Left alone at the scene of the crash, Joe looked down at the broken body in speculation. He had sent Edgar and Madeleine off in the Rolls along with the tail section and had settled to wait for help to be sent from the palace. Udai, sick unto death himself, if George had it right, had lost his two oldest sons in the space of a few weeks. Edgar’s fears were being realized. Joe had just witnessed the second act of a murderous tragedy and his policeman’s mind was asking the usual questions beginning with the glaringly obvious ‘Who stands to gain from these deaths?’ He tried to remember what Sir George had told him about the other possible heirs to the throne and number three in particular.
With relief, he noticed that a rider was making his way at a gallop from the town. He paused briefly to exchange a word or two with Edgar and Madeleine as he passed the Rolls and then came on down the road. The man approaching rode well but with none of the stiffness of a military man. He was wearing a solar topee, khaki drill jacket and trousers, and his horse was a fine, tall sorrel. Looking about him with a keen eye he dismounted and, leading his horse, came on towards Joe, hand outstretched.
‘How do you do? Claude Vyvyan. British Resident at Ranipur.’
Joe extended a blackened hand and tried not to flinch as Vyvyan grasped it firmly. ‘Joe Sandilands. Commander, Scotland Yard.’
So formal and ridiculous was the exchange, Joe almost expected Vyvyan’s next utterance to be ‘I see you’ve been having a spot of bother?’
What he did say was, ‘What a bloody awful mess! Thank God you were here. Though I’m sorry you ran into this shower of shit.’ He batted away a straying strand of tinsel and grimaced apologetically.
Joe smiled and looked with interest at the man who was the power behind or, more probably, beside the throne in Ranipur. Vyvyan moved with an athletic grace unspoiled by the parade ground. In his early thirties, he was as tall as Joe and, as the portly Edgar had not failed enviously to notice, had a slim and elegant figure. Seeing that Joe was bareheaded, Vyvyan swept off his topee and the two men stood for a moment assessing each other. Cold blue eyes, Joe remembered, had featured in Edgar’s description. Not cold, he thought, not cold to him at least, but intelligent and penetrating. The nose was commanding; he’d seen its like on a portrait of the young Duke of Wellington. The lips, at the moment slanting in a rueful and discreet smile, were thin but well defined under a neat brown moustache. His hair was well barbered, dark brown and plentiful.
Under the other’s gaze, Joe felt suddenly aware of his dishevelled appearance and unconsciously ran a dirt-caked hand through his own thick black hair. Vyvyan smiled again. ‘What a welcome to the state! Pity it had to be like this! I’ve been so looking forward to meeting you, Sandilands.’
‘What would I say if I’d just been told this man was my new commanding officer?’ Joe asked himself, applying his usual test when meeting someone in authority for the first time, and he decided that he would be reassured, even pleased.
They went to stand on either side of the corpse, each wrapped in his own thoughts. Finally Vyvyan said, ‘Two sons in six weeks! Coincidence? I think not. Is there any chance, Commander, that. .’ His voice trailed away.
‘Every chance,’ said Joe. ‘We witnessed the crash and have inspected a key part of the wreckage which luckily was undamaged. I’ve sent it back to the palace where you can inspect it yourself. Are you familiar with aeroplanes, sir?’
Vyvyan shook his head.
‘Well, I haven’t much experience but — look, I’ll speak plainly: I suspect the plane was sabotaged. Someone meant to kill the pilot.’
‘Yes. The pilot,’ said Vyvyan slowly. ‘But, Sandilands, you should know that it was generally understood that Captain Mercer was to undertake the flight. You should put that in your notebook if you’re going to investigate this. . this. .’ He waved a hand over the body. ‘. . occurrence. But I leap ahead. Are you aware of Captain Mercer?’
‘I only know what I heard from Madeleine on the way here. Don’t assume I’ve had any briefing or have any professional interest in events past or present in Ranipur, sir,’ he lied. ‘I’m down here for a tiger hunt.’
‘Is that what he told you? Scheming old bastard! George Jardine can smell trouble coming across a continent! There was a time when he would have appeared himself to sort out a crisis like this but now I hear he’s found himself a young and active alter ego to do his dirty work while he gets on with running India.’ He smiled to lighten the comment and added, ‘Am I right? Still, I think I can promise you’ll get your tiger hunt.’
A thin crowd of onlookers had begun to leave the road and fields and gather round, staring from a distance at the scene of disaster, chattering volubly and scuffing in the dust to pick up handfuls of gold tinsel. Claude turned to them, gesticulating and shouting in Hindi. ‘Get back, you buggers! Nothing to see! Ah, at last! There we are. Reinforcements on their way.’
Several motor vehicles and men on horseback were coming down the road towards them. ‘We’ll get you back to the palace and then perhaps you can give a formal written witness statement? Not often the investigating officer is invited to do that, I’d guess!’
‘Is that what I am?’ said Joe lugubriously.
‘Oh yes. Certainly.’ Vyvyan allowed himself a broad smile. ‘I’m appointing you.’
Joe looked back with guarded friendship at his new commanding officer.
Chapter Six
The late afternoon sun was slanting down on the sculpted and fretted façade of the Old Palace, creating a complex shadow play on the pink sandstone, an effect which would, in other circumstances, have held Joe’s delighted attention as they entered a vast courtyard and paused in front of the ceremonial entrance. Once again he was in the back seat of the Rolls, accompanied this time by Claude who had handed his horse to a syce and joined him. He turned to Joe as they came to a halt.
‘This is Govind,’ he said as a tall and impressive Indian stepped forward to open the car door. ‘He will see you to your suite in the New Palace. Govind will look after you during your stay — he’s your khitmutgar, your personal butler cum valet. He is Rajput, of course, and he knows everything there is to know about the palace. He speaks better English than you or I and is very used to European ways; he always accompanies His Highness on his trips to Europe and had his training in a ducal household.’ Govind bowed and smiled. He had a luxuriant black moustache and was wearing a spotless white uniform and an impeccable saffron turban. Joe suddenly felt very grubby and weary.
Reading his thoughts, Claude said, ‘Bath first, I think? And then your written report if that’s not too much of an imposition, then I’ll ask you to come down to dinner with a selection of the guests. If you’re feeling up to it, of course! His Highness, in view of the dreadful events, will not be joining us, I assume. Not that he ever does dine with his guests — a religious thing. He usually greets them and has a drink but, today. . who can say? Let’s play it by ear, shall we, Sandilands? See you later, then. Oh, and enjoy the plumbing!’
He turned to leave but, casually, over his shoulder, added, ‘By the way, we usually wear white tie. .’
He flashed an unspoken question at Joe who picked it up and replied genially, ‘I would expect so. Don’t concern yourself, sir. I’ve just spent a month in Simla. I’m not straight off the beat! I even have a snooker jacket in my luggage,’ he confided. ‘Black velvet. With frogging! At Sir George’s insistence!’
‘Good Lord! Bury it!’ was Vyvyan’s reply.
‘I was planning to do just that!’
‘But look, Sandilands, we’re the same size — anything you want, just mention it to Govind.’
Left alone with Govind, Joe shrugged off his weariness to make contact with his new mentor. He gestured towards the ceremonial gate which led from the courtyard. ‘A splendid entrance, indeed!’ he said. ‘I had heard that Rajputs were tall but this is surely of an extraordinary height?’