Текст книги "The Palace Tiger"

Автор книги: Barbara Cleverly

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‘I don’t think it would suit me either,’ said Joe.

‘Damn sure it doesn’t suit me!’ said Madeleine with feeling.

Edgar ignored her. ‘Doesn’t always suit Udai. I’ll show you the state apartments tomorrow. In the meantime, the idea of a bath is beginning to appeal to me.’ He turned to Madeleine. ‘Shall we continue?’

‘Sure. But first, prepare yourself for another surprise!’ said Madeleine. ‘You’re about to get a welcome, Texas style!’

She pointed up to the sky above the flat foothills separating them from the town and palace where a small aeroplane appeared to be lazily circling. Catching sight of them, the pilot turned and made towards them at speed. He swooped low and everyone in the car ducked as the plane sheered the dusty air only feet above their heads. Joe squinted into the sun as it passed over to the west behind them. In the two-seater plane the front passenger seat was empty, the clearly silhouetted figure in the rear position raising an arm in salute.

‘Who the hell’s that?’ Joe shouted, startled.

‘Best pilot in India or America or anywhere,’ said Madeleine with pride. ‘That’s Captain Stuart Mercer, ex-Escadrille Américaine. My brother.’

‘Your brother? What’s he doing in Ranipur?’

Madeleine’s eyes never left the small Curtiss Jenny as it began a series of stunts. ‘Well, I’ll never know for sure whether it was me or Stuart that Prithvi fell for!’ she said with a smile. ‘He met us on an airfield . . . well, it was more of a cow pasture . . . in the States where we were performing. Came backstage at the end of the performance, you might say. We have – we had – a family business. We’re barnstormers. Ever heard of the “Airdevils”?’

Joe nodded. So that was what she was – a wing dancer in an aerial circus! Had Sir George got it wrong deliberately? He’d heard of many flying circus acts, even seen some of those that made the trip to Europe. Their suicidally daring exploits left him breathless. The young pilots, many of whom had survived service in the war, had been turned adrift in a dull and unrewarding world which had no appreciation of their talent. What they craved was some way of earning a living using their flying skills and they soon caught on to the entertainment value of those skills. People would pay to see them perform, even pay to go up for a flight themselves. Joe shuddered at the idea. But, inevitably, as the public grew used to the spectacle, they became jaded and pilots had to devise ever more daring stunts to keep their attention. Death drops, flights into the heart of Niagara Falls, leaps from racing car to low flying-plane, even leaps from one plane to another in mid-air, they were all attempted with the aim of making money from their audience. Some of the daredevils got rich but most had trouble raising meal money and some died.

‘Planes were going for six hundred dollars when Stuart got back home. No shortage. They were stockpiled all over the States. The military were glad to get rid of them. Spares were no problem either. So he bought a couple and cannibalized one of them to get the plane he wanted and we set up in business. Dad helped with the mechanical side and I soon learned that too – I can fly and maintain an aircraft as well as dance on the wings.’ Madeleine spoke with pride and a touch of challenge.

Joe guessed she had probably run into much male criticism for involving herself in such unladylike pursuits. She would hear none from him; he was fascinated. Madeleine Mercer was a very unusual and attractive girl, he acknowledged, and it was no wonder to him that she should have caught and kept the undivided attention of a maharaja’s son. He tore his own attention from the smiling, chattering girl at his side and looked up again at the pilot, who was performing a manoeuvre which Joe had never seen before. ‘I thought being a policeman was dangerous,’ said Joe, ‘but it’s nothing compared with this!’

‘It’s dangerous but it’s safer than flying the mail routes,’ said Madeleine laconically. ‘And it beats liquor smuggling over the Mexican border which is what we were doing as a sideline before we left the States.’

Joe smiled. ‘Do I gather you and your brother were one step ahead of the law when you skipped off to India?’

‘Something like that . . . Some would say, “Captain Mercer, dashing young air-ace with twenty kills chalked up on his fuselage, accepted the job of personal flying coach to his brother-in-law and accompanied him home to Ranipur. The maharaja’s second son, international socialite Prithvi Singh, is said to have in his stable a collection of no fewer than ten aeroplanes all of which he is able to fly.”’ Madeleine was obviously quoting from a society magazine. ‘See what he’s doing now!’

Joe hardly dared look. The plane was flying over their heads, upside down, the pilot waving a cheery hand. No – two hands.

‘Oh, my God!’ breathed Joe.

‘Now that is dangerous!’ Madeleine said with pride. ‘These Jennys – you can’t trust ’em! The engine cuts out sometimes when they’re upside down and then you’ve got trouble! They were never intended to be stunt planes but Stuart’s a fabulous mechanic as well as pilot and he’s worked on his planes until they do what he wants when he wants it. Now look at this!’

The plane was spiralling upwards, gaining height. As he climbed, the pilot threw out a shower of shiny tinsel that fell, sparkling against the sun, drifting lazily down over the plain.

‘This is the Eastern bit of the welcome,’ said Madeleine.

Edgar caught a piece of tinsel and looked at it closely. ‘Gold?’ he said.

‘Of course,’ said Madeleine.

‘Um . . . how high is he proposing to climb?’ asked Joe nervously as the pilot continued his upward spiral, releasing more tinsel as he went.

‘Oh, he’s barely started,’ said Madeleine comfortably. ‘Stuart tried for the altitude record a couple of years ago. Just kept on going until he ran out of gas then freewheeled back down. He made over twenty-five thousand feet but he was still a hundred feet off the record. He’ll do it one day.’

They watched in silence, mouths open, increasingly tense.

‘Okay, Stu, that’s good enough . . . We’ve got the picture,’ Joe heard Madeleine mutter.

As though hearing her, the pilot stopped his ascent, levelled out and began an abrupt dive.

‘What’s he doing now?’ said Edgar uneasily.

‘He’s going into a loop,’ said Madeleine. ‘Never seen a loop before?’

The plane’s nose pulled up and the frail fuselage fought its way upwards, the engine screaming a protest.

It was her gasp that alerted him. At the moment of maximum effort, half-way into the loop, the plane had suddenly stopped rising. Its nose dropped and the plane flattened out. At the same moment, the engine appeared to stop.

‘Now why the hell would he do that?’ she said to herself. ‘That’s not in the script!’

To Joe’s horror the plane began to drop out of the sky. This was no lazy, calculated, gliding descent.

‘He’s going to crash!’ he blurted out and wished he’d kept silent.

Madeleine’s face was anxious but she replied confidently enough. ‘Not this plane. Not this pilot. This’ll be some new stunt he’s been working on for our benefit. He’s supposed to scare us! That’s what he does! Oh, come on, Stu! Pull out now!’

‘But the engine’s cut out,’ said Edgar. ‘How can he pull out? Idiot’s leaving it too late!’

Madeleine rounded on him. ‘Well, you sure know a lot about planes! These crates can have the whole engine drop off and you can still land them. Done it myself!’

But Joe noticed that she was climbing out of the car and beginning to run towards her brother’s plane. In a few strides he had caught up with her and grasped her by the shoulders. ‘It won’t help to have us cluttering up his landing space!’ he shouted. ‘Come on, Maddy, let’s get back!’ But they stayed, frozen together, unable to run in any direction as, inexorably, the plane continued its uncontrolled descent. Joe thought he saw the pilot struggling with the controls a second or two before it crashed on to its belly in the dust about fifty yards ahead of them.

The fuselage fell apart, the wings crumpled in on themselves, the tail section broke off and dropped away, trailing steel cables. The machine Joe had admired dancing like a dragonfly only minutes before was a pile of matchwood.

Edgar lumbered past them. ‘God’s sake, Joe! Shift your arse, man! He may be alive still! Madeleine – stay back!’

They set off to sprint the short distance to the plane, one thought in both their minds. ‘Fuel tank! Can we get him out before it blows?’

Joe reached the plane first. He went straight for the pilot, who was slumped sideways in the open cockpit, blood pouring from him and down the side of the fuselage. Joe grasped him under the armpits and pulled. He was aware that manhandling of this kind was likely to do further damage to a battered and broken body but every pilot he had ever known had had the same fear of being trapped in a burning plane. Any man would rather be hauled away from a wreck at the risk of leaving limbs behind, Joe reasoned, and he gave another desperate tug.

The body moved an inch or two. Good, there were no obstructions in the cockpit. But a splintered wing had come to rest just above the pilot’s head and there was no way Joe could complete the manoeuvre. Just as Joe emitted a curse, the wing creaked up into the air and he turned briefly to see Edgar, purple in the face and muscles cracking, heaving the heavy wooden wing out of the way. Joe eased the body out, avoiding loose cables and torn fabric covering, and with Edgar grasping the feet, they scrambled to what they judged to be a safe distance from the wreckage.

‘Is he dead?’ Edgar asked.

‘Hard to know with all this gear on him,’ muttered Joe. ‘Let’s get his helmet and goggles off.’ He looked keenly at the young face, dust-covered, blood streaming from his nose and mouth but apparently lifeless.

They were hurled aside by the arrival of Madeleine, screaming her brother’s name. Gasping and distraught, she elbowed them out of the way and began with expert fingers to unbuckle the helmet and goggles.

‘Gently! Gently!’ Joe warned. ‘He could have head injuries.’

She threw down the leather gear and stared at the body in silence. Rigid with shock, she sank to her knees, gazing down at the dirty face. Gently she stroked his cheek. Joe watched, aghast, as the eyes fluttered open slightly and he did not imagine that one hand reached out and moved an inch towards Madeleine before flopping back lifeless. Still Madeleine did not move or speak. Joe sensed that, even in these horrific circumstances, there was something off-key about her behaviour. Had she gone into shock? What should he do? He looked at her uncertainly, waiting for a lead.

Finally, Madeleine said one word. ‘Prithvi.’ Then she threw back her head and howled in grief and rage.

Chapter Five

Her shriek was obliterated by the whoosh of the exploding fuel tank. With a roar that thumped on Joe’s eardrums the fabric covering, doped with cellulose, caught fire and went up in a sheet of flame. In seconds it had been consumed, leaving behind a scorched skeleton. So swift had been the conflagration, the spruce ribs, the broken wooden limbs, remained for a moment standing in blackened and stark outline against the sand before they too began to burn. To Joe’s consternation, Madeleine started running towards the smoking plane. For an agonizing moment his mind was filled with the image of Rajput women throwing themselves on to their husbands’ funeral pyres and he hurled himself after her, catching her by the arm. She turned on him, shouting desperately, ‘The tail plane, Joe!’ She pointed to the wreck. ‘The tail plane! Can you pull it away? It mustn’t burn!’

Instant understanding and the surge of outrage it brought with it sent Joe recklessly on towards the plane. Through clouds of black smoke he spotted the tail lying several yards behind the main body and still intact. He tore off his jacket as he ran and using it as protection from the heat and thick fumes he grabbed the nearest section of the tail, already almost too hot to hold, and dragged it away, trailing steel cables with it.

At a safe distance, he straightened, gasping and choking, the super-heated air burning his lungs. He turned to look back at Madeleine. She was standing, a tragic figure, the last remnants of the festive tinsel mingling with black smuts from the burned canvas and swirling down on to her head, a surreal confetti, Joe thought grimly, not for a bride but for a widow.

Madeleine joined him, white-faced and staring but gaining a measure of control. With a supreme effort to keep her voice calm she said, ‘Examine this with me, will you, Commander?’

It was the use of his rank which confirmed Joe’s suspicions that the scene they had just witnessed was not an accident. He had little experience of aeroplanes but had listened for hours with interest and pleasure to the stories of Squadron Leader Fred Moore-Simpson in the time they spent together as guests of the fort at Gor Khatri on the North-West Frontier, had even gone up with him once or twice, and he remembered his terror when Fred had demonstrated with mischievous relish a stall at five thousand feet over the Khyber Pass.

He thought he knew what to look for. Kneeling in the sand he hauled in the lengths of twisted steel cable that had linked the controls in the cockpit with the elevators. He picked up the two ends, brushed away the sand and looked at them closely.

In a formal tone he replied to Madeleine’s request. ‘I observe that the control cables are both broken. To the naked eye – and I will need to have a magnification of this, of course, to verify my observation – it appears that several strands of the wire have been cut through. The cut is clean and straight, the section recently severed. Two . . . no, three, strands were left intact. These subsequently snapped, I presume, when placed under the stress of the final manoeuvre – a loop – before the plane crashed. These strands are stretched and ragged at the break point.’

Tight-lipped, Madeleine listened and looked carefully at the cable ends.

‘What are the chances of damage like this happening accidentally?’ asked Joe.

‘Accidentally?’ said Madeleine. ‘No chance! No chance at all!’

She fixed him with desperate brown eyes, ‘Commander, my husband was murdered.’

Left alone at the scene of the crash, Joe looked down at the broken body in speculation. He had sent Edgar and Madeleine off in the Rolls along with the tail section and had settled to wait for help to be sent from the palace. Udai, sick unto death himself, if George had it right, had lost his two oldest sons in the space of a few weeks. Edgar’s fears were being realized. Joe had just witnessed the second act of a murderous tragedy and his policeman’s mind was asking the usual questions beginning with the glaringly obvious ‘Who stands to gain from these deaths?’ He tried to remember what Sir George had told him about the other possible heirs to the throne and number three in particular.

With relief, he noticed that a rider was making his way at a gallop from the town. He paused briefly to exchange a word or two with Edgar and Madeleine as he passed the Rolls and then came on down the road. The man approaching rode well but with none of the stiffness of a military man. He was wearing a solar topee, khaki drill jacket and trousers, and his horse was a fine, tall sorrel. Looking about him with a keen eye he dismounted and, leading his horse, came on towards Joe, hand outstretched.

‘How do you do? Claude Vyvyan. British Resident at Ranipur.’

Joe extended a blackened hand and tried not to flinch as Vyvyan grasped it firmly. ‘Joe Sandilands. Commander, Scotland Yard.’

So formal and ridiculous was the exchange, Joe almost expected Vyvyan’s next utterance to be ‘I see you’ve been having a spot of bother?’

What he did say was, ‘What a bloody awful mess! Thank God you were here. Though I’m sorry you ran into this shower of shit.’ He batted away a straying strand of tinsel and grimaced apologetically.

Joe smiled and looked with interest at the man who was the power behind or, more probably, beside the throne in Ranipur. Vyvyan moved with an athletic grace unspoiled by the parade ground. In his early thirties, he was as tall as Joe and, as the portly Edgar had not failed enviously to notice, had a slim and elegant figure. Seeing that Joe was bareheaded, Vyvyan swept off his topee and the two men stood for a moment assessing each other. Cold blue eyes, Joe remembered, had featured in Edgar’s description. Not cold, he thought, not cold to him at least, but intelligent and penetrating. The nose was commanding; he’d seen its like on a portrait of the young Duke of Wellington. The lips, at the moment slanting in a rueful and discreet smile, were thin but well defined under a neat brown moustache. His hair was well barbered, dark brown and plentiful.

Under the other’s gaze, Joe felt suddenly aware of his dishevelled appearance and unconsciously ran a dirt-caked hand through his own thick black hair. Vyvyan smiled again. ‘What a welcome to the state! Pity it had to be like this! I’ve been so looking forward to meeting you, Sandilands.’

‘What would I say if I’d just been told this man was my new commanding officer?’ Joe asked himself, applying his usual test when meeting someone in authority for the first time, and he decided that he would be reassured, even pleased.

They went to stand on either side of the corpse, each wrapped in his own thoughts. Finally Vyvyan said, ‘Two sons in six weeks! Coincidence? I think not. Is there any chance, Commander, that . . .’ His voice trailed away.

‘Every chance,’ said Joe. ‘We witnessed the crash and have inspected a key part of the wreckage which luckily was undamaged. I’ve sent it back to the palace where you can inspect it yourself. Are you familiar with aeroplanes, sir?’

Vyvyan shook his head.

‘Well, I haven’t much experience but – look, I’ll speak plainly: I suspect the plane was sabotaged. Someone meant to kill the pilot.’

‘Yes. The pilot,’ said Vyvyan slowly. ‘But, Sandilands, you should know that it was generally understood that Captain Mercer was to undertake the flight. You should put that in your notebook if you’re going to investigate this . . . this . . .’ He waved a hand over the body. ‘. . . occurrence. But I leap ahead. Are you aware of Captain Mercer?’

‘I only know what I heard from Madeleine on the way here. Don’t assume I’ve had any briefing or have any professional interest in events past or present in Ranipur, sir,’ he lied. ‘I’m down here for a tiger hunt.’

‘Is that what he told you? Scheming old bastard! George Jardine can smell trouble coming across a continent! There was a time when he would have appeared himself to sort out a crisis like this but now I hear he’s found himself a young and active alter ego to do his dirty work while he gets on with running India.’ He smiled to lighten the comment and added, ‘Am I right? Still, I think I can promise you’ll get your tiger hunt.’

A thin crowd of onlookers had begun to leave the road and fields and gather round, staring from a distance at the scene of disaster, chattering volubly and scuffing in the dust to pick up handfuls of gold tinsel. Claude turned to them, gesticulating and shouting in Hindi. ‘Get back, you buggers! Nothing to see! Ah, at last! There we are. Reinforcements on their way.’

Several motor vehicles and men on horseback were coming down the road towards them. ‘We’ll get you back to the palace and then perhaps you can give a formal written witness statement? Not often the investigating officer is invited to do that, I’d guess!’

‘Is that what I am?’ said Joe lugubriously.

‘Oh yes. Certainly.’ Vyvyan allowed himself a broad smile. ‘I’m appointing you.’

Joe looked back with guarded friendship at his new commanding officer.

Chapter Six

The late afternoon sun was slanting down on the sculpted and fretted façade of the Old Palace, creating a complex shadow play on the pink sandstone, an effect which would, in other circumstances, have held Joe’s delighted attention as they entered a vast courtyard and paused in front of the ceremonial entrance. Once again he was in the back seat of the Rolls, accompanied this time by Claude who had handed his horse to a syce and joined him. He turned to Joe as they came to a halt.

‘This is Govind,’ he said as a tall and impressive Indian stepped forward to open the car door. ‘He will see you to your suite in the New Palace. Govind will look after you during your stay – he’s your khitmutgar, your personal butler cum valet. He is Rajput, of course, and he knows everything there is to know about the palace. He speaks better English than you or I and is very used to European ways; he always accompanies His Highness on his trips to Europe and had his training in a ducal household.’ Govind bowed and smiled. He had a luxuriant black moustache and was wearing a spotless white uniform and an impeccable saffron turban. Joe suddenly felt very grubby and weary.

Reading his thoughts, Claude said, ‘Bath first, I think? And then your written report if that’s not too much of an imposition, then I’ll ask you to come down to dinner with a selection of the guests. If you’re feeling up to it, of course! His Highness, in view of the dreadful events, will not be joining us, I assume. Not that he ever does dine with his guests – a religious thing. He usually greets them and has a drink but, today . . . who can say? Let’s play it by ear, shall we, Sandilands? See you later, then. Oh, and enjoy the plumbing!’

He turned to leave but, casually, over his shoulder, added, ‘By the way, we usually wear white tie . . .’

He flashed an unspoken question at Joe who picked it up and replied genially, ‘I would expect so. Don’t concern yourself, sir. I’ve just spent a month in Simla. I’m not straight off the beat! I even have a snooker jacket in my luggage,’ he confided. ‘Black velvet. With frogging! At Sir George’s insistence!’

‘Good Lord! Bury it!’ was Vyvyan’s reply.

‘I was planning to do just that!’

‘But look, Sandilands, we’re the same size – anything you want, just mention it to Govind.’

Left alone with Govind, Joe shrugged off his weariness to make contact with his new mentor. He gestured towards the ceremonial gate which led from the courtyard. ‘A splendid entrance, indeed!’ he said. ‘I had heard that Rajputs were tall but this is surely of an extraordinary height?’

Govind smiled. ‘Not extraordinary at all, sahib. Rather ordinary you will find for Rajputana. We build our gates to accommodate the elephants which pass through them and, of course, the elephants are surmounted by a howdah.’

‘Oh, yes, of course,’ said Joe, feeling foolish.

‘Guests frequently enquire about the emblem of the sun which you see alongside the gate,’ Govind prompted.

Joe’s eyes followed his gesture and took in a large golden smiling face which radiated good humour and the literal rays of a sun from what appeared to be a shuttered window let into the palace wall, many feet above the ground. A plaque of some sort?

Seeing his interest, Govind went on, ‘The Rajput race is descended from the sun . . . to be precise, from Lava, the elder son of Rama. The people gather here in the courtyard each morning to see the rising sun reflect from the golden face you see above you. Then they know that all is well. The god is with them and remembers his offspring.’

‘And if, one day, the sun does not show his face?’ said Joe. ‘I mean, you do have a monsoon season, don’t you?’

He guessed from Govind’s slight smile that he was not the first to ask this question.

‘When the weather is inclement, sahib, and the sun is not visible, then the ruler himself opens the window and shows his own godlike features to the crowd. They are reassured that the sun in one form or another is always with his people. And now, sahib, if you will follow me . . .?’

Joe followed Govind through a maze of courtyards and corridors, finally crossing a lush green lawn and standing to gaze, shrugging off his fatigue and heat-exhaustion, at the building adjoining the Old Palace. The New Palace, he presumed. New in Victorian times, perhaps. He looked with pleasure at the English country house now confronting him and wondered about the architect. Charles Voysey? Edwin Lutyens? No. He looked again, seeing now a distinctly Eastern element to the design which was a harmonious blend of Eastern and Western style, and a name came to mind. Sir Samuel Swinton Jacob. Surely his was the hand behind this formidable pile?

Govind had stopped, sensing his charge was lagging behind. With an apologetic smile, Joe waved him on and followed him through an imposing entrance and down a marble-floored corridor, along which, unaccountably, a cooler, if not cool, current of air flowed. They crossed an internal courtyard which Joe reasoned was part of the simple but cleverly designed and natural cooling system for the house. The courtyard was full of raucous peacocks and fluttering white doves, its grassed centre green and well watered. Surrounding shrubs echoed the mix of East and West, thoroughly English roses stoutly holding their own against extravagant bougainvillea, cascading in shades of purest white to deep purple. A drowning perfume, intensifying in the early evening air, enchanted Joe. He stopped again and asked what it was. Govind reached up and plucked a flower from a tall shrub and handed it to Joe. The small, bell-shaped flower was cream and white and looked as though it were carved out of wax.

‘Frangipani, sahib,’ said Govind. ‘Delightful, is it not? Though I find it becomes a little overpowering if it is allowed to grow too abundantly.’

Joe’s rooms were down a corridor off the courtyard. Govind pushed the door open and showed him inside. Joe took a moment to look about him. The Ritz? The Savoy? As good as either, he thought with satisfaction. An electric fan overhead seemed to be dealing effectively with the residue of the day’s heat, the bed, piled high with silken cushions, looked inviting, the furniture was the best that Waring and Gillow had to offer and his trunk was standing at the bottom of the bed. Magically, his travelling bag seemed to have made the trip in safety also.

‘My gun case?’ he asked, anxiously.

Govind hurried to reassure him. ‘It is already in the gun room, sahib, where it is being checked by our Master At Arms to ensure that your gun has been unaffected by the journey.’ He pointed to a bell pull and invited Joe to ring when he wanted anything. He led him through an archway to a further room which was laid out as a study with a fine writing desk, two chairs and a low table, illumination supplied by elegant electric lamps. A door off, Govind told him, led to the bathroom. ‘Your bath has been drawn, sahib, and awaits you. Please ring when you are ready to summon help with dressing.’

‘No need for that, thank you, Govind. I’m accustomed to dressing myself.’

‘Many military gentlemen are, I find, sahib.’ Smiling and salaaming, Govind left the room.

Joe helped himself to a large glass of mineral water from a silver tray on his bedside table, then he unlaced his boots and kicked them off. He took off his socks and put his feet with a groan of satisfaction on cool marble tiles. He sat down on the bed and gave an experimental bounce or two then, throwing off his jacket and shirt, stretched out and closed his eyes. Probably a foolish thing to do but it had been a long day. A few moments to calm his racing mind before he got into his bath?

A shiver in the air, the slightest sound of a stealthy movement and a sharp metallic click brought him back from the edge of sleep and alerted his swimming senses to the fact that he was not alone in the room. He opened his eyes and looked straight down the black barrel of his own pistol pointing steadily at the space between his eyes.

‘Well, aren’t you the careless one! If I had a gun like this I wouldn’t let it out of my sight!’ said an Indian voice speaking in cultured and fast English. The voice was male, young, unbroken. A child?

Breaking free from the hypnotic fascination of the barrel, Joe looked along it to the small brown hand holding it so unwaveringly steady. Beyond that, an impish face looked back at him with scorn. A boy of ten or eleven, Joe guessed, dressed in a white silk buttoned coat, white trousers and a blue and white striped silk turban.

‘And you’re supposed to be a policeman, they tell me!’

‘And what are you supposed to be?’ said Joe, annoyed. ‘A burglar? The palace dacoit? No, I know what you are – you’re one of those thieving monkeys that break into guests’ rooms and steal their hairbrushes! Well, you left the window open, monkey!’

Surprised, the boy looked sideways at the window and opened his mouth to make a rude reply, distraction enough for Joe to knock his hand away, grasp his wrist and with a quick heave, flip his slight frame over the bed, grabbing the gun from him as he rolled.

‘Get up, monkey, and sit down in that chair!’ Joe snapped. The boy picked himself up, straightened his turban and sat down, eyes fixed on the gun.

‘Never point a gun at someone unless you intend to kill him,’ said Joe, ‘even if, like this one, it is unloaded! And never pause to have a conversation with your victim. It shows you’re not serious. Anyone who needs to hold a gun to a feller’s head to make him listen is likely to bore his target to death rather than fill him full of lead.’

The boy swallowed, glared at Joe and said haughtily, ‘As you are speaking to me at some length, though I would hardly call it a conversation, I assume that you have not been sent to murder me?’

‘Sent to murder you?’ Joe was stunned. ‘Who are you? And, perhaps more important, just what do you take me for?’

‘My name is Bahadur Singh. I am the son of Maharaja Udai Singh. The third son,’ he said with a pride that could not be concealed even by his obvious terror. ‘Bishan is dead and now Prithvi is dead. I am the next son. I think you have been sent to kill me.’

‘Why on earth should you think that?’ said Joe, putting the gun down on a small table by the door.