Meg bustled in, happy to resume her revelations about Sharpe, and Joe was very willing to draw her out. ‘Tell me, Meg,’ he said, ‘does Reggie Sharpe work for his living?’

‘Not really. But don’t forget he’s on the board of ICTC and a substantial shareholder. It’s common knowledge that Alice takes all the decisions. He does a bit in the ADS, I think. He used to help Alice with some of her charitable things but he doesn’t even do that now. I started to work in the hospital a bit – Lady Reading’s hospital – that’s how I met Alice. She’s an assiduous fund-raiser and works there full time one day a week when she’s in Simla. I like her.’

Joe smiled. ‘Yes, I gathered that much.’

‘Well,’ said Meg Carter defensively, ‘she’s easy. You can get on with her. We’ve worked well together. And the more she does, the more useless does Reggie Sharpe seem.’

‘Perhaps,’ said Joe, ‘he resents her? It does happen sometimes. Bright active girl, husband trailing along behind… Not a recipe for happiness.’

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said Carter. ‘It seems to work all right for us.’

Joe emerged from the Carter bungalow prepared to walk the short distance back down the lanes to the town centre but, to his surprise, the four rickshaw men who’d brought him there now reappeared, hastily putting away the dice they’d been playing with and presenting themselves again, smiling and keen to be off. Telling himself to remember rickshaws did not operate by the same rules as London taxis, Joe climbed aboard and said, ‘To Mrs Sharpe’s office. ICTC. It’s just off the Mall,’ he added helpfully but the men were away at the mention of her name.

After ten minutes scraping around corners they were back in the town’s main concourse and weaving their way through the press of foot traffic. Smartly dressed ladies strolled in chattering groups pointing and exclaiming at the displays in shop windows which would not have looked out of place in Paris. Men in army uniforms marched purposefully about at a smart pace, disappearing into the town hall or the telegraph office or making their way along to the army HQ next to St Michael’s Church. Indian ayahs trailed past leading files of small children, mushroom-headed in their oversized solar topees. Joe noticed with amusement that this season the fashion in topees for little girls seemed to be a white covering of broderie anglaise.

Amongst the soberly dressed English, the showy figures of chaprassis stood out, turbaned, scarlet-coated, each with his important-looking message box in his right hand, sometimes with a file of papers tucked under his arm. They walked swiftly on pointed sandalled feet from public building to public building and Joe realized that what he was looking at was the Empire at work. This dusty, narrow little street so inaccurately called the Mall was the nerve centre of British India, the scarlet messengers the electrical impulses which kept the information flowing.

Catching a glimpse of a sign advertising ‘Stephanatos Cigarettes. The best in Simla’, Joe, on an impulse, called out to the men to stop, indicating that he wanted to buy some cigarettes. They stopped and waited for him to do his shopping. Joe looked appreciatively at the smart façade with its array of pipes, mounds of exotic tobaccos, cigars of all sizes and brands of cigarettes he had never heard of. He entered the cool, dark and intensely fragrant interior with the anticipation of a child entering a sweetshop. The Indian assistant was eager to please a new customer and disguised his disappointment when Joe asked for a packet of Black Cat cigarettes.

‘Are these a popular brand in Simla?’ he asked conversationally.

‘Oh, yes, sahib. Not the smartest choice but very popular with gentlemen. Craven A, Black Cat, Passing Clouds, Gold Flake, those are the ones we sell in most large numbers.’

Joe nodded. ‘Oh and I’ll have forty Freibourg and Treyer.’

‘Ah, yes, sahib – more smart, more suitable!’

Leaving the shop he glanced down the alley to his left. At the bottom he caught the reflection of light off brass items on display piled on to tables in front of Latif’s shop. And, half-way down, a discreet hand-painted sign – a circle of twining art-nouveau lilies – announced in florid lettering ‘Madame Flora. Fleuriste. Paris et Simla.’ Joe wandered down and examined the displays of flowers on show in the window. The theme was ‘Springtime in Simla’ and flowers familiar and unfamiliar to Joe were blended in subtle colour combinations, mainly the yellow of jonquils and the purples of irises.

He went inside and was met by a drowning fragrance and by the tinkle of a fountain at the back of the shop. A handsome Eurasian boy and girl looking so alike they must be brother and sister came forward to ask how they might be of service. He told them he wanted a bouquet of flowers for a lady.

‘A special lady?’ the boy enquired with only the slightest emphasis.

‘Yes, a friend of mine,’ said Joe firmly. ‘No, no, I wasn’t thinking of roses – give me something simpler. What about some of these springtime blooms? Those white narcissus look wonderful and what about some of those pale purple things? Wild iris, yes, I’ll have some of those too.’

In seconds the girl had made up a bouquet with skill and flair and tied it with a distinctive broad gold ribbon.

Well satisfied with his purchase, Joe regained his rickshaw and continued on his way down the Mall. They passed a building so ludicrously out of place that Joe laughed out loud and pointed. ‘What on earth’s that?’ he shouted more as an exclamation than a question expecting a reply. The three-storeyed, half-timbered building with its pointed dormers and turrets would have looked wonderful and entirely at home on a mountainside in the Swiss Alps.

‘Sahib, General Post Office,’ panted one of the men pushing behind.

They turned a corner beside the post office and bumped down a narrow alleyway between the Mall and the Ridge, coming to a halt in front of a building which could have been the little sister of the post office, smaller, less flamboyant but determinedly half-timbered and turreted. Above the large double door flanked by two turbaned doorkeepers Joe read the sign ‘Imperial and Colonial Trading Corporation. Simla and Bombay.’ He dismounted and handed a further generous amount to the rickshaw men, remembering this time to tell them not to wait.

An Indian, impressive in blue and gold uniform, came forward and took the card he held ready in his hand. ‘Commander Sandilands. Good afternoon, sir. Mrs Sharpe is expecting you. Will you come this way?’

Joe followed him down a wide hallway hung with Indian fabrics and furnished with pieces of Indian furniture and was shown into a light and sunny room. Alice Sharpe, who was standing at the window, turned with a warm smile to greet him. She had been talking to an Indian. Tall, dark and neat, he was wearing a well-cut English suit and a green, white and blue tie. Old Rugbeian. Joe calculated that this must be Mrs Sharpe’s right-hand man, the able Indian she had promoted to take the place of her English cousins in the firm. Joe looked at him more closely. Behind the conventional good looks – liquid, dark, long-lashed eyes and smooth complexion – was a shrewd intelligence which was taking stock of Joe. Joe sensed the cool gaze pass lightly over his dusty khaki drill suit, a custard stain on his dark blue police tie and the bouquet of flowers he was holding awkwardly at his side.

At a gesture from Alice the Indian went over to a gramophone which was playing a Dixieland tune Joe recognized and turned it off. He bowed and waited. Alice greeted Joe and asked if he would like tea or coffee. Joe accepted coffee and the Indian bowed again and withdrew.

With a feeling of relief that he was no longer under scornful scrutiny, Joe presented the bouquet he had been holding at his side. ‘For the prettiest soprano east of the Caucasus,’ he said with a flourish.