What do you think?” He turned to Charan Singh who had been listening to this exchange silently. “Should I believe him?”
The big Sikh frowned, looking as confused as his master. “I cannot say, Huzoor. He is a killer, of that much I am sure, and he had plenty of reason to hate the Major Sahib, but …I do not think he is the one who poisoned him.”
Sikander scowled. Part of him wanted to disagree, to have the man arrested on the spot, but another, more logical part saw that Charan Singh was right. There were just too many lingering doubts to dismiss outright, far too many more enticing trails to follow. Granted, he could have Gurung Bahadur locked up anyway. The Gurkha was still an excellent suspect, and while his story was tragic, there was enough circumstantial evidence against him to guarantee prosecution in any assizes.
While that was certainly a tempting proposition and one at which a more ruthless prince might have leaped, Sikander was neither cruel nor unscrupulous enough to consign an innocent man to the gallows, not without overbearing proof. Besides, it was still early in his investigation. He had a list of suspects still to interview, all of whom had motives as compelling as the Gurkha’s, if not more so.
“I am not sure what I should do with you,” he said to Gurung Bahadur. “For now, you shall remain in my custody until I make up my mind.
“He stays here,” Sikander commanded Charan Singh. “Keep a close eye on him. Feed him, and have a doctor take care of his injuries. And one other thing…” The Maharaja fixed the big Sikh with a glare. “If I find even one more bruise on him when I return, it will not bode well for you. Do you understand?”
“I live to serve,” Charan Singh responded, but the petulant look on his face spoke volumes. He was not at all happy being denied a chance to avenge the unseemly welt the Gurkha had so recently given him.
As Sikander left the dungeon, another even more disturbing thought occurred to him. If Jardine were to somehow find out about the Gurkha and his connection to the Major, he would throw a proper fit! Sikander reminded himself to have a word with Charan Singh to ensure that there were no leaks from the palace staff. The last thing the Maharaja needed was for the Superintendent to show up with half a dozen constables pushing to have the Gurkha turned over to his custody. It would certainly satisfy the English to have a convenient scapegoat to blame, particularly a native who looked quite as obviously villainous as Gurung Bahadur.
If anything, that made it even more imperative that Sikander bring an end to the case as expeditiously as possible. But where was he to begin? By his reckoning, he had several possible suspects still left to interrogate. Chief amongst them was Fletcher, who had been avoiding him as dili
gently as a gambler evading a debt-collector. Then, of course, there was Lieutenant Bates, who had scuffled with the Major so publicly at the New Year’s Ball just hours before his death, and of course his mysterious wife, the young lady who had been the cause of that furor. And now, after what Ismail Chacha had revealed about the Munshi, it seemed he had to add him to the list as well, even though Sikander had grave doubts about his capacity to commit murder. Granted, he had the means and the opportunity, but as a motive, the notion of profiteering seemed tenuous at best. Still, Sikander knew from experience not to dismiss even the wildest probability without first investigating it.
Unfortunately, all of that would just have to wait, he told himself. First he needed a bath and shave, and then it was time to change into his Sunday best.
After all, Sikander thought, trying not to cringe, I have a garden party to attend.
Chapter Nineteen
At the stroke of noon, the Maharaja’s convoy embarked from the Sona Killa.
Charan Singh had wanted to go the whole nine yards, insisting upon a proper royal procession with trumpeters and chobdars and the Rajpore Regimental Bagpipers accompanying a full paltan of the Palace Guard, dressed resplendently in their russet tunics and bright blue pugrees. Why, he had even tried to get his master to ride atop one of the royal elephants, but Sikander had flatly refused. Instead, he had insisted on keeping his entourage discreet, just himself and the old Sikh accompanied by a dozen handpicked retainers.
For a change, Sikander found himself relegated to the passenger seat, fidgeting impatiently while Charan Singh’s eldest son, Ajit, a handsome young man who was the spitting image of his father, except a half-foot shorter, deftly maneuvered another of the Rolls-Royces, the blue one this time, downhill towards the British Lines. Outside, it was shaping up to be an extraordinarily humid day. The promise of rain hung in the warm air, like a waking dream, making Sikander sweat profusely. As if that wasn’t bad enough, his already foul mood was only worsened by the fact his ornamental turban felt too heavy and the neck of his ornate achkan was choking him to the point of dizziness.
The venue Mrs. Fitzgerald had chosen for her abominable affair was the Ross Common, the smallest of Rajpore’s three hotels. It was located near the margins of the English Town, at the peripheries of the Cantonment. Before the Great Mutiny, this was where the small Company contingent had been picketed, but after 1857 and the establishment of a permanent English Mission in Rajpore, a new fortified camp had been erected near the Railway Station, a long row of barracks and stables to house three regiments permanently, two infantry, one Sikh and one Dogra, and a light horse regiment which specialized in frontier warfare, not unlike the Guides.
At about the same time, a retired Army officer named Herbert Ross had purchased the abandoned Company complex and renovated the cottages, turning them into an outpost where the many travelers passing through Rajpore could seek a night of shelter. There were twelve bungalows in total, spread out over one and half acres, surrounding a small landscaped rose garden and a two-storey lodge that hosted a restaurant and a ballroom. Sikander had never been there before, but from what he heard, it was rather a dusty, drab establishment, certainly not as luxurious as the Imperial, targeted more at tradesmen and civil servants rather than patrons of Sikander’s status and refinement.
As he had dreaded, his arrival, although greatly reduced in spectacle, still managed to cause quite a hubbub. Hoping to arrive quietly, he had planned to make an entry well after the soiree’s start. However, judging by the curious crowd that spilled out to watch his automobile approach the Ross Common, Mrs. Fitzgerald must have spent half the morning boasting to all and sundry that the Maharaja of Rajpore had finally decided to attend one of her events.
Barely had the Rolls clattered to a halt, that Charan Singh sprang out, his martial bearing and spotless uniform drawing a number of approving looks from the retired soldiers in the crowd. His back ramrod straight, the giant Sikh gave his son a haughty nod, who responded by sounding off the Rolls’ horn thrice in quick succession, three strident squawks substituting for the traditional trio of drum rolls that ordinarily announced Sikander’s arrival.
Even as these raucous notes reverberated through the air, Charan Singh cleared his throat, and with stiff hauteur, announced, “All Hail His Highness Farzand-i-Khas-i-Daulat-i-Inglishia, Mansur-i-Zaman, Amir ul-Umara, Maharajadhiraja Raj Rajeshwar, Maharaja Sikander Singh Bahadur, Yadu Vansha Vatans Bhatti Kul Bushan, Maharaja of Rajpore.”
Embarrassed, Sikander waited restlessly until his manservant was done extolling his many and varied honors before dismounting from the automobile. It took all his strength not to let his discomfort show, and he gave Charan Singh a poisonous glare before fixing a cool smile on his face and striding into the hotel’s foyer. The usual array of frosty faces greeted his advent, bearing expressions of barely disguised contempt as they watched his every move warily. Sikander nodded regally at them, striking a posture of relaxed nonchalance. Wrinkling his nose, he gazed around him, shuddering inwardly as he took in Mrs. Fitzgerald’s attempts to create a festive atmosphere. Half the place seemed to have been bedecked gaily with enough red and white bunting to put a victory parade to shame. As for the rest, it had been hung with gauzy silk and brocade, in an attempt perhaps to create an exotic, even Oriental atmosphere. The end result was truly dazzling, a monument to poor taste that would have made even the most relentless of parvenus blanch.
The Maharaja tried not to dissolve into laughter. Behind him, Charan Singh let out an astounded gasp. The theme of the afternoon, it seemed, was the Arabian Nights, judging by the costumes that Mrs. Fitzgerald’s guests were wearing, ranging from a very overweight Ali Baba with a pendulous belly bulging from beneath a tiny waistcoat, to a haughty looking Scheherazade with a truly admirable bosom barely constrained by her Lucknowi bodice. Sikander turned and gave his manservant an inquiring look. Predictably, the big Sikh had failed to mention that this was a bal masqué, no doubt because he was well aware that his master despised such affairs. As far as Sikander was concerned, costume balls were unequivocally the tattiest kind of gatherings, and most of these people, evidently willing to make fools of themselves in public, had far too little self-respect and even less taste. Unfortunately, his own attire, comprising a carmine brocade Achkan with enough golden embroidery on its bodice to put a Hussar to shame, was quite vulgar enough to fit right in, a fact that caused him no small distress.
To his chagrin, there seemed to be rather a preponderance of overdressed rajahs dotting the crowd. Sikander’s face reddened as he moved forward, turning a bright scarlet to match his tunic, and he found himself wishing he had a mask to hide behind. Thankfully, most of the people he encountered stepped hurriedly out of his way, unwilling to engage him in conversation. Not that Sikander was concerned by such snubs. He had braved Mrs. Fitzgerald’s revelry for a very specific reason. Beyond that he had no desire to socialize, and those few who hesitantly tried to greet him, he pointedly ignored.
Making a slow circuit of the foyer, Sikander concentrated on searching for his quarry. He paused only to watch the jongleurs and contortionists that had been hired to entertain the guests, smiling as he passed a slender girl who was bent over backwards, clapping appreciatively as she eased a sword down her gullet, swallowing a twelve-inch blade with effortless ease, all while upside down.
Finally, he spotted the first of his targets. Dr. Mason was exactly as Roy had described, a tall, well-proportioned man, almost Dickensian in appearance, as rotund and shiny-faced as Mr. Micawber. Even though their paths had never crossed before, Sikander felt he could make several educated guesses about the man’s personality and character just from his appearance. His complexion was sanguine, which told him that Mason was the sort of man accustomed to having his own way. His posture, and the way he shifted from foot to foot every few moments, suggested he had a touch of the gout, and the old-fashioned mutton-chop whiskers he favored made him look
somehow dogmatic. A few other sundry details caught Sikander’s eye—the Masonic pin he wore in his lapel, and the Regimental Ascot around his neck, both indicated an Army background. And then of course, there was his choice of accoutrement, a tartan kilt and doublet, complete with a furred sporran. Clan Munro, judging by the interwoven pattern of red and black, if Sikander remembered his Vestiarium Scoticum correctly, which meant the doctor’s origins lay in the Highlands. Of course, he might merely have come in fancy dress as a Scotsman, in which case, the kilt indicated that he was a bit of a dunce.
Ordinarily, Sikander would never have resorted to something as boorish as accosting a stranger in public without an introduction. No, in the normal course of events, he would have sent an invitation to Mason, requesting him to call upon the Maharaja at his earliest convenience, so that he could interview him in private. However, since time was of the essence, for once, he decided to do away with social nicety. Putting on a convivial expression, Sikander approached the doctor rather brazenly, tapping him gently on one shoulder.
“Dr. Mason, isn’t it?” He held out his hand when the man swiveled to face him. “I am Sikander Singh, the Maharaja of Rajpore, and I would like a quick word, if you would be so kind.”
To his dismay, in spite of this attempt at politesse, the man’s face remained as wintry as a glacier, and he made a point of ignoring Sikander’s outstretched hand, glaring down at it disdainfully, as if it were leprous.
“I don’t treat natives.”
“I am not here seeking treatment. Actually, I was hoping to request a small favor.”
“What manner of favor?” The squint he gave the Maharaja suggested that he did not care for him, even though Sikander’s rank compelled him to remain courteous.
“I want your medical opinion, that’s all.” Sikander raised his hands and shrugged. “About Major Russell, as a matter of fact, and his unfortunate demise.”
