The Damascened Blade

Chapter Five

Glad to have a moment or two together, Betty and James Lindsay sat together on the roof of the fort.

‘So glad you’re here, Bets!’ said James sentimentally, reaching out to hold her hand, having first made sure that no disapproving eye would observe this erotic proceeding.

‘Well, at least I’ll mastermind your dinner party,’ said Betty comfortably, ‘and I’ll do place names if you like. Who would you like next to you, for a start?’

‘It’s not a question of who I’d like, it’s who I should have and I suppose I should have that stupid old fool Burroughs on one side and Rathmore on the other. Put Zeman Khan next to little Miss what’s ’er name… ’

‘ Coblenz,’ Betty supplied.

‘Yes, that’s right. Put Zeman next to Lily Coblenz and put Grace on his other side to keep an eye on him.’

‘And where do you want me?’

‘Oh, you can handle the dashing Group Captain and Zeman’s mate. I wish this party was over! I’m quite hopeful that no one will kill anyone else but it’ll be touch and go! That Lily is trouble on two legs if ever I saw it! I can’t imagine how they ever allowed her to come up here! But there we are!’

They stepped out of the shade into the searing sunshine and looked down on the busy life of the fort.

‘I must say, I could do with a swim!’ said Betty.

‘Don’t even think of it! And don’t let that blasted Lily think of it either!’

And they went their separate ways, Betty to oversee the preparations for the evening – though oversee was hardly the word since it seemed unlikely that the Pathan cooks would take much notice of her – and James to conduct a tour of the fort. He had wondered very much whether Zeman and Iskander should be part of this. After all, potentially they were his enemies. He decided in the end that such was the excellence of his defensive arrangements, it could do no harm to show the tribesmen, through Zeman, what they were up against.

Accordingly the tourist party formed up on the parade ground. Lord Rathmore, continuing to resent finding himself one of a party, was acutely aware that his status was not being adequately recognized. Zeman was eloquent with a friendly babble of question and comment but Iskander hardly spoke. Though seemingly indifferent, he nevertheless had eyes everywhere and, while he did not exactly have a notebook open on his knee, he wasn’t missing much and in particular he was noticing the high state of readiness of the Scouts’ garrison. ‘Good!’ thought James. Fred Moore-Simpson was cheerful and tactless, his very English voice perpetually rising above the muttered responses of the other men. No problem there, thoroughly dependable and entertaining chap, James thought.

No, if there were going to be difficulties they would start with Lily Coblenz. She chattered and exclaimed, eyeing the men with unblushing appreciation, asking Zeman, to whom she seemed to have attached herself, indiscreet questions touching on the status of women in the tribal areas, perpetually pressing for a chance to leave the safety of the fort to try the alleged dangers of tribal territory. Her introduction to the two Afghan guests had been a warning. Strangely, it had been Iskander who had initially claimed her total attention. She hadn’t been able to take her eyes off him and James could quite see why. The chap was a particularly handsome specimen. Iskander, outwardly at least, had not welcomed the attention and after an initial startled gaze, almost certainly his first close sight of an American woman, he had, in the polite Pathan way, avoided looking at her, not difficult when a good twelve inches higher than the object of one’s scorn. James cringed as he remembered the first exchange between them. Looking boldly up at the tall Pathan she had said, ‘Tell me, how did you come by those green eyes, Mr Khan?’ And James remembered Iskander’s level response, ‘The same way you came by your green eyes, Miss Coblenz.’

It had been Zeman who came smoothly to the rescue. ‘I always say he found them under a gooseberry bush!’ he said and all were relieved to join in the laughter.

‘Joe’s supposed to be in charge of this girl, blast him!’ thought James resentfully. ‘I think he might have taken the trouble to explain that downcast eyes would not have been out of place. And that’s the very least. If I had my way I’d put her in an all-enveloping, ankle-length burkha for the duration!’ And he could have done without the hissing intake of appreciative breath when elements of Zeman’s Afghani escort stalked by. ‘Ah, well,’ he thought with resignation, ‘a few more hours, that’s all we have to get through.’

James gathered his group around him and cleared his throat loudly to call them to order. ‘Well, if the brass hats expect me to behave like a ruddy Cook’s Tours guide, I’ll give them their money’s worth!’ he had warned Joe and he began.

‘Gor Khatri!’ he announced. ‘That’s where you are but how many of you know what the name means? No one? I’ll tell you. It means “The Warrior’s Grave”. Now we don’t know what warrior or precisely where his grave is located but one day perhaps we will. I hope so. This has always been a strong place. You will have appreciated its geographical and strategic advantages: within an easy ride of Peshawar, covering the trade routes of the Khyber and the Bazar Valley, close to the river yet not dependent on it – we have three deep wells all safely within the confines of the walls. And as you see we are by no means the first to exploit the situation. Its origins are lost in antiquity; we know it was used by the Kushan kings of Gandhara over two thousand years ago and I like to imagine Alexander the Great passing through and feeling safe here. Marco Polo visited the fort in 1275 or thereabouts.’ James smiled. ‘It’s reported that he found this a place where “The people have a peculiar language, they worship idols and have an evil disposition.” ’

‘But of course, nowadays we no longer worship idols,’ Zeman said helpfully to Lily. She tried to stifle her laughter.

James continued, ‘The Moghul Emperor Babur established a fortified caravanserai on this spot in the fifteen hundreds and Mountstuart Elphinstone found shelter here in the last century.’

‘Say, James, weren’t there ever any women here? I mean, we surely can’t be the first to visit, can we?’ Lily interrupted.

‘As a matter of fact, there are evidences of a Hindu shrine which could well be the work of the daughter of Shah Jehan… ’ James went on.

‘He’s making this up!’ thought Joe. ‘Surely?’

‘… and who knows? Perhaps I should expand my standard speech to mention that Lily Coblenz, the Calamity Jane of the twentieth century, left her mark.’

Lily very much appreciated this and was the first to burst out laughing. The company trailed after James in good humour as he led them around the fortifications.

‘This,’ said James, ‘is one of the oldest parts of the fort. That tower is a hundred years old, maybe two hundred years old. You can’t tell because the style didn’t change for longer than that. And that alarm bell is about as old. We don’t use it but there it is. When we first moved here it was there to summon help – to turn out the guard. I suppose if this was a ship you’d say to signal “All hands on deck”. Even we have something a little more sophisticated now in the form of a siren if we need it but I’ve left the bell there. It’s part of the history of the place.’ And the inspection continued.

Apart from a close examination of the thickness, height and strength of the crenellated and loop-holed walls, the Afghans’ attention was caught by the sports facilities. Some of these (stage managed by James, Joe guessed) were being actively demonstrated by teams of Scouts who were obviously enjoying playing to an audience. ‘This,’ said James unnecessarily, ‘is our cricket pitch. And that our hockey field. The Scouts play cricket but the Afghanis don’t. We’re hoping we can change that. All play hockey, of course, and basketball.’

Grace Holbrook, it seemed, was holding the whole party together. She was just as at home with the Afghani escort from Kabul as with the Pathan Scouts themselves; just as at home with the imperial establishment as with Lily Coblenz. Interested and competent, she was clearly enjoying her tour of the fort, asking sensible questions about the water supply and the irrigation system, admiring the dairy herd and making suggestions for the planting of a second orchard.

The inspection wound on its way until James was able to say, ‘And this we’re really proud of! This is our poultry yard. We’ve found that Leghorns seem to do best. This is Achmed, our head poultryman.’ Joe turned to introduce to the party an appreciative Pathan and spoke to him at length in Pushtu, listening and translating his reply. ‘We have problems,’ he said. ‘Wild pheasants raiding our poultry yard! For example – look at that thing!’ He drew attention to a gaudy pheasant casually seated on a nearby roof. ‘As soon as our backs are turned he’ll come down like a wolf on the fold!’

‘Why don’t you just shoot him?’ came Lily’s eager voice. ‘Why don’t you let me shoot him? Go on, James! I wish you would!’ And, turning to Zeman, ‘Tell him to let me have ago!’

Zeman laughed. ‘Go on, Lindsay! Let her have a go. See if she can do it. Every woman in my village could do it. Go on, Miss Coblenz – for the honour of the great American Republic! Slay and spare not!’

‘This is not the OK Corral, Miss Coblenz,’ said James, smiling with difficulty, ‘this is almost a war zone. Any rifle shot heard in the vicinity of the fort evokes a military response. As you can probably understand.’

Zeman looked around him with a wide gesture. ‘But all the officers who could be expected to react are here present,’ he said slyly. ‘No harm, surely, in loosing off one round? Himalayan pheasant aren’t built to withstand rifle fire. One shot should do it,’ he added, cocking a conspiratorial eyebrow at Lily.

James nodded to Joe and, deeply reluctant but unable to dodge the challenge, Joe took a rifle from a nearby Scout and handed it to Lily. ‘That’s the safety catch,’ he began. ‘And remember once the bullet has left the rifle it travels for about a mile which is why, on the whole, we don’t gun down marauding wild fowl with express rifles but I suppose it’s safe enough while the condemned has its back to a rock face. Be careful now – that thing has a kick like a mule!’

Flushed and excited, Lily shrugged him aside, brought the rifle up to her shoulder and fired. In a cartwheel of feathers and squawks the pheasant virtually disintegrated. Amidst general applause, a Scout brought the battered body back and proffered it to Lily.

‘Jeez!’ said Lily, surreptitiously rubbing her shoulder. ‘What am I supposed to do with this?’

‘Put a tail feather in your hat,’ suggested Lord Rathmore.

‘Get yourself photographed with your quarry,’ said Grace. ‘That’s what most shikari who come up here do.’

‘I should send it down to the kitchen,’ said Fred Moore-Simpson, laughing. ‘Waste not, want not! Tell them to serve it up for dinner tonight.’

‘Or what’s left of it,’ said Rathmore.

James took a look round, mentally calling the roll. ‘Someone missing,’ he said. And then, ‘Where’s Burroughs?’

‘He had to leave us,’ said Fred. ‘He’ll be flat on his back by now, drinking a little and thinking a lot and yearning for Delhi. Poor old sod.’

At the end of what had been a long day, a day in which Betty Lindsay had revised her seating plans at least half a dozen times, she surveyed her final arrangements. Not bad, she decided. Not perfect but the best that this incongruous mob could possibly supply. The men of course had done a splendid job and really the Pathan feast laid out in the durbar hall was very glamorous and impressive. Pathans were surprising. A warrior race indeed and, if she was to believe all she was told, treacherous, vengeful and ruthless, yet they could spend happy hours decorating a dinner table and to a standard that would put a Home Counties Women’s Institute to shame. Thick rugs had been spread in the centre of the room and surrounded by tasselled cushions. A white cloth covered the rugs and this was decorated with candles and sprays of blossom and spring flowers. Dishes of Pathan and Persian food were to appear in procession to be set out down the length of the table so that the guests might help themselves. Nervously Betty wondered whether she had remembered to tell everyone to use only their right hand. Yes, she was sure she had.

She stood for a peaceful moment alone to calm herself before the guests arrived in the doorway of the durbar hall enjoying its unusual beauty. James had taken her on her own private reconnaissance tour that morning and she remembered his pleasure when she had gasped with delight on entering. ‘Our pride and joy!’ he had said. ‘When I got here this was just a store room with the accumulated rubbish of two thousand years on the floor! About a foot thick, I’d guess. Dust, cigarette ends, goat shit, dead rats, fallen plaster – you can imagine! I set people to clear it up as a fatigue – a punishment, you know – shovelling muck off the floor, scrubbing it down, then we made the most remarkable discovery. Under the debris there was what you now see. I think it’s a Buddhist stupa… second, third century AD? We cleaned it down and whitewashed it and left it to speak for itself.’

Betty looked again at the ancient tiled floor. How would you describe it? Turquoise and gold? No – turquoise and chestnut. Polished, mysterious and serene, the floor reflected the encircling arcade. The last shafts of warm sunshine knifed down from the rim of the dome and seemed to set the floor ashiver. And how sensible, Betty thought, how typical of her husband that he would have left the room free of any Western frippery, content to allow the natural materials and the graceful proportions to make their own statement.

Betty moved aside as a procession of white-clad Pathans arrived carrying in the dinner dishes. Fragrant piles of fluffy rice spiced with saffron and spiked with almonds would surely appeal to everyone. The platters were accompanied by deep dishes of curried lamb, plates of roast chicken, mounds of mint-flavoured meatballs, heaps of flat Peshawar bread and, in pride of place, a roasted, clove-studded fat-tailed sheep. Her party looked good and promising. As the rest of the guests appeared and conversation built up Betty began to enjoy herself. Even her morning sickness had left her though, cautiously, she decided it would be sensible not to accept a glass of champagne from the steward who was handing out Bollinger and took a glass of iced fruit juice instead.

She looked around the table. How plain the British men looked in their white mess jackets, their white shirts, black ties and black trousers when seen alongside the two Pathans. Zeman and Iskander had obviously determined to make an impression, Betty thought gratefully. Already well over six feet, both men had increased their height by the addition of a tall, bright blue turban. They wore baggy blue trousers, white shirts and gold-embroidered waistcoats, red for Zeman and blue for Iskander. Both wore flat gold-embroidered slippers. They settled, cross-legged – obviously at ease – into their appointed places and each took a glass of sherbet.

As the light faded, pottery lamps were carried in and placed between each pair of guests. Flickering in the soft wind that blew through the open doors they reflected and deepened the colours in the tiled floor.

Betty decided that she had done her hostess’s duty by setting herself between the two most unpromising social partners. On her right, Burroughs, white with anguish, hating everything that had happened or that he had seen during that day and his hatred compounded by the horror of his being required to sit cross-legged on the floor in evening dress contemplating a very long menu of food, none of which he could possibly digest.

Betty turned from him to Lord Rathmore on her left. Lord Rathmore was sulking. He had looked forward to this dinner party and had counted on sitting next to Lily Coblenz. He thought she had what he would have called a roving eye and might repay a little flattering attention. American girls, he had noticed, were impressed by a title. ‘Just might be something doing there,’ he thought. But now, to his annoyance, he found himself between Iskander Khan and Betty. ‘What a waste,’ he thought angrily. As his eye surveyed the dinner table he glanced up and caught his own reflection in a wall mirror. Automatically he smoothed his moustache which an Indian barber had given an almost Teutonic twist. ‘Not bad,’ he thought. ‘Don’t look a day over forty.’ He flashed a conspiratorial smile at his reflection. A few weeks in the Himalayan sunshine had given his normally pink cheeks a ruddy depth. ‘An improvement,’ he decided as by chance his eye met Lily’s for a second.

‘Could do with a bit more height – like that conceited oaf, Sandilands. Perhaps look my best sitting down. Might impress on a horse perhaps? This little Lily Coblenz: not just a pretty face. Wielding quite a lot of influence, they say. Could be the makings of a commercial alliance there. “Coblenz-Rathmore Inc?” Must put that idea – among others, of course – into her head!’

‘Ha! Ha!’ thought Betty, reading his mind. ‘He can’t be bothered to make conversation with his hostess – other fish to fry. I’ve got a jolly good mind to take him boringly one by one through the twenty-five runs James made in Peshawar last month. That’d show him!’

She considered that Lily, seated between two seriously attractive men, had drawn the jackpot. Joe, on Lily’s left, slightly battered, alluringly bemedalled, had, Betty decided, the sweetest smile she had ever seen. And, on Lily’s right, the seductive Zeman. ‘Two strong men stand face to face though they come from the ends of the earth,’ Betty quoted vaguely from a Kipling poem. At least they were not face to face with Lily between them but near enough.

Betty had relaxed somewhat on welcoming the two women to the table. Both had taken up her suggestion that they should wear a long frock. She herself was setting the tone in a modestly cut Liberty lawn summer dress, not exactly evening wear but voluminous enough to sit in comfort at least. Lily was looking as demure as she could manage (which was not very), beautiful and animated, but entirely proper and unprovocative in a green chiffon dress and simple pearl necklace. She sat on her cushion, her heels tucked up tidily beneath her, her back straight, as though she dined like this every day of her life.

Grace was wearing the dress Grace always wore, a no-nonsense maroon silk with a necklace of jet beads. Thank God for Grace Holbrook! Completely at ease, socially competent, eating everything offered to her, changing effortlessly from Pushtu to Hindi and from Hindi to English and back again, completely aware of the approval of the whole dinner table and, thought Betty loyally, lucky to have James next to her on one side and perfectly able to make conversation with the chattering Fred Moore-Simpson on the other. ‘I’ll be like that when I’m a bit older,’ she decided enviously.

The only incongruous note at the table was Iskander Khan. Betty eyed him critically. Yes, perhaps she had made a mistake with Iskander. It had been wrong to seat him next to the unattractive Rathmore whom she thought unlikely to make the slightest attempt to conceal his intentions which were simply to find a way into Afghanistan and, more or less, buy up everything of any possible value and replace it with shabby trade goods mixed in with a few obsolete rifles. The passionately nationalist Iskander would have little to say to him. Little indeed to say to his neighbour on the other side. As far as Betty understood it, Fred’s general idea was that the proper way to keep peace on the frontier was to advance British interests deep into tribal territory and keep them there through the influence of rapid deployment of a squadron of light bombers. Perhaps she had made a bad mistake in seating him next to a potential target! But then, thought Betty, noticing the two deep in animated and not unfriendly conversation, effectively, strip aside the voice and the clothes and they were really very similar. With their positions reversed, Iskander would passionately welcome the opportunity of dropping bombs on Fred Moore-Simpson. And there they sat, each wrapped in his tribal habits and each perfectly understanding the other. And not dissimilar in appearance, Betty decided, comparing Fred’s elegant figure, neat moustache and sleek fair hair not unfavourably with the exotic Iskander.

Her eye roamed to the head – or was it the foot? – of the table and rested on the lamp-lit red curls and humorous blue eyes of James Lindsay. ‘My husband,’ she thought. ‘The best! Not the handsomest but certainly the best! There he sits. Well, I know who’s the lucky girl at this table! He looks jolly tired though. I’ll be glad when he’s got rid of this crowd and can get back to his dangerous, responsible, hard-working, unresting life! Really! They ask too much of my poor man! Soldier, diplomat and now Mine Host!’ Betty suspected that her protective instincts were wasted on the hardened and competent man she had married. At that moment James looked up. Their eyes met and she winked at him. He put his tongue out at her.

Before she could respond, a volley of shots rang out overhead. A pause and it was followed by another hail of bullets, accompanied by the scream of ricochets and somewhere in the distance the shattering of a pane of glass. For a moment everyone sat rigidly still, eyes wide, ears straining.

‘Is that someone shooting at us?’ Lily said.

‘Yes, probably,’ said James easily. ‘Certainly sounds like it. More champagne, anyone?’

‘Shouldn’t you do something? Shouldn’t you go out and fight them?’

For answer James crooked a finger at one of the jemadars who was standing by unmoving. ‘Just go and see what all that was about,’ he said. The jemadar bowed and left.

Lily didn’t need to be told what it was all about. She knew. The fort was being attacked, though nobody seemed to be taking very much notice. She turned to Grace as another volley erupted. ‘Shouldn’t they do something?’ she demanded excitedly. This was, after all, what she’d come for. Shots in the night! But where was the British reaction? ‘I mean, I know you British go about balancing a straight bat on your stiff upper lips but isn’t this going a bit too far?’

‘I expect they know best,’ said Grace placidly, dipping her fingers in a finger bowl as a burst of return fire rang out.

‘Well, there you are, Lily, there’s the armed response,’ said Fred.

‘I think you can leave this to the garrison,’ said Zeman. ‘If it’s anything it’ll just be a party of those hairy brigands the Zakka Khel Afridi raiding down from the hills for guns and women, firing from the hip as they come. They do it all the time! Tribesmen in these parts are disgracefully primitive in their reactions, you’ll find.’

An uneasy thought occurred to Lily. She turned to Zeman. ‘Hey! Zeman! You’re an Afridi, aren’t you? Which side are you on anyway?’ Encountering a gleam of amusement in the eye of Iskander, Lily fell silent for a moment, thoughtful and indignant. At the next lull in the firing she spoke again. ‘Okay, James! I said – okay! You can tell your guys to stand down now. Thanks, I’m sure, for the floor show! Well, gee willikins!’ she drawled sarcastically. ‘I’ll certainly have something to tell the girls back home in Chicago now, won’t I?’

Joe smiled at her cross face. He thought he might come to like Miss Coblenz after all.

Betty too was impressed. ‘When I get you to myself, James Lindsay,’ she thought, ‘I shall tell you your little entertainment misfired!’ All the same, she had admired the American girl’s reaction. If Lily had had a rifle to hand, she’d have led the charge through the door to deal with the problem. ‘If I were ever stuck on a covered wagon rolling across the prairie (and that’s probably what the Coblenz family were doing a generation or two back!) I’d be jolly pleased to find Lily Coblenz at my elbow,’ she decided.

She leaned forward and addressed the company. ‘Well, I don’t know about anyone else but my nerves could do with a bit of soothing!’ (Not true – James had forewarned his pregnant wife of what was to come and sticking his tongue out had been the signal – but she felt that Lily had been made to feel foolish and this distressed her.) ‘So shall we have the sweet things brought on? We have some candied fruits, some fresh fruit and even ice cream – there’s quite a bit more to come.’

She was interrupted by a steward who came in gingerly carrying a small dish. He approached Betty and spoke diffidently to her. ‘Oh, my!’ Betty exclaimed. ‘Humble apologies from the kitchens. The cook almost forgot the most important dish of the evening. Lily’s golden pheasant! Apparently he’s had a little difficulty with it but he’s done his best and here it is. Not much of it, I’m afraid. Now who would like a helping? Does anyone have room to do justice to this delicacy?’

Betty asked eagerly but without much hope. The amounts of food consumed had been enormous and even that stuffed shirt Burroughs had unbent sufficiently to help himself to several of the dishes as soon as he had ascertained that, in fact, hardly any of them contained curry. Eyes slid away from hers and focused on plates, fingers fluttered in a dismissive way, even Lily shook her head. Pathan good manners came to the rescue and Zeman said cheerfully enough that he would be delighted to taste the pheasant. Gratefully Betty passed the dish and he managed to scrape up quite a convincing helping of pheasant fragments. Lily looked pleased. Betty, to keep her countenance and to flatter Lily, also took a helping, as small as she could decently contrive, and pronounced it delicious. It certainly was. She would commend the cook tomorrow on the inventive way he’d dealt with such unpromising material. The sauce was creamy – yoghurt? – and subtly spiced, the meat distinctly chewy but full of flavour. How wonderful it was to have recovered her appetite! She would actually welcome a dish of ice cream to round off the meal.

With the savoury dishes cleared away and the cloth bright with fresh and candied fruits and glass pitchers of pomegranate juice and a rank of champagne bottles, James announced the next diversion. A group of musicians were to play and sing folk songs. Five Khattaks entered with pipes and drum and stringed instruments. Wearing their native costume they strode lithely into the hall, black shining hair bobbing on their shoulders. They settled themselves on the dais at the end of the hall and began to play and sing in the soft, liquid accent of the southern hill tribes. Lily was enchanted. This, too, was what she’d come for. Eyes shining, she listened to every word, nodding her head gently in rhythm.

They became aware of one short song in particular – nothing more than a couplet – endlessly repeated. Lily’s lips moved with the song. When the singers paused to take a glass of sherbet, she turned to Zeman and announced with some satisfaction, ‘That last song – I’ve learned the words! Listen! I can sing in Pushtu!’

She began in a clear voice and with what sounded to Betty like a very convincing accent to repeat the two lines.

Before she was half-way through Grace leaned forward and spoke to her firmly. ‘That’ll do, Lily.’

‘What do you mean?’ Lily wanted to know. ‘I was doing all right, wasn’t I? Why can’t I sing?’

James put his hand over his mouth. The musicians were barely suppressing laughter and Zeman had a problem too. The austere Iskander looked disapprovingly on.

‘Because that song is frightfully rude and no woman should be heard repeating the words, especially when there are Pathan gentlemen present,’ Grace hissed and at this point Zeman rose discreetly to his feet and went to talk to the musicians.

Lily persisted. ‘Well, how tantalizing! Now you just have to tell me! You must – or I’ll start singing it again!’

Grace eyed her with malicious amusement. ‘You have to believe me, Lily.’ She paused for a moment in thought and then said deliberately, ‘Oh, very well. You did ask. But do wait until you’re back in Chicago before you repeat it.’ She moved around the table and slipped into Zeman’s vacated place, moving his sherbet glass aside the better to lean over to Lily’s ear. Speaking softly, her voice was only just audible. ‘It’s a very old song called “Zakhme Dhil” which means “The Wounded Heart”. The singer is saying,

‘Over the river lives a boy with a bottom like a peach,

But, alas, I cannot swim!’

Lily looked at her with incomprehension. At last she said, ‘But the singer’s a man.’

‘You’re very quick,’ said Grace. ‘And that, of course, is the whole point!’

Lily sank further into confusion. Betty Lindsay began to fear her party was about to implode but was too fascinated by the exchange to reach for the polite distraction etiquette demanded of a hostess.

‘I don’t get it,’ Lily said finally.

‘Then perhaps they don’t have it in Chicago,’ said Grace. ‘I see I must explain. Amongst the Pathan, as with many warrior races – Spartans, Zulus, British Public Schoolboys for example… ’ Her voice sank until it was inaudible to Betty but, much amused, she could guess the progress of the information being imparted by the deepening flush of crimson on Lily’s face and the widening of her eyes.

The lesson over, Grace returned to her place and selected a candied peach, looking very pleased with herself. Lily gulped and began surreptitiously to examine the musicians under lowered eyelashes. When Zeman returned and took his seat next to her again, Lily’s back became even more rigid and she turned in earnest conversation to Joe. Joe seemed to be having great difficulty in keeping his face in control but responded warmly in an effort to cover Lily’s embarrassment.

After an interval the musicians began again, their songs, possibly at the suggestion of Zeman, taking on a plaintive and romantic mood. Cups of green tea were handed out and Betty watched, intrigued, as Iskander took a small silver box from his pocket and proceeded to sprinkle some of the contents on to his tea. Lily also was fascinated.

‘What is that stuff, Iskander?’ she wanted to know.

‘Flakes of white cardamom, Miss Coblenz.’

‘An excellent carminative,’ said Grace. ‘Frightfully good for the digestion. You should all try it.’

Lily held out her cup for a sprinkling of the spice from Iskander’s hand and sniffed the fragrant brew, her eyes over the rim smiling her appreciation. Zeman watched her in some disquiet. He held out his cup and invited Iskander in florid language to favour him with the wherewithal to calm a stomach so full of good things after such a generous and delicious meal.

‘Oh, Lord!’ thought Betty. ‘What comes next? Burps? Do Pathans do burps?’

Her thoughts were interrupted by, of all people, Edgar Burroughs. Almost silent until now, he had been steadily eating his way, Betty had noticed, through a good number of the dishes. At last he had a useful contribution to make to the general chatter. ‘If it’s stomach settling you’re after, you fellows,’ he said, addressing, rather uncomfortably, the two Pathans, ‘you couldn’t do better than these. Swear by them!’ He produced a packet of bismuth tablets and passed them to Zeman. Politely concealing his surprise, Zeman took a pill and swallowed it with expressions of gratitude. Everyone else politely refused and handed them back to Burroughs who now felt free to avail himself of his favourite relief without the subterfuge of palming one into his mouth under the pretence of coughing.

Zeman, apparently determined to play the exotic and compelling mysterious man of the East, had reclaimed Lily’s attention and was introducing her to Pushtu poetry. Lily listened, drawn in despite herself by the seductive sounds. The translations when they came had by all appearances nothing in them to give offence.

‘I think that’s just beautiful!’ she exclaimed. ‘Now tell me, who wrote that?’

Zeman smiled a secret smile and said, ‘I think that is a Persian poet whom we sometimes refer to as Nisami. And he also wrote… ’ There followed a rush, a surge of soft Persian and then he murmured, hypnotic dark eyes on Lily,

‘The silver fingers of the Moon

Explore the dark depths

Of the sleeping pool

And I wait to see your shadow fall

On the garden’s midnight wall.’

Joe stirred uncomfortably. Should he intervene? Was Zeman playing his role with a little too much zest? Local colour was one thing but this was oversteering surely? She was just impressionable enough to want to be off with the wraggle-taggle gypsies-o, and he had no intention of shipping a heartbroken Lily Coblenz back to Simla. Better be safe than sorry. He cleared his throat. ‘Shall you be racing at Saratoga this summer, Miss Coblenz?’ he asked brightly.

He was not the only one to feel concern for Lily. Lord Rathmore had been keeping a watchful eye on her. And now the torrent of suggestive and sinuous verse poured into her innocent ear by this silk-clad tailor’s dummy was more than he could stomach. If that police lout who was supposed to be squiring her was not prepared to do anything about the unpleasant situation that was developing, he would! He leaned forward and his voice boomed out above the general chatter.

‘Are you aware, I wonder, Miss Coblenz, of our own English poets? Kipling perhaps? Ever heard of him? Excellent chap! Now he really knows how to put it together! Brings a tear to the eye every time! He has something very apt to say about this part of the world, in fact. Would you like to hear it?’

Stunned and annoyed, Lily could only nod dubiously.

‘Here goes then! Now what was it? Ah, yes! Got it!’ He prepared his voice for recitation with a disagreeable rasping noise, put one hand on his hip and the other over his heart and began.

‘With home-bred hordes the hillsides teem,

The troopships bring us one by one,

At vast expense of time and steam,

To slay Afridis where they run.

The “captives of our bow and spear”

Are cheap alas! as we are dear!’

This was exactly what Betty had been afraid of. ‘Men!’ she thought angrily. ‘If you take their guns and knives away, they’ll fight with anything that comes to hand – even, apparently, lines of verse. Better than hurling bread rolls but not much. Rathmore! What a fool! Such a cheap shot! And now Zeman is insulted and will have to take his revenge!’

She decided to forestall this by closing down the dinner party and she began to rise to her feet, catching the eyes of the other two ladies, but too late, Zeman had rounded on Rathmore. She could tell he was deeply angry by the sweetness of his smile and the softness of his tone as he addressed the red-faced lord.

‘I see you know your Barrack Room Ballads, Rathmore! But you miss your chance to quote the best verse of that poem. “Arithmetic on the Frontier”, wasn’t it? May I?

‘A scrimmage in a Border Station -

A canter down some dark defile -

Two thousand pounds of education

Drops to a ten rupee jezail.

The Crammer’s boast, the Squadron’s pride,

Shot like a rabbit in a ride!’

He clearly relished delivering the last line and asked smoothly ‘Have you calculated the worth of your expensive education, my lord, should some tribal owner of a ten rupee Afridi musket take you for a rabbit?’

The blue of Rathmore’s small blue eyes intensified. All held their breath.

‘Much the same as yours, I would estimate, old boy! Not a vast deal of difference between Rugby and Harrow, I should think. You tell me!’ he replied, looking about him triumphantly for support for his thrust. ‘And now, I can see that Betty is making a move to send us all off upstairs with our mugs of cocoa! Miss Coblenz, let me escort you to your room.’ He put out an arm and, scowling and uncertain, Lily took it. They came over to Betty and thanked her in turn for their evening and left the room, Lily casting a speaking glance over her shoulder at Zeman.

The last they heard from Rathmore was a rumbling laugh and in a stage whisper to Lily, ‘Rugby indeed! All paid for by the British, of course, if my information is correct.’