What had been Korsovsky’s words? ‘I was instructed to proceed by tonga.’ This, presumably, was the instruction. The instruction which had led him to his death.

‘I wonder who the devil signed this?’ thought Joe.

The old programme with its wine-stained front looked so ordinary Joe nearly thrust it back into the leather case unexamined. Professional procedure stayed his hand and he looked at it more closely. A performance of Rossini’s The Barber of Seville staged in the Opera House in Nice in March 1914. With a flicker of interest Joe wondered why Korsovsky would have carried around with him just one of what must be dozens of programmes bearing his name in a starring role, a dog-eared eight-year-old programme.

He opened it, noting that the part of Figaro had, as he had guessed, been played by Korsovsky. The part of Rosina was taken by a soprano, unheard of all those years ago but now one of the glittering names on the London and international stage. But it was not the printed programme which held his attention. It was the handwritten message scrawled across the top. A message in an exuberant girlish hand. It was a quotation from the opera. The first six lines of Rosina’s most famous aria ‘Una voce poco fa’ were copied out in the Italian but one slight alteration had been made to the text. Joe translated:

The voice I heard just now

Has thrilled my very heart.

My heart already is pierced

And it was Lindoro who hurled the dart!

Yes, Lindoro shall be mine,

I’ve sworn it! I’ll succeed!

The original name ‘Lindoro’ had been crossed out and ‘Feodoro’ substituted.

‘Feodoro shall be mine!’ Joe mused, much intrigued.

He sat back on his heels and reflected. The message was unsigned. And surely that was unusual? In his experience girls finished off a note of such intimacy with an initial at least. Or a jokey nickname. The exuberance and youthful confidence chimed badly with this note of discretion. What had been going on? A clandestine liaison? Very likely. But an important one to the man who had carried it around with him in his trunk for eight years. He wondered who she could have been. Eight years ago in her prime or young – the writing gave the impression of youth – the lady would be in her late twenties now, possibly early thirties. Korsovsky himself, he guessed, must have been in his forties when he died. Perhaps his passport would tell him more and that would be in his notecase which undoubtedly Carter had taken from the body and kept.

Aware of the weight of material the case was now beginning to engender, Joe got to his feet. He put the programme, the photographs and the letter from the Gaiety Theatre back into the leather case and pushed it into the inside pocket of his khaki drill jacket. Deciding that the theatre would be his first call and that his approach should be a bit anonymous, he waved aside the Governor’s rickshaw and set off to the town on foot.

He paused outside the Gaiety and thought how raffish and down-at-heel it seemed, like all theatres, in the daytime. The play bills announcing Korsovsky’s recital had been torn down already, dustbins full of waste paper were being hauled away by teams of Indian sweepers, and others were clearing the pavings of cigarette ends and cigar stubs. With a general hangover air the doors stood open on a dimly lit interior. Finding no bell and no knocker, Joe walked in and called, ‘Anybody there? Hello!’

Impatiently a figure in shirt-sleeves emerged from the booking office and Joe recognized Reggie Sharpe.

‘Morning!’ he said affably.

Reggie Sharpe looked him up and down. ‘Yes?’ And then, ‘Oh, it’s you, is it? Sanderson? Can I help you?’

‘Yes,’ said Joe. ‘I think you probably can. We met last night. Commander Joseph Sandilands of Scotland Yard…’

Reggie Sharpe looked at him with considerable distaste. ‘Can’t give you long,’ he said. ‘So make it as short as you can. What can I do for you?’

‘Well,’ said Joe, not prepared to be patronized, ‘what I have to ask might be confidential. I don’t really choose to discuss murder in the foyer and in the presence of,’ he waved an explanatory hand, ‘half a dozen sweepers.’

‘You’d better come in,’ said Reggie Sharpe reluctantly. With ill grace he opened the door of the booking office and with an ostentatious glance at his watch he took the only chair, offering Joe a small stool. ‘Now what’s all this about?’

‘You may know — ’ Joe began.

‘Well,’ said the other, ‘I’ll save you a bit of time and tell you what I do know. You’re a policeman, though God knows what you’re doing in Simla! I understand that you’re acting with the approval of Sir George though again I can’t imagine why and I imagine you are in concert with Carter investigating the death of the unfortunate Korsovsky. And I’ve yet to discover what on earth you think I will be able to tell you.’

‘Perhaps I can help you. Korsovsky didn’t just happen to be in Simla. His visit must have been arranged a long time ahead. There must be some correspondence between the theatre and him or between the theatre and his agent. There are two theories as to the cause of his death – firstly that it was a random shooting and has no connection with the former assassination of Conyers, and the second theory is that he was expected; someone was lying in wait for him, someone who knew his movements well enough to mount an ambush, and the information I need might conceivably emerge – to some extent at least – from any correspondence you or the theatre might have had with him. Perhaps you could enlighten me?’

Sharpe extended an angry hand and picked up a slender file of papers. ‘You’re welcome to look through this. It is – such as it is – the letters we exchanged with Korsovsky.’

‘May I take this away?’ Joe asked.

‘I’d very much rather you didn’t.’

‘I don’t need to but I wanted to spare you the boredom of sitting in silence while I read through them. Just as you like, of course.’

He began to thumb through the letters of which there were half a dozen going back about a year and opening with a letter from Korsovsky himself saying that he had always wanted to visit Simla and with due notice this might be arranged. Across the bottom of this was written ‘Acknowledged’ and a date. The next letter was from Korsovsky’s agent naming dates and making tentative reference to terms.

‘Considering his eminence, this is a very mild offer he was making you, isn’t it?’ Joe asked.

‘Well, we certainly thought so. The Gaiety can’t in the ordinary way begin to afford a man of his stature but I think it was true that for some reason unknown he wanted to come to Simla and was prepared to do it for a very modest fee.’

‘I think I can explain that,’ said Joe. ’He was passionately interested in Kim and carried the book about with him. He wanted to see where it all happened and that may have been reason enough.’

‘Huh! Another one of those,’ said Sharpe disparagingly. ‘Kipling fans are as thick as sparrows on the ground in the season.’

‘Can you suggest another reason?’

‘Certainly not,’ said Sharpe. ‘It’s no part of my job to interpret the vagaries of spoilt operatic stars.’

‘No part of your job? Do you have a job? I mean – what is your concern with the management of the Gaiety?’

‘I’m vice chairman. The chap who does all the work. Except that I don’t in fact. My wife Alice. She’s the one with the real interest in the theatre – handles the bookings, dictates the letters, checks the finance is in order. That sort of thing. You should be talking to her – I just come in one day a week, sign the letters and the cheques. You’re lucky to have caught me.’

Joe was listening for any nuance of resentment or even of pride in his wife’s achievements but there was none. His tone was straightforward and matter of fact.