Текст книги "Ragtime in Simla"

Автор книги: Barbara Cleverly

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Текущая страница: 17 (всего у книги 21 страниц)

‘Troop,’ said Joe, ‘you may be right, you may be wrong. I suspect you are right but why are you telling me this? What axe have you to grind? I don’t know you well but – forgive me – I have reason to believe that you are in the axe-grinding business much of the time. So, tell me, what’s this all about?’

Edgar Troop suddenly flushed and turned on Joe. Venomous, he hissed, ‘Alice! The mighty director of ICTC! Chosen confidante of Lady Reading! The so pitiably neglected wife of drunken Sharpe! The focus of so much womanly sympathy! Christ Almighty! Bloody woman! “Oh, Captain Troop, very kind of you. Now tell me what do I owe you?” And “Oh, Captain Troop, I have a tiny commission for you. I wonder if you’d be so kind… And I’m so terribly sorry if I can’t know you when we meet in public… I’m sure you understand… You mustn’t mind, if, when you come to see me I have to keep you waiting… I’m so terribly busy.” Treated me like an errand boy! And she nothing but a tart if Flora’s to be believed! I – and several others in Simla, I can tell you – would be delighted to see that one get what I’ll call her just deserts!’

‘So you’re saying they’ve made off on fast horses, but where?’

‘Well, not to Kalka, I’ll bet! I think Carter and his merry men will have gone chasing off down there and it’ll be some hours before they realize they’re following a false trail – and you can bet a false trail will have been laid for him. By the time they double back Alice and Rheza Khan will be miles away into the hills. They’re making for Borendo and the Zalori Pass and thereafter I’d guess on north through Manali. It’s their back door out of this country. That’s where Rheza Khan’s people come from. Up there, every second person you meet is likely to be his cousin.’

‘But, Troop, what’s in it for Alice? What’s she going to be doing empty-handed on a spur of the Himalayas?’

‘Empty-handed? When was Alice ever empty-handed? Where do you suppose the jewellery paid for by ICTC and filtered through Robertson is to be found? Good jewels – I mean good by international standards and Alice wasn’t collecting rubbish – don’t take up much space. You can hide an emperor’s ransom up your knickers! Is it in a safe at ICTC? In Alice’s bottom drawer? No, it’s in a saddlebag on its way up to the Zalori Pass. And remote? Not if you know the country. Come and look at this!’

He moved through into Charlie’s office and pointed to a large map on the wall. ‘There’s Simla. And there to the south is the Kalka railhead and on south to Delhi and the P&O liner at Bombay. But north – look! You pass through these mountains – Rheza Khan’s back yard – and weave your way along to Joginder Nagar. That’s a railhead too and the track leads on to Amritsar, Lahore and eventually to Karachi. And in Karachi you can pick up a steamer on its way from Bombay to the Gulf and from there to London and the rest of the world. Assuming you’re allowed to leave tribal territory of course.’

‘What is Rheza Khan’s stake in this enterprise, do you suppose?’

‘Alice of course. Money and Alice – in that order. That’s his stake. Do I have to spell that out?’

Joe remembered that, passing close to Alice, he had encountered a distant and teasing scent of sandalwood and that the same scent had come to him from Rheza Khan. ‘I believe you, Troop,’ he said heavily. ‘I believe you entirely. Are you saying that Alice is in danger?’

Troop gave him a long and unfathomable look. ‘I can’t tell,’ he said at last. ‘Where she is now going, she’s entirely in the hands of Rheza Khan and you know what they say? “Trust a rat before a snake and a snake before a Pathan.” Alice will know that the game is up as far as Simla’s concerned and Rheza will know the same but the question is – have they both the same objective? Oh, yes! They have the same primary objective, that is to say, leave the country with the swag, the fruit of three years’ careful swindling of ICTC, but what then? Well, I think this is where they diverge. Alice, I believe, intends to get out of the country with her fortune and to get out in the company of Rheza Khan and then – I suppose – settle down somewhere out of British jurisdiction.’

‘She told me she’d like to live in America,’ Joe remembered.

‘Yes, I think that would be Alice’s idea. It’s a country that would suit her. She’d prosper there. But I can’t see Rheza, if I understand him at all, embracing a wider horizon than his native land.’

‘You’re not really answering my question which was – is Alice in danger?’

Troop answered immediately with the air of one who had thought this out with care. ‘I don’t think she’s in danger until they reach journey’s end. But when they do, she will, as far as Rheza is concerned, have fulfilled her purpose. I don’t think Alice, clever though she be, will get out of there alive. I think she’ll stay alive, as I say, just long enough to ensure a safe passage back to Rheza Khan’s homeland. Women – especially faithless wives – aren’t much respected up there, you know. I don’t think she’s going on a picnic in the foothills of the Himalayas with a couple of decent chaps like Troop and Sandilands!’

The tone was light, the tone was cynical, but Edgar Troop’s face was tormented.

‘Bloody girl!’ he said, exasperated.

‘But what now?’

‘Well, Charlie is by now miles down the Kalka road. I don’t know how far he’ll get before he realizes he’s been double-crossed and comes spurring back to Simla to pick up the trail at this end. They’ll be too late. They’ve got to be cut off before they get to the Zalori Pass. The tribe will be waiting for them beyond that. I think we only have a serious chance of stopping them if we can get them before they make it through the pass.’

‘We? Troop, you must know I have no authority.’

Troop crossed the room and pulled a rifle from the rack. He tossed it to Joe. ‘That’s all the authority they recognize in the hill country. I took the precaution of borrowing Reggie’s best mount from the stables at the chummery. He’s a bit of a handful but you look like a chap who can keep his seat. And if you’re coming with me you’ll need to borrow a coat of Carter’s – it can get cold up there, this time of year. Here – take this poshteen. Charlie won’t mind.’

He took a ragged and hairy sheepskin coat from a peg behind the door and handed it to Joe. Joe looked at it dubiously. ‘Are you quite sure it’s dead?’

‘Would smell even worse if it weren’t. Now that’s enough buggering about. They’re riding already and they’ve got about twenty minutes on us. Are you on or not?’

Joe was already banging his way through the door.

Chapter Twenty-five

« ^ »

Wouldn’t quite do,’ said Troop, indicating the pair of horses in the hands of a patient syce, ‘for the distinguished police commander at the King’s Birthday Parade on the Horseguards. Probably not quite what you’re used to.’

Strong and sturdy, the two horses kicked and fretted, shaking their heads to rid themselves of flies. Joe thought they looked likely enough.

‘I feel like the Colonel’s son,’ said Joe swinging himself into the saddle. ‘Do you remember?

‘The Colonel’s son has taken a horse and a raw, rough dun

was he,

A heart like hell and a mouth like a bell and a head like a

gallows tree.’

‘Can’t get away from Kipling,’ said Troop as they clattered out of the yard on to the Naldera road. ‘We’re twenty minutes astray,’ he continued as they trotted on together. ‘But that won’t be the end of the world. We won’t go by the road. I very much doubt if Rheza knows this bit of country as well as I do. I’ve shot and hunted over all this stretch of land, taken picnic parties, sightseeing parties, shikari parties – this is Edgar Troop’s back garden, you know. We’ve got to intercept them before they can get to the Zalori Pass – and taking a very large number of short cuts we ought to be able to do just that.’

Edgar Troop had roused himself. Depressions and doubts seemed to be at an end. Looking at his companion’s suddenly alert eye and flushed face Joe was aware of a further reason for Troop’s eagerness to lead the pursuit. Perhaps the prime reason.

‘This man,’ thought Joe, ‘is a hunter! What’s that awful phrase? – “the thrill of the chase”. He’s in its grip.’ And much more arousing to him than any tiger or leopard hunt was the challenge of tracking a clever and dangerous human being through the wilderness. A manhunt. And just for once, Edgar Troop could appear on the side of the angels.

‘Tell me, Troop, why is the Zalori Pass so important?’

‘Ah, I forget you know so little about local politics! It marks the southern extreme of Rheza Khan’s tribal territory. His princedom – I suppose you could call it that – has never been an easy neighbour for the British. Rheza’s father, the rajah, is ambitious. Oh, he pays lip-service to the Raj, he enters into treaties, plays polo with the military top brass, his wives have entertained the Vicereine and all that. His son gives every appearance of being Westernized – Rugby-educated, suits from Savile Row, all the charm in the world – but underneath all this surface gloss they’re on the boil! The old rajah broke out a few years ago and it looked for a moment as if he had it in mind to try conclusions with the army. Just after Amritsar, so everybody put it down to an upsurge of righteous indignation and merely banned him and his men from making an appearance – other than on a courtesy call, of course – south of the Zalori Pass. Very generous reaction when you think about it. Some might have thought a more punitive riposte was called for, considering what he owes the British.’

‘Any particular reason for owing them special allegiance?’

‘No doubt about it. This part of the world was in considerable uproar when the British decided to settle in Simla. Gurkha Wars, you’ve heard of that? When this pushy tribe edged its way down from the north-west, aiming to fill a vacuum it found hereabouts, the British went along with it. Signed treaties and all the usual stuff.’

‘And what was in it for us?’ asked Joe.

‘ “Divide and Rule” of course. The other tribes around here are mainly Hindu. Rheza’s mob are Muslim. The theory is they’ll be so busy watching each other it won’t occur to them ever to join forces against the British. Seems to work. And so long as they do as they’ve been told and stay north of Zalori, no problems.’

‘So we pick them up before they’ve a chance of acquiring an escort?’

‘Right. And, Sandilands, if we fail to do that we must abandon the chase altogether. Any welcoming party, and I’ve no doubt that’s what they’ve got arranged, will be well-armed and hostile.’

‘Well-armed?’ Joe’s suspicions were beginning to crystallize. Drip by drip the information was filtering from Troop and none of it was pleasant.

‘Up to the minute service rifles. Best Europe has to offer. In huge quantities.’

‘And are you going to tell me how they get their hands on this armament?’

Troop snorted. ‘If you are running the country’s largest trading company with access to all its logistical arrangements there’s no problem. ICTC convoys are on the roads everywhere. Most of them are carrying legitimate goods, carpets, brassware, spices, Western imports, but a percentage of them going north are carrying arms. .303 rifles mainly.’

‘But how do they get their hands on them in the first place?’

‘I tracked them down to source. Chap called Murphy. Armourer-sergeant and quartermaster. Crooked as they come! Condemns a batch of rifles as faulty and sends them away to be disposed of. Paperwork looks good. Only thing is – the rifles aren’t faulty. And they find their way on to an ICTC mule train before they can be destroyed. One or two Murphies about, I should imagine.’

‘He’s been using Alice as a front for all this. Was she aware, I wonder?’

Troop shrugged. ‘How can you ever tell with Alice?’

‘It must have been a shock for Rheza Khan when Lionel Conyers turned up on his way to Simla to take over the business,’ said Joe slowly. ‘I assume he wasn’t quite ready to move aside. Half-way through his operation – no time to be welcoming a new boss who might start looking into the accounts. Lionel was an older man, an ex-soldier, experienced and not (for all Rheza Khan knew) prepared to take what he found at face value. No. Rheza had every reason to stop him getting to Simla.’

‘Right,’ said Troop and added mildly, ‘Feller smokes Black Cat cigarettes, you know. Heard you were enquiring.’

While they had been speaking, with unerring and steady speed Troop had begun to wind his way through the thickening forest, now following the course of a roaring mountain stream, now turning aside to follow a forest track over a spur of the advancing hills, now pausing on the saddle to look back at Simla and forward into the mountains.

‘The road’s over to our right,’ said Troop after they’d ridden for about an hour, ‘behind that hill. It sets off in quite a loop there. We can make up a bit of ground. They say in these parts, “Follow the bowstring, don’t follow the bow,” and that’s just what we’re doing. And we can afford to spare the horses, indeed, we must spare the horses. We’d look an impressive pair if we ended up with a lame horse on our hands.’

As he spoke the track took a dizzying plunge down into a jungle-clad rift in the hills. The ravine stretched straight as a die for over five hundred yards and Joe followed Troop as he made his way along a forest path formed by the tramp of herds of chital deer which made a glancing appearance as they passed. Joe thought he caught sight of a band of langur monkeys and the tall trees were alive with the spring songs of birds. The hidden valley as they descended had a climate all its own. On a southern slope of the foothills, it retained the day’s heat and Joe breathed gratefully the wafting sharp scent of the white star-shaped flowers of the box bushes. At the end of the valley he heard the plashing sound of a waterfall. His horse pricked up its ears and danced a few steps sideways.

Troop’s eyes were alternately scanning the ground and looking on ahead. With a gesture to Joe he called a halt and silently leaned low in the saddle, examining fresh pug marks in the mud along the edge of the track. Still without a word he slipped the sling of his rifle over his head and cradled it in his arms. ‘Leopard,’ he said. ‘It’s his lucky day! We have bigger fish to fry’

A chital hind appeared on the path ahead of them and turned in their direction calling urgently. The cry was taken up by many others; jungle fowl joined in the chorus. ‘We’ve been spotted!’ said Joe.

‘No,’ said Troop. ‘That’s a warning for us! They’re telling us that there’s a leopard ahead. Listen again!’

The chital began to call again on a different note. Troop smiled with satisfaction. ‘And that’s their “beware man” call so now the leopard knows we’re here. Good! Wouldn’t want to take the old bugger by surprise. Not much danger from him – leopard prefer to do their hunting at night and lie up during the day.’

They walked on, the horses not quite at ease with the scents they were picking up. At last they arrived at the waterfall. A stream burst from the cliff above and cascaded down into a rocky basin from where it overflowed into a large and steel-blue pool at their feet. As clear as gin and constantly renewed by the torrent fresh from the mountain, Joe thought he had never seen water so inviting. As he bent to drink and immerse his hot forehead he caught the reflection of Edgar Troop’s red face looming over his left shoulder. At once he straightened to face him and wave him towards the water. He was for a moment shocked that he could so far have let his guard slip as to offer his unprotected neck to a man who might yet prove to be his enemy. One blow, two strong hands holding his head under water and that red face would have been the last thing he ever saw.

Troop grinned, understanding his swift movement, and bent to drink.

The insecurity of the moment impelled Joe to reflect on his situation. He was miles from civilization in the company of a self-confessed ‘gun for hire’, a man who was in his own element and who knew the terrain and the dangers it presented. Joe began to work out the number of different ways in which Troop could kill him off and dispose of his body. And perhaps the only thing restraining Troop from doing just that was the note Joe had hurriedly written out and handed to one of Carter’s sowars before leaving. And the fact that Troop needed his back-up when they eventually caught up with Alice and her escort. Joe calculated that he was probably in little danger until they embarked on the return journey with Alice and her jewellery.

With refreshed horses they pressed on, going always, it seemed to Joe, against the grain of the country. He began to appreciate the sturdy, tireless legs of the two horses as they alternately climbed up and slithered down slopes, steadily gaining altitude. Joe looked anxiously at the height of the sun. The valleys behind them were already in darkness but ahead on the uplift of land towards which they were headed he calculated they had roughly three more hours of full sunlight. Whatever the outcome of this insane dash into the mountains they would be spending the night outdoors.

A deep valley opened before them, the ground beyond it rising to a rocky outcrop.

‘That,’ said Edgar Troop, ‘is where our routes converge. We follow this track down into the valley and up to the rocks and you see the road coming in on our right. I should think they’re planning to break their journey here, spend the night and make a push for the Zalori at first light. Now, the question is – who got there first, Sandilands and Troop or Rheza and Alice? Further question – Rheza and Alice, are they alone?’

Joe strained his eyes to sweep the ground ahead, saying at last, ‘Is that a building, there amongst the rocks?’

‘Was,’ said Troop. ‘Was. Long abandoned. There’s the remains of a fort there. It hasn’t got a name as far as I know. We just call it the Red Fort. It’s a useful landmark and overnight shelter. Used a fair bit by hunters and merchants but it’s not much more than that.’

He set his horse gingerly to negotiate the rocky defile. ‘Couldn’t have done this earlier in the spring,’ he said. ‘When the snows melt it’s a raging torrent but it makes a useful track at this time of year.’

Carefully the horses picked their way through the stones and down to a brawling stream crossed by a slab of rock and on the far side their path led upwards once more until, rounding a corner, they came on the Red Fort. Edgar Troop reined in sharply and gestured to Joe to stay back. ‘Hello?’ he muttered in a puzzled voice. ‘Someone’s been doing a bit of make and mend! That’s curious.’

‘What can you see?’ said Joe.

‘The gate. Somebody’s repaired the gate. As long as I can remember this has just been an open archway but somebody’s repaired the gate and repaired it well, too. Now who can that have been? Rheza, I guess, or Rheza on Alice’s behalf. It looks to me as though we’ve stumbled on an ICTC staging post. And why not? No law against it, after all. Wonder if there’s anybody at home?’

He searched the building ahead with his binoculars saying as he did so, ‘The mast or flagstaff or whatever you care to call it – that wasn’t there last time I came this way… What’s going on, I wonder?’

‘Only one way to find out,’ said Joe.

They moved forward cautiously, Troop in the lead, listening intently, even sniffing the air.

The building before them with its small window openings, its crenellated parapet, its watchful tower, its newly repaired gate suddenly seemed a strong place. The westering sun struck colour from the ancient walls and the building became a red fort indeed.

‘Useful place, this,’ said Joe. ‘You can see for miles!’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Troop. ‘These forts in the mountains are always well placed. Nobody’s going to take it by surprise. When the British cleaned it up… oh, about fifty years ago… they didn’t want to leave a convenient roosting place for malefactors on their back doorstep.’

‘Well, that may have been their intention,’ said Joe, ‘but it looks about fifteen all at the moment. The British dismantle, the malefactors reassemble. Isn’t that about it?’

‘Yes, that’s about it, I suppose.’ Troop spoke slowly, his attention only half on Joe, his expression thoughtful. ‘Some while since I was last here… last spring, I’d guess. A year in which things have been happening, it seems.’

‘What sort of things?’ Joe asked.

‘Well, rather hard to tell but there is something. A difference between deserted and not deserted. If a place is deserted the grass grows but if it’s in use the grass gets trampled. The grass has been trampled. And there – look. That’s not, as you might suppose, horse shit, that’s mule shit. Don’t ask me how I know but I do. And if you’re going for a leisurely ride through these hills you don’t come riding a mule. And there have been quite a few mules. Recently. I’d guess we’re ahead of Rheza and Alice but how far ahead I don’t know. If anybody’s going to get a surprise from this encounter I’d sooner it was them than us. First thing is to put the horses out of sight. Can’t keep them silent – wish we could – but we can at least keep them concealed.’

‘Is there anywhere in this battered caravanserai where we can conceal them?’

‘ “Think, in this battered caravanserai,” ’ said Edgar Troop, surprisingly,

‘Whose portals are alternate night and day,

How sultan after sultan with his pomp

Abode his destined hour and went his way.’

‘Omar Khayyam,’ said Joe, much surprised.

‘As you say,’ said Troop absently, busily scanning the building ahead of them with his binoculars. ‘Stand here, Joe, and cover me while I go and take a look.’

He disappeared into a narrow staircase which corkscrewed its way downwards and Joe heard him moving about and exclaiming from below. He was gone for what seemed a long time and Joe had a moment of anxiety. ‘How little I know about this man,’ he thought, ‘and how I put myself into his hands. And come to that how many miles I am from anyone and anything that might reassure or be familiar.’ Finally thinking, ‘I’ll count up to a hundred and then I’ll go and see what he’s up to.’

But on a count of ninety, dusty and perspiring, Troop re-emerged. ‘Interesting! Interesting!’ he said.

‘Why? What have you seen?’

‘Well, in the first place there are capacious cellars down there and somebody’s taken the trouble to clean and sweep them out recently. Secondly, the cellar door was locked with an elaborate padlock. A sensible precaution, you’d think, but someone – presumably not Rheza Khan (he’d have more sense) – carefully left the key (quite a handsome one incidentally) hanging on a nearby nail. Bloody place is full of packing cases. All marked with ICTC lettering. All containing not – as you might expect – trashy Indian artefacts for the European market but far from trashy European rifles!’

‘Surprised?’

‘Surprised? Not in the least. Confirms all I was telling you about the Murphy system. I’d say this is the last consignment of who knows how many to make its way north of the Zalori. No, the only thing that surprises me is that it should have been left unattended. You don’t just dump a hundred rifles in a cellar in the middle of nowhere and bugger off. Unless you know that someone’s on his way to pick them up any minute. I reckon the mule train that dropped them off is not long gone, possibly off to the west towards the railhead on legitimate business, and Rheza is expected any moment to take charge. I’d guess his brigand cousins will arrive here tomorrow with fresh mules to pick them up. But, for the moment, we’ve got the place to ourselves. Wind’s about right,’ he added. ‘We’ll be safe to make ourselves a cup of tea.’

They led their horses up the slope, through the gate and round to the back of the building where they tethered them out of sight amongst the willow trees that had established a precarious foothold in the crumbling mud-brick walling. Troop slung his rifle over one shoulder and unbuckled his saddlebag, carrying it over the other. ‘There’s a little staircase round the corner. Let’s go and man the battlements.’ He led the way upwards, climbing the sunbaked masonry. ‘Careful,’ he said. ‘Don’t want to have to carry you home.’

They settled by an arched embrasure ten feet from the ground and having a sweeping overview of the approach to the fort.

‘Keep a lookout, will you, while I brew up.’ And from one pocket he withdrew a brick of green tea and from another a knife. He drew attention to a small charcoal stove in an angle of the wall and to a brass pot with small attendant cup on the wall behind it. ‘Somebody,’ he said, ‘has been here very recently and thoughtfully left the tea things for us!’

He dipped water from a rainwater cistern into the brass pot and placed it on the stove. Taking pieces of charcoal from a saddlebag he set light to them and waited for the water to reach a rolling boil. Shielding his hand with a handkerchief he set the pot on the floor and began with the knife to shave flakes of green tea from the block into the pot. Watching Troop’s neat, economical movements with admiration, Joe doubted if a cup of tea had ever been more eagerly awaited. The brass cup was filled from the pot and Troop brought it over, steaming and fragrant, to the embrasure where Joe remained scanning the road.

Joe found his respect for Edgar Troop mounting by the minute. ‘Tell me,’ he said, accepting the tea without taking his eyes from the scene below, ‘where did you learn to quote from Omar Khayyam?’

‘You are surprised to find even the faintest evidence of civilization in one so disreputable? My family were Baltic merchants. I was educated at the English School in Riga. Before the war, of course. I served in the army – the Russian Army. Not this mob but the Imperial Russian Army. People sometimes refer to me as Captain Troop. Does me less than justice! Major Troop would have been nearer the mark.’

He rummaged around in his saddlebag and took out two small packages. ‘Come and sit down. I’ll take over the watch while you help yourself to some of this. Any fool can go hungry.’

‘This’ was a block of Caley’s Marching Chocolate and a packet of Huntley and Palmer’s Campaign Biscuits. They took turns to sweep the country through the binoculars, munching companionably. Joe remembered that he had had no lunch and wondered briefly what he might expect for supper. Assuming he was still around at supper time. The taste of the rough biscuit, the feel of the rifle in his hands, the jovial toughness of the man he found himself unexpectedly in harness with brought back with clarity the less unwelcome aspects of war. If only he’d been doing this with Sebastian! And was he crazy now to go unquestioningly through the familiar gestures with this stranger? They were in a situation where they would have to watch each other’s back. Troop was taking Joe’s ability for granted. His instructions ran to the minimum. He knew how Joe would react and that his reactions were trained and could be relied on. Joe had begun to suspect that his own background was less of a mystery to Troop than might be accounted for and yet Troop’s history and motivation for Joe were still unclear. Building on the camaraderie of the moment he picked up the conversation. ‘And,’ said Joe, ‘from the Russian Army to Simla – that seems a fair stride. How did it come about?’

‘Oh, well, when all hell broke loose in 1916 in Russia the most important thing to do was stay alive! I didn’t much care who won. My sympathies, I suppose, were with the Imperial Russian Army but one thing on which I was absolutely determined was that whoever else got killed, it wouldn’t be Edgar Troop! I deserted. I drifted south. Even found myself in the Red Army briefly, until they found I was English. Foreigners who’d served in the Imperial Army weren’t the most popular in the world with the Bolshies! I even once saw a firing squad falling in, planning to shoot me, if you can believe it! But I smoke a little hashish from time to time. I made up about twenty cigarettes which I distributed amongst my guard who were innocent kids from Moscow. I left them all grinning and giggling – capable of nothing – and went on my way.’

‘Nothing in this cup of tea that shouldn’t be there, I hope?’ said Joe.

‘No, no! As served at Joe Lyons! But, as I say, I introduced my guards to an expensive habit and proceeded on my way, finally getting to Kashmir. A long journey. It took the best part of a year. A useful year. At the end of it I was a pretty fair shikar and a pretty fair linguist too. In Kashmir I ran into the full might of the British Empire and in particular into a good, solid-going, experienced and competent British Proconsul. He had the sense to see that a Russian-speaking, English-born, former member of the Imperial Army might be a useful individual to have on a retainer. He made me an offer. I accepted his offer and I’ve stayed in touch with him ever since. Oh, yes, the Troop information service has been of some use to the Raj!’

Troop grinned and added, ‘I don’t suppose you’ll have forgotten that the talented but far from respectable Captain Troop is believed to hold a controlling interest in a thriving brothel?’

‘Yes, I had heard as much.’

‘Well, quite true – I do. And from the military’s point of view an expensive brothel is probably the best listening post you could have! Even wily Indians like to show off at times! Plenty of valuable information reaching the ears of the Chief of Staff started on the rounds as pillow talk.’

‘And what’s become of this British paragon who recruited you?’ Joe asked, his suspicions already formed.

‘Oh, he did well. Built quite a career. Widely respected. Knighted even. His name’s George Jardine.’

He paused, standing to one side of the embrasure and swept his binoculars back over the south road. He murmured a quiet oath. ‘We’ve got visitors!’ he said with satisfaction.