The Palace Tiger

Chapter Seven

Joe groaned. A nervous twelve-year-old was loose about the palace armed with the police commander’s own gun. Not unloaded as he had thought but with eight lethal bullets up the spout. Joe imagined Sir George’s comments if he ever found out. Suppose the lad went straight back to the zenana with his new toy to exact retribution from the maharanees for the attempts on his mother’s life? Like a fox in a hen-coop he’d be able to kill at will.

Joe tried to put these horrifying but fanciful ideas out of his mind. There had been something about the boy that had earned his confidence. He didn’t doubt his courage and he’d been impressed by his cleverness and quick thinking. Perhaps Bahadur had presented him with a true bill — he genuinely wanted to keep the gun as personal protection. Well, so be it. He reasoned that Bahadur could trust no one; he could be in genuine danger of death from an unknown quarter and, ultimately, his only defence might well be the Browning. And then, though heaven forbid, he’d be damned glad he’d given it to him. He told himself to relax and finish dressing. He had left himself only an hour in which to complete his report for Claude.

Feeling rather foolish sitting at his desk in evening gear and the promised white tie, all pressed at a moment’s notice by the palace staff, Joe found supplies of writing paper and an excellent fountain pen, already loaded with black ink, and set to work. The words flowed easily, no detail was missed and he was happy with his account. He folded it in two, slipped it into his pocket and, after a guilty look at the Cartier watch, he tucked that into his other pocket, not knowing what else to do with it and acknowledging that the security of his room was nonexistent. He pulled the bell and waited for his escort to the dining room. He had left a perfect ten minutes to spare.

While he waited he went to stand in front of the cheval glass to make a last check on his appearance. The evening suit, tailored for him in Calcutta, fitted well, the narrow, waist-long jacket flattered his slim figure and long legs. His spanking white shirt and tie emphasized a face darkened by almost a year of living an outdoor life in the sun. ‘More of this and I’ll be able to pass for a native,’ he thought, tugging at his tie. ‘But not, perhaps, with these eyes.’ Light grey was not an Indian colour. ‘Huh! Fighting elephant, indeed!’

He was confused to find himself wondering briefly what Madeleine would make of him with all the layers of dust and perspiration washed away and reminded himself guiltily that she would, of course, not be expected in any society to come down to dinner mere hours after her husband’s death.

The reassuring figure of Govind appeared in the mirror behind him. ‘The waistcoat, Govind,’ said Joe. ‘Not too fancy, I hope? What do you think?’

Govind considered for a moment. ‘Everything is perfect, sahib. Exactly what is required. Handkerchief perhaps?’

They set off, retracing their earlier steps back to the Old Palace. ‘The reception will be in the durbar room tonight,’ said Govind. His voice took on a hushed and serious tone. ‘The palace — the state — is in mourning for the young prince and this will continue for twelve days. You arrive at an unfortunate time, sahib.’

‘You must tell me how I may best avoid getting in the way,’ said Joe with concern. ‘Mark my card, Govind, and don’t let me crash about insensitively annoying people.’

‘I think the sahib has the sensitivity of an elephant.’ Govind smiled and gently nodded.

For a moment Joe was startled then he remembered that for these warriors who lived, worked and sometimes fought alongside elephants the animal was revered for its intelligence and discretion. He returned the nod, recognizing the compliment.

‘The funeral ceremony will take place tomorrow afternoon at the samshan — the cremation ground — by the river. You and your fellow guests will not be involved. The palace has many distractions to put before you while we are occupied with our religious rites.’

‘I see,’ said Joe doubtfully. A situation already socially delicate now promised to be impossible. ‘Are there areas of the palace and town I should perhaps avoid?’

‘Yes, sahib. The mourning rituals will be performed in the women’s quarters where the ruler has gone to join the maharanee, the mother of his son. The zenana will be the scene of much wailing and crying out. The women will be breaking their bangles in grief over the body of the Yuvaraj and garlanding him with flowers. This afternoon’s events are most distressing but His Highness will be present to greet you and share a drink, although he is very tired and very busy as you can imagine he would be and he will not stay long. You will be able to become acquainted with the other guests, however, and enjoy an excellent meal. His Highness is concerned that you should all have a pleasant and most sociable evening.’

Joe smiled his appreciation of this piece of considerate attention. It was a sensible arrangement; he would have organized things in just the same way.

He approached the door of the durbar hall with keen anticipation. He was a sociable man and enjoyed conversation. But, above all, he was desperately hungry and hoped that the drinks party wouldn’t drag on for too long. It seemed a very long time since he’d shared a railway curry with Edgar at Umballa.

Vyvyan was waiting for him at the entrance to the durbar hall. He ran an approving eye over Joe, followed immediately by an enquiring lift of an eyebrow.

‘I have it,’ said Joe in answer. He produced his report and handed it over.

‘Good man!’ said Claude. Without giving the document a glance, he passed it to an aide who slid it into a file and moved away.

‘Most of the guests are already here so you’ve timed it well, and the ruler himself is eager to meet you. Shall we go in?’

Joe followed him through the pair of heavy sandalwood doors, lined with ivory and held open by two servants, and he stood for a moment, stunned by the glittering scene before him.

‘Like stepping into a Dulac illustration from The Arabian Nights, I always think,’ whispered Claude, entertained by Joe’s reaction.

The large meeting room was long and low and not a square inch of surface, it seemed, was without rich decoration. Fluted pillars, encrusted with coloured stones in a complex floral design, held up a ceiling shining with mica and gold leaf. The long walls were pierced by arched doorways and the intervals between were covered in expanses of mirror glass. Even the floor shone and Joe, coming out of his trance and moving forward, set a careful foot down, mindful that his evening shoes were new, the leather soles still slippery, and was grateful to reach a thick amber carpet in the centre of the room. Two crystal chandeliers, Lalique, he guessed, and ranks of white candles set on low tables in the corners of the room provided the lighting; flickering flames reflected off a thousand shining surfaces.

In contrast to the brilliant setting, the guests were a sombre group in black and white. Soberly clad in deference to the recently bereaved, they had gathered at the far end of the room. At Joe’s entrance all stopped talking and turned to look at him. One of the men, wearing evening dress improbably topped off with a white silk turban in which winked a diamond aiguilette, came forward to greet him. He was leaning heavily on an ebony stick and, although a tall and well-made man, was obviously not in good health. His features could have been carved from aged ivory, the skin drawn tight over bones almost visible beneath diminished flesh. His dark eyes, however, remained full of life and were taking in his guest’s appearance as he approached.

Claude, at Joe’s elbow, hurried to make the introduction. ‘Your Highness, may I present Commander Joseph Sandilands?’

Maharaja Udai Singh smiled and nodded but, Joe noticed, did not go in for hand-shaking.

‘We are delighted, Commander, that you can be with us at such a difficult time. I understand that you have offered your valuable services and expertise to look into my son’s death which you were so unfortunate as to witness this afternoon.’

Joe found Indian voices attractive and musical but, even by Indian standards, this voice was remarkable. It was deep and liquid but the formal phrases were lifeless — formulae concealing despair and pain. His speech had the quality of the heart-rending adagio of a cello concerto Joe had heard at the Queen’s Hall the year after the war’s end. Edward Elgar’s, he remembered, and the composer himself had conducted. Joe had listened, tears in his eyes, as the music spoke to him of loss, regret and devastation. Udai Singh’s voice resonated with the same emotions.

Joe bowed. ‘It will be an honour, Your Highness, though a most unwelcome task,’ he replied with equal formality.

‘It is my wish that the cloud of grief which hangs over the palace should not be burdensome for our guests. You are not of our religion, tribe or culture and will play no part in our mourning. I am conscious that, as bereaved father, my attentions will be elsewhere for the coming days but you are my guests and will not be neglected. The palace is large and can accommodate both the sorrow we are feeling and the pleasure you may have been anticipating.’

Then, with a change of key, ‘Let that be our last mention of today’s events. Come and meet your fellow guests who ought to be able to put a few distractions your way during your stay. I cannot introduce you to your hostess because my wife, Shubhada, has yet to arrive. Are you married, Sandilands?’ He smiled enquiringly at Joe. ‘No? Well, a word of warning for when you are — for every pair of earrings you give her, she will hesitate a further ten minutes when dressing. So, the next senior lady. . Mrs Vyvyan! Lois!’

He addressed an Englishwoman who had detached herself from the group and was looking attentively in their direction.

Well, this was a surprise! Joe had not realized that Vyvyan was married but, shaking Mrs Vyvyan’s gloved hand, he decided she would have been easy to pick out as his consort in spite of the difference in their ages. Unusually, Lois Vyvyan appeared to be a year or two older than her husband. She was wearing a long black dress, a silken shawl covering her shoulders, and round her throat was a double row of pearls. Her skin was milky white and her dark auburn hair was swept up behind her ears in a twisted knot. Spare, elegant, proper, was Joe’s first impression, and very English. He was surprised, therefore, when she leaned confidentially towards him and he caught a scent of something oriental and seductive on her warm neck. Shalimar? He thought so.

‘Commander, we are all so delighted you could come,’ she said in an attractive voice which managed somehow to give an impression of cool distance. ‘Your reputation goes before you and we will all expect to be entertained by stories of your exploits on the North-West Frontier to say nothing of Whitechapel. I’ve never met a detective before. Do you drink pink champagne?’

With an effort Joe stopped himself from looking down to check that he’d wiped his police issue boots on the scullery mat. He thought of replying that a jar of ale would slip down a treat if it was all the same to ’er Ladyship but controlled himself. Smiling his most devastating smile he accepted a glass of champagne from a footman and looked at it critically. ‘In the absence of Krug ’15 a glass of pink fizz will be most welcome,’ he said easily and instantly regretted his pettiness. To his embarrassment, Udai Singh had overheard his set-down but, to his relief, a thin amused smile appeared on the lips of the ruler. ‘My preference also,’ he said. ‘I’m sure our cellar can supply?’ Without a further word, the attendant moved away, Joe was sure, to pass the unspoken instruction down the line.

‘As for Lois, this is a new experience for me also,’ Udai went on smoothly. ‘I don’t believe there’s any such thing as a detective in India. Though I understand there is a police force in Bengal and some of the other British Indian states. Perhaps during your stay with us you will encourage us to look into the possibility of establishing such a force? You must meet the captain of my guard. We have what you would probably consider a rather rudimentary squad which keeps the peace in Ranipur. I’m sure Major Ajit Singh will be intrigued to learn the Western arts of anthropometry and fingerprinting.’

‘Western? I understand, Your Highness, that fingerprinting originated in India. And, indeed, it has been practised by the Bengal Police — along with a system of anthropometry adapted from the Bertillon method — for the last thirty years. They were fingerprinting and recording criminals in Bengal two years before Scotland Yard got around to it, sir.’

The maharaja smiled. ‘You will have to work hard to convince Major Ajit Singh that there is anything to be gained by keeping an imprint of a thief ’s left thumb on a card in a filing system, locked away in an office, Commander. If Ajit knows a man to be guilty, that man will lose his fingerprints down to his wrist. The problems of identification, punishment and crime prevention will be solved. .’ He paused and added slyly, ‘. . at a stroke.’

Joe knew when he was being baited and smiled politely.

‘I suppose, Commander, you’re a blend of wise man, soldier and executioner?’

‘Not the last, I hope, sir!’

‘But a man of action, I hear. Edgar speaks highly of you. Ah, now here’s another man of action — Colin O’Connor, tiger hunter, naturalist, my oldest friend. And Edgar’s mentor. Did you know that? Colin taught him all that he knows — about hunting, that is! Colin! Come and meet a policeman! I’ll leave you for a moment — I must greet Sir Hector who, I see, has just come in.’

Colin O’Connor, a gaunt middle-aged man, took Joe’s hand in a sinewy grip. His evening suit was a good one but much worn and faded. His lined face was deeply tanned, his brown eyes under bushy grey brows were searching and humorous. ‘How do you do, Sandilands? I understand you’re to be my next pupil?’

‘What has Edgar been telling you?’ said Joe. ‘No, really, I must ask you to disregard anything he has said. I have no ambition to kill a tiger though I would very much like to see some. A day’s stalking, perhaps?’

Colin O’Connor laughed. ‘This is not red deer country, Sandilands! In the forest, the tiger stalks you. But I’m glad to hear what you say. I am, in fact, a reformed tiger hunter. It’s a wonderful creature, Sandilands, perhaps the handsomest God designed, but the numbers are so reduced that I fear that by the end of the century there’ll be none remaining. I hunt them, these days, with a camera, not a rifle.’

‘That must be dangerous?’ said Joe. ‘I don’t know much about photography but I do know that you have to approach within feet of your subject.’

‘Yes, you have to get close to the beasts and a tigress with cubs, for instance, is likely to object to my presence — if she can detect me, that is!’

‘But you’re here to kill a tiger, are you not? A renegade, I hear.’

‘Yes. A service I still perform when called on. These days I shoot only for the pot or to kill man-eaters, be they tiger or leopard. So, if the idea of pitting your wits against a creature that’s eaten over a hundred villagers, some of them children, appeals to you, join us on the hunt.’

‘In the circumstances, I’d be delighted,’ said Joe. ‘But won’t it have to be put off until the mourning period is over? I mean, it will involve local organization and supplies, local men. And wouldn’t a tiger hunt be regarded as a bit frivolous at a time like this?’

‘Normally yes,’ said Colin, ‘but I’ve spoken to the ruler and he was firm about it. “My son has died,” he said. “Is that a reason to stand by and allow more sons and daughters of my people to be killed each day we leave the tiger alive?” No, he’s quite right, of course. Three or four dying every day in the northern villages. Everyone’s too terrified to leave their home and there’s work to be done in the fields, animals to graze. The hunt has to go ahead and as soon as it can be managed.

‘It’s usual for the population to be confined to the town for the mourning, gates closed and so on, but the ruler’s given dispensation to all involved to carry on as normal. You’ll find that’s typical of Udai. Known him for years and I can tell you, under all that flim-flam and the layer of Western sophistication, the real force that drives him is concern for his people. You’ll hear them calling him “Bappa”. It means “father” and he takes the title seriously.’

Joe caught sight of Edgar on the fringes of the group, watching his exchange with O’Connor. Edgar ran a finger round his collar which, like the rest of his outfit, was straining at the seams and nodded in Joe’s direction. His face was gleaming with sweat and he was clearly in some discomfort. The reason for his discomfort appeared to be a small woman who had backed him into a corner and seemed to be lecturing him.

Colin O’Connor followed Joe’s glance and laughed. ‘Shall we go and rescue poor Edgar?’ he said.

‘Who’s he talking to?’ asked Joe, curious.

‘He is being talked to by Lizzie Macarthur,’ said O’Connor.

‘Miss Macarthur? You mean Bahadur’s nanny?’

‘Yes. I see you’ve been doing a bit of scouting around already? Beating the thickets of the palace jungle? Beware, Sandilands! Who knows what strange birds you may put up! Lizzie’s a royal nanny, cousin of the last Viceroy but one, I think. She’ll have been invited this evening to make the numbers a little more even, I shouldn’t wonder. We’re to sit down to dinner six gentlemen and four ladies. I bet the Vyvyans have been doing a bit of pencil-chewing trying to do the seating arrangements! Keeping separate the sexes, the married couples, the siblings and the people at each other’s throats — that doesn’t give you much leeway!’

‘Invited just to make up the numbers?’ said Joe. ‘Hardly fair treatment?’

‘She’s not normally called on for the usual-sized dos, which can be anything up to a hundred people, but with a small gathering like this she’s expected to help out. But don’t waste your sympathy on Lizzie! Come and meet her.’

They made their way across the room to the ill-matched couple. Lizzie Macarthur was short and slight and somewhere in that indeterminate period approaching middle age. Thick brown hair cut short with an abundant fringe framed a pink and angry face. She was wearing a demure, old-fashioned dress which might have been dark blue or dark green or even faded black.

She turned to Joe without waiting for an introduction. ‘Commander Sandilands, am I to understand you have some influence with this gentleman?’ she said in tones which left no one in doubt that she considered Edgar anything but a gentleman.

‘Good Lord, no! If you’re having a problem with Edgar your only recourse would be Sir George Jardine who is known to have occasionally brought the rogue to heel!’

Joe noted that a corner of Miss Macarthur’s mouth twitched in a not unfriendly way. ‘Sir George sends his regards and asks to be remembered to you,’ he lied, seeing his advantage and following it up. ‘Now, Edgar, what on earth have you been saying to offend Miss Macarthur? Let me guess! She’s had to correct your view that Robert Burns is possibly not the most wonderful poet in the world?’

‘I can assure you our disagreements are on more weighty matters! Your friend has just been telling me that he opposes the idea of education for girls.’

‘Ah. .’ said Joe, shaking his head reprovingly. He refused to be drawn into a serious discussion at a dinner party. ‘Then let me reassure you, Miss Macarthur. Edgar is an opponent of education for girls and for boys alike and is himself a walking example of his policy.’

‘Levity,’ said Miss Macarthur frostily, ‘is the last thing I would have hoped to hear spicing the conversation of a man whom I understand to be a fellow Scot, a war hero and at the spearhead of his profession.’

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said Joe easily. ‘It helps to lighten the burden of those three dubious attributes.’ He hurried on, ‘But what an interesting necklace you’re wearing, Miss Macarthur! Am I mistaken or are those golden stones cairngorms from the Grampian mountains? They were a favourite of my mother’s. How good it is to see a bit of home in these outlandish parts — a bracing contrast with the diamonds and pearls on view at every hand.’

Miss Macarthur made a sound that might have been ‘Pish!’ or even ‘Tush!’ and added, ‘A pupil of Sir George’s, I see. Lesson One in the Seduction Handbook? “Oily charm and how to apply it”? But stick at it, Commander! I think you have potential.’

‘Humph!’ said Edgar, glad to find himself no longer her target. ‘“All the charm of all the Muses,” that’s what he’s got,’ he muttered.

‘And, Mr Troop, I would not be standing here appreciating your quotation from Tennyson had I not myself, although a female, been properly educated!’

Joe was beginning to enjoy the sparring but his attention was attracted — everyone’s attention was attracted — by a figure making an appearance at the door, though ‘making an entrance’ was the phrase which came first to Joe’s mind. There was something theatrical in the way the young woman paused, exactly framed in the doorway.

The prince went to greet her. ‘Shubhada, my dear, come and meet our guests.’

She walked with all the grace he would have expected, shimmering in black silk down to her ankles. Her gleaming dark hair was cut in a shoulder-length bob and at her throat was a single enormous diamond on a silver chain. More diamonds sparkled in her ears. The prince led his third wife off to speak to the physician, Sir Hector Munro, and Joe settled to wait his turn to meet this beauty.

The doors opened again and Madeleine Mercer came in, escorted by a handsome young man Joe took to be her brother, so alike were they. He had hardly expected the grieving widow to make an appearance, and certainly not an appearance with quite this éclat, he thought. He was not alone in this expectation apparently; a collective gasp went up from the gathering, a gasp which was instantly suppressed and disguised by an intensification of the cocktail party chatter. The fair Madeleine had chosen to wear a white satin slip of a dress with white gloves. There could not have been a greater contrast between the two young women.

Lizzie Macarthur picked this up at once. ‘White swan, black swan,’ she whispered to Joe. ‘Odette, Odile? Do you think they planned it? Almost looks as though it was choreographed! Now then, Commander, I see I must lose you to the prima ballerinas — which one will you meet first, black or white?’

‘I don’t think we have a choice,’ said Joe. ‘Here’s Madeleine advancing on us. We have met, by the way.’

‘Joe! Good to see you again!’ she said, taking his arm in a proprietorial way — or was she clinging to a rock in a strange and threatening sea? Joe squeezed her arm comfortingly, stricken to see that under a carelessly applied layer of make-up she was pale and the black from her lashes had been smudged by tears. Her eyes glanced here and there amongst the company in a nervous rhythm but her voice remained confident and just a shade too loud. ‘Hi, there, Lizzie.’

‘Madeleine, my dear, do you think this is wise?’ asked Lizzie Macarthur, concern in her voice. ‘You don’t have to be here, you know. No one was expecting you to come. Wouldn’t you rather be by yourself for a bit? I’ll take you to your bungalow if you like. . or you could stay with me for the night. I’ll sit with you if that would help?’

‘You’re a peach, Lizzie!’ said Madeleine. ‘But I can’t stay by myself. I’d. . I’d. . just fall apart. I feel. . safer. . with people around me. Heaven knows, I don’t enjoy cocktail parties but it beats shaving my head and wailing which is what I think I’m expected to be doing right now.’

She gave a tremulous smile, put up her chin and said in a firmer tone, ‘Joe, I want you to meet my brother Stuart. This isn’t the time or the place but he needs to speak to you.’

‘Stuart! I’m pleased to meet you.’

Stuart Mercer was as good-looking as his sister with the same colouring. His fair hair gleamed with a suspicion of brilliantine. Smiling was an obvious strain and his handsome square face was stiff with tension but Joe caught for a second a slanting flash of even white teeth and a passing warmth in the hard brown eyes.

‘Thanks, Joe,’ he said without preamble. ‘Thanks for being with Maddy. For doing what you did.’

‘Haven’t even started yet,’ said Joe. ‘Bad business and I’d like to hear what you have to tell me tomorrow. We’ll fix a time. How about nine?’

‘Sounds good to me. Nine then.’

Madeleine, holding his arm with an increasing grip, was anxious to break into this chaps’ clipped conversation. ‘Aren’t you going to say something about my dress?’ she hissed.

‘You look delightful, Maddy! Dazzling, even,’ said Joe smoothly, pleased to have an excuse to run his eyes over her.

‘Joe, that’s the whole point,’ said Lizzie Macarthur impatiently. ‘Don’t you see what she’s getting at? She’s afraid that you think her choice is rather a faux pas, bearing in mind the sad events of the day. And so it is! Is that not right, Maddy?’

‘Too right!’ Madeleine exploded. ‘And it’s not my fault! I got a note just as the dressing bell rang saying that if I was planning to make an appearance it would be appropriate if I chose to wear something white this evening because white is the Indian colour of mourning. Friendly hint from my wonderful, thoughtful stepmotherin-law!’

Joe took a second to work this out. ‘Third Her Highness landed you right in it!’

‘I’ll say! Then she comes swanning in wearing black like all the other British, making me look like a vaudeville act!’

‘At least you had the good sense not to wear the red nose,’ said Joe consolingly.

‘Don’t worry, Madeleine,’ said Lizzie. ‘I’ll make sure that people understand.’

Madeleine smiled her thanks but remained unplacated. ‘Have you met her yet, Joe?’

‘No, not yet.’

‘I think you should put that right. She’ll think you rude if you delay any longer, particularly chatting to me. Lizzie can take you — she’s over there with the doc.’

Shubhada was standing at the other end of the room in conversation with Sir Hector, her eyes flicking restlessly round the other guests. On seeing Joe approach she took from her bag a holder and a cigarette, and, at a word, Sir Hector ambled off to find the means of lighting it. She turned to Joe with a smile of welcome and Lizzie made them known to each other. Joe produced a lighter from his pocket and lit the cigarette she fixed into the black jade holder. He was amused to see that she didn’t seem to smoke with any great enthusiasm or skill and judged that this piece of sophistication was being demonstrated for his benefit.

They exchanged a few pleasantries and he confided what had been his first impressions of the palace.

‘You must get to know the surroundings also,’ advised Shubhada. ‘The grounds are quite delightful and stretch for miles.’

Her voice was low and would have been thrilling had not Joe caught an edge of condescension in her manner. Well, what else could a policeman expect from a maharanee? He’d heard much the same tone in Queen Mary’s polite conversation — ‘So, you’re going to India, young man?’

‘I should value your opinion on my husband’s polo arrangements,’ Shubhada went on. ‘I hear you are an expert horseman and assume you play? We must arrange a game for you. If you will come down to the polo ground tomorrow morning I will present you with a little problem but I fear I will embarrass you because I will ask you to take sides.’

‘Take sides?’

‘Yes. You must come out either for me or for my husband since we are in the middle of a disagreement.’ Her easy smile told him that this was not serious. ‘Udai is planning to turn the polo ground into a golf course!’ She affected a shocked tone. ‘Hard to believe, I know, but he is seriously suggesting this. Golf is all the rage in England and he became quite skilled at it when he was last there. And, of course, the polo ground is extensive and of adequate size for a wretched golf course. You must help us decide what to do, Commander.’

This was party chatter. Joe knew she was not particularly interested in hearing his reply, she was just giving him an impression of her character, her position and her special influence with the ruler in the few minutes that were allocated to each guest at such a gathering. She could have summed it up in seconds, he thought: sophisticated, powerful, spoiled. Something needled him into refusing to turn this into a pas de deux.

‘I can solve your problem and save your marriage in a word, Your Highness,’ he said with a confident smile.

‘Oh, indeed?’

‘Golo!’

‘I beg your pardon. . I don’t understand. .’

‘That was the word. As you say, the extent of the field required is the same for both sports. Both are played with a club. Run them together! Gentlemen (or ladies) must play golf on horseback. You can call the new game “golo”. Invent a pair of trousers to play it in. . let’s call them, er, “ranipurs”! Why not? And there you are — we have the new jodhpurs! The sport will be all the go on three continents in no time at all.’

Shubhada stared at him with incomprehension. She began to edge away from him, making distancing movements and finally saying, ‘I see my husband is about to leave. He is quickly fatigued. Excuse me if I go to him, Commander.’

When she was out of earshot Lizzie snorted. ‘Scored an own golo there, I’d say, Sandilands! She rather hates you because you didn’t take her seriously. Now why didn’t you play along? Anyone would think you’d taken against 3HH?’

‘I’ll tell you something, Lizzie,’ said Joe confidentially. ‘Anyone would be right! Oh, dear! I’m not sure Sir George’s training has quite taken yet. Under all this southern English slather there’s a bolshie borderer lurking still.’

‘I’m very relieved to hear it!’ said Lizzie. ‘Look around you carefully, Joe. Look at the cast of characters around the maharaja. He’s dying. . I suppose you know that. . and his death will change everything. People will find their positions, their lives even, changed overnight. And perhaps someone is taking hold of events before the event. There’s a lot at stake, Joe.’

‘And much depends on the succession. Has Udai Singh made a statement on his decision? Dropped a hint?’

‘Nothing. Not a word. And, you know, that’s very odd. . it’s almost as though he’s waiting on events himself. Waiting for something anyway.’