He looked back to the papers and continued. “So Carroll remained in Saharanpur for five years. During this time he served on no fewer than seventeen missions, passing more time in the field than at his post.” He began to thumb through the reports on the missions the Doctor had accompanied, reading out their names. September 1866– Survey for a Rail Route Along the Upper Sutlej River. December– Mapping Expedition of the Corps of Water Engineers in the Punjab. February 1867—Report on Childbirth and Obstetric Diseases in Eastern Afghanistan. May—Veterinary Infections of Herd Animals in the Mountains of Kashmir and Their Risk to Humans. September—the Royal Society’s Highland Survey of Flora in Sikkim. He seemed compelled to name them all, and did so without taking a breath, so that the veins on his neck swelled to resemble the very mountains of Kashmir—at least thought Edgar Drake, who had never been there, or studied its geography, but who, by this point, was growing impatient with the notable absence of any piano from the story.

“In late 1868,” continued the Colonel, “the deputy director of our military hospital in Rangoon, then the only major hospital in Burma, died suddenly of dysentery. To replace him, the medical director in Calcutta recommended Carroll, who arrived in Rangoon in February 1869. He served there for three years, and since his work was mainly medical, we have few reports on his activities. All evidence suggests he was occupied with his responsibilities at the hospital.”

The Colonel slid a folder forward on the desk. “This is a photograph of Carroll, in Bengal.” Edgar waited briefly, and then, realizing he should rise to accept it, leaned forward, dropping his hat on the floor in the process. “Sorry,” he muttered, grabbing the hat, then the folder, and returning to his chair. He opened the folder in his lap. Inside was a photo, upside down. He rotated it gingerly. It showed a tall, confident man with a dark mustache and finely combed hair, dressed in khaki, standing over the bed of a patient, a darker man, perhaps an Indian. In the background there were other beds, other patients. A hospital, thought the tuner, and returned his eyes to the face of the Doctor. He could read little from the man’s expression. His face was blurred, although strangely all the patients were in focus, as if the Doctor was in a state of constant animation. He stared, trying to match the man to the story he was hearing, but the photo revealed little. He rose and returned it to the Colonel’s desk.

“In 1871 Carroll requested to be moved to a more remote station in central Burma. The request was approved, as this was a period of intensifying Burmese activity in the Irrawaddy River valley south of Mandalay. At his new post, as in India, Carroll busied himself with frequent surveying expeditions, often into the southern Shan Hills. Although it is not known exactly how—given his many responsibilities—Carroll apparently found the time to acquire near fluency in the Shan language. Some have suggested that he studied with a local monk, others that he learned from a mistress.

“Monks or mistresses, in 1873 we received the disastrous news that the Burmese, after decades of flirtation, had signed a commercial treaty with France. You may know this history; it was covered quite extensively in the newspapers. Although French troops were still in Indo-China and had not advanced past the Mekong, this was obviously an extremely dangerous precedent for further Franco-Burmese cooperation and an open threat to India. We immediately began rapid preparations to occupy the states of Upper Burma. Many of the Shan princes had shown long-standing antagonism to the Burmese throne, and…” The Colonel trailed off, out of breath from the soliloquy, and saw the piano tuner staring out the window. “Mr. Drake, are you listening?”

Edgar turned back, embarrassed. “Yes…yes, of course.”

“Well then, I will continue.” The Colonel looked back at his papers.

Across the desk, the tuner spoke tentatively. “Actually, with due respect, Colonel, it is a most complex and interesting story, but I must admit that I don’t yet understand exactly why you need my expertise…I know that you are accustomed to give briefings in this manner, but may I trouble you with a question?”

“Yes, Mr. Drake?”

“Well…to be honest, I am waiting to hear what is wrong with the piano.”

“I’m sorry?”

“The piano. I was contacted because I am being hired to tune a piano. This meeting is most comprehensive with regard to the man, but I don’t believe he is my commission.”

The Colonel’s face grew red. “As I stated at the beginning, Mr. Drake, I do believe that this background is important.”

“I agree, sir, but I don’t know what is wrong with the piano, or even whether or not I can mend it. I hope you understand.”

“Yes, yes. Of course I understand.” The muscles in his jaw tensed. He was ready to talk about the withdrawal of the Resident from Mandalay in 1879, and the Battle of Myingyan, and the siege of the Maymyo garrison, one of his favorite stories. He waited.

Edgar stared down at his hands. “I apologize, please, please, do continue,” he said. “It is only that I must leave soon, as it is quite a walk to my home, and I really am most interested in the Erard grand.” Despite feeling intimidated, he secretly savored this brief interruption. He had always disliked military men, and had begun to like this Carroll character more and more. In truth, he did want to hear the details of the story, but it was almost night, and the Colonel showed no sign of stopping.

The Colonel turned back to the papers, “Very well, Mr. Drake, I will make this brief. By 1874, we had begun to establish a handful of secret outposts in the Shan territories, one near Hsipaw, another near Taunggyi, and another—this the most remote—in a small village called Mae Lwin, on the bank of the Salween River. You won’t find Mae Lwin on any maps, and until you accept the commission, I can’t tell you where it is. There we sent Carroll.”

The room was getting dark, and the Colonel lit a small lamp on the desk. The light flickered, casting the shadow of his mustache across his cheekbones. He studied the piano tuner again. He looks impatient, he thought, and took a deep breath. “Mr. Drake, so as not to detain you much longer, I will spare you the details of Carroll’s twelve years in Mae Lwin. Should you accept the commission, we can talk further, and I can provide you with military reports. Unless, of course, you would like to hear them now.”

“I would like to hear about the piano if you don’t mind.”

“Yes, yes of course, the piano.” He sighed. “What would you like to know? I believe you have been informed of most of the details of this matter in the letter from Colonel Fitzgerald.”

“Yes, Carroll requested a piano. The army purchased an 1840 Erard grand and shipped it to him. Would you mind telling me more of that story?”

“I can’t really. Other than hoping to repeat the success he found in reciting Shelley, we can’t understand why he would want a piano.”

“Why?” The piano tuner laughed, a deep sound that came unexpectedly from the thin frame. “How many times I have asked myself the same question about my other clients. Why would a society matron who doesn’t know Handel from Haydn purchase an 1820 Broadwood and request that it be tuned weekly even though it has never been played? Or how to explain the County Justice who has his instrument revoiced once every two months—which, I might add, although entirely unnecessary, is wonderful for my affairs—yet this same man refuses an entertainment license for the annual public piano competition? You will excuse me, but Doctor Carroll doesn’t seem so bizarre. Have you ever heard, sir, Bach’s Inventions?”

The Colonel stuttered, “I think so…I’m certain I must have, but—no offense intended, Mr. Drake—I do not see how that has anything to do with—”