Joe stood, silently taking in the sudden reshaping of his career, resentful of the ease with which these two old comrades, so similar in autocratic style, moved him around like a chess piece. It occurred to him that Sir George might be expressing a more than polite interest in his forthcoming trip.

‘Anyone in Ranipur you’d like me to arrest while I’m down there, by any chance?’

‘As a matter of fact, I can think of at least half a dozen who’d be better off behind bars. But, seriously, Joe, we do have a problem in the state. A problem with the succession.’

The door opened and Karim came in carrying a tray of whisky, sherry and glasses.

‘Sherry, Joe?’ George poured out a glass of sherry for Joe and a large whisky-soda for himself. ‘The situation is very uncertain. I’d like to have my own man on the ground to keep an eye on things over this next bit.’

‘But you’ve got Edgar to report back to you should there be a problem.’

George took a careful sip of his whisky. ‘Edgar may be part of the problem. He’s very attached to that old rogue, the maharaja. Soulmates you might say. I’d like to think there was a pair of sharp and unbiased eyes watching out for our interests.’

Joe found the cloth being offered to him and with reverence took the gun from Sir George. He stroked the oiled, finely grained French walnut stock and admired the richly engraved steel. Automatically he tested the balance of the gun then held it to his shoulder and squinted along the barrel.

‘This isn’t a weapon! It’s a work of art,’ he murmured.

‘It’s both, you’ll find,’ said George with satisfaction. ‘Don’t be taken in by the beauty of it. It packs a huge punch! It’s a Royal double rifle, 23-inch barrel. Quite simply the best in the world. Theodore Roosevelt took one to Africa with him and was very impressed. Wonderful for heavy, fast-moving game. Points with ease and speed and can fire two shots almost simultaneously. Great knockdown effect and it’s got a fast reload should your first two shots miss a charging buffalo.’

Joe laughed. ‘Sold! Have a dozen sent round to my suite at the Dorchester!’

George put on a pair of spectacles and eyed Joe carefully. ‘Fusilier, weren’t you? Thought I’d got that right. Put it to your shoulder again, Joe,’ he said. ‘Thought so! Could have been made for you! You know that each of these guns is made to measure? You go along to the gun shop and have more parts of your anatomy measured than they’d bother with for a suit in Savile Row. Height, chest, length of arm . . . and the result is an individually tailored gem. Extraordinary! You fit that gun exactly!’

‘I’ve never felt so comfortable with a gun,’ said Joe. ‘But, George, for whom was this made? Not you, I think?’ He looked speculatively at the rangy figure of Sir George, now growing a little portly but a good two inches taller than Joe and with longer arms.

‘My younger brother, Bill. It was a gift from our father on his twenty-first birthday. 1907.’ His voice took on a gruff tone and he added, ‘Killed at Ypres. He’d have been amused and pleased to see you standing there hefting it. You’re very like him. Look, Joe, take it. I mean have it. Gift from Bill. You’ll make good use of it in Ranipur and it’ll give you a certain standing amongst the shooting classes. The maharaja may have its equal (I believe he’s got Purdeys) but no one else will.’

Joe could hardly find the words to stammer his thanks. He knew there was no point in attempting a polite refusal; George Jardine said what he meant and always got his own way.

‘I shall go to Ranipur well equipped to shoot something, then, but what or whom have you in mind, George?’

‘With the rifle: tiger. There have been reports of a wounded tiger that’s developed a taste for human flesh terrorizing the villages in the north of the state. And while you’re about it, I’d like you to take that pistol over there on the rack with you. Bit more up to date than your Scotland Yard issue blunderbuss.’

Joe took down the pistol George was indicating. ‘Haven’t seen one of these before,’ he said, impressed. The weapon was small and businesslike, pared down to its stark essentials. In contrast with the rifle, there was not a curlicue, no decoration of any kind, to relieve the elegantly blunt 3½-inch barrel surmounting a sculptured butt which housed the magazine.

‘No, you won’t have seen one of these. It’s a Browning M, this year’s model. Magazine holds eight bullets. As you see, it’s discreet and as lethal as it looks. You could slip it into the pocket of your dinner jacket and no one would be any the wiser. I thought we’d spend the afternoon popping off the guns, getting the feel of them, putting in a bit of target practice.’

‘George, are we about to start a war?’ said Joe in sudden alarm.

George considered. ‘I hope not. But there could be bloodshed. Best be prepared.’

‘You said something about the succession? Is it in doubt? Is that going to give rise to difficulties? And why now? I understood from Edgar that the prince is only in middle age. He’s just married a third wife in fact, hasn’t he?’

‘This is something even Edgar hasn’t got wind of yet. And I suppose I’d better warn him before you go off down there. Poor old Udai Singh has got cancer. He’s dying, Joe. The medics, and he’s consulted the best, give him six months at the outside. Heard of Sir Hector Munro? Former Royal Physician? Forefront of the profession. He’s staying with the prince in Ranipur for an unspecified time, treating his condition as far as he’s able and, of course, keeping us informed of the progress of the disease. The succession – and this is always at the ruler’s whim, you understand – is of considerable interest to the British. It’s usual, though not mandatory, to nominate your eldest son as heir and, last month, Udai had two sons so you would think it was straightforward. No longer.’

‘George, you’d better tell me what happened last month,’ said Joe with foreboding.

‘A disgraceful scene! The elder son died. Now what was his name? Bishan, that’s it. Any coroner would have said death by misadventure, but the circumstances were, to my mind, a bit mysterious. Oh, no loss! We assumed he was the heir and we weren’t happy with that. Chap was a sort of walking sponge. Alcohol, opium, absinthe, he took it all aboard. Not the slightest interest in anything but his own gratification and consequently a rather unpopular man, but his cause was espoused by his terrible old mother, the First Her Highness. She was twenty when she married Udai thirty-odd years ago and he was a lad of thirteen. An enterprising lad because she presented him with a son in short order. A few daughters followed but I don’t know their names; they’ve all been married off to neighbouring princes. One or two sons who died in infancy, I believe. He married a second wife years later and she too has a son. Must be in his late twenties now.’

‘So there’s no immediate problem then?’

‘Not so sure of that. Everybody heaved a sigh of relief when the elder son met his sticky end but that left number two next in line and he’s hardly any better from our point of view. A drinker like his brother – though they say reformed – but what has really annoyed his father is that he’s recently married (whilst on a trip to the States) a very unsuitable girl. An American. Dancer of some sort. Some say she’s a circus girl. Very beautiful by all accounts but a menace. Refuses to join the other ladies in the zenana and insists on having her own accommodation. Drives around in a cream roadster with scarlet trimmings, drinks too much champagne and swears like a trooper.’

‘Sounds fun!’ said Joe, unguardedly.

‘A rackety pair but – they say – devoted to each other. Prithvi has held out against all his father’s suggestions, commands even, that he marry a decent Indian girl as second wife to ensure the succession. There’s a law, you see – British law – that any children of marriages to Western girls may not inherit so Prithvi has really upset his father! Cut off the line, you might say. The pair met on an airfield, I understand. And that’s another of number two’s passions. He’s mad about flying. He’s got a plane in Ranipur and flies it, recklessly I hear, about the place. Not a good insurance risk!’