Poised and welcoming and obviously at the helm stood Zalim Singh, radiating efficiency in the centre of the busy scene.

‘Come in and take a seat, Sandilands! You discover me in full flow. Even on this sad day – no, I would say particularly on this sad day – there is work to be done. The funeral itself has thrown up a good deal of organizational matters which demand our immediate attention. I expect it is much the same with state funerals in London?’

‘Exactly, sir. And, I hope, having interrupted you, I will not long divert your attention from more urgent matters,’ Joe replied.

‘Oh, what could be more urgent than a murder investigation?’ Zalim said, a smile just failing to sweeten his blunt remark. ‘For I gather that this is what you are conducting under our noses, as you might say. But let me be frank and to the point, Sandilands.’ He waved a hand at one of the clerks. ‘I am even now dictating a report on the death of Prithvi Singh for the British authorities in Simla. As a matter of courtesy, you understand, for we are dealing with a purely internal, domestic matter. I will tell you now, Sandilands, as a trusted envoy of Sir George . . . would that be a fair description of your role? . . . that there is no mystery here. My report will state that the first two sons of Udai Singh have both died as a result of misadventure. There is nothing one could consider as sinister or worthy of further investigation in either death.’

‘As you say, sir,’ said Joe. ‘And if, when you have completed your report, you would like me to carry it back to Sir George in Simla I can guarantee its safe arrival,’ he added blandly. ‘Along with that of Mr Vyvyan.’

Zalim inclined his head, acknowledging the thrust. ‘Thank you. I shall be pleased to do that. Now, may I offer you a cup of tea?’

The door had opened to admit a servant carrying a silver tea tray and Zalim indicated that they should sit on divans at a low table to continue the discussion. He dismissed the three clerks and Joe found himself seated, alone, face to face with the real power in Ranipur.

The two men regarded each other over the rims of their Meissen teacups for a moment then Zalim burst out laughing and put his cup unsteadily down. ‘Shall we stop circling round each other like a pair of over-cautious wrestlers?’ he suggested. ‘Look here – unofficially I’m prepared to admit there are inconsistencies in the details of the deaths of the first and second sons but I’m certain Sir George would encourage us all to focus on the point we have arrived at and not let our eyes linger on the water that has passed under the bridge. And we have reached a position which I think is acceptable, even welcome, to the British as well as to the state of Ranipur. Do you agree?’

‘I do,’ said Joe. ‘But tell me, sir, are you content with the arrangements for your own future? Would you not have preferred to operate as regent within the state?’

Zalim looked as though he had anticipated the question. ‘A regency lasts for a few years only and, knowing Bahadur as I do, I can tell you, Sandilands, that it will not be long before he has dispensed with the services of his regents. We are being open with each other now – I speak to you as I would speak to Sir George.’ He gave a slight bow as though conferring honorary governorship on Joe. ‘The appointments were, as you have guessed, of a cosmetic nature. Her Highness Shubhada is thereby guaranteed the consequence she desires and the British Government through its agent, Vyvyan, feels itself included in the future affairs of the state and remains our ally.’

‘But we know that the ship of state goes sailing on under the same steady hand?’ suggested Joe and Zalim’s broad smile encouraged him to add, ‘But, tell me, sir, was there ever a moment when you have thought that perhaps the helmsman deserved to be captain?’

Joe held his breath. He knew he had gone too far. Zalim affected to look puzzled for a moment then his expression cleared and he replied calmly, ‘We Rajputs have little occasion to use maritime metaphors, Sandilands. Perhaps I can answer your impertinent query with an ancient saying of ours? “The Rajput’s kingdom is the back of his steed.” My ambitions are – have always been – circumscribed. I seek no further than my own saddle. I am more . . . able . . . than my brother in some respects and these skills I gladly deploy for him and the state. Allegiance to the head of state is the first of all the Rajput’s virtues. My head and my sword are always at his command and now, of course, at the command of the Yuvaraj. Fidelity is the source of honour in this life and of happiness in the hereafter.’

He paused and for a moment appeared to be surprised by his own frankness. ‘I learned long ago that ambition is a corrosive thing and our religion teaches us that worldly wealth and consequence avail us nothing in the end. Udai approaches his end fast now and let me tell you what will happen when the moment of death arrives. He will be lifted, as he dies, from his bed and placed on a heap of straw on the floor. He will take his last breath as he took his first – in simplicity, taking nothing from the world as he brought nothing in.’

‘And the horoscopes – the prophecies – will have been fulfilled?’

‘Yes indeed. They are always cast at the birth of a child and never prove wrong. My brother was correctly identified as a future ruler although a most unlikely candidate for the gaddi and, as predicted, he will be succeeded by his third son. Events are not in our own hands, Sandilands, and we try to no avail to twist the arm of Fate. But there are some . . .’ he paused and sighed, ‘who find themselves unwilling to accept the unrolling of Fortune’s carpet and I fear that I must ask you to submit to an audience with the mother of Bishan, First Her Highness. She has asked to see you and she is not accustomed to being denied. I will take you to the zenana myself. You understand our custom of purdah? The women’s quarters are guarded and no man but the prince and I may be admitted.’

He rose and summoned the clerks with a clap of his hands, issued further orders and set off with Joe.

After five minutes of striding along a pace behind Zalim, Joe was fancying himself Theseus but without the lifesaving thread. And what dark presence awaited him at his destination? The endless corridors, the rustling of unseen people concealing themselves behind doors and in alcoves as they progressed were disconcerting and disorienting. He reminded himself that he was heading for an encounter, not with a fearsome man-eating monster but with an elderly princess with little knowledge of the outside world, a mother whose only son had died less than two months before and who was clutching at straws in her unwillingness to accept the hand dealt her by Fate. He sighed. Perhaps the monster was to be preferred.

A distancing courtyard alive with doves and chattering monkeys separated the women’s quarters from the main body of the Old Palace and Joe blinked in the harsh sunshine as they emerged from the shadows. Such was the onslaught of the afternoon sun he began to think that crossing the open space to the entrance to the zenana might tax his endurance too far and he looked with wonder at the tall spare figure standing straight as a lance to attention in full sunlight guarding the door.

Elderly, magnificently bewhiskered and hot-eyed, he was obviously a military man of some distinction. Already well over six feet, he wore a turban surmounted by a high red cockade. His waist was hung about with several leather belts to which was attached a medley of weaponry. As they approached, the guard, ferocious white whiskers bristling, drew a slender curved sword from its scabbard and held it before him at the ready in a theatrical but nonetheless purposeful attitude.

Zalim greeted him and ritual exchanges were made in Hindi.