‘My cousin’s father-in-law,’ explained Zalim. ‘A nobleman and keeper of the zenana. We have made special arrangements for your audience with Her Highness. These arrangements will include the services of an excellent interpreter as Her Highness speaks no English.’

He called out a name and a figure which had been waiting unseen in the shadows of the doorway came forward. A girl, a tall girl with long black hair, large darkened eyes and a red rose at a jaunty angle behind one ear greeted Joe in a low and seductive voice. She was wearing, not the traditional Rajput petticoats and tight bodice, but long voluminous trousers and a tunic in a floating, gauzy fabric. Bangles chinked on her ankles and slim brown arms. She wore no veil or dopatta and looked Joe boldly in the face, curious and speculative.

Zalim gave a few words of instruction to the girl and made to take his leave of Joe. ‘Well, off you go. I leave you in the care of Zafira. If there is anything you require . . . anything at all . . .’ he said, his voice purring in unmistakable conspiracy, ‘he will be delighted to accommodate you.’

‘Another of the Dewan’s pillow-talkers?’ Joe wondered, remembering Madeleine’s scathing phrase.

It was a moment or two before the significance of Zalim’s remark hit him. He followed thoughtfully behind the sinuous figure of Zafira who walked along singing and clapping his hands every few paces as though in warning. ‘Watch out! Here comes . . . what? . . . a foreign policeman and a palace eunuch,’ Joe supposed. ‘Strange pair!’

Intrigued, he had a thousand questions he would have liked to put to his guide but fearing his interest might be misinterpreted he asked none of them, following silently until they reached a colonnaded central courtyard. Here another paradisal garden spread its four green squares thick with lilies, orange blossom trees and bougainvillea and alive with the sound of piped water tinkling down decorative chutes and splashing from a central fountain.

Peacocks stalked and scolded amongst the greenery but the living birds were outshone by the brilliant representations, tails proudly unfurled, captured in mosaics of lapis lazuli, turquoise and gold which decorated the walls of the zenana. Balconies overhung the courtyard and Joe was aware as they crossed the garden of scrutiny from many pairs of eyes behind the latticed shutters. He guessed that in normal times this place would be alive with chattering, laughing groups, with music, games, and perhaps dancing but today, a funeral day, all was still and silent apart from the mournful calls of the birds.

They arrived at a shaded corner of the colonnade where a screen woven from split bamboo had been erected. On the outer side had been placed a stool and Zafira invited Joe to sit on it. He assured Joe that he would translate fast and accurately; he was accustomed to performing this service for Her Highness. There was a slight movement behind the chik screen, a faint waft of attar and Joe’s audience had begun.

What had he expected? A shy, indistinct murmuring? Female curiosity? An outpouring of grief? All of these.

‘You are very handsome . . . for an Angrez!’ The voice was firm, clear and attractive. ‘Tell me, young man, are you as clever as you are handsome?’

‘Clever enough not to be seduced by compliments, even though they come from the highest lady in the land,’ he replied diplomatically.

A burst of laughter from behind the screens made him wonder if, after all, he might begin to enjoy the conversation.

‘I pay no compliment; I merely tell the truth.’

Joe felt disadvantaged by the unequal situation between them: she could catch every nuance of his changing expression whereas he could only guess at hers. Rather like performing on stage, he decided: actors, blinded by the footlights, saw little of their audience yet were able to feed somehow on their responses. Very well, he’d be an actor.

He turned his head and presented his profile but also the war-damaged left side of his face. ‘Perhaps only half the truth, Your Highness. I have it on good authority that I bear more than a passing resemblance to the famous Yashastilak.’

‘I had observed your wound,’ came the calm reply. ‘And it is to be honoured. It is a sign of courage and hurt taken face to the enemy.’

A bursting shell knows no compass direction but if she wanted to believe he’d received a sabre-cut in hand-tohand fighting, he’d happily go along with that. He raised his chin, narrowed his eyes and tried to look at once noble and fierce.

More gurgles from behind the screen.

‘Yes! I see it now. Definitely Yashastilak!

‘But you must be wondering why I have asked you to come and talk to me, Sandilands? Of course, it is always a pleasure to meet an attractive young man and I wish we could converse in more auspicious circumstances.’ Her voice had taken on a businesslike tone. Clever Zafira, Joe noticed, was managing to convey this in his rapid translation.

‘My son, Bishan,’ went on the princess, ‘should even now be preparing to take his place on the gaddi but that will never be. They tell me his death was an accident but I do not believe this. My purdah prevents me from finding out the truth. In the zenana we hear only what the outside world chooses to tell us. I hear from Edgar who has long been my friend that you go after the truth like a hound. When you have found it I would like you to come again and whisper the name of my son’s killer. You will be well rewarded.’

What could Joe do but politely commiserate with the grieving princess and promise that he would tell her the truth which she deserved to know when he was in a position to reveal it?

‘But there is one matter you could clear up for me,’ he said hesitantly. ‘I don’t wish to intrude on family grief but it would be useful to my enquiries to know more precisely what were Bishan’s immediate family circumstances. Was he married? Did he have any children? I have only just arrived in Ranipur and things that are common knowledge to others are not yet known to me.’

Her voice became cooler but she answered swiftly enough. ‘He was married. His wife is about the place somewhere in the zenana. They were married when they were children as is the custom. My daughter-in-law is a princess from a southern state. And, no, Bishan was not blessed with children. My daughters between them have many children but we were still waiting for Bishan’s good fortune . . .’ Her voice trailed away and Joe sensed that his question had disconcerted her.

‘But your thoughts, Sandilands, follow mine down a well-trodden track. If Bishan had had several sons, my husband would not have been reduced to the disastrous choice he has had to make in the matter of his successor. I hold Bishan’s wife, dull little mouse that she is, much to blame. If she had compelled his attention as I continually urged . . .’ Regret and rage cut off her words.

It seemed the right moment to take his leave and Joe extricated himself as smoothly as he could, blindly following Zafira’s swaying hips and clapping hands through the corridors. As he plodded on he felt a weight of sorrow for the disregarded mouse and wondered to what dark corner of the zenana she had fled to hide her shame and to escape the scorn and anger of her mother-in-law.

Chapter Eighteen

Predictably, the lowering features of Edgar Troop greeted Joe as he emerged from the zenana.

‘There you are, Sandilands! And here I am, you see, on sheepdogging duty,’ he said with an awkward laugh. ‘After the day you’ve had, Joe, I expect it will be nothing but good news to hear you can stand down now.’

Well, this was a surprise! Insightful sympathy was not a trait Joe easily ascribed to Edgar.

‘Not that, officially, you were ever on duty, of course. I don’t lose sight of that,’ he murmured. ‘We’ve arranged to have a portable meal served in Colin’s quarters – just the three of us – and we can spend the evening planning the tiger hunt. Colin got down here a few days before us and he’s been able to do a bit of reconnoitring. He’ll fill us in on his plan, assign duties, check the armament . . .’