by Arjun Gaind
In India, the state of affairs was not much different. While wagering was, of course, forbidden within the cantonments, the English authorities had been quick to realise that soldiers needed to indulge themselves, to blow off steam, so to speak, and as a result, wherever a British encampment was to be found, a host of bordellos and gaming dens could be sure to be doing a roaring trade nearby.
In the case of the Durbar, the planning commission had been quite stymied as to how to manage such extracurricular activities. With such a large number of visitors gathered in the same place, close to a hundred thousand people, it was certain that the festive atmosphere would attract more than the usual number of charlatans, gamblers, and swindlers. There was obviously no way to prevent it, but the authorities had deemed that if such goings-on were permitted to occur openly in public, it would be offensive to Their Majesties. As a result, a Viceregal Proclamation had been widely circulated, prohibiting all gambling, with the exception of backgammon, within the Durbar camps, and banning the consumption of liquor except at mess halls and clubs.
All this edict had managed to achieve was the creation of a shadowy enclave some miles to the south, very near the Ajmeri Gate. It was here that the Cimmerian arts of dusk were being practised and purveyed by the whores and cardsharps who had set up shop and were doing brisk business catering to the many visitors who had come from far and wide to view the King’s grand State entry. This was what locals had come to describe picturesquely as the Kala Bazaar, the Market of the Night.
It was to this haven of disrepute that Major Campbell led Sikander.
Their destination was tucked away deep at the heart of the maze of gullies adjoining the Chandni Chowk. Here an enterprising Jew named Roger Solomon, once a waiter at White’s in London, had rented a kothi and founded his own version of a British gentleman’s establishment, the curiously named Golden Bough.
Though dusk had long since descended, the streets of Shahjahanabad were still crowded. A festive mood seemed to have seized the city in anticipation of the King’s arrival. Every corner, every chowk, was teeming with people, a restless throng of soldiers and street-vendors and tourists and traders and hawkers and pickpockets. As a result, they were forced to abandon the Standard not far from the Lahori Gate, and make the last quarter mile of their journey on foot.
From the outside, the Golden Bough seemed innocuous, a rickety two-storey building that looked like it would collapse if buffeted by a stiff breeze. The only remarkable detail about the place was its door, painted a garish shade of red, as carmine as a traje de flamenca.
“This is where we will find the Guppies,” Major Campbell said. “I am sure of it.”
Inside, Sikander could not help but be a touch disappointed by what greeted him. He had expected a tavern-like atmosphere, but this place was as squalid as a dockyard hell, with sawdust floors and bare brick walls and dim lighting that did little to hide the general air of disrepute. A musty fug hung in the air, the atmosphere thick with cheap tobacco smoke. There was no furniture. Instead, the patrons, who were largely native sepoys, squatted on their haunches, shouting and arguing raucously each time a pair of dice was rolled.
“Follow me,” Campbell said, and elbowed through the crowd, threading his way toward an exit at the back of the room.
“Through here,” he explained, pulling back the thick curtain.
Now this is more like it, Sikander thought as he stepped through and found himself standing in a handsomely appointed lounge. Someone had gone to a great deal of trouble to try to recreate the very epitome of a Victorian gentleman’s club, one of those exalted establishments surrounding Hanover Square. The floors were carpeted with Turkish rugs, the walls festooned with imitation Gobelin tapestries, and overhead, a mural depicted what seemed to be Zeus, Poseidon, and Hades casting lots in the heavens.
There was, of course, a bar, an oak-paneled expanse in one corner, but most of the space was dominated by an array of gaming tables. On the right, they were dedicated to backgammon and hazard, but on the left, there were several spirited card games under way, mainly whist and faro.
“There they are!” Campbell whispered, coming up beside him. He made a faint bob of his head, nodding toward a private table in the far corner of the room, tucked away behind a birchwood-and-silk screen.
Sikander crossed to the bar, seeking a better vantage point.
“Do you know how to make a Bijou?” He asked the bartender, a tall Goan with a slim moustache and a receding hairline.
“I am afraid not, sir,” the man replied.
“Take three equal parts of Gordon’s, Cinzano, and Chartreuse and mix them up well. Stirred, not shaken, and serve it up in a coupe glass with a twist of lemon.”
“Very good, sir!” He turned to the Captain. “And for you?”
Captain Campbell grinned, as if to suggest he admired Sikander’s style. “I will have the same.”
Leaving the bartender to get to work, Sikander transferred his attention back to the Englishmen surrounding the table Campbell had indicated, studying them intently. They seemed little more than boys, really, children play-acting at being all grown up, laughing and braying and having a gay old time without a care in the world.
“What can you tell me about them?”
“The tall one is the leader.” Campbell nodded at the man seated at the center of the table, a lean, elegantly proportioned fellow with a supercilious expression on his face that made Sikander dislike him immediately. “George Battenberg, the King’s second cousin. Rather a pompous sort, really. He thinks very highly of himself, and is said to be somewhat of a genius, a fact he is only too quick to tell you. And, oh yes, he has quite a collection of vintage erotica, I believe.”
“Now how could you possibly know that?”
“I have found that even the wildest of rumors, sir,” Campbell retorted, “are almost always based on a kernel of truth. Anyway, on to the large fellow next to him, hanging on his every word…” He pointed at a broad-shouldered specimen standing in Battenberg’s shadow. “That is George Cholmondeley, the Earl of Rocksavage. He is here as one of the Viceroy’s aides, but spends most of his time playing tennis or chasing after officers’ wives. Curiously enough, he is a bit of an expert on penmanship, I have heard.”
“The Corinthian standing behind him...” Campbell looked at the young man leaning against a nearby pillar, a handsome fellow wearing an expression of practiced boredom. “...is Boy Hardinge, the Viceroy’s elder son. A smart fellow, but the only things he cares about are the cut of his suit, and who is buying his next drink. A disappointment to his father, in more ways than one.”
“Those two,” he said indicating a similar-looking pair standing off to the left, both with matching pale hair, both wearing lieutenant’s bars, “are the Pelham brothers, the sons of the Earl of Yarborough. The one on the right is Sackville, a good fellow, really, though he drinks rather too much. The other is the elder, Charles. He was just married recently, and if rumor is to be believed, the wife is quite a shrew, which is why he spends every waking hour either at the club or here, gambling away his dowry.”
“The bulldog on the left is Grenville Peek.” Campbell pointed at a squat fellow with a bushy unkempt moustache. “He’s a bit of a nonentity. Said to be a hell of a soldier, a proper Wellesley in the making, but lately, he has been reduced to being a hanger-on with the swish set. A nasty specimen after a couple of drinks, from what I have heard, who likes to use his fists as often as his tongue.”
“And that,” Campbell hissed, indicating the last of the crowd, a tall, ugly goblin with protuberant ears and uneven teeth and the look of a rat, wearing the insignia of the Skinner’s Horse regiment, “is the infamous Fruity Metcalfe. He is the worst kind of sycophant, very chummy with the horse and hound set, makes sure he shows up wherever the action is. They say there isn’t a sin in the Good Book that old Fruity has not mastered.”
Camp
bell turned to Sikander, giving him a hesitant smile. “Be very careful, Your Majesty. I know these chaps. They have no fear of consequences, of recriminations. They believe themselves untouchable, and have never been taught otherwise. That makes them very, very dangerous. Do you understand?”
Sikander was curiously touched by his concern.
“Don’t you worry, Campbell. The day I cannot handle a bunch of overbred brats, I shall abdicate my throne and go into exile.”
The bartender chose that moment to return with their cocktails. Sikander picked up the proffered coupe and took a hesitant sip. Campbell aped him, his eyes widening with amazed delight.
“That’s bloody astonishing.”
“It’s not bad,” Sikander agreed. “It could use a touch more of the bitters, but a very passable effort. Well done!” He generously tipped the bartender a golden coin, and the man’s face split into a beatific smile.
“Come,” Sikander said, taking another sip of his cocktail, “let us go and introduce ourselves.”
He led the way, coming to a stop a few meters away from the table. By the look of it, the Guppies were in the middle of a spirited round of faro. Judging by the heap of coins stacked in front of him, it was Battenberg who was winning, and by a sizable margin. But was that luck, or skill, or something altogether more iniquitous at play? Rather than barging in like a rhinoceros, Sikander spared a moment to study the game. It did not take him long to comprehend exactly what was going on. The dealer, who was the gargoyle named Metcalfe, was rigging the deck, making sure that Battenberg always got the best cards. He was actually bloody good at it, skilled enough at sleight of hand not to get caught dealing from the bottom of the deck, but Sikander, with his trained eye, saw it soon enough. What he did not see, though, was any sign that Battenberg knew what was going on, which made him wonder if it was Battenberg who was cheating, or Metcalfe who was letting him win.
Without asking permission, Sikander pulled out a chair and sat down at the table. The Guppies all reacted differently. The leader, Battenberg, offered him a cool grin, while the brow of his large shadow, Cholmondeley, darkened with furious outrage. Boy Hardinge looked him up and down, before letting out a curt sniff. The Pelham brothers looked equally offended, and Grenville Peek merely glared at him, an evaluative frown, like a soldier surveying the enemy for the first time. As for Fruity Metcalfe, he never stopped smiling. It was rather unnerving, but Sikander noticed his eyes remained cold, as hard as agates.
“Hello, gentlemen. I was hoping we could have a bit of a chat.”
“Oh, go away, Blackie,” Battenberg exclaimed, not even bothering to look up from his cards, “and take the bastard with you!”
“Ha ha!” Metcalfe chimed in, “Blackie, Blackie, be gone.”
Immediately, a spate of sniggers broke out, and the others took up the chant.
“Blackie, Blackie, be gone. Blackie, Blackie, be gone.”
Sikander was a hard man to embarrass, but as the laughter spread around the room like wildfire, he felt his cheeks heating up. Almost all the people here were white, and they joined in readily, eager to humble any Indian, even a Maharaja. It occurred to him just how far out of his depth he was. It was different investigating a case in Rajpore, where he was as good as a god, but here, at the Durbar, he was very nearly insignificant, a minnow amidst an ocean of sharks. Even each of these guppies, little fish though they were, could swallow him whole, a realization which left him with rather a quandary. How could he question them if they were not afraid of him in the least? How could he intimidate them? Where was the leverage?
“Enough!” Captain Campbell snarled. His voice was commanding enough to bring an end to the caterwauling, silencing the Guppies immediately.
“This is the Maharaja of Rajpore, not some chammar. You shall treat him with respect, is that clear?”
“Ah, the royal bastard speaks!” It was Fruity Metcalfe who spoke up. He offered Sikander a tight smirk. “Has he told you his tragic story yet? Our friend the Captain likes to pretend he has noble blood, but I think he is a charlatan. His father is probably a poxy sailor, and his mother a tuppeny whore, haw haw.”
Campbell’s jaw tensed, the tendons clenching so tightly that Sikander could hear them creak. Sikander could not help but feel sorry for him, accompanied by the briefest flicker of admiration. Any other man would have turned tail and run, but Campbell stood his ground, as indomitable as Gordon of Khartoum.
“Noble blood or not, I promise you, if you do not do exactly as Mr. Singh says, I will give each and every one of you a hiding you won’t soon forget. Is that clear?”
“You can’t talk to us like that,” the Pelham brothers exclaimed almost in unison.
“You insolent dog,” Cholmondeley growled, clenching his fists. “I ought to give you a whipping.”
“You can certainly try, boy,” Campbell gave him a cold smile, “but I think you will find I am not quite as easy to trounce as the fags at Eton.”
“Hold on, lads.” Boy Hardinge stepped forward, trying his very best to seem menacing, but the best he could manage was to look somewhat constipated. “Do you know who my father is?”
“Oh, I do, indeed. As it happens, I met with him not one hour ago.” Sikander gave the boy an affable smile. “In fact, now that you mention it, I cannot help but wonder how he would react if it was brought to his attention that his son, his heir, has taken to patronizing places like this.”
Boy Hardinge paled, his lip quivering.
“Just who do you think you are, eh?” Grenville Peek, who had maintained a taciturn silence so far, came to his rescue.
“Oh, I am a veritable nobody, just a minor king from a tiny principality of which I am sure you have never heard.” Sikander let out a theatrical sigh. “I am neither as rich as the Nizam, nor quite as influential as the Gaekwad. However, if there is one thing that makes me interesting, it is that I own shares in, what is it? Four…no, five newspapers.” His smile widened. “Can you imagine the scandal, Mr. Peek, is it, if word was to leak out that you gentlemen like to lurk around brothels and gambling halls? A sternly worded missive, I think, about how deplorable it is that the young hopefuls of the Empire have been corrupted here at the Durbar.”
Pausing, Sikander glanced straight at Battenberg, who had put down his cards and was now watching him intently.
“I know, it may not seem like such a dreadful thing, given how permissive times have become, but coupled with the King’s impending arrival, and with all the press wallahs lurking around? I doubt His Majesty would take kindly to having the limelight usurped from him on the eve of his crowning moment, so to speak. What do you think, Mr. Battenberg? He is your cousin, after all. You know him far better than I.”
“Damn you!” Metcalfe vaulted to his feet, his face darkening to match his jacket as he slammed his hands down so hard that the table almost gave way. “How dare you threaten the Prince so openly, you cur?”
“Calm down, Fruity.” Battenberg grinned for the first time, and gave Sikander a fleeting salute. “Well played, Mr. Singh! Well played, indeed. Go on then, ask your questions.”
Sikander leaned forward. “I believe you gentlemen enjoyed quite a performance yesterday, a private show by a nautch girl at the King-Emperor’s camp.”
He let his eyes play across the faces of each of the boys in turn. They all reacted quite differently. Cholmondeley’s brows beetled with suspicion, and the elder Pelham brother sucked in a guilty breath. The younger Pelham and Grenville-Peek both seemed somewhat embarrassed, while Fruity Metcalfe let out a slow, shuddering breath, before sinking back down onto his chair without another word. As for Boy Hardinge, he looked troubled, even wary, as if he was worried by Sikander’s line of questioning.
Only Battenberg remained calm, quite as emotionless as a mannequin.
“And what business is that of yours?” he riposted. “Is this a professional interest, or a
personal one?”
Sikander smiled. Battenberg’s reputation for cleverness was well earned, it seemed. It was a fine question, clearly intended to draw him out. Sadly, it also betrayed the boy’s greatest weakness, his inexperience. It had taken Sikander a lifetime to learn that sometimes the key to winning any battle of wits was to hold one’s tongue, and that was precisely what he chose to do, watching the boys once again, letting his eyes drift from one to the next, wondering which of them would be the first to crack this time around.
To his bemusement, it was Boy Hardinge who piped up.
“I arranged it.” He shook his head shamefacedly. “I overheard my father talking about the girl, that she had been gifted to His Highness and was being lodged at the Imperial Camp. I mentioned it to the others, and we decided we wanted to see what the fuss was all about.”
“Cost a pretty penny, let me tell you,” Grenville-Peek added. “Sadly, it turned out to be quite boring, really, rather a damp squib.”
The younger Pelham, Sackville, nodded eagerly. “She was a beauty, all right, but other than that, it was a bloody awful waste of time. Frankly, I didn’t care much for the dancing, all that heaving and flailing about and eye-blinking. And that godawful music!” He shivered. “What a caterwauling, like they were strangling a bag full of cats!”
“Hear hear!” his brother piped in. “And not an inch of skin on display.” He let out a horsey laugh. “The silly bint wouldn’t even have her kit off, no matter how much lucre we offered her.”
“Ha ha! You tried hard enough,” Cholmondeley chirped, “didn’t you, Charlie? Any more, and you’d be a damned rapist!”
“You forced yourself on her?” Sikander’s voice grew so cold it was almost brittle.
“Oh, nothing like that! I just thought it would be fun if she would show us a bit of tit. Ain’t that what these dancing girls are supposed to do? Anyway, she wasn’t having any of it, and stamped right off, the uppity slag.”
