Текст книги "Ragtime in Simla"

Автор книги: Barbara Cleverly

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Chapter Eleven

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It was early on Wednesday morning and Carter looked as though he’d been at his desk for hours. He was bubbling with information. ‘Lots to report! Sit down, Joe, and hear this! Koi hai! We’ll have some tea, please. And bring us some of those little Greek pastries.’

Carter’s welcome washed around Joe and he wondered whether the time would ever come when he would not feel the need to question it. His fast rise to his present high position in the force had engendered suspicion and jealousy on the part of his colleagues in England and he had learned to ride the waves of mistrust and misunderstanding using only the strength of his ability to support him. His record spoke for itself. But here was a provincial policeman with no knowledge of Joe’s past successes, his outstanding war record, his good family connections, accepting him for what he was – a fellow professional working to the same ends as himself with no suggestion of backbiting or rivalry.

Joe settled down for a happy exchange of information.

‘Worst things first, I always say. So here’s the bad news.’ Carter handed a telegram to Joe. ‘Korsovsky’s agent – G.M. He’s out of the country. We sent our telegram to his Paris office but they say he’s on his way to Prague. They’re sending it on. Do they have telegram facilities in Prague, do you suppose? Where is it anyway?’

‘Czechoslovakia. Important cultural centre – they’ve got the telegraph all right but we may have to wait a day or two. Infernal nuisance!’

‘Well, Korsovsky can’t wait even two or three days, I’m afraid. I’ve ordered the funeral for tomorrow at Christ Church. We’ll just have to hope the chap wasn’t a Muslim or a Zoroastrian.’

‘Have you got any further with the guns?’

‘Yes, we have. We’ve fired the rounds, got samples to compare with the fatal rounds extracted from the Governor’s upholstery and they’re, as we speak, on their way to Calcutta. We’ve fingerprinted them. Lots of dabs on the two rifles that were in the glass cupboard – the two that Troop described to us. And, of course, the likelihood is that they’re all his. I’ve sent a chap over to Flora’s to get samples of his fingerprints and then we’ll see. The other gun – the one in the oily rag – is a bit of a mystery. It had been wiped clean. Not a trace of a dab on it anywhere. What’s the betting that’s our weapon?’

Carter poured out two welcome cups of Assam tea and crunched his way noisily through a pastry.

‘This is the best bit,’ he said handing another telegram over. ‘Simpson? Remember Simpson? We’ve got him! The King’s Own wired me to say that he’d been demobbed from the regiment three years ago but hadn’t left India. Our bloke took up a job with the Delhi Advertiser. He’s a newspaper sub-editor. I got straight on to the paper and confirmed this. Said I wanted to talk to him about the Beaune rail disaster. Well, blow me! Five minutes later he’s on the phone. Very eager to talk about it! It seems our Captain Simpson hasn’t taken any leave for three years and is due some. He offered to get on the next train and come up here to Simla to meet us. Says he has something he wants to talk about concerning the crash. Of course, I agreed to this. I’ve booked a room at the Cecil and we can expect him here tomorrow.’

Joe looked at him anxiously.

‘It’s all right!’ said Carter cheerfully. ‘I warned him to be sure to take the Toy Train and on no account to come up in a tonga!

‘And now, Joe, tell me what you’ve been up to. Loafing about Simla? Doing a spot of window shopping?’

‘That’s right,’ Joe smiled. ‘Loafing about on the Mall with the louche of the town. And, speaking of the louche of the town, don’t we have an appointment to interview one or two of them this morning?’

Carter grinned with anticipation. ‘So we have! At least not an appointment because I certainly haven’t warned them that we’re coming. Johnny and Bertie and Jackie and whoever else is crawling about in that gypsy encampment they call a “chummery”! Come on then, we’ll walk there!’

They walked together past the Cecil Hotel and on towards Mount Pleasant and here they were confronted by a large pale corner house where Edgar Troop and others had allegedly spent the afternoon of the murder playing snooker.

The house was large and, indeed, pretentious but woefully run-down and out at elbows. Joe could not help comparing it to the splendour of Sir George’s Residence and to the Anglicized charm of Charlie Carter’s house under the rule of Meg Carter. The house before Joe seemed to belong to another age, an age before the dominance of the Indian Civil Service. To the days of irresponsible John Company officers with their Indian mistresses tucked away in the mysterious zenana, discreetly amassing a respectable fortune to take home on the side. This, it seemed to Joe, was India before the opening of the Suez Canal, the India of brandy pawnee and chota hazri washed down with a jug of claret.

To the right of the crumbling façade were double gates leading to a stable yard and coach house. Joe heard the clank of buckets and the restive clip of hooves on cobbles. ‘Always a few horses here,’ said Carter. ‘They’re not above a little gentlemanly horse-coping. All the old screws in Simla pass through their hands sooner or later.’

The garden was unkempt. A large car with its doors open was carelessly parked aslant in the driveway. Some window shutters were open and others closed and one or two hung on a single hinge. The honky-tonk of a tinny gramophone played from within. Servants there were aplenty but they lacked the servile discretion which Joe found he had come to expect.

As Joe stood for a moment in indecision, Carter’s hand fell on his shoulder. ‘Come on, we can’t stand here loitering with intent. Let’s have our chat with the chaps in the chummery! Why don’t we step inside? It looks as though we’re going to have to announce ourselves. The servants are as alert and welcoming as their masters, you’ll find.’

At the door they were confronted by a tall figure in a crumpled white suit and with a solar topee somewhat askew. A silver-mounted walking-stick in his hand supported a lame foot.

‘Yes?’ he said without welcome.

Carter looked him up and down. ‘Johnny Bristow!’ he said. ‘Charmin’ to see you again. And are Jackie Carlisle and Bertie Hearn-Robinson at home?’

‘May be. Not sure they’d want to see you. Or your friend. Who’s this?’ he asked, looking suspiciously at Joe.

‘May I introduce Commander Joseph Sandilands of Scotland Yard?’

Joe had met men who were more impressed by the mention of his title. Johnny Bristow sighed with irritation and said, ‘I suppose you’d better come in, though what you think any of us will be able to tell you about anything I can’t imagine. Shouldn’t you be rounding up monkeys or something?’

Joe’s impression of Old India was reinforced as they entered the house. The furniture was European but shabby and knocked about. Bills and invitation cards jostled each other on the mantelpiece; not a few of these were over a year old. Inevitably, the prints of the ‘Midnight Steeplechase’ hung on the wall, along with a fine leopard skin and the head of a markhor. A fencing mask and crossed foils added a note of gentlemanly athleticism and there were whips, boots, boxing gloves, boxes of ammunition, not-well-secured gun cupboards, boxes of cigars sealed and opened, the remains of what had obviously been a copious breakfast amongst the debris of which could be seen a bottle of gin and a bottle of Angostura bitters.

‘Give you a drink?’ said Johnny Bristow. ‘I usually have a pink gin about now. How about you? No? You’d better meet the others.’ In rapid and competent Hindustani he gave orders to a passing servant. ‘I’ll get Jackie and Bertie to come and join us. I think they’re out of bed. Ah – Jackie, here’s Carter and Mr, er, I suppose I should say Commander, Sandilands.’

Jackie, not long out of bed, blinked myopically at them through bloodshot eyes. He was wearing the crumpled white suit which appeared to be the uniform in the chummery.

‘They’re here to investigate the death of that unfortunate Russkie, I expect. What they think we can tell them I really don’t know,’ Johnny said helpfully.

‘You can tell me,’ said Carter, ‘where you both were at the time.’

A third figure, presumably Bertie Hearn-Robinson, entered the room.

‘A clumsy device,’ he said. ‘You say to me, “Where were you at the time?” I tell you. You say, “How do you know that was the time?” And before I know where I am I find myself in handcuffs!’

‘Perhaps we can save you a bit of trouble,’ said Joe mildly. ‘We’ve had a long conversation with Edgar Troop which would appear satisfactorily to establish an alibi and the first thing a good policeman will do with an alibi is check it and that’s why we’re here.’

The three men relaxed somewhat and began to talk amongst themselves. ‘Well, let’s have a think… What day are we talking about?… Monday, was it? That was the day I went to the dentist.’

‘No, that was Tuesday.’

‘Was it the day little Maudie Smithson came and made that fuss?’

‘Good God, no – that was a fortnight ago!’

‘It wasn’t, you know!’

‘Just a minute, let’s get this straight. It was the day… or would it have been the day we tried out your new car, Jackie?’

‘That’s right! I believe that’s right! And we all went… no, we didn’t all go… I say, didn’t Reggie go up to Annandale that day?’

Joe listened with exasperation and amusement. Too much gin for breakfast. Too many almost identical days. He was never going to get corroboration or denial here. And yet, on the other hand, the absence of corroboration seemed, paradoxically, to corroborate Edgar Troop’s account of his movements. Surely if he had anything to hide, surely, if this careless and dissipated crew were any part of a well-structured alibi, they would have been better rehearsed than this? And yet, on the slightest hint from Troop, any one of them would remember anything and, ultimately, contradict anything as required. Joe imagined with horror standing any one of them up in court as a witness.

Charlie, who had been standing silently in the background, now cut in. ‘This is all very jolly and I’m a great believer in police interviews being carried out in the most public possible way but there are limitations and I really think I and the Commander have to ask if we could speak to you individually. Now we can either do that here or you could, as the saying goes, accompany us down to the station to assist us in our enquiries. I’ll play this either way. It might be more convenient for you, to say nothing of more discreet, if you were to set aside a room for our use.’

A chorus broke out. ‘Of course. Of course. Anything we can do… Not sure if we can remember it all but we’ll do our best… Anyone got a cigarette?’

Finally, ‘It’s a bit of a mess but why don’t you come into my room?’ said Jackie Carlisle and he led them into an adjoining room where a servant was perfunctorily flicking about with a duster and had – not well – just finished making up the bed. There were three roorkhi chairs, a low table, a battered bureau, a wheezy overhead fan, several half-empty bottles and three or four boxes of cigars as yet unopened.

‘Sit you down,’ he said.

Carter flipped a notebook open on his knee. ‘Tell me now, Jackie. You met here on the day in question more or less by accident and with no serious prior engagement – am I right?’

‘Yes,’ said Jackie Carlisle absently.

‘And then you had tiffin? Correct?’

‘Correct.’

‘And what time is tiffin served?’

‘Oh, the usual… one o’clock or thereabouts.’

‘Then you and Johnny and Edgar and Reggie Sharpe went for a drive?’

‘That’s right. Bertie was there to begin with but he had to go back to work. You see, I’ve got this new car…’ He waved an explanatory hand at the window. ‘Well, not new exactly but new to me. Second-hand Delage.’

‘Ah, yes,’ said Carter. ‘The Delage. We’d certainly noticed it – so conspicuously and illegally parked. Would you…?’

‘Oh, I’ll get it moved! Have to wait until I’ve got it fixed though,’ he said resentfully. ‘Anyway, we drove out on the Mashobra road. We dropped Reggie off at the racecourse to do a bit of horse-coping.’

‘And until Reggie got off you were all together?’

‘Yes.’

‘All the time?’

‘Yes, I think all the time. Edgar got out for a pee, if that counts.’

‘Anybody else get out for any reason at any time?’

‘Not that I remember. It was all a bit informal. You know what it’s like just after lunch. I was thinking more about the car than anything else.’

And there was a good deal more in the same vein with a lot of ‘as far as I can remember’ and occasionally, ‘ask the others, I can’t remember’.

And then Carlisle resumed, ‘And we dropped Reggie off and drove a bit further up towards Mashobra but the road’s so bloody awful I didn’t want to bump a new car about too much so we turned round – quite difficult up there, I might tell you – and we came back here and played snooker.’

‘Who did?’

‘Well, I did. Edgar did. Bertie was there, I think. Or – wait a minute – some but not all the time is the answer but you’d better ask him. The long and short of it is we got back here about three and played two or three frames of snooker.’

‘Two? Three?’

‘Three, I think. Or it may have been four. More than two, less than five. Is this any good?’

Charlie Carter listened with care and made an occasional note. His eye met Joe’s and they silently signalled, This is useless! And, indeed, four (or was it by any chance five?) had met for lunch, three (or was it perhaps five?) had gone for a drive, two (or was it three?) came back for a game of snooker which, it would seem, had occupied them from three o’clock until five (or was it six?).

‘Thanks, Jackie,’ said Carter at last. ‘That’s been most helpful. Now find Johnny and ask him if he’ll kindly look in. If you don’t mind us using your room?’

‘No. No, no. Help yourself! How about a cigar? Drink, anybody?’

‘Now that’s what I really appreciate,’ said Charlie Carter as Jackie left the room. ‘Succinct witness, all the facts at his fingertips, accurate memory of events! Christ! This is no bloody use! We’ll never get anywhere with these chaps! From about twelve noon on any given day they’re all completely bottled. They’re never going to remember something that happened more than two days ago. We’re wasting our time, Joe, you realize that, don’t you?’

‘Yes,’ said Joe, ‘I realize that. This could, though, be the most carefully set up bit of obfuscation and by remembering nothing clearly, repeating themselves, contradicting themselves, arguing amongst themselves, they could set up the most impenetrable smoke-screen to conceal the movements of Troop.’

‘It could be but I really don’t think they’ve got the brain!’

They sat for a moment dejectedly listening to the creaking of the fan as it stirred up eddies of yesterday’s curry, ancient cigar smoke and a hundred years of dissipation.

‘Any point going on with this?’ said Joe.

Carter eyed him apologetically.

‘Got to, old man. Got to. Sake of consistency, I’m afraid.’

‘Thought you’d say that,’ said Joe. ‘Ah, well… Next! Johnny, old bean! Take a pew!’

Chapter Twelve

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The next morning Joe took a rickshaw back to the Mall and got out in front of a green and gold decorated shop front with its hanging sign, ‘La Belle Epoque’. The shop window was empty save for a single dress of red satin displayed on a chromium-plated stand, well lit and managing to be at once exclusive yet discreetly welcoming. Joe was impressed. Impressed and embarrassed, suffering at once from an eagerness to explore and that embarrassment which overcomes the most sophisticated of men when confronted with the anguish of entering a women’s dress shop alone.

‘I’m supposed to be a policeman. A policeman of international repute, you might say. Clearly at my time of life I ought to be able to walk into a shop with a flourish and that’s what I’m going to do!’

The shop door fell open at his gentle pressure and he stepped into a scented half darkness, the light supplied by partially concealed bracket lights set amongst fabrics on display. Side by side and talking loudly, two Englishwomen were considering day dresses being offered to them by two Eurasian girls. The transaction was overseen by a middle-aged and expensively dressed woman whom Joe presumed to be Mademoiselle Pitiot.

Without interrupting her sales talk she extended a welcoming glance to Joe. ‘I don’t think you would regret it, madame,’ she was saying and, turning to the lady’s companion, ‘Do you not agree? Green is exactly the colour I would choose for madame. Mary, take this into the changing rooms and why not take the blue dress as well? Probably not the yellow – I may be wrong but I think madame would disappear in a yellow dress. Though Lady Everett surprised us all with her choice of daffodil for the viceregal ball last season, did she not? Come through and try them on.’

She shepherded the party into the back premises, the assistants with armfuls of dresses, the customers eager.

This little flurry gave Joe a chance to study Mademoiselle Pitiot. Early forties, fashionably bobbed black hair, obvious and attractive French accent. She was tall and slender but would, Joe thought, never have been reckoned beautiful even in her prime. Her skin was sallow, her eyes dark brown, her nose large, but her smile was wide and friendly. Her manner towards her customers was deferential but behind it there lay a humorous conspiracy which embraced Joe.

She turned to him. ‘May I show you something, sir?’

‘I’m looking for Mademoiselle Pitiot, the proprietress,’ he said, offering his card. ‘I am Commander Joseph Sandilands of Scotland Yard and I would like to talk with her for a while.’

‘Marie-Jeanne Pitiot,’ she said extending a hand. ‘How do you do? You are welcome, Commander. But, please, come through to my office.’

She called to an assistant for tea to be brought and led him to a small room, closing the door behind them. Sweeping lengths of fabric and piles of catalogues from two chairs, she offered him a seat and settled down opposite him on the other side of a crowded work table.

‘This is about Alice?’ she asked. ‘And her poor brother who was shot last year? I was with her at Annandale when the news arrived. A dreadful affair! If there’s anything I can do to help I’d be delighted to do so. I can’t think of anything I haven’t already done or said but perhaps Scotland Yard has come up with something?’

‘You speak excellent English, mademoiselle,’ Joe said.

‘Of course! There was a time and not so long ago when I did not but then I met Alice Conyers and we struck a bargain. When she took me into her employ… I take it you know the circumstances of this?’

Joe nodded and she continued, ‘… Alice spoke only school French and I had very little English. On the boat out to India I taught her French and she taught me English. We still continue our lessons whenever we meet.’

‘Do you meet frequently? Do you still see much of Alice?’

‘Yes. We have remained good friends. She never treated me as an employee. She’s a very generous-minded girl, Alice, and she often says that she owes her life to me. Quite untrue, of course. But after the Beaune crash it fell to me to nurse her and I was glad to do so. To see her coming through that was a wonderful experience for me but if she owes me anything at all from that time it is nothing to what I owe her for having established me here and helping me to set up La Belle Epoque. I owe all this,’ she made a wide gesture, ‘to Alice. It’s no secret! She gave me money to set up the business and still takes an interest.’

‘A financial interest?’

‘No. I’m happy to say that the business has long been independent of any support and is flourishing. The only help she continues to give is her valued advice. And I repay Alice with – with what? – with friendship, loyalty and discretion. And in the enclosed and backbiting world of Simla, that is not to be sneezed at, Commander!’

‘What do you value about Mrs Sharpe’s advice?’ Joe asked. This woman was probably closer to Alice Conyers-Sharpe than any other person including her husband and he was anxious to learn more of her without appearing to force confidences.

Marie-Jeanne replied without hesitation. ‘She is very clever. She looks on business with a fresh eye, a modern eye. So many centuries of hidebound traditional masculine ways of doing business do not impress her. She dares to tear up the rule book. She does not have to meet – would not be allowed to meet other businessmen on their territory in their smoke-wreathed, gin-sodden clubs and deal with them on their terms. She makes the terms. She changes the patterns. She sees where the opportunities arise and she seizes them. ICTC was largely an export firm when she took it over – tea, cotton, indigo, rice – and it still operates as an exporter but she saw, coming fresh from England, that India was longing for the luxuries it had denied itself during the war and she set about importing them. Champagne, whisky, tinned caviar, chiffon dresses from Paris, pianolas from New York – she brings them in and they sell. And her skill is in guessing exactly what people will be wanting next.’

‘This is a surprising ability, isn’t it, for one so young and inexperienced? You met her yourself when she was still in the egg, so to speak. You have witnessed the transition from untried girl to shrewd businesswoman. Was this a surprising metamorphosis?’

‘In a way it was not.’ Marie-Jeanne thought for a moment, looking at him consideringly. ‘I’ll tell you something about Alice! The first surprising thing (of many) I ever noticed about her…’

At this moment the door opened and a tea tray was carried in and placed between them. Marie-Jeanne poured out cups for both of them and went on, ‘It was her silk underwear that made me realize I was dealing with a complex young girl!’ She smiled affectionately.

‘Silk underwear?’ said Joe in surprise.

‘Yes. I was a nurse, you know, working in the hospital in Beaune and I was assigned to Alice when she was carried in on a stretcher as her personal nurse. Not a usual procedure but as she was the only survivor you can imagine that she was very precious. We would have been much blamed if we had allowed her to die. I was to watch her every moment. The best surgeons in France were summoned to her bedside but I was the one who had the initial task of caring for her as she came straight from the scene of the accident.

‘My first task was to strip away her torn and bloodstained garments so that we could ascertain the full extent of her injuries. I remember she was wearing a dark grey woollen dress suitable for mourning. It was very plain, very English,’ she said with a laugh. ‘Of good quality but remarkably ugly and unfashionable. It was one of several similar outfits in her trunk all chosen as suitable for a well-bred English girl travelling to India. Figure my surprise, Commander, when under that drab outer layer there was revealed an emerald green silk camisole and matching knickers with a Paris label! She had stopped off with her companion Miss Benson, sadly killed in the crash, for two or three days in Paris and had dared to kit herself out with the latest in lingerie! I think that this was the first sign of her secret revolt against her narrow, restricted background. On the surface she was neat and decorous but the underpinnings bore witness to the yearnings of a young girl for romance, luxury and fashion. It made me like her a lot!’

Joe smiled. He remembered his older sister, Lydia, years ago swearing him to secrecy in the matter of a clandestine, peach-coloured, mysteriously engineered garment she had called ‘camiknickers’ which he had agreed to hide in his sweater drawer against the prying eyes of the housekeeper.

‘The first sign of revolt?’ he pursued.

‘Many were to follow! She was eager for life, for new experiences. She learned so quickly, talked to anyone regardless of class or sex, charmed them, heard their advice and weighed it. Alice was like a sponge absorbing everything at great speed.’

‘An energetic and formidable lady?’ said Joe.

‘Oh, yes. And not only energetic in her business activities – you have probably heard that she gives much of her time to good works.’

‘Yes, she herself has told me of her connections with the hospital. Determined and hard-working – but tell me, is there a lighter side to Mrs Sharpe’s estimable life? Does she ever have fun?’

‘All the time!’ Marie-Jeanne laughed. ‘She loves music, especially jazz… she has started a girls’ dance group, she is a member of the Spiritualist Society and the Dramatic Society and at weekends she – ’

Joe interrupted. ‘The Spiritualist Society, did you say?’ His question was tinged with disapproval. In London spiritualists were all the rage, many of the old music hall performers with all their old skills intact had found an alternative way of making money by fleecing the gullible who were often in those post-war days desperate for news and contact with their departed loved ones. In Joe’s experience blackmail and extortion could follow close behind spiritualist sessions.

‘It’s quite harmless, Commander,’ she said, picking up his disapproval. ‘Simla no longer witnesses the glory days of Madame Blavatski but we have our own resident medium, a Mrs Freemantle, who is well thought of.’

Joe made a note of this name and Marie-Jeanne went on, apparently ready to dispel any idea that there might be something shady going on in Simla. ‘All the best people go to her seances, you know. Alice is in no way regarded as being out of the ordinary because she takes an interest. And Mrs Freemantle is very talented – I, myself, am not a believer but I have to admit that what she does is skilfully done and does no harm. At best it comforts people and at worst it’s a harmless game.’

Joe made a mental note to take this up with Carter. To him, the mention of spiritualism had been a warning signal. He changed the subject, not wishing to alert Marie-Jeanne to his deepening interest.

‘So, we have a clever, hard-working and successful lady with a well-rounded personality? But there is, it seems to me, one discordant note in all this… her marriage to Reggie Sharpe? Was that, in your opinion, a clever move?’ asked Joe.

Marie-Jeanne’s tender expression froze into cold disapproval. ‘At the time she convinced me – she convinced herself – that it was the right, the sensible, thing to do.’ She paused for a moment. ‘But I infer from your question that you do not consider it a clever move?’

‘Not my place to judge.’

‘Too late!’ she said. ‘I think that you have met Reggie and that you have judged him – as we all have.’

‘And how is that?’

‘As a drunken, self-important, self-indulgent man who could never be the husband Alice deserves!’ She made no attempt to hide her anger and scorn.

‘You judge him despicable – do you also consider him dangerous?’

‘To whom?’

Joe remained silent and looked at her steadily.

‘Yes, I do,’ she went on. ‘I consider him a threat to anyone who would attempt to thwart him and that includes his wife.’

‘And Alice is courting danger when she attempts to curb his excesses?’

‘Alice is riding a tiger! Reggie is not the toothless old donkey she has persuaded herself that he is!’

Her concern, her distress, was so evident Joe found himself responding to it. ‘It may be a consolation, Mademoiselle Pitiot,’ he said, ‘to hear that only yesterday Alice herself voiced just such suspicions to me and they are being investigated. Nevertheless, her friends would do well to look out for her. I really believe she feels in danger of her life. Please, mademoiselle, seek my help if you think there is anything untoward going on.’

‘Thank you, Commander. I will do that.’

She began to stir and look towards the door to the showroom where fresh noises had broken out and was obviously eager to return to the sales floor. Joe rose and began to take his leave. He thanked her for her hospitality and made for the door, turning with his hand on the knob to say, ‘I almost forgot to ask and please forgive such a bodeful question – I assure you it is purely routine – but where were you exactly between the hours of twelve and five on Monday?’

For a moment she was taken aback and then said slowly, ‘You mean when the Russian opera singer was killed? I was, now let me think… Shall I get my day book? No, I think I can remember. I was having tiffin at the Grand Hotel with a glove manufacturer from Bombay until two o’clock – no, later than two – but you won’t be able to check that with him because he’s since gone on to Calcutta, and after that I went back to my warehouse to look over the latest arrivals with two of my staff. Let me think… It was Sumitra and Renée. We must have been there until nearly five o’clock and then I came back to the shop to close down. Do you want me to call my assistants, Commander?’

Joe shook his head. ‘Later perhaps, not for the moment, mademoiselle.’

He took his leave and bowed his way out of the shop, emerging into the sunshine with a sigh of relief. Standing for a moment to get his bearings, he decided to walk the hundred yards or so to the Grand Hotel to check Mademoiselle Pitiot’s story. He remembered what Carter had said – when it came to shooting, the women of Simla were crack shots and though he had never come across a less likely markswoman than the so correct Mademoiselle Pitiot, Joe was methodical. The murder had occurred at two forty-five exactly so if she had indeed been lunching at the Grand there was no way she could have been five miles away in an inaccessible spot drawing a bead on Korsovsky.

On entering the Grand he was smoothly intercepted by the maître d’hôtel, still at this early hour in shirt-sleeves, busy and not pleased to be interrupted. Joe produced his warrant card which gained him the attention he required and asked to see the reservations for Monday. The maître d’hôtel indicated a large leather-bound book open on a stand by the double doors to the restaurant. Turning back two pages he murmured, ‘Monday… Not a busy day. By no means a full dining room.’