‘Send them off into the moffussil!’ said Edgar. ‘And the fewer who return, the better!’

‘Something like that,’ said Colin uncertainly.

It had been a good evening, Joe thought. He had said little, content to be entertained by the two old friends who yarned the hours away retelling well-known stories for Joe’s benefit, but at last he set off back along the dark lakeside path, Edgar steering his way by the light of an enormous amber moon and the small, twinkling lights of the houses along the water’s edge. Joe paused, holding his breath to see the magical white lamplit outline of Shubhada’s pavilion reflected in the still water. Forest creatures were about and he heard their furtive movements, their occasional throaty warnings. He stood, entranced, listening to the unexpected song of a night bird, a liquid golden stream of sound from the branches overhead.

‘Himalayan song-thrush,’ said Edgar, prosaically. ‘Always the first to say good morning and the last to say goodnight. Now come on, Joe, step out! If you want to take a look at the armoury before you turn in.’

Edgar threw open the door of the armoury and switched on the lights with the confidence of one who had the undisputed entrée and, with a wide gesture, invited Joe to inspect the room’s contents. It seemed to him to be half trophy room, half museum of Rajput militaria from a bygone age. He commented firstly on the rows of tiger and leopard heads since this seemed to be expected of him. Rank upon rank and, apart from a small marker identifying the hunter and the date of the kill, indistinguishable one from the other, they glowered down at him. All snarled defiantly, all had bright glass eyes which reflected back the light bulbs from their black pupils, following him around the room in a disconcerting way.

The centre of the room was occupied by the stuffed body of a superb tiger, its coat, in spite of its experiences at the hands of the hunter and the taxidermist, deep and thick, shining with an illusion of health. Joe could not hold himself back from running a hand along the sleek pelt, wondering at the massive size of the animal.

‘Winter coat, that’s why it’s so thick,’ said Edgar. ‘Udai shot it himself a couple of years ago. His last tiger. Big one – ten foot six, nose to tail.’

‘I can see why Colin prefers to go hunting with a camera,’ said Joe to annoy Edgar. ‘It’s against nature to turn a gun on such a fine creature for no good reason.’

Edgar looked at him, disbelieving. ‘Hunting’s a good reason,’ he commented briefly. ‘Come and look at the weaponry. Imagine having to face one of these without the advantage of a big-game rifle and a hundred yards between you. Up close, staring it in the eye, thirty stone of powerful muscle launching itself at you, feeling its breath on your face and nothing more than one of these in your hand!’ He pointed out the rows of lances lined up along a wall. To Joe they looked fearsome enough. And the displays of vicious curved talwars, longswords and pig-sticking spears made him shudder.

Edgar gave a sly grin. ‘Not your scene exactly, is it, Joe? All right. I’ll let you off the other exhibits!’ He waved a hand at a series of large glass cases. ‘Torture instruments, bits of gladiatorial gear. All in use until a few years ago, I’m told. And all very interesting. Rather far-sighted of Udai to preserve it, you’d say. Would have been all too easy to dispose of it in the name of modernity but that’s Rajputs for you – very conscious of their past and proud of it.’

They turned the lights off and left. Joe shuddered, his imagination telling him that this was not a room in which he would have enjoyed finding himself alone after dark. But his tour was not yet over. Remorselessly, Edgar opened the door of the next room along the passageway. ‘Here you are, you see, in complete contrast – could you have anything more up to the minute than this?’

‘This’ was a lavishly decorated shrine to the game of snooker. In the centre of the room, standing like a huge altar, a snooker table (though the word was inadequate for such a structure) gleamed in gold-embossed mahogany. In an echo of the ranks of lances next door, snooker cues were lined up against the walls in racks and scoreboards were fastened to leather-lined panels.

‘Most impressive,’ said Joe. ‘We must have a game sometime. And I’ll wear Sir George’s jacket in deference to the sumptuous surroundings. Anything less sartorially sensational would smack of disrespect!’

‘Do you have to talk like a music hall MC?’ grumbled Edgar.

‘It must be all this mahogany and red plush,’ Joe muttered.

‘Well, thanks, Edgar, for the tour,’ said Joe as they arrived in front of his suite. ‘Now go and get an early night, old man. Remember we have a brisk start in the morning.’

With a sigh of relief he went into his room, loosening his tie, kicking off his shoes, hurling his jacket in the direction of the wardrobe and making for the bathroom. He was glad he’d had the forethought to tell his valet to stand down; he didn’t feel up to an appraisal by Govind’s bland but all-seeing eye. There were many things he was unable to come by in India and solitude was one of them. With pleasure he ran his own bath and wallowed in the water, then stood naked and dripping wet on the marble floor for several minutes until he could imagine himself cool again before drying off.

There was a light tap on the door. Joe sighed and tucked a towel round his waist. He waited, expecting Govind to come in to check he had all he needed. The tap was repeated. Cursing to himself he went to the door and opened it. There was a rush of scented air as Madeleine ducked under his arm and dashed into the centre of the room. She looked excited and determined and she was holding out a brown foolscap envelope for him to see. Joe groaned.

‘Got it! Didn’t I tell you I’d do it! But you weren’t really listening, were you, Joe?’

‘Good Lord, Madeleine! What have you got there? Your “ticket out of here”, I think you said . . . you see, I was listening! Is that it? I want you to tell me quickly and then buzz off, will you? You’ve already ruined my reputation irreparably!’

Madeleine rolled her eyes. ‘Your reputation! Joe, you squeal louder than a virgin in the Black Sox dressing room! No one saw me come. I was very careful. And I thought you’d be interested to see what I have here!’

With shining eyes she handed over the envelope. Resentful of his own curiosity, Joe opened it and slid out several printed legal documents. It was a few moments before he could work out what he held in his hand but when the import of the papers hit him he sat down abruptly on the edge of his bed, clutching them in a damp hand.

‘What the hell, Madeleine!’

‘Thought you’d be impressed!’

He leafed through the package silently adding up figures in his head.

‘A million? Have I got that right? A million dollars’ worth of bearer bonds, stock certificates, title deeds . . . All instantly negotiable, I notice. Now . . . the question is – do I want to know how you came by them?’

‘Well, since you ask so prettily, I’ll tell you! The ruler gave them to me this afternoon. I think he’s glad to pay me off and get rid of me.’

‘And what did you offer to do in return?’

‘It’s what I offered not to do that got his attention and triggered his generosity!’ she grinned.

She left Joe riffling in disbelief once more through the documents and poured out two glasses of tonic water from the tray laid ready. She handed one to Joe and sat down by his side. Her triumphant good humour was hard to resist.

‘Let me guess . . . you promised not to reveal what Prithvi had been getting up to in the States, I begin to think most probably with his father’s connivance?’

She looked at him in some surprise. ‘Why . . . yes . . . something very like that. Say – you really can put it together, can’t you?’