Edgar grinned. ‘Couldn’t agree more but did you know that this friend of the Prince of Wales, this loyal advocate of the Pax Britannica, this member of every polo club from Hurlingham to Isfahan has been in hot water for what I can only call medieval bad behaviour?’

‘I didn’t know,’ said Joe. ‘What did he do? Drink from his finger bowl?’

‘It was discovered,’ said Edgar gleefully, ‘that the chap had been deflowering virgins. Oh, not just the odd one but on a gargantuan scale. One a day for no one knows how many years! And all that on top of having hundreds of concubines in his harem!’

‘How tiring!’ said Joe. ‘Come on, Edgar – you don’t believe all these stories, do you?’

‘His people certainly do! They’re actually proud of their ruler’s prowess!’ Edgar smirked and went on in a confiding tone, ‘There’s a yearly ceremony in Patiala. People travel for miles to see it. Went myself one year and saw it with my own eyes so I know this is no story! The maharaja parades through the streets of his city naked but for a waist-length vest encrusted with a thousand and one diamonds, acknowledging the cheers of his subjects with what I can best describe as a priapic salute!’

‘Good Lord! Seems a bit excessive!’

‘Not one to go off at half cock, Patiala!’ Edgar laughed. ‘But too strong for most tastes and someone – the Resident, it’s assumed – had a quiet word with him and told him not to do it again.’

‘A quiet word, Edgar? Would that be enough to bring about the required change in behaviour?’

‘Depends on the word,’ said Edgar. ‘If, amongst all the finger-wagging, wrist-slapping and minatory phrases a slight emphasis were put on “deposition”,’ he grinned, ‘it would do the trick. Or perhaps – horror of horrors! – HM Gov. threatened to reduce his gun salute from nineteen to eleven. Now that would have a decidedly deflationary effect! But, whatever the persuasion used, the Resident achieved his end, which was to placate the memsahibs who’ve infiltrated the state as they have all over India bringing their dire baggage of morality, religion and social justice.’

Joe knew Edgar was likely to get the bit between his teeth when the conversation moved to the modern woman. For him, the India of the East India Company was the ideal: a glamorous, masculine world of traders, fighters, opportunists, men who, discarding Western influences, took Indian women as wives and mistresses, spoke their languages and exploited their country. The world of John Company, according to Edgar, had come to a regrettable end when sea travel improved and droves of Englishwomen found themselves able to make the journey out to the East and fish for husbands in India. He hurried to divert Edgar from the anticipated diatribe.

‘I take it the Ranipur Resident has an easier life? What sort of man is Vyvyan? You speak of him with modified rapture?’

‘Oh, Claude is very good. Brilliant even. Gets on well with the prince, knows when to look the other way, works tirelessly for good relations between Ranipur and the Empire. Model situation, you could say. And far from being a strained relationship as you might expect, Claude has become his friend and confidant. It’s a tricky balancing act being ruler. Lonely too. Most of Udai’s relations are only waiting to step into his empty shoes, most of his subjects are standing round trying how best to make money out of him. Claude helps him keep balance and authority.’

‘And what role does Edgar Troop play in all this? Which of your many talents do you lay out for the ruler?’

Edgar looked pleased. ‘In my way, I suppose I’m a sort of safety valve. Udai enjoys his drink, shooting, polo, expensive trips to Europe, female company, occasionally getting married. In fact the perfect life of the Rajput gentleman that he is. I couldn’t sympathize with him more! I wouldn’t like you to know all the things I’ve done for him in my time. I wouldn’t like to mention some of the things he’s done for me. But that’s what’s given rise to this telegram. It probably means he’s bored and wants me to spice things up a bit for him.’

‘What sort of a place has he got in Ranipur?’

‘Think Buckingham Palace and multiply by ten. Perhaps a thousand rooms. Ancient. Beautiful. Parts very dilapidated, parts immaculate. Parts inhabited by storks and bats, snakes too probably. The Old Palace is kept for formal occasions and it’s home to many of his relations and all the women of the household. Udai has the sense to live elsewhere – in the New Palace. Every modern convenience! And he’s built himself several guest bungalows. He usually sets one of these aside for me.’

Servants were beginning to hover round the disordered breakfast table.

‘I think we’d better take the hint,’ said Edgar and, giving orders as he did so, led Joe out on to a cluttered terrace. He waved a hand vaguely at the overgrown shrubbery in the courtyard. ‘Must do something about this,’ he said absently. ‘Trouble is, things either grow to four times their expected size or die off and, as you see, we’ve got a fair sample of both here. Sit down. Ready for a beer now?’

It was the Chummery routine to move straight from coffee to a foaming glass of chilled ale and a servant was standing by with a tray already loaded. Edgar gulped down half his glass, wiped his moustache and looked at Joe with speculation. He leaned forward. ‘Look, Joe, I can see you’re getting fed up with Simla. Damned hard work being on enforced vacation. Why don’t you get Sir George to sign an exeat for you and come to Ranipur with me?’

Chapter Three

When Joe’s rickshaw dropped him at the Governor’s Residence a servant was smiling a welcome.

‘Sir George is in the gun room, sahib. He wonders if you could join him for a few moments before tiffin?’

‘Yes. Certainly. I’ll go straight there. Thank you, Karim.’

Nothing happened in Simla without Sir George Jardine being aware of it, very often for the simple reason that he had instigated the action. Joe guessed that he was now about to be questioned closely but with a show of casual lack of interest about the contents of Edgar’s telegram and his immediate travel plans. Joe had no doubt that Edgar was Sir George’s eyes and ears in the state of Ranipur as well as in many a darker corner of the Empire.

He swung open the heavy door to the gun room and went in, enjoying as he always did the smell of leather and gun oil and Trichinopoly cigars. Sir George was working on a gun. Its silk-lined case lay open on the central table. Joe knew that gun. The lid of the oak and leather case carried a coat of arms and in florid script the words, ‘Holland and Holland. Gun and rifle manufacturers. Bruton Street, London.’

Sir George looked up to greet him with a hearty bellow. ‘There you are, my boy! Glad to see those villains didn’t shanghai you for the afternoon. Now we haven’t much time. Remind me when you’re off . . . Tuesday, is it? That gives us four days to prepare.’

Joe had been amused to discover from the flyleaf of a borrowed book that the Latin motto of the Jardine family was ‘cave adsum’. The Romans hadn’t made use of punctuation but if they had, they would have needed two exclamation marks adequately to convey the flavour, he thought. The confident ‘Here I am!’ was always preceded by the warning ‘Watch out!’ Joe found it useful to bear this Highlander’s challenge in mind in his dealings with Sir George.

‘George! How the hell –’

‘Edgar never turns down an invitation to Ranipur and if there’s anything Edgar enjoys it’s involving someone else in his schemes. He was bound to ask you to go with him and I guessed you wouldn’t be able to resist. Of course you can go. I’ll square it with Sir Nevil in London. He’s aware of your achievements in India. I’ve sent him a complete report. Mentioned you in dispatches, you might say. In fact, Joe . . .’ George turned his attention back to the gun barrel and rubbed it thoughtfully with his cloth. ‘I ought to tell you that he’s agreed to your staying on a little longer. He’ll be quite happy if you take a boat back in time to be at your desk in September. Look, why don’t you pick up a cloth and give me a hand?’