‘His state’s big. Oh, not when compared with some of the states of Royal India like . . . Hyderabad, for instance, but big enough. About the size of Norfolk, I’d say. It’s prosperous too. The maharaja is said to be the tenth richest man in the world. When you look at some of the competition that’s quite a proud boast. He doesn’t exactly get himself weighed in diamonds but he’s not down to his last hundred million. In his youth he was quite a tough! He needed to be to keep his feet on the steps of the throne of Ranipur, slippery with the blood of half a dozen immediate predecessors. I never quite understood the ins and outs but I tell you – his early years in Ranipur would make The Duchess of Malfi sound like one of Gilbert and Sullivan’s jolliest!’

‘Tell me some more,’ said Joe, reading the telegram Edgar handed to him. ‘Tell me about this peremptory prince.’ He read aloud, ‘“Kindly make Troop available Tuesday 15th to Tuesday 22nd. State time of arrival Ranipur.”’ He waggled his eyebrows in mock astonishment. ‘“Make Troop available”! What’s he take you for? Sir George’s errand boy?’

‘Oh, he’s a good man, Udai Singh. We’ve done a lot of business together. We trust each other. Hard to believe. You wouldn’t imagine that the respected ruler of goodness knows how many millions, the confidant of the British Raj, model innovator and blah, blah . . . you can’t imagine why such an individual would associate on intimate terms with a rascal like me but so it is.’

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said Joe slyly. ‘I expect there are goods and services you can supply.’

Edgar laughed, leaned back and lit a cigar. ‘When I first moved here I was contacted by a tourist, a tourist who wanted to shoot a tiger. Would I arrange it? Well, the long and short of it was I did arrange it. This ass, Brigadier Montagu Wickham-Skeith, duly bagged his tiger but I made a mistake. Didn’t know the country so well in those days and I’d strayed into the Principality of Ranipur. The Brigadier and I were caught by the border guards and thrown into the deepest dungeon below the castle moat as it were. More than a possibility, thought I, that we’d be trampled to death by elephants! A custom that had only just died away. At least, I think it’s died away . . . Anyway, I knew that the ruler still had powers of life and death over his own subjects and certainly over suspected poachers.

‘But, by the mercy of Providence, the prince had a big shooting party arranged – the Viceroy, ambassadors, visiting royalty, God knows who! Now there’s one thing I’m good at – well, many things I’m good at – but preeminently I’m good at organizing a shoot and the wild duck of Ranipur are famous the world over. The Brigadier and I were led out, still in manacles, I guessed with the idea of getting us identified by one of the British grandees present, and we can’t have been looking very sharp. Hadn’t had anything to eat for twenty-four hours.

‘We were led, blinking in the sunlight, over to a couple of chaps standing about with guns. An Englishman and his Indian aide. The Englishman was a very impressive fellow but unfortunately a fellow I’d never set eyes on before, so – no use to me. He was tall and slim with a neat waist, equally neat moustache and that commanding, supercilious air you British are so good at affecting. He turned around and gave us the benefit of it. Someone with that amount of confidence I calculated could be none other than the newly appointed British Resident, Claude Vyvyan. Know him, Joe?’

Joe shook his head.

‘Well, he certainly didn’t know me. His icy blue eye passed over me with the same interest he’d have paid to a pile of camel dung but he did brighten up a bit when he saw the Brigadier. “Monty! What the hell?” The Brig danced about with relief. They knew each other well and release and explanations swiftly followed. And, of course, wouldn’t you know, Edgar Troop was found much to blame! My hunting expertise was decidedly being called into question and to break the rhythm of all the “But how on earth was it possible to do such a stupid thing? . . . Monty, old boy, in future, always refer to me for advice!”, I decided to assert myself. I looked up at the sky with what I thought to be a disparaging, dismissive and cunning air and made a remark.

‘Now, in Ranipur the climax of a duck shoot was to drive what they call the Long Pond and I can tell you – the wild duck come off it as thick as bloody sparrows! It really is the most impressive thing when they start to move. I said, addressing the remark to no one in particular, “Why on earth do you suppose they take the Long Pond from east to west and stand the guns along the south side when they could take it from north to south and everybody would get a second shot, a third or a fourth?”

‘Now the Indian aide in European clothes who’d been standing at Vyvyan’s side and listening, answered me. To my astonishment in perfect and unaccented English he said, “Say that again, will you? It sounded like an interesting idea – if a bit obvious, perhaps.” Well, I began to realize that this must be a person of some importance so I said, “Get me a drink and I’ll gladly repeat it.” As you’ve probably guessed, this insignificant figure was the maharaja of Ranipur. Without much discussion he adopted my revised plan for driving the Long Pond. It worked beautifully, just as I’d said it would, and Udai was very impressed. From that moment on – though obviously we’ve had our tiffs from time to time – I could do no wrong. When I’m in Ranipur he puts a guest house at my disposal and although Ranipur is what you might call his principal residence, there are others. The moment he wants to get away from the formalities of court he moves away into a more secluded part of his state and I’ve accompanied him many times.’

Joe looked back at the telegram once more and frowned. ‘And this enables him to order you to come and go at a whim, does it?’

‘Bit sharp, isn’t it? But that won’t have been sent by Udai. That’s Claude’s style. He usually sends the telegrams. Claude. The British Resident I was telling you about.’

‘Resident?’ Joe queried. ‘A political appointment?’

‘Yes. This is usual with the princely states. The rulers have all signed treaties with the British Government. They support the crown and in return we leave them largely alone to get on with ruling as they see fit. But, just in case, we send a trusted civil servant or military bloke of some standing to reside in the state and see that the ruler stays on the straight and narrow. He’s a sort of permanently-inplace ambassador.’

‘And does this system work?’ Joe asked doubtfully. ‘Surely autocrats like the maharajas resent someone peering over their shoulders all the time?’

‘Yes, it works. Mostly. These fellers manage to steer a clever course. Some of them have done a great deal of good, making just the sort of social improvements a chap like you would approve of. More than one ruler’s been persuaded to haul himself and his state into the twentieth century and build roads, hospitals, schools. Some are only too pleased to pass the running of the state over to a pair of capable hands.’ He paused. ‘Of course there are some rulers who are incorrigibly medieval in their behaviour.’

‘And how does a Resident deal with medieval behaviour?’ asked Joe, intrigued.

‘Decisively,’ said Edgar with relish. ‘Ever heard of the maharaja of Patiala?’

‘Heard of him? I’ve seen him!’ said Joe. ‘In Calcutta last December. He was in the parade to welcome the Prince of Wales when he opened the Victoria Monument. You wouldn’t forget seeing him!’ Joe remembered the impression the maharaja had made on the crowds. He’d swaggered about in scarlet tunic, white leggings, black thigh-length leather boots, the whole topped off with a daffodil yellow turban fastened with an emerald cluster. Well over six feet and built like a bear, he wore his luxuriant black moustaches tucked up into his turban. ‘An impressive figure,’ Joe added.