‘Might he have killed Lionel as a favour to Alice – to keep her in place?’

‘It’s possible. They’re certainly very thick. And there are those who say she is too dependent on him and listens too closely to his advice.’

‘Very thick? Just how thick, I wonder? Or rather, what exactly is the nature of their closeness? Seeing them together I had wondered…’ Rather embarrassed to be heard exchanging what Carter might think of as unworthy gossip, Joe shared his suspicions.

‘Well! Well! That kind of relationship!’ Carter paused for a moment, smiling. ‘Two attractive people so in a way I’m not surprised, but I am amazed that not a hint of it has ever come to the surface. Not even Meg has any suspicions, I’ll swear it. And in Simla that’s quite something!’

‘I have a feeling that Alice Sharpe is very good at keeping secrets,’ said Joe. ‘There’s something I’m uneasy about regarding Alice. I can’t get it out of my head that there is some connection between her and Korsovsky.’

‘Can’t see it,’ said Carter. ‘What have you got? This eight-year-old programme with English writing on it? Not much, is it?’

‘There’s more,’ said Joe slowly. ‘When I met Alice last night at the theatre she was suggesting that I might have been the killer’s true target and she said something rather strange. She said, “Korsovsky looked English from a distance…” How did she know? I’ve asked about and nobody else in Simla has a clue about his appearance! They’ve all heard of him but no one has seen a photograph apparently. He might well have been five feet tall with a red beard for all they knew. She denies ever having met him. And I’m still sure that the grief she showed when she sang her Russian lament was real.’

‘Mmm. Nothing in the press she could have got that idea from. What about publicity she might have seen in London before she left England?’

‘He did appear at Covent Garden but not until she’d already left for India. I went to see him myself and that’s how I recognized him.’

‘I’ve got it! Catalogues from record companies. Perhaps there’s a photograph of him in one of those?’

‘I looked at her collection today. No opera. All jazz and ragtime.’ Joe sighed. ‘And there is a third connection. Look at this, Carter…’

Joe took the French newspaper from his pocket and showed it to Carter, drawing his attention to the agent’s strange message and then to the name of Alice Conyers amongst the first class passengers.

‘That’s damned odd!’ said Carter. ‘Look, we’ve sent off telegrams to this Grégoire Montefiore in his Paris office to tell him Korsovsky’s dead and ask for names of next of kin and so on. I’ll send off another one to ask if he can remember why he sent this edition of a paper to his client three years ago. But let me look at it again.’

He looked closely at the lists of passengers, occasionally asking Joe to translate a passage he was unsure of. ‘Hang on a moment! There’s something else we can try for faster results. It’s a shot in the dark perhaps but look here, Joe, do you see? – someone else survived the crash. Someone travelling first class. Captain Colin Simpson. Returning to his regiment in Bombay. Perhaps he could shed some light on Alice Conyers. I don’t expect so but I think we ought to try. Do you think he might be still in Bombay? What does it say about him? Anything?’

‘Well it’s mostly tear-jerking blather about baby Henri,’ said Joe, reading down the column, ‘but I thought I saw… Yes, here it is. Not much I’m afraid. It mentions Alice and says she left almost at once to continue her journey and then it says, “An English soldier, Captain Colin Simpson, was also bound for Bombay at the time of the accident to rejoin his regiment, the 3rd KOYLI, but his departure will be much delayed on account of the serious nature of his injuries… So badly concussed was the captain that he was at first taken for dead and his body had lain for several hours in the morgue before it was realized that he was still alive. He was conveyed to the hospital in Lyons where there were better facilities for treating head injuries. He was at first reported as killed but his grieving family who had been informed of this have now been reassured that he is still alive.” ’

‘His regiment ought to be able to tell us where he’s got to. I’ll get off a telegram straight away. So – one to G.M. and one to the Adjutant of the 3rd battalion of the King’s Own Yorkshire Light Infantry!’

Carter took a pad and a pen and carefully wrote out two messages. He called out and a young officer appeared. Instructions were given, the officer nodded in understanding, put the messages away in a leather pouch which he buttoned on to his belt and set off at the double for the telegraph office.

‘Of course,’ said Joe, ‘no matter how much digging about we do into these little mysteries, sleuthing about, you might say, and trying to look clever, there’s one step we would be negligent if we didn’t take – and as soon as possible.’

‘Edgar Troop, you mean,’ said Carter glumly. ‘Alice’s accusation seems to have been pretty blunt. Yes, I agree, we would be neglecting our duty if we didn’t follow it up.’

Neatly, Charlie Carter flicked a cigarette end over the verandah railing. Joe watched it sail in a graceful parabola on to the corrugated iron roof below where it exploded in a flash of sparks. ‘Are you thinking, I wonder, what I’m thinking? That we might go and lean a little bit on the charming Mr Troop?’

‘Yes, exactly that. Got anything better to do? Big Red can wait for another day, can he?’

‘No time like the present, I’d say! I’ll detail a couple of officers discreetly to accompany us but I’m not expecting a shoot-out. I’ll just write a note to Meg before we go. Tell her we’re going to Madame Flora’s establishment and she’s not to sit up for us. Should be home for breakfast.’

He bustled about making his arrangements.

‘Perhaps I should write a note for Sir George,’ said Joe. ‘How did it go?… Going to Madame Flora’s… Don’t sit up… Be back for breakfast.’

They set off together to walk down to the town with two silent Sikh policemen padding behind.

Chapter Eight

«^»

I don’t think we can plan this interview,’ said Joe. ‘It so very much depends on the reaction. But you do realize, I’m sure, that we’ve got very little we can hang on Troop. I plan to play it very informally. Agree? Perhaps he’ll be overawed by the police talent?’

‘If I know anything about Edgar Troop he wouldn’t be overawed by a squadron of Household Cavalry,’ said Charlie dubiously.

Joe wondered as they approached Madame Flora’s establishment what to expect. A tinkle of music from a honky-tonk piano? A palm court orchestra discoursing a little Offenbach? A row of black-stockinged legs kicking up an array of multi-layered petticoats?

They turned off the Mall where the street lamps had now clicked on and the brilliantly lit shop windows offered even more temptations than in the daylight. The façade of Madame Flora’s, in comparison, was hardly lit at all, beyond a lamp above the front door. In the dusk Joe observed two massive chaprassis, turbaned, silent and watchful. With Joe and Carter’s appearance they seemed inclined to dispute the way, moving discreetly together across the door.

‘Just explain,’ said Joe, ‘that we’ve only come to buy a bowl of early crocuses.’

But the guardians recognized Charlie and, as discreetly, stood aside and following an unseen signal the door opened from within.

Within the entrance a figure in European dress rose from behind a desk and in heavily accented English gave them a smiling greeting. The accent? French? Joe wondered. Italian perhaps? He wasn’t sure.

‘Good evening, gentlemen. If you’d like to wait here… I’d be very pleased to bring you a drink if you’ll say what would be your preference. We’re not busy tonight. You shouldn’t have to wait at all.’