‘Is there an alternative?’

‘As it’s quite in order for the ruler to nominate whomever he likes – and never forget Udai was himself a village boy, a distant relation, when he was nominated as ruler against all the odds – there must be hundreds! He can pick and choose. Doesn’t even have to be a member of his own family. His older brother, over whose head he was promoted so to speak, is his Dewan, his prime minister I suppose you’d say. Very sound and sensible chap, Zalim Singh. Statesman. He must think he’s strongly in the running. And we would not be displeased if he were. But there is another serious contender. Had my eye on this one for some time.’

Joe waited, wondering whether he ought to be making a few notes.

George went on with relish, ‘The prince has a third son. Illegitimate. Son of one of his concubines. The lad’s only twelve years old though.’

Joe was not deceived. ‘Twelve years old? Impressionable? Malleable? In need of a highly principled regent to show him the ropes?’

‘You’ve got it! He’s bright as a button! I’ve met him. Sounded him out, you might say. Interested in science and astronomy. Good little hunter too. Shot his first leopard three years ago. Speaks good English, gets on well with Claude and that’s important. If he succeeds, as you suggest, he’ll need a regent to supervise him during the years of his minority and – who better than Claude? We were planning to send the lad to Mayo College near Jaipur next year to complete his education. Or to Eton and then Sandhurst if he wishes.’

‘So, the stable money’s on son number three. But you haven’t told me, George, what exactly happened to put number one out of the running permanently?’

George hesitated and took a large gulp of his whisky before replying. ‘You have to understand, Joe, that this is quite an, er, alien culture we’re dealing with here. Until very recently these chaps were – and I have to say still largely are – Rajput warriors. Very special breed. Hindu by religion with some Moslem attributes. Many of these Rajput tribes fought off the Moghul invaders with suicidal bravery. Some, like Udai’s mob, even managed to hang on to their independence. Tough nuts to crack! They’re very fierce, very proud, quarrelsome and quite intractable. Imagine a Scottish chieftain, if you will, but unconquered and with oodles of cash in the treasury.’

‘Not easy, but I get the idea!’

‘They put great store too by physical courage and strength. Now they can no longer show their prowess on the battlefield, they demonstrate their power through sport. Hunting, wrestling, polo, elephant fights, pig sticking, that sort of thing. You must get someone to show you the armoury while you’re down there – it’s very special. Well, it was apparently son number one’s charming habit to show his strength by wrestling with panthers.’

‘Good God! I’m surprised the heir to the throne was allowed to do that!’

‘Not quite as dangerous as it sounds. I’m unhappy to say that this chap fixed the odds. He had a black panther kept in a large cage in the palace courtyard. He’d had it declawed and its jaws sewn up. He’d go down every morning and wrestle with it to the fawning admiration of the courtiers. It was his custom to use a panther in this way and then turn it over to the elephant pens to give the beasts trampling practice.’

Joe’s mouth was a tight line of distaste but he remained silent.

George went on, his joviality fractionally strained, ‘One day, this charmer rolled out of bed, said his morning prayers, consumed his customary dose of opium to give him strength and courage and went down for his prebreakfast wrestle. Trouble is, this time the panther won. During the night, someone had replaced the declawed panther with a fresh and very angry beast who wasn’t playing by the rules. It tore him to pieces.’

‘Appalling!’ Joe murmured. ‘Did they find out who’d replaced the animal?’

‘I don’t suppose anything like a Scotland Yard enquiry took place but there was retribution. The Master of the Hunt and all his assistants disappeared at once and haven’t been seen since. It’s assumed they were quietly executed.’

‘Didn’t Claude Vyvyan have something to say about that?’

‘Apparently not. I’m still awaiting his report.’

There was something in George’s tone which alerted Joe. He knew him well enough by now to be able to pick up his unexpressed thoughts. Certainly time he got out of India! Almost resentfully, he followed where George was leading him.

‘A man you can trust, Vyvyan? It sounds as though you’re going to need to trust him, the way things are going in Ranipur. A regency is no small matter. Calls for a skilled and loyal servant of the Empire and one who’s prepared to put in a concentrated effort over a period of time . . . Is this what we have in Vyvyan, Sir George?’

‘Highly qualified fellow. Talented . . . thorough . . . ambitious, you’d say. But, well, you understand, I’m always glad to have an unbiased pair of eyes to spy out the land. Let me know what you make of him, Joe. That’s another reason I want you down there, my boy. Find out, if you can, what’s really going on in Ranipur, will you? Look on this in hunting terms, shall we? We’re out in the jungle, unseen danger lurking behind every bush, and some helpful forest creature gives a warning cry. What do you do? Well, you interpret the cry and check your gun’s loaded. Then you wait and watch and see what comes creeping out of the undergrowth. Come on, let’s go and have lunch then we’ll get our shooting practice in.’

He turned to Joe and looked at him steadily. ‘My boy, there are man-eaters about in Ranipur, certainly one with stripes and four legs but quite possibly another prowling the palace corridors on two legs. Be careful, Joe!’

Chapter Four

Joe very much enjoyed Indian first class rail travel. He liked the comfortable buttoned black leather upholstery, he appreciated the block of ice sharing a tin bath with a dozen bottles of India Pale Ale, strong and hoppy, and he watched as one by one their labels floated off. He listened with half his mind to Edgar’s anecdotal conversation and was glad enough to have escaped from Simla.

It was late afternoon before they arrived at the junction with the private rail link with Ranipur. ‘Say goodbye to comfort,’ said Edgar. ‘From now on we’re on the narrow gauge, colloquially known as the Heatstroke Express. I keep talking to Udai about it but he never travels by train himself and he doesn’t know how the rest of the world suffers. You would think that some of the nobs who use the little railway would have told him.’ He rose to his feet, began to button himself up and committed his cigar to a deep ashtray. Joe joined him to look out of the window.

‘Behold the powerful state of Ranipur!’

‘Powerful? Would you say powerful?’ Joe asked.

‘Well, it’s all relative, isn’t it? Some would say prosperous, successful, untroubled.’

‘But having a bloodstained past?’

‘Yes, indeed, and possibly a bloodstained future as well.’

Joe gave him a sharp look. ‘You sound a bit ominous. Ancestral voices, do I hear, prophesying war?’

An unaccustomed look of uncertainty passed briefly over Edgar’s florid features and he paused a moment before replying. ‘Nothing as definite as that but I’ll answer your question properly when I find out why, I mean really why I’ve been summoned by Udai. Devious old twister that he is!’

They stepped down into the extreme of an Indian summer’s day.

‘Heatstroke Express!’ said Joe. ‘I see what you mean!’ And a little train whistling and steaming sweatily stood by on another line to receive them.

‘Only an hour,’ said Edgar. ‘We’ll probably survive. People mostly do.’

But they didn’t have to make the experiment. As they walked across the station forecourt they turned to look at a large white car approaching them at speed and trailing a cloud of dust.