Death at the Durbar

by Arjun Gaind

  “I warn you, though, if you dare to embarrass the King in any way, I will not rest until I have broken you. Is that clear?”

  He waited for Sikander to confirm with a nod before continuing.

  “Good! So, as it happens, I have a tip that may be of help to you. As you know, I have a widespread network of spies and informers.” He offered a saturnine smile. “One can never have too much information, can they? One of my sources has been keeping a close eye on a Nationalist named Bahadur Rao. Perhaps you have heard the name?”

  Sikander shook his head once more, this time to signify the negative, a denial which managed to send Ganga Singh into a veritable paroxysm.

  “Good heavens! Could you be any more ignorant? You know the name of every wine in France, no doubt, but about the things that truly matter, you remain utterly clueless.” He was practically foaming at the mouth by now. “These Nationalists, they are our truest enemy. Like a fungus, they have spread everywhere, sinking into the very foundations of our homes, taking root and rotting every square inch until all that is left is dust and ash. Mark my words, it will be them or us. If they are allowed to flourish, if they prevail, we will be pulled from our thrones and offered up as sacrifices. Just you wait and see!”

  “You were about to tell me how your man was shadowing this Bahadur Rao,” Sikander reminded Ganga Singh gently, before he could lose himself fully in this flood of invective.

  “Yes! Of course! As I was saying, this Nationalist has been heard declaring several times, in public in fact, that he intends to ruin the Durbar somehow. What do you think of that, eh?”

  Sikander shrugged. “I am sorry to disappoint you, but that isn’t actually anything new. The Durbar Committee probably receives half a hundred threats each and every day, and most of them turn out to be rubbish.”

  “Ah, but that is not all!” Ganga Singh grinned triumphantly. “Just the day before yesterday, my informer happened to follow Bahadur Rao as he went to pay a visit to one of his agents. Can you guess his destination?”

  “Not the King’s Camp, surely.” Sikander sat up.

  “Exactly!” Ganga Singh leaned back, twirling his moustache proudly. “And can you deduce who he called upon while he was there, for almost half an hour?”

  The answer to that question was really quite obvious, even if Sikander had been a rank amateur. It took him only a minute to put two and two together, to fit this intriguing snippet of information into what he already knew. This must have been the so-called uncle that Sergeant Macgregor had mentioned, the older man who had called upon Zahra. But why? What was the real reason Bahadur Rao had gone to meet with her, and that, too, under an assumed identity? How were they involved? Whatever the case, it certainly made the Nationalist a viable suspect, at least worthy of a visit.

  “How sure are you of this, Ganga Singh-ji? Do you trust your man?”

  “As a matter of fact, he is unimpeachable. He would lay down his life for me and for the glory of the Empire.”

  “Very well then. Thank you for the lead. I shall look into it, I assure you.”

  “Do that,” Ganga Singh said, “and make sure you keep me apprised of your progress. We wouldn’t want any surprises, would we?”

  “Not at all,” Sikander said. “I despise surprises, especially unexpected ones,” but the irony in his tone was wasted upon Ganga Singh, who merely leaned forward to knock on the partition that separated the passenger seat from the driver, a signal to stop the car.

  “So be it. Now get out, will you? And go do something useful!”

  Sikander grinned, and hastened to obey. Even as the car clattered to a halt, and he prepared to dismount, Ganga Singh stretched out to give him a quick pat on one shoulder, a surprisingly intimate gesture.

  “Do be careful, Sikander. You are a little fish in a pond filled with sharks. One wrong step, and they will not hesitate to gobble you up.”

  Even though the metaphor was about as mixed as could be, Sikander could not help but be absurdly touched. It was quite unlike Ganga Singh to play the caring patriarch, but the very fact that he was issuing such a warning, served to remind Sikander exactly how precarious the path he was taking.

  “I solemnly swear I will be on my best behavior.” He gave Ganga Singh a nod. “I am just glad you care about my welfare, my friend. Why, it is bringing a tear to my eye!”

  “Stop being cheeky!” The Maharaja of Bikaner scoffed. “Really, one of these days I am going to have teach you some manners, you clown!”

  “I look forward to it. Perhaps you can come by the Majestic this weekend and have a bottle of champagne with me. I have a case of very fine Laurent-Perrier Grand Siècle I have been saving for just such a special occasion.”

  “I’ll try to find the time,” Ganga Singh replied. In spite of the disapproval in his voice, the faintest of smiles touched the corners of his lips. “And do try and dress a little more appropriately, will you, Sikander?

  “You’re letting the side down.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Watching the Vauxhall speed away, Sikander shook his head, barely able to believe that Ganga Singh had just abandoned him in the middle of nowhere.

  He cast a wary glance about, trying to take stock of his precise location, looking for recognizable landmarks. It took him a few moments to get his bearings straight. To his left, he saw what seemed to be the gleaming lights of Curzon House and, to his right, the towering figure of John Nicholson’s statue was visible in the distance, which led him to conclude that he was somewhere on the Delhi Club Road. If that was correct, his hotel was nearby, perhaps fifteen or twenty minutes away by foot.

  Well, he thought, there was only one way to find out. Stuffing his hands into his pockets, he set off at a brisk trot in what he hoped was the correct direction. It had been a long time since Sikander had walked anywhere alone. Somehow, it felt liberating, and to his surprise, he found he was quite enjoying himself.

  His mind wandered to what Ganga Singh had said about the Nationalists and how they were active at the Durbar, in spite of all the security preparations the English had arranged. Personally, Sikander did not care one way or another about the putative Independence Movement, if one could call it that. As far he was concerned, all this talk of armed insurrection was just rabble-rousing, the work of clever demagogues whose sole interest was to further their own interests. He was no great supporter of the English, but even he could not deny that their rule had been beneficial to India, what with the great advances in science and education and law, not to mention the vast progress they had engineered for women and the lower castes. Besides, he possessed enough foresight to realize that without the English, India would soon dissolve into a mess of internecine conflicts. It would be Hindu arrayed against Muslim, rich against poor, high caste against low, modernist against traditionalist. And who would pay the price? His kind, of course. It was the Princes of India who stood to lose the most if the Nationalists prevailed. Even a fool could see that.

  Just as he was beginning to work up a sweat, he heard the rumble of an approaching automobile. Halting, he saw a pair of glowing headlights advancing towards him, which resolved out of the shadows into a very handsome vehicle. It was a Packard, he guessed, one of the new Type Six limousines, painted a very elegant combination of purple and yellow. Sikander gave it an admiring once-over as it came to a halt not far away, the passenger door opening to reveal a stout, bearded man, dressed in a pristine white tunic with purple jodhpurs.

  “Sikander Singh, isn’t it?” The man called out. “How delightful to bump into you so unexpectedly! What a coincidence this is! We were just on our way to see you at your hotel.”

  Sikander wracked his brain, trying to recall if he knew this man. He did seem somewhat familiar, but when he tried to recollect where they had met before, he drew a blank. He was on the wrong side of fifty, a Mewari, by the looks of his bushy beard, which was parted neatly in the mid
dle. This inference was confirmed when the man emerged from the car and Sikander saw the push dagger tucked into the red sash that encircled his midriff. It was a Bundi katar, particularly favored by the inhabitants of Malwa.

  “I do not believe we have met before,” Sikander said. “Who might you be?”

  “Me?” the man’s face curved into a scornful expression. “I am merely someone who would like very much to have a quick word with you, if you could spare a moment. Perhaps we could give you a lift?”

  “I think not.” Sikander turned, about to resume his hike, but before he could take another step, the Rajput drew a pistol, a stubby-nosed Browning Model 1910.

  “I am afraid I must insist,” he said, his tone making it clear he would not brook a second refusal.

  Sikander clenched his fists. His heart-rate raced considering the choices available to him. He could try and reach for the gun in his banyan pocket, but no, the Rajput had the draw on him. He could rush the man, and try to overpower him, but once again, from the looks of him, Sikander doubted he could be quick enough before the man managed to get off a shot. That left him only one option. The car was on his left, which meant he would have to go to his right, a dive to the ground and perhaps a half-roll, and he would be close enough to try and sweep the man off his feet, hopefully fast enough to take him by surprise.

  Before matters could escalate toward any unpleasantness, a voice ended their standoff.

  “Oh, put that away! The Maharaja of Rajpore is an old friend.”

  The vehicle’s other door swung open, and another man emerged, waving one hand at Sikander in greeting.

  At first glance, Sayaji Rao of Baroda looked more like a cowherd than the King of a twenty-one-gun state. In fact, that was exactly where his dynasty’s traditional patronym, the Gaekwads, was derived from. Translated from Hindustani, the word quite literally, meant “the guardian of cows.” Ironically, it applied particularly well in this instance, because long before he had been chosen to take on the mantle of Maharaja, Sayaji Rao had spent his childhood as the son of a poor farmer. When the previous Gaekwad, Khanderao, had died without a male heir, the British had briefly allowed his brother Malharrao to assume the throne of Baroda. Unfortunately, Malharrao had proven to be a man of weak character, given to vast expenditures and of a cruel, selfish nature. His spending habits had quickly made him fall afoul of the English, a situation exacerbated when he had tried to poison the Resident to forestall an audit of his finances. As a result, Lord Salisbury had ordered him deposed and forced into exiled to Madras, left to die in ignominy.

  It had then fallen to Khanderao’s widow, Maharani Jamnabai, to choose the next Gaekwad. She had sent for all the branches of the family, however minor, commanding them to assemble at Baroda. Among them had been Sayaji Rao’s father, Kashi Rao, who had walked six hundred kilometers with his sons, to present himself at court. Legend had it that each possible heir was asked the same question by Jamnabai—“Why have you come here?” And to that, Sayaji Rao, then just a boy of twelve, had replied, “I have come to be a King,” an answer that had so impressed the Maharani that she had chosen him to become the next Gaekwad of Baroda.

  It had been a sensible choice, Sikander had to admit, because Sayaji Rao had proven to be one of the finest and most progressive rulers in Princely India. This was a man Sikander truly admired, not only because he was the very epitome of an enlightened monarch, the sort of man who put the welfare of his citizens before his own comforts, but also because he was incapable of falsehood or duplicity.

  Sikander studied his old mentor. It was obvious that something was weighing heavily on him, for the Gaekwad seemed exhausted, wearier than Sikander had ever seen him, his shoulders hunched, as if the world itself rested upon them.

  “How are you, my dear boy?” Sayaji Rao held out one hand. Although ordinarily Sikander eschewed physical contact, finding it somewhat distasteful, on this occasion he took his hand readily, bringing it to his forehead with a deference that was most unlike him. With a fleeting smile, Sayaji Rao patted his cheek, an almost paternal gesture. He was the same height as Sikander, but more rotund, with deep-set eyes and a bushy toothbrush moustache that made him seem older than he was. Still, there was a gravitas about him that always gave Sikander a chill, an imperiousness of bearing mingled with an utter sincerity that he trusted immensely.

  “I am very well, Your Majesty, although I must confess, I certainly did not expect to bump into you in such unexpected circumstances.”

  “Forgive my manners!” the Gaekwad said, his eyes twinkling. “Come, let us take a walk, and I will explain everything.”

  Sikander hesitated, unsure whether this was a request or a command, but only for a heartbeat. He owed the Gaekwad far too much to refuse to oblige him, and as Sayaji Rao turned and began to amble slowly in the direction of Nicholson’s statue, Sikander followed.

  As for the Rajput, he decided to come along, too, giving Sikander a nonchalant shrug by way of apology as he put his pistol away, and fell into step beside the two of them.

  “By the way,” Sayaji Rao said, “this is Fateh Singh of Mewar. I do not believe you two have met before.”

  Sikander’s eyes widened. So that was why he had thought the man so familiar. He had seen his picture often enough in the broadsheets. Why, this was none other than the infamous Maharana of Udaipur, the chieftain of the Sisodias, one of the oldest and most powerful clans in Rajputana, entitled to nineteen guns, which put his standing just below Baroda, Mysore, Kashmir, and the Nizam.

  In a way, he was Sikander’s distant cousin, because Phul Singh, who had founded the Phulkian houses of Punjab had been a Sisodia as well. However, unlike his family, who prided themselves for being forward thinking, the Mewari Sisodias were said to be very old-fashioned, firm believers in tradition, still adhering to archaic practises like purdah and jauhar. Fateh Singh in particular was said to be as fractious as a Puritan, and lived his life trying to emulate the very model of the abstemious warrior king, supposedly shunning any and all vices, whether it be women, wine, or luxury.

  In fact, Sikander thought, he was also supposed to be boycotting the Durbar, the only Maharaja brave enough to openly defy the Viceroy, although the English had spread the word that he was in ill health. But now, to see him strutting about, could only mean one thing. There was something sinister afoot, and somehow, with unerring accuracy, Sikander had managed to land himself right in the midst of it.

  Biting back the many questions crowding against his lips, he held his tongue, choosing instead to show the Gaekwad the courtesy of letting him have the first words.

  “We were just on our way to see you.”

  “So the Maharana said,” Sikander murmured, giving Fateh Singh a sidelong frown. “While I am always happy to see you, Gaekwad Sahib, what is this about?”

  “There is a rumor that something happened in the Imperial Camp this morning. Some sort of trouble about a dead girl? And I believe you have taken it upon yourself to investigate the case. Is that true?”

  “I cannot confirm or verify anything, Your Majesty,” Sikander said, very careful to keep his features composed, unwilling to show how surprised he was by this question.

  His reply managed to elicit a voluble snort from Fateh Singh. He was about to say something, to chastise Sikander, but before he could, the Gaekwad stayed him with a firm shake of his head.

  “How long have we known each other, Sikander?”

  “A very long time, Your Majesty.”

  “And you trust me?”

  “Of course! You have never steered me wrong.”

  “Then listen to me now.” He paused, giving Sikander the most earnest of frowns. “I need you to cease your investigations. Immediately!”

  Of all the favors he could have demanded, this was one Sikander just could not have anticipated. What possible motive could the Gaekwad have to dissuade him from investigating Zahra’s
murder? Could he be involved in some way, and Fateh Singh, too? His mind reeled, considering this possibility. No, he thought, dismissing it outright, Sayaji Rao would never have anyone murdered, especially a hapless woman. He was much too honorable for that. Still, that did not diminish his intuition that he was involved with Zahra in some way. But how?

  “Enough of this nonsense!” Fateh Singh exclaimed, finally losing his patience. “Why are we being so polite to this…this upstart?” He fixed Sikander with a baleful glare. “You will do as you’re told, is that clear? Or else you will face the direst of consequences!”

  “That will not work with Sikander,” the Gaekwad interrupted. “He will not be swayed by threats or intimidation. He is that rarest of creatures, a man of principle.” His tone wavered between envious and sarcastic, and Sikander could not tell if he was paying him a compliment or making a critique of his character.

  “Why, sir? Why is it so important that I abandon my investigation?”

  “What nerve!” Fateh Singh stared daggers in his direction. “What makes you think we have to explain ourselves to the likes of you?”

  “Enough, old friend! I think Sikander deserves a bit of honesty.” Sayaji Rao let out a slow, cold sigh. “Tell me, my boy, have you changed your political views? Do you now support the British Dominion of India?”

  Sikander responded with a chuckle. “You know how I feel, Your Majesty! I do not care one way or the other as long as they leave me and Rajpore well enough alone.”

  Rather than being amused, this earned another dark glare from Fateh Singh.

  “I thought you said he was wise. He’s just a callow fool.”

  Sayaji Rao shook his head. “Be honest, Sikander. Surely, you cannot be in favor of the Angrez? Look at how they think they can treat all of us, like second-class citizens in our own homeland! Take this damn circus of a Durbar as an example. People are dying of plague and famine, and all the British can think of doing is spending a fortune to put on a wasteful display of pomp and circumstance. It is abominable. While our subjects suffer the abjectest of poverty, we are forced to gather here, the most powerful men in India, compelled to sit and wait like lapdogs, and why? To appease the ego of a third-rate King. How is that admirable?”