Текст книги "Ragtime in Simla"

Автор книги: Barbara Cleverly

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Текущая страница: 19 (всего у книги 21 страниц)

Chapter Twenty-seven

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Sir George Jardine, resplendent in a quilted smoking-jacket whose pocket bore the insignia of a long defunct Cambridge dining club, was ensuring that all the final touches were complete and in order. He was giving a small dinner party. A dinner party for four. A partie carrée, he called it to himself. The perfect size. And no women.

An amontillado with the turtle soup, a light burgundy with the saddle of mutton (he’d ordered up four bottles from the cellar and now gave instructions for two to be opened), a mont-bazillac with the fabulous water ice for which the Residence was famed and a good Stilton assisted down by a glass of 1910 port by Williams, Standring. ‘Yes! That should be enough.’ And he gave instructions that his guests as they arrived be shown straight to the library, the windows of which stood open to the balcony and the balcony open to the moon and to the murmurs of the town.

The first to arrive was Joe Sandilands. ‘Good evening, Sir George,’ he said easily. ‘This is very kind of you. A little cooler this evening, perhaps?’

‘That’s all the flannel you’re allowed, young Sandilands,’ said Sir George. ‘I won’t anticipate but I’m expecting some direct and straight-from-the-shoulder explaining.’

Joe had long learnt that it was unwise to let Sir George get away with anything and he said, ‘Dash it! I was hoping for a good dinner. The last few days have been rather austere. A few campaign biscuits don’t go a very long way’

‘Have a glass of sherry,’ said Sir George, ‘and don’t try it on with me!’

Next to come and arriving together were Charlie Carter and Edgar Troop, the latter perhaps a little embarrassed to find himself comfortably at the heart of the Simla establishment and in company with citizens of such impeccable respectability. His ‘Good evening, Sir George’ was a little over-affable as Charlie Carter’s had been a little over-deferential.

‘Good evening! Good evening!’ said Sir George. ‘Delightful occasion! Thought we’d have dinner straight away.’

He picked up and tinkled a little silver bell. ‘Sherry? Or if you prefer a madeira? I find it a little heavy these spring nights but do please help yourselves.’ And, to Joe, ‘Saw your friend Jane Fortescue today. Asked to be remembered to you.’ And to Charlie Carter, ‘Those girls of yours did well in the potato race at the gymkhana yesterday. Sorry you weren’t there. I really enjoyed it.’ And to Edgar Troop, ‘While we’re waiting, do please take the long chair. Kind to saddle sores, you’ll find.’

None of them spoke, all looking at him warily. ‘So good of you fellows to come at such short notice. Perhaps I don’t need to tell you – you’re all in serious trouble. You’re not under arrest, of course, but the only reason why you’re not under arrest is that with Charlie in handcuffs, there’d be no one to arrest you!’

They all took their seats around the table and, as though by rehearsal, shook out in unison large table napkins.

‘But to start at the end and work back from there… one of you gunned down Rheza Khan? No particular loss! Deplorable fellow! Arms aren’t the only thing he’s moved across the border. Scallywag if ever I knew one but nevertheless an episode that stands in need of some explanation. Influential man, Rheza Khan. Considerable following in the Hills. Vast consignment of arms on its way north under the eyes of the police and, worst of all, a deplorable young woman, guilty beyond question of pulling off the most bare-faced fraud in the history of the Indian Empire and more than suspected of complicity in no fewer than two murders – ’

‘Possibly three,’ said Joe.

‘We shall get on a little bit faster, Sandilands,’ said Sir George repressively, ‘if you don’t interrupt. As I say, this bare-faced miscreant allowed, possibly even encouraged, to slip quietly away under your benign gaze.’

‘Not my benign gaze,’ said Charlie happily, appreciatively sipping Sir George’s admirable burgundy. ‘I wasn’t there at the time.’

‘No indeed! Forty miles away at the time, I understand, searching railway sidings. Looking the other way? I’ve marked you down as an accessory,’ said Sir George.

‘Could I ask,’ said Edgar Troop, ‘how you know these things, sir?’

‘You’re not stupid, Troop! Apart from myself, possibly the only person in this room who is not – so I don’t need to tell you that any group containing half a dozen or so in this town is likely to contain one of my agents. Charlie, I understand, had twelve policemen with him – need I say more? You must not assume you are the only man in Simla with interesting things to tell me.’

‘But there were no witnesses conveniently placed when Alice shot Rheza Khan,’ Joe said mildly. ‘Apart from myself, of course, so you’ll just have to hear and accept my version of the killing, sir.’

Sir George sighed impatiently. ‘Very well, Sandilands. Why don’t you tell us your version of the events? Your memory of them? Illuminated, no doubt, by hindsight.’

All listened intently as Joe recounted the outline of his carefully rehearsed story.

Turning to Edgar Troop, Sir George asked, ‘Now, tell me, Troop, how much of this litany of lapses are you able to corroborate? Tell me first – did you leave undiscovered the knife in Rheza Khan’s boot?’

‘I am responsible, yes, sir,’ said Edgar uncomfortably. ‘I searched both prisoners.’

‘It was a most remarkable knife,’ Joe explained. ‘Very slender with a six-inch blade. It fitted down the seam of the boot – the handle was part of a boot pull-on – it was virtually undetectable. Very clever!’

He fell silent at a glower from Sir George. ‘And the next virtually undetectable item was a gun. You allowed Alice to retain – uninspected – a hat containing a revolver but, as it transpires according to Joe’s account, this lapse had laudable consequences. If we are to believe it – ’ he paused for a moment, ‘and why would we not? – she saved Joe’s life by pulling this gun and shooting Rheza Khan dead. Then, while he and Edgar run around like headless chickens, Miss Alice leaps nimbly through a window and makes off into the sunset, saddlebags stuffed with her ill-gotten gains, having had the forethought first to run your horses off? Am I getting it right, Edgar?’

‘More or less, Sir George, more or less.’

‘And the question which we should all be asking ourselves – and perhaps Joe will have an answer – is why should Alice, in unexpected possession of a gun and with two chaps at her mercy to choose from, put her bullet in her comrade in crime rather than in the police officer whose avowed intention is to haul her back in chains to face justice?’

All remained silent waiting for the next thrust.

‘I’m sure we’re all grateful to Alice. She saved us a little trouble in shooting Rheza Khan but will someone tell me why she should do that? Her associate, her partner? Her interests and his were one, were they not? I’ll tell you why,’ he went on, answering his own question. ‘She’d raised Rheza Khan up to a position of special power in the firm. He’d started out in a relatively humble position, in spite of his background and family wealth, in ICTC. Alice spotted his potential; she saw he could go all the way. And he did. He had authority and prestige, money and unshakeable status. Without Alice’s support he would have been nothing in Simla commerce and society. He owed all to her and she trusted him without question. It was more than she could easily bear that he should have – and with great success – played his own game. Another man to have failed her. Used her and failed her. It cost him his life.’

‘ “Tis the strumpet’s plague, To beguile many and be beguiled by one,” ’ Joe murmured. ‘I think there was more to it than the knowledge that he’d deceived her in the matter of the gun-running.’

‘Ah, yes, Sandilands, your theory that there was some romantic alliance between those two? I hear no evidence of that from any other quarter but it wouldn’t surprise me. Nasty piece of work, Rheza Khan, though quite seductive I would have thought.’

Edgar Troop poured himself a further glass of wine and passed the decanter to Charlie Carter. ‘I don’t believe it,’ he said. ‘I don’t believe that Alice was romantically interested in Rheza Khan. In fact I’ll go further – I don’t think she was interested in men at all.’

‘Are you perhaps obliquely telling us that on some occasion or occasions unspecified you found her inappropriately uninterested in you? Now, Joe, perhaps you have something to add to this debate? Very taking little thing, Alice.’

‘I pass,’ said Joe.

Sir George’s generous grey eyebrows rose in query. ‘The deputy police superintendent passes! We must return to you, Edgar, for further illumination.’

‘I believe,’ said Edgar Troop shaking his head, “she had many admirers. And, yes, all right, I’ll agree, myself amongst them.‘ He turned to Joe. ‘Yourself amongst them too possibly, Sandilands?’

‘All right,’ said Sir George, ‘since this seems to be the fashion, I will add myself to this list. But, to get a dispassionate view, Carter, since you seem to be the only man in Simla proof to her charms – what have you to say on this subject?’

‘I agree with Edgar. The only person she was at ease with in Simla, the only person she did not deceive and manipulate, was her friend Marie-Jeanne Pitiot.’

‘Are you suggesting…?’ The eyebrows rose again.

‘I think I have an insight into that particular relationship,’ said Joe. ‘When we were staging the seance routine I remember Minerva Freemantle saying that Alice returned week after week in the hope of contacting her mother. Alice herself told me that her mother had died when she was eleven, leaving her to be brought up by her cold, uncaring and ambitious father. The first in a long line of men to betray and abuse her. Marie-Jeanne is much older than Alice – I think she sees her as a mother-replacement. Perhaps the only person in India or the world that she can truly trust. And since Alice has totally disappeared I would think it sensible to keep a watch on Marie-Jeanne because it is to her that Alice will go, I think, to find shelter.’

Charlie Carter added eagerly, ‘That’s taken care of, Sir George. I have had men posted outside her house for the last three days and I have had the house and her warehouse searched.’

‘Your stable-door-shutting techniques are second to none,’ Sir George said. ‘And what does Marie-Jeanne have to say about all this? I assume that you have interviewed her?’

‘Seems to have nothing to hide – well, we know she hasn’t because the search was pretty thorough. Says she hasn’t seen Alice for at least a week. She wanted to know if we were keeping her a prisoner, surrounding her house with troops, and gave us notice that she’s intending to leave Simla tomorrow. She has a long-standing engagement in Bombay and has booked her ticket. She said she wouldn’t object if a policeman accompanied her if I wanted to send one along. I think she was being ironic, sir.’

Clever, confident Marie-Jeanne. Helpful on the surface, Joe thought but, given her strong loyalties to Alice, surely she would make some attempt to help her friend? Joe decided that there was one more call he should make before his time in Simla was up.

Sir George sighed. ‘Go on, Carter, tell us what other steps you have taken to trail after your light-footed quarry.’

Businesslike, Carter replied, ‘Alice has two ways of getting out of the country. On the narrow gauge rail from Joginder Nagar and on to Amritsar or doubling back to Simla and getting out in a tonga or the Toy Train to Kalka and on to Delhi.’

‘Was there no sign of her on the Simla road when you came hot-footing it to the rescue up the mountain?’

‘No, sir. But it would have been very easy for her to hide herself along the route when she caught sight of the patrol.’

‘Yes,’ drawled Sir George, ‘well, you were certainly visible. From miles away, I should think. A squadron of Bengal Lancers, Slater’s Horse I believe, armed to the teeth and clattering along in the dark preceded by a dozen flare carriers and, if I know anything about those popinjays in Slater’s, singing the Eton Boating Song! Yes, she’d have seen you coming. So she could by now, three full days after the drama, be safely back and hiding in Simla or anywhere else for that matter. What about the other exit?’

‘All passengers taking the train from Joginder Nagar have their identity checked, sir. So far no European woman has tried to get on the train.’ He passed a list of passengers to Sir George.

‘And what about the exits from Simla?’

‘They likewise are being watched. The papers of every passenger are checked both in Simla and Kalka. I have men stationed on the tonga road and they too check all passengers. So far nothing.’ He passed over another list. ‘Not many leaving Simla of course at this time of year which makes our job easy. Mostly people are flooding in.’

Sir George inspected the list. ‘Mmm… six tax-inspectors, five opium smugglers, four French nuns, three box-wallahs, two brigadiers,’ he paraphrased, ‘but no partridge in this pear tree. Keep shaking the branches, Carter!’

‘Doesn’t surprise me,’ said Edgar Troop suddenly grim. ‘You’re looking in the wrong place. She had two more hours of daylight when she rode off into the wilderness. Not long enough to reach any civilized part or even shelter. She would have been riding a tired horse through dangerous country whichever route she took. Bandits… wild animals… rough terrain. Wouldn’t care to do it alone myself, even armed to the teeth. Alice didn’t have a rifle with her – she only had her little pop-gun. Wouldn’t scare off a monkey let alone a leopard. So, the other chance which none of you has mentioned is that Alice may be dead!’ He looked from one to the other and suddenly his large red face was haggard in the candlelight. ‘She may well be dead,’ he repeated. ‘Can’t think why you don’t all acknowledge it.’

There was a moment’s silence as all did acknowledge it.

‘Hmm,’ said Sir George. ‘If so –

‘Now boast thee, Death,

In thy possession lies

A lass unparalleled.’

Chapter Twenty-eight

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Summer 1922

In the moment of waking, Joe Sandilands could not work out where he was. A distant and regular underfloor throb accompanied by the cry of a passing sea-bird told him that he was on board a ship. But what ship and why he could not for the moment decide. A dazzle of sunshine reflected in the ceiling a few feet above his face told him that it was early morning, the breakfast tray at his elbow – a dish of croissants and a white china coffee pot – reminded him at last that he was on one of the few remaining French liners which ran from Bombay to Marseilles. A slight but insistent headache reminded him that, celebrating his escape from the confusions of crime-prevention in India, he’d had too much to drink the night before.

He was glad to be on a French boat. P&O were grand and formal but French boats were domestic, comfortable and informal. Furthermore, not many English people travelled this way and, in all the circumstances, on his present journey Joe was glad of the anonymity until, from Marseilles, he could run straight home to England by train and into the safe and predictable confines of his regular London life. ‘I’ve had enough India,’ he’d said to himself. ‘Yes, definitely enough India.’ He searched his mind. Any regrets? He found he was delighted – relieved and delighted – to be out of the shade of George’s umbrella. ‘Another month and I’d have become a performing poodle at the Residence!’ He spared a moment to think of Charlie Carter. ‘The Good Centurion’ he decided. ‘A bon copain if ever I had one. Could we have worked on together? Years of steady police work in the sun?’ It was for a moment a tempting thought. But at the last, London beckoned. ‘Okay. That’s it. Charlie’ll be okay.’

And Edgar? What about Edgar Troop? The eternal mercenary. The gun perpetually for sale. The world was changing. Would there always be a place for the likes of Edgar? He decided that there would. There must have been hundreds of Edgars in John Company’s India, designed to survive. Yes! Edgar would survive.

A glance to the right to take in the adjoining bedside table with its twinned breakfast tray told him that he was not alone and an exploring hand, encountering a warm female presence, confirmed this. Tentatively he whispered, ‘Good morning.’ And, after a moment’s thought, ‘Bonjour, ma belle.’

He arranged himself on one elbow and with an only slightly unsteady hand poured himself out a cup of coffee and began to sip. The excellence of the coffee, if nothing else, would have confirmed that he was not on a steamer of the Peninsular and Oriental Steam Navigation Company. The quality of the champagne too had been exceptional and the amounts served by the captain, at whose table he’d dined, copious. They had all drunk too much, the passengers apparently determined to make their first night on the Indian Ocean a memorable one. The captain had held a small reception for a selected eight guests. As they began to arrive, some singly and some in couples and all French, the captain relaxed on hearing Joe chatting comfortably with them in their own language.

‘My dear Commander,’ he had said, ‘how fortunate we are that you speak French so well! Believe me, it is a most unusual accomplishment in an Englishman. Your countrymen can speak Hindustani, it would appear, and any one of a hundred native Indian languages with ease but French they do not deign to learn. And, like a good host, I had taken the trouble to invite the one other English passenger we have aboard to join us tonight so that you would have one person at least to talk to. I understand you also have travelled recently from Simla?’

As Joe nodded cautiously the captain had caught sight of the last guest to appear and had extended arms in welcome. Joe stared in amazement, the five other male guests in open admiration. With a warm smile of recognition for Joe, she listened carefully to the captain’s introductions and acknowledged that she and Joe were already well known to each other. After this auspicious beginning and after four hours sampling the hospitality of the Duc de Bourgogne, and along with the prevailing holiday mood, it had seemed entirely natural that, on escorting his partner back to her cabin, she should have offered him a brandy and that he should have accepted.

Joe looked around him more carefully. He was in a first class cabin, spacious and well-equipped. Discreetly he wriggled out of bed, drew aside a small lacy curtain from a porthole and looked out on a sunny deck. An aggressively healthy couple strode past, two young French naval officers presumably returning from leave lounged, smoking, against the rail casting speculative glances about them. A small party of schoolgirls on their way back to school in Europe pattered by. Joe enjoyed the sunshine and the French noises and the French smells. He enjoyed not being under British jurisdiction for a brief spell and being off duty. He had enjoyed the night; he looked forward to the day.

His sensual reverie was interrupted by a yawn and a rustle behind him.

‘Coffee? I smell coffee!’

A tousled head rose from the pillow and Joe turned to watch with appreciation as white shoulders shrugged off the light cotton sheet. ‘Pour me some, for God’s sake, Joe! Shan’t be able to focus on anything until I’ve had a cup. Not drunk it all already have you, you insatiable devil?’

‘Yours is over there on the table.’ Joe nodded towards the tray.

‘What? You expect me to get up and get it myself? Is that it? But you’ll see my bum!’ The indignation turned to resignation. ‘Oh, well, I suppose it doesn’t matter now.’

She slid naked out of bed and began to hunt about fretfully. Relenting, Joe picked up a bathrobe from the floor and went to drape it around her. He kissed her ear. ‘Maisie, for a showgirl you’re remarkably modest,’ he said, pouring out her coffee.

She scooped long, silky hair from her face the better to glower at him. ‘I was never a fan-dancer, Joe Sandilands! In public or in private. And you get out of the habit after a while. There hasn’t been anybody since Merl, in fact.’ She gave a throaty laugh. ‘And not a lot during Merl, if you see what I mean!’

‘Well, I’d never have guessed and I feel honoured that you should…’ Joe began gallantly.

‘Arsehole,’ Maisie commented equably. ‘No need for all that. Pigs is equal. We’re doing each other a favour. It’s going to be a long voyage and I don’t play cards. And with all these randy young Frogs hopping about the boat, pepped up with sea air and champagne, I’ll be rather glad of a steady old London bobby on guard at my cabin door.’

‘That’s all very well, Maisie!’ Joe’s voice was suddenly menacing. ‘But who’s going to guard the guard? Now put down that cup!’

They met some hours later, Joe more suitably clad for a promenade on the deck. Maisie had chosen to put on a white cotton day dress edged with broderie anglaise and was resisting the hot Indian Ocean sun with a wide straw hat and a parasol. As such she did not stand out from the French ladies demurely pacing the deck in chattering pairs and groups. Slipping his arm through hers, Joe duly admired, saying ‘Now let’s go for a little walk and show ourselves off.’

After two circuits of the deck they settled on the shady side of the ship on reclining chairs and ordered drinks. ‘I don’t know what it could be,’ said Maisie, ‘but something seems to have given me a thirst!’

From below there drifted up the sound of the ship’s orchestra rehearsing for the evening’s dance. ‘We’ve not had much time for conversation,’ said Joe, ‘what with one thing and another. Let me catch up on you, Maisie. Tell me why you left Simla. And why you’re on this boat.’

Maisie grimaced. ‘You did it again, didn’t you? Interfering bastard! Made life impossible and I had to move on!’

‘Impossible? Surely not? Sir George assured me that he was grateful for all that you’d done and he certainly wasn’t intending to make your life difficult.’

‘George wasn’t the problem! You changed things with that materialization of yours. Turned me into a freak show. Everyone wanted to come to a sitting for all the wrong reasons. Minerva Freemantle – purveyor of frissons (would that be the word, Joe? Frissons?) to the gentry. That bloody apparition brought in the sensation seekers and scared off my genuine clients. Oh, they would have come back again, I think, and it would all have blown over in time but… well… I’d had enough of Simla. India was beginning to get on my nerves. The place is coming to a boil, Joe, I can feel it.’ Maisie shuddered in spite of the heat. ‘I don’t look far into the future – can’t afford to – but it does sometimes force itself on you.’

The slow foxtrot from below swirled to a finish and was immediately followed by a livelier sound. A jazz quartet was tuning up and after a short warm-up they launched into a very creditable version of ‘St Louis Blues’. Two small children with their nursemaid came skipping by, wriggling delightedly to the music. Two nuns in light grey summer habit seated themselves in deck chairs, each with a book, each with a breviary.

‘And why this boat?’ Maisie went on. ‘Well, it wasn’t for the band! Like you – for the anonymity that’s in it, I suppose. No one knows me – no one would try particularly hard to talk to me on a French boat. Peace and quiet, that’s what I wanted.’

‘I wouldn’t count on that, Maisie, looking the way you do – I’d only have to relax my vigilance for a moment and the French Navy would lay you aboard.’

Maisie resumed, ‘Three weeks of peace and quiet.’ She gave him a sly smile. ‘And you had to come along and wreck those plans too! But you, Joe, what are you doing here? You disappeared from Simla and there were all kinds of rumours circulating. Some said Alice Sharpe wasn’t dead and she’d run off with you, a victim to your rugged charm!’

‘No such luck! No, George found a little job for me to do up on the north-west frontier and what I’m doing here is escaping back to reality. Like you, Maisie, I’d had enough. Too claustrophobic. Too foreign. And I got fed up with being used.’

‘George, you mean? Nothing personal in that, you know, the old bugger manipulates everybody.’

‘Well, it’s not what I’m used to. Charlie Carter once called me Sir George’s pet ferret. He wasn’t so far wrong. And that might not have been so bad… I can look after myself down rat holes. But it’s bloody annoying to surface with a dead rat in your mouth to be told by the boss that what you’ve caught is a mouse, all’s well and thank you very much.’

‘Not sure who your rat is. Rheza Khan? I don’t know all the details but I had heard that you – and Edgar Troop of all people – had saved the whole of northern India from a native uprising, a Russian invasion and God knows what else.’

‘That’s George’s official line and in part true. That’s why he’s so convincing. An uprising – yes, it could have happened – they’d certainly equipped themselves. George had been keeping an eye on them all along. He seized on this chance of coming down on Rheza’s father like a ton of bricks. That squadron of Slater’s was only a beginning. There was a Gurkha battalion ready to back up. Massive confiscation of arms and a finger wagged at the rajah. “See what your son has been up to – gun-running and two murders on his slate!” Rheza’s father took the hint. Enough menace to keep him quiet and north of the Zalori for a few years I should think. George has played down Alice Sharpe’s role in all this.’

‘Alice Sharpe’s role? I thought that girl must be at the bottom of things! And was it true, then, that story about the shikari trip that went wrong? How did she die?’

‘Well, you can’t just allow the owner of the country’s biggest trading empire to disappear in the night without trace. Too many questions. Too many unresolved problems and that’s just what George won’t tolerate. The Jardine version which is now largely put about, again, is convincing because most of it is true and verifiable. Alice, who as everyone knows is a superb rifle shot and had rather taken under her wing the visiting police commander from Scotland Yard, decided to introduce him to the delights of a shikari party in the Simla Hills. Of course she hired Edgar Troop to be their guide. Who else? There’d been talk of a man-eater raiding in one or two of the remote villages up towards Joginder Nagar and they thought they’d try their luck. Unfortunately Alice wandered off from the camp during the night – against all advice, of course – and was found to be missing in the morning. Frantic searches, Carter and a police squad called in, rewards posted but no trace of Alice. ICTC ticking over until a representative can be shipped out from London and all that.’

‘Is Alice dead?’

‘That part of George’s story is based on the truth. She rode off into the night, miles from anywhere and has never resurfaced. Edgar rated her chances of survival pretty low. And the chances of finding a body in that bit of country are slim.’

‘Why on earth did she ride off?’

‘Because I’d just arrested her for fraud and as an accessory to the murders of Lionel Conyers and Feodor Korsovsky but mainly because she’d just put a bullet between the eyes of Rheza Khan.’

‘Now why would she want to do that? Good Lord! Rogue of the worst kind, I’m sure, but that seems a bit extreme. Especially when she had you and Edgar standing by, fingers on the trigger.’

‘It was very personal. She trusted him all the way and he betrayed her. She had no idea he was using her as a front for his gun-running. It was the one thing Alice couldn’t stand. All her life, she told me, she’d been used and betrayed by the men she loved. But I think her worst betrayal, the one she never got over, was Korsovsky’s.’

And slowly at first but with growing eloquence as the details of Alice’s story came back to mind, Joe filled in the details as far as he understood them of Alice/Isobel’s early life and the part Madame Flora had played in it. He explained the impersonation at the root of everything and how deception and murder had flowed from it. He went over everything again from the devastating experience of sitting alongside Korsovsky when he had been shot at Tara Devi to the disappearance of Alice and ending with George’s meticulous sanitizing of the story for public consumption.

Maisie’s eyes widened in astonishment as his story unfolded. ‘That’s the most extraordinary story I’ve ever heard! Definitely calling for another drink.’ She called a passing steward. ‘You’re telling me that Saintly Alice is a fraud and she’s pulled the wool over everybody’s eyes for three years?’

‘Yes, beyond any doubt and she has admitted it. Rheza Khan to a limited extent, Troop and Flora were the only ones in Simla – or the world – who knew the truth.’

‘What? Not even Reggie? Her husband!’ Maisie gave a throaty gurgle. ‘I can see a few difficulties there!’

Joe smiled. ‘I know what you mean! And how interested I would be to have heard Alice’s bedtime stories!’

‘I had no idea! And I thought I knew everyone’s secrets in Simla! But hang on a minute, Joe…’ Maisie bit her lip and narrowed her eyes in concentration finally saying slowly, ‘Look, I know you’re the detective and as smart as a new rupee, so I feel a bit daft even suggesting this but – it doesn’t add up! There’s one or two things you’ve just said that strike me as a bit odd.’

She looked at him speculatively. ‘And perhaps that’s what you intended? You’re not happy about it, are you, Joe? The murders, I mean? Alice obviously didn’t do either of the killings herself but was she guilty of ordering Rheza Khan to kill both those men?’

‘She was and she wasn’t,’ said Joe.

‘What’s that supposed to mean? Come on, Joe! You can do better than that!’

‘I’m afraid that it means justice has not yet been done. It means that I got only half of it right. It means that there’s a killer still on the loose.’

Joe paused for a long time, looking along the deck at the passengers enjoying the sunshine. He said at last, ‘Let you into a secret, Maisie. The killer is right here with us on this boat.’