Текст книги "The Palace Tiger"

Автор книги: Barbara Cleverly

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‘Own Florida? Is that good?’

Madeleine sighed. ‘Prithvi was interested in golf and polo and that’s what originally attracted him to the place. He realized that what he thought attractive, others did too. Americans were taking vacations . . . foreign tourists were arriving. Suddenly real estate was hot! People were buying up mangrove swamps before breakfast and selling them as building plots before tea. For fifty times the price! Prithvi got in on the deals right at the beginning. He did well.’ Her face was animated with humour and affection. Joe didn’t interrupt.

‘His family wasn’t always royal, you know? Merchants, that’s what they were from somewhere on the trade route north of here.’

‘Surigargh,’ said Joe.

‘That’s right, and I guess it’s in the blood – dealing, I mean. Prithvi was good. Very good. He diversified. He invested his Pa’s money in lots of things. He was bright, he was lucky. He followed his nose. One day he was in the crowd that listened to the Dempsey-Charpentier fight. The whole thing, well, all four rounds of it, was described from the ringside and put out all over the country by wireless-telephony. Prithvi wanted a part of it so he bought Westinghouse stock and you know what’s happened to wireless-telephony?’

‘We call it radio broadcasting now,’ said Joe. ‘Clever old Prithvi!’

‘He just went with his own enthusiasms. He was mad about automobiles – he bought General Motors stock. Aeroplanes – he took shares in the Curtiss company. That’s how I came to meet him. He was thorough. He didn’t just get carried away. He heard we were flying Jennys so he came over to see the show and talk to Stuart about the aircraft before he invested.’

‘Well, I can really admire what Prithvi achieved,’ said Joe. ‘But tell me how you managed to turn the screws on poor old Udai Singh and make off with these?’ He tucked the sheets back into the envelope and handed it back to her.

‘He’s kept very quiet about this new way of financing the state. Zalim knows, of course, and possibly Claude, but no one else I think. It’s very, well, medieval still in its thinking and customs – you’ve noticed – and most people here don’t travel. They haven’t much idea of the world over the pond. For them, the wealth of Ranipur is in its state jewellery and reserves of precious stones, stashed away safely in the khajina. If they were to find out that it’s been almost emptied and the new wealth is a few dozen sheets of paper locked in the safe in the ruler’s bedroom, things might get a bit uncomfortable for the ruler and the Dewan. “Questions,” as you British might say, “would be asked.”’

Joe looked at her, grim-faced. ‘So you threatened to broadcast the fact that the state coffers are bare, that they’ve been systematically looted by Udai Singh? That the man proud to be father to his people has sold his inheritance for a stack of papers printed in a foreign language? No wonder he’s eager to get rid of you! I’m amazed he hasn’t had you fed to the crocodiles!’

She turned large, frightened eyes to him. ‘And that’s still a possibility. Don’t think I don’t know that! I’ve got Stuart to keep the planes trimmed and fuelled up and ready to go. Come with us, Joe! We could be off tomorrow at first light. First stop Delhi – next stop, anywhere in the world! Why not?’

‘Can’t be done. I have an appointment to shoot a tiger in the morning.’

He heard his crisp, dismissive British officer’s voice replay in his head and was ashamed. ‘Oh, for God’s sake, Madeleine, I’m sorry! What a pompous thing to say!’

She squeezed his arm. ‘You’ve been hanging around with Edgar Troop for too long! Never a good idea, Joe. But at least you do see why I’m creeping about looking over my shoulder the whole time?’

‘Yes, I do and I won’t wrap it up, Madeleine, you could have brought down a wasps’ nest on your head. You shouldn’t have meddled. You don’t know what’s been going on under the surface . . .’ he added distractedly.

‘And you do?’ she asked immediately, seizing on his uncertainty.

To tell her? To confide in her? To hear her down-to earth reaction, telling him his fears were ridiculous? For some time Joe had felt himself in possession of the appalling truth behind the deaths of the two heirs but unable to seek rebuttal or support for his theory from anyone else. So unpalatable was his suggestion, he had hidden it away in a corner of his mind but, piece by piece, layer by layer, information, opinions, intuition had snowballed around the core of his idea until he was desperate to let the whole thing out, and hope that someone would shoot it to bits.

She took his face gently in her hands and turned it towards her. ‘You know, don’t you, Joe? You know who killed Bishan and Prithvi?’

Taking his silence and downcast eyes for an answer she persisted: ‘Tell me! Prithvi was my husband! I have a right to know! I must know!’

He held her hands in one of his and put his other arm around her shoulders.

‘It’s all right, Joe,’ she said. ‘I’m not going to scream and stamp about or chase after anyone with a carving knife!’

He swallowed and opened his mouth to speak, thought again and looked away. Then, remembering Lois with her admonition – ‘The walls have ears’, he turned and put his head close to hers. Through the lily-scented curls he whispered, ‘They were killed on the orders of Udai Singh. Their father.’

Chapter Nineteen

Madeleine’s shoulders began to shake with horror and he held her tightly for a few moments until she grew steadier. Her mind was whirling, he guessed, tracking his own on its unwilling journey down the dark corridors of palace intrigue. She took her time.

‘Okay, Joe,’ she said finally in a calm voice, ‘I’m prepared to go along with this . . . to a point . . . but first, tell me – why?’

‘Well, so long as you remember that this is purely speculation. And I’ve only been in the palace –’

‘Get on with it, Joe!’

‘Udai’s people call him “Bappa”,’ Joe began simply. ‘And there you have it. He is father to the tribe and nothing in his life is more important than this role. He discovered he was dying about two months ago and what will a dying man do but put his house in order? The survival of Ranipur was his first consideration. Above everything, he knew that his first son would be a disastrous ruler and unable to pass on the state to his own children because he had none and there was no prospect of there ever being any. I believe he looked at his three sons and decided that the third, Bahadur, was almost perfect for the job – would have been perfect had he been legitimate – but acceptable all the same. Everyone likes him, he’s an able boy and the choice would please the British whom he values as an ally in these troubled times. They’re in favour of preserving the autonomy of the Indian princedoms after all and to that end the politics of Ranipur and the Empire march together.

‘Shortly after he realized death was imminent he made up a will – more in the nature of a statement of succession but I’ll call it a “will” for simplicity. The document was left undated until today. I’ve got a copy. That will named Bahadur as heir. So we know this was his plan before the deaths of Bishan and Prithvi. But he kept it quiet. From his own experience of being named Yuvaraj he knew that the potential for blood-letting was there. Had they guessed his intentions, the older sons would have taken action to divert the course of events.’

‘Wait a minute! Just wait a minute! “Divert the course of events”? What the hell are you suggesting? One of the “older sons” was my husband, for Christ’s sake! Are you suggesting that Udai expected Prithvi to take his brothers for a ride like some Leftie Louie or Alphonse Capone?’ Madeleine pushed him away angrily.

‘I’m not conscious of those gentlemen but if I take your meaning – yes, that’s exactly what I’m suggesting. And don’t shoot the detective, Madeleine! I’m just trying to work out which way the snakes are wriggling in this nest of vipers. Udai knew his sons, after all, and for longer than you had known Prithvi. He was “all Rajput” according to your brother and might well have reverted to a Rajput way of dealing with an unsatisfactory succession. Udai had decided on Bahadur and he removed, I believe, the potential obstacles to the boy’s inheriting the throne.’

‘But Udai got on well with Prithvi. He sent him to the States last year as his representative . . . He trusted him . . . Prithvi thought he was certain to be next up for the gaddi,’ she objected.

‘Yes. And seeing a sample of the evidence tonight,’ Joe tapped the envelope, ‘I would say that’s a true picture of the situation at that time.’ He fell silent, not quite knowing how to go on.

‘And then I came on the scene,’ she said bitterly. ‘Is that what you’re not saying? By marrying me Prithvi was effectively putting himself out of the running . . . scratching himself from the contest?’

‘I’m afraid so. No child of yours could ever succeed and Prithvi repeatedly refused to take a second wife. He and his father must have had a deep, irreparable split over that.’

‘They did have a few pitched battles,’ she admitted. ‘Prithvi had a short fuse. So – I signed my husband’s death certificate . . . is that what you’re saying?’

His silence answered her.

‘Is that a bottle of whisky over there?’ she asked forlornly.

‘Yes, can I get you one?’ said Joe. ‘I’d gladly have one myself.’

‘Disgusting stuff,’ she commented. ‘But thanks.’

He poured out two glasses, adding a large measure of soda water to Madeleine’s.

She took a sip of her whisky, grimaced and took another. ‘But look here, Joe. Let’s take this a step at a time. Could any father no matter how much he disapproved of the life his son was leading – I’m thinking of Bishan now – arrange for him to be eaten by a wild panther? I’m not buying it!’

‘Well exactly! And that’s why it was such a good cover. Udai did check with the doctor that his son didn’t suffer. The doc thought this normal parental concern, and parental concern it certainly was but not normal. Bishan’s death was, in fact, quick and relatively painless.’

Joe told her about the opium dose and the killing methods of panthers and Madeleine listened wide-eyed.

‘But why would Bishan change his opium dose just like that?’ she wanted to know.

‘I asked myself, Whom would he trust sufficiently to accept an enhanced dose from him? His father? Perhaps after a discussion on the lines of “Why have you not presented me with a grandson yet? Having problems? Here, take a dose of this. It’ll make a man of you . . . put ink in your pen” or whatever the Rajput equivalent is. Speculation, of course, and how will we ever know? But the ensuing “accident” as staged was convincing.’

‘But who was he trying to convince? And why wouldn’t a knife in the ribs have been as effective? Or just an overdose of the drug? Why the fancy footwork?’

‘No. With the British Empire looking over his shoulder in the sleek shape of Claude Vyvyan, urbane, friendly but all-noticing, it would have to look as much like a genuine piece of misadventure as possible. And the opium and panther-wrestling routine was such a well-known and regular part of Bishan’s life it was feasible. But sharp old Claude must have become aware that all was not on the square. He wrote a report for Sir George, a report that never got through. There must have been something in there that Claude inadvertently or perhaps even deliberately let slip that they didn’t like the sound of. Sir George knows that Claude is nothing if not efficient and he would certainly have reported the death to him. His twitchy old nose began to smell a rat.’

‘And he stuffed you down the hole to see what you could discover?’

‘Something like that.’

‘And Prithvi had to die too – again apparently by accident – to clear the field for Bahadur. That I can’t stomach!’ she said, downing the rest of her whisky. ‘That creeping little coyote!’ She burst into a fit of sobbing.

Joe was disconcerted. ‘Not a member of the Bahadur fan club, then?’

‘No! Way too slippery! He despises me – well, don’t they all! – and he’s forever down by the planes, hanging around Stuart, watching . . .’

She fell silent and the silence stretched between them.

‘Joe, she whispered finally, ‘he could have done it! Bahadur knew enough about the planes to have cut the elevator wire. And we were all so used to seeing him holed up down there, feeling sorry for the poor little guy, we didn’t notice him any more. He’d had a couple of lessons with Stuart . . .’

‘But it was Ali who disappeared.’

‘Of course. Fall guy. They got rid of him so they could put the blame on him. He wasn’t around to deny it if things went wrong for them and their handiwork was discovered. Stuart never thought he would have done it, you know. Perhaps they asked him and he refused . . . Riggers don’t . . . couldn’t bring down their plane and their pilot.’

‘I had wondered why on earth Prithvi should have taken up the plane Stuart was meant to be flying. And, again, I can only think, “order or suggestion from above” and there aren’t all that many people above Prithvi in the hierarchy if you count them. Just one. His father. So we’re back to paternal machinations.’

‘Not quite sure what you mean but I can tell you that Prithvi did have a long talk with his father that morning. Do you think that’s how it happened? “Why don’t you demonstrate your ability for these Britishers? You’re as skilled as that Yankee pilot by now, aren’t you?” He knew Prithvi never could turn down a challenge. Do you think that’s how it happened, Joe?’

He nodded. He deftly put down his glass as she threw herself towards him, sobbing into his chest.

‘God, I’m stupid!’ she hiccuped. ‘I thought I was being so clever! “Give me my dues and perhaps I won’t tell the world about your naughty dollar deals!” Like an infant threatening to poke a grizzly in the eye!’ She tugged at a corner of his towel and dried her eyes. ‘I’m a target now, aren’t I, Joe? And I’ve brought my danger to your door. Look, let’s think this through. If Udai – and it’s still “if” as far as I’m concerned – is behind all this, he didn’t do it alone. Oh, I don’t just mean the ones who changed over the panther and sawed through the elevator cable, I mean I bet he had help at the planning stages. Certainly Ajit Singh and his men were there at the sharp end, the executive branch you might say, but also I’m guessing . . .’

‘Zalim?’

Madeleine nodded. ‘And I don’t forget young Bahadur, curse him! Believe me – I don’t forget him!’

Joe sighed. He went over to the door and drew the bolt across, switched off a light or two then returned to sit by Madeleine on the bed. ‘So, with the present ruler, the future ruler, the Prime Minister and the Chief of Police and the Palace Guard all eager that we shouldn’t get out of here and start talking to anyone,’ he said, ‘we have quite a problem. Suddenly your planes begin to look very attractive. Tell me – if you were to take off, where would you head for?’

He was quite sure she had no intention of revealing her plans but it was worth a try.

‘You could get to Delhi easily. But you might want to avoid a reception committee at the airport. These planes can land anywhere that’s firm. A road will do. Pick your point of the compass.’

‘And continue by rail perhaps? Rail leading to a port? Bombay? Madras? Calcutta?’

None of the names raised a flicker of response on Madeleine’s face. ‘Yeah. Could be done,’ she said noncommittally.

‘And all this leaves us with the night to get through,’ Joe began.

She reached for his hand and turned to him a face softened by something which in the half-light might have been affection. It could also have been pity or even need.

‘Joe . . . I could . . . we could . . .’

An uncertain Madeleine?

He stroked her shining head, put his arms around her and gave her the reassuring hug he reckoned she had been craving. ‘You’d better spend the night here again,’ he said gently. ‘My turn for the couch, I think.’

Chapter Twenty

Joe reported early for duty at the elephant gate, his packing done by Govind in the time it took to eat his breakfast. All traces of Madeleine had been removed as best the two of them could manage in a frantic ten-minute bustling about before the sun came up. Retrieving her envelope from underneath her pillow, she had grinned, ‘You’d wonder how I could sleep so well with my head on half Miami!’ and it had made its way down the front of her blouse. She took in her belt a notch to hold it firmly in place. ‘So long, Joe. See you in the jungle.’

‘What? You’re going too? This is turning into a charabanc trip!’

‘You didn’t think it was to be just a chaps’ outing, did you? Eight gents in velveteen coats, yarning over the angostura bitters? Sorry, Joe – we’re all being encouraged to go. To clear the palace for a few days, I’d guess. And, honestly, I’d rather take my chances with the wild tigers than the palace ones. I’ll feel safer out there with the snakes and the scorpions – no kidding! I think Lois and Lizzie are staying behind because they don’t approve of shooting animals but everyone else will be there.’

And here they were, milling about in the courtyard, some anxious and excited, others phlegmatic, even bored. Last minute instructions were given to the servants, forgotten items were urgently sent for from the palace. Everyone checked places assigned in the motor cars. It was going to be a two-hour journey and no one wanted to be put to sit next to Ajit Singh.

Joe stood back, silently admiring the forethought Colin had put into the planning. Heavy camp equipment which included iron water-tanks of drinking water had been sent off days earlier by camel and bullock cart and there remained only the ten members of the shooting party and their personal items of luggage to be distributed among the motor cars. Nothing had been left to chance, not even their placing in the fleet. Three passengers were allotted to each with a uniformed driver and Colin effortlessly ushered the guests into their places, hearing no argument. The first, a Rolls Royce, set off with Bahadur, Edgar and Ajit Singh, and the second, a Hispano-Suiza, with a perceptible lowering of the anxiety level, followed with Madeleine and Stuart and Sir Hector, firmly refusing to be separated from his medical bag which he insisted should travel with him.

Joe was invited to sit in the third motor car, a Dodge, one of three, with Colin and Claude, and with a further four cars carrying the baggage they set off, waved at by Lois and Lizzie.

‘Don’t shoot one for me, Joe!’ said Lizzie.

‘Darling, do check your boots for creepy-crawlies, won’t you?’ said Lois to Claude.

Joe looked round, concerned. ‘Colin! I don’t see Her Highness . . .’

Colin pointed ahead. ‘There she is, half a mile up the road. Shubhada elected to go on horseback accompanied by her grooms. It’ll be a point of honour with her to get there before we do. But she won’t find it that easy – the ground’s hard and dry. Good going for motor cars! We should make good speed.’

The drive along the forest road with the sun slanting through the trees awaking clouds of acid-yellow butterflies was magical in the early morning, though the approach of a seven-vehicle motorcade frightened away any animals they might have encountered. Some hinted at their presence by the occasional warning cry. On the last few miles to the camp site Joe noticed that the surrounding land was growing more rocky and broken and there were signs of ancient civilization on every hand. A crumbling sandstone fort looked grimly down from its hilltop, heavily ornate Hindu temples nestled in patches of jungle, and here and there they caught the grey-green gleam of lakes in valley bottoms.

Shubhada was already installed when they drew up, sitting on a folding camp chair, a half-read novel on her lap. Teasing, she waved a teacup at them and looked at her watch. ‘Oh, good. I was hoping you’d be here in time for tiffin,’ she said. ‘I hope you don’t mind but I’ve already settled in. First to arrive has choice of tent, you know!’ She pointed to one at the end of the double row of white canvas tents pitched in a clearing. She had chosen the end nearest the jungle and furthest from the supply and cooking tents.

This did not please Colin, who had been about to place the two ladies protectively in the centre of the group, Joe guessed, but he smoothly reassigned the tents and all disappeared gratefully into their accommodation to smarten up and wash away the dust of the journey. Shubhada was in her element, striding about the camp in jodhpurs and riding-jacket issuing orders. He wondered what kind of a shot she was as he watched her fussing over a camp servant charged with unloading her gun case from the Rolls. It looked very splendid, he thought, as it disappeared into her tent, and he wondered whether she had been allowed to borrow her husband’s Purdeys for the occasion.

Everyone else’s guns had been delivered to the camp the day before and Joe’s Holland and Holland duly made its appearance. He welcomed the Royal as an old friend in this strange place. He took it out, held it to his shoulder and squinted down the barrel. He checked his ammunition and satisfied himself that all was well with the gun. He was not allowed to put it to more serious testing as all shooting had been banned by Colin. Now that everything was in place, he didn’t want to risk alerting the tiger to make off for a hunting ground farther afield.

A holiday spirit seemed to have invaded the group. Free of the crushing atmosphere of the palace and happy with their outdoor accommodation, they settled in the filtered sunlight of the glade to enjoy each other’s company over constant cups of tea and glasses of iced (now how had the khitmutgar managed that?) lime juice and soda. They sat down ten to lunch in the open at a table lavishly supplied by a field kitchen already in bustling order and manned by several palace cooks. The male guests were kitted out in khaki shirts and shorts and had good-humouredly adopted the Australian army bush hats Colin provided for them. No bright white pith helmets were to be worn on the hunt – a quiet camouflage was the order of the day. Bahadur and Ajit Singh conformed by agreeing to wear turbans of dull green. Everywhere, Joe was aware of teams of men cheerfully at work to support this enterprise from the twenty mahouts and their elephant handlers to the splendid major-domo figure who was organizing the valets and maidservants.

But Joe was uneasy. He strolled with Edgar a short way into the forest for a companionable after-lunch cigarette. ‘Nothing like it since the build-up to the Somme,’ he remarked to Edgar, pointing to the scurrying squads of servants. ‘And all for one tiger! Where on earth are they all sleeping?’

Edgar pointed to the south. ‘A hundred yards away in the next clearing there’s a sort of tent city. And the elephants are corralled down by the lake. And all this is not just for the tiger – as well you know! – it’s supposed to be an entertainment, a bit of relaxation for us Europeans. In the middle of his troubles, Udai is providing a distraction from the awfulness we’ve got caught up in. Typical piece of courtesy from the ruler and it would be very nice if you stopped sneering and questioning and set about having a good time. Why don’t you pick up Colin, take an elephant and go out and have a look at the countryside? Calm your nerves a bit.’

Thinking perhaps that he’d spoken a little sharply, he added, ‘Look, Joe, if it’s concern for Bahadur that’s making you so twitchy, you can relax a little. Not too much, mind! We’re both still on duty. But he’s away from the palace now and surrounded by people who have his welfare at heart. When he goes up that tree he’ll be feet from Shubhada and yards from Claude, both of whom have the strongest reasons to keep him alive. Across the nullah there’s his father’s man Ajit and he’s not done a bad job of protecting the lad so far, you have to agree. Then there’s you and there’s me. That adds up to quite a protection squad!’

‘You’re right, Edgar, but I get a bit nervous in a scene like this – high-powered rifles everywhere you look, a man-eater lurking somewhere in this dense scrub, elephants to fall off, trees to fall out of and heaven knows what else! Place is a minefield!’

Joe made to sit down on the stump of a tree but was hurriedly caught by the arm by Edgar. Edgar thrashed about with his stick removing leaves and debris from the roots and then, satisfied with his efforts, said, ‘Never sit down anywhere that you haven’t checked for snakes, Joe. These woods are crawling with hamadryads . . . That’s all right. You can sit down now.’

‘Thanks, Edgar! Thank you very much!’ said Joe. ‘But I’ve changed my mind. Let’s get back to camp.’

The rest of the day passed equally smoothly, to Joe’s relief. Determined to make the most of this break from palace routine, the group, hunters and spectators alike, took on a cohesion and, he would have said, an identity. Perhaps this was what happened in the Boy Scouts or on a Chapel Outing. It was certainly what happened on the battlefield. But a shared deprivation did not feature in their experience under canvas. The guests were eager to share their approval of the rich appointments of their tents. No ground sheets here – they trod on silken Persian carpets. The folding campaign furniture was made luxurious by tasselled cushions, and those who had been dreading the discomfort of a latrine were pleased to note the provision of a personal, mahogany thunder box.

But, against the current of satisfaction and bonhomie, Joe felt, for no obvious reason, a thrill of unease as he looked round the lively faces gathered over the supper table. Colin, behind whom everybody had instinctively rallied and whose word everyone obeyed without question, had been entertaining them with tales of shikar. But the tales were more than entertaining and amazing, Joe realized, they were instructive and, in the best tradition of storytelling, the audience felt its own experience had been widened, its sensibilities deepened and perhaps its point of view adjusted.

Surprisingly, Ajit Singh, instead of being the inhibiting presence all had anticipated, joined in the after-dinner campfire storytelling, picking up and running with Colin’s accounts, adding a Rajput view or explanation, occasionally telling an ancient folk story of his own.

Stuart, who had never been on a tiger hunt before, was all flattering attention, joining with Joe in asking the right questions of the right person, bouncing the conversation along. This young American, Joe thought, would have been an asset at the dinner table of the Vosges château where his squadron had trained in notorious and enviable luxury during the war. His sister, however, was less congenial.

In the overwhelmingly masculine gathering, Madeleine was uncharacteristically restrained and staying firmly in her brother’s protective shadow. As she was paying no more than casual attention to Joe, he could almost have wondered whether he had imagined the intimacies of the previous evening. Madeleine was making no female alliance with the only other woman present. Rebelliously wearing a bush shirt and divided skirt topped off with a cowboy hat, she presented an interesting contrast with Shubhada who glimmered in a little dinner dress of midnight blue silk. Voluble and excited, the maharanee seemed to be enjoying the company of the men. Though her behaviour was never less than scrupulously correct, there was a quality about her which intrigued and puzzled Joe: an energy, an elation or satisfaction perhaps. The girl was certainly in a good mood. The thrill of the chase? She was said to be a keen hunter.

Bahadur too was enjoying the chance to be with a group of men he admired, and though not entirely confident of his status amongst them, his companions, by their conversation, let it be understood that all were gathered there in the lamplit clearing miles from civilization for a levelling and urgent purpose. No one felt it his duty to tell the young Yuvaraj it was past his bedtime and he sat on, listening with obvious pleasure until finally he summoned up his own body servant and declared his intention of turning in, recommending that the others follow his example.

Most were only too pleased, after their long hot day, to use this as a trigger for their own departure and soon, after much genial calling of ‘goodnight’, all had retired to their own tents, their way lit by the glow of the sinking fire and the torches of the night watch. Joe stayed awake for a long while, alert to the sounds of the forest around him and to the sleepy sounds of the camp settling down. He smiled to hear the doctor, whose tent was immediately opposite, gargling heartily before, with a final trumpeting nose-blow, settling to his bed. Bahadur’s tent was to Joe’s right, sandwiched between him and Colin and opposite Ajit. Joe heard him stirring about for quite a time after he had gone to bed, chattering with his servant and even sending the man off to the supply tent on some errand or other. Judging by the subdued snort of laughter on the servant’s return, Joe guessed he was clandestinely laying in a personal supply of the Swiss chocolate he appeared to have taken such a fancy for and he smiled indulgently.

The last muffled yawns and creaks petered out and Joe felt himself at last to be the only one of the party awake. The way he liked it to be. He was lying on his light-framed charpoy bed with its cotton-covered mattress, naked and damp from his tub wash, alert and anxious. He listened to the plink of frogs from the lake and the occasional yelp of a jackal. Twigs snapped and undergrowth rustled as night creatures moved stealthily by, skirting the clearing men had invaded. It was ridiculous that after the relaxed conviviality of the evening he should be left coiling with tension. Each time he tried to identify the cause of his disquiet he came back to the same disturbing thought: in his eagerness to arrive at a solution he had broken the first of his own most compelling rules. He had reached and even confided a conclusion before all the evidence was in. His suspicion of Udai Singh’s role in his sons’ murders was no more than that – and an outrageous suspicion! This was twentieth-century India after all, not fifteenth-century Turkey with the savage princely blood-lettings that accompanied every sultan’s death. The British Empire held sway, not the Ottoman. He had been over-hasty and all he could do now was hope that Madeleine would have the good sense to keep silent about the theories he’d confided to her. She’d only half believed him anyway, he told himself hopefully.