Death at the Durbar

by Arjun Gaind

  “That she did!” Sackville nodded once more, in agreement. “And she wouldn’t even give us our money back. What a gyp!”

  “And you gentlemen left immediately after she departed?”

  “Yes,” Boy Hardinge retorted. “Fruity here had a line on a game of whist, and we decided it would be a better evening than watching all that nautch nonsense.”

  Battenberg, who had maintained a stoic silence, finally spoke up. “Well, not all of us. That colonel fellow stayed behind, didn’t he?”

  “What colonel fellow?”

  Battenberg glanced at Fruity Metcalfe, who was studiously staring down at the table, expertly shuffling and reshuffling a deck of cards with one hand.

  “Fruity brought him along. We had never seen him before. Who was he, Fruity?”

  Metcalfe gave Battenberg a pained look, as if to inquire if he really had to answer. He saw no sympathy there, and finally, after a defiant pause, his shoulders slumped, and he placed the cards on the table, before saying, “He’s a distant cousin of mine. In the employ of Mysore, I believe. He commands his irregular cavalry. Anyway, I bumped into him at the Officer’s Mess the day before yesterday, after a game of polo, and happened to mention the girl to him, and he insisted on attending the performance.” Once more, he offered Battenberg a wounded shrug. “What could I do? I had to let him tag along. How could I say no?”

  “And he stayed behind? Do you have any notion why?”

  “He said he wanted to talk to the girl,” Fruity Metcalfe said. “I guessed he probably wanted to try his luck with her, maybe proposition her for a bit of rough and tumble, which is why I didn’t object. None of us did,” he insisted, looking at his friends sulkily.

  “Say,” Grenville-Peek interjected, “what is this all about exactly? Has something happened to the girl?”

  Sikander pursed his lips, his fingers absently drumming the surface of the table. He did not have to be Sherlock Holmes to sense this interview was drawing to an end. He had squeezed all he could out of these boys without divulging that Zahra was dead. True, he could always take a more aggressive tack, and resort to making blatant accusations, but not only did he doubt the potential efficacy of such an approach, he was also quite sure that none of these lads were capable of keeping a secret—not to mention the fact that he was almost certain that none of them was the killer he was seeking. They were inexperienced, yes, and rude, and about as spoiled as week-old milk, but they were not cold-blooded killers, not quite yet. What the future held, unfortunately, was something only time would tell.

  Sikander hauled himself to his feet, and offered the Guppies a genial, if very insincere, smile. “Might I offer some advice, gentlemen? I was like you once. I lived for pleasure, for the indulgence of my senses and desires. But as I grow older, I have come to realise that a man must aspire to something greater than the pleasures of the flesh, some higher meaning. The thing about privilege is that it ruins a man. One needs adversity to flourish, the crucible of suffering. That is what ennobles a man, makes him more than ordinary. You are all still young, your lives ahead of you, terra incognita waiting to be explored. If you have an ounce of good sense, you will find something to believe in. Seek a cause, gentlemen. Embrace it. Armor yourself in purpose. You will find life far more meaningful if you do.”

  He turned, but before he could leave, the Prince spoke up.

  “I have a feeling, Mr. Singh, that we will meet again.”

  “I sincerely hope we do not, Mr. Battenberg. I am not sure I can take the excitement.”

  With that remark, he retreated toward the exit, followed by Campbell who asked, “Do you believe them?”

  “Why don’t you answer that? You know them far better than I do.”

  The Captain considered this question carefully before shaking his head.

  “No,” he said, “I don’t think they are lying. They are not clever enough…well, except Battenberg. Although, I don’t like that fellow Metcalfe, not one bit.”

  “I don’t think he is the Metcalfe we have to worry about? Tell me, have you heard about this cousin of his, the colonel who serves the Maharaja of Mysore?”

  “As a matter of fact, I have.”

  “What can you tell me about him?”

  Campbell’s mouth twisted. “He’s not a real colonel, for one. Until two years ago, he was a lowly lieutenant with the Grenadier Guards. Rumor has it he got caught cheating at cards and was forced to resign his commission or be drummed out of the service. He went south and entered into Imperial service.” He laughed, a disdainful snort. “Answered an advertisement of all things, I believe, and settled down in Mysore in royal style, living it up like a proper nob. He is said to be the Maharaja’s problem-solver, sir, a man with the ability to get things done, but I think what he really is is a jumped-up thug, a glorified mercenary.”

  “You obviously have a low opinion of him.”

  “Oh, I can bear the fact that he’s as unpleasant as a mule, but what I cannot abide is that he is said to cheat at cards.” Campbell rolled his eyes. “Tell me, what sort of gentleman cheats at cards? It is simply unforgivable.”

  “I think we should track him down and ascertain exactly why he stayed behind to chat with Zahra. Do you have any idea where we can find him, at this late hour?”

  Captain Campbell’s face hardened. “Actually, now that you mention it,” he said, “I think I can guess exactly where he is.”

  Chapter Nine

  Silently, without offering another word of explanation, the Captain led Sikander out of the Golden Bough, retracing their steps across the road, before heading westwards. He did not stay on the crowded avenue for long, instead turning abruptly down a deserted side street. Sikander followed him warily, trying not to grow disconcerted as the alleys grew narrower and narrower, the houses packed so densely on both sides that the only sky visible was directly overhead. He was blessed with an excellent sense of direction, but as Campbell made turn after unpredictable turn, the maze of gullies grew ever more bewildering, until he could not help but feel hopelessly lost. Campbell, on the other hand, seemed to know exactly where they were headed. He forged ahead, silently maintaining a steady, mile-eating trot that soon had Sikander a little out of breath, despite the fact that he endeavored mightily to keep himself in good trim.

  They must have traveled for the better part of fifteen minutes before, to Sikander’s relief, the Captain came to a brusque halt in a small cul-de-sac, an enclosed courtyard just a stone’s throw from the Jama Masjid.

  “In here.” Campbell strode up to a decrepit-looking haveli with crumbling unpainted walls. “This is where we will find Metcalfe, I believe.”

  “What is this place?”

  Campbell’s face hardened. “They call it the Apothecaries Den, sir, and this is where most soldiers come to forget. Give me a gold coin, will you?”

  “Whatever for?”

  “You’ll see soon enough.”

  Shaking his head at the man’s deliberate attempts at playing it cryptic, Sikander pulled a sovereign from his pocket and handed it to Campbell, who leaned forward and tapped it against the door, one sharp rap of metal on iron.

  Immediately, a peephole snapped open, from which a pair of hostile eyes stared out. “What do you want?”

  The Captain flipped the coin up, tossing it in a lazy spiral. After a minute’s pause, the door creaked open with a squeak of unoiled hinges, and a plump Mussulman with a carefully hennaed beard stepped out, holding out one hand, palm upwards.

  “We are looking for an Angrez, a tall officer with spectacles.” Campbell dropped the coin in his palm.

  “Inside,” the doorman mumbled, and Sikander saw that he had no front teeth, guessing that they had been knocked out in a brawl. “In the last alcove. That is where you will find him.”

  “Come along, sir,” Campbell said, surging onward, elbowing past the Durban. Inside, it wa
s pitch dark, with windows that had been boarded up. The walls were painted a dull shade of off-white, and on either side, a row of niches stretched towards the distant wall, each obscured by flimsy, slatted doors made of cheap plywood. The air was thick, pungent with a fugue of stale smoke, but it was not tobacco. It took Sikander a moment to recognise the heady odor, before it dawned upon him exactly what this place was. He had expected a brothel, or a drinking hole, but to his surprise, this was an opium den.

  Sikander cast a wary glance around his surroundings. Even though he was quite aware of the popularity of the drug amongst the working classes, he was shocked to discover an establishment flouting the law so openly. This was the very reason the British had enacted the Opium Act of 1878, to curb the sale of opioids without a doctor’s prescription. For the duration of the Durbar, the Viceregal edict had been quite clear. All opium dens within a ten-mile radius had been ordered to be shut down, forcibly if needed, and any soldiers caught in possession of opium, even in laudanum form, within the confines of the encampments would be reduced in rank immediately.

  “Hurry up, sir,” Campbell interjected, cutting short his musings. “This way!”

  He strode to the very last niche. Without further ado, the Captain rammed one shoulder into the door. It slammed open to reveal an incongruous sight. Inside, on a low charpoi, a naked girl lay supine. She was facedown, her copper skin glistening with sweat. Behind her, a middle-aged Englishman sat on a wicker stool, a tall, slender specimen with lank blond hair and a louche moustache. He was clad only in a pair of ratty long johns tucked into muddy riding boots, his mouth twisted up into an expression of great concentration as he leaned over the girl to daub out a swirling design on her bare back and buttocks with a horsehair paintbrush and what seemed to be henna dye. By his side stood a tall hookha, burbling gently. In his other hand, he held its spout, stopping occasionally to inhale from it deeply.

  Was this the man they were seeking? Sikander cast a sidelong glance at Campbell who nodded in affirmation.

  “Colonel Metcalfe, I presume?”

  The man ignored him, as if he wasn’t there. He did not bother to look up, pausing from his labors only to exhale, a fragrant puff of what Sikander recognized as a blend of raw opium and Turkish tobacco leaf.

  “I am the Maharaja of Rajpore. We need to talk.”

  This time, the man let out an audible hiss. He squinted up at him, obviously annoyed by the intrusion. Sikander noticed he had a predator’s eyes, very pale, almost yellow. Though he was wearing a pair of thick tortoiseshell eyeglasses, it was obvious, even through the lenses, that he was intoxicated, evident from the way his pale eyes struggled to focus.

  “I do not care if you’re Queen Victoria herself, risen from the grave. Just bugger off, won’t you? You’re ruining my mood.”

  A frisson of rage swelled inside Sikander, but before he could compose a scathing reply, Campbell, who had been watching patiently, spoke up.

  “May I have a go, sir?”

  Sikander frowned, reluctant to let him take over, but the Captain gave him a wink.

  “Trust me. I know what I am doing.”

  “Very well! Do your worst.”

  Campbell stepped forward and held out a hand to the girl, who was sitting up by now, cowering on the edge of the bed, her dazed eyes flicking from one man to the next, quite obviously terrified.

  “Run along, dearie,” he said. “It would be best if you left now.”

  The girl obeyed, swaying to her feet unsteadily. She tottered toward the door, the pattern on her back beginning to run, curiously reminiscent of blood.

  Metcalfe slouched upright, grabbing for her hair, trying to wrest her back. “Hold on a minute! I have paid for her, I have.”

  With blinding speed, the Captain’s hand darted out, landing squarely on his chest, pushing him off balance. Metcalfe swayed, and then fell backwards, collapsing onto the stool with a gasp.

  “How dare you?” he wheezed.

  “Shut your mouth!” Campbell said evenly.

  “Who the bloody hell do you think you are?” The colonel started to object, but the Captain forestalled any further words by leaning forward and giving him a slap, one swift swipe across his face with the back of his hand. It was so sudden, so unexpected that even Sikander winced, taken entirely by surprise as the man’s head snapped back with such force that a crack starred across one lens of his spectacles.

  The colonel let out a groan, utterly stunned. It took him a minute to gather his wits before he managed to give Campbell a poisonous glare.

  “Have you lost your mind? Laying hands on a superior officer, I shall have you shot.”

  “Lay hands on you?” Campbell shrugged, doing such a good job of feigning ignorance that Sikander could not help but grin. “I did no such thing.”

  “What? You just slapped me!”

  “Me? Slap you? Oh, no! I fear you must have imbibed far too much opium, Colonel, and are imagining things.” The Captain reacted with a wounded expression, turning to Sikander.

  “I saw nothing,” Sikander snapped. He was beginning to understand why Malik Umar had picked Campbell for the job. Whatever else his flaws, he certainly had a flair for getting things done, and that with admirable alacrity.

  “This is preposterous.”

  “Perhaps, but let me make two things very clear. First, you are not in uniform and therefore not my superior. As far as I am concerned, you’re nothing more than a jumped-up bounder. Secondly, my friend here is going to ask you several questions. If you do not cooperate and answer him with absolute honesty, I might be forced to lose control.” He gave the colonel a stiff smile. “You will not enjoy that, do you understand?”

  Metcalfe nodded, by now quite sober, judging by the wary look he offered Sikander.

  “Excellent! We are all on the same page at last.” Campbell gave Sikander a genial wave. “I think you will find the colonel more pliable now, sir. Please, go ahead!”

  Sikander gave the colonel a frown. “I believe you witnessed a dance performance last evening, a young nautch girl at the King Emperor’s camp.”

  “What of it?” Metcalfe replied sullenly.

  “We were told that you were not on the original guest list, that you invited yourself along. Tell me, why you were so eager to see this girl?”

  “I had heard about her, that she was an exquisite dancer,” he swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down, betraying the fact that he was lying. “I have always had a keen interest in the Arts.”

  “Is that so? Is that why you stayed back even after the other gentlemen had departed, to discuss the intricacies of nritya-shastra?”

  The colonel clenched his jaw, realizing he had been caught out.

  “Answer the question,” Campbell hissed, his voice taking on a dangerous edge.

  It seemed to work. Metcalfe shuddered visibly, before whispering, “I was on an errand.”

  “For whom?”

  “I cannot say,” he replied, shaking his head obdurately.

  Sikander let out a sigh. “Captain, if you would you be so kind?”

  Campbell nodded, tilting his head slightly as if to study Metcalfe speculatively. Very quickly, his fist darted out, a blindingly fast jab to the man’s nose that made his head snap back like it was on a spring.

  “Stop!” Metcalfe wheezed, his nostrils beginning to drip blood. “Please, I will tell you everything.” His shoulders slumped, all the fight gone out of him. “It was the Maharaja of Mysore. He asked me to go and speak with Zahra on his behalf.”

  Sikander’s brow knitted as he considered this revelation. Of all the people he had imagined consorting with a nautch-girl, the name of Krishna Raja Wodeyar was very close to the bottom of the list. From what he knew of the Prince of Mysore, he was a straitlaced, almost saintly Brahmin of a man, said to be cut from the same cloth as Lord Rama himself. It was dif
ficult to imagine him sending an envoy to a woman of low reputation, no matter how comely she may have been. Could he have been trying to buy her favors, and had dispatched Metcalfe to arrange a surreptitious rendezvous? Or was something more nefarious afoot?

  “What message did the Maharaja wish you to convey?”

  The colonel sucked in a slow breath, contemplating defiance once more, but when Captain Campbell made a great show of cracking his knuckles with a grim smirk, that was more than enough to change his mind.

  “The girl was trying to blackmail the Maharaja sahib. It seems he has a bit of an infirmity that she had found out about.”

  “Is that so?”

  Metcalfe nodded, touching his face gingerly.

  “Here you are,” Campbell offered him a handkerchief. Metcalfe took it rather reluctantly, looking at it suspiciously, as if it was poisoned before dabbing at his nose with a pronounced wince.

  “Some years ago, the girl’s mother, she was a nautch girl too, she performed for the Maharaja. He was younger then, and much more hot-blooded, and decided to proposition her, offering her a very generous sum to enjoy a brief sojourn in her company. However, when the appointed hour came, the Maharaja, for lack of a better turn of phrase, was quite unable to come.”

  Sikander let out a chuckle, which was echoed by Campbell. It certainly was a fine turn of phrase, especially for a man under duress.

  “In any case, as you can imagine, if such a tale was to be circulated publicly, it would irrevocably damage His Highness’s reputation. He is well known as a virile, vital man in the very prime of health. As a result, the mother was paid a handsome sum to hold her tongue.”

  “Until she died?”

  “Yes, the matter was thought to be forgotten once she was dead and buried, but then, some weeks ago, we received a missive from this young girl, claiming that she was in possession of a sworn affidavit testifying that the Maharaja was incapable of consummation.”