by Arjun Gaind
It took Sikander more than a moment to place the name. An ex-lover, he thought, almost forgotten except for the remembrance of a pair of sapphire eyes and a very athletic disposition, particularly after a magnum of champagne.
“All lies, I assure you,” he responded. “I am an exceedingly simple man.”
“Is that so? Sarah was very flattering, I assure you,” she said, a hint of suggestion in her tone.
“Would you care to sit down?” Campbell hurried forward, scraping back a chair.
“Thank you.” She rewarded him with a resplendent smile. “I am very grateful for your kind invitation, Captain. This is such a delightful place, don’t you think?”
Campbell flushed, as red as a brick. Sikander rolled his eyes, unable to hide his amusement. One kind word from an attractive woman, and the hero became as gormless as an adolescent.
Just as he was about to sit down himself, from behind them, Miss Eaton let out a rather forceful sniff, to remind him and the Captain that they had quite managed to forget her. With a wry smile, Sikander offered her his own seat, which she took with the habitual arrogance of a woman accustomed to being ignored by men.
“Well,” he said, hailing a nearby bearer, “what would you ladies care to try?”
“I have taken the liberty of ordering, Your Majesty,” Campbell said, as the waiter approached, offering a bottle of Pol Roger for the Maharaja’s approval.
“Well done! I could certainly use a glass of something fizzy to clear the dust from my throat.”
Sikander pointed at the memsahibs, indicating that the bearer should offer them the first glasses, as good manners dictated.
“I think not.” Miss Eaton’s voice was as cold as steel. “We will take a kettle of tea, and make sure it is pukka stuff. Earl Grey, do you hear? None of your Darjeeling rubbish. Cream, not milk. And serve the sugar on the side, not in the kettle, do you understand?” As the waiter backed away hurriedly, she gave Sikander and the Captain a haughty nod. “You have to be stern with these fellows, or they will muck everything up. Now, Mr. Campbell, what is it you wanted to talk to Eleanor about, eh?”
The Captain offered the two ladies a sheepish smile. “I confess, Madam, I had an ulterior motive to invite you to tea today. You see, the Maharaja here desired to have a chat with you.”
Miss Eaton bristled visibly, shooting him a warning glare as if to forestall what she mistook to be a romantic overture, but curtly, before she could launch into another tirade, Sikander cut her off.
“I believe you visited the Royal Camp the day before, Miss Cavendish. Might I inquire why?”
“Please, do call me Eleanor.” The memsahib smiled and arched one well-plucked eyebrow, before holding up her wrists suggestively. “I have heard about your reputation, Your Majesty. Am I being interrogated? Don’t you need to manacle me first?”
“Another time, perhaps,” Sikander retorted, ignoring Miss Eaton’s muted growl of disapproval at such banter. “For now, how about answering my question, if you please?”
“Well, as it happened, I have been rather bored, waiting for the Durbar celebrations to ensue. There really is not much here for a young woman to do, and so, when my uncle’s aide-de-camp, Lieutenant Pelham, suggested we make a tour of the Imperial camp, I was only too eager to jump at the opportunity.” She sighed, accompanied by a magnificently contrived toss of that startling hair. “I came to India thinking it would be the greatest of adventures. But all everyone here at the Durbar seems to want to do is parade about and march endlessly in circles. To be honest, I find myself sorely in need of some diversion. Perhaps one of you fine gentlemen might care to remedy that.”
A less worldly man might have been beguiled by such a brazen attempt at being disarming. Captain Campbell certainly seemed captivated, entranced by Miss Cavendish’s poise and beauty. But Sikander was rather less easy to win over. He had encountered many beautiful women along the course of his life, and if there was one truth he had learned along the way, it was that the more flirtatious a woman acted, the harder she was trying to hide something.
“I do not believe you, Miss Cavendish. I think you are lying to me.”
Both Campbell and Miss Eaton let out identical gasps of dismay.
“Mr. Singh, this is just inexcusable. Stop haranguing the poor child.”
“I have to agree, Your Highness. Steady on, won’t you?” Campbell added.
Sikander ignored them, keeping his eyes fixed squarely on Miss Cavendish. She uttered a little laugh. “I must confess, Your Majesty, I am rather disappointed by you.”
“Is that so?”
She nodded her assent. “After all the praises that Lady Wilcox had sung, I expected more. I had imagined you would be a modern man, but I see now you are just as backward thinking as all the others, precisely the sort of man who thinks he can bully a woman. However, I must warn you, sir, you will find that I am not the sort of woman who is easily intimidated.”
“I am not trying to intimidate you, my dear Eleanor. I assure you, I mean you no harm.”
“Don’t you?” Her voice was as scathing as raw acid. “Your breed always does. You are threatened by any woman who is unafraid to speak her mind, who wishes to make her own way in the world. You are no different from my father, or my brothers, who would rather have me wedded and bedded than allow me to travel, to see the world.”
It was a masterful monologue, one part emotion, two parts accusation. Sadly, it left Sikander entirely unmoved. This was not the first time he had been accused of misogyny, nor did he suspect would it be the last. It was easy enough to mistake his brusqueness for loutishness, but the truth was somewhat simpler. It was not that he disdained womankind. On the contrary, Sikander had nothing but the utmost respect for what in his opinion was often erroneously described as the weaker sex. If anything, women were far stronger than men, if not physically, then at least emotionally.
The problem was that, at heart, Sikander was a misanthrope. He despised most people. Those few he counted as friends, that rare handful he admired, were individuals who had managed to rise above their basest instincts, who aspired to something more meaningful than the material. All others, men and women alike, he preferred to keep at an arm’s length, not out of irascibility, but because he found them altogether too venial.
“I think, Madam, that you are being rather too theatrical,” Sikander murmured, “and while I certainly applaud your attempt to change the subject quite deftly, the truth of the matter is that you went to the Imperial camp to meet with a nautch girl named Zahra, didn’t you? If we were to summon this Lieutenant of yours, I am sure he would corroborate that, wouldn’t he?”
Miss Cavendish’s only response to this accusation was a stony silence, accompanied by an equally obdurate scowl.
“Tell me, dear Eleanor,” Sikander said, leaning forward, “how long have you been a follower of Miss Pankhurst?”
This really was the final straw for Miss Eaton. Like a jack-in-the-box, she sprang to her feet.
“That is utterly unacceptable, Mr. Singh! Miss Cavendish is a respectable young lady. She has no truck with the likes of those…those…” Turning to her ward, she held out one hand. “Come along, Eleanor, let us away. We do not have to endure such boorish behavior a moment longer.”
“Please, Madam, hold your tongue!” Sikander snarled. “I have had quite enough of your interruptions.”
The elderly woman let out a squawk of disbelief, as shrill as an overwrought chicken. Her face darkened, flustered by such contemptuous treatment. She darted a quick look at Captain Campbell, seeking his support, but all she received was a noncommittal shrug.
“It is all right, Miss Eaton,” Miss Cavendish said diffidently. “Please sit down. As it happens, the Maharaja is entirely correct. I am indeed a suffragette.”
This admission elicited another gasp, even more voluble than the last, and Miss Eaton all but fel
l back into her chair, fanning herself frantically with her handkerchief.
“Oh, my dear! What have you done? How are we ever going to find you a husband now?”
“I do not want, or need a husband,” Miss Cavendish declared vehemently. “Why must a woman need a man to be considered worthwhile? Why can we not have an identity of our own?”
She gave Sikander a defiant look. “It was Sarah who introduced me to the Women’s Social and Political Union. She hosted a meeting for them some years ago, and I had the privilege of attending and hearing Miss Pankhurst herself speak about the liberation of women. That was what changed my life forever. Until then, I had thought something wrong with me, a flaw deep within in my character, that I was dissatisfied by the very things that so preoccupied young women my age. I had no interest in knowing the latest fashions, or practising polite conversation, or being presented to eligible bachelors like a cow for sale. It was only when I heard Miss Pankhurst speak so eloquently of how women were the equals of men that I came to understand it was not me who was at fault, but society at large.”
Her voice rose to a shrill crescendo, and with each successive exclamation, Miss Eaton let out a new groan, as if she were being flayed by her ward’s words.
“That is the greatest ill of our times, Mr. Singh, the gravest injustice, that we women, who are strong enough to bear sons, to raise them to be stalwart soldiers of the Empire, are dismissed as too fragile, too nervous to have an education, to hold a job, to cast a ballot. That is what Miss Pankhurst wishes to remedy, to give a woman the right to be more than a mere vessel, to allow us to be the same as men, if not better.”
“Is that why you went to see Zahra, to try and liberate her?”
“No, not quite. That is not what happened exactly.” She sighed, and massaged her brow tiredly. “I was indeed bored, and only too happy to accept Lieutenant Pelham’s invitation when it came. Of course, I was quite aware he was trying to woo me, but I had no intention of reciprocating his advances. I just needed a diversion, as I mentioned, and he was as good as any.
“When we arrived at the camp, Pelham was showing us around, raving on and on about the décor and so forth. Oh, what a lot of hot air! I was beginning to quite regret my decision to accompany him, when Mr. Urban happened to let on that there was a nautch girl being held in the camp.”
“Hold on just a moment! Who is this Mr. Urban?”
“Oh, didn’t I mention him? He is a filmmaker from America, here to chronicle the Durbar. He came out with us from London on the Maloja, and made my acquaintance while we were on board. Quite a cheeky fellow, actually. He told me I should be an actress, ha!”
“He was at the King’s camp when you arrived there?”
“Yes, scouting for local color, he said, accompanied by two of his cameramen.”
“And he was the one who told you about Zahra? He had been to see her?”
“Yes, he had tried to film her, I believe. Anyway, when I heard, I just knew I had to find a way to have a word with her. So I came up with rather a hasty plan.” She smiled, her cheeks dimpling mischievously. “I feigned a fainting spell, and told the Lieutenant and Miss Eaton that I was feeling intemperate. They suggested I rest briefly, and while Pelham scurried off to try and scrounge up a car to take us back to the Hussars’ Camp, I asked Miss Eaton to try and find me a nice cup of tea and some smelling salts. As soon as she left me alone in the reception tent, I snuck straight out and quickly tracked down the young lady. Pelham had mentioned she was being kept in the servants’ quarters, and I tipped one of the bhistis who was watering down the walkway to show me the way.”
“And you just barged right in, without any formal introductions whatsoever?”
“Of course! I was on a mission, Mr. Singh. I had to help the child. That is what Mrs. Pankhurst always says. Deeds, not words. That is how we will win our battle, not by posturing, but through action.” She shuddered. “Poor thing! What kind life is that for a girl? To be bought and sold like a brood mare, and forced to dance for the entertainment of men, who drool over her like she was a piece of meat. No, I could not, in good conscience, leave her to such a fate.”
“So you offered to rescue her?”
“Yes! I told her I would be happy to spirit her away to a safe refuge, to liberate her from a life of servitude and the curse of being a man’s chattel to be used and discarded at a whim. I have a dear friend in Madras, one of the Governor’s nieces, who is always keen to help those less fortunate. I told her she could easily get a job there as a maid, or maybe even a seamstress, if she was willing to work hard and learn a trade.”
“But she did not wish to be rescued, did she?”
Miss Cavendish grimaced. “Not at all. On the contrary, she laughed at me.” Her voice wavered with incredulity—or was it wrath? “She called me a fool, and said that a woman should know her place in the world!”
“Did that make you angry?”
“Of course! It is women like that who are setting back our cause.” She ground her teeth so loudly that Captain Campbell winced. “How dare she call me a fool!” Her voice grew heated, her cheeks reddening with emotion. “If we could be rid of all such women, such weak and docile creatures, our cause would be advanced immeasurably, I tell you.”
Sikander pursed his lips, contemplating this outburst. On one hand, it gave Miss Cavendish a compelling motive, at least theoretically to want Zahra dead. As she had admitted with her own words, her cause would be immeasurably advanced. On the other, would she really be so forthright now if she had caused the girl any real harm? Would she make such an incriminating statement if she really was a killer? And then there was the matter of the physics of it. He found it difficult to picture her strangling someone. She was tall enough, yes, but her slender build and slim hands lacked the strength to have throttled Zahra so brutally and then strung her up like a prize.
“What happened next? Did you try to reason with her, to remonstrate that you were acting in her best interest?”
“No,” Miss Cavendish shook her head. “I could see that I was wasting my time, and I felt like a fool for having even tried, so I left. Besides, I had to hurry back before Miss Eaton here found out that I was gone.” Her face stiffened. “I must ask, what exactly is this about, Mr. Singh? Has some ill fate befallen Zahra?” Her eyes gleamed, like cabochons. “Has she run away? Absconded with a man perhaps?”
“Now why would you say that?”
Miss Cavendish lowered her voice. “She has a lover, I am sure of it. That was the impression I got when I spoke with her.”
Miss Eaton’s handkerchief-fanning grew still more outraged, until Sikander was afraid she would take to the air, like some demented bird.
“What makes you so sure of that?”
“Oh, a woman knows! She was in love, that much was written on her face. In fact, I am quite certain that is why she turned me down.” She exhaled, a sympathy of breath. “I can only hope she is happy, wherever she is, the poor misinformed thing!”
Sikander sat back, intrigued by her suggestion that Zahra had been hiding a secret lover. Bhupinder had insinuated much the same thing, as had the Nizam. Who could this elusive Lothario be? Was he Indian or Caucasian? And was he the one who had murdered Zahra?
He realised that Miss Cavendish was watching him very intently, waiting for some measure of a response to her earlier question.
“It has been a distinct pleasure to meet you, Miss Cavendish,” he said, keeping a proverbial poker face. “And, for the record, I have no dispute with women being equal to men, so long as they are quite as exceptional as you.”
“How gallant! But who is the one being evasive now?”
“Good-day, Madam!”
“Very well!” Rising, she shook her head. “You can keep your secrets this once. And you, too, Captain,” she said as Campbell stood up as well. “I would suggest you gentlemen stay out of trouble, but I ge
t the feeling I would be wasting my breath.”
“It was my pleasure, Madam,” Campbell said. “Might I have permission to call upon you, at the Hussars’ Mess tomorrow?”
This overture finally caused Miss Eaton to spark up, having recovered enough of her composure to regain some semblance of her previous prudishness.
“You are presumptuous, sir, and much too forward.”
Even as she made that declaration, a startling thought occurred to Sikander, induced by Campbell’s fleeting mention of the Hussars’ Camp. Could Miss Cavendish be the woman that Brigadier Granville-Bruce had mentioned earlier, the object of his newfound affections?
“There is a ball later this evening, Madam, at the Indore Camp, hosted by Lord and Lady Bute. It would be my honor if you would deign to attend, as my guest. If you wish it, I shall have a car sent for you, and for Miss Eaton. Shall we say about six-thirty?”
“I should think not.” Miss Eaton rose to her feet with stately disdain. “I have no intention of allowing dear Eleanor to become involved with you and your schemes. Come along, child. We shall find a more respectable way to spend the evening.”
She marched away, as regal as a Tudor. As for Miss Cavendish, she chose to linger, just long enough to give Sikander a comradely wink.
“Don’t mind Miss Eaton. She will come around.” Her eyes twinkled. “I shall see you this evening, gentlemen. You can count on it.”
“What a woman!” Campbell observed as she walked away.
“Indeed!” Sikander agreed, calling for the waiter to settle up the bill. “Too much woman for you, though, I fear, Captain.”
When they departed the tea house, Charan Singh was waiting to greet them.
“I have done it, huzoor. Once again, I have cracked the case.”
“What are you looking so self-satisfied about, you old baboon?”
“As it happens, sahib, I have found your Nationalist.”
“Where is he?”
