Текст книги "Ragtime in Simla"

Автор книги: Barbara Cleverly

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‘Look at this signature,’ said Joe. ‘Anything familiar about it?’

‘Indecipherable, wouldn’t you say?’ Sharpe held it to the light. ‘Obviously meant to be indecipherable, for Korsovsky’s eye only.’ He was silent for a moment then, ‘Blue-black ink, broad-nibbed fountain pen,’ he said. ‘Could well be my own. I leave it here on the desk. Look, Sandilands, someone could have got in here… when?… last November the letter’s dated – before we all went back down to Bombay… typed this second letter and suppressed the first which would have been left out for posting. Perhaps they didn’t even bother but just added a note to say this second supersedes the first and then they took it along to the post office. But from last November – is anyone going to remember who was in and out? It’s a busy time – packing up and tying up loose ends. Lots of people in and out all day, every day.’

‘Good Lord,’ said Sharpe in surprise after a pause. ‘Doing your job for you! Do you want me to put my own handcuffs on too?’

‘That won’t be necessary,’ Joe smiled. ’For the moment at least. You’re being very helpful, Mr Sharpe. And now, before I leave, just one more question. Can you tell me where you were yesterday between noon and five o’clock?’

‘Let’s see.’ Reggie sighed and flipped a page in a diary lying on his desk. ‘Tiffin with friends over at Mount Pleasant – Johnny Bristow’s place. I keep a horse or two over there – they’ve got good stabling. And then they gave me a lift over to Annandale to look at a horse I was thinking of buying off Brigadier Calhoun. Thought I could sell it on to Effie Carstairs and make a few bob on the deal. Didn’t buy it. It was tubed. Made a noise like a fire engine! Took a tonga back to the theatre and got back here in time for the four o’clock run-through.’

Joe made a note of the names he mentioned and the times and closed his notebook. Leaning forward, he tweaked the Korsovsky letter from Sharpe’s fingers and replaced it, along with the carbon copy, in the leather case. ‘I’ll keep this to show to Carter but I don’t believe we need to take away the rest. Keep them available, won’t you? Good morning Sharpe.’

He paused at the door and looked back to see Sharpe riffling thoughtfully through the file.

‘Oh, by the way,’ he said with an apologetic smile to excuse an unimportant afterthought, ‘did you have any pictures, any photographs of Korsovsky? Did he or his agent send you any material in advance of the concert? To be used in posters, perhaps?’

‘No. None that I am aware of. We wouldn’t have the resources for that sort of publicity anyway. This isn’t Paris, you know, with a Toulouse Lautrec and a printing press round every corner.’

‘Well, as far as you’re aware, is there anyone in Simla who would recognize him – perhaps, er, lend a hand with identifying the body? Anyone familiar with his features?’

‘Not that I know of. Everybody knows his name, of course, and is aware of his reputation… People do go on leave, you know. Someone may have seen him on stage in London or Paris if he was performing there but no one’s mentioned it. You’ll just have to ask about, won’t you? But then,’ he added thoughtfully, ‘he’d be in costume and make-up, wouldn’t he? No, shouldn’t think anyone would know him from Adam.’

The smirk faded from his face as he saw the implication of his words. His eye brightened, the scorn replaced by calculation as he drawled, ‘Well, well, well! No one had any cause apparently to shoot down a visiting singer and no one had any means of identifying the said singer… but what about a visiting detective, a detective whose features are, it would seem, known to the highest in the land? As I understand it, Sandilands, you were sitting right next to the poor chap when someone popped him. Now if I were you, I’d be going around grilling people to find out who knew you were coming up that hill! You could start with Sir George, couldn’t you?’

Joe smiled and withdrew. Sharpe had told him all he wanted to know.

Chapter Six

« ^ »

Stepping out into the road, Joe hailed a rickshaw and gave instruction to go to ‘Carter Sahib’s house’. As Carter had predicted, no further instruction was required and the rickshaw proceeded to wind its way into the complicated heart of residential Simla. Houses clung to the steep side of the rising hill to the north of the town and, consulting the map Sir George had provided, he guessed this hill to be Elysium. Some houses were supported on posts, some relied on what seemed to Joe to be alarmingly ambitious cantilevers. All were surrounded by dense and prolific gardens and all, he supposed, enjoyed the superb view which opened up behind him as he progressed.

The lanes approaching these houses were narrow and several times his rickshaw had to stop and edge into the hillside as they met another coming in the opposite direction. Joe was not small, the rickshaw men were. Embarrassed to be conveyed in this way, Joe marked this with what he knew to be an over-lavish tip, greeted to his further embarrassment by a pantomime of subservient gratitude.

Carter’s house when he stood before it was the epitome of Simla domestic architecture. Corrugated iron roof, painted red, two – or was it three? – verandah terraces, a profusion of climbing plants and two small, sandy-haired children digging in a sand pit under the eye of the mali. They acknowledged Joe’s greeting with shy smiles and Carter’s wife emerged to welcome him.

So English did she look, Joe could not suppress a smile. Sandy hair, blonde eyebrows, small bright blue eyes, freckled face and a cheerful and very English voice. Pausing only to shout an instruction over her shoulder in Hindustani, she held out a welcoming hand. ‘Very pleased to meet you, Commander! Heard such a lot about you from Charlie and I can’t tell you how pleased he is to have you on board! I suppose he’s in charge of the investigation but it isn’t often that he has a New Scotland Yard Metropolitan Police Commander under him! I say – make the most of it – it’ll never happen again! All the same, you must be hot. Let me give you a drink. We’ll be eating in about half an hour. Will that be long enough for you? I’ll try not to be indiscreet but there’s lots of things I want to ask and sometimes I think I’m married to a clam! Are you married?’

‘No,’ said Joe. ‘Just as well perhaps, because I don’t think I’d be a very good clam.’

‘Good,’ said Meg Carter, ‘that suits me but come in here.’

She showed him into a small office of a type with which Joe was becoming familiar. Ragged files on shelves, noisy overhead electric fan, water in a water cooler, Benares brass ashtray, group photographs on the wall – it was standard Indian equipment.

‘Come in! Come in!’ said Charlie Carter. ‘Sorry not to have been there to greet you. Didn’t hear you arrive. Come and sit down and tell me where you’ve got to.’ He pushed a cigarette box towards Joe. ‘I’ve cabled his agent and prepared a press release. I’ll have an autopsy report this afternoon confirming the cause of death and the Coroner has it in hand too. We have a problem though… who to identify the body? Who knew him? I’ve arranged for him to be photographed and I’ve examined the body for distinguishing features. (None incidentally.) There must be a next of kin somewhere…’ He paused and ran a worried hand across his face.

‘I’ve had a preliminary search through his luggage,’ said Joe. ‘Found this hidden in a compartment in the lining.’ He produced the leather case. ‘Here, we have photographic evidence of possible next of kin – a brother and younger sibling. Presumably his agent will know where they are.’

‘Well, that’s a start. And there’s the question of a funeral. He can’t just lie in the morgue for ever and we can’t just shovel him underground – he was, after all, an international figure.’

‘See your problem… should be massed choirs, banks of flowers…’ Joe’s voice trailed away.

‘We don’t have much in the way of refrigeration here. We must talk to Sir George. These are deep waters for a country bobby like me!’

‘And me! I have no real authority in the case at all. And I have to confess to you that I undertook to interview Sharpe this morning. Hope I haven’t muddied the waters.’ He set out his suspicions and talked his way through his recent interview with Sharpe, collecting his random thoughts as he did so. When his account reached its conclusion Carter rose and took a pace or two about the room.

‘That was well done. I don’t know if you agree with me but surely the most significant thing you’ve turned up is this change in the confirmation letter directing the poor sod to come by tonga. Find the man who did that and we’ve found out something which could hang a man.’

‘I’m seeing Alice Sharpe again this afternoon,’ said Joe. ‘I may be able to glean a bit more. I gather from her husband that she’s the real driving force in the theatre. She may have her own suspicions.’

They talked on until the khitmutgar summoned them to the table.

‘We eat on the terrace. I hope you don’t mind?’ said Meg Carter. ‘I never tire of looking at the view and it’s nice to sit in the breeze. And anyway, our dining room is dark and our dining-room furniture repulsive.’

‘Not repulsive,’ said Carter defensively.

‘Oh, Charlie, it is! It was old and repulsive before when we bought it off Brigadier Robinson, since when it’s had six years of attention from these two.’ She waved a hand at her two daughters who were sitting politely side by side with their napkins round their necks. It was an English scene and, if Mrs Carter was English, so was the lunch. Shepherd’s pie and an apple tart and custard.

‘Charlie tells me you’ve fallen for Alice Conyers? If so, I’m not surprised. Everybody does. Including Charlie. Including these two,’ she added, indicating her children.

‘I admit it,’ said Joe. ’I thought she was delightful! And rather more than that – practical, sensible, energetic. Oh, no – I thought she was a lass unparalleled.’

‘I think she is. And lucky to be alive!’

‘Lucky to be alive?’

‘Lucky to have survived the smash. The Beaune railway disaster! You’re going to tell me you haven’t heard? It’s usually the first thing anybody says about Alice.’

Carter joined in. ‘Yes, when she first came out three years ago she was coming down by train from Paris to Marseilles and planning to spend a couple of weeks in the south of France seeing the sights before taking the P&O to Bombay. The train went off the rails crossing a viaduct near Beaune. Terrible accident, perhaps the worst France has ever had.’

‘Oh, of course,’ said Joe, ‘I remember it. I remember hearing about it. Just after the war. I never connected it.’

‘No reason why you should but Alice was the only survivor – at least I think she was the only survivor. There were over two hundred fatalities. The companion she was travelling with was killed and she woke up and found herself in a French hospital, alone and miles from home.’

‘What an extraordinary story,’ said Joe. ‘What happened then?’

‘Well, under the terms of her grandfather’s will she was the majority shareholder in ICTC and they were expecting her on the next boat. Nothing loath – and you’ll find this is Alice all over – she wired her trustees in London to say she was quite all right and intended to continue the journey as scheduled. She spent the spare two weeks recuperating in hospital – she wasn’t completely unscathed.’

‘The scar on her cheek?’

‘Yes, that. Plus a couple of cracked ribs, sprained this and that. Anyway, half dead though she was, she showed the enterprise we all associate her with – she made friends with a woman who was nursing her in the hospital and Alice took her on as her private nurse, lady’s maid, companion – call it what you will. They managed to locate her luggage and they came out to India on the boat as planned. She’s still here, the companion. In Simla as a matter of fact. Name’s Marie-Jeanne Pitiot. Alice started her up in a little shop in the Mall. What’s it called, Meg?’

‘La Belle Epoque,’ said Meg. ‘Very exclusive, by which I mean very expensive. I look in the windows and hurry away before anyone charges me for the privilege – you know, that sort of establishment! All the best people shop there – it’s rumoured that even H.E. has been seen shopping there.’

‘H.E.?’

‘Her Excellency. The Vicereine, Lady Reading. She too is a friend of Alice’s.’

‘And who owns the shop?’ Joe wanted to know.

The Carters looked at each other. ‘It’s in Marie-Jeanne’s name, I believe,’ said Carter.

‘But Alice, of course, supplies her with stock,’ added Meg. ‘It’s just another of her outlets. And it has gone from strength to strength. Marie-Jeanne’s opened another branch in Bombay and they say she has one planned for Delhi next year.’

‘So the accident didn’t bring bad luck to everyone,’ said Joe thoughtfully. ’I’d like to have a word with Mademoiselle Pitiot.’

‘Well, Alice must have been very grateful to Marie-Jeanne and they have remained good friends. Alice is very generous, you know.’

‘And richer than she was when she came out here,’ said Carter. ’Everybody admires her business flair. ICTC was a good old-fashioned outfit when she arrived, ticking over solidly, highly respected and sound, making money. People were a bit nervous when a little twenty-one-year-old came out holding fifty-one per cent of the shares in her hand.’

‘They were even more nervous at the idea of Reggie Sharpe holding forty-nine,’ sniffed Meg.

‘But, as it turned out, she never put a foot wrong. The first thing she did was to marry Reggie, her second cousin, and change her name to Conyers-Sharpe. The second thing was to offer retirement to the pack of distant family members who had been overseeing the company in Bombay and replace them with two Eurasians and one Indian. You may imagine how unpopular that was! But she and Reggie set to work to run the company together. Good career move. It was obviously to their mutual advantage to keep their money bags in one hand.’

‘I met Reggie Sharpe this morning,’ said Joe. ‘Didn’t like him much.’

‘Not surprised!’ said Meg Carter explosively. ‘I can’t stand him! Charlie always makes allowances but then he makes allowances for everybody. If he told the truth he’d say he can’t stand him either. He’s not a bit like Alice. Where Alice was and is a really good businessman, Reggie is just a pretentious ass, idle, drinks like a fish – ’

‘Meg!’ said Carter, seriously annoyed. ‘You don’t know that.’

‘Everybody knows that! You should hear Dulcie Pettigrew!’

‘I’ve no desire to hear Dulcie Pettigrew,’ said Carter. ’Sharpest tongue in Simla! Wouldn’t believe a word she said. All the same, it is true that he is something of a layabout. There is a sort of huntin’, drinkin’, dancin’, gamblin’ mob in Simla, mostly army or ex-army, who make a business of bad behaviour and Reggie Sharpe is right in the middle of that. Johnny Bristow, Bertie Hearn-Robinson, Jackie Carlisle, Edgar Troop, oh they’re all the same! I was going to say I wouldn’t have one of them in the house but then, not one of them would condescend to enter our humble abode! It’s a sort of twilight world – not received by H.E. and I very much doubt if any of them would be received by Sir George. They batten on the visitors, show them around, give them a good time, show them “the real India” – I can hear it all! Edgar Troop’s the worst! A good deal older than the others and definitely their leader. I can’t stand him but Reggie sees a lot of him, it seems.’

‘The wonder of it is that Alice puts up with it,’ said Meg. ‘But they say they pretty much live separate lives now. Alice gets on with all the many things she has to do while Reggie surveys the world through the bottom of a whisky bottle!’

With this flourish Meg decided that the two round-eyed children had heard enough of adult conversation. She rose from the table and, summoning the help of the ayah with a clap of her hands, bustled them off for their afternoon sleep.

This flurry of activity over, Carter said confidentially to Joe, ‘You must excuse Meg – though I have to say that’s the reaction you’ll get from any decent woman in Simla once the name of Reggie Sharpe is mentioned. Men seem to rub along easily enough with him but there’s something about him that makes women bristle with rage and disgust. I could almost be sorry for him. But, of course, they all know…’

‘Know? Know what?’

Carter stirred uncomfortably and listened for the sounds of laughter from the other end of the bungalow before continuing.

‘Well, when I said “huntin’, shootin’ and gamblin’” just now I could have added, er…’

‘Whorin’?’ suggested Joe cheerfully.

‘Exactly. That coterie may not be received by H.E. but they all find a warm welcome at Madame Flora’s.’

‘Madame Flora’s eh? A de luxe establishment I take it?’

‘Oh yes. Very recherché! And she is actually French, the madam. The place seems to be run jointly by her and her English protector – who but Edgar Troop! Troop! He’s everything people mean when they talk about a “bounder”. Calls himself Captain Troop but no one’s sure in what outfit. He was never a captain in the British Army or the Indian Army either. He lays claim to having served in the Imperial Russian Army and it may be true. He’s certainly very knowledgeable. Understands the frontier and he’s well connected in tribal territory.’

‘Has he any other source of income?’ Joe asked. ‘Apart from battening on Madame Flora? Couldn’t you get him for living on immoral earnings?’

‘No, it’s not a crime under the Indian Penal Code. I mean – you couldn’t enforce it. In a country where the avocation of temple prostitute is perfectly respectable such a thing would be ridiculous. And anyway, Edgar Troop takes people on shooting trips. Plenty of starry-eyed tourists to fall for that sort of thing. Really knows his stuff. I took the trouble to go out with him once just to check up, you know. Not ready to risk any amateurs getting themselves chewed up in my territory! I was impressed. He knows what he’s doing all right. And, of course, any check – and I’ve run several – on his financial arrangements shows that they are completely above board and within the law.’ He sighed.

‘So you’ve no temptation or inclination to close Madame Flora down?’

‘Not at the moment. I like to have the buggers where I can see them! But this is India. Lots of randy young blokes about. Lots of randy old blokes too! The air of Simla affects young and old alike, as you’ll find if you haven’t already.’

‘If we raided the place you might find some empty chairs at the next meeting of the Legislative Council?’ suggested Joe.

‘Certainly! Embarrassing, what!’

‘From the eminence of the clientele I would guess that the place is well run?’

‘Come on a raid with me, if you like. See for yourself. No expense spared, you’ll find. It’s run with the efficiency of a top-class hotel and the decor is sumptuous – all red plush, gilt mirrors and subdued lighting, rude but expensive paintings on the wall, you know the sort of thing.’

‘And the girls?’

‘Something for every taste. European, Eurasian, local girls from the hills. All beautiful. And none under-age or sick or coerced as far as I can establish. They know I’d be down on them like a ton of bricks! And in such an establishment you wouldn’t prosper on the North-West Frontier if boys weren’t available too for anyone who likes his vices versa.’

‘Good Lord!’ said Joe. ‘There are huge possibilities for blackmail here.’

‘Oh yes. No cases reported to me yet but if I put my mind to it I could think of at least six eminent persons in Simla at this moment whose reputations hang by a thread.’

‘And bribery? Has Troop attempted…?’

‘First thing he did. So discreetly I couldn’t pin anything on him but I’m sure an offer was made to me. My response left him in no doubt as to where I stood! But it happens all the time.’

‘And where is this bordello?’

‘It’s cleverly located! It’s in the Lower Bazaar but just off the Mall and down an alleyway between two popular shopping areas. Any lady spotting her husband down there wouldn’t suspect a thing. She’d assume he was on his way to the Stephanatos Emporium to buy himself some cigars or to Latif’s brass foundry to order the taps she’d been nagging for for months. Or – and this is the best bit – ’ Carter gave a cheerful smile, ‘she might even guess that he was about to buy her a bouquet of roses.’

‘Roses?’

‘Yes! Would you believe the cheek! The front for this operation is actually a flower shop! Madame Flora’s, you see! You enter innocently into a flower shop but if your tastes run to more exotic blooms you are shown into the back and up the stairs.’

‘This Flora – what do you know of her?’

‘Very little. Mysterious woman. Never appears in public – wouldn’t be received, naturally. She’s French – or pretends to be! I’m no expert but the accent has always seemed to be just a little bit ooh-là-là to my ear. Late twenties, very pretty, perfect manners. She just appeared in Simla out of the blue, under the protection of Edgar Troop, and opened up. With instant success. The money – and it must have taken a fair bit to launch the business – must have been hers. Troop was never in that league financially.’

Joe sighed. ‘Well, this is all very fascinating but where does it leave us as far as our murders are concerned?’

‘Madame Flora was firmly established and doing well about six months before Lionel Conyers appeared or failed to appear in Simla so I’d say absolutely no connection if it weren’t for Reggie Sharpe. He’s the connection. Drinking companion and client of Edgar Troop’s establishment… every reason to want Lionel dead… perhaps Troop is branching out into the bespoke killing business.’

‘But the Russian? How does he fit in?’

Carter shrugged. ‘I’m still not convinced that he does. From any angle, Sandilands, you still look like a better target for an assassin’s bullet than Korsovsky. Someone may have got wind of the fact that Sir George was planning to put his tame ferret down a particularly nasty rat hole in Simla.’

At that moment Carter’s sharp ears warned him of Meg’s return and he added hurriedly, ‘And listen, Joe, don’t even think of going off to inspect that flower shop by yourself! I couldn’t guarantee your safety. If we have to, we’ll go together – with plenty of back-up!’

Meg bustled in, happy to resume her revelations about Sharpe, and Joe was very willing to draw her out. ‘Tell me, Meg,’ he said, ‘does Reggie Sharpe work for his living?’

‘Not really. But don’t forget he’s on the board of ICTC and a substantial shareholder. It’s common knowledge that Alice takes all the decisions. He does a bit in the ADS, I think. He used to help Alice with some of her charitable things but he doesn’t even do that now. I started to work in the hospital a bit – Lady Reading’s hospital – that’s how I met Alice. She’s an assiduous fund-raiser and works there full time one day a week when she’s in Simla. I like her.’

Joe smiled. ‘Yes, I gathered that much.’

‘Well,’ said Meg Carter defensively, ‘she’s easy. You can get on with her. We’ve worked well together. And the more she does, the more useless does Reggie Sharpe seem.’

‘Perhaps,’ said Joe, ‘he resents her? It does happen sometimes. Bright active girl, husband trailing along behind… Not a recipe for happiness.’

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said Carter. ‘It seems to work all right for us.’

Joe emerged from the Carter bungalow prepared to walk the short distance back down the lanes to the town centre but, to his surprise, the four rickshaw men who’d brought him there now reappeared, hastily putting away the dice they’d been playing with and presenting themselves again, smiling and keen to be off. Telling himself to remember rickshaws did not operate by the same rules as London taxis, Joe climbed aboard and said, ‘To Mrs Sharpe’s office. ICTC. It’s just off the Mall,’ he added helpfully but the men were away at the mention of her name.

After ten minutes scraping around corners they were back in the town’s main concourse and weaving their way through the press of foot traffic. Smartly dressed ladies strolled in chattering groups pointing and exclaiming at the displays in shop windows which would not have looked out of place in Paris. Men in army uniforms marched purposefully about at a smart pace, disappearing into the town hall or the telegraph office or making their way along to the army HQ next to St Michael’s Church. Indian ayahs trailed past leading files of small children, mushroom-headed in their oversized solar topees. Joe noticed with amusement that this season the fashion in topees for little girls seemed to be a white covering of broderie anglaise.

Amongst the soberly dressed English, the showy figures of chaprassis stood out, turbaned, scarlet-coated, each with his important-looking message box in his right hand, sometimes with a file of papers tucked under his arm. They walked swiftly on pointed sandalled feet from public building to public building and Joe realized that what he was looking at was the Empire at work. This dusty, narrow little street so inaccurately called the Mall was the nerve centre of British India, the scarlet messengers the electrical impulses which kept the information flowing.

Catching a glimpse of a sign advertising ‘Stephanatos Cigarettes. The best in Simla’, Joe, on an impulse, called out to the men to stop, indicating that he wanted to buy some cigarettes. They stopped and waited for him to do his shopping. Joe looked appreciatively at the smart façade with its array of pipes, mounds of exotic tobaccos, cigars of all sizes and brands of cigarettes he had never heard of. He entered the cool, dark and intensely fragrant interior with the anticipation of a child entering a sweetshop. The Indian assistant was eager to please a new customer and disguised his disappointment when Joe asked for a packet of Black Cat cigarettes.

‘Are these a popular brand in Simla?’ he asked conversationally.

‘Oh, yes, sahib. Not the smartest choice but very popular with gentlemen. Craven A, Black Cat, Passing Clouds, Gold Flake, those are the ones we sell in most large numbers.’

Joe nodded. ‘Oh and I’ll have forty Freibourg and Treyer.’

‘Ah, yes, sahib – more smart, more suitable!’

Leaving the shop he glanced down the alley to his left. At the bottom he caught the reflection of light off brass items on display piled on to tables in front of Latif’s shop. And, half-way down, a discreet hand-painted sign – a circle of twining art-nouveau lilies – announced in florid lettering ‘Madame Flora. Fleuriste. Paris et Simla.’ Joe wandered down and examined the displays of flowers on show in the window. The theme was ‘Springtime in Simla’ and flowers familiar and unfamiliar to Joe were blended in subtle colour combinations, mainly the yellow of jonquils and the purples of irises.

He went inside and was met by a drowning fragrance and by the tinkle of a fountain at the back of the shop. A handsome Eurasian boy and girl looking so alike they must be brother and sister came forward to ask how they might be of service. He told them he wanted a bouquet of flowers for a lady.

‘A special lady?’ the boy enquired with only the slightest emphasis.

‘Yes, a friend of mine,’ said Joe firmly. ‘No, no, I wasn’t thinking of roses – give me something simpler. What about some of these springtime blooms? Those white narcissus look wonderful and what about some of those pale purple things? Wild iris, yes, I’ll have some of those too.’

In seconds the girl had made up a bouquet with skill and flair and tied it with a distinctive broad gold ribbon.

Well satisfied with his purchase, Joe regained his rickshaw and continued on his way down the Mall. They passed a building so ludicrously out of place that Joe laughed out loud and pointed. ‘What on earth’s that?’ he shouted more as an exclamation than a question expecting a reply. The three-storeyed, half-timbered building with its pointed dormers and turrets would have looked wonderful and entirely at home on a mountainside in the Swiss Alps.

‘Sahib, General Post Office,’ panted one of the men pushing behind.

They turned a corner beside the post office and bumped down a narrow alleyway between the Mall and the Ridge, coming to a halt in front of a building which could have been the little sister of the post office, smaller, less flamboyant but determinedly half-timbered and turreted. Above the large double door flanked by two turbaned doorkeepers Joe read the sign ‘Imperial and Colonial Trading Corporation. Simla and Bombay.’ He dismounted and handed a further generous amount to the rickshaw men, remembering this time to tell them not to wait.

An Indian, impressive in blue and gold uniform, came forward and took the card he held ready in his hand. ‘Commander Sandilands. Good afternoon, sir. Mrs Sharpe is expecting you. Will you come this way?’

Joe followed him down a wide hallway hung with Indian fabrics and furnished with pieces of Indian furniture and was shown into a light and sunny room. Alice Sharpe, who was standing at the window, turned with a warm smile to greet him. She had been talking to an Indian. Tall, dark and neat, he was wearing a well-cut English suit and a green, white and blue tie. Old Rugbeian. Joe calculated that this must be Mrs Sharpe’s right-hand man, the able Indian she had promoted to take the place of her English cousins in the firm. Joe looked at him more closely. Behind the conventional good looks – liquid, dark, long-lashed eyes and smooth complexion – was a shrewd intelligence which was taking stock of Joe. Joe sensed the cool gaze pass lightly over his dusty khaki drill suit, a custard stain on his dark blue police tie and the bouquet of flowers he was holding awkwardly at his side.

At a gesture from Alice the Indian went over to a gramophone which was playing a Dixieland tune Joe recognized and turned it off. He bowed and waited. Alice greeted Joe and asked if he would like tea or coffee. Joe accepted coffee and the Indian bowed again and withdrew.

With a feeling of relief that he was no longer under scornful scrutiny, Joe presented the bouquet he had been holding at his side. ‘For the prettiest soprano east of the Caucasus,’ he said with a flourish.