Death at the Durbar

by Arjun Gaind

  Upon entering the camp, they were immediately intercepted by a portly Sikh dressed in a French footman’s livery, a pale yellow waistcoat with silver frogging and knee breeches with silk stockings and buckled shoes.

  “Your Majesty,” he said, offering Sikander a traditional kornish, before turning and giving his manservant an even deeper bow.

  “Charan Singh-ji, it is good to see you.”

  “Dalip,” Charan Singh replied with a broad grin. “How are you, my boy?”

  “The battle goes on,” the man said, and they clasped hands briefly.

  “Another of your brethren?” Sikander inquired.

  Charan Singh let out a laugh. “My nephew, huzoor, on my wife’s side.”

  “I should have guessed it.” He rolled his eyes and turned to the porter. “We are here to see Jagatjit, obviously.”

  “I regret to say, huzoor, the Maharaja Sahib is not here at present.”

  “Damn!” Sikander cursed. He had taken a chance making an unannounced visit, hoping that Jagatjit would be loitering around this early, probably only just rising from his slumber, but now this looked to be a wasted trip.

  “When will he be back, do you know?”

  “Not long, sir. We received a telephone call that he is on his way.” He held out his hand, inviting Sikander to a nearby tent. “If you would care to wait.”

  “Yes, of course.” Sikander followed Dalip as he ushered them into a formal waiting room done up in the style best described as Punjabi Rococo. The roof had been cleverly hung with silk panels to mimic a dome, and the walls were festooned with gilded mirrors, making the enclosure seem larger than it actually was. The furniture was a bit modish for Sikander’s tastes, a rather heavy Louis XV encoignure in one corner, and a Louis XVI armoire in the other, with three mismatched Chippendale chairs arranged around a marble-topped pedestal table.

  “Would you care for some breakfast, sir? Some sherbet perhaps?”

  “Not for me, thank you,” Sikander said, choosing the chair nearest the door, with the Captain settling opposite him and Charan Singh taking up position just inside the entranceway. “But do have someone bring us a pot of coffee, will you?”

  “Of course, huzoor.”

  “If you would like, sir,” Campbell piped up as soon as the footman had left, “I would be happy to take a shot at questioning the Maharaja when he gets here. That is, you know, if you are uncomfortable interrogating your friend.”

  Sikander frowned, studying the Scotsman intently. He could not tell if he was merely brash, or if he was deliberately trying to inveigle himself into the investigation. Part of him still didn’t trust the Captain, even though he was proving quite useful, as Malik Umar had said he would. Nevertheless, there was something about the man that managed to make Sikander suspicious, which made him wonder if he had been sent not to help him, but rather to complicate and obfuscate matters. Was he working for someone, O’Dwyer perhaps, someone who wanted Sikander to fail, or was this just his natural manner, to be overly inquisitive?

  Before he could make up his mind, his musings were interrupted by a sudden din, a staccato clacking, like the volley of a Vickers gun.

  “What on earth is that?”Captain Campbell exclaimed.

  “Let’s take a look.” Sikander sprang to his feet, and moved to the rear of the tent, parting the exit flap slightly to peer outside. To his surprise, he saw that the racket was coming from a small open space not far away, a paved courtyard positioned between the tents, where a woman stood, loudly clicking her heels on the ground. She was Caucasian, not much taller than himself, with wavy coal-black hair bundled into a tight chignon, and a black ruffled dress with a flared hem, beneath which she was wearing a pair of block-heeled shoes. It was from these that the sound Sikander had heard had originated, the peculiar clattering which had startled him so.

  He watched curiously, wondering what she was up to, as the woman raised her arms above her head, an elegant flourish, and clapped her hands, once-twice-thrice. In response, a servant who was seated cross-legged nearby began to crank the handle of a gramophone. Immediately, a mournful dirge of music poured forth from its spout, hissing and crackling. It took Sikander a moment to place what it was, a solea from Cadiz, and he leaned forward, realizing that the woman was about to perform.

  She began by clapping her hands again, first hard, then soft. This was the palmas, the marking of the rhythm. Next came the golpe, where she stamped down on the pavement, a resounding rat-a-tat. Once that preliminary was past, she began to dance in earnest, launching into what was called an escobilla, a series of blindingly fast movements to show off her virtuosity with her feet. Even though he was not an aficionado of the flamenco, Sikander thought he recognized a few of the complicated steps, a planta, a tacon, another planta followed by a punta, one, two, three chuflas and then a blindingly skillful talon.

  It was almost as intoxicating as a glass of orujo. She was transformed into something fantastical, a thing of pure duende, as the Spaniards called it, a spinning, shimmering blur so ecstatic he could not tell where she ended and the music began. So this was Jagatjit’s Spanish Maharani, Sikander thought, the woman who had turned his head so completely. Anita Delgado, or Maharani Prem Kaur, as she now styled herself, had caught Jagatjit’s eye while performing the flamenco at a café in Madrid. He had fallen in love with her instantly, and had pursued her relentlessly until she had consented to become his fifth wife. It had caused quite a scandal, but as always, Jagatjit had chosen to fly straight in the face of tradition and custom, regardless of how many tongues it set wagging.

  Sikander thought he recognized what had enticed Jagatjit so entirely. The slim poetry of her arms as they wove their complex symphony, the curve of that proud neck, the sinuous sway of her hips; she was nothing less than spectacular.

  Her performance came to a conclusion all too soon. With one last clap of her hands and one final stamp of her feet, she arched her back into a question mark before letting out a loud “alla”! Immediately, the servant ceased his cranking, and with a drawn-out groan, the music tapered away, lapsing into a sullen silence.

  Some primal instinct must have warned her that she was being watched, because abruptly, the Spanish Maharani turned directly toward Sikander. Their eyes locked into each other, and her face stiffened, as if to convey she resented being spied upon. She pulled her shawl close around her shoulders, before striding toward him as determinedly as a Pamplonan bull at the charge.

  As the Maharani drew closer, the illusion she had woven while dancing was quickly dispelled. What finally came to a stop before him was rather a sweaty, stout creature, with the beginnings of a dour jowl and the faint shadow of a moustache darkening her upper lip.

  “And who are you?” she scowled. “How dare you spy on me?”

  “My apologies, Madam. My name is Sikander Singh, and I am a friend of your husband’s.”

  Her brow knitted, those hirsute eyebrows coming together like two caterpillars mating.

  “See-kan-dar.” She pronounced each syllable carefully, as if she was trying to place the name. “Ah, el hurón!” She let out a laugh as recognition dawned. “I know who you are. Jagatjit speaks of you often, and of your predilection to poke your nose in other people’s business. In Andalusia, where I was born, that is what we call a creature who is always sniffing about. Oh, what is the English word? Ah, of course, a weasel! You are the royal weasel, no?”

  Sikander gave her a diplomatic nod. If he could have understood her better, he might have been more offended, but her accent was very thick. It was quite obvious that English was not her first language, and even to his ears, which were finely attuned to variations in dialect, he found the drift of her consonants rather incomprehensible.

  “I must complain to you,” she said, “about your friend. He has been neglecting me dreadfully.”

  “Jagatjit is an important man, Madam. He has many res
ponsibilities to fulfill.”

  The Spanish Maharani let out rather an indelicate snort. “Nonsense! He is a wastrel who spends all his time drinking and chasing women. If I had known that, I would never have consented to be his wife.”

  Sikander resisted the urge to retort, “Yes, you would, because you only had eyes for the Kapurthala jewels, not Jagatjit’s virtues or lack thereof.” Instead, he bit his lip and tried to play the conciliator, a role that was entirely unfamiliar to him.

  “I fear you are being unfair, Madam. Jagatjit is a good man. It is just that he is prone to occasional bouts of melancholy. You must bear with him. He means no harm.”

  “Is that so? Then why is he being unfaithful to me?” She stamped her foot, as though to punctuate this declaration. “Don’t try to defend him. I am sure of it.”

  Sikander blushed, as did Campbell. Both men were visibly embarrassed to hear such private matters being aired publicly.

  “Madam, this is not an appropriate conversation.”

  The Maharani’s face darkened to an outraged crimson. “Oh, I see! You are one of those fellows who disapproves of women who speak their minds.”

  This accusation caused his face to redden again, but Sikander bit back the acerbic reply that sprang to his lips, not because he was afraid to offend, but because she had hit uncomfortably close to the truth. He did disapprove of her, but it was not because of her forthrightness. No, his gift, if he had one, was to see to the core of people, and what he saw inside her was greed, a cold-hearted calculation, and that made him dislike her instinctively, rather than some misplaced sense of misogyny.

  “You Indians, you are such cavemen. Your friend expects me to stay hidden from the world, cowering obediently behind a veil, but I will not. I will be free.” She tossed her hair tempestuously, a marvelously theatrical gesture. “I will dance.”

  For once, Sikander found himself entirely at a loss for words. He gave Campbell a sidelong look, but the Scotsman’s only response was a sardonic grin followed by a noncommittal shrug.

  Thankfully, before the Maharani could work herself up any further, Jagatjit Singh made a dramatic entrance.

  Sikander let out a sigh of relief as his old friend came staggering into the tent. Quite obviously, he was returning from a night of carousing, judging by the stink of gin coming off him, and the state of his achkan, which was a crumpled mess.

  When he saw Sikander, Jagatjit’s mouth curved into a delighted smirk. However, a heartbeat later, when he noticed his Maharani glowering at him, this grin wavered, a bloom withering in the face of winter.

  “Anita, how nice that you have met Sikander at last!” The words came out flat, obviously forced. Rather than mollifying the Spanish Maharani, it served to aggravate her even more, and with a contemptuous sniff, she spun on one heel and stormed away.

  As she departed, Jagatjit flung himself into the nearest chair. “Charan Singh, would you be a dear and bring me a cup of hot tea?”

  “Of course, Your Majesty. I am happy to serve.”

  Sikander studied his old friend. He had not seen Jagatjit for almost a year. The poor fellow looked a proper mess. In his youth, he had been rather heavyset, but recently, it seemed, he had managed to shed a goodly amount of weight, giving him quite an emaciated look, which was added to by the fact he had not shaved that morning, leaving his cheeks covered with greying stubble.

  “You look terrible,” Jagatjit said, as if he had read Sikander’s mind. “Have you not been getting any sleep?”

  “I could say the same thing to you. Where on earth were you all night?”

  “I have been trying to avoid the apple of my eye.” A long, weary sigh escaped Jagatjit’s lips. “She is on the warpath.”

  “What did you do this time?”

  “I haven’t done a thing.” His voice was almost a whine. “Damn her Iberian blood! I should have been more careful before I fell in love with her.”

  “She thinks you are having an affair,” the Captain chimed in.

  Jagatjit’s good humor evaporated. Turning to Campbell, he asked, “And who are you?”

  “Ah, yes! I am Campbell of the Guards. I am assisting Mr. Singh for the next few days.”

  He held out his hand, but Jagatjit pointedly ignored it. “Go away, won’t you?”

  “I beg your pardon?” Campbell’s eyes widened, obviously alarmed by such brusque treatment.

  “Make yourself scarce. I wish to speak to Sikander privately.”

  “Much as I would love to oblige, sir,” the Captain said, glancing at Sikander, as if to solicit his support, “but I am afraid I have my orders.”

  “Go ahead, Captain,” Sikander said. “Give me a few moments with Jagatjit. I will catch up with you later.”

  “But…but…” Campbell struggled to object.

  “Now, please. I insist,” Jagatjit repeated.

  “Very well, I shall be waiting just outside.” He stood and reluctantly, left the tent.

  Jagatjit waited until he had departed before asking, “Who is your shadow? Are you in some kind of trouble, Sikander?”

  “I’ll explain later. But first, what was it you wanted to speak to me about that the Captain simply could not be permitted to hear?”

  “Ah ,yes!” His smile rekindled, as giddy as an adolescent. “I am in love.”

  “Aren’t you always?”

  “Don’t be facetious. This time, I really am serious.”

  “That’s what you insist every time.” Sikander grinned, and made a great show of rolling his eyes. “Who is the unlucky woman, might I ask?”

  “Her name,” Jagatjit said with a groan, “is Zahra.”

  Immediately, Sikander’s face hardened. “Do you mean the nautch girl you sent to the King as a gift?”

  “I did not send her to him.” Jagatjit frowned. “That was a mistake.”

  He looked deeply chagrined, almost embarrassed. “Let me explain exactly what happened. The truth is that I purchased her contract for myself. I was going to woo her, ask her to be my sixth wife, or is it the seventh? Never mind! It’s the Spanish hag who sent her away. When she found out about Zahra, she threw an absolute fit, and when she confronted me, on the spur of the moment, I made up a lie that I had bought her as a gift for the King.” He shook his head. “The next thing I knew, she had packed her off in the middle of the night, sent her away to the King Emperor’s camp.”

  “Is that why you went to see Zahra the day before yesterday, to try and persuade her to come back to you?”

  “Yes,” Jagatjit replied, not even realising he was being questioned. “I offered her any sum, anything her heart desired as a dowry, but she spurned my overtures. She said she was flattered, but she had found someone else.”

  “Another man?” Sikander’s ears pricked up. “Did she mention who he was?”

  “She did not.” He shook his head. “What a lucky devil, though! Oh, Sikander, if only you could see the girl perform! She is breathtaking, like some celestial apsara come to life, as wanton as Menaka herself.”

  Sikander winced. “There is something I need to tell you, my friend.” He gazed at Jagatjit solemnly. “The girl is dead. She was murdered the night before last.”

  He watched Jagatjit very carefully, to see precisely how he would respond to this revelation. His sorrow was nothing short of spectacular, his face crumpling with utter dismay. He let out an anguished gasp, unable to conceal his shock. It was almost astonishing, to see him so emotional, considering how adept he was at hiding what he was thinking behind a playful mask. That was when Sikander knew Jagatjit was not the murderer. Only a master actor could falsify such pain, such absolute and unequivocal regret, and while Jagatjit was a man of many parts, that was not a role he was gifted enough to play.

  “Who did it?” His voice was thick with despair.

  “I do not know, but I have been tasked by t
he English with investigating the case.”

  “What a waste!” Jagatjit’s mouth stiffened into a scowl as sadness turned to fury. “Whoever killed her, Sikander, you have to find him. You must track him down.”

  “I intend to, Jagatjit. I assure you of that. I have no intention of letting him get away.”

  “Good!” His fingers folded into a fist. “And when you do, before you take him to the English, bring him to me. Promise me you will do that much for me, old friend.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  “You have to stop excluding me, sir. The Viceroy was quite explicit. You must include me in every facet of your investigation.”

  Sikander gave the Captain a warning look, as if to remind him that he did not take kindly to being berated.

  “I understand you are reluctant to have a partner, sir,” Campbell continued, adopting a more circumspect tone. “I shall endeavor to stay out of your way, but if you continue to ignore me, I shall be forced to make a report. I am sorry, but that is how it must be.”

  The Maharaja bit back a rude comment. He was tempted to send Campbell packing, but he knew he could not, if only for the sake of expediency. He simply didn’t have the time to get mired in a battle of wills, especially with the odds stacked so firmly in the Captain’s favor.

  “Very well,” he said coldly, “I shall try my best to involve you forthwith. However, if a suspect is unwilling to speak to me in the presence of an Englishman, there is nothing I can do about that.”

  “I can live with that.” Campbell rubbed his hands together. “Might I inquire, what did old Kapurthala have to say for himself?”

  “He is not our man.”