by Arjun Gaind
“Oh no.” Mason shook his head, letting out a florid snort. “Superintendent Jardine warned me you would come sniffing about, and he was really quite adamant that I am not to tell you a thing.”
Sikander had to make a real effort to remain smiling. “You seem like a pragmatic man, Doctor. Perhaps we can come to an arrangement.”
As he had hoped, this overture made Mason hesitate. “What exactly do you have in mind?”
Sikander let out a sigh, relieved that this gambit had not been rebuffed. “Tell me, Doctor, do you enjoy the water of life?”
“I beg your pardon.”
“Whiskey, Doctor! Are you a whiskey man?”
At the mention of whiskey, Mason’s face gleamed with a sudden flush of desire. “I may have been known to enjoy a drop or two,” he said guardedly.
“Excellent!” Sikander tried not to gloat that he had guessed the doctor’s weakness accurately. He was a Scotsman after all, and what Scotsman could resist the lure of a fine cask? “It so happens that I have a case of Laphroaig 1898 sitting in my cellar, but sadly, I prefer champagne myself. Perhaps you would be so kind as to take it off my hands.”
Without even realizing it, Mason licked his lips. A medley of opposing expressions flashed across his features, greed battling against antipathy. To the Maharaja’s unmitigated delight, it was greed that ultimately seemed to win out.
“Very well, I don’t see what harm could come from answering a few questions, as long as they are reasonable.”
“Marvelous! Tell me, did you know the Major well?”
“Not really,” Mason frowned. “We moved in different circles. He was a bit of a high flyer. I, on the other hand, am a simple man, a humble country surgeon.”
From the disapproval in his tone, and the wrinkling of his nose as he uttered the phrase “high flyer,” it was only too apparent to Sikander that Dr. Mason had harbored exactly the same low opinion of the Major that he possessed. “I take it you disliked the man.”
“Well, I have no desire to slander the dead, but Russell was, in my opinion, a bit of a chancer.”
“In what way?”
“There were stories,” Mason said with a noncommittal shrug, “the usual rumors. Also, the man was poxed, can you believe it?”
“Poxed?” Sikander said, visibly shocked.
“Yes, it is said he was quite a rake in his youth, a regular patron of the bordellos in Madras. Sadly, those youthful misadventures left him with a chronic case of the sailor’s disease, the poor bugger. It flared up last year and he came to me seeking a cure. I prescribed mercury, of course, and told him to stay away from women.” He rolled his eyes disapprovingly, nonplussed by the fact that he had just broken the medical profession’s oldest oath and betrayed a patient’s confidentiality.
“Syphilis,” Sikander intoned, “are you absolutely sure?”
“Of course I am,” Mason snarled, annoyed by the presumption that he could be anything but correct. “I have seen more than my fair share of such cases, trust me.”
Sikander was unsure whether to be bewildered or delighted by this latest revelation. The Major had been syphilitic. That unexpected fact put an entirely different cast on the whole situation. Like most red-blooded men, the very mention of the French disease was enough to make Sikander shudder with revulsion. It was the main reason he had made it a point to always be exceedingly careful with his assignations, making certain to ensure that the women he slept with were clean, especially during his sojourn as a student in Paris. Poor bugger indeed, he thought, shivering involuntarily, As diseases went, syphilis was a particularly pernicious malady, a malaise that didn’t just cripple a man physically but attacked the very core of his being, stripping him not just of his health, but ultimately also of his faculties for reason.
It explained a lot though, Sikander thought, certainly clarifying why the Major had been acting erratically, not to mention his delusions of grandeur and his high-handed behavior. Dementia was a common enough symptom, especially of neuro-syphilis of the tertiary variety. Yes, he thought, the more he considered it, the more it fit. He had already verified that the Major frequented Mrs. Ponsonby’s with some regularity, which suggested a pattern of behavior. Men who patronized brothels were generally habitual about it, and in India in particular, that was a very dangerous habit to indulge. Soldiers’ brothels, or chaklas, as they were commonly known, were a breeding ground of venereal diseases. In spite of the Cantonment Act of 1895 and the Contagious Diseases Act, the British Establishment still took a very duplicitous stance when it came to prostitution, especially in army Cantonments. On the face of it, all such trade was condemned, but the Burra Sahibs were only too happy to turn a blind eye to the dozens of cathouses near the Railway Lines, all of which were regularly patronized by the lower ranks. In fact, Sikander recalled a report he had read a few years ago published by the Abolitionists that described how common syphilis had become amongst the rank and file of the Indian Army, citing that at least one in six soldiers suffered from it.
“If you have no further questions,” Mason declared impatiently, glancing pointedly at his fob watch, “I really should be getting back to my wife.”
“Just a moment longer, Doctor,” Sikander insisted. “I was wondering, did you perform an autopsy on the corpse when it was brought to you?”
This question made Mason bridle. “I most certainly did not.” His nostrils flared with distaste. “I am a physician, Mr. Singh, not a butcher.”
Sikander ground his teeth. Dr. Roy had warned him about Mason’s retrogressive fustiness when it came to modern surgical techniques, but to be greeted by such overt hostility… the man’s marked lack of common sense was enough to set him on edge.
“But Doctor, doesn’t Virchow say that pathological necroscopy is absolutely essential, the key to deducing the solution to any violent crime?”
Mason glowered at him, obviously displeased by Sikander’s gall at daring to question him so blatantly. “I viewed the body, and frankly, as far as I could tell, there was no need for a post-mortem. The cause of death was only too obvious. The Major had been poisoned.”
“Yes,” Sikander groaned, trying to keep his frustration in check, “but which poison, and in what quantity? That is what I need to know.”
“Why does it bloody well matter?” Mason shrugged, as if to illustrate his utter disinterest in Sikander’s investigative process. “I followed the rules to the letter. The inquest is done and dusted, and the case is as good as closed. As far as I am concerned, this was undoubtedly an episode of death by misadventure.”
“In that case, Doctor, I would like very much if you would permit my personal physician to examine the Major’s body.”
“Why on Earth?” Mason exclaimed, visibly affronted by such a suggestion.
“While I am certain your conclusions are spot-on, I need him to ascertain two things for me. First, to corroborate that it was indeed strychnine that killed Major Russell, as I suspect, and secondly, in what quantity the said poison was administered. For that, I will require two samples, one of the stomach contents to see what the Resident consumed last night, and the other a section of his liver to determine the level of toxicity in his system.”
Sikander’s excitement bordered on the ghoulish as he launched into an enthusiastic explanation of the intricacies of tissue sampling to Mason, but just as he was warming to the subject, the doctor interjected brusquely, “I cannot help you.”
“I beg your pardon?” Sikander was taken aback by being dealt such a curt refusal. He had expected Mason to play hard-to-get, thus resulting in another, more protracted bargaining session during which he would have to offer a more generous bribe, but to be faced with such a blunt dismissal…it was disconcerting, to say the least.
“It just isn’t possible. You see, the Major has already been cremated.”
“Cremated?” Sikander exclaimed, stunned.
“Yes, the body was claimed this very morning.”
“By whose order?”
“Why, the Magistrate’s, of course,” Mason replied. “I received explicit instructions from Mr. Lowry himself. He came to see me late last evening.”
“Lowry,” Sikander echoed. “Lowry told you to cremate him?”
“Yes,” the doctor said. “He was most adamant. He informed me it had been Major Russell’s express desire to be cremated when he passed, since he did not wish to be buried in Indian soil, and that he had been tasked, as one of his closest friends, to ensure that these wishes were carried out.” He squared his shoulders and gave Sikander a self-satisfied glare. “What can I say? It struck me as a perfectly sensible request.”
This unforeseen development left Sikander flabbergasted. Any form of initiative from Lowry was surprising enough, but to directly contradict the Maharaja’s specific instructions that he wished to examine the corpse, and that too after promising Sikander that he would try his best to pressure Mason into letting him make an autopsy, it just didn’t make a whit of sense. The Maharaja wrinkled his nose. Whatever game the Magistrate was trying to play, it stank like rotten fish. In fact, everything about Lowry was beginning to deeply offend his finely tuned olfactories. The man had far too much of a stench attached to him to be nearly as innocent as he liked to pretend.
Without a body, Sikander had nothing. All that he could manage was conjecture and hearsay, and neither of those would hold up in a court of law, not for a minute.
“Tell me, Doctor,” he said in a voice as corrosive as acid, “don’t you think it would have been infinitely more sensible for Mr. Lowry to have waited a few days to carry out the Major Russell’s request, until an officer of the Major’s stature had received the public funeral that a man of his rank is entitled to? And for that matter, the Major was a Catholic. Didn’t it strike you as at all odd that a gentleman of the Catholic persuasion should ask to be cremated?”
Mason’s brow wrinkled as he considered these questions. Judging by the expression of growing doubt writ upon his face, it was patent the justifications he had been offered by Lowry no longer seemed quite so compelling in hindsight.
“Look,” he snarled, as belligerently as a bulldog, “I am not a bloody policeman, am I? Why don’t you go and speak to Lowry directly?”
It was quite obvious from his truculent demeanor that his patience, already tenuous, had finally come to an end.
“Frankly, I have said all that I am willing to. Now kindly excuse me.”
The finality in his voice suggested that no amount of whiskey, however expensive, would compel him to brook any further inquiries. “And might I suggest,” he added, “if you feel any further desire to speak with me, next time call at my office. And be sure to make an appointment first!”
Chapter Twenty
With that high-handed rebuke, Dr. Mason gave the Maharaja a thunderous scowl and strode away. Frowning, Sikander turned to Charan Singh, who had been shadowing him while keeping a respectful distance as was his habit. “I have a task for you, old man. Speak to the servants, and see if you can locate a young memsahib for me.”
“Is that wise, Sahib?” The old Sikh said, raising one disapproving brow. “Wouldn’t it be better to behave just this once?”
“Oh no, you dirty-minded ape!” The old fool thought he was seeking an assignation, of all things. “I mean a specific memsahib. Her name is Mrs. Bates, and she is the main reason I have come to this deplorable gathering. She is the one I need to question.”
Charan Singh gave his master a toothy grin, as if to suggest that he did not believe Sikander’s motives were quite as platonic as he was pretending. “I will try to locate her, Huzoor.”
Even as he spun on one boot-heel and marched away, Sikander retreated in the opposite direction, suddenly desperate for a breath of fresh air and a few solitary moments to gather his thoughts. Unfortunately, out on the Ross Common’s lawns, things were even more hectic. A massive striped tent that looked like it had been stolen from a circus had been erected right in the middle of the rose garden, surrounded by rows of trestle tables bearing a buffet lunch at which an innumerable horde of Angrez foraged, like pigs at the trough, while a few feet away, a six-piece orchestra sat atop a raised stage, murdering what sounded like Debussy with glib enthusiasm.
Unfortunately, before he could find a quiet corner, he saw his hostess, bearing down on him like an unstoppable juggernaut. Lady Fitzgerald, as she liked to style herself, was hard to miss. The best word he could devise to describe her was “redoubtable,” in recognition of that stolid beam and stately prow, so reminiscent of one of Bismarck’s battleships. On the face of it, she made a fine picture of English gentry, with an upper lip so accustomed to being stiff that it could have cracked a block of cement and that supercilious superiority of manner that came only from inherited wealth.
But the truth about her, as Sikander knew, was somewhat more picaresque. He had the real scoop from Miller. The lady in question was neither a Lady, nor a member of the gentry at all. She had begun her life as a greengrocer’s daughter in Manchester, but at the tender age of fifteen, had run away and made her way to London to become a draper’s assistant at one of the high-priced establishments near Bond Street. That was where she had made the acquaintance of one Malcolm Fitzgerald, a cad and a bounder who had a reputation for being a procurer of women for gentlemen of the sort possessed of an excess of income and a taste for the gutter. It was this Fitzgerald who had introduced her to the elderly Nawab of Malerkotla, who had become quite smitten by her, most likely since he was a keen connoisseur of horseflesh and Mrs. Fitzgerald in her youth had borne a striking resemblance to that particular year’s Derby winner. In either case, they had begun an affair that had culminated with the Nawab bringing her out to India and installing her as his mistress in a luxurious palace amidst the dun fields of rural Sangrur.
Quite obviously, Malerkotla, a dusty hellhole of a town amidst the vast plains of Punjab, as far from civilization as Hades itself, had been entirely unsuitable to Mrs. Fitzgerald’s taste for the good life. Within months, her high-handed behavior had made her increasingly unpopular, not just with the populace, but also with the Nawab’s family, who had recognized her for what she was, a grasping gold digger of the most shameless sort.
Less than a year after her arrival in Malerkotla, the old Nawab had passed away, rumoredly during a particularly energetic session of lovemaking. Mrs. Fitzgerald, ever the survivor, had been quick to comprehend that her days of regal repose amidst the Doaba were at an end. Even as the Nawab’s body had cooled, she had decamped from Malerkotla with breathtaking dispatch, but not before helping herself to a trunkful of the choicest jewels she could gather. A year later, she had arrived in Rajpore, and begun her career as the grande dame of local society. Over time, her soirées had come to be the highlight of the Rajpore season. Personally, Sikander had always dismissed her efforts as garish, but to the staid denizens of the Civil Lines, Mrs. Fitzgerald’s parties seemed as glamorous as anything that was happening in Simla, if not Calcutta. As a result, her invitations were keenly sought, even fought over, with the younger officers willing to go to any lengths to make it to her list.
It embarrassed Sikander to be seen at one of her gatherings, and though he knew that he was only there because of the Major’s murder, it aggravated him to no end to think he had given her just what she had craved for so long—the added glamor of having a native prince adding color to her deplorable spectacle, like some sort of trained monkey.
This embarrassment intensified to panic as Mrs. Fitzgerald picked up speed. Mortified, Sikander lost his nerve. Turning on his heels, he decided to flee before she could catch up with him. It was a close run thing, the Maharaja scurrying along frantically like a hare, Lady Fitzgerald coursing after him like a rather dumpy hound, but he was finally able to shake her by seeking refuge behind a particularly bushy potte
d Grevillea.
As he recovered his breath, trying his level best to seem unobtrusive, Sikander was accosted by Miller, who had been watching the whole chase unfold with a sardonic smirk. The presswallah looked a righteous fool, all dressed up like a Turk, from his pointy slippers right up to the silver embroidered fez he wore perched jauntily upon his head. And judging by the bright coloring in his cheeks, he had already enjoyed more than a drink or two, which explained the uncharacteristic expression of joie de vivre sparkling on his ordinarily sullen face.
“My God, Mr. Miller, what on Earth are you supposed to be?”
The presswallah let out a vast chuckle. “Just something picked up while I was in Egypt, Effendi. I think it makes me look quite dashing.”
Clasping his hands to his hips, he tried to affect a flamboyant pose, as fitting a rake on stage, but sadly, the best he could accomplish was the look of a rather careworn duck, given his rotund body and long neck bobbing up and down comically.
Sikander rolled his eyes. “Tell me, were you able to track down the information I asked you to investigate—about the Major and why he was compelled to leave Cambridge?”
“I’m afraid not,” Miller said, sobering up so quickly that Sikander found himself wondering if the man had been playacting all along, acting the fop on purpose. “I have put out some feelers, but I am sad to say that none of my sources have gotten back to me yet.”
Sikander let out an involuntary curse so colorful that it made Miller wince. The journalist’s face fell, obviously thinking that the Maharaja’s ire was directed at him. “I am sorry that I have not been more helpful,” he apologized sheepishly.
“Not at all, Mr. Miller,” Sikander murmured. “Let me know directly when something turns up, will you?”
“Of course!” He gave Sikander something between a nod and a hop. “Would you care to join me for a drink?” He held up his glass, wrinkling his nose. “Rather dreadful swill, I’m afraid, but at least it is free.”
