Death at the Durbar

by Arjun Gaind

  “This is Captain Campbell,” Sikander hurriedly changed the subject as the Scotsman let out an involuntary chuckle, doing a very poor job of trying to disguise it as a cough. “We were hoping to see your brother.”

  “Might I inquire why?”

  “Oh, just a social call!” Sikander said, feigning a broad smile. “Actually, I was hoping to speak to him about the possibility of transplanting a few hundred acres of Hunza apricots to Rajpore. It could be very lucrative for both of us.”

  Amar Singh’s eyebrows lifted, just a whisper, but it was as mordant as a laugh.

  “Come now, my boy. Really? Apricots! Is that the best you can do?” His face hardened, and for a moment, Sikander could discern exactly how formidable an opponent he was, as unyielding as granite. “Please don’t take me for a fool! You are not the sort of man who makes unannounced social calls, and certainly not in the company of Captains of the Coldstream Guards. No, this visit, I suspect, is about that poor, dead whore who was found in the royal enclosure last evening, is it not?”

  The Captain let out an audible gasp, which he quickly tried to choke down, leaving him sputtering. Sikander, however, was not quite as shocked. Of course, Amar Singh would know about Zahra. If Hyderabad knew, then how could Kashmir not? This was an army camp, after all, and nothing could be kept secret with half a million ears and eyes listening and watching. And most of them, Sikander guessed, were probably on Amar Singh’s payroll.

  Actually, the fact that Amar Singh knew what had happened made his job somewhat easier. Now that the truth was out in the open, there was no further need to keep obfuscating. To his relief, he could stop beating about the bush, and, as was his preferred habit, go straight for the jugular.

  “You are correct, Amar Singhji. A nautch girl was found murdered in the royal reception pavilion yesterday. The Viceroy himself has tasked me to find out who was responsible for her demise.”

  “And how, pray tell, is this connected to Kashmir?”

  “Well, it has been brought to my attention that one of your exalted brother’s vakeels was seen visiting the King’s camp yesterday to convey a private message to the very girl who was found dead. Would you care to explain what he was doing there?”

  “Tell me, Sikander, do you have a copy of this message?”

  “I do not. However, Captain Campbell can confirm that your munshi was present at the camp, as can the officer of the day, a Sergeant Mackenzie.”

  “Really? That is, of course, if you can prove beyond a doubt that the person who carried the message was indeed one of ours! Do you have the man in custody? Have you questioned him? Has he admitted to being one of our envoys? If not, then what do you have, my boy, but rumor and hearsay, yes?”

  Sikander’s heart sank as he realized how easily Amar Singh had managed to put him squarely on the back foot, without even breaking a hint of a sweat.

  Unfortunately, Captain Campbell chose that precise instance to disobey Sikander’s express instructions and try his hand at playing detective.

  “There are several rather distasteful rumors, Mr. Singh, about your brother. It is said that he has been cosying up to the Russians.” He leaned forward, trying to intimidate Amar Singh with his height. “Is that why your envoy was visiting the girl? To try and entice her in some way to pay her to ruin the Durbar? Or were you trying to recruit her as a Russian agent, hoping to get her to spy for you perhaps, to gain access to confidential information? For that matter, perhaps your man was the one who murdered her so brutally. Perhaps he was sent there for that very reason, to get to her by pretending to be a messenger and then killing her, if only to sabotage the King’s Coronation celebrations.” Campbell turned to Sikander, preening as triumphantly as a peacock. “Think about it, sir. What could benefit the Russians more than managing to gravely embarrass King and Empire at this juncture, when the whole world’s eyes are fixed squarely on the Durbar?”

  Sikander resisted the urge to roll his eyes. What a rank amateur! The dunderhead was just grasping at straws, without an ounce of proof to back up a single one of these assertions. That was the very first rule of an effective interrogation. Never make an accusation without enough evidence to back it up. Was Campbell really naïve enough to think he could bully someone as cunning as Amar Singh? It was highly unlikely, not unless pigs had somehow learned to defy Newton’s law of universal gravitation.

  As he had predicted, Amar Singh was not unduly nettled by Captain Campbell’s aspersions. In fact, he let out a sly little chuckle.

  “An interesting theory, Campbell, was it? You have a very fertile imagination. Perhaps when you retire from the service, you should consider writing dime novels, as the Americans call them.” He turned to Sikander. “Sadly, I hate to dash your friend’s hopes, but I can think of several more likely suspects. Jey Singh of Alwar, for one, or Scindia. You may not be aware of this, but there was a bidding war for the girl when she was being auctioned. Alwar and Scindia both tried to purchase her, as did Idar and Nabha. However, it was your friend, Kapurthala, who won her, by a very narrow margin, I believe.”

  “Is that so?” Both Jey Singh and Madho Rao had immense egos, as Sikander knew from personal experience. Both gentlemen had been his contemporaries at school, and from what he remembered of them, there was no way either would have viewed such a public defeat as anything other than a grievous loss of face. But of the two, it was Alwar who made for a better suspect, he thought. True, Scindia was a hothead, but he was also a careful man, at least when it came to his reputation. Jey Singh, on the other hand, had always treaded perilously close to the line that separated sanity from derangement. There were times when Sikander had thought him very close to mad, that behind his handsome exterior, another, more savage creature hid, not unlike Robert Louis Stevenson’s monstrous Mr. Hyde.

  Amar Singh’s next words more or less confirmed these suspicions a moment later. “Naturally, you know how Alwar is. He was not at all amused at being trumped by Kapurthala, and he swore he would get revenge. I believe his exact words were, ‘If I cannot have her, then no one will.’” He gave Sikander a level look. “And now she is dead. What a convenient coincidence!”

  Sikander pursed his lips, perfectly aware that Amar Singh was taunting him. Still, if there was one thing he did not believe in, it was coincidences, especially when it came to cases of cold-blooded murder.

  “Why are you helping us? Why are you so eager I go and talk to Alwar?” Sikander asked, his eyes narrowing with suspicion.

  Amar Singh smiled, but it was not the amiable grin he had displayed before. This was more unsettling, like watching a predator trying to seem human.

  “There are several reasons, my boy. First, like you, I do not like loose ends. Plus, I have a vested interest in seeing you find the girl’s killer. The last thing I wish is to see the English embarrassed in any way. In that regard, I am a loyal subject of his Majesty, a patriot, at least as long as it does not interfere with my ambitions and my plans for my son. Do you understand me?”

  Suddenly, like a punch to Sikander’s gut, comprehension dawned. The messenger had not been sent by Partap Singh. On the contrary, it was Amar Singh who had dispatched him. But what had been the contents of the missive? An offer, Sikander thought. It was he who had tried to recruit the girl, but for what reason? To spy for the Russians?

  No, that made no sense, unless… The answer came to Sikander like a bolt of lightning. It was a classic case of misdirection, just like a thimblerig game, where a hustler tricked his mark into looking at one hand while he should have been watching the other.

  It was obvious that Amar Singh had his eye on the throne of Kashmir. The only obstacle that lay in his path was his brother. And the only possible way to get rid of him and ensure that he, Amar, remained blameless was by discrediting him.

  That was where the girl came in. What better way to embarrass his brother than by recruiting a spy in his name, and then exp
osing her to the English? The ensuing scandal would undoubtedly finish the job that he had started all those years ago—getting Partap Singh out of the way once and for all. But who stood to gain from such a course of events? Not Amar Singh himself, who was already the head of the Regent’s Council that ruled Kashmir. If he had wished it, he could have seized the throne years ago, and declared himself King. No, if anything, this had to be a deeper gambit. His son—Sikander sucked in a slow breath. It was his son who would supplant Partap Singh and become the new Maharaja of Kashmir. That was what Amar Singh had been working toward all these years, to steal the gaddi and hand it to his son.

  Sikander resisted the urge to applaud the man. Bravo! What a clever bastard he was! And talk about playing a long game! Of course, if he was right, that pretty much put paid to the theory that Kashmir was behind Zahra’s death. The last thing Amar Singh wanted was any threat to the stability of British rule in India. He had spent the better part of two decades winning their confidence and turning them into his staunchest allies, and he needed them kept in power at all costs. Why? Quite simply, because without the English, there was no way he could depose his brother, not without revolt. Violence might win his son a crown, but the only way he would inherit loyalty was if the throne was given to him, not taken. That was why he needed the girl. She was only useful to him as long as she remained alive. With her dead, Amar Singh had no leverage, no way to get his plan rolling.

  “You really are a very clever man, Amar Singhji,” Sikander said admiringly, “almost too clever for your own good.”

  “I will take that as a compliment.”

  “Please, do not! I intended it as a warning.” Sikander’s face hardened. “Being clever can be a dangerous thing, because someone cleverer is bound to come by sooner or later, and then you find yourself mired in trouble you cannot think your way out of.”

  Rather than being intimidated, Amar Singh seemed amused.

  “You style yourself as somewhat of a scholar, don’t you, Sikander? Tell me, have you heard the story of the Fishes That Were Too Clever?”

  “I cannot say I have.”

  “It is from the Panchatantra. A fine little parable.” Amar Singh stretched his neck, let out a brief yawn, and began reciting.

  Once, in a pond, there lived two fish, and a frog. The fish were named Satabuddhi, and Satsrabudhi, and they were both very intelligent, constantly swimming in circles and discussing the meaning of the Universe. The frog, alas, was named Ekbuddhi, and he was really quite average, preferring to spend his days doing what most frogs do, which is catch flies and sleep beneath a shady leaf.

  One day, a fisherman was walking by and saw the pond. When he spied the fish swimming about, he exclaimed, “What a fine meal these fish would make! I shall return tomorrow with a net and catch them all.”

  After he strode away, Ekbuddhi the frog approached his piscine friends and said, “What shall we do? If we do not flee, he will catch and eat us.”

  “Do not fear,” Satabuddhi replied, “we are very intelligent and know a hundred secret ways to evade a net.”

  “No fisherman will ever be able to catch us,” Satsrabuddhi added. “We are much too smart for him. Between us, we have the knowledge of a hundred thousand men.”

  “Well, I am a simple frog,” Ekbuddhi replied, “and I have only the knowledge in my head. That tells me to run away, and that is what I intend to do.”

  That very night, even as the fishes swam around in circles, the frog fled to another pond, taking his wife with him. When morning came, the fisherman returned and cast his net. For a while, the fishes managed to avoid him, but finally, he grew tired and decided to drain the pond itself. Taking a shovel, he dug a deep trench, and when the water drained away, it left both Satabuddhi and Satsrabuddhi high and dry, flopping around gasping for breath.

  Immediately, the fisherman snatched them up. Placing Satabuddhi atop his head, and slinging Satsrabuddhi from his shoulder by a rope, he set off for his home.

  As he passed Ekbuddhi’s new pond, whistling jauntily, the frog turned to his wife and said, “Look, there goes the wisdom of a hundred men atop that fisherman’s head, and the knowledge of a thousand men hanging from his shoulders. But I, who has so little knowledge, am still sitting here, having the last laugh.”

  Captain Campbell’s brow wrinkled, unable to grasp the moral of the story, but Sikander saw the point of it immediately.

  “That was a charming tale. Amar Singhji. I have only one last question to ask. Tell me, am I one of the fishes or the frog?”

  “That, I think, remains to be determined, Sikander.” With that pronouncement, Amar Singh rose to his feet. “This has been an entertaining diversion, but now, sadly, I must bid you a good-day. Go speak to Alwar, my boy, and to Scindia. I am sure they will have more answers for you than I have.”

  He held out his hand, and in spite of his disdain for personal contact, Sikander took it readily.

  “I would wish you luck, but luck is for the uninspired. Men like you and me, we make our own luck, don’t we?”

  Chapter Fifteen

  “What a terrifying man!” Campbell said as they exited the Kashmir camp. “You know, I could not tell for one tick if he was telling the truth or lying.”

  Sikander had to agree. Amar Singh was blessed with a lawyer’s tongue, which was capable only of half truths and misdirection. Even though he had pointed the finger squarely at Jey Singh of Alwar, Sikander reminded himself to take the accusation at face value. Most likely it was a feint, a tactic designed to deflect attention from himself and his scheming. Still, he thought, as suspects went, Jey Singh was certainly a compelling one. Not only did he have a notoriously spotty reputation, but then there was the fact that he had been present in Bikaner, all those years ago, when Zahra’s mother had been killed. Two nautch girls, two identical murders—surely that had to be something more than a coincidence.

  “I must say, this investigating is a deuce of fun. I see why you enjoy prowling about so much.”

  Sikander stiffened. “Are you hard of hearing, Captain, or have you a recurring battlefield injury that makes it difficult for you to understand me?”

  “No, of course not!”

  “Then why do you insist on trying my patience? I commanded you to hold your tongue, but still you insist on butting in. Was I not clear enough?”

  Campbell looked abashed. “Forgive my presumption, sir. I will not make the same mistake twice.” He offered Sikander a contrite smile. “Well, where are we off to next? Shall we go see this fellow Alwar?”

  “Not just yet,” Sikander replied. “Let us go pay our respects to Jagatjit Singh first, and find out exactly what induced him to send the King-Emperor such an unlikely gift.”

  The Kapurthala camp was within walking distance of Kashmir’s monstrous gateway, about halfway up the Princes Road. Sikander paused as they approached its entrance, casting an appreciative glance at the exterior. Unlike Kashmir, Jagatjit, who was as ardent a Francophile as Sikander, had chosen to go for understated elegance. The perimeter of his camp was marked by a simple wrought-iron fence capped by ornamental fleurs-de-lis, and the gate was a miniature version of the arch Septimius Severus had built in the Roman Forum, the very same structure that Napoleon had copied for the gate to the Tuileries Gardens, only one-fourth in size. The end result was very dignified, an exercise in good taste and elegance that made Sikander hum with approval.

  “Are you familiar with the Maharaja of Kapurthala, sir?” Campbell inquired.

  “In a manner of speaking, yes, I am.”

  “He is said to be rather a colorful character.”

  Sikander stifled a smile. That was an understatement if ever there was one. Jagatjit Singh of Kapurthala was more than colorful. He was the entire spectrum of the rainbow and then some, a man with a nature as capricious and mutable as a storm.

  They could not be more different from each oth
er. Sikander was gaunt, Jagatjit rubicund to the brink of being Rabelaisian. Sikander’s habits were ascetic, Jagatjit was a sybarite who could put Caligula to shame. Sikander was careful, cerebral, private, while Jagatjit was loud, talkative, flamboyant, a man of vast and constant appetite, who was always in a hurry—to drink, to laugh, to live.

  There was no explicable reason why two such dissimilar people should end up such close friends, especially since Jagatjit was a good deal older than Sikander, very nearly his father’s age. Of course, a disciple of Sigmund Freud’s quackery would have been quick to point out that what Sikander was really seeking was a paternal surrogate, given that his own father had died very young. Sikander had often wondered if that was indeed why he was so fond of the man. It was not in his nature to care deeply for people. He thought of them as commodities, other than a rare few, like his manservant, and his mistress, Helene. They were his family, and his love for them was unconditional, unconstrained by their usefulness to him. But friends, no, Sikander had never been the sort of person who made friends easily. Acquaintances, yes, but he rarely dropped his guard with anyone, only when he had come to trust them deeply and absolutely, which made it even more surprising that he should get along with someone quite as feckless and unreliable as Jagatjit Singh.

  The only other explanation he could come up with was a very simple one. Jagatjit was bloody great fun. While there were Maharajas who had more wealth, and many who possessed greater rank, there were none who could lay claim to a grander sense of style. Though the Phulkians, especially Bhupinder Singh, were quick to dismiss him as a glorified landlord, growing rich off the rents he collected from the estates the British had granted him, the truth was that Jagatjit Singh was a very cultured, well-traveled man.

  It was exactly this consideration which haunted Sikander, leaving him more than a little confused. It was difficult to imagine Jagatjit as a murderer. He was a talker, not a doer, and to strangle a woman in cold blood, to commit a crime so intimate, took a heartlessness he lacked entirely. But, still, Sikander could not prevent just the faintest pang of doubt from aching at his gut. Jagatjit was a wild card, the Joker in the pack, and it was that very unpredictability that made him so difficult to dismiss as a suspect outright.