A Very Pukka Murder

by Arjun Gaind

  “Thank you, but no! Sadly, I really must track down the Magistrate and have a quick word with him.”

  “Well, good luck with that,” Miller snorted. “You will find him in the main dining room, holding court to the usual crowd of sycophants. I can only hope that the high and mighty Mr. Lowry can spare the time to speak with you.”

  “What makes you think he will not?” Sikander asked, smelling more than a hint of recrimination in the presswallah’s tone.

  “Oh, the man seems to have been infected by a strange malaise, Your Majesty. A more dreadful case of caput turgidum I have yet to see.” Miller smiled, overly amused by this feeble witticism. “His fat head has gotten so large, I am surprised the odious fellow can stay upright.”

  “Well, I will just have to cut him down to a manageable size, won’t I?’”

  “Much as I would dearly love to see that,” the presswallah tittered, lifting his fez in salutation, “I have rather a pressing engagement to keep.” He offered Sikander a mock bow, then staggered away, somehow managing to keep his balance as he made a beeline for the nearest bearer he could spy with a tray of champagne.

  Shaking his head indulgently, the Maharaja wasted no further time in setting out to confront Lowry. The Ross Common’s dining room was an ornate enclosure, accessed from the main foyer by a pair of arched Venetian doors. It was decorated in that grim Victorian style that always caused Sikander to gag, with dreadful Acanthus-papered walls and an excess of Rococo furniture that had been buffed to the sheen of old ivory, no doubt by a legion of long-suffering servants. Inside, rather than one large open space, the interior was partitioned into small alcoves, within which nestled damask-covered tables, thus permitting diners some semblance of privacy.

  Rather than barging in, Sikander opened the door just enough so that he could peer inside. Lowry was in the last alcove on the left, surrounded, as Miller had described, by about a half dozen hangers-on, mostly traders and boxwallahs by the look of them. Instead of approaching the man directly, Sikander decided to take a circuitous route, careful to ensure that he was not spotted, until he managed to fetch up behind the leafy cover of a large potted acacia, close enough so that he could eavesdrop on Lowry’s conversation without being detected.

  “Have you heard from Simla yet, about who is to be our next Resident?” This from one of the boxwallahs, a gaunt, bespectacled fellow dressed as a Cossack.

  Lowry, who had chosen to attend as a Roman senator, it seemed, done up in a toga that looked to be fashioned from a bedsheet, replied to this question with a self-satisfied smile. “It is only a matter of time. I have been informed that a special investigator has been dispatched to look into the Major’s death and is expected to arrive as soon as tomorrow. I have no doubt he will come bearing orders confirming my appointment to the post.”

  “About damn time!” Another of the men exclaimed, a slippery-looking fellow with a thin mustache who gave Lowry an ingratiating smile. “I hate to speak ill of the dead, but it will be good to have a pukka man at the reins for a change. While Major Russell, God rest him, was a decent enough sort, he let that damned Maharaja have too much latitude, I must say.”

  “Hear hear!” This from a man Sikander recognised, an abrasive Scotsman named MacGregor who happened to be the head of the jute cartel, and was forever petitioning the palace to privatize royal land. “That fellow gets far too many liberties for an Indian. Simla should just have him off the throne and take over themselves, like they did in Oudh. Now that would be good for business!”

  Lowry puffed out his chest. “Don’t you worry, my friends! Once I take over, things will change soon enough. I have the Maharaja of Rajpore firmly under my thumb, I assure you of that.”

  “Is that so?” A silken voice hissed from behind him.

  With a start, Lowry spun around. A flare of panic seized him when he saw Sikander advancing toward him, an anxiety he only just managed to keep in control. “Your Highness,” he squawked, making a monumental effort to force his mouth into a smile, “what are you doing here?”

  Sikander ignored him, though his veiled eyes never left Lowry’s face, his gaze so piercing that the Magistrate struggled not to flinch before its intensity. As for his companions, they watched the Maharaja as warily as if he were a tiger about to pounce.

  “Make yourself scarce, won’t you?” Sikander snarled with the sort of effortless rudeness that only a man of unimpeachable quality can manage. “Mr. Lowry and I would like some privacy.”

  The boxwallahs reacted as if he had just slapped them. En masse, they leaped to their feet and bolted away, with all the haste they could manage without causing a stampede.

  Sikander still did not say a word to Lowry, letting him sweat. He held his tongue, waiting until a porter had pulled up a chair for him. Tipping the man with a gold mohur and waving away his grateful salutations, he sat down and crossed one leg over the other with languorous grace before offering the Magistrate a nonchalant smile. “Under your thumb, am I?”

  Lowry reddened. “It was just talk,” he started to apologize, but Sikander cut him off abruptly.

  “Do you think me a fool?”

  “No,” the Magistrate replied, bewildered by this unexpected question, “of course not!”

  “Then why must you persist in treating me like a clown?” Sikander’s face hardened. “Tell me, why did you order the Major’s corpse to be disposed of with such alacrity?”

  To his credit, Lowry managed to keep his composure, rolling with this barrage as adroitly as a veteran prizefighter. “It was his most fervent wish,” he explained. “The Major told me often that he did not wish to rest for eternity in Indian soil, and that he had always wanted his ashes to be scattered across the lakes in Windermere.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Yes, I swear it.”

  “Don’t lie to me,” Sikander hissed, slapping one palm down on the table so hard it wobbled, threatening to give way. Lowry recoiled, shocked by such an overt show of ferocity. His features suffused with terror, his mouth flopping open and shut, like a beached fish.

  “I did not…I have not lied.” He tried to bluster, so ineffectually that it could not have fooled a child, much less a man of Sikander’s acumen.

  “Don’t waste my time, Mr. Lowry,” Sikander snarled. “For your information, I know all about the wine.”

  “The wine?” This time, the Magistrate’s bewilderment was much more real. “What wine? What in God’s name are you talking about?”

  “The Oloroso, you fat fool! You delivered a bottle to Major Russell as a New Year’s gift, didn’t you? I have tested it, and it was undoubtedly laced with strychnine.”

  Lowry’s mouth sagged open, his eyes growing as wide as a deer caught by a hunting lamp. For one brief heartbeat, Sikander thought he had managed to corner the man, that he was going to break down and confess everything, but instead, the Magistrate made a strange noise, something between a snort and a chuckle.

  “Oh, that’s just grand!” he gasped. “You have the wrong man, Mr. Singh.”

  Sikander grimaced, surprised by the self-assurance of this denial. “I think not! I have it by your own admission, one that Miss Jane will only be too happy to corroborate, that you brought the wine to Major Russell. Or do you deny that?”

  “Oh, no, not at all. I am indeed the person who brought Major Russell that particular bottle of wine.”

  “Then you are definitely the one who poisoned him!”

  “Not quite,” Lowry offered him a cherubic grin. “I am sad to say, Mr. Singh, that on this occasion, you are utterly mistaken. You see, Captain Fletcher is the man you are looking for. He gave that particular bottle to me and asked me to deliver it to the Major, just last week.”

  With that declaration, he sat back, folding his arms across his ample chest to watch Sikander with rather a pompous expression, as if he were waiting to see precisely how the Mah
araja would react, now that the theory of which he had been so certain had been so decidedly unraveled. Sikander’s mind raced to assimilate this surprising turn. Was Lowry telling the truth? Was the Captain indeed the one responsible for the poisoned Oloroso? Or was this a feint, a barefaced attempt by the Magistrate to deflect suspicion away from himself towards another?

  Before Sikander could make up his mind, Lowry swaggered to his feet. “I have given you all the time I can spare,” he said, rather too self-importantly, as if he had suddenly discovered he possessed a spine. “This interview is at an end. If you have any further questions, I suggest you make an appointment at the Residency.”

  The Maharaja raised one sarcastic eyebrow, not at all antagonized by such cavalier brusqueness. “Good heavens, I almost forgot. You are now the senior man in Rajpore, aren’t you?”

  “Indeed, I am,” Lowry said, as pompous as a pasha, “and while I would dearly love to sit here chatting with you, I have a great deal of work to do.”

  “Well,” Sikander countered, “at least until Simla sends out a more suitable replacement.”

  This comment brought Lowry juddering to a halt. He gave Sikander a sidelong look, inquiry mingling with trepidation and not a small amount of befuddlement. “I have every certainty, Mr. Singh, that I shall be the one to be confirmed as the new Resident of Rajpore.”

  “Perhaps,” Sikander said coolly, examining his fingernails with an expression of utter disinterest. “Of course, I might have some say in the matter.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  Sikander leaned back, and stretched his arms lazily. “Nothing is certain in life, Mr. Lowry.” He shrugged, a theatrical shudder of his shoulders. “Who can tell what the future holds? Besides, I have to wonder how Simla would feel about confirming your temporary assignment if they knew your secret?”

  This question caused the man to shudder visibly. The panic which had so recently receded now returned two-fold. “This is preposterous! I have no secrets.”

  From the subtle tremor in his voice, Sikander sensed he had backed the man in a corner. “Let me paint a hypothetical picture for you, Mr. Lowry. Imagine a man who has a closely guarded infirmity, one that is shunned amongst men of quality, which if uncovered could be damning not only to his career, but also to his reputation. And then imagine that someone should discover this most closely guarded of secrets, which he then holds over that unfortunate man’s head, forcing him to do things against his will, dreadful insidious things. Tell me, how would that man react?”

  He fixed the Magistrate with an unblinking glare. “The Major discovered your secret, didn’t he?”

  Lowry winced, his face going as pale as chalk, and he averted his eyes, unable to bear such a candid scrutiny. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he objected weakly.

  “Come now.” Sikander lowered his voice until it was just a whisper. “He found out that you are a sodomite. I am sure of it.”

  Lowry gasped, feigning outrage at such a damning accusation, but his fury was much too brittle, too practised to be anything but artificial. It was like he had spent hours in front of a mirror rehearsing this denial, until it seemed more like an actor mouthing lines from a script rather than genuine indignation. “How dare you try and besmirch my good name! This is untenable.”

  “Shut up!”

  “Mr. Singh! I will not tolerate being spoken to with such crude contempt….”

  “Shut your damn mouth,” Sikander said cruelly, “or I will shut for you.”

  The Magistrate’s face stiffened. For a heartbeat, Sikander thought he had pushed the man too far, that perhaps he had managed to uncover some hidden reservoir of strength that would compel him to resist such brash harshness, but then, in the blink of an eye, all the fight seemed to go out of Lowry. With a vast groan, he collapsed back into his chair, as limp and nerveless as a rag-doll.

  “What is going to happen now?” he asked in a small, dead monotone.

  “Let me make this clear.” Sikander’s tone was almost sympathetic. “Frankly, I could not care less how you live your personal life. However, I suspect the Major was not quite as charitable as I am.” He fixed Lowry with a knowing look. “How did it happen? Did he walk in on you, all those many years ago, in flagrante delicto perhaps, with another man? Is that what caused your falling-out?”

  Lowry gave him the briefest of nods, so slight that it was almost imperceptible.

  “I can only imagine your surprise when you heard from the Major after all this time. When he offered you such a plum posting, no doubt you thought he had finally forgiven you, but that was not the case, was it?”

  The Magistrate let out a low moan, as if every word was a wound.

  “Did he blackmail you, compel you to do his will, or else threaten to expose you? Is that why you killed him, Mr. Lowry?”

  The man finally found the strength to look at Sikander, staring at the Maharaja stonily. Abruptly, he seemed very different from the bumbling creature from a moment before. Now he seemed older, so tired that it brinked upon exhaustion, a broken wreck of a man. It was like Sikander was seeing him for the first time, now that his carefully maintained mask had wavered, like a changeling revealing its true face, a lonely, deeply unhappy creature who looked like he barely had enough strength to go on.

  “I didn’t kill him,” Lowry whispered. “God knows I thought it often enough, but I did not do it, I swear by all that is holy.”

  “Why should I believe you when you have lied to me in the past?”

  “I have a great many flaws, Your Majesty, but I could never take a life, and especially not Will’s.” He grimaced. “You have to believe me. He meant too much to me.”

  As he said those words, his face was wracked by a tremendous sorrow, and suddenly, Sikander realized how wrong he had been about Lowry’s motives. He sat back, abruptly seeing everything very clearly. “You loved him, didn’t you?”

  The Magistrate’s only reply was a gaunt groan.

  “He was the one person I cared for more than anyone else. When he left Cambridge, I thought I had lost him, but then, when he sent for me after all this time, I felt that most dangerous of things, Mr. Singh. Hope. I let myself feel hope.

  “That is why I came to Rajpore when Will asked, because I thought at last we could be together!” He glanced up at Sikander with that woebegone gravitas that only a man who has known love to be unrequited can feel. “And even though it did not take me long to realize that he did not reciprocate my ardor, I stayed, if for no other reason than to be near him.

  “You think I killed him?” Lowry chuckled. “You really believe I could do that, murder the one person I loved more than life itself? Why, I assure you, it would be easier to kill myself!”

  Chapter Twenty-one

  This confession hung lugubriously between them, as immovable as a monolith.

  Obviously, now that his deviant preferences were out in the open, Lowry was much too embarrassed to even meet the Maharaja’s eyes. “If you will excuse me,” he said awkwardly, “I really should be getting back to the others.”

  With a small nod, he rose and hurried away. Sikander did not impede him, even though he was unable to quell his misgivings about the man. It had been a convincing little monologue, so credible that he was tempted to fall for it, except for his reluctance to accept anything Lowry said at face value. The Magistrate was undoubtedly a liar par excellence, not just because he had a glib tongue, but also because he had spent so much time hiding the truth about his sexuality from the world, becoming as adept at playing a role as any thespian.

  Still, a nagging voice in Sikander’s head insisted that Lowry was telling the truth. And if he had indeed cared for Major Russell as deeply as he claimed, then that left him with no motive at all to want him dead. Abruptly, Sikander was assailed by an unbearable weariness. It was more than mere ennui, an unexpectedly vertiginous dizziness that
made him feel faint for an instant. Fighting this unexpected exhaustion, he retreated from the dining room. Shying away from the crowd, he staggered in the direction of the guest bungalows, searching for a secluded spot where he could gather the tatters of his composure around him and take a moment to regain some measure of equanimity. To his relief, he spotted a gazebo nearby, behind a manicured privet hedge, an island of relative privacy that seemed deserted. With a groan, he made a beeline for its refuge, glad to be away from Mrs. Fitzgerald and her guests.

  Once inside the gazebo, he let out a vast sigh. What a fool’s errand the whole expedition had been! Sikander thought, giving vent to his frustration by rattling off a string of expletives so colorful they would have made a lascar blush.

  He had thought himself alone, but a dim susurration behind him informed him he was not. He heard the briefest whimper of indrawn breath, as if to chastise his rudeness. Surprised, he turned to find he was being watched by a very lovely young woman. She was seated on a wrought-iron bench in one secluded corner of the gazebo, partially obscured by a large fern, which was why he had missed her.

  Sikander’s first impression was of fragility, of enormous Dresden blue eyes that stared at him with great apprehension and cheekbones so prominent that they looked like they would rip through her skin.

  It surprised him to be confronted by such unbridled beauty, and he found himself a little staggered. To his dismay, the memsahib took this hesitation to be surliness. Thinking that he wished to be left alone, she rose to her feet. Almost without realizing it, Sikander took a step forward, moving to stop her before she could escape. As he came closer to her, he realized that she was very small, just under five feet tall, as tiny and delicate as a doll. He let his eyes flicker down from her face, playing across her body with an uncharacteristic lasciviousness that made the young lady turn a vivid shade of carmine that perfectly matched her russet hair. Sikander smiled, and continued his appreciation shamelessly. It pleased him that in spite of her slenderness, there really was nothing lacking with her figure, which was quite well rounded in all the right places—apparent in spite of the fact that she was dressed demurely, in tatty dark green drapery that was vaguely Greek in style