‘And where was Alice and for that matter her fellow director when the shooting occurred?’

‘They were together. They had by this time married, by the way. And, funnily enough, at the precise moment Alice was out shooting. She’s a very good rifle shot but the only target she was hitting at the time was a bull’s-eye on the range at Annandale in view of about a hundred onlookers. She rushed off from the competition to prepare to receive her brother who was expected to come up the cart road in about an hour’s time. And her second cousin was one of the onlookers.’

‘So what do you make of the two killings? Are they connected, do you think?’

‘Well,’ said Carter slowly, ‘at the moment I’m thinking that the two targets are completely unrelated. I’m guessing that we’re dealing with a madman. Someone killing for fun. Trying out a new rifle, if you like. What possible connection could there be between a forgotten soldier and the flamboyant Monsieur Korsovsky?’

‘Beyond the fact that they were both shot in the same place. By the same sort of bullet?’

‘Yes. .303, probably a service rifle in both cases. Calcutta will tell us more. They inspected the first lot of cases as well.’

‘And the killer smoked the same sort of cigarette?’

‘Yes. Black Cat. Same scenario exactly. Evidence of a tall – five foot ten or thereabouts – sniper though obviously with more time on his hands on the first occasion – all twelve cigarette butts were smoked right down to the end. Well, before I do anything else I ought to report to my chief. I know what he’ll say – “Carry on, Carter!” He never says anything else.’

‘You’re lucky,’ said Joe with considerable feeling. ‘I wish I could say the same about my superior back in London Town. He’d let me blow my nose occasionally without consulting him but never much more than that. And while you’re reporting to your Chief Superintendent I wonder if I ought to go and make myself known to the Lieutenant-Governor, my host, Sir George Jardine?’

‘Yes, I suppose you should. He’ll want to know. He took a very considerable interest, you might say a surprisingly considerable interest in the death of Lionel Conyers.’

‘Did he?’ said Joe. ‘Did he indeed! Do you know him? I mean, do you know him well? Just a nodding acquaintance?’

‘Well, I’m not sure,’ said Carter, ‘whether a humble police superintendent can have a “nodding acquaintance” with the mighty Sir George! I wouldn’t dare to nod! I’d be standing at attention and though I like him I have to say I hardly know him.’

‘Well, I’ll tell you something,’ said Joe. ‘He never does or says anything without a motive. Although I was very pleased and grateful for the offer of his guest bungalow, I rather wondered why it had been offered to me…’

‘And what conclusion did you come to?’

‘He’s done this to me once before. He hauled me into an investigation down in Panikhat and it just crosses my mind that he may have hauled me into this. Watch developments and you’ll see that I’m right. And now I apologize because I’m quite sure the last thing you want in the world is me!’

‘You’re quite wrong about that, Sandilands,’ said Carter. ‘I’d be damned glad of somebody to talk to.’

‘Well, never forget,’ said Joe, ‘before we both sink over our heads in this, that Sir George is a devious old bastard!’

And with these words they went their separate ways, Carter – as he put it – to set the creaking apparatus of police procedure in motion and Joe in the company of a police sowar detailed to guide him to the Governor’s Residence through the intricacies of the summer capital of the Indian Empire.

Here, Joe found, was no oriental magnificence. There was no concession as far as he could see to India at all. Houses, growing in size as he rode onwards and upwards, might have strayed from Bournemouth or Guildford. The Moghul Empire might never have existed, nor yet the Honourable East India Company. Houses were tile-hung, some even had leaded windows. Balconies and french doors abounded, peaked and decorated gables and, on all sides, bogus half-timbering. House names too, smacked of the English Home Counties: Bryony, Rose Cottage, Valley View, Berkhamsted. Gardens, where they could be poked in on an available flat piece of ground, were abundant with spring flowers and, against a background pine wood smell, they breathed nostalgically of English country rectories.

The sun had sunk now behind the hills and a chill breeze knifing in from the snow fields reminded Joe that he was not in familiar Surrey but in wild country on a remote spur of the Himalayas at a height of seven thousand feet. He shivered and began to think about a hot bath and perhaps a log fire. He urged his horse along, keeping up with the cracking pace being set by the sowar, and noting the landmarks he might need to find his own way to the Governor’s Residence. At last he saw a discreet sign for ‘Kingswood’ and they swung off the main road down a steep lane between crowding rhododendron bushes.

The Governor’s house, though undeniably cosy in intent, was large and, within the limits of the architectural manner, impressive. Joe wound his way through the gardens, marking no fewer than ten gardeners at work and noting the servants in their dark green livery by the door. He handed his horse to his escort to return to the police station.

Sir George’s greeting when he finally made his way to him was characteristic.

‘Where the hell have you been? I’ve been looking out for you all afternoon! Been doing a bit of sightseeing, have you? Tasting the social charms of Simla?’

‘Not exactly,’ said Joe. ‘Not exactly.’

‘It’s all right,’ said Sir George. ’I’m not deaf! I am, as you may well remember, reasonably well connected. Chaprassis have been hot-footing it between here and the town hall for the last three hours. I understand there’s been another shooting at Devil’s Elbow. Pick it up from there. But, before you do so, tell me – what did you make of Carter?’

‘Not my place to make anything of Carter,’ said Joe repressively. ‘But, for what it’s worth, I thought – good man.’

‘Somebody you could work with?’ asked George innocently.

‘Certainly. But, before we go any further – why do you ask? In fact, you can answer another question if you will – I was very grateful to you for the offer of your guest bungalow but I couldn’t help wondering why you had offered it to me.’

‘Why? Does there have to be a reason why? Thought you might be glad of it.’

‘It didn’t, I suppose, cross your mind that you had an unsolved shooting practically in your back garden and that a little input from the Met might not be out of the way?’

Sir George broke into a roar of laughter. ‘Well, well, well,’ he said. ‘There’s no fooling Sandilands, as they say at Scotland Yard! You’ve guessed my secret! Yes, Joe. It did just cross my mind that this affair might be right up your street and in my devious old mind I went one further and thought, He won’t be able to resist, and, dammit, from the eager look in your eye, I believe I was right! But, Joe, I say, be tactful. I’m sure I don’t need to say this – I’m hoping you’ll work with Carter. He’s no fool and I don’t think his amour-propre will suffer but some might resent the suggestion from me that he could do with some help.’

Joe eyed him with exasperation but with amusement too. ‘I’ve been manipulated, I know that. And, of course, Carter has been manipulated as well. His last words on this subject to me were, “I’d be glad to have somebody to talk to.” ’

‘And you don’t mind?’

‘I don’t mind,’ said Joe slowly, ‘because of Korsovsky. I saw him killed, don’t forget. I was the last person to see him alive and, it would seem, the only person in Simla to remember him. And I will remember him. He was an impressive man. Some bastard gunned him down before my very eyes.’