‘That’s about it. Yes. And, Joe, that’s exactly where I want her – on the loose. At liberty, to go where she pleases.’

Into the astonished silence he set about his explanation. With rather less than his usual confidence he spoke: ‘I’ve resigned my position, you know. I’m free for the first time in my life of duty, protocol, intrigue, politicking of any kind. I’m not so old I can’t enjoy the rest of my life. Got all my faculties and bags of energy. Knees not wonderful but I hear they can do amazing things in Switzerland with knees. Funnily enough, at the very moment when you might say my life was hanging by a thread, I’ve realized the value of it. It came to me on the bank of the Seine this morning. I’m going to make good use of whatever years are left to me and I’m not starting on them by taking the life or liberty of another. Especially not a woman like Alice whom you rightly surmise I have always held in esteem and affection.’

The expression in the blue eyes he turned on Joe was, for once, not distorted by guile, amusement or cynicism. The eyes were direct and piercing and Joe found it hard to meet them. How could he accuse George of negligence in letting Alice Conyers go free when he’d done exactly the same thing himself five years before?

‘And lastly, before you fall asleep, my boy, you’ll be wanting to hear about the rascal Somerton. Do try to concentrate. You really ought to know what it was he did to make a mighty number of people want to stick a dagger in him. Including yours truly!’

Chapter Fifteen

George took a fortifying swig of his brandy and lapsed into thought.

‘Look here, chaps,’ he said finally, ‘I know you’re both men of the world and violence is your stock in trade, so to speak, but what I have to tell you is shocking and offensive. In the extreme. You must be prepared. It may be that, when you understand the kind of man he was, you’ll be less eager to pursue his killer. A plague-infested rat . . . a striking cobra . . . Somerton . . . the world would always be well rid of them.

‘He was commanding officer of a military station in the north of India. Before the war. Known to me – we’d met briefly during a tour on the Frontier and I’d formed a dislike for the fellow then. The affair I’m about to mention was hushed up to avoid bringing disgrace on the British Army at the time so – if you’ll excuse me – I’ll respect that and give you no names, no pack drill.

‘You’ll know, Joe, that when outfits turn rotten, you always find the cause of it is the commanding officer. And Somerton’s was a rotten outfit. Oh, outwardly crisp – their drill and appearance could never be faulted. Indeed, in the way of such men, he was a stickler for detail, regimentation. So, the fact that he was running a brutish, bullying crew, moulded by him in his own image, was likely to be overlooked. They were never seriously tested militarily – I’m speaking of the period before the war when there was always the danger of units turning soft through inactivity and boredom – so I can’t speak for their fighting qualities. After the event, the whole corps was broken up and dispersed. I presume they went to France and many must have perished on the battlefields, along with the rest of the army of the day. I’m probably the only man left alive who would be willing to tell the tale but there must be many more who remember and will always stay silent.

‘There was a native village on the outskirts of the station . . . usual arrangement. Many of the local men undertook work for the army. One day the rubbish collectors, going about their business, found a body on the rubbish tip. It was the corpse of a young girl from their village. They all recognized her. She was the daughter of the dhobi – the laundryman.’ Sir George was uneasy with his story, his delivery flat and deliberately uninvolving. ‘They thought at first she’d been torn apart by jackals. The station doctor was summoned. Fast turnover of doctors in that unit. They never stayed long before asking for a transfer and this one was newly arrived. He involved himself before consulting the commanding officer. Had the body brought in for examination.

‘The girl had been the victim of multiple assaults. Of a sexual nature. She’d been raped. Many times. Also beaten and cut with a dagger and, finally, strangled. She was twelve years old.’ George’s head drooped and he seemed unable to carry on.

Joe and Bonnefoye could find no words to encourage him.

‘Somerton tried to cover it all up. No need of a report for such a matter. Who was lodging a complaint? The father? Pay him off! A few rupees would close his mouth. But the medical officer was made of stern enough stuff to stand up to him. He sent in a full report to Somerton’s superior officer and he sent a copy to me.’

‘Was a proper investigation conducted?’ asked Joe.

‘I insisted on it. I put my best men in to get to the bottom of it and when I heard what they’d discovered I took steps. They found that the girl had been sent – against her will and against custom – into the camp to deliver items of laundry urgently needed by the CO. Women never ventured near the place as a rule – the men had a reputation for savagery of one sort or another. The poor child must have been terrified to be given the errand but girls in that country obey their fathers. She’d delivered it to Somerton’s quarters. She’d been seen going inside and coming out again. This was the story my men picked up from every witness. A word-perfect performance, they judged. Too perfect. Rehearsed. They went to work and after some days finally found sitting before them at interview a young chap fresh out from England and as yet untrained in the ways of that regiment. He spilled the beans.

‘Put his own life in danger, of course, by his assertions and we had to take him away directly to a place of safety and hold him in reserve for the trial. He stated that the girl had indeed come out of the CO’s quarters but thrown out screaming and bleeding and in great distress – by Somerton himself. Some of his men had gathered round on hearing the din and our recruit had been horrified to hear his instructions: “She’s all yours, lads, if you can be bothered!”

‘Our chap ran away and hid and no one was aware that he’d seen anything, but he was able to give a full list of those involved. We had the names and rolled it up from there. The men had bragged about it to each other openly afterwards. They never knew exactly who had shopped them. It wasn’t difficult to get a confession from most of them.’

‘And you left him alive, George?’ said Joe quietly.

‘A court martial was held and he was found guilty. Kicked out of the army with every ounce of parade and scorn they could muster. A pariah for the rest of his days. I thought that was punishment enough. At the time. I wish now I’d had the bugger shot. I could have arranged it.’

‘Why did you hold off?’ Bonnefoye wanted to know.

‘The fellow had a wife and young son back home. And, on the whole, a cashiering makes less of a splash than an execution.’ He sighed. ‘Discretion, always discretion.’

Suddenly angry, he burst out: ‘And now see where discretion and pity have landed me! In danger of losing my head because the silly bugger’s got his comeuppance! And I didn’t even have the satisfaction of plunging a dagger into his snake’s heart! It’s a thankless task you two fellows have got on your hands. If you find out who ordered up this assassination I shall have to ask you to congratulate him before you slip the cuffs on.’

‘He didn’t kill Somerton, did he?’ Bonnefoye commented when Sir George, finally exhausted, had excused himself and gone off to his room.

‘What makes you change your mind?’

‘At the end, when he lost his temper and spoke without restraint . . . I believed him when he said he would have plunged the dagger into the man’s heart. He would have done just that. Quick and soldierly. He’d quite forgotten for the moment that Somerton had died from a gash from ear to ear. I can’t see Sir George sawing away like a pork butcher to bleed a man to death, can you?’