‘Czechoslovakia. Important cultural centre – they’ve got the telegraph all right but we may have to wait a day or two. Infernal nuisance!’

‘Well, Korsovsky can’t wait even two or three days, I’m afraid. I’ve ordered the funeral for tomorrow at Christ Church. We’ll just have to hope the chap wasn’t a Muslim or a Zoroastrian.’

‘Have you got any further with the guns?’

‘Yes, we have. We’ve fired the rounds, got samples to compare with the fatal rounds extracted from the Governor’s upholstery and they’re, as we speak, on their way to Calcutta. We’ve fingerprinted them. Lots of dabs on the two rifles that were in the glass cupboard – the two that Troop described to us. And, of course, the likelihood is that they’re all his. I’ve sent a chap over to Flora’s to get samples of his fingerprints and then we’ll see. The other gun – the one in the oily rag – is a bit of a mystery. It had been wiped clean. Not a trace of a dab on it anywhere. What’s the betting that’s our weapon?’

Carter poured out two welcome cups of Assam tea and crunched his way noisily through a pastry.

‘This is the best bit,’ he said handing another telegram over. ‘Simpson? Remember Simpson? We’ve got him! The King’s Own wired me to say that he’d been demobbed from the regiment three years ago but hadn’t left India. Our bloke took up a job with the Delhi Advertiser. He’s a newspaper sub-editor. I got straight on to the paper and confirmed this. Said I wanted to talk to him about the Beaune rail disaster. Well, blow me! Five minutes later he’s on the phone. Very eager to talk about it! It seems our Captain Simpson hasn’t taken any leave for three years and is due some. He offered to get on the next train and come up here to Simla to meet us. Says he has something he wants to talk about concerning the crash. Of course, I agreed to this. I’ve booked a room at the Cecil and we can expect him here tomorrow.’

Joe looked at him anxiously.

‘It’s all right!’ said Carter cheerfully. ‘I warned him to be sure to take the Toy Train and on no account to come up in a tonga!

‘And now, Joe, tell me what you’ve been up to. Loafing about Simla? Doing a spot of window shopping?’

‘That’s right,’ Joe smiled. ‘Loafing about on the Mall with the louche of the town. And, speaking of the louche of the town, don’t we have an appointment to interview one or two of them this morning?’

Carter grinned with anticipation. ‘So we have! At least not an appointment because I certainly haven’t warned them that we’re coming. Johnny and Bertie and Jackie and whoever else is crawling about in that gypsy encampment they call a “chummery”! Come on then, we’ll walk there!’

They walked together past the Cecil Hotel and on towards Mount Pleasant and here they were confronted by a large pale corner house where Edgar Troop and others had allegedly spent the afternoon of the murder playing snooker.

The house was large and, indeed, pretentious but woefully run-down and out at elbows. Joe could not help comparing it to the splendour of Sir George’s Residence and to the Anglicized charm of Charlie Carter’s house under the rule of Meg Carter. The house before Joe seemed to belong to another age, an age before the dominance of the Indian Civil Service. To the days of irresponsible John Company officers with their Indian mistresses tucked away in the mysterious zenana, discreetly amassing a respectable fortune to take home on the side. This, it seemed to Joe, was India before the opening of the Suez Canal, the India of brandy pawnee and chota hazri washed down with a jug of claret.

To the right of the crumbling façade were double gates leading to a stable yard and coach house. Joe heard the clank of buckets and the restive clip of hooves on cobbles. ‘Always a few horses here,’ said Carter. ‘They’re not above a little gentlemanly horse-coping. All the old screws in Simla pass through their hands sooner or later.’

The garden was unkempt. A large car with its doors open was carelessly parked aslant in the driveway. Some window shutters were open and others closed and one or two hung on a single hinge. The honky-tonk of a tinny gramophone played from within. Servants there were aplenty but they lacked the servile discretion which Joe found he had come to expect.

As Joe stood for a moment in indecision, Carter’s hand fell on his shoulder. ‘Come on, we can’t stand here loitering with intent. Let’s have our chat with the chaps in the chummery! Why don’t we step inside? It looks as though we’re going to have to announce ourselves. The servants are as alert and welcoming as their masters, you’ll find.’

At the door they were confronted by a tall figure in a crumpled white suit and with a solar topee somewhat askew. A silver-mounted walking-stick in his hand supported a lame foot.

‘Yes?’ he said without welcome.

Carter looked him up and down. ‘Johnny Bristow!’ he said. ‘Charmin’ to see you again. And are Jackie Carlisle and Bertie Hearn-Robinson at home?’

‘May be. Not sure they’d want to see you. Or your friend. Who’s this?’ he asked, looking suspiciously at Joe.

‘May I introduce Commander Joseph Sandilands of Scotland Yard?’

Joe had met men who were more impressed by the mention of his title. Johnny Bristow sighed with irritation and said, ‘I suppose you’d better come in, though what you think any of us will be able to tell you about anything I can’t imagine. Shouldn’t you be rounding up monkeys or something?’

Joe’s impression of Old India was reinforced as they entered the house. The furniture was European but shabby and knocked about. Bills and invitation cards jostled each other on the mantelpiece; not a few of these were over a year old. Inevitably, the prints of the ‘Midnight Steeplechase’ hung on the wall, along with a fine leopard skin and the head of a markhor. A fencing mask and crossed foils added a note of gentlemanly athleticism and there were whips, boots, boxing gloves, boxes of ammunition, not-well-secured gun cupboards, boxes of cigars sealed and opened, the remains of what had obviously been a copious breakfast amongst the debris of which could be seen a bottle of gin and a bottle of Angostura bitters.

‘Give you a drink?’ said Johnny Bristow. ‘I usually have a pink gin about now. How about you? No? You’d better meet the others.’ In rapid and competent Hindustani he gave orders to a passing servant. ‘I’ll get Jackie and Bertie to come and join us. I think they’re out of bed. Ah – Jackie, here’s Carter and Mr, er, I suppose I should say Commander, Sandilands.’

Jackie, not long out of bed, blinked myopically at them through bloodshot eyes. He was wearing the crumpled white suit which appeared to be the uniform in the chummery.

‘They’re here to investigate the death of that unfortunate Russkie, I expect. What they think we can tell them I really don’t know,’ Johnny said helpfully.

‘You can tell me,’ said Carter, ‘where you both were at the time.’

A third figure, presumably Bertie Hearn-Robinson, entered the room.

‘A clumsy device,’ he said. ‘You say to me, “Where were you at the time?” I tell you. You say, “How do you know that was the time?” And before I know where I am I find myself in handcuffs!’

‘Perhaps we can save you a bit of trouble,’ said Joe mildly. ‘We’ve had a long conversation with Edgar Troop which would appear satisfactorily to establish an alibi and the first thing a good policeman will do with an alibi is check it and that’s why we’re here.’

The three men relaxed somewhat and began to talk amongst themselves. ‘Well, let’s have a think… What day are we talking about?… Monday, was it? That was the day I went to the dentist.’

‘No, that was Tuesday.’

‘Was it the day little Maudie Smithson came and made that fuss?’

‘Good God, no – that was a fortnight ago!’

‘It wasn’t, you know!’

‘Just a minute, let’s get this straight. It was the day… or would it have been the day we tried out your new car, Jackie?’