‘It’s quite harmless, Commander,’ she said, picking up his disapproval. ‘Simla no longer witnesses the glory days of Madame Blavatski but we have our own resident medium, a Mrs Freemantle, who is well thought of.’

Joe made a note of this name and Marie-Jeanne went on, apparently ready to dispel any idea that there might be something shady going on in Simla. ‘All the best people go to her seances, you know. Alice is in no way regarded as being out of the ordinary because she takes an interest. And Mrs Freemantle is very talented – I, myself, am not a believer but I have to admit that what she does is skilfully done and does no harm. At best it comforts people and at worst it’s a harmless game.’

Joe made a mental note to take this up with Carter. To him, the mention of spiritualism had been a warning signal. He changed the subject, not wishing to alert Marie-Jeanne to his deepening interest.

‘So, we have a clever, hard-working and successful lady with a well-rounded personality? But there is, it seems to me, one discordant note in all this… her marriage to Reggie Sharpe? Was that, in your opinion, a clever move?’ asked Joe.

Marie-Jeanne’s tender expression froze into cold disapproval. ‘At the time she convinced me – she convinced herself – that it was the right, the sensible, thing to do.’ She paused for a moment. ‘But I infer from your question that you do not consider it a clever move?’

‘Not my place to judge.’

‘Too late!’ she said. ‘I think that you have met Reggie and that you have judged him – as we all have.’

‘And how is that?’

‘As a drunken, self-important, self-indulgent man who could never be the husband Alice deserves!’ She made no attempt to hide her anger and scorn.

‘You judge him despicable – do you also consider him dangerous?’

‘To whom?’

Joe remained silent and looked at her steadily.

‘Yes, I do,’ she went on. ‘I consider him a threat to anyone who would attempt to thwart him and that includes his wife.’

‘And Alice is courting danger when she attempts to curb his excesses?’

‘Alice is riding a tiger! Reggie is not the toothless old donkey she has persuaded herself that he is!’

Her concern, her distress, was so evident Joe found himself responding to it. ‘It may be a consolation, Mademoiselle Pitiot,’ he said, ‘to hear that only yesterday Alice herself voiced just such suspicions to me and they are being investigated. Nevertheless, her friends would do well to look out for her. I really believe she feels in danger of her life. Please, mademoiselle, seek my help if you think there is anything untoward going on.’

‘Thank you, Commander. I will do that.’

She began to stir and look towards the door to the showroom where fresh noises had broken out and was obviously eager to return to the sales floor. Joe rose and began to take his leave. He thanked her for her hospitality and made for the door, turning with his hand on the knob to say, ‘I almost forgot to ask and please forgive such a bodeful question – I assure you it is purely routine – but where were you exactly between the hours of twelve and five on Monday?’

For a moment she was taken aback and then said slowly, ‘You mean when the Russian opera singer was killed? I was, now let me think… Shall I get my day book? No, I think I can remember. I was having tiffin at the Grand Hotel with a glove manufacturer from Bombay until two o’clock – no, later than two – but you won’t be able to check that with him because he’s since gone on to Calcutta, and after that I went back to my warehouse to look over the latest arrivals with two of my staff. Let me think… It was Sumitra and Renée. We must have been there until nearly five o’clock and then I came back to the shop to close down. Do you want me to call my assistants, Commander?’

Joe shook his head. ‘Later perhaps, not for the moment, mademoiselle.’

He took his leave and bowed his way out of the shop, emerging into the sunshine with a sigh of relief. Standing for a moment to get his bearings, he decided to walk the hundred yards or so to the Grand Hotel to check Mademoiselle Pitiot’s story. He remembered what Carter had said – when it came to shooting, the women of Simla were crack shots and though he had never come across a less likely markswoman than the so correct Mademoiselle Pitiot, Joe was methodical. The murder had occurred at two forty-five exactly so if she had indeed been lunching at the Grand there was no way she could have been five miles away in an inaccessible spot drawing a bead on Korsovsky.

On entering the Grand he was smoothly intercepted by the maître d’hôtel, still at this early hour in shirt-sleeves, busy and not pleased to be interrupted. Joe produced his warrant card which gained him the attention he required and asked to see the reservations for Monday. The maître d’hôtel indicated a large leather-bound book open on a stand by the double doors to the restaurant. Turning back two pages he murmured, ‘Monday… Not a busy day. By no means a full dining room.’

Joe looked down the short list. At 1 p.m. table number ten had been booked for Mademoiselle Pitiot and guest. ‘This guest of Mademoiselle Pitiot – a gentleman?’

The maître d’hôtel did not welcome questions. ‘A gentleman, yes. A Frenchman, Monsieur Carneau. He is a regular guest of the hotel. Mademoiselle Pitiot always entertains her business associates here.’

‘You know her well, Mademoiselle Pitiot?’

‘She also is a regular guest of the hotel, sir. I should say she lunches here two or three times a month.’

‘And what time did they leave?’

‘Somewhere between half-past two and three o’clock, sir.’ And, coldly, ‘Do you require to hear the menu they chose? I could have the waiter sent for…’

Joe left with expressions of gratitude and made for the police station to check developments with Charlie Carter. As he strolled along looking with fascination at the shop windows he came to an abrupt halt before the display in a jeweller’s shop.

It was the rope of pearls that caught his eye. Amongst the riot of glittering pieces, emerald rings, sapphire necklaces, diamond clips, the rope stood out for its simplicity. It was draped around the swanlike neck of a black velvet mannequin and gleamed with the discreet allure of finely matched, high quality pearls. It was an exact likeness of the one he had seen around the neck of Madame Flora.

On impulse he went into the shop. He was relieved to see that he was the only client. A musty smell – of incense? – came faintly to his nose and when his eyes accustomed themselves to the gloom he discovered that he was in a shop very unlike the ones he was used to in the Burlington Arcade. Joe had an impression of a fabulous collection of glittering gems but also of antiquities on display. Were they for sale or were they merely for decoration, the Tibetan ghost masks, the Kashmiri embroideries hanging on the walls, the piles of sumptuous rugs, the racks of silver daggers?

As he gazed, enchanted, an assistant who had been dusting shelves in the gloomy depths of the shop came forward. A handsome young hill boy with turquoise eyes to rival the gems, he addressed Joe politely in English, enquiring what service he might offer the gentleman. Joe asked if he could speak with the proprietor. Since he came forward at once from a back room, Joe assumed that the proprietor had seen him enter.

A middle-aged man with an aquiline nose, sharp eyes and a greying beard, the owner could have been eastern European or even Turkish, Joe guessed. He nodded to Joe and said in an accented English, ‘Robertson, Cecil Robertson. Tell me how I may help you, Commander Sandilands.’

Joe looked at him, startled for a moment. Robertson smiled deprecatingly. ‘As far as I know, and my knowledge stretches far, Commander, there is only one Scotland Yard policeman at large in Simla at the moment. I assume you are he.’