A Very Pukka Murder

by Arjun Gaind

  “The reason, I realized, was really quite simple. The Major and the Captain were not friends at all. Major Russell was not capable of friendship. No, to him, Fletcher was just another pawn to be used, to be manipulated, as was his habit. However, poor Captain Fletcher only realized this fact much too late.”

  He looked at the Captain pityingly.

  “There is an old saying, isn’t there, that a scorpion cannot change his nature? You asked the Major for assistance in persuading Simla to grant you the promotion for which you were so eager. You actually thought he would help you, but it never even occurred to you that there was no way he would let you match him in rank.”

  “God,” Fletcher hissed, his voice bitter with rancor, “but you love the sound of your own voice, don’t you?”

  Jardine let out a snigger, which strangled in his throat when Sikander shot a look of withering contempt in his direction.

  “You are lucky, Captain,” he said coldly, “that I am a civilized man. Were it another prince in my place, and you would most likely find yourself with your tongue cut out for such blatant insolence.”

  “You dare to threaten me, an English officer, in public?” Fletcher roared. “Do you see? Do you all see the nerve of this popinjay?”

  “Behave yourself, Mr. Fletcher. You are my guest. Please do not compel me do something I will regret later.”

  His tone was conversational, almost distant, but that only made the threat all that more chilling. Fletcher started to open his mouth, no doubt to argue, to call the Maharaja’s bluff, but Mr. Simpson chose that moment to cluck his tongue rather ostentatiously, as if to warn the man to mind his manners.

  Abashed, the Captain hesitated. His brow bristled with fury, but he showed enough good sense to bite down firmly on his lower lip.

  “That’s much better. Now where was I? Ah yes, so much for motive. As you can see, our dear Captain most assuredly had a legitimate reason to want Major Russell dead. And then of course there was the small matter of the wine, which I was able to establish originated with you, thus giving you plenty of opportunities to taint it with strychnine.”

  “I already explained that….”

  Sikander silenced him with a wave of one hand. “Control yourself, Captain! I just said that you looked guilty, but that does not mean I believe it. Much as I would love to put the blame squarely on your shoulders, the reason I was forced to doubt you was the very same reason why I discounted Gurung Bahadur. Quite simply, it was a matter of temperament. Just like the Gurkha, you are a martial man, a man of action, and as such, I do not believe it is in your nature to choose such a pernicious path as poison. I am sad to report I do not believe you are our killer.”

  Sikander shook his head, feigning disappointment as the final course was trundled out, a wooden cart laden with a crystal platter of very smelly Stilton and a salver of wilted lettuce and saltine crackers, accompanied by several snifters of fine cognac.

  “I seem to have run out of suspects,” he said, looking at each person at the table in turn, until finally his eyes came to settle on Jane. “Or have I?”

  “There was another person in Rajpore who had equal, if not more reason than all of you, to despise Major Russell. Another victim who had been hurt even more gravely by his proclivity for preying on women.

  “You, Jane, if anyone can testify to the Major’s cruelty, it is you. Dear, fragile Jane! I never suspected you, not for a heartbeat. I mean, why would I? You came so very close to losing your own life that it made no sense to think of you as anything but a victim. And then there was the fact that of all the people in this room, you seemed the most stricken by his passing. That led me to wonder if you were involved with him in some way, but I was mistaken, wasn’t I?

  “I misinterpreted your sorrow as grief, when the truth could not have been more contrary. It was not sorrow, but rather guilt. You did not love the Major. You despised him, and with good reason.”

  He frowned. “You were his daughter, were you not?”

  The Englishwoman responded to this accusation with a gasp that was more resignation than bemusement.

  “You have me, sir.” She looked at Sikander sadly. “Yes, he was indeed my father.”

  This affirmation was followed by a crescendo of further gasps, loudest amongst them Jardine.

  “I surmised as much,” Sikander said. “It took me longer than usual to see it, but then, when Miller from the Gazette recounted a story that the Major supposedly jilted a woman when he came out to India, leaving her with child, I managed to put two and two together. That woman was your mother, I presume?”

  Jane nodded, just the faintest bob of her head, as if she were too tired to hide the truth any longer.

  “She was always talking about him, about how wonderful he had been, how brave and how heroic. She never stopped loving him, never believed he had deserted her, till the day she died. She was convinced he would send for her, even as she took her last breath.”

  Jane’s shoulders slumped. “Truthfully, I never thought I would meet him. I didn’t even know he was here when I came out to India, and once I entered the convent, I put him from my mind. But then,” she groaned, “fate intervened. The sisters came here to Rajpore, and I with them, and there he was. It was like God himself wanted our paths to cross. I know it was. That was why I turned my back on the Church, and decided to stay here.”

  “But why become his housekeeper? Why didn’t you tell him who you were outright?”

  She shook her head. “I wasn’t sure what I wanted to do. I was scared, terrified that he would rebuff me. And I was worried that I could have been mistaken, that maybe he was not my father, after all. But most of all, I wanted to wait, to get to know him before I decided to reveal my identity, to find out why he did what he had done to my mother. It was a mistake, of course. I should never have stayed.”

  Sikander gave her a sympathetic look. He could understand the rest—the more time she had spent with the Major, the more she had come to dislike him. It must have been excruciating, to find out that your father was a cruel, avaricious man, not to mention a sadist and a deviant. Frankly, it was a wonder she had not killed him earlier.

  “What really happened that night?”

  Jane bit her lip. “He was very angry when he came back from the ball, more infuriated than I had ever seen him, not to mention terribly drunk.” Her voice wavered, thick with emotion. “I tried to calm him down, but then… he forced himself on me.”

  The words choked in her throat. Mrs. Bates groaned, holding up one hand to her mouth in dismay, realizing perhaps how close she had come to the same fate. Jardine, Lowry, and Captain Fletcher all averted their eyes in shame, and Gurung Bahadur’s grim features contorted with fury, remembering what the Major had done to his sister. As for Simpson, his face showed the first real glimmer of emotion Sikander had seen from the man, a grimace of disgust as he ground his teeth together with barely repressed outrage.

  Helene rose from her chair gracefully and came to stand behind Jane, resting one gentle hand on her shoulder. It was a humble gesture but it seemed to give the Englishwoman the strength to carry on with her story.

  “When he was done with me, he offered me money, like I was a common whore.” A boneless shudder wracked through her slender body. “That was when I…I broke down, and it all came pouring out. I told him everything, all about my mother, and who I really was.”

  The Maharaja shook his head. His heart went out to Jane. The poor, broken thing! How could she ever recover from this? The Major had not just stolen her innocence, he had ruined her for life. How could she ever forget what had been done to her, and that too by her own father? Part of him wished the Major was still alive, so he could have the man arrested and put on trial for his crimes. Another more, savage part wished he could have killed the man himself, cut him to pieces, and made him suffer as he had enjoyed making others. Wincing, he struggled to fi
nd something to say to Jane, any words of comfort, but nothing came to mind. It was too late for that now. The time for words was long past. “And what did the Major say when you made this revelation?” he asked softly.

  Jane moaned, as if he had slapped her. “He…he laughed at me,” she murmured, her voice so low it was almost inaudible. “He called me a liar and a whore and told me that I was dismissed from his service. He told me that I was to leave Rajpore by the time he woke the next morning, or he would have me arrested and locked up for being a thief.”

  “So, you poisoned him?”

  “Yes!” She said matter-of-factly, as if she were talking about what was being served for supper. “It seemed only fair. My mother took a massive dose of poison when she killed herself. That was what he deserved, exactly the same fate.”

  Her voice hardened, and so did her face, growing bleak. “I had already come to the decision to take my own life. The shame of what he had done to me was too much to endure, and I could not bear the thought of going on.” Her voice remained level, even as she made this macabre confession, her expression as blank as a statue. “I went to the kitchen and found the bottle of wine that Mr. Lowry had brought for the Major. I uncorked it and poured myself a glass. I knew there was an old vial of rat poison in the store room, and I rummaged about until I uncovered it.”

  Of course, Sikander thought, that was where the strychnine had come from. It was a common enough ingredient in most brands of rodenticide, and in a large enough dose, it could certainly be fatal to humans.

  “I returned to the kitchen and added a generous dose to my glass, and was just about to drink it when the Major rang for me. I don’t know why, perhaps it was sheer habit, but I went back upstairs to see what he wanted. Maybe some part of me hoped that he would recant his earlier words, that he would accept the truth and embrace me, but instead, he threatened me.” Her words caught in her throat, choking to a mumble. “He said it was my fault, that I was nothing more than a pitiable spinster who had seduced him, who had led him astray. And then, he tried to buy me off, by offering me a very substantial sum if I would leave India and swear never to speak of what had occurred.”

  She ground her teeth together, so audibly that it was unnerving. “The gall of the man! He showed not a hint of remorse, neither for what he had done to my mother, nor for what he had done to me. I knew then I could not kill myself until I had first killed him.”

  “What happened next?”

  “I accepted his offer and suggested we share a drink to seal the bargain. Then I returned to the kitchen, and emptied the remainder of the poison into the bottle of sherry. I took it up to him, along with my own glass. We drank together, and the Major raised a toast to me, calling me a very sensible woman. I left him up there and came back down to the parlor. It did not take very long for the poison to take effect. I sat there and listened as he began to scream, as he raved, begging for my help, but I didn’t lift a finger.”

  Her voice was composed, almost relieved, as if this confession had liberated her. “What I cannot understand is why the poison did not work on me. I should be dead as well, shouldn’t I?”

  Sikander leaned forward and offered Jane a mournful smile. “I think I can explain that. The rat poison, was it pellets, or a powder?”

  “It was a white, grainy powder.”

  “And how many spoonfuls did you add to your glass?”

  “Two, I think, or three, I cannot quite remember.”

  “Was it teaspoons, or tablespoons?”

  “Teaspoons, the same we use for sugar.”

  “There you have it,” Sikander exclaimed, snapping his fingers. “Obviously the dose you took was much too mild to kill you, not immediately at least. No, while three teaspoons may be enough to kill a rat, all it did to a woman your size and weight was cause you to fall into a stupor, and luckily, as providence would have it, I arrived just in the nick of time to rescue you.”

  “Why? Why did you have to save me?” Jane groaned. “Why didn’t you just let me die?”

  With that exclamation, her composure finally cracked. She leaned forward, hiding her face in her hands as she began to weep soundlessly, entirely overcome by despair.

  Both the Munshi and the Gurkha quailed, profoundly uncomfortable at witnessing such intimate candor, particularly from a memsahib. This embarrassment was reflected upon the faces of Jardine and Mr. Simpson as well, who seemed unsure of how to react to such a horrible tale. As for Mrs. Bates, she looked about ready to burst into tears herself. Lowry had the grace to look ashamed, appalled that he had never realized the depths of his beloved Major’s depravity, and next to him, the Captain’s face blanched pale with regret, wishing perhaps that he had been able to rescue Jane, for whom Sikander knew he cared deeply, from such a dreadful fate. His lips opened and closed soundlessly, as the bluff soldier struggled to find something to say to her, before finally giving up and averting his gaze, unable to hide his obvious despair.

  Like a patient wracked by a seizure, the Englishwoman continued to tremble, her thin frame wracked by silent paroxysms of pain. Helene tried to comfort her, but to no avail. That was when Sikander decided to take matters into his own hands. Silently, he rose and crossed over to the young Englishwoman. Helene gave him a questioning look, before reluctantly stepping aside to give him enough space so that he could sink down on one knee next to her.

  “I am sorry, Jane. What happened to you, to some extent it is my fault. I should have recognized what the Major was. I could have saved you, but I failed.”

  Gently, as carefully as if she were made of glass, he reached out and turned her face towards him, until he was staring straight into her enormous, anguished eyes.

  “If there is one thing I am certain of in this case, it is that you deserve a better hand than what life has dealt you.” He gave her a comforting smile. “Do you remember the promise I made to you? That I would take care of you?”

  In spite of his disdain for physical intimacy, he took out his handkerchief and reached out, wiping her face clean with one corner, an almost paternal gesture.

  “I want you to go with my man here. He will take you back to your room, where you will pack a bag. He will then see you to one of my automobiles which shall take you to the Railway Station. You are booked on the two o’clock mail train to Calcutta, where I have taken the liberty of getting you a first-class cabin on the P&O steamer, Hibernia, which is bound for Australia by way of Singapore.”

  He nodded toward Charan Singh who grinned and stepped forward to offer Jane a silver salver upon which lay a bulging manila envelope.

  “You shall find all the necessary travel documents in there, along with five hundred pounds in cash, as well as a letter to my banker in Singapore. He will provide you with a draft for a further thousand pounds, which you can encash when you arrive in Sydney.”

  Jane did not take the envelope at first. She gazed up at Sikander, utterly stunned, her eyes filled with turmoil.

  “Why are you doing this?” she asked as surprise faded to suspicion. “Why are you trying to help me?”

  “I made a promise to take care of you, Jane, and Sikander Singh always keeps his word.” He nodded at her, to urge her to trust him. She hesitated, swiveling her head to look up at Helene, who offered a kindly smile, as if to reassure her that the Maharaja meant her no harm.

  It was this little gesture that seemed to do the trick, and Jane reached out for the envelope, holding it warily, as if she suspected it were booby-trapped.

  “Thank…Thank you.”

  “I want you to make a new start,” Sikander said. “Forget the Major. Forget India. Leave it all behind you, and start over. Buy a small house and settle down. Can you do that much for me?”

  “I…” Her eyes welled with emotion once more, not misgiving this time, but rather gratitude. “I will try.”

  Jardine, who had been watching this scene unfold
with a bewildered look on his face, as if he could not quite comprehend what was going on, finally chose that moment to speak up.

  “Hie there! What do you think you’re doing? She’s a murderer. She killed the Major.”

  Sikander turned to the Superintendent, and Helene came to stand behind him. She patted his shoulder, looking absurdly proud of him, and he took one of her hands in his own, bringing it briefly to his lips to kiss her palm, enjoying the delicate ivory smell of her skin.

  “Is she, Mr. Jardine? Are you sure of that? I mean, just yesterday, you were convinced the Major committed suicide.”

  “But you just said…”

  “Ah yes, my theory! Certainly it is an interesting take on the whole affair, but unfortunately, there is one major flaw in my reasoning.” He grinned, baring his teeth like a jackal. “As I said earlier, Superintendent, I haven’t a shred of evidence. Thanks to Mr. Lowry, the Major’s corpse has been cremated, and the incriminating bottle disposed of.” He held up his hands, as if to signify his helplessness. “As a result, we have no substantial proof, and all we are left with are my conjectures, which frankly don’t amount to much. After all, I am a well-known eccentric and a native to boot! I can’t imagine my testimony would hold up in any court of law.”

  “This…this is preposterous. She must be arrested immediately.” Jardine’s voice was as shrill as a child throwing a tantrum. “She can’t just walk out of here.”

  He gazed imploringly at Simpson, who in turn gave Sikander a stiff glare. The Maharaja glowered straight back at the man from Simla, challenging him to question his conclusions, daring him to reject them. For a long time, Simpson did not speak, frowning ever so slightly, his fingers drumming against the tabletop, a staccato tympani that betrayed his ambivalence. You did not have to be a detective to see that he was struggling to make up his mind. It had to be difficult for him, for any Englishman really, to decide to trust an Indian, especially someone with Sikander’s picaresque reputation. That certainly explained why he looked disturbed, his stiff face distorted by an expression of uncertainty.