The rivers and streams which must have poured from the hills into the kingdom in the wet season were no more than dry trackways marked along their length by the occasional well and punctuated by small settlements of round straw-topped herdsmen’s huts.

After half an hour of straight flight, Joe began to notice camel trains making their way south towards Ranipur and calculated that they must be approaching their objective. A few minutes more and he had his first glimpse of Surigargh. The four white minarets of a well caught his eye, the polished lime announcing the presence of water from a great distance. Other evidences of precious water came into view, the dull gleam of a reservoir hidden beneath a magnificent stone structure ornamented with arches and domes, flights of steps leading down on four sides to the water far below.

To his surprise this was no collection of mud huts. It had all the appearance of a fortified town. Stuart poked him in the back and jabbed a finger down to starboard. Joe noted the stone wall snaking its way up a ridge to a small fort with gun emplacements. As they flew over the town Joe guessed that there must be over a thousand houses, and huddled in the centre were one or two large buildings whose purpose puzzled him. From overhead they looked as substantial and as ugly as the fortress at Verdun. One or two were built around a single square, the largest and most central had four squares. Again Stuart indicated that this was of interest and yelled something unintelligible in his ear.

They circled round and prepared for landing. The landing strip Stuart had chosen was a stretch of unfinished tarmacked road which set out hopefully from the town and then finished abruptly, swallowed up into the sand about ten miles off. As they touched down, the plane taxied to a juddering halt and was instantly surrounded by a crowd of young boys, laughing, shouting and jostling to get close. Stuart leaped out, scanning the crowd, and shouted something in Hindi. They retreated a few inches and one stepped forward. He seemed to be known to Stuart and, with much nodding of heads and a quick exchange of cash from hand to hand, it appeared that a protection squad was in operation to keep an eye on the plane. Joe guessed it was not the first time they had done this.

Joe climbed with all the dignity he could muster from the plane and joined Stuart on the short stroll up the dusty road into the town.

‘Well, you can’t sneak in unnoticed in a plane,’ said Stuart. ‘The whole town knows we’ve arrived.’

People called out greetings from all sides, bands of small boys followed, chirruping, at their heels. They had to move carefully to avoid the equally inquisitive cows which wandered along the street, protected by their sanctity and free to nibble, unchallenged, at whatever took their fancy: succulent green vegetables at a market stall or the pith helmet of a visiting ferenghi. Troops of dark grey bristling pigs rooted in the dry monsoon ditches on either side of the road, recycling the town’s refuse, Joe supposed. Children lined up on platforms jutting out over the ditches, small brown bodies glistening as their older sisters sparingly poured water over them from copper jugs. Old men squatted in the shade of trees drinking tea and gaming, shrewd eyes following the two strangers as they walked on and up into the centre of the town.

In a tree-lined square Joe and Stuart found themselves ambushed by a crowd of young boys anxious to direct their attention to one of their fellows who was preparing with the sole aid of a battered attaché case to put on a magic show for the strangers.

To Joe’s surprise, Stuart stopped and indicated that he was prepared to watch the show. ‘We artistes,’ he grinned, ‘have to stick together. They’re good, these kids. I’ve never managed to work out how they do what they do. Take a look.’

They watched in delighted astonishment as the ten-yearold prestidigitator performed trick after trick with a running commentary in a mixture of Hindi and English. Small brown hands flashed mesmerizingly, performing impossible feats with the simple props of a few polished stones, copper cups, two red-painted metal balls and a greasy pack of cards. At each magical disappearance of an object they had thought was clearly in their view the child would cry out in triumph, ‘Where’s it? Gone to Delhi!’

The culmination of his act came with the vanishing of the two red balls from an upturned cup and the subsequent mysterious reappearance of the balls from Joe’s crotch, tinkling into the cup the conjuror held up between his legs. Joe put on a show of horror followed by relief to find, on mimed investigation, that his own balls had not gone to Delhi. The audience were delighted and even more delighted when an over-large tip had them all shooting off to the nearest sweetmeat stall.

Still smiling with pleasure, Joe waited until they had run off before turning to Stuart. ‘Look, Stuart, I have to tell you, the last person I’m expecting to see here is Ali,’ he admitted. ‘I’m glad I came but in fact I’m not quite sure what brought us here . . . Curiosity, I suppose . . . It felt right to fill in a bit of background on the maharaja . . . The whole problem seems to stem from the succession and this is where it all started.’

Stuart grinned. ‘Your instinct’s probably right. This whole nasty business is driven by one question – who succeeds? Did you see the large haveli I pointed out to you? That’s where Udai was born and where his cousin, the town headman, still lives. His name’s Shardul Singh. We’ll go and say hello.’

‘Haveli, did you say?’

‘Yes. Never heard of the havelis before?’ Stuart smiled smugly. ‘You’re in for a treat! They are rather special. Look, here’s a small one coming up on the right.’

The buildings which had appeared block-like and drab from the air were enchanting when seen at street level. Joe stopped and stared in wonder at his first sight of one of the decorated merchants’ houses that lined the main street of the town. They presented strong walls punctuated only by rows of small fretted windows and, Joe guessed, were aired and cooled by the internal courtyards he had spotted from the plane. But it was the wall decorations which stunned. As though to counteract the bleak surroundings, the painters had covered the walls with brilliantly coloured frescoes. Joe laughed to see caparisoned elephants in procession, rearing battle-ready horses, hunting scenes, prowling tigers, flowers and birds, even files of red-coated British soldiers and a childlike impression of a train.

Stuart pointed out the most interesting scenes as they walked up the crowded main street, the houses and the standard of painting growing ever more impressive. Joe paused in front of a spectacular display of artistry in a limited palette of red, brown and green, admiring the intricate floral arches outlining two Rajput warriors mounted on gaily decorated steeds. On either side of the main image were smaller pictures of Rajput women. One played with a yoyo, another held a musical instrument, a third, skirts aswirl, ran with bow and arrow and a determined expression, and a fourth, veiled this one, peered from behind her ghungat, fixing the observer with one bright dark eye, ankles and wrists heavy with jewels.

‘Here – what do you make of this?’ Joe asked, his attention caught by a linear pattern of red handprints running along the bottom of the wall. ‘It doesn’t seem to chime with the rest of the decoration?’

‘Thapas,’ said Stuart. ‘No, a false note if ever there was one.’ He shuffled his foot uncomfortably on the sandy road. ‘It’s symbolic of the practice of sati. All the widows of the head of the house used to go to the pyre with their dead lord. And his concubines as well. Most went willingly – it was a matter of pride and honour and an outward show of the love they bore for him. But I suppose you know all this? On their way to the fire they dip their right hand into red ochre and leave a print on the wall of the house.’