‘Well?’ they said eagerly when they had made their separate ways back to the station. ‘Well?’

Flushed and excited, Simpson stared at them in turn, saying at last, ‘I’m almost sure it was Isabelle de Neuville.’

‘Almost sure? No better than almost?’

‘I’ll say pretty sure if you prefer but, look, they were very much alike and Alice Conyers had rather a chubby face which this girl hasn’t got but then she might have lost her puppy fat in India, and her face would be darker and leaner after three years in the sun, wouldn’t it? Sorry, I’m not being very helpful, am I? But I am trying to be honest.’

‘We understand that,’ said Joe. ‘But look here, is there enough there for you to press this further?’

‘I think so, yes… I really think so. Of course, I’m not swearing but you understand that.’

‘She’s not going to admit to a damn thing! Not the woman I met,’ said Joe. ‘Never! She’s clever and she’s tough and she enjoys taking risks – now I come to think of it she convinced me that the writing on the programme was done by an English hand. She even demonstrated by using her own handwriting! A woman with that sort of nerve isn’t going to fold in the face of an accusation of this kind. She’s going to laugh it off.’

‘And let’s not forget,’ said Carter, ‘particularly those of us who have to go on working in this town, that she is both popular and well connected. Alice Conyers-Sharpe would simply speak to her friend the Vicereine and the next thing you’d hear would be that Simpson and Sandilands had been put on the first train back to Kalka and that the mad police superintendent Carter had been carted off up the hill to Doolallie!’

‘There has to be another way. We’ve got to unmask her without risking our own professional credibility. We’ve no proof so we’ll have to resort to trickery. We’re just going to have to be cleverer than little Miss Isobel and shock her into an admission.’

‘Joe, what are you up to?’ asked Carter suspiciously. ‘You’ve got something up your sleeve, haven’t you?’

‘Yes. A little scheme. One for the dirty tricks department, you might say. And if it doesn’t work no one will be any the wiser. It won’t rebound on us! I’ll explain, but I’m afraid it involves your dying again, Simpson!’

‘… and I need an address from you, Carter,’ said Joe. ‘A certain Minerva Freemantle.’

‘Mrs Freemantle?’ said Carter, surprised. ‘Now why could you want to see her of all people? Seeking a spot of unorthodox information, are we? A little cabalistic help? I hope you know what you’re about, Joe! She lives in an apartment over the continental grocer’s shop down the Mall. She has an excellent view of Scandal Point from there. Very convenient. A formidable lady and have a care – she too is well connected!’

Leaving Carter and Simpson to take separate rickshaws to Carter’s house for lunch, Joe set off to walk down the Mall. He found the continental grocery and mounted the narrow stairs between two shops to a first-floor flat. He rapped on the door and when this was answered by an Indian servant he produced his card.

‘Tell Mrs Freemantle that an officer of Scotland Yard wishes to speak to her without delay.’

A moment later the servant returned, opening the door wide, bowed him inside and withdrew through a smaller door at the far end of the long room Joe now entered.

He stepped straight into a comfortable parlour. Large windows overlooking the Mall gave an airy freshness to the room though the wine red curtains framing them might create an atmosphere of Victorian intrigue when drawn, he thought. The remains of a log fire gave off a subtle herbal scent. Juniper perhaps? Lush plants in shining copper pots were grouped on tables in the corners of the room which was dominated by a large, round and highly polished walnut table. A white cat occupying a deep armchair by the fire stretched and shot a narrow-eyed look of intense suspicion at the intruder.

She was standing by the window, an imposing woman in her early thirties. The window, as Carter had promised, afforded an excellent view of the neck of the Mall where everyone paused and stopped to gossip. Joe noted that, with the window open only six inches, sounds of laughter and snatches of conversation floated upwards by some trick of the rising air currents to reach the ears of anyone who might be standing at the window.

Minerva Freemantle was holding Joe’s card between two fingers and the look in her eye rivalled that of her cat in cold suspicion. She was a strikingly handsome woman with the upright carriage of a lady whose heyday had been the stately Edwardian age. Her back was straight and her strong shoulders well fulfilled the task of supporting her ample bosom. Her glossy dark hair was curled into a neat chignon and a central parting divided her head exactly in the centre.

She fixed Joe with a haughty stare. ‘You have been in Simla for four days, Commander. Quite long enough to establish that I do not see anyone without a prior appointment. And policemen not at all.’ The voice was cultured, the tone cold.

Astonished by this encounter and very intrigued, Joe reached out and with suppressed laughter took her hand.

‘Maisie!’ he said. ‘Maisie Freeman! Don’t you recognize me?’

Minerva Freemantle’s chin sagged towards her bosom as she gaped at Joe. ‘Young man, you have the advantage of me! Am I to understand that you are presuming a previous acquaintance?’

‘Acquaintance? I’ll say!’ said Joe happily. ‘If you can call feeling someone’s collar getting acquainted! Let me take you back four years, Maisie. Backstage at the Empire. Are you beginning to get it? “Merlin the Mysterious and Maisie”! Small matter of a gold watch that went missing? Memory returning yet, is it? Gold watch nicked off some poor chump in the audience who thought it would be a lark to come up on stage and offer it up to Merlin to use in his act. Amazing watch! It survived being smashed with a hammer, set alight and dunked in a goldfish bowl. Then with a roll on the drums and a distracting waggle of your backside you pulled it out of your corset undamaged and returned it to its grateful owner. Problem was – the owner wasn’t so grateful when he got back to his seat and found it wasn’t actually in his pocket! I wasn’t the arresting officer – I was the detective sergeant lurking in the background, learning the ropes.’

After a moment of astonishment Maisie’s face cleared and she gave a frank and cheerful laugh. ‘Well, bugger me! Now I’ve got you! You had a moustache in them days! Handsome devil you were! Still are, I see… Christ Almighty! Must have had a rocket up yer arse to make it to Commander already! But what the hell are you doing in this godforsaken hole? Not still tracking me and Merl, are you? Like them fuckin’ North-West Mounted Police what’s supposed to always get their man? Well, hard luck if you are ’cos Merl died two years ago and where he’s gone you wouldn’t want to follow! And we was never bent anyway – as you bloody well know, bluebottle!’

‘Sorry to hear about Merlin, but you seem to be doing all right on your own account.’ Joe looked round the room. ‘Got yourself a nice little gaff here and a nice little scam going. I hear you’re well regarded in Simla, Maisie – the cream of society queuing up for a place at your table on Friday nights? I expect your conjuring experience comes in useful producing all the rappings, the materializations, the ectoplasm and whatever else you produce to amaze and entertain. But don’t worry, Maisie…’ Joe’s tone signalled clearly that Maisie had every reason in the world to worry, ‘… your secret’s safe with me.’

He paused.

‘Just as long as…? Go on. What’s coming next? There’s always a string attached with your mob. What’re you after?’

‘Well, funnily, there is something you can do for me. It’s very easy and right up your street…’