Текст книги "The Palace Tiger"

Автор книги: Barbara Cleverly

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‘Not only to the Calcutta Police but to the whole country. Much of what you’ve heard me boasting of, I must admit, is still in the experimental stage but yes – certain analytical ballistic techniques are available to us. We can match a cartridge case to the breech face of the gun that fired it; we can match the rifling marks on a bullet to the barrel down which it came. As clear and as useful as fingerprinting. It’s all early days, but showing reliable results already. Evidence collected, let’s say here in Ranipur, can be sent to police headquarters in Calcutta and in a couple of days you can get your analysis back by telegraph. Crime solving is throwing down barriers everywhere and criminals can no longer hide behind frontiers. They can be pursued across oceans if necessary.’

Joe went on to talk about the use of the Woman Police Force, which amazed and amused Ram, and the improvements in the working conditions and pay amongst the ranks, which puzzled him. ‘Here in Ranipur,’ he confided, ‘we have no need of such a large force. No one patrols the bazaars, the streets that is.’

‘Then how do you control petty crime?’ Joe asked.

‘In each street there is an informer. An unofficial, though well-rewarded, person who acts as eyes and ears for Ajit Singh. If a crime occurs, it is first discovered locally and news comes to us at once. Action is taken. The criminals are usually known in their own street and because they are certain of discovery, you can appreciate, sahib, that the incidence of crime is very low indeed.’

‘All very well for your average petty criminal, I suppose,’ said Joe, ‘but tell me, Ram, how would you deal with a crime committed by – oh, let’s say . . .’ He waved an arm around the assembled company. ‘. . . one of the noblemen present in this room?’

He instantly wished he could pull back his question but, too late, the young man stammered an unintelligible reply, embarrassed and looking to Ajit Singh for support.

Ajit spoke easily, a slight touch of amusement in his voice: ‘What Ram is trying to say is that there is no crime amongst the nobility, Commander. I’m sure you understand. When did your King George last pick a pocket? Have you arrested Queen Mary yet for poisoning her cook?’

Joe smiled at the attempted humour and was relieved when Ajit himself changed the subject. ‘But I understand, Commander, that we find ourselves working towards the same end, here in Ranipur?’

‘I would be surprised to hear that,’ said Joe carefully, ‘since I am not working and would not be allowed to work, professionally that is. Pleasure only is my reason for being here.’

Ajit’s whiskers twitched slightly. ‘Then I . . .’ He referred to Ram for help with a word. ‘. . . anticipate the ruler’s command. He has discussed with me the possibility that you might be asked to help me to keep a protective eye on the new heir, the Prince Bahadur. These are unusual times, as I think you appreciate, and this young man may be in need of our aid. He has confided to his father that he likes and trusts you. It will give him confidence to see himself protected on all sides.’

‘Is this protection squad a recent development?’ Joe asked.

‘In fact – no,’ said Ajit. ‘The boy will be unaware of it but he has been watched since he left the safety of the zenana.’

Joe wondered just how safe the zenana might be considered in the light of Bahadur’s information but raised no question.

‘He has chosen to spend his time in some unusual places,’ Ajit smiled. ‘And my staff have complained about the difficulties they have experienced in staying close to him whilst remaining unobserved. But, as you see, the boy is fit and well and no attempt on his life has been uncovered.’

Joe looked away from the magnetic eyes for a moment to hide his own expression. ‘What a pantomime!’ he thought.

Aloud he said, ‘I shall, of course, be delighted to join you in any attempt to preserve the Prince Bahadur’s peace of mind or, indeed, his life.’

Ajit bowed politely to his new colleague.

‘I was lucky enough to see the town of Surigargh this morning, Ajit Singh. I understand you know it well?’

‘It is my native town, Commander, and very lovely. I have travelled much . . .’ He hesitated, then confided, ‘I too was in the war in France. I went there with the Ranipur Lancers and survived. I have seen nothing in your continent which can compare with Surigargh.’

Joe nodded in agreement.

‘But tell me, Sandilands, because I do not take you for a tourist, why you went there.’

‘I say, is this official, this line of questioning?’ Joe asked lightly.

‘Not at all,’ smiled Ajit, ‘it is merely conversation. Because I know why you went there. No secret!’

‘Ali,’ said Joe. ‘We are looking rather urgently for Captain Mercer’s rigger. Mercer is finding it difficult to manage without his trained rigger as I’m sure you can appreciate. We had heard that Ali had returned to Surigargh. Not sure why.’

‘You would not find him there,’ said Ajit.

‘No indeed. No one had seen him apparently. They had no idea where he might have gone. I wonder if you have any idea, Ajit, of his present whereabouts?’

‘Oh, yes,’ was the laconic reply. ‘I’m surprised you didn’t ask.’

Joe waited, an enquiring smile on his lips. The smile faded at the finality of Ajit Singh’s next pronouncement.

‘Gone to Delhi!’

Chapter Fifteen

Joe was relieved to be tugged by the sleeve at this moment and to hear Edgar’s apologetic voice: ‘Sorry to break up this coppers’ convention, Ajit, old man,’ he said affably, ‘but Sandilands is much in demand this morning and is half-way through his calling list. Will you excuse us?’

Joe added his own excuses and followed Edgar from the room. ‘Well, thanks for rescuing me from the Inquisition, Edgar! What a formidable man! I hope he never decides he wants to speak to me in his professional capacity!’

‘Good bloke, Ajit. In his way. Keeps control. Does what Udai wants done and does it without fuss. Brave feller too – much decorated, I understand, in the war. Still – I know what you mean. Don’t go annoying him, Joe. I wouldn’t like to have to spring you from one of his dungeons. I don’t forget I was once on the receiving end of his policing methods.’

‘I’ll bear it in mind. And now – in pursuit of something positive to report back – perhaps you could put me in touch with Sir Hector who is somewhere about in this warren. He asked if he might see me this morning. There’s still a bit of the morning remaining.’

Edgar grunted, ‘Well, you’d better make it quick. I have to pass on to you an invitation to take tiffin with the Vyvyans. Lois told me to bid you to present yourself at the Residence at twelve thirty sharp. She can’t abide lounge lizards, so smarten yourself up, try to look a bit military if you can remember how that’s done and be punctual. I’ll summon Govind to take you there. Now, follow me,’ he said and walked ahead.

Some minutes later they had arrived again in the New Palace and Edgar knocked at the door of a suite which appeared to be the twin of Joe’s own. The old physician opened the door at once and welcomed Joe. Edgar made his excuses and left them together. While Sir Hector bumbled off to a sideboard to pour out a whisky-soda Joe cast an eye quickly around the rooms. He was intrigued to see how the doctor had arranged the accommodation to suit himself. The bed and chairs had been swept into the smaller of the two living rooms and the larger now looked like a combination of library and consulting room. Benches were stacked with files and cases of instruments, a brass microscope with black japanned base and bearing the label ‘Zeiss. Jena’ stood at the ready. There was even a large table in the centre of the room on which a patient, or a corpse perhaps, could have been accommodated. Piles of fresh white linen and rows of glass pill bottles gave the room a reassuringly efficient air.

‘Do you have help here?’ asked Joe. ‘You seem to be running a small hospital . . .’

‘As a matter of fact, I do have help,’ said Sir Hector. ‘I’ve got a squad of young chaps I’m training up. They’re very good. Wasn’t easy to recruit them though at first. They have their own system out here, you know. Ayurvedic medicine it’s called. Leaves, herbs, roots and so on. I’m afraid the court physician wasn’t very pleased to see me coming over the horizon, but there you are – the ruler is very Western in some of his ways. He called me in too late though. And the deaths of his two sons have sapped his will to live, you’d say. Terrible setback for any parent, lethal for a chap who’s got weeks to live. To be frank, I’ve been alarmed at the rate at which he’s sunk since his sons started dropping off the twig. Bound to drag you down, disasters like that – so unnatural for one’s sons to die before one. Many of us learned that sad lesson in the war, don’t you know . . .’ His voice trailed away.

‘Is there nothing you can do, sir?’

‘Nothing. Painkillers when necessary but even that’s superfluous – they have their own local supplies, as you’ll be aware. In fact his Ayurvedic remedies may well prove to be the most efficacious when it comes to these last stages.’ He frowned and went on, ‘I’m trying to learn what it’s all about and I have to say it’s not all the mumbo-jumbo you might expect. Oh, no. I’ve seen some quite remarkable things . . . The ruler keeps a potion about the place at all times and when he feels he’s in extremis he’ll swallow it.’

‘Kill himself, do you mean?’ Joe was alarmed.

‘No, no.’ Sir Hector shook his head and smiled. ‘Quite the reverse. It’s something called hiranya garbha. It’s a blend of pure gold – yes, the metal – goodness knows what the process might be for melting it down and making it digestible! – and ginger and other reviving herbs. If you take it on your deathbed, it’s reputed to bring you round sufficiently to enable you to talk. Been used – you can imagine the circumstances! – to elicit a last-gasp answer to urgent questions of the “Where did you hide the key of the treasure house, bapuji?” type. I will observe its effects with interest, should the occasion arise. Might even write a paper on it . . . But it’s not the ruler’s demise I wanted to talk to you about,’ he finished hesitantly.

Joe sipped his whisky and waited.

‘The deaths of the two sons have concerned me. Well, of course, they’ve concerned everyone. And from your presence amongst us, Sandilands, I’d guess that the powers that be are troubled also. Is that right?’

Joe nodded. ‘Yes, indeed, sir. And we were wondering whether you had any information regarding the deaths, any medical information perhaps, that might help us to understand the circumstances?’

‘Difficult. Hindus don’t go in for post-mortems, you know. I wouldn’t have been expected to carry one out on the princes and, after all, the cause of the deaths was very clear in each case. But in the case of the elder prince – Bishan, wasn’t it? – the ruler actually asked me to inspect the body. Not the regular carve up, you understand, more a snoop around to give him the specific information he wanted.’

‘Which was . . .?’

‘Quite simply – did the boy suffer? That’s all.’

‘A reasonable request from a father?’ suggested Joe.

‘Yes, of course. A natural need to know. But it was the answer to the question that intrigued me.’

Sir Hector nodded towards the central table. ‘Had the body brought here before we gave it over to the bai-bands. You know the circumstances of the death?’

Joe nodded. ‘Savaged by a wild panther, I hear?’

‘In a nutshell, yes. The body was a mess, as you can imagine. The flesh was shredded, one arm torn off . . . the beast must have been hungry – it had started to eat him. But, you’re a hunter, perhaps you are aware that a panther kills cleanly? One blow would have been enough to finish him off and I think I identified the lethal blow. To the throat. Where you’d expect it. The subsequent mangling looked dramatically hideous but practically all the wounds occurred after the poor chap was already dead.’

‘So the answer to Udai Singh’s question would be that his son did not suffer an unduly horrifying or protracted death?’

‘That’s so. But there’s something else. Difficult to tell with the destruction of tissue but there were signs that he’d taken a stiff dose of opium: pinpoint pupils, discoloration of the tongue. Now, Bishan wasn’t a complete fool. He took opium every morning, many Rajputs do – it’s hardly significant to them. Of as much note as this whisky we’re both enjoying.’ He waved his glass at Joe and offered to refill it. ‘It fortifies them for the day. But it doesn’t make them blind and deaf. On a normal day there’s no way Bishan would have failed to notice that the beast’s jaws were not sewn up and it still had its claws.’

‘But this was not a normal day?’

‘Well, it didn’t make much sense to me, the whole scene, so I called for his body servant, the chap who was always close to the prince in the morning, and questioned him. Easier said than done! These princes are surrounded by a retinue of servants, all apparently completely loyal to their master. Well, that’s Rajputs for you – they’ll defend their rulers whatever their faults. Anyway, I finally got hold of the right chap, gained his confidence and listened to what he had to tell me . . . I say, I hope I haven’t muddied the waters?’

‘On the contrary, you did exactly the right thing.’

‘Good to hear you say so. Well, I asked him how much of the drug he’d taken . . . made him describe Bishan’s routine. The servant confirmed that Bishan took his opium in the traditional local manner. Here . . . Look.’

Sir Hector opened a drawer, took out a small object and put it into Joe’s palm. Joe studied the ball of dull yellow-grey substance with interest.

‘This is how it’s prepared for consumption.’

‘Nothing like this at Ciro’s,’ said Joe.

‘I’m sincerely glad to hear it! It’s been cooked in milk and sugar to counteract the evil taste.’

‘What on earth are you supposed to do with it?’

‘You take one of these,’ said Sir Hector, picking up an oval-shaped mortar. ‘I say, Sandilands, don’t assume that I always have the makings to hand, will you? I took the liberty of removing these from Bishan’s rooms . . . You pop the opium ball into the mortar and crush it. Then you mix it with water, filter it and drink. It’s a lot faster and much more immediate than smoking it through a hookah which is an alternative.’

‘Where did he get it from? Who was his supplier?’

‘No mystery there. It’s not exactly on prescription, you know. You can get it in any bazaar but Bishan got his from a local tribe – the Bishnoi – who live further south near Jodhpur. They’re farmers, pacifists, nature-lovers, tree-worshippers, if you can believe.’

‘And purveyors of strange substances to the royal family?’

‘For generations. Apparently Bishan had been taking a mild formula for years and appeared to be accustomed to it and tolerating it reasonably well. But then, according to the servant, two days before he died, Bishan asked him to make up his drink using a different supply. He produced a box with three balls of opium and had one made up in the usual way. From its effects the servant assumed it was a stronger formula – it put Bishan on his back for half the day.

‘He recovered and, nothing loath, took a second shot at it the following morning. He was just compos mentis enough to follow his morning routine, including the panther wrestling, with lethal consequences. That ball of opium you’re holding in your hand is the third and last remaining sample of the special batch. It would be interesting to find out how he came by them. Not, I think, from the servant who had been most helpful. When he realized what I was suspecting, he began to panic. By this time, the chap was quivering with fear, naturally. Thought he might be suspected of being instrumental in something nefarious and might expect a visit from Ajit Singh and his merry men. I think I managed to calm him down and dismissed it as nothing important – just a physician’s curiosity. They all know I’m interested in Indian medicine so I think I covered my tracks.

‘I brought the samples back here and tested them and – sure enough – there was a difference. The new box contained pills incorporating a dose that would have almost paralysed anyone who consumed them.’ He paused for a moment and added, ‘If Bishan took one of those horse pills he would have entered the panther cage flying! He would have been so high he wouldn’t have noticed the beast until it tore his throat out and probably didn’t feel much even then. Yes, my answer to the maharaja’s question was – “No, sire, your son did not suffer.”’

‘But we’re left wondering why the presumed heir to the throne changed his formula?’

‘Exactly. On paper this is a clear case of death by misadventure . . . but who supplied him with the opium that dulled his senses to a point where he would walk into that cage? The panther killed him all right. But who murdered him, Sandilands?’

Chapter Sixteen

A name was on the tip of Joe’s tongue.

The urge to answer the doctor’s question and indulge with him in a little fervid speculation was almost overwhelming. He sensed that Sir Hector would have been a lively co-conspirator, perfectly willing to listen to his outrageous suggestion and talk through it with him. A vision of Charlie Carter back in Simla came to Joe and he found he was missing the superintendent’s salty common sense and his local knowledge, missing his companionship and support. But silence, for the moment, was his only recourse. He fought back his own excitement at the laying of a further brick in the foundation of his theory. If he reasoned rightly, the enormity of his revelation would be such that it could only be allowed to reach the ear of one man: the man who held the invisible reins of power in India, the éminence grise behind the Viceroy – Sir George Jardine. But Joe was not yet so certain of the identity of the killer of the ruler’s sons that he could alert Sir George.

He was aware of the danger of building on one idea to the exclusion of all others and was determined that the seductive completeness and simplicity of his theory would not cut him off from other avenues of enquiry. He was frustrated by his powerlessness to conduct an investigation by the book. His brief restricted him to cruising around this alien crime scene, picking up bits of information from whoever was willing to divulge them. And he was not deceived – some of the facts and impressions confided to him might well have been as misdirecting and distracting as the swift brown hands of the child conjuror in Surigargh.

He sighed and thanked Sir Hector for his evidence and for sharing his concerns with him. He reassured him once more that his actions had been exactly what Scotland Yard would have approved and begged his continued discretion. As he prepared to leave, he was struck by a sudden thought. ‘Sir Hector, can you tell me . . . not sure how intimate you are with the royal family . . . can you tell me whether Bishan was married? What his family circumstances were?’

The old physician looked puzzled for a moment then replied slowly, ‘Yes, of course, I can see why you’d want to know that and perhaps it takes a fresh eye to look at the situation from that angle. I believe he had a wife but I don’t remember hearing of any offspring.’ He cleared his throat and looked uncomfortable then added, ‘Doesn’t have the reputation of being a terribly uxorious fellow, if you take my meaning. But you’d need to ask someone closer to the family than I, Sandilands. Being a medic – you know, you get out of the habit of gossiping. Sorry, old man . . . I’d like to help.’ Thoughtfully he said, ‘And this means that now Udai will never see a grandchild. Pity, that. He’s quite a patriarch at heart . . . they all are.’

As Joe nodded goodbye, Sir Hector, on impulse, seized him by the hand.

‘Now look here, Sandilands – you will keep in mind the fact that the ruler has a third son to lose, won’t you? It would be unbearable if anything were to happen to that bright young chap.’

Joe considered for a moment and then replied, ‘Don’t concern yourself, sir. I have a feeling that young Bahadur is safe enough. Now.’

Govind was already waiting by the door to take Joe on to his next meeting. A quick visit to his own quarters enabled him to shower and rub himself down and exchange his sweat-stained shirt and trousers for the fresh ones which had been laid out on his bed. Linen trousers, white shirt, a club tie that he could not instantly identify and a discreet blazer borrowed and adapted from Sir George’s stock, he noted. This seemed to be a formal enough occasion and in England he would have arrived on Lois’s doorstep clutching a bunch of flowers, but here? He wondered what was the custom.

‘Govind? Should I take a small gift for my hostess? What do you think?’

‘Sahib, I think Mrs Vyvyan would welcome, would even expect a small token. Not flowers perhaps as she has surrounded herself with them . . .’ He thought for a moment while Joe waited expectantly for the elusive word. ‘Bounteously!’ he added, pleased with his adverb. ‘You will see! But madam does enjoy reading. And anything that comes from Home is always eagerly accepted.’ He smiled, looked calculatingly at Joe and decided to go further. ‘I believe that the sahib has amongst his luggage one or two copies of books, recent ones, by her favourite author. She would be delighted to find herself the recipient of, shall we say, Jill the Reckless by P.G. Wodehouse.’

Joe grinned. ‘Well, luckily I’ve just finished reading it. Good thought, Govind! And perhaps it should be accompanied by The Indiscretions of Archie for Mr Vyvyan?’

Privately, he wondered how many of this author’s books Govind had himself devoured.

While Joe put the finishing touches to his outfit, Govind located the books and carefully tied them up with a ribbon by which they might be carried since the dark blue dye of the covers would undoubtedly smudge if they came into contact with a hot hand, he explained. Not for the first time, Joe wondered at the courtesy and high efficiency he encountered everywhere in India and asked himself how on earth he was going to manage his affairs back home in his flat overlooking the Thames. He contrasted the stately, all-knowing Govind and his impeccable arrangements with portly Mrs Jago who twice a week rolled up her sleeves, adjusted her pinny and did battle with the smuts deposited on his rooms by the neighbouring Lots Road power station.

Catching Govind’s surreptitious glance at his watch, Joe hurried to present himself, noting that as they were a good fifteen minutes ahead of the lunch appointment, the Vyvyans’ quarters must be at some distance from his own.

‘Far to go, Govind?’ Joe asked, walking smartly down the corridor of the New Palace alongside his escort.

‘Quite far, sahib. But a pleasant walk. To the north of the Old Palace, between the palace and the lake is a house which was built many, many years ago as a retreat for the rajmata, the queen mother. It is now used as the Residency.’

They arrived at last in front of a fifteen foot high wall covered in cascades of pink and white pelargoniums, and Govind led the way through an archway into a garden which took Joe’s breath away. He grinned. ‘You said it, Govind! “Bounteous”. That’s the only word for this show! Eat your heart out, Wisley!’

A profusion of foliage and flowers, many recognizably English ones, clustered around a small but gracious Moghul-inspired dower house. A flight of marble steps led to a pillared portico and an open door at which stood Lois Vyvyan. Looking for all the world like a Staffordshire figurine, was Joe’s impression, as he took in the light afternoon dress of lilac, the trug spilling over with marguerites and dahlias that she held on her arm. Catching sight of them, she handed the trug to a servant standing by, dusted off her hands and came forward to greet Joe.

She aimed a smile at a spot a fraction over Joe’s right shoulder. ‘Welcome to the Residency, Commander.’

She dismissed Govind with a nod and indicated that Joe should install himself in one of the rattan planter’s chairs which stood on the verandah. ‘May I get you a drink? We have sherry, champagne, hock . . . ‘ she said vaguely.

‘The idea of a glass of hock is suddenly appealing,’ said Joe affably and another servant was sent off to fetch the drinks tray.

‘We are well provided for, you’ll find,’ she said. ‘Anything – well, most things – one has at Home is available in Ranipur. You just have to ask. Udai is very generous. The only thing the Residency lacks, in fact,’ she smiled and arched a carefully plucked eyebrow, ‘is the Resident! Claude! He works too hard. The cry of the memsahib all over India, I know! But it’s true. Always one more document to complete, one more letter to dictate, one more petitioner to see . . . He will be joining us shortly.’

‘Where does your husband do his work? Here at the Residency?’

‘No. This building is very lovely but hardly commodious. We have four reception rooms and six bedrooms and that’s quite small for India. Claude has his office in a bungalow down by the lake. A good arrangement. I would not care to have my house trampled through by all and sundry. Oh, excuse me – may I take your parcel?’ she asked, catching sight of the bundle of books.

‘You may indeed take it,’ said Joe. ‘And keep it. It’s a small gift for you and the sahib. Govind assures me that you appreciate Wodehouse.’

As he handed over the books he was struck by a sudden doubt. Had Govind got it right? Did this stiff Englishwoman have a sense of humour? But her reaction was spontaneous and certainly not a snort of disgust.

‘You are too kind! But what a treat! Oh, are you sure you can spare them?’ she said, unfastening the ribbon with eager fingers. ‘Jill the Reckless. Oh, good! I haven’t read it.’

‘It’s very new,’ said Joe, pleased at last to feel he was living in the same world as Lois Vyvyan. And to pass the time until the arrival of the drinks, ‘I’ve just finished it. It’s the usual story of a pretty young girl who loses her fortune and has to go, penniless, across the ocean to find herself a congenial, rich man . . . I think you’ll enjoy it,’ he finished hurriedly, not at all convinced by Lois’s arching eyebrows that she would.

But perhaps his doubts were a delusion as she replied in a friendly enough tone, ‘I’m sure I shall. And what have we here? For Claude? The Indiscretions of Archie?’ For a moment he had a clear notion that if Lois were capable of a giggle she was attempting to repress one. ‘Commander, are you trying to convey a message?’

The drinks tray arrived at that moment and Lois did not wait for his answer but busied herself checking its contents.

‘Here’s your hock. A good one, I think. Seltzer for you? No? Why don’t you bring it through to the drawing room? I hear you have quite an eye for architecture, Commander, and you must be curious to see the interior. It does not disappoint!’

It didn’t. Joe thought he could live out his life in this pretty house and count himself blessed. By Indian standards the rooms were, indeed, small but Lois had chosen to furnish them appropriately in pieces lighter than the usual Western, overstuffed, oversized, dark wood relics of the Victorian age. Unusually for a memsahib, she had introduced one or two items of Indian workmanship; a long low white upholstered sofa was scattered with piles of silk cushions in lime, purple and magenta and in pride of place was a white-painted grand piano.

Joe walked over to it and ran a hand over the keys. ‘Do you play, Mrs Vyvyan?’

‘Yes.’ She smiled. ‘Not well, but with more skill than you, apparently. What was that? I didn’t recognize it.’

‘Not entirely sure the composer would have either,’ said Joe. ‘“Elite Syncopations”. Scott Joplin . . .’

‘Ah. I’m not familiar with jazz,’ said Lois. Her tone made it quite clear that she sought no greater familiarity.

Joe turned his attention to the ranks of framed photographs methodically lined up on the piano. Some were in sepia, some in black and white, all were formal portraits. In prime position on the front row was an army man so like Lois, Joe asked without hesitation, ‘Your father?’

She smiled sadly. ‘Killed in France. He should have retired years before but,’ she shrugged a slim shoulder, ‘you know how it is with military men, Commander. When your country needs you, you make yourself available. And my father was army to the core.’

Her pride was evident. Joe looked more closely at the uniform, trying to identify the rank. ‘Brigadier-General, I think? Your father did well.’

‘At whatever he attempted,’ was the brief reply.

Joe’s eye was caught by a distracting detail of the Brigadier’s uniform and he turned his face away from Lois, unwilling to reveal his fleeting expression of interest and surprise. Could he have this right? he wondered and checked again discreetly. Yes, it was small but there was no mistaking the insignia.

He could have commented on it, shown an informed interest in the wreath of oak leaves surrounding the letters RFC, asked a polite question, but he decided, on impulse, to keep his observation to himself. Enough to note that Lois didn’t consider it worthy of comment.

‘Your rank intrigues me,’ Lois went on. ‘Commander? It has a naval ring to it?’

‘Yes. And quite deliberately so. You are intended to be impressed by it. You are intended to think, “My goodness! If such a young and dashing chap can attain the rank of Commander, he must be of high ability and of some consequence in the force.”’

He had attempted a light, self-deprecating tone but Lois was ready, as usual, with her barbed comment. ‘Or perhaps, “Here is a young man who has stepped into dead men’s shoes”? Many gaps in the ranks after the war. Too many green young colonels in the services. I suppose it was the same with the police?’

In all his time in India, Lois Vyvyan was the first to question him about his rank. She seemed genuinely interested and well informed, if annoyingly rude. Did she choose deliberately to ruffle his feathers? Joe was reminded strongly of a little Angus terrier he had owned before the war. It had hated strangers and would approach them, tail wagging with every sign of good humour but the moment a hand was extended in friendship, that hand would receive a nasty nip. Joe knew the dog couldn’t help it. He set out to be welcoming, he knew he ought to be friendly but he just had to bite first.