“It’s perfect,” he said. “They didn’t say a word to each other, but they look like they’re deep in conversation.”
“That’s good,” she agreed.
“Mirza’s sending one to Fitzwilliam, and there are a dozen copies going out to all and sundry—foreign correspondents, the nationalist groups—”
“It won’t work,” she said abruptly. Reaching out for the jug of water, her eyes had caught the photograph and story on the front page of the Eastern Mail, and suddenly it all made sense.
He looked surprised. “Why not?”
“You sent the warning to Sergei and the others?”
“Yes, we agreed—”
“I know. But it won’t work.” She leaned across, grabbed the newspaper, and placed it in front of him. “Look, Jack,” she said, jabbing a finger at the picture.
“It’s the Prince of Wales.”
“I know. When does he arrive?”
“In a few days.” He shook his head. “No…”
“When was the visit arranged?”
“Months ago, I expect.”
“It has to be. He’s the one they plan to kill, not Gandhi. They think your government will overreact and turn the whole country against it.”
“They’re probably right.” He shifted his gaze from the picture to her. “Why did you ask whether I’d sent the warning?”
It was almost seven when Cunningham, Morley, and three carloads of infantry roared up Sayid Hassan’s drive, bounced across his lawn and flower beds, and drew up in front of the house. No lights sprang on; no shouts of alarm rang out.
Cunningham elected himself to check out the house and found the four servants. Each had been strangled with a silken cord—thuggee-style. Either Chatterji had traditionalist leanings, or one of the others had gone native.
He went back outside. “Get the shovels,” he told the platoon commander.
It had been dark for over an hour when Ahmed Mirza announced his arrival with a knock on their door. McColl introduced him to Caitlin.
The detective grinned. “The woman who drives! All of Delhi is talking about you.”
She smiled back. It had been a memorable few minutes.
They got down to business. “All the copies have been delivered by hand,” Mirza told them. “Including the one to Kudsia Road.”
“And the warning was delivered?” Caitlin asked.
“To the three men we have been watching? Yes, but not at that house. They left there… but I am losing the logical progression of events. When the Russian arrived back from his appointment with my camera, he told the American something, and the American just laughed. Then the Indian came out, and they all had an argument. After that they went back in and stayed in the house until it got dark. Then they all left together.”
“How? Did they walk?”
“To the Delhi Gate, where they hired a tonga.”
“And you know where they went?”
“Of course. To the room overlooking Chandni Chowk that the Indian rented yesterday morning. That is where the warning was delivered—one of the boys slipped it under their door.” Mirza hesitated. “But there is something else I must tell you. The servants at the first house—they are all dead. Once the three men were gone, the boy in charge took a look through the windows, and he saw the bodies. I have to say, it does not feel acceptable, letting them lie there.”
McColl was less surprised than Caitlin was. “Can you inform the police?” he asked Mirza. “An anonymous tip-off, perhaps.”
The detective looked grateful. “I will do so. And now I await your instructions.”
“You’ve done a wonderful job,” McColl told him, “but I must take it from here.” He reached for the purse he’d bought in the market. “You must tell me how much I owe you.”
Mirza looked disappointed. “I am not to be present at the final conclusion?”
“I’m afraid not. It is a family matter,” he added, which was true enough. “But I promise I will come and see you once everything is settled and tell you the story from beginning to end.”
The Indian gave him a rueful smile. “That is good,” he said. “Not good enough, as you English say, but still good. I believe thirty rupees are outstanding.”
McColl handed him the requisite notes, and the two of them shook hands. After seeing the Indian out the door, he turned to find Caitlin sitting on the side of the bed, hands interlinked on top of her head, bleakness in her eyes.
“What now?” she asked.
He sat down beside her. “I think we have three options.”
“Which are?”
“We could tell Fitzwilliam where they are and let him deal with them.”
“Kill them, you mean?”
He decided not to sugarcoat the pill. “Probably.”
“And you think that’s what they deserve,” she replied. It was more a statement than a question.
“If anyone does. They have just murdered four servants.”
She gave him a despairing look. “I know.”
He threw her a lifeline. “I don’t want to hand them over either.”
“For my sake?”
“Partly,” he conceded. “But I’m also afraid that Five will find some other use for Brady.”
“All right,” she said, as if knowing he had a reason legitimized hers. “So what are the other two options?”
“The easiest one is just to walk away.”
“And not lift a finger to save your prince?”
McColl laughed. “He’s not my prince. And the thought of either of us dying to save him… well, it’s too ridiculous for words. If I don’t believe that Jed and Mac gave their lives for anything worthwhile, then why would I want to risk yours and mine?”
She was silent for several moments. “Russia will get the blame,” she said. “The trade deals will collapse, and the famines will go on forever.”
“And we’re still guessing about the target,” he added. “If it is the prince, he’ll be well protected. If it’s Gandhi, we’re his only hope.”
“And walking away never feels right.”
“No,” he agreed, wondering what that might mean for their future. Whatever she decided, she’d be walking away from something.
“So option three is stopping them.”
“Yes. Which won’t be easy.”
“Sparing Sergei complicates matters, doesn’t it?”
“Of course, but…”
“Maybe I can talk him around.” She had a sudden memory of Sergei telling her how much cleverer she was than him.
“You really think that’s possible?”
“I don’t know. If we can get him away from the other two… then perhaps. But Jack, Sergei knows about you, that I had a long love affair with an Englishman. He never asked any questions—he’s old-fashioned in that way—and I don’t remember whether I ever told him your name. I am sure I never told him whom you worked for, but Brady probably has, and you being there will make it less likely he’ll listen to me. So…”
“You’re probably right, but I won’t let you go alone.”
“Sergei wouldn’t hurt me.”
“Maybe, but Brady or Chatterji might.”
She gave him a despairing look. “Couldn’t you hide behind the door or something?” she asked, only half seriously.
“It might work,” he said. “If there’s somewhere close by I can stay undetected, then I needn’t show my face until he makes up his mind.”
“That would work.”
“Then that’s our plan,” McColl said, with as much confidence as he could muster.