by Arjun Gaind
“I see you have managed to make yourself at home,” Sikander said dryly.
Miller gave Sikander a contented smile, his face burnished bright red from the combination of warmth and alcohol. “I must confess, Your Majesty, there are times when I quite envy you. Is this really a first edition of Cervantes?”
Sikander’s answer was a scowl. Crossing the room to a Cadiz armchair, he sat down rather stiffly, trying not to lose his reserve in the face of Miller’s presumptuousness. “I am not in the mood for idle chatter, Mr. Miller. I take it that you have not come all this way to talk about books.”
“No, of course not. As it happens, Your Majesty, I have been able to uncover some very interesting information about our dear departed Major, and I felt you should know about it post-haste.”
His expression grew as self-satisfied as a cat that has just had its fill of cream. “At the risk of being boastful, let me say this much, it is as juicy a piece of gossip as you have ever heard.”
“Why don’t you let me be the judge of that?” Sikander sat back, tenting his fingers in front of his lips. “Go on then. Let us hear what you have dug up.”
“Well,” Miller said, “as it turns out, the Major had made it a habit of lying about his origins. He was not a gentleman at all, it seems.” His voice thickened with excitement. “The story he most often liked to tell people was that his father was a soldier who died during the Crimean War, but from what I have been able to uncover, that was not the case. The truth is that his father was never a soldier. On the contrary, in actuality, he was a second footsman in the employ of a certain Sir William Russell.”
“William Russell?” Sikander arched one eyebrow questioningly. “Do you mean to say…?”
“Yes, I believe the Major took the nom de guérre when he came out to India. His real name, as it turns out, was William Crawford.” Miller shrugged. “I imagine he must have come of age below stairs in the real Mr. Russell’s manor, envying all the wealth around him, and likely as not, dreamed of being as affluent some day, as prosperous, and thus decided to reinvent himself when he had the chance.”
So the Major had not been quite as pukka as he liked to pretend, Sikander thought. He was surprised, but not quite as much as ought to have been. Now that he knew the truth about the commonness of the Resident’s origins, he had to admit, in hindsight, the signs had all been plain to see. His accent, his atrocious manners, even his peculiar patterns of speech—Sikander had noticed these incongruities often enough, but dismissed them as eccentricities acquired from a life of soldiering, camp habits that had become ingrained over time. Now however, they stood exposed for what they were, the careful play-acting of a servant’s son playing at being one of his betters.
“Once I found out about the Resident’s deception, I did some digging around about this other William Russell,” Miller continued. “By all accounts, he was a country squire, a cloth baron who had made quite a fortune in the Levant and set himself up handsomely with a large estate near Ashford, very near the town of Maidstone. His wife died of diphtheria, leaving him with one child, a daughter he named Minerva of all things, heaven help her, who was his pride and joy.”
Miller shook his head sadly. “Poor child, it seems that she became quite besotted with our Major, or rather with young Will Crawford, as he was called back then. I cannot tell for certain, but I imagine he seduced her, probably seeing her as a means for him to escape his humble origins. Of course, there was a bit of a scandal, since she was well above his class. Her father undoubtedly must have thrown a fit, but you know the old saying, ‘That which love has ordained, what wisdom can tear asunder,’ which was probably why he consented to permit them to become engaged. In fact, it was Sir William who sponsored our dear Resident’s way though Cambridge, with the understanding that he would come to work for him as a partner upon graduation. However, that is not quite how things turned out.”
Sikander nodded, as understanding dawned. “He repudiated her, didn’t he…?”
A sneer twisted across Miller’s face. “Yes, indeed, he did. Sir William gambled heavily on an investment with Overend, Gurney, and Company, and when the bank collapsed, he was left penniless. The man was so distraught he took his own life, leaving his daughter with no dowry and no inheritance to speak of.”
“And the Major decided to jilt her because she had no money?”
Miller nodded curtly. “It was terribly ugly. The poor girl, she wrote him letter after letter, but he ignored them all. She even made a complaint to the local constable. That was when the Masters at Cambridge found out, and they took a very serious view of the Resident’s conduct. As far as they were concerned, his behavior constituted a breach of promise, and was thus exceedingly dishonorable, not to say that a young lady’s good name had been irrevocably ruined.”
“So that is why he was sent down!” Sikander exclaimed. It was a story as old as time, and it certainly explained why Major Russell—no, Will Crawford—had fled to India. Where else could he have gone to start again, with no prospects and a reputation that was in tatters, other than the colonies? In England, he would have been a pariah, but here in India, he could remake himself, change his name, and leave his chequered past far behind.
“Do you have any inkling what happened to the girl?”
“Well, that is where the story gets interesting.” The presswallah revealed more teeth than a shark. “From what I have been able to learn, it seems young Miss Minerva Russell was rather a headstrong sort. After being jilted, rather than giving up and turning into another Miss Havisham, she was so besotted with our Resident that she followed him out to India.”
“She did not?” Sikander said, aghast. Even though he was a liberal man, this revelation left him utterly shocked. It was quite unheard of, even in these modern times, that a white woman should follow a man out to the colonies, unescorted by a chaperone, but back then, thirty or so years earlier, it must have caused quite a healthy scandal for the youthful Resident.
“Yes, it’s hard to believe, but it seems some months after his hasty decampment, the young woman booked herself passage on one of the fishing fleet ships out to Madras. Her arrival caused quite a sensation, I believe, especially when she confronted his commanding officer.”
“Did she expose him?”
“No, on the contrary, she claimed to be his fiancée, an assertion which caused the Major, who was then a mere Ensign, quite some trouble, considering that he did not have enough seniority to enter into wedlock.”
“I am guessing he didn’t welcome her with open arms.”
“Quite the opposite,” Miller said with a salacious chuckle. “By all accounts, they entered into a rather scandalous relationship. My source, who happened to be posted in Madras at the time, insisted it was the talk of the fort for a few months, a young man and woman living in open sin, until finally Mr. Russell’s commanding officer, who was a staunch Presbyterian, decided that he would rescue the young man from this immoral predicament, and sent him on to another posting, this one a front-line regiment, I believe, which did not tolerate married officers.”
“And he just left her behind?”
“Oh, yes!” Miller clucked his tongue like an old woman. “Poor child! To be deserted not once, but twice, that heartless bastard!”
Poor child, indeed! Sikander pursed his lips. But then, it fit in perfectly with the Major’s pattern, didn’t it, as a brute, a user and abuser of women?
“What happened to the poor woman?” he asked. “Did she stay on in Madras?”
Miller shook his head solemnly. “As it happens, she had a cousin who cared enough to follow her out to India, and I believe she returned to England with him. My source told me she died soon after.”
Another dead end, Sikander thought, trying not to groan with dissatisfaction. What he needed was evidence, not sad stories from the distant past. Why was Miller wasting his time with this rubbish?
/> “It’s an entertaining story, Mr. Miller. Perhaps you should turn it into a music hall romance. A tale of heartbreak set in darkest India, with seven songs and a gay dance. However, I fail to see how any of this helps my investigations!”
Rather than being dismayed by this rebuke, the presswallah’s face showed an obdurate satisfaction. “That isn’t the whole story,” he said. “I have been saving the best for last. The Major did not just break young Miss Minerva Russell’s heart. If my source is to be believed, he managed to impregnate her womb as well.”
If he had been a canine, at that moment, Sikander’s ears would, quite literally, have twitched. This was a development he simply could not have predicted, not with all his skills, a twist worthy of Dickens!
“There was a child? Are you certain of this, Mr. Miller?”
“Absolutely! My source is very reliable. He has letters he can produce, if needed.”
“Were you able to find out anything about the child?” Sikander almost squealed, quivering with barely contained excitement. “Was it a boy or girl?”
“It was a girl, your Highness. The Major, if my source is to be believed, had an illegitimate daughter.”
Even as Miller spoke, something seemed to click in Sikander’s mind, the final missing piece of the puzzle falling into place. Of course, he thought with mounting excitement, that was the key to solving the whole damned case. Suddenly, he could see the answer, visualize exactly how all the clues came together to reveal a pattern, a solution so obvious, so gloriously simple that he chastised himself for failing to discern it earlier.
Hurriedly, he sprang to his feet, reaching for the hand-bell lying on a nearby table, and began to ring it, as raucously as a town crier. “Charan Singh!” he shouted. “Get in here, you fat-headed turnip!”
Turning to Miller, he waved him to his feet. “You have done well, my dear fellow, very well indeed! I shall have twice your usual fee deposited in your account. No, let us make it thrice, shall we?”
Even though he had known the Maharaja a good long while, this abrupt volte-face left Miller understandably confused. However, the presswallah was nothing if not pragmatic, and had the good sense to keep his bewilderment to himself, considering he had just made rather a handsome profit from what seemed little more than idle gossip.
“Why, that’s very generous of you, Your Highness. Might I ask, was the information helpful?”
“Oh, yes,” Sikander chuckled. “Let’s just say that you have just helped me solve the Major’s murder.”
Miller’s face sagged with disbelief. “I’m afraid I just don’t understand.”
“Don’t you worry, Mr. Miller. Everything will be clear as crystal very soon.” He gave the journalist a vast grin. “Why don’t you stay for dinner? Wait right here. Enjoy another bottle of wine and I shall have my man come and fetch you a little later, when everything is in place.”
“As you wish,” Miller replied, almost dizzily.
“Good, then it is settled.”
Bidding Miller a good evening, Sikander dashed out of the Alhambra Room, just as Charan Singh finally decided to make an appearance, shambling up with a scowl.
“Why is it, Sahib,” he said, “that whenever I am about to fall asleep, you seem to find some sort of emergency that requires my immediate attention…?”
The Maharaja ignored this attempt at insolence and gave his manservant a triumphant smile.
“I have a job for you,” he crowed, trying not to break into a merry jig.
Charan Singh started to object, to retort that it was much too late to go gallivanting about on some ludicrous whim, but then, when he saw the exultant glint in his master’s eyes, he gave a low whistle. He had known Sikander long enough to recognize that particular expression, a glee that could only presuppose one thing.
Hurriedly, Sikander entailed exactly what he wanted the Sikh to do. Charan Singh’s eyes grew wider and wider as each detail was explained, and then, when the Maharaja was done, he let out a vast guffaw.
“This is going to make the English very angry,” he said. “Your friend Jardine in particular will throw a fit!”
Sikander grinned, absurdly amused by the thought of Jardine’s fat face turning as red as a beetroot. “How long will it take you to get everything organized?”
“A few hours at least, Sahib,” Charan Singh replied. “This is going to take a lot of manpower!”
“Very well! Get to it then!”
Charan Singh nodded, but did not depart immediately. “There is just one thing I must say, Huzoor.” From his expression, it was clear he still harbored grave doubts. “Forgive me, but it is my duty to ask. Are you sure of this? Could you possibly be mistaken?”
“No,” Sikander responded jubilantly, “I am quite certain, my large friend. At last, I know exactly what happened to Major Russell.”
Chapter Twenty-five
Leaving Charan Singh to carry out the tasks set for him, Sikander returned to his chambers for a well-deserved break.
Changing into an embroidered Damascus silk banyan coat, he retired to his bed, looking forward to taking a brief nap in preparation of the excitements to come. Unfortunately, the solace of sleep continued to elude him. He was much too keyed up, too anxious to find even a moment’s rest.
After tossing and turning for what seemed like hours, drifting in and out of sleep, finally Sikander gave up. Rising lethargically, he returned to the music room with a bottle of Gosset Blanc de Noirs, and once more, sought the comfort of his piano. Beneath his restless, fidgeting fingers, the ivory felt alive, immeasurably reassuring. Over the next two hours, Sikander slowly worked his way through Ravel’s Gaspard de la Nuit. It was a particularly complex suite, absorbing much of his concentration and thus distracting him from the fatigue that had been clawing at him all day. The first movement, the “Ondine,” with its cascading chords, took him a long time to get right, but it was time well spent. As always, it relaxed him, a calm that coalesced slowly across his body. The second movement, “Le Gibet,” took that calm and sharpened it to a razor’s edge, leaving behind a focused clarity that came close to euphoria.
Just when he was about to try and tackle the third movement, “Scarbo,” which had always exceeded his abilities, Charan Singh made his return.
“Everything is ready, Your Highness,” he announced, “exactly as you wished.”
“Well done! Tell me, what time is it?”
“Just past midnight, Huzoor. Your guests await your presence in the Crystal Ballroom. I have taken the liberty of serving some light refreshments, and arranged to keep them entertained until you were ready to see them.”
“Excellent!” Sikander exclaimed. Springing up, he returned to his room to change into something more suitable. For this evening’s denouement, he had settled upon a rather severely cut bandhgala with a very stiff collar and only the subtlest of jade embroidery around the cuffs. It made him look as dour as an undertaker, but he found it suited both his mood, and the timbre of the entertainment due to follow.
Fleetingly, Sikander cast a jaundiced eye at himself in the mirror. He looked even older than before, dreadfully tired, almost emaciated after two days without proper sleep and only sporadic meals. But still, he fancied, there was a twinkle in his eye, a gleam that intensified as he realized that this adventure, in spite of all its twists and turns, was almost at an end.
The Crystal Ballroom was the smallest of the six banquet halls in the palace, but by far, the most opulent. It had been designed by his mother, whose desire had been to try and recreate the splendor of the Imperial Ballroom at one of her favorite buildings, the Dolmabahçe Palace in Istanbul. The floor was tiled with interlocking squares of Egyptian alabaster and porphyry imported from Pergamon, the walls were mahogany, lined with gilded mirrors that reached from floor to ceiling, inset with massive baroque windows that opened onto balconies overlooking the Imperial g
ardens. But the pièce de résistance was the roof, a trompe de l’oeil dome studded with exactly nine hundred and ninety-nine gleaming pieces of peerless Baccarat crystal, each buffed to a mirror sheen, so that it seemed to all those who looked up that they were staring down at themselves, down and up, up and down, seemingly twisting onwards towards infinity.
Upon entering the room, Sikander saw that Charan Singh, as always, had taken his instructions rather too literally. He had indeed made all the necessary preparations to keep the Maharaja’s guests entertained, exactly as ordered, because a banquet, it seemed, was currently in full swing. At the center of the room, a long table had been laid out, set with a dozen sterling silver place settings, and a steady stream of bearers came and went back and forth from the kitchen, delivering an impressive assortment of delicacies his harassed staff must have worked overtime to have ready at such short notice. Why, Sikander noticed with a grin, there was even a string quartet at hand, doing a fairly admirable job of playing what seemed like Liszt, but only slightly off-key.
His guests, sadly, did not seem to be having a particularly good time, with the exception of Miller, who raised a glass to Sikander and gave him a cheeky wink. Opposite him, Helene, who looked absolutely delightful draped in a sleek turquoise dress that left her shoulders bare, gazed up at him with pursed lips, as if to indicate how utterly bored she was. Next to her, an unfamiliar face greeted the Maharaja, a stranger who was watching him with a blandly neutral expression that could have been anything from curiosity to disapproval. He was an older man, dressed in a dusty black safari jacket, rigid with the unbending posture of an ex-army man. His head was entirely bald, as if he shaved it daily, and he had a hawkish nose large enough to rival the Maharaja’s own, giving him a touch of the Inquisition.
This must be the famous Simpson, Sikander guessed, the hatchet man from Simla mentioned by Ismail Chacha. Frankly, he was not what the Maharaja had expected. He had imagined a bureaucrat, a lick-spittle accustomed to manning a desk, but there was nothing soft about this man. On the contrary, everything about him conveyed inflexibility, a severity of character that Sikander mistrusted at first sight.
