Death at the Durbar

by Arjun Gaind

  “Let me guess, she offered you this document in exchange for a small gratuity.”

  “Not so small,” Metcalfe replied. “She wanted one thousand guineas, to be precise.” Campbell let out a low whistle. “Naturally, the Maharaja was quite irate at being confronted by such an outlandish demand, and he asked me to intervene on his behalf.”

  “So you decided to call on the girl and threaten her?”

  “Not quite! The Maharaja was willing to pay, but he wanted proof that the document was genuine. I went there to try and reason with her, but she refused to be reasonable. And then, when I asked her to show me the document, so that I could verify its veracity, she started to grow rather vexed. That was why I let her have it, a bit of the old rough and tumble.”

  “You assaulted her?”

  “It was just a love tap,” he said peevishly. “She was too bloody shrill, the silly ninny. I thought it would shut her up, but instead, she just started screaming her lungs out!”

  Beside him, he saw Campbell clenching his fists, but before the man could wreak bloody havoc, Sikander stilled him with one upraised finger.

  “What did you do next?”

  “I bloody left, of course. I thought I would come back another time, and try to talk some sense into her when she wasn’t menstruating.” His eyes narrowed as he realized for the first time he was being interrogated. “Say, what is this all about? Are you trying to finger me for something, eh?”

  Sikander gave the man a glare, resisting the urge to belt him squarely in the mouth. He was a dimwit, and an utter scoundrel, but Sikander doubted he was a killer. Not only had he admitted to hitting the girl, he had no clue that she was dead, as was evidenced by his admission that he intended to visit her later. True, blackmail made for a fine motive. What was the old mnemonic: love, lust, lucre, and loathing? The Maharaja of Mysore could have ordered Zahra removed, but from what he knew of the man’s reputation, not only was he no murderer, he was as deathly afraid of scandal as a Puritan.

  Besides, what purpose would it have served him to have her killed? It was obvious that the document in question still remained in her possession. Why would Mysore have her removed, only to leave the incriminating testimony to be found by another blackmailer? That is, he thought, if such a document had existed in the first place. It was possible that the whole scheme had been a wild goose chase, but the fact that Metcalfe had no clue as to the document’s location made it quite impossible to pin him for the crime.

  Suddenly, the room felt too small for Sikander, the noxious fug too thick to breathe in.

  “Come along, Captain, let us away! He is not our man.”

  Even as he turned to leave, Campbell dawdled. “Give me a minute, sir! I wish to bid Colonel Metcalfe a proper farewell.”

  Sikander nodded, striding out of the alcove. Behind him, he heard a shrill squeal followed by the sound of several dull thuds. In spite of his tiredness, a smile played across his lips. He was beginning to like Captain Campbell. True, the man was a bit of a mad dog, and much too quick, both with his temper and his fists, but this once, he would happily have traded places with him. Metcalfe deserved every bruise he got, and more. How dare he assault a woman! The very thought of it made Sikander’s blood boil.

  At the front door, Sikander was intercepted by the Durban once more.

  “Are you sure you would not care to stay longer, huzoor? We have just had a consignment of hashish from Bokhara which is rumored to be quite exquisite.”

  “I think not.” Pulling out another coin, he waved it at the man. “If anyone asks, we were never here, is that clear?”

  “Of course! The Mussulman snatched the coin from him greedily, his mouth splitting into a gummy grin. “I have a terrible memory, huzoor. Why, there are times when I cannot remember my own name, much less yours.

  Chapter Ten

  Outside, Sikander shivered. At some point while they had been inside the opium den, the night had taken a turn toward the frigid. A dim mist hung in the air, obscuring the moon and stars above. Each breath he inhaled was so crisp it made him want to cough. In a way, the turn in the weather perfectly mirrored the somber change in his mood. This had been the easy part, he realized, the preliminary investigation, where the obvious leads had presented themselves. Everything that came now onwards would be an uphill struggle as motives grew murkier and the suspects more complicated. And then, of course, there was the deadline the Viceroy had insisted upon, hanging over his head like the sword of Damocles. He had a day, a day and a half at the best, a thought that sent a tremor down his spine.

  About ten minutes elapsed before the Captain made his return.

  “I am sorry to have kept you waiting,” he said, wiping at his hands with his handkerchief. Sikander saw that his knuckles were bruised and bloody.

  “There is no need to apologize, Campbell,” Sikander said grudgingly. “That was well done in there. Perhaps you aren’t quite useless after all.”

  If he had been expecting this lopsided compliment to elicit a response, Sikander was sorely disappointed. Campbell didn’t say a word. Instead, he merely shrugged, his raffish smile absent for once as he led the Maharaja back through the maze of alleyways toward where they had parked the Standard.

  “Should we go roust up the Maharaja of Mysore?” Campbell asked listlessly.

  “I think not. The hour is far too late to go visiting the native encampments, not without raising everyone’s suspicions. Not to mention the fact that I really am quite exhausted. No, take me back to the Majestic. We can resume the investigation early in the morning.”

  Sikander had expected Campbell to object to this command, to resist, but to his surprise, the man capitulated as meekly as the Sultan of Zanzibar.

  “As you wish,” he said with a shrug, throwing the car into gear and steering it northward up the Esplanade Road.

  Eyeing him askance, Sikander was unable to keep himself from feeling a flicker of concern for the man, a hint of empathy. Although he had been quick to brush off the epithets the Guppies had hurled at him, it was apparent from the sullen set of his shoulders and the morose expression on his face, that the insults had caused him more heartache than he was willing to admit. True, he was quite tiresomely eager, and rather too confident for his own good, but despite the fact that he had been saddled with him like Sisyphus’ rock, Campbell was growing on him, even though it pained him to say so.

  “Is something wrong, Captain?” he inquired. “You seem rather glum.”

  “I am fine, sir.” His smile was bitter, more a rictus than a grin. “Tired, that’s all. It’s been quite a day, hasn’t it?”

  He lapsed into silence. Sikander did not press him further. That was the first rule observed by a good investigator. You had to let people speak at their own pace. When Campbell was good and ready, he would divulge what exactly was bothering him. All Sikander would achieve by pushing him would be to make him even more despondent.

  Instead, he leaned back, watched the city flicker by as they rattled along, taking a turn at the Chandni Chowk, driving past the Edwardian edifice of the Town Hall and then paralleling the Rani Bagh until the Railway Station hove into view.

  “I have heard it all before, but it still rankles.” The Captain broke his silence as the vehicle clattered over the railway tracks. “Why is it, Mr. Singh, that a man’s blood is more important than his deeds?

  “I take it Mr. Hayat Khan told you my story. However, I doubt you are aware of the whole saga. The truth is my mother never told me who my father was. Oh, I knew I was illegitimate, that I had been born out of wedlock. I was shunned, mocked, derided. Even the priests refused to bless me or grant me communion. It was made clear to me from a very young age that I was a mistake, a sin come to life, not worthy of love or respect.

  “I decided from boyhood, sir, that I would not let the circumstances of my birth cripple me. I would prove myself. I would make
my way in the world on my strengths, and my merits, and that was what would define me, not my illegitimacy. In many ways, that was why I became a soldier, why I chose to enlist in the Army. I welcomed the brotherhood of the regiment. They became my family, the brethren I had never had. On the field of battle, Mr. Singh, a man’s birth does not matter, only his courage.

  “But then, some four years ago, my mother took ill. Pneumonia, the doctors told us. I took a leave of absence and traveled back to see her, and it was then that she decided, on her deathbed, to reveal to me who my father was. Can you believe it, that I, an unlamented bastard , should turn out to have the noblest of noble blood? Of course, I refused to believe her, but she insisted it was the truth, right until her last gasp.”

  His face stiffened. “After I buried her, I was ready to forget it all, but my mother, she had been quite determined that I should not be denied my birthright. As it turned out, before her demise, she had sent my father a letter, revealing my existence to him, of which, it seems, he had been entirely unaware.”

  Before them, the Mori Gate loomed out of the shadows, like a ghostly mouth.

  “Three months later,” Campbell sighed, “I was visited at my barracks by three gentlemen, two Barons and a high and mighty Earl. They informed me that I was a charlatan and threatened to have me cashiered from my regiment. I was ordered to answer their questions, and they asked me all kinds of rubbish, at the end of which, the Earl told me that I was going to be transferred from the Black Watch to the Coldstream Guards and raised to Captain. He also told me that my benefactor wished to endow me with two hundred pounds a year, under two conditions, the first that he remain anonymous, and the second that I drop all pretensions and claims to my parenthood.”

  “Did you take it?”

  “Of course. It was like a boon from high above. I thought my ship had come in, that I would finally be somebody.” He shuddered. “I was wrong, damned wrong. In the Black Watch, I was respected for my abilities, my battlefield prowess. But when I reported for duty to the Coldstream, I knew had made a mistake. I was informed, very politely, of course, that I would spend my term of service on detached duty, which was a polite way of saying that I was not to travel to England. And even here, when I was assigned to the Viceroy’s Guard, I was treated like a pariah. A hundred whispers followed me, that I was not a gentleman, that I had won my spurs because I was a royal bastard, that I was a parade ground mannequin, not a real soldier. Once again, in spite of my stellar record, my blood had damned me.”

  A long, low groan escaped his lips. “How is it fair, sir, that a man like me is mocked, while deviants like Metcalfe are lauded, even celebrated?”

  He looked to Sikander for sympathy, but instead, the Maharaja let out a sardonic laugh.

  “Fair, Captain? Since when has anything in life been fair?” Sikander’ face was as hard as granite. “You speak of being damned by your blood. I think you are mistaken. I think it is your blood that is your greatest asset.”

  “But I am a bastard, sir. How can I ever escape that stigma?”

  “Perhaps one half of your heritage is illegitimate, but the other half, you bear the bloodline of a proud and ancient family. Tell me, have you heard the legend of Aengus Og?”

  “I haven’t, I am afraid.”

  “What kind of third rate Scotsman are you, that you don’t know your history? Aengus Og was born out of wedlock, just as you were. His mother was a Campbell, with the very same blood as you. His father was John of Islay, the Earl of Ross, who was accused of signing a secret treaty with England’s Edward the Fourth and stripped of much of his land and power by King James the Third. Aengus refused to accept this and overthrew his father, and went to war with just about everyone in Scotland.”

  “Did he win?”

  “For a brief while, yes. He wrested back his ancestral lands and even seized control of the port of Inverness, but then, he was murdered in his sleep. However, before he died, he was declared the last of the Lords of the Isles, who answered to no man, not English King nor Scottish laird.

  “Stop the car here, will you?” Sikander said as the car drew up in front of the Majestic’s gateway. “Do you know what the motto of Clan Campbell is? Ne Obliviscaris. Never forget! They can belittle you, they can curse you, and mock you, but only you can forget who you are.”

  With that declaration, Sikander threw open the door.

  “Thank you, sir,” Campbell said as he dismounted, his voice thickening with gratitude.

  “Do not thank me, Captain. I have told you nothing but the truth. Honestly, I have no respect for men who speak of blood. As far as I am concerned, it is an excuse for men who have no strength, and no character.”

  Sikander continued, “Look at Chandragupta Maurya, or Babur, both of whom carved an empire from nothing. Look at Sher Shah, at Ranjit Singh, at your Clive. These are the men I admire, not your blooded swine who sit in the club and drink sherry and talk of Empire.”

  Sikander offered the captain a nod. “This is India. Here, a man is what he makes of himself.”

  Chapter Eleven

  As the Captain drove off, Sikander felt himself gripped by a sudden listlessness. The phrase Campbell had used resonated through his mind. “Damned by my blood.” In many ways, Sikander was equally damned by his own blood. While he would truly have loved to have been a professional sleuth, a deducer by trade, his birth had doomed him to be a Maharaja. And, true, while he enjoyed the trappings that came with the throne of Rajpore, the wealth and prestige, the only time he felt truly alive was when he was on the chase.

  Arching his back like a cat, he spared a long moment to stretch his tired limbs. Above, he saw that the clouds had cleared. It was a cold, startlingly clear night. Sikander squinted, spying his favorite constellation, Orion, the hunter, visible in the far distance. He had always felt an affinity toward it. It was the lodestone for detectives, he had always believed, the guiding star for all those who set out to decipher mysteries. Seeing it now was strangely reassuring.

  Sadly, his appreciation of the mysteries of the cosmos was truncated as a car came rolling up, a Vauxhall A-Type, by the looks of it. It screeched to a halt in front of Sikander, throwing up a shower of dust and gravel that temporarily blinded him. The front door slapped open, disgorging a duo of brawny troopers, Rajputs, he inferred, by the way they had tied their pugrees.

  “Sorry for the presumption, huzoor, but please get in the car,” the first of them said.

  “I most certainly will not,” he started to say, but before he could finish voicing his objections, they each seized one of his arms.

  “What in God’s name do you think you’re doing?” Unfortunately, his outrage had no effect whatsoever on his assailants, who bundled him bodily into the back of the car and slammed shut the door behind him.

  As the vehicle lurched into motion, Sikander realised he was not alone. A man sat poised on the opposite seat, sneering at him. Maharaja Ganga Singh of Bikaner was the very epitome of the martial Rajput, from his polished jackboots to his carefully coiffed moustache, which was so sharp-edged it could have sliced through armor. His only shortcoming was that he was rather short, even smaller than Sikander, and his nose was much too arrogant, precisely the sort of appendage designed to look down at others over, a skill he had mastered at a very young age.

  Bikaner was one of the largest states in Rajputana, famed for two things, fine camels and even better warriors. It was said of the Rathores that there was no one better to guard your back in a battle. Sikander, however, had a different theory. He thought they made such valiant soldiers because they were thoroughly unimaginative, a humorless bunch who cared about only two things, honor and duty, which made them great warriors in wartime but utterly boring once the trumpets had sounded.

  True, honor and duty were important, but then, so was a bit of fun every now and then. Unfortunately, Ganga Singh’s idea of fun was a round of polo followed by a
n hour or two of pigsticking, essentially anything that involved copious amounts of sweat and public displays of masculinity. That was tiresome enough, so it didn’t help that he was as straightforward as any man could be, with no capacity for either subtlety or subtext, a quality which had always made his relationship with Sikander rather rocky.

  “Hello, Ganga Singhji,” Sikander said. “What has it been, eight years, or is it nine? The last time I saw you was at my coronation, wasn’t it?”

  “You know, I really do not like you, Sikander Singh. You represent everything I despise,” Ganga Singh hissed, his moustache bristling with disdain. “Your father was a proper man, a pukka Maharaja. He carried himself with dignity, with grace. Why, he would never have been caught traipsing about in the middle of the night in, what is that, your bathrobe?”

  His jaw clenched with disgust. “Unfortunately, it looks like I am stuck with you. I must think of the greater good, of what is best for King and Empire, even if it means working with an overconfident lout like yourself.”

  “Perhaps it is because I have had a very long day, Your Majesty, but I am feeling rather slow on the uptake. Do stop beating about the bush, won’t you, and explain why you have abducted me?”

  Ganga Singh let out a snort. “As it happens, I know what is going on, why you were at the Royal Enclosure earlier today, everything!”

  “I have no idea what you mean,” Sikander said, but the Maharaja of Bikaner cut him off with a savage slash of one hand.

  “Enough! Do not take me for a fool! The Viceroy told me himself.” He fixed Sikander with one eye, squinting. “Lord Hardinge asked me about your suitability for the job at hand. While I was reluctant to give my blessing, even I had to admit you have some small modicum of talent for poking your nose in other people’s affairs.” His face looked like he had swallowed a bitter lemon, to give Sikander a compliment, however infinitesimal. “Unbecoming though it is for a man of your antecedents and breeding to go skulking about like a havildar looking for clues, in this case,” he admitted grudgingly, “we need someone like you.