They walked out to meet their visitors, a young British officer and a bearded sowar, his lance pennant fluttering in the wind off the hill.

‘Good God!’ said the advancing figure in cheerful tones. ‘I don’t know what I was expecting to find but I wasn’t expecting to find you, Edgar! You tricky old bastard! Before we say any more, be good enough to tell me – just for the time being, of course – which side you’re on. I like to establish these things.’

‘Where’s Charlie Carter?’ said Joe.

‘Here!’ said a voice, and a weary and dishevelled Charlie Carter rode into the circle of torchlight.

Chapter Twenty-seven

«^»

Sir George Jardine, resplendent in a quilted smoking-jacket whose pocket bore the insignia of a long defunct Cambridge dining club, was ensuring that all the final touches were complete and in order. He was giving a small dinner party. A dinner party for four. A partie carrée, he called it to himself. The perfect size. And no women.

An amontillado with the turtle soup, a light burgundy with the saddle of mutton (he’d ordered up four bottles from the cellar and now gave instructions for two to be opened), a mont-bazillac with the fabulous water ice for which the Residence was famed and a good Stilton assisted down by a glass of 1910 port by Williams, Standring. ‘Yes! That should be enough.’ And he gave instructions that his guests as they arrived be shown straight to the library, the windows of which stood open to the balcony and the balcony open to the moon and to the murmurs of the town.

The first to arrive was Joe Sandilands. ‘Good evening, Sir George,’ he said easily. ‘This is very kind of you. A little cooler this evening, perhaps?’

‘That’s all the flannel you’re allowed, young Sandilands,’ said Sir George. ‘I won’t anticipate but I’m expecting some direct and straight-from-the-shoulder explaining.’

Joe had long learnt that it was unwise to let Sir George get away with anything and he said, ‘Dash it! I was hoping for a good dinner. The last few days have been rather austere. A few campaign biscuits don’t go a very long way’

‘Have a glass of sherry,’ said Sir George, ‘and don’t try it on with me!’

Next to come and arriving together were Charlie Carter and Edgar Troop, the latter perhaps a little embarrassed to find himself comfortably at the heart of the Simla establishment and in company with citizens of such impeccable respectability. His ‘Good evening, Sir George’ was a little over-affable as Charlie Carter’s had been a little over-deferential.

‘Good evening! Good evening!’ said Sir George. ‘Delightful occasion! Thought we’d have dinner straight away.’

He picked up and tinkled a little silver bell. ‘Sherry? Or if you prefer a madeira? I find it a little heavy these spring nights but do please help yourselves.’ And, to Joe, ‘Saw your friend Jane Fortescue today. Asked to be remembered to you.’ And to Charlie Carter, ‘Those girls of yours did well in the potato race at the gymkhana yesterday. Sorry you weren’t there. I really enjoyed it.’ And to Edgar Troop, ‘While we’re waiting, do please take the long chair. Kind to saddle sores, you’ll find.’

None of them spoke, all looking at him warily. ‘So good of you fellows to come at such short notice. Perhaps I don’t need to tell you – you’re all in serious trouble. You’re not under arrest, of course, but the only reason why you’re not under arrest is that with Charlie in handcuffs, there’d be no one to arrest you!’

They all took their seats around the table and, as though by rehearsal, shook out in unison large table napkins.

‘But to start at the end and work back from there… one of you gunned down Rheza Khan? No particular loss! Deplorable fellow! Arms aren’t the only thing he’s moved across the border. Scallywag if ever I knew one but nevertheless an episode that stands in need of some explanation. Influential man, Rheza Khan. Considerable following in the Hills. Vast consignment of arms on its way north under the eyes of the police and, worst of all, a deplorable young woman, guilty beyond question of pulling off the most bare-faced fraud in the history of the Indian Empire and more than suspected of complicity in no fewer than two murders — ’

‘Possibly three,’ said Joe.

‘We shall get on a little bit faster, Sandilands,’ said Sir George repressively, ‘if you don’t interrupt. As I say, this bare-faced miscreant allowed, possibly even encouraged, to slip quietly away under your benign gaze.’

‘Not my benign gaze,’ said Charlie happily, appreciatively sipping Sir George’s admirable burgundy. ‘I wasn’t there at the time.’

‘No indeed! Forty miles away at the time, I understand, searching railway sidings. Looking the other way? I’ve marked you down as an accessory,’ said Sir George.

‘Could I ask,’ said Edgar Troop, ‘how you know these things, sir?’

‘You’re not stupid, Troop! Apart from myself, possibly the only person in this room who is not – so I don’t need to tell you that any group containing half a dozen or so in this town is likely to contain one of my agents. Charlie, I understand, had twelve policemen with him – need I say more? You must not assume you are the only man in Simla with interesting things to tell me.’

‘But there were no witnesses conveniently placed when Alice shot Rheza Khan,’ Joe said mildly. ‘Apart from myself, of course, so you’ll just have to hear and accept my version of the killing, sir.’

Sir George sighed impatiently. ‘Very well, Sandilands. Why don’t you tell us your version of the events? Your memory of them? Illuminated, no doubt, by hindsight.’

All listened intently as Joe recounted the outline of his carefully rehearsed story.

Turning to Edgar Troop, Sir George asked, ‘Now, tell me, Troop, how much of this litany of lapses are you able to corroborate? Tell me first – did you leave undiscovered the knife in Rheza Khan’s boot?’

‘I am responsible, yes, sir,’ said Edgar uncomfortably. ‘I searched both prisoners.’

‘It was a most remarkable knife,’ Joe explained. ‘Very slender with a six-inch blade. It fitted down the seam of the boot – the handle was part of a boot pull-on – it was virtually undetectable. Very clever!’

He fell silent at a glower from Sir George. ‘And the next virtually undetectable item was a gun. You allowed Alice to retain – uninspected – a hat containing a revolver but, as it transpires according to Joe’s account, this lapse had laudable consequences. If we are to believe it — ’ he paused for a moment, ‘and why would we not? – she saved Joe’s life by pulling this gun and shooting Rheza Khan dead. Then, while he and Edgar run around like headless chickens, Miss Alice leaps nimbly through a window and makes off into the sunset, saddlebags stuffed with her ill-gotten gains, having had the forethought first to run your horses off? Am I getting it right, Edgar?’

‘More or less, Sir George, more or less.’

‘And the question which we should all be asking ourselves – and perhaps Joe will have an answer – is why should Alice, in unexpected possession of a gun and with two chaps at her mercy to choose from, put her bullet in her comrade in crime rather than in the police officer whose avowed intention is to haul her back in chains to face justice?’

All remained silent waiting for the next thrust.

‘I’m sure we’re all grateful to Alice. She saved us a little trouble in shooting Rheza Khan but will someone tell me why she should do that? Her associate, her partner? Her interests and his were one, were they not? I’ll tell you why,’ he went on, answering his own question. ‘She’d raised Rheza Khan up to a position of special power in the firm. He’d started out in a relatively humble position, in spite of his background and family wealth, in ICTC. Alice spotted his potential; she saw he could go all the way. And he did. He had authority and prestige, money and unshakeable status. Without Alice’s support he would have been nothing in Simla commerce and society. He owed all to her and she trusted him without question. It was more than she could easily bear that he should have – and with great success – played his own game. Another man to have failed her. Used her and failed her. It cost him his life.’