Death at the Durbar

by Arjun Gaind

  “Ah,” Sikander feigned a shrug. “The door was open, so I let myself in.”

  “Open, you say?” He frowned, offering Sikander a suspicious glare. “I am quite sure it was locked. The master did it himself, before he departed. I saw him, with my own two eyes.”

  Darting past Sikander, he peered at the door short-sightedly, raising one hand to scratch at his head.

  “Why would he lock you in?” Sikander asked curiously.

  “The master does not trust a soul. He is convinced that there are all kinds trying to steal his footage. He actually has us sleeping on the canisters, can you believe it?”

  The man scratched at his greasy hair. “Say, you aren’t with the press, are you? Mr. Urban was very specific about that. No visitors, and no press wallahs, most of all.”

  “No, I am not a journalist.”

  “You an actor then? I warn you, I can’t help you with any casting. The boss makes all those decisions himself.”

  “I am not an actor either. Actually, my name is Sikander Singh, and I am the Maharaja of Rajpore.”

  “Blooming hell!” The man’s mouth sagged. “Surely not! You’re really one of them Maharaja blokes.”

  “Indeed, I am, and this here is my manservant, Charan Singh.” He pointed at the big Sikh, who offered a surly bow. “And who might you be?”

  “Ah, yes,” the man performed an elaborate salute, very nearly managing to decapitate himself with his saucepan, which he seemed to have forgotten all about. “I am Jenkins, late of Aberystwyth, cameraman extraordinaire. Pray, how may I be of service to Your Highness?”

  “I was hoping to have a brief word with Mr. Urban about the process, so to speak. I am great fan of the cinema, you see, and when I heard that you were chronicling the celebrations on film, I simply had to pay him a visit.” He gave the cameraman the most innocent of smiles. “Say, Mr. Jenkins, I don’t suppose you could help me out, could you, answer a few of my questions for me? I would be happy to compensate you for your time.”

  Beside him, Charan Singh must have read his mind, because he already had a purse ready, clinking it suggestively in one hand before offering it to the Welshman.

  “It’s just plain old Jenkins, sir.” Taking the purse, he let out a low whistle when he examined its contents. “My father was Jenkins, and my grandfather before him. Not a Mister in sight. Tell me, what can I do for you, Your Lordship?”

  “I believe Mr. Urban visited the King Emperor’s camp the day before yesterday. Am I correct?”

  “Indeed, you are dead right,” Jenkins replied, his unfortunate choice of words causing Sikander’s jaw to clench. “We were there shooting some stock footage, just a few odds and ends to use as transitions. In fact, I was running the camera myself.”

  “Is that so?” He offered Jenkins a comradely wink. “I believe you filmed a nautch girl while you were there, a real beauty.”

  “Aye!” Jenkins laughed. “That she was. A proper peach! But we didn’t film her. The master dearly wanted to record some sequences of her dancing. He was foaming at the mouth to do it, but when he approached her, she refused to perform outright. I think she was scared of us, or something such. She certainly seemed a bit nervous, the poor thing. In any case, we ended up shooting some scenery and a couple of feet of soldiers on parade and that sort of thing.” His face lit up with a grin. “Say, would you like to see it?”

  “I’m sorry. What exactly would you like me to see?”

  “The rushes, sir, the dailies we shot while we were there. I was just getting the film developed, if you would care to have a look.”

  “Of course,” Sikander’s heartbeat quickened, sensing he was on the brink of something vitally important. “I would love to have a look.”

  “Come along, then.” Jenkins discarded his trusty saucepan, placing it on a nearby table before ushering Sikander through the back door of the haveli. He trotted across the courtyard, and carefully unlocked a shed about the size of a stable at the distant end of the compound.

  “In here, sir. We have a screening room all set up.”

  Inside, it was very dark, except for the dull illumination cast by two narrow windows. The laboratory stink of mercury permeated the air, making Sikander cough. One wall was whitewashed, the far one, which Sikander guessed was used as the screen. The rest of the room was bare of furniture, except for several rows of cast-iron bathtubs, each one carefully covered with wet muslin cloth. Sikander paused and eased back one of the sheets, to reveal a metal canister beneath, embossed with the name Pathé, ensconced in a bed of rapidly melting ice.

  “Careful, Your Majesty!” Jenkins castigated him. “That’s raw stock. It’s made from cellulose and silver nitrate, sir, very nearly the same ingredients as gunpowder. It is extremely inflammable. That is why we keep it cold.”

  He pulled up a workbench, just two slats of wood nailed to a crossbeam.

  “Have a seat, sir. I’ll have us up and running in no time.”

  Crossing to the far corner, Jenkins swept away a grimy dust cloth to reveal a small Gaumont projector mounted on a table beneath. After carefully checking its lens as reverently as a devotee, he turned and approached a nearby steamer trunk banded with iron, slamming open its lid to reveal a stack of film reels stored within. Rifling through them, he pulled out one round spool.

  “Here we are,” he said, returning to the projector, and carefully threading the film into the requisite receptacles, handling it as dexterously as a master weaver. “Are you ready, sir?”

  “Yes, go on.”

  Jenkins marched around the room, drawing closed each window’s curtains one by one, leaving Sikander enveloped by twilight. Then, returning to the projector, he spat on one palm and grasped its hand crank, slowly starting to turn it clockwise.

  Whirring and clicking, the machine came to life. A moment later, the room lit up with an unearthly light. Where moments ago there had been flat nothingness, now a series of black-and-white images flickered in stark focus, like ghosts come to life. It was magical, but also equally unnerving, so real that they seemed tangible. But then, when Sikander lifted one hand to try and touch the images with his fingers, they broke apart, splintering into a rainbow of dust motes.

  As Jenkins had explained, it was mainly footage of the Imperial Camp. First came a close-up of the Union Jack fluttering gently in some invisible breeze, and then a panoramic vista of the tents, their flat white roofs spread out as far as the eye could see, like an intricate puzzle. Then a shot of the Kings Road, following the route His Majesty would take during his procession, followed by a very clever sequence showing an automobile bearing down toward them like some primeval behemoth. Then came a shot of some camels being herded by their tenders, and an elephant being bathed, water trumpeting from his trunk as his child mahout swung from his tusks, and then, a polo match in full swing, before finally cutting to a march-past, a row of Hussars mounted on horseback, maneuvering perfectly in unison on parade.

  Sikander quickly began to lose interest. It did not take long for his eyes to grow accustomed to the half light, after which the pictures seemed drab somehow, flat and insubstantial. And there was no sound, which made the experience even more unconvincing.

  Just as he was beginning to lose patience completely, a shot of the King’s Reception Pavilion flickered across the screen. Sikander leaned forward to get a better look. There, in the background, off to the left, was that Zahra? It was, he realised, as the camera zoomed in. A shiver ran down his spine. She was so beautiful, so vibrant, it was hard to believe she was dead. It was eerie, to say the least, so surreal he felt like a voyeur.

  He watched as she turned to face him, her face blooming with joy, a smile flowering on her lips. The camera pulled back, to reveal that a man had entered the frame, approaching Zahra. He was tall, broad-shouldered, clad in a leather duster and a broad-brimmed hat. Sikander’s eyes narrowed, trying to discern hi
s identity, but it was no use. Not only was his back to the camera, but the angle was all wrong, leaving his face obscured, swathed by shadows.

  Sill, there was something very familiar about him, causing a flicker of recognition to gnaw at Sikander like an itch he could not scratch. A moment later, it became apparent exactly why. The camera panned left, just as the man took Zahra’s hand in his own, and brought it to his lips, to give her wrist the tenderest of kisses. In that instant, his face was partially visible, revealing a profile that Sikander knew immediately.

  Behind him, Charan Singh let out an audible gasp, an exclamation of utter surprise.

  “Thank you, Jenkins. You can stop now.”

  “Hold on, there’s a bit more, Your Highness.”

  “There’s no need.” Sikander let out a grim laugh. “I have seen everything that I need to solve this case.

  “I now know exactly who our murderer is.”

  Chapter Twenty-six

  By the time Sikander arrived at the King Emperor’s encampment, dusk had long since subsided into the ebony gloom of night.

  This time around, he had chosen to come alone, leaving Charan Singh and his entourage of guards behind, in spite of the old Sikh’s persistent objections. The camp seemed a changed place. When he had last visited, just a couple of days previously, it had been quite deserted. Now, in spite of the lateness of the hour, it was the scene of hectic activity. Every electric light was ablaze, turning night to day, and there was a dense crowd congregated along the Kingsway, a motley of carts and lorries and horse drawn wagons bunched together. Beyond, a scene of absolute bedlam was unfolding, as soldiers and laborers and scurried about like worker ants, laying any remaining last-minute preparations before the King’s arrival the next morning.

  There was a bit of awkwardness when Sikander trundled up in his Rolls Royce, only to be barred from entering by the sergeant of the Black Watch who was on sentry duty. Sikander tried to reason with him, but the man remained obdurate, as only a Sassenach can. No matter what expanation was offered, he refused to let him pass without an official invitation.

  Just before matters could take an ugly turn, Campbell showed up.

  “The Maharaja of Rajpore is working directly for the Viceroy,” he explained to the dour Scotsman. “He is to have the run of the camp. Those are Lord Hardinge’s explicit orders.”

  As the sergeant grudgingly raised the cordon, Sikander turned to Campbell and asked, “Have you done as I requested, Captain, and sent for the Viceroy?”

  “I regret to say, sir, that Lord Hardinge is unavailable. Unfortunately, he has gone down country to meet the King’s train at Jhansi.”

  “What about Lord Dane, and Malik Umar Hayat Khan?”

  “I have dispatched runners to summon them. They should be here shortly.” The Captain’s brow knitted into a frown. “What is this about, your Majesty? Couldn’t you at least give me a hint about what is going on?”

  “All in good time, Captain. Let us wait for the others to arrive, shall we?”

  “Of course,” Campbell replied, though it was patent from his waspish expression he was not at all satisfied. “Shall we step inside?”

  Turning, he led Sikander into the King’s reception pavilion. Inside, it was much the same as it had been two nights before, although everything had been polished to a high sheen in preparation of the King’s arrival. The tapestries and carpets had been brushed, every nook and eave dusted, each piece of furniture buffed with linseed oil. It felt surreal. Every remnant of Zahra’s presence seemed to have been erased, all traces of her death sanitized. It was almost impossible to tell that any crime had even been committed in these hallowed confines, if not for the faintest scent of bleach lingering in the air.

  Like a terrier, the Captain nipped at Sikander’s heels as he made a slow circuit of the room before finally coming to a stop in front of the same chair where the Viceroy had been seated the last time around. Sikander sank down into its cushioned embrace with a sigh, crossing one leg over another. Leaning back, he settled in patiently to wait. Campbell, on the other hand, refused to sit. Instead, he paced back and forth restlessly. Sikander watched him, reminded of the clockwork automatons he had seen in Germany once, at the Frauenkirche in Nuremberg. The Captain moved with the same mechanical regularity, six short steps towards the door and then he would stop, before turning and giving Sikander a wary glance, and then repeating the whole process once more, only in the opposite direction.

  “Calm down, Captain, before you give yourself a stroke.”

  “I’m sorry,” Campbell replied with a smirk. “Would you care for a drink, sir? I can call for a bearer and ask him to fetch us some champagne.”

  “No, I think not. At least, not yet.”

  This reply only served to make Campbell even more agitated. With a visible shudder, he resumed his pacing. Sikander watched the man, trying to quell his irritation. He was tempted to chastise him, command him to sit down and stop fidgeting, but he restrained his tongue, wondering which would give first, his patience, or the Captain’s knees.

  Thankfully, they did not have too long to wait. Malik Umar was the first to arrive. He hustled into the tent with a harried scowl on his face, as if to suggest he was not in the least bit happy at being summoned in such a peremptory fashion.

  “This had better be a proper emergency, Sikander,” he snapped without bothering to offer any formal greetings. “There are a hundred details waiting for my attention, so I warn you, if this is a waste of time, there will be dire consequences.”

  “As it happens, my friend, I have made some real progress in solving Zahra’s case.”

  Malik Umar’s reponse to this declaration was a narrowing of his mouth, his lips compressing nearly to invisibility.

  “Didn’t the Viceroy specifically order you to cease and desist your investigations? He will not be happy when he finds out you have disobeyed his express command.”

  “I am sure he won’t mind too much.” Sikander’s face split into a triumphant grin. “You see, I have been able to deduce who killed Zahra.”

  “Is that so?” Malik Umar’s eyes widened, a mixture of surprise and disbelief.

  Next to him, Captain Campbell let out a choked gasp. “Who was it? Alwar?”

  “No, while I certainly would love to pin the blame on Jey Singh, he is not our man. Oh, he is quite unhinged, I know, suffering from what Krapelin calls dementia praecox, a precocious madness under whose influence he is capable of committing the direst of crimes, even murder. In this case though, I believe he is innocent, if only because he lacked the opportunity to kill Zahra. As we know from our investigations, she was alive when he left her, and the alibi he provided has been verified, which exonerates him, much to my dismay.”

  “Was it Kashmir then? Or the Nizam?” Malik Umar asked.

  “No, I fear they are both innocent as well. The Nizam has motive certainly. When he approached Zahra with amorous intentions, she turned him away, which would be enough to foment a deep resentment. The fury of the scorned and such! But would that be reason enough to want someone dead? Perhaps, yes; I have known murders committed for less, especially by men who are as arrogant as Osman Jah. However, it is that very arrogance that exculpates him in this case. As he pointed out, he would have hired someone to do his killing, rather than strangled her himself.

  “As for Kashmir, his motive is an even more palpable one. He tried to recruit the girl as an agent, but she refused him. If she chose to expose his machinations to the authorities, that would only land him in hotter water than he already is. But that is exactly where Partap Singh’s salvation lies. You see, it was his brother who hatched this elaborate scheme, and it was his intent, I believe for it to fail, precisely so that he could undermine the Maharaja and supplant him with his own son.

  “That brings us to Kapurthala and Patiala.”

  “Surely you cannot be serious.” Mali
k Umar snorted. “Neither Bhupinder nor Jagatjit are killers. They could no more murder a woman than you or I.”

  “Do not be so quick to jump to conclusions, Malik Umar. Lust drives men to do strange and terrible things.” Sikander steepled his fingers, bringing them to his lips. “And that is what united Kapurthala and my cousin, that they both lusted for Zahra. However, when they made overtures to her, she refused them, which gives them much the same motivation as the Nizam.

  “In Jagatjit’s case though, I believe we can dismiss him outright. He loved Zahra, or at least he thought he did, in his own quixotic way. He could not have taken her life. As for Bhupinder, he is a much more complex creature than Kapurthala. He could have someone murdered yes, if the fancy struck him, but a woman, and for rejecting his amorous advances? No, he is a narcissist, not a madman, which is why I think we must eliminate him as well.”

  “What about Prince Battenberg and his coterie?” Campbell chimed in, a bit too shrill. “One of them could be our man. After all, they were amongst the last to see her alive, weren’t they? Shouldn’t that make them the most obvious culprits?”

  “No, I think not. Your Guppies are brats of the worst kind, yes, but that does not make them murderers, not yet. Perhaps with time one or more of them may grow to do something heinous, but now, let us be honest, they just did not have enough of a reason to want her dead.

  “Colonel Metcalfe, though, is a different kettle of fish. He was driven by profit, a calculating, callous man, and precisely the sort of suspect who would kill if the price was right. But in this case, I believe it would be premature to blame him for her death. He threatened her, yes, but it was too early for him to kill her, not until he had secured the evidence he had been sent to obtain.

  “Who does that leave? Bahadur Rao? A foolish, arrogant rabble-rouser, but a murderer. I think not. The Scindia? An unpleasant man, but he wanted to help the girl, not kill her. The Maharani of Bharatpore? Holkar? The Prince of Palanpur? No, none of them quite fits the bill either, do they?”