by Arjun Gaind
Helene confirmed his suspicions just a moment later.
“This is Captain Simpson,” she said. “He arrived from Simla this very afternoon, and when your unexpected invitation came, I thought it best to bring him along.”
Rather than offering a barrage of pleasantries, the man chose to wait, leaving it to Sikander to make the first move. Obviously, it was to be a playground staring-match. The man was testing his mettle, and Sikander was not about to back down.
Raising one brow, he held Simpson’s gaze, not passive but not aggressive either, two lions circling each other upon the veldt. This battle of wills went on and on, neither man willing to capitulate, until Helene let out a sigh of rampant disapproval, as if to convey how annoyed she was by their childish posturing.
“I have heard a great deal about you, Your Majesty,” Simpson said finally, breaking the deadlock after offering Helene an apologetic nod. His deep, disconcerting bass gave nothing away, not a hint of what he was truly thinking.
“God,” Sikander replied with a shudder, “don’t believe a word! All lies, I swear it, slander spread by my enemies. Really, I am a very boring individual.”
The man responded with just the slightest tremor of his lips.
“Oh, I doubt that, sir. I have a feeling everything they say about you in Simla is entirely accurate.”
It was not a threat, but still…Sikander found himself more than a little worried. It looked like Ismail Chacha had been right on the money about Mr. Simpson. From the looks of him, he was going to be a formidable opponent, not at all the biddable pushover he had been hoping for.
Offering the man from Simla one last wary nod, Sikander turned to greet his other guests. To the left, the Indians waited: Munshi Ram Dev, who cradled his broken limb shamefacedly, now encased in a plaster, and by his side, the Gurkha, Gurung, who held his gaze proudly as Sikander approached. Both men were flanked by uniformed guards, and their presence managed to draw quite a few inquiring looks from everyone else, not just for their woebegone appearance, but also because they were shackled to each other.
To the right were the English. Nearest was Jane, wan-faced, dressed in a black dress that hung loosely on her slender shoulders. Sikander guessed it was a gift from Helene, who was somewhat more generously proportioned than the young Englishwoman. He gave her a brief smile, which melted away as soon as he spied Lieutenant Bates seated next to her, in uniform now, bristling with hostility but possessed, this once, with enough sense to hold his tongue. By his side, his comely wife avoided Sikander’s scrutiny, keeping her eyes firmly downcast. This trepidation was mirrored on the face of Magistrate Lowry, who was seated a few metres away, watching the Maharaja warily. Next to him, Captain Fletcher was fuming visibly, his face so red that he looked about ready to combust. And last of all, Sikander’s gaze intersected with that of Superintendent Jardine, who sprang immediately to his feet.
“Well, what is this dire emergency for which you have had us all dragged here, Mr. Singh?”
“Yes,” Lowry chimed in, “your man insisted that there was an important message from Simla and that we should come to the Palace immediately.”
Even as he said that, Fletcher cut the Magistrate off, giving Sikander a scornful scowl. “What is all the fuss about then? Go on, enlighten us.”
Sikander’s response to this barrage of questions was a disarming shrug. “I fear that my man has not been entirely honest with you. The truth is that there really is no emergency. It was just a pretext to gather you all here.”
This confession elicited a storm of angry outbursts.
Jardine, looking confused, like a child confronted by a mathematical equation he cannot decipher: “I demand an explanation immediately.”
Lowry, jowls wobbling with affront:“This is an outrage. Preposterous!”
Fletcher, frothing at the mouth like a rabid bulldog: “How dare you? Who do you think you are?”
Bates, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down with indignation: “You have gone too bloody far this time.”
Their voices jarred and clashed, rising to a deafening din, until at last, it was Simpson of all people, who silenced them.
“Enough!” he exclaimed, jumping to his feet, his commanding bass muting this spate of objections. “Calm down, all of you!”
He gave Sikander a nod, as if to inform him he had his support, if only for the time being. “I am sure the Maharaja has a good reason for this deception,” he said, inviting Sikander to explain himself.
“Oh, yes!” the Maharaja replied, crossing to the head of the table and sinking into the chair that Charan Singh held back for him. “The reason I have asked you all here is to inform you that I have finally managed to solve the Major’s murder.”
This declaration was greeted by a stunned silence.
The bearers chose that moment to begin the dinner service, which was to be â la russe, it seemed, and swept forward to place silver salvers in front of each guest. With a flourish, off came the covering cloches to reveal the opening course, a platter of Oysters Katharine, the very sight of which made Sikander want to be sick. Where in God’s name had the chef managed to find oysters in January, and that too in the middle of the Himalayas? He shook his head and waved the plate away, turning his attention instead to the paired wine, an airy Chablis which, unlike the oysters, was perfect for the weather.
Taking a sip, Sikander sat back, enjoying being the cynosure of attention. He gave Helene a contented smile, in response to which she rolled her eyes, knowing only too well how much he enjoyed theatricality. And why not? Sikander thought indulgently. This was his favorite part of any mystery, the summation, the denouement, the consummation. Why, in some ways, it was even more satisfying than sex.
“Well?” It was Jardine who finally spoke up, as bullish as ever, “Spit it out. Who is the murderer then?”
“Patience, Mr. Jardine! I shall get to that in just a moment. First, let me begin by saying that this has been one of the most confusing cases I have ever encountered, a conundrum that very nearly managed to stump even my not inconsiderable powers of analysis.” He shrugged. “Much to my dismay, I found myself confronted by a dilemma most detectives never have to face. After my initial investigations, it became clear to me that I had altogether too many suspects.”
Sikander helped himself to another swallow of Chablis.
“There is a Latin maxim I like to consider when I judge a person’s guilt—Cui bono—‘Who stands to profit?’ Sadly, the answer to that question was even more perplexing. Every single one of you stood to gain from the Major’s death. All of you had a motive, each better than the last.”
He made a great show of pausing, and the bearers rushed forward to offer up the second course, a creamy soup à la Reine, Queen Victoria’s favorite. Sikander took one hesitant taste and wrinkled his nose. It was really quite dreadful, with far too much pepper and saffron for his liking, but the wine accompanying it was a decent Oloroso, he noted with an ironic grin, that he was only too pleased to sample.
“Faced with such a surfeit of suspects, I turned to the one thing that does not lie. The evidence, which in this case was the sample I had collected from the scene of the crime. Upon examining these fragments in my laboratory, I found that my initial suspicions had indeed been correct. The Major had been poisoned by rather a large dose of strychnine, which had been added to a bottle of Oloroso.”
“What on earth is Oh-loh-roh-so?” Jardine interjected.
“Oh, forgive me! I forgot what a dreadful barbarian you were, Mr. Jardine.” He held up his glass, its contents sparkling a molten cerise. “An Oloroso is a very fine sherry from Spain. It is exceedingly expensive and not often exported since it does not travel well, which makes it rather rare to find in India. In his youth, it seems, the Major had a marked weakness for spirits and had been known to partake of them to excess, a habit he curtailed some years ago and the very reas
on for his teetotaling. As it happens, his favorite spirit of choice was none other than sherry, particularly Manzanilla and Oloroso, the taste of which he acquired while serving in Travancore. How convenient then that I should find a bottle of exactly such a vintage at the scene of the crime! A lesser man might have written it off as a mere coincidence, but I do not believe in fortuity, and it occurred to me that perhaps this was the very substance that killed the Major. As it turns out, my tests revealed it was indeed contaminated by strychnine, which makes it our murder weapon beyond a doubt.”
He gave the Superintendent a despairing shrug.
“Before you ask, Mr. Jardine, there is no way I can corroborate that. My samples, you see, were depleted by my tests, and who knows where the bottle is now? Not to mention the fact that I cannot even verify if the Major actually even imbibed any of the poisoned wine, not without an autopsy to ascertain the contents of his stomach and bowels. Sadly, that is the one thing we cannot do, since contrary to my instructions, the Magistrate over there,” he pointed at Lowry, “has already ordered the Major’s remains to be cremated.
“As a result, I found myself quite stumped, an entirely new situation for me. For the first time in my life, I was at a loss, and no doubt that is how things would have remained if an utterly innocuous comment made by Mr. Miller had not caused everything to fall conveniently into place.”
Stretching the tension of the moment, he looked about him, milking it for all it was worth, until Helene finally broke in impatiently. “Enough prevarication, Sikander! Are you going to let us die of suspense, or are you going to reveal what you have uncovered?”
“Of course, chérie,” Sikander chuckled. “Forgive my dilly-dallying, but be patient just a while longer while I endeavor to explain my logic.
“I have always theorized that to be considered guilty, a suspect must be found culpable on two counts. First, motive. Why wish the Major dead? And second, opportunity. When and how was the dastardly scheme put into effect? A good detective must always strive to establish both of these things.”
“Let us consider the question of motive. As I said, all of you had reasonable reasons to despise Major Russell.”
He pointed towards the Gurkha, who remained impassive, fixing Sikander with a stony, unyielding glare.
“Take Gurung Bahadur for instance, the Major’s faithful syce. Do not be misled by his scarred countenance or his surly demeanor. This is no ordinary man. He is a war hero, a veritable Horatius, decorated not once but several times for conspicuous gallantry. What then could bring such a man to resort to murder? What could possibly cause him to give up his honor and take another man’s life?
“The answer, my friends, is revenge.” He paused, raising one hand to his chest. “What is that Shakespeare said in Hamlet… ‘O, from this time forth, My thoughts be bloody, or be nothing worth!’” Sikander smiled. “If anyone had a valid reason to want Major Russell dead, it was this man. Not five months ago, the Major had beaten a young woman, a whore at Mrs. Ponsonby’s establishment, most grievously. While she survived this assault, the unfortunate young woman was so horribly scarred by the experience that rather than live as a cripple, she chose to end her life.”
A collective gasp greeted this declaration, a resounding symphony of shock and dismay and disbelief.
“Yes,” Sikander nodded, “that is exactly how I felt when this dreadful story was brought to my attention. At first, I confess, I thought it a lie. I mean, the thought of our prudish Resident visiting houses of ill repute, it challenged the very limits of credulity. Could Major Russell really have been so perverse? Could he actually be so cruel, so savage as to beat a girl near to death?
“It saddens me to say it is all true, my friends. Every single word of it. As my investigation progressed, I discovered a great deal about the Major’s private life, each new revelation more horrifying and shocking than the next. Not only was he a habitual whore monger, but he had more brutal proclivities, passions that were so sickening that I am loath to speak of them in polite society. Let it suffice to say that he enjoyed inflicting pain upon those weaker than himself and it was in such wanton cruelty he found pleasure, especially when it came to his interactions with women.
“It was this very perversity that drove him to ravage that hapless young girl. However, what he did not know, what even I did not realize at first, was that she was none other than this Gurkha’s younger sister.
“You can imagine that when Gurung Bahadur found out what had befallen his sibling, he was enraged. His blood burned for revenge, and if there is one thing I have learned, it is best never to rouse a Gurkha’s fury, for there is nothing that will stop him once he is on the warpath, not until his wrath has been slaked by blood.”
He paused, glancing at the Gurkha almost admiringly. “So, motive he had aplenty, as well as ready access to the Major’s bungalow, which meant he could have easily found the opportunity to poison him. However, that was where I found myself on shaky ground. After all, what Gurkha would resort to poison? Not only is an unlikely choice for a soldier, but for a warrior raised in a society that values courage above all else, it would be so shameful as to be unimaginable. No, if the Major had been stabbed or decapitated, then perhaps this could be our man, but strychnine? That was exactly what I found difficult to accept, the thought of him taking such an insidious path, and that is what led me to dismiss him as a suspect, in spite of the mountain of circumstantial evidence arrayed against him.”
As he made this declaration, the soup was whisked away and replaced by the fish course, which seemed to be baked Dover Sole. Sikander winced. It certainly looked boot-like enough, as tough as leather. To his relief, it had been paired with a delightful Muscatelle, which vanished down his parched throat with an exquisite smoothness.
Turning his attention toward the Munshi, Sikander’s upper lip curled into a sneer. The man quailed, refusing to meet the Maharaja’s eyes, staring fixedly down at his hands as he wrung them with a mournful expression. His sparse pate glistened with sweat, betraying his nervousness.
“So, if not the syce, who could the killer be? My next suspect was the esteemed Munshi Ram Dev, who had the dubious privilege of being the Major’s vakeel.” Sikander clucked his tongue with disapproval. “When it was suggested that I investigate him, I balked at the possibility. It just did not seem likely to me that he could be a killer. I mean, just look at him. On the face of it, have you seem a more harmless-looking creature? But I warn you, do not be fooled by this innocuous exterior. Here is an even better example of how appearances can be deceiving. This man is a snake in the grass, a liar and a cheat, a swindler, and a badmash.”
With each successive word, the Munshi squirmed, growing ever more uneasy as the Maharaja flayed into him with no remorse.
“As I delved deeper into the Munshi’s activities, I uncovered that he had quite a profitable racket going, unbeknownst to us all. For some years now, he had been preying upon war widows, delaying their grants of land so that he could acquire the allotments for a pittance, the reprehensible scoundrel! I suppose I could blame the fact that he is a Marwari and being of such ilk, he could not resist the chance to make a quick profit. But then I found myself wondering, how could such flagrant skullduggery go on under the Major’s watchful eye? Could he truly have been so blind? It did not take long for me to realize it, but the answer was quite obvious. It was Major Russell who was the mastermind behind the whole scheme, and the Munshi was his willing pawn.”
Sikander frowned. “And there we have a motive! The Major as good as owned him, and no man, even a corrupt one, can tolerate being owned. No doubt as the Major’s requests became more and more egregious, the Munshi slowly began to realize that the only way he would ever be liberated from Major Russell’s clutches was if he got rid of the man, for once and for all.
“True, he had easy access to the Major’s household, even more so than the syce, which gave him ample opportunit
y. But that was the point where once again, doubt raised its unruly head. Time and again, as I reviewed the Munshi as a suspect, I found myself facing one persistent uncertainty. Why would he bite the very hand that fed him? I mean, he was turning a handsome profit working for Major Russell, both from the baksheesh he collected legitimately, as well as from his more nefarious activities. In addition, his reputation, his very standing in the Indian community was built on the foundation that he was the Major’s most trusted employee. Why would he endanger that? Why would he risk his position and his job?”
Sikander threw up his hands, as if in surrender. “As a result, you see, I came to the conclusion that the Munshi just did not fit the bill. He is a liar and a cheat and a charlatan, certainly, but not a murderer.”
Spreading his hands, as if to indicate his confusion, Sikander shifted in his seat, and the bearers took that interlude as the perfect moment to have the third course cleared. In came the entree, a game cock served on a bed of rice pilaf. It looked to be very palatable, the meat cooked to golden crispness and radiating a mouthwatering aroma of honey, but Sikander barely gave it a second glance, more interested in the rather sour Malbec Claret served alongside.
“So, you can only imagine my perplexity,” he continued. “Here we have two perfectly viable motives, but neither man quite seemed to fit the role of the Major’s murderer. Thankfully, I had a wealth of other suspects, all with equally strong reasons to wish the Major dead.
“The most obvious of them of course was young Lieutenant Bates.” At the mention of his name, the Lieutenant glowered at Sikander defiantly. “After all, was this not the very man who had a public spat with Major Russell, not twelve hours before the Resident turned up dead? Did they not almost come to fisticuffs, in front of more than a hundred witnesses?”
