‘And you don’t hang that on Sandilands and get away with it.’

‘I suppose so,’ said Joe. ‘I suppose so.’

‘Know just how you feel,’ said Sir George. ‘When I was a young man in Persia I got very interested in cock fighting. I had some very good birds. Gave it all up years ago of course but now, if I see a cock fight by the side of the road, I can’t just pass by. I have to see what’s happening. It’s the same for you. Once a copper… But now, tell me what happened.’

And Joe gave him an account of the events at the Devil’s Elbow concluding by asking, ‘Anything in particular strike you about this?’

‘Beyond the obvious fact – only this: both men were on their way to Simla. Neither man got there. Someone or some people had an interest in preventing them reaching Simla. Isn’t that the fact? Now who could that have been?’

‘Or, as Carter believes, a mad sportsman. He said, “Someone trying out a new rifle.” I can’t accept that very easily. But then it’s almost impossible that there should be a link between a Russian baritone and a British officer. No connection between the two.’

‘Well, we shall see. And, by the way, I said in my note that we were due at the theatre at nine. It’s not yet officially known that Korsovsky’s dead and he wasn’t due to perform until the day after tomorrow so I would guess that all goes ahead as planned. Won’t be much of an evening, I’m afraid; it’s very early in the season and they won’t have had much time to rehearse. The Operatic Society are doing a turn or two. Bits and bobs, you know, a sort of review to open the new season – “The First Cuckoo” or “Ragtime in Simla”, something of that sort. Look, there’s no reason why you should go, Joe. Why don’t you recover from the rigours of the journey?’

And to an aide-de-camp entering at that moment, ‘This thing at the theatre tonight, James – don’t have to go in uniform, do I? Black tie be all right? Well, there you are, Joe. If you want to come – black tie.’

Bathed and changed (black tie, white mess jacket) and after an outstandingly good dinner washed down by two bottles of claret, Sir George and Joe set off together in the carriage, two attendant aides-de-camp on horseback, two syce on the box and one man running in front with a lantern. Joe lay back enjoying the busy glamour of Simla. The whole town seemed to be on the move. Rickshaws, one or two carriages, men in dinner jackets – a few in uniform – women in evening dress and long white gloves making way for Sir George who bowed and smiled absently as they went by, Sir George pointing out the sights.

Joe was enchanted by the strings of electric lights which marked out the narrow and winding road ahead. Dipping and climbing and skirting the pine-clad slopes they looked like garlands on a Christmas tree. A full April moon added a natural illumination to the scene and Joe felt his spirits reviving. He made a polite remark to Sir George on the quirkiness of the architecture of Simla, pointing ahead to the slopes of the Lower Bazaar, clinging like a swallow’s nest to the hill. It rose in uneven layers, topped by corrugated iron roofs and dissected by flights of stairs climbing to the Mall above.

‘It’s a really terrible place, Simla!’ said Sir George confidentially. ‘Edwin Lutyens – architect chap – New Delhi – had it absolutely right. Took one look at Simla and said, “If one were told that the monkeys had built it, one could only say – What clever monkeys! They must be shot in case they do it again!” ’

He burst out laughing. ‘That really says everything that needs to be said but, all the same, everybody will tell you – when you come up from the plains you feel twenty years younger in Simla. It’s not only the fresh air. It’s the atmosphere. Irresponsible, you know. An adventurous spirit. Even at my age I feel it. No wonder people go off the rails from time to time when they get here. Most of them come up to Simla with the firm intention of going off the rails! So, my boy, mind what you’re about!’

Through the thickening crowd and threading their way though the parade of timber-framed and Anglicized villas, they clattered across the Combermere Bridge and the pale bulk of Christ Church came in sight.

‘There’s the cathedral for you,’ said Sir George unnecessarily. ‘People talk about the Anglican compromise – not much compromise about that! It’s as unashamedly Home Counties Gothick as you could find. You must go and look inside sometime. Frescoes were designed by Kipling’s father. And if you’re here on Sunday you must come and saunter about on the terrace amongst the rank and fashion.’

‘I’m not expecting to have much sauntering time,’ said Joe drily.

Turning a corner they came on the theatre, brilliantly lit.

‘Might be a Victorian music hall,’ said Sir George. ‘Hindu Baroque I always say.’

With a certain amount of flourish the carriage came to rest. A syce went to the horses’ heads, ADCs dismounted, carriage doors were opened and Joe and Sir George stepped down into the throng that opened up for them. As they entered the foyer an ADC leaned forward and murmured, ‘His Excellency isn’t here tonight, Sir George, nor the Governor of the Punjab. You’re the most prominent European, I’m afraid, sir.’

‘Do I have to do anything?’

‘I don’t think so, sir. Just bow and smile.’

‘I spend my whole life bowing and smiling,’ grumbled Sir George. ’Still, I suppose I’m paid for it! Ah, good evening Mrs Gallagher. And is this Margaret? Margaret! I would never have recognized you! So grown up, if you’ll forgive my saying it. First season?’

Others pressed round him.

‘May I present my sister, Sir George? Joyce, this is Sir George Jardine, Acting Lieutenant-Governor of Bengal.’

‘Delightful! Delightful!’ said George. ‘First visit?’

‘This,’ said an ADC in a discreet murmur, ‘is Colonel Chichester’s widow who was here last year.’

‘Ah,’ said Sir George, ‘Mrs Chichester! How delightful to see you again! Second visit, I believe? Third, is it? How time passes! And may I present Commander Sandilands who is staying with me – for a few weeks, I hope. Eh, Joe?’

Somewhere in the background a not very skilled orchestra was tuning and in groups of twos and fours the crowd dispersed by degrees to take their seats in the gilded boxes which surrounded the auditorium.

‘Doesn’t look as though they’ve heard about Korsovsky yet,’ said Sir George as they took their seats. ‘Wonder if they’ll make an announcement? Well, just as long as they don’t expect me to.’

Joe looked about him. Bright eyes, what his mother would have called ‘bold glances’, piled hair and silk dresses, white shirt fronts, moustached faces. Every now and then the light was reflected from a monocle amongst the audience. Joe felt himself transported back to a disappearing age. He was aware that, as Sir George’s guest, he was the focus of curiosity. ‘If I had a moustache, this would be the moment to twirl it!’ His eye was caught by Mrs Graham, the companion of his journey up to Kalka, and he greeted her, to her satisfaction, with a conspiratorial wink.

With a few bars of what Joe believed to be the overture to Aida, from the six-piece orchestra, the show began. The house lights were turned out and the curtain rose on a one-act comedy played with considerable skill and to much applause by a cast of four.

‘Angela,’ he overheard from a near neighbour, ‘really doesn’t look a day over thirty.’

And the acid reply, ‘I can sit in the sun and look twenty-one, while she’s forty-two in the shade!’

The drawing-room comedy gave way to the Choral Society – ‘List and Learn, Ye Dainty Roses’ – and to a male voice choir which boomed out the ‘Soldiers’ Chorus’ followed by a floundering Cakewalk danced to a jazz record by a coltish group of only slightly embarrassed girls.

‘If this was truly music hall fifty years ago, you could have one of them sent to you in the interval,’ said Sir George. ‘Just mention it to James!’