‘Why do you say with such certainty that the theory falls apart, Sandilands?’ asked Simpson.

‘Because the Alice Conyers I’ve met here in Simla couldn’t possibly be French. That girl is as English as a Sally Lunn, as… as… Cheddar cheese, as the Houses of Parliament! She’s English to the bone!’

‘A good actress could give that impression.’

Joe shook his head. ‘I agree but the best actress in the world wouldn’t have the knowledge of English life that this Alice Conyers has. When I interviewed her the other day I made by chance a glancing reference to The Wind in the Willows. I quoted a single line – we were talking about homesickness – and she picked it up at once and put it in context.’

‘When Mole went home!’ said Carter and Simpson in chorus.

‘There you are! You know that. And Alice Conyers knows that but no French girl would know about Rat and Mole and Toad and the gang. Wouldn’t want to!’ he added as an afterthought. ‘It’s a small thing but it’s something you can’t fake or prepare for. Her reaction was completely spontaneous. The girl I spoke to was English and brought up in England. I’d put my last shilling on it!’

‘So Alice is Alice,’ said Carter. ‘Pity in a way – it would have given us a jolly good motive for the first shooting. If she were someone masquerading as Alice and she heard that Alice’s brother was on his way to pay her a visit – that’s the end of everything. And he would have to be removed before he arrived in Simla and set eyes on her.’

‘And the second murder – Korsovsky,’ said Joe, ‘couldn’t that have occurred for the same reason? That he would have known that Alice was not Alice? It’s my opinion that he never met Alice Conyers – the real one – let’s say, for the sake of argument, but he might well have known the woman pretending to be her! He could have exposed her. So he too had to be eliminated before he set eyes on her. It all fits except for the fact that the Alice we know is English.’

They fell silent again, all three thinking and speculating furiously.

‘Hang on a minute! Call ourselves detectives!’ said Carter. ‘The newspaper report! Have you still got it, Joe? Good. I wonder if we’ve got our money’s worth out of that? Get it out and we’ll have another look at that list of casualties. Now just suppose that G.M.’s note of condolence – “so sorry etc.” – didn’t refer to Alice who was still alive and whom he had in any case never met but referred to the reported death of some other girl who was listed as a casualty. Some girl he’d had a swing round with in the south of France perhaps? Let’s have a look through the list of French casualties.’

Joe spread the paper on the table and they all looked at it. Charlie ran his finger down the list of first class passengers, French column. There were four men each with his wife and two other ladies: a Madame Céline Darbois and her daughter Mademoiselle Arlette Darbois aged fourteen. There was no Isabelle de Neuville listed.

‘This is ridiculous!’ said Simpson. ‘Can their record keeping have been so poor?’

‘Were there any bodies unidentified?’ said Carter.

‘Yes,’ said Joe. ‘Here’s one. One body without papers or any other identification. Police are asking for help in identifying this thirty-year-old man. Third class passenger. Ah.’

‘Look!’ said Simpson sharply. ‘Look here though!’

He was pointing a finger at a name in the first class list but in the English section.

‘Isobel Newton!’ he said. ‘Isobel Newton! Now translate that into French!’

‘Isabelle de Neuville,’ said Joe and Carter.

Chapter Fourteen

«^»

They were quiet for a moment after their outburst, looking intently at the printed page as though it could give them yet more information.

‘I’ll tell you something else,’ said Carter, holding the paper up to the light. ‘Do you see this? It’s very faint but there’s been a pencil mark by the name of Isobel Newton. To draw Korsovsky’s attention to it perhaps?’

‘Who is this Korsovsky you keep mentioning?’ asked Simpson.

Joe told him about the Russian’s death and his suspicions that there existed some link between Alice Sharpe or – as he now had to think – the woman calling herself Alice. He described the note in girlish handwriting on the programme from the Nice Opera House. Simpson picked up at once the reference to Nice.

‘Isabelle de Neuville was on her way to Nice. She seemed to know the area well. Could there be a connection?’

‘Certainly. We know that Feodor Korsovsky was also on his way to the south of France that summer – look, it’s mentioned on an inner page… here it is… recitals in the Roman amphitheatres of Provence. That’s not far from Nice, is it? Perhaps Isabelle was counting on seeing him there?’

‘Bit far-fetched,’ Carter said dismissively. ‘And don’t forget that if there was any connection between Korsovsky in 1914 and this English Isobel who was French Isabelle and is now English Alice, what we’re looking at is a steaming love affair between a – say seventeen- or eighteen-year-old English girl and a Russian singing star in his mid-thirties. And this is a well-bred English girl, product of an English public school and reader of Wind in the Willows! Can’t see it myself.’

‘There is one way of finding out for certain,’ said Simpson. ‘I’ll take a look at this Alice Sharpe. I think I’d remember which was which,’ he added.

‘Two problems,’ said Joe. ‘No one is going to take your word – excuse me, Simpson, I mean no offence – injured as you were at the time…’

‘Not sure I do myself!’

‘And secondly…’ Joe paused for a moment. ‘Remember that two men from Alice-Isobel’s past have been shot dead before they could get a look at her. If you think we’re going to let you come anywhere within sight of our Alice you’re mistaken!’

‘Good Lord!’ said Carter, suddenly alert. ‘That’s right. Look, Simpson, does anyone in Simla know your name? Know who you are? Think carefully, man!’

Simpson thought for a moment. ‘Only you two. I came straight here from the station. I haven’t checked into the hotel yet.’

‘That’s all right then. I booked the room in my own name,’ said Carter. ‘Now how are we going to manage to get you close enough to her without her being able to see you? You are, after all, Simpson, rather a distinctive figure. Look, if you don’t mind lying in wait in the post office you could watch out for her when she leaves her office to go home at one o’clock. She always takes a rickshaw. You can’t miss her men – they wear blue and gold livery with blue turbans. Put on a topee – that’ll hide most of your head – and skulk about until she goes by. Joe and I will make sure she stops in front of the window so you can get a good look at her.’

Simpson looked at his watch. ‘It’s a quarter to one already. Can we get ourselves in position in the time? Remember I don’t walk very fast.’

‘Oh yes. The post office is just down the road. Look, borrow my topee and pull the brim down. Like this. Well, it’s not wonderful but if she doesn’t see the stick she’ll just take you for a tourist in dark glasses – we get a lot of tourist wallahs in the season. Not a few in dark glasses. The glare, you know.’

Ten minutes later Simpson was standing at the window of the post office busily writing messages on the backs of postcards while Joe and Carter lingered chatting in the middle of the Mall. A church bell tolled one when a rickshaw team hurried by and round the corner to the headquarters of ICTC. Five minutes later they came back conveying Alice Sharpe. At once Joe and Carter stepped forward with cries of delight and greeted her. At her command the men stopped and she turned first to Carter then to Joe, smiling and returning their greeting. After the brief formalities she spoke again and the men trotted on their way.