Текст книги "The Palace Tiger"

Автор книги: Barbara Cleverly

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Chapter Seventeen

A change had already come over Bahadur. The shadows had lifted and the boy’s good humour was beaming through.

‘Commander Sandilands!’ he exclaimed when Joe arrived, escorted by Claude, at Lizzie Macarthur’s rooms in the Old Palace. ‘I was hoping to see you! Tell me, sir, have you heard my good news?’ While he spoke he struggled out of the dark green laboratory apron he had been wearing and threw it impatiently on to the floor.

‘Indeed I have, and I congratulate you on your forthcoming elevation. The state of Ranipur is lucky in the choice of its successor,’ said Joe with a polite bow.

‘I have already conveyed my congratulations to the Yuvaraj,’ said Claude. ‘A happy day indeed!’

‘Well, if you two have finished clicking heels and playing courtiers . . .’ said Lizzie briskly, ‘there are matters I have to discuss with the Commander.’

‘Yes, indeed. Thank you, Mr Vyvyan, for escorting the Commander,’ said Bahadur. ‘We needn’t detain you.’

Claude flicked a raised eyebrow at Joe, smiled, bowed briefly in farewell and left.

‘Bahadur, my lad, why don’t you make yourself scarce for a while? Buzz off with Jaswant, why don’t you?’ She indicated a silent elderly Rajput dressed in the drab uniform of a royal forester who was standing in a corner of the room. He was unusually small and dark-skinned for a Rajput and such was the stillness of the man that it was some moments before Joe had even become aware of his presence.

Joe glanced around the book-lined room. Benches at work height took up three walls and Lizzie and her charge had been seated at tall stools surrounded by open books, bell jars, specimen cases and metal trays carrying rows of scientific implements. The ruler must have placed a valuable order with Zeiss, Joe thought, noting two further microscopes standing to attention on a bench. A blackboard in one corner carried a chalk drawing, showing, he guessed, the circulation of the blood. Joe smiled to see the recreation in miniature of what must have been the familiar academic surroundings of Lizzie’s youth.

‘Half an hour, that’s all, then we must get back to our specimens!’

With dignity Bahadur replied, ‘Certainly I will allow you to confer with the Commander, Miss Macarthur. I will return shortly as I wish to speak with him myself. Meanwhile I will go with Jaswant.’ He glanced at the forester patiently standing by. ‘Jaswant is our animal collector, Commander,’ Bahadur explained. ‘And he reports a hatch of kraits in the locality. I have never seen one. I should like to see one.’

He preceded Jaswant out of the room.

‘Ah!’ said Lizzie flatly. ‘Growing up, you see! Growing into his new position. Quite right too. Twelve years old now. That’s a man by Rajput reckoning.’

‘Lizzie! Didn’t the boy mention a krait?’ said Joe, alarmed. ‘I don’t know much but I do know that’s the most dangerous snake in India! Is this safe? I mean, ought you to let him . . .’

Lizzie smiled. ‘Don’t concern yourself, Joe! He’s perfectly safe with Jaswant. He’s a local man from the hills – a tribal, as some would have it – and no one knows the region better than he does. The two of us have practically raised that boy by ourselves with the occasional spurt of interest from his father or his mother. Jaswant won’t let him run into danger. He’d give his life for him.’

‘Like the Rajput nanny I heard about?’ suggested Joe.

‘Oh, that dreadful old story! Well, I’ve never had a child of my own so I suppose I can’t reliably comment but, yes, I too would go a long way to protect Bahadur. I’ve known him since the day he was born.’ Her eyes clouded but she went on crisply, ‘But then, he’s grown now and rather eager that we should all acknowledge the fact. So be warned, Commander! Though, I think you possibly got there before I did,’ she said with a sly sideways look.

She picked up the discarded apron, folded it and put it away then offered him a seat on a battered old sofa and while he settled himself, poured out glasses of whisky, Talisker, he noticed, casting a quick glance at the label. He had been about to refuse the customary whisky-soda pleading a surfeit of hock at lunch time but there was no refusing neat Talisker in a Waterford glass.

‘Slàinte mhath,’ she said, using the Gaelic toast.

‘Slàinte,’ he replied. He admired the pale liquid gold before taking a reverential sip. ‘Does this transport you to the shadow of the Black Cuillins of Skye, Lizzie?’ he asked.

‘Not really,’ she said prosaically. ‘Dashed good malt, though, don’t you think?’

‘The best! No expense spared, it would seem, in Ranipur?’ he ventured.

‘I’m afraid so, Joe. And it goes against all my frugal Scottish instincts. Excess, extravagance – can’t be doing with it. Apart from this indulgence, of course! And when you consider the poverty that exists side by side with the riches of this vast country, it does raise your hackles. I’m sure people will have spoken to you about the poverty, Joe? Europeans are full of advice, aren’t they? “. . .Well, of course, you just have to ignore it. Give it six months, old boy, and you won’t even be seeing it any more. Beggars? What beggars?” Idiots! Anyone with a heart goes on seeing it!’

She paused for a moment, her flash of anger dissipating. ‘In fairness, I should say that Ranipur is rather exceptional. Udai is an example to all. He’s put a good deal of his resources into schemes to improve life for the common man, and there are no stories of reprehensible excess linked with his name. You must have heard the sort of thing . . . you know . . . a conversation overheard between two maharajas – “So difficult to decide with what to fill one’s swimming pool! Champagne, obviously, but should it be brut or sec?”’

She laughed. ‘Not sure that’s true but it just could be.’

‘I had heard that the Ranipur welcome for the Prince of Wales last year was somewhat lavish?’ said Joe tentatively.

‘It had to be! There was a lot riding on it. Prestige, face . . . whatever you like to call it. Each prince trying to outdo the rest in the lavishness of his hospitality . . . Magnificence and spectacle were heaped before Edward Windsor. I only hope he appreciated it,’ she sniffed disrespectfully. ‘And, yes, you’re right – Udai had electricity installed and by that I mean from the generators upwards, culminating in rows and rows of fairy lights, if you please, outlining the palace. But they had the sense to offer the royal tourist sporting distractions as well – you know – pig sticking, duck shooting, camel racing.’

‘No chess?’

‘No. No chess! A huge outlay, all the same, for a two-day visit. Though nothing like the sixty thousand pounds they spent in Bharatpur on a single night-pageant. I have to say, Udai did well. Even I was stirred by the sight of the youthful British prince (for so he appeared to me) being carried by six stalwart Rajputs to the banqueting hall in a ceremonial chair, his fair hair lit up by the golden glow of thousands of oil lamps and bonfires and the palace outlined in silver light behind him.’

‘Hold hard now, Lizzie!’ Joe teased, putting on a Scottish voice. ‘Tha’s no a Stuart ye’re talkin’ aboot!’

‘No indeed. And I’m no admirer of the House of Windsor! But the lad made a good impression all the same. Even though it has left India counting the cost.’

She looked at him closely for a moment and said shrewdly, ‘You’ve already begun your inquisition, haven’t you? Well, I wonder what I’ve given away? Is there any other light I can shine on your problem?’

Joe laughed. ‘Just talk to me, Lizzie! I’m fumbling around in the dark. Be my torch!’

‘And here we all were, hoping the detective was going to tap Ajit Singh on the shoulder and have him consigned to his own deepest dungeon awaiting transport to the gallows in Delhi!’

‘Not the way it works, Lizzie. Even if I could find out for certain that Ajit Singh had killed off the two heirs, I have no powers to do anything about it. If he came to me with a signed confession in several languages I’d merely be able to comment, “How interesting. Now don’t do it again or HM Gov. will start to get a bit hot under the collar.”’

‘Pity! We’d all like to see the back of him. The sooner he’s replaced by that nice young lieutenant, the better!’

‘But if he’s involved at all, he’s only the instrument, Lizzie. It’s highly likely Ajit’s behind the killings. But who’s behind Ajit?’

‘Oh, anyone with influence or cash,’ said Lizzie thoughtfully. ‘He’d take a bribe. He’s been known – well, strongly rumoured – to have performed many services for the ladies of the zenana. A useful extension of their power.’

‘But what about a European, of either sex, requiring to whistle up a little skulduggery? Suppose for instance you needed someone to push old Edgar off a cliff?’

‘Huh! That’s a job I’d gladly do myself! Why give someone else the satisfaction? And – believe me, Joe – no one, not even you would find out that I’d done it. But yes . . . yes. I think I could make it worth Ajit’s while to oblige . . . What about it, Joe? Shall we?’

He smiled at Lizzie’s attempt to lighten the discussion and seized the moment to invite her to indulge with him in a little gossip and speculation.

‘Delighted to do that,’ she said, pouring out another generous measure of whisky.

Feeling rather foolish he asked, ‘Have you had a visit from a Parisian perfume house recently, here in Ranipur?’

Lizzie frowned and smiled uncertainly at the same time, assessing the seriousness of his question. ‘No,’ she replied decisively. ‘Jewellers, grocers, couturiers, purveyors of tinned soup, tobacconists, candlestick makers . . . No perfumiers. There are always attar-wallahs selling their wares to the purdah ladies but I don’t think that’s what you have in mind, is it? Why are you asking?’

Joe explained, pleased to see that Lizzie also was intrigued but unable to account for the shared taste in perfume of Lois and Third Her Highness.

‘Shalimar? Can you be certain?’ said Lizzie, disbelief in her voice. ‘I’m not aware of it but I can imagine. Sort of thing that Shubhada would wear but – Lois? She wouldn’t buy anything but Yardley’s so someone must have given it to her. And who would do that but Claude?’ She giggled naughtily, pleased with her solution. ‘Claude! Well! What have you uncovered, Joe! Perhaps our upright Englishman has a secret penchant for oriental mystery? “Here, Lois, old gel, try a spot of this behind the ears, what!” Sorry, Joe. I’ve no idea. But I’ll see what a bit of female gossip can reveal. Not really my style but in the interests of detection . . .’ She hesitated for a moment then said suspiciously, ‘It is in the interests of detection, I hope? Purely a professional enquiry? Not been getting too close to Lois, have you? You begin to worry me, young man! Sniffing, all too literally, around your female suspects! Are you an expert in scents? A . . . what do the French call it . . . a nose?’

‘Just one of my surprising skills,’ said Joe, smiling. He sniffed the air, stagily. ‘And you, Lizzie? Now let me see . . . Mmm! Got it! Eau de formaldehyde! Very alluring!’

Too late he realized that his flippant remark had not amused Lizzie. She looked away and busied herself arranging the glasses on the tray but he caught a sudden expression of sadness and distance in the lively brown eyes. He decided to move to safer ground.

‘Tell me, Lizzie, what brought you to India?’

‘Elopement,’ she said at once, and sat back to enjoy his surprise.

‘Ah. Elopement. Now, are you going to enlarge on that or are you going to leave me squirming with embarrassment and framing my next question which will undoubtedly be about something of undeniable tediousness like the weather?’

‘I ran away from a rather dour Scottish home in the company of a young man who loved me. He was taking up a post in India and I came with him. We were intending to marry – I suppose that makes it an elopement.’

Joe nodded. ‘And what became of your young man, Lizzie?’ he asked quietly, unable to dodge the question, though fearful of the reply.

‘Henry had been offered a position of assistant surgeon in Bombay – a very lowly position, not at all what my father had in mind for me. When we landed there was an outbreak of the cholera and what would Henry do but roll up his sleeves and pitch in? And what would I do but help him? He died. I survived,’ she said bleakly. ‘I was actually then quite glad firstly of my father’s forgiveness and secondly for his influence in getting me a position here in the royal household. Though I was not unaware that by this gesture he effectively ensured that his disgraced daughter would stay on the other side of the world for some years, if not for ever. My stipend is generous and I’ve managed to save enough to ensure I have a comfortable return. I shall buy a little tile-hung lodge in the Home Counties, grow wisteria over the door and breed spaniels.’

‘Lizzie! I forbid you to do any of those things!’

‘Well, perhaps I may concede on the wisteria-hung, dog-infested cottage but the return home at least is not something I’m prepared to give way on. My job here, as you’ve noticed, is just about completed. I don’t want to be discovered in a few years’ time mopping and mowing in my dotage in some remote cubicle of the palace warren! And – tell me – what choices does a thirty-four-year-old spinster have in post-war Britain?’

Joe was prepared to give this question his best attention and they discussed for a while the depressingly narrow range of occupations open to a clever, unmarried woman. Under the warming influence of Lizzie’s large brown eyes and the no less large measures of her whisky, Joe was on the point of suggesting that she marry him and allow him to make her the happiest of women but on running the phrase through his mind again he thought he might not have got that quite right.

Before he could commit himself the door opened and Bahadur came back into the room ostentatiously consulting, Joe noticed, another impressive wristwatch. He was shadowed by Jaswant who was carrying a linen bag at his side. Half an hour had passed quickly in Lizzie’s company and, alarmingly, Joe calculated that, allowing for study or – heaven forbid! – capture, a family of dangerous snakes must be at large within a ten-minute walk of the Old Palace. He looked again at the bag Jaswant carried. He saw something stir in the depths.

Bahadur looked rather put out to find his nanny and his British bodyguard side by side on the sofa sharing a convivial whisky and said with some asperity that if Miss Macarthur could spare the Commander he was ready to take him to a further appointment. Another glance at the watch underlined his eagerness to be off.

‘I have a feeling,’ Joe muttered in Lizzie’s ear, ‘that someone’s playing Pass the Parcel with me!

‘Keeping you on the move, at any rate. Perhaps there is a thought that a rolling policeman gathers no information? Where are you taking him now, Bahadur?’

‘We are working in accordance with the Commander’s expressed wishes,’ said Bahadur loftily.

Joe wondered whether the ‘we’ was the royal we or referred to some company of which Bahadur now considered himself a part.

He took his leave of Lizzie and set off to follow a pace or two behind the heir to the throne, thinking that couldn’t be wrong. After a few yards Bahadur waited for him to draw level and continued at his side.

‘You will miss the heat and the beauty when you go away to school in England, I think,’ said Joe conversationally.

‘I shall not be going away to school,’ said Bahadur. ‘I have decided to stay here in Ranipur where I am needed. I can have tutors sent out to me to continue my education and I have no desire to learn to play cricket.’

Joe smiled to himself. This young Rajput promised to be a challenging ward for Claude.

‘I understand you would like to speak to my uncle, Zalim Singh?’

Joe agreed.

‘Well, he is anxious to see you and to conduct you to the zenana. An honour, sir. My uncle is the only person who has the authority to admit you and he only does this because an audience has been requested by First Her Highness. You will not forget what I told you about Their Highnesses?’

This last was not so much a question as a command. Again, Joe agreed.

‘Their grief and anger will have redoubled on hearing that I have been named Yuvaraj. I myself will not accompany you to the women’s quarters. It is full of their servants and who knows with what orders they may have been issued?’

They seemed to be working their way into the deep centre of the Old Palace and it was some minutes before they arrived in front of a pair of highly decorated doors flanked by two Royal Guards who promptly stepped forward and barred their way. Bahadur spoke up sharply and Joe caught his own name in the exchange. Moving with synchronized efficiency, the guards opened the doors and one of them stepped inside and announced him. Joe looked around for Bahadur but, disconcertingly, the boy had quietly slipped away.

‘Sandilands! Do come in!’ a welcoming voice boomed out and Joe stepped into the room that he guessed to be the command centre of the state of Ranipur. Indian rooms in Joe’s experience were sparsely furnished: often merely carpets and cushions were added, perhaps with the thought that nothing else was required to compete with the lavish decorations to walls and ceiling, perhaps in the knowledge that anything more substantial risked attack by armies of ants or some sort of tropical fruiting body. Joe had heard both explanations. This room was an exception. Although it had the customary hangings, a silk carpet held down at its four corners by carved lumps of precious stone and many breathtakingly lovely Rajput paintings, the largest part of the floor area was occupied by desks, tables, bookcases and racks of ledgers: all the accoutrements of an office in Whitehall were here. Clerks were busy. No fewer than three were tapping away at typewriters, the very latest American models. In pride of place was another upto-the-minute piece of equipment – a Bell telephone, its black and gold splendour holding its own against the Eastern glamour of its surroundings. Electricity had been installed even in this far corner of the palace. The air was stirred gently above them by electric fans and the working areas were lit by pools of shaded light supplied by Liberty lamps.

Poised and welcoming and obviously at the helm stood Zalim Singh, radiating efficiency in the centre of the busy scene.

‘Come in and take a seat, Sandilands! You discover me in full flow. Even on this sad day – no, I would say particularly on this sad day – there is work to be done. The funeral itself has thrown up a good deal of organizational matters which demand our immediate attention. I expect it is much the same with state funerals in London?’

‘Exactly, sir. And, I hope, having interrupted you, I will not long divert your attention from more urgent matters,’ Joe replied.

‘Oh, what could be more urgent than a murder investigation?’ Zalim said, a smile just failing to sweeten his blunt remark. ‘For I gather that this is what you are conducting under our noses, as you might say. But let me be frank and to the point, Sandilands.’ He waved a hand at one of the clerks. ‘I am even now dictating a report on the death of Prithvi Singh for the British authorities in Simla. As a matter of courtesy, you understand, for we are dealing with a purely internal, domestic matter. I will tell you now, Sandilands, as a trusted envoy of Sir George . . . would that be a fair description of your role? . . . that there is no mystery here. My report will state that the first two sons of Udai Singh have both died as a result of misadventure. There is nothing one could consider as sinister or worthy of further investigation in either death.’

‘As you say, sir,’ said Joe. ‘And if, when you have completed your report, you would like me to carry it back to Sir George in Simla I can guarantee its safe arrival,’ he added blandly. ‘Along with that of Mr Vyvyan.’

Zalim inclined his head, acknowledging the thrust. ‘Thank you. I shall be pleased to do that. Now, may I offer you a cup of tea?’

The door had opened to admit a servant carrying a silver tea tray and Zalim indicated that they should sit on divans at a low table to continue the discussion. He dismissed the three clerks and Joe found himself seated, alone, face to face with the real power in Ranipur.

The two men regarded each other over the rims of their Meissen teacups for a moment then Zalim burst out laughing and put his cup unsteadily down. ‘Shall we stop circling round each other like a pair of over-cautious wrestlers?’ he suggested. ‘Look here – unofficially I’m prepared to admit there are inconsistencies in the details of the deaths of the first and second sons but I’m certain Sir George would encourage us all to focus on the point we have arrived at and not let our eyes linger on the water that has passed under the bridge. And we have reached a position which I think is acceptable, even welcome, to the British as well as to the state of Ranipur. Do you agree?’

‘I do,’ said Joe. ‘But tell me, sir, are you content with the arrangements for your own future? Would you not have preferred to operate as regent within the state?’

Zalim looked as though he had anticipated the question. ‘A regency lasts for a few years only and, knowing Bahadur as I do, I can tell you, Sandilands, that it will not be long before he has dispensed with the services of his regents. We are being open with each other now – I speak to you as I would speak to Sir George.’ He gave a slight bow as though conferring honorary governorship on Joe. ‘The appointments were, as you have guessed, of a cosmetic nature. Her Highness Shubhada is thereby guaranteed the consequence she desires and the British Government through its agent, Vyvyan, feels itself included in the future affairs of the state and remains our ally.’

‘But we know that the ship of state goes sailing on under the same steady hand?’ suggested Joe and Zalim’s broad smile encouraged him to add, ‘But, tell me, sir, was there ever a moment when you have thought that perhaps the helmsman deserved to be captain?’

Joe held his breath. He knew he had gone too far. Zalim affected to look puzzled for a moment then his expression cleared and he replied calmly, ‘We Rajputs have little occasion to use maritime metaphors, Sandilands. Perhaps I can answer your impertinent query with an ancient saying of ours? “The Rajput’s kingdom is the back of his steed.” My ambitions are – have always been – circumscribed. I seek no further than my own saddle. I am more . . . able . . . than my brother in some respects and these skills I gladly deploy for him and the state. Allegiance to the head of state is the first of all the Rajput’s virtues. My head and my sword are always at his command and now, of course, at the command of the Yuvaraj. Fidelity is the source of honour in this life and of happiness in the hereafter.’

He paused and for a moment appeared to be surprised by his own frankness. ‘I learned long ago that ambition is a corrosive thing and our religion teaches us that worldly wealth and consequence avail us nothing in the end. Udai approaches his end fast now and let me tell you what will happen when the moment of death arrives. He will be lifted, as he dies, from his bed and placed on a heap of straw on the floor. He will take his last breath as he took his first – in simplicity, taking nothing from the world as he brought nothing in.’

‘And the horoscopes – the prophecies – will have been fulfilled?’

‘Yes indeed. They are always cast at the birth of a child and never prove wrong. My brother was correctly identified as a future ruler although a most unlikely candidate for the gaddi and, as predicted, he will be succeeded by his third son. Events are not in our own hands, Sandilands, and we try to no avail to twist the arm of Fate. But there are some . . .’ he paused and sighed, ‘who find themselves unwilling to accept the unrolling of Fortune’s carpet and I fear that I must ask you to submit to an audience with the mother of Bishan, First Her Highness. She has asked to see you and she is not accustomed to being denied. I will take you to the zenana myself. You understand our custom of purdah? The women’s quarters are guarded and no man but the prince and I may be admitted.’

He rose and summoned the clerks with a clap of his hands, issued further orders and set off with Joe.

After five minutes of striding along a pace behind Zalim, Joe was fancying himself Theseus but without the lifesaving thread. And what dark presence awaited him at his destination? The endless corridors, the rustling of unseen people concealing themselves behind doors and in alcoves as they progressed were disconcerting and disorienting. He reminded himself that he was heading for an encounter, not with a fearsome man-eating monster but with an elderly princess with little knowledge of the outside world, a mother whose only son had died less than two months before and who was clutching at straws in her unwillingness to accept the hand dealt her by Fate. He sighed. Perhaps the monster was to be preferred.

A distancing courtyard alive with doves and chattering monkeys separated the women’s quarters from the main body of the Old Palace and Joe blinked in the harsh sunshine as they emerged from the shadows. Such was the onslaught of the afternoon sun he began to think that crossing the open space to the entrance to the zenana might tax his endurance too far and he looked with wonder at the tall spare figure standing straight as a lance to attention in full sunlight guarding the door.

Elderly, magnificently bewhiskered and hot-eyed, he was obviously a military man of some distinction. Already well over six feet, he wore a turban surmounted by a high red cockade. His waist was hung about with several leather belts to which was attached a medley of weaponry. As they approached, the guard, ferocious white whiskers bristling, drew a slender curved sword from its scabbard and held it before him at the ready in a theatrical but nonetheless purposeful attitude.

Zalim greeted him and ritual exchanges were made in Hindi.

‘My cousin’s father-in-law,’ explained Zalim. ‘A nobleman and keeper of the zenana. We have made special arrangements for your audience with Her Highness. These arrangements will include the services of an excellent interpreter as Her Highness speaks no English.’

He called out a name and a figure which had been waiting unseen in the shadows of the doorway came forward. A girl, a tall girl with long black hair, large darkened eyes and a red rose at a jaunty angle behind one ear greeted Joe in a low and seductive voice. She was wearing, not the traditional Rajput petticoats and tight bodice, but long voluminous trousers and a tunic in a floating, gauzy fabric. Bangles chinked on her ankles and slim brown arms. She wore no veil or dopatta and looked Joe boldly in the face, curious and speculative.

Zalim gave a few words of instruction to the girl and made to take his leave of Joe. ‘Well, off you go. I leave you in the care of Zafira. If there is anything you require . . . anything at all . . .’ he said, his voice purring in unmistakable conspiracy, ‘he will be delighted to accommodate you.’

‘Another of the Dewan’s pillow-talkers?’ Joe wondered, remembering Madeleine’s scathing phrase.

It was a moment or two before the significance of Zalim’s remark hit him. He followed thoughtfully behind the sinuous figure of Zafira who walked along singing and clapping his hands every few paces as though in warning. ‘Watch out! Here comes . . . what? . . . a foreign policeman and a palace eunuch,’ Joe supposed. ‘Strange pair!’

Intrigued, he had a thousand questions he would have liked to put to his guide but fearing his interest might be misinterpreted he asked none of them, following silently until they reached a colonnaded central courtyard. Here another paradisal garden spread its four green squares thick with lilies, orange blossom trees and bougainvillea and alive with the sound of piped water tinkling down decorative chutes and splashing from a central fountain.

Peacocks stalked and scolded amongst the greenery but the living birds were outshone by the brilliant representations, tails proudly unfurled, captured in mosaics of lapis lazuli, turquoise and gold which decorated the walls of the zenana. Balconies overhung the courtyard and Joe was aware as they crossed the garden of scrutiny from many pairs of eyes behind the latticed shutters. He guessed that in normal times this place would be alive with chattering, laughing groups, with music, games, and perhaps dancing but today, a funeral day, all was still and silent apart from the mournful calls of the birds.

They arrived at a shaded corner of the colonnade where a screen woven from split bamboo had been erected. On the outer side had been placed a stool and Zafira invited Joe to sit on it. He assured Joe that he would translate fast and accurately; he was accustomed to performing this service for Her Highness. There was a slight movement behind the chik screen, a faint waft of attar and Joe’s audience had begun.

What had he expected? A shy, indistinct murmuring? Female curiosity? An outpouring of grief? All of these.

‘You are very handsome . . . for an Angrez!’ The voice was firm, clear and attractive. ‘Tell me, young man, are you as clever as you are handsome?’

‘Clever enough not to be seduced by compliments, even though they come from the highest lady in the land,’ he replied diplomatically.

A burst of laughter from behind the screens made him wonder if, after all, he might begin to enjoy the conversation.

‘I pay no compliment; I merely tell the truth.’

Joe felt disadvantaged by the unequal situation between them: she could catch every nuance of his changing expression whereas he could only guess at hers. Rather like performing on stage, he decided: actors, blinded by the footlights, saw little of their audience yet were able to feed somehow on their responses. Very well, he’d be an actor.