Crime fiction: The bride-to-be, a fresh-off-the-boat English memsahib, disappears before the wedding

Furrowing my brow, I considered all that Peter had just recounted.

My every instinct raged at me, warning me that this was a waste of time. It sounded less like a mystery and more a story straight out of a bodice-ripper. And while I do take great pride in my deductive abilities, I have always thought of myself as a solver of conundrums, not a seeker of lost cats and absconding fiancées.

Before I could articulate my concerns, though, Helene chimed in yet again. “Of course, he will help you! Won’t you, Sikander? Tell him not to worry!”

I pursed my lips, annoyed by her impetuousness. Briefly, I was tempted to refuse, to tell Peter that I hadn’t the time to help him, perhaps even suggest that he forget Miss Hartley and move on with his life. Unfortunately, the hopeful look that he gave me made me realise I could not be quite that callous. This pitiful wreck of a man, he may no longer be the larger-than-life hero I remembered from my childhood, the confidante I had cherished so deeply, but he was still the man who had made me the person I was today. That meant I owed him a debt so profound that I could not turn him away in such a cavalier fashion, not without causing him an equal amount of harm as the absconding memsahib already had.

“Very well, Peter,” I offered him a brisk smile. “I’ll see what I can dig up tomorrow.”

“Oh, wonderful.” Peter’s face sagged with relief.

“Excellent!” Helene exclaimed, giving me a nod of approval. “It is settled then. Tomorrow, Sikander will help you find your fiancée. As for tonight, Mr Rowan, you must stay here with us.”

“Oh no, I wouldn’t want to be any trouble.”

“Please,” she silenced him with a curt wave. “I insist. As you can see, we have more than enough space.”

Peter looked like he was about to offer a further argument, but Uday Singh stepped forward to forestall his objections.

“I have taken the liberty, Memsahib, to have a room made up for Rowan Sahib,” he said. “If he would be so kind as to give us the address of his lodgings, I shall have his baggage fetched at the earliest.”

Realising that he had been neatly outmanoeuvred, Peter sagged back. “Very well! I would be delighted to stay.”

“Good, it is settled then.” Rising to her feet, Helene offered Peter a warm smile. “Now, if you will excuse me, I think it’s time for me to retire for the evening.”

“How can I ever thank you, Madam? I am in your debt.”

“Nonsense! I should be the one thanking you. By all accounts, if it wasn’t for you, my Sikander would not be the wonderful man he is today.”

Reaching out, she patted his shoulder reassuringly. “I shall say a prayer for your young lady. And don’t you worry, Sikander will track her down. This is what he lives for.”

With that promise, Helene made her exit. As for me, I was about to follow when Peter stepped forward to bar my way.

“It’s not quite 7 pm, Sikander. Why don’t you stay for a while? Let’s have a drink and catch up, shall we? We have so much to talk about.”

It was a tempting proposition, I admit. The thought of a cool glass of champagne was difficult to resist. But somehow, as I looked at Peter, I felt an ennui wash over me, an intense fatigue. Perhaps I had not realised how bone-tired the rigours of our journey had left me, or perhaps it was the earnest expression on Peter’s face that put me off, but I decided, for once, to decline the offer of a drink.

“Another time, Peter,” I said. “For now, what I need desperately is a bath and a change of clothes.”

A crestfallen expression flashed across his face. I could tell that he was disappointed, maybe even hurt by my refusal. Unfortunately, I had neither the energy nor the patience to placate him. Avoiding his dejected eyes, I hastily summoned Uday Singh and tasked him with showing Peter to his bedroom, before beating a hasty retreat myself.

As I climbed the stairs to my own bedroom, a wave of fatigue washed over me, leaving me weak at the knees. I realised I was near exhaustion, barely able to string together two coherent thoughts, much less spend an evening exchanging fond remembrances with this stranger who had once been my closest friend.

Judging by the neat pile of clothes on the bed and the sound of running water coming from the bathroom, I concluded that Helene had beaten me to the punch. Briefly, I toyed with the idea of joining her in the bath, but then dismissed it with a sigh. After a week spent cooped up on a train, I doubted she was in the mood to play at being amorous. I certainly was not, a realisation that was accompanied by rather a strong pang of self-recrimination. In my youth, such thoughts would never have given me a minute’s pause, but now, the notion of curling up in bed was infinitely more palatable than a soapy escapade with my beautiful paramour.

Leaving Helene to enjoy a few moments of privacy, I unfurled my pugree and let loose my joora. It is a particular torment that only gentlemen of the Sikh persuasion can understand, but after almost a week of travelling, my hair felt matted and knotted, sorely in need of some care and attention.

Picking up an ivory-backed brush from the dressing table, I began to comb out my hair. It was a ritual that had always calmed me, one I remembered and cherished from my childhood, which now seemed to be a lifetime away. When I was a boy, it was my mother who combed my hair out every night, a routine that always brought with it an impeccable sense of peace.

As I ran the brush through my hair with long and practiced strokes, easing away the tangles, I found myself contemplating Peter’s situation. What were the chances that his Miss Hartley had actually gone missing? Slim to none, I thought dogmatically. As far as I could envision, there were only two possibilities here. One, Miss Hartley had decided to jilt Peter, perhaps even run off with someone else. Two, she had developed a case of cold feet, a condition that was not unheard of, especially for someone who had an entire voyage out to India during which to consider the decision to marry. In either case, there was one only foregone conclusion to be made: whatever came next, my old friend was going to end up with a broken heart. I could see no real way to avoid that, which was the very reason I would have preferred not to become involved in this affair.

Excerpted with permission from The Missing Memsahib, Arjun Raj Gaind, HarperCollins India.