Joe smiled his appreciation of this piece of considerate attention. It was a sensible arrangement; he would have organized things in just the same way.
He approached the door of the durbar hall with keen anticipation. He was a sociable man and enjoyed conversation. But, above all, he was desperately hungry and hoped that the drinks party wouldn’t drag on for too long. It seemed a very long time since he’d shared a railway curry with Edgar at Umballa.
Vyvyan was waiting for him at the entrance to the durbar hall. He ran an approving eye over Joe, followed immediately by an enquiring lift of an eyebrow.
‘I have it,’ said Joe in answer. He produced his report and handed it over.
‘Good man!’ said Claude. Without giving the document a glance, he passed it to an aide who slid it into a file and moved away.
‘Most of the guests are already here so you’ve timed it well, and the ruler himself is eager to meet you. Shall we go in?’
Joe followed him through the pair of heavy sandalwood doors, lined with ivory and held open by two servants, and he stood for a moment, stunned by the glittering scene before him.
‘Like stepping into a Dulac illustration from The Arabian Nights, I always think,’ whispered Claude, entertained by Joe’s reaction.
The large meeting room was long and low and not a square inch of surface, it seemed, was without rich decoration. Fluted pillars, encrusted with coloured stones in a complex floral design, held up a ceiling shining with mica and gold leaf. The long walls were pierced by arched doorways and the intervals between were covered in expanses of mirror glass. Even the floor shone and Joe, coming out of his trance and moving forward, set a careful foot down, mindful that his evening shoes were new, the leather soles still slippery, and was grateful to reach a thick amber carpet in the centre of the room. Two crystal chandeliers, Lalique, he guessed, and ranks of white candles set on low tables in the corners of the room provided the lighting; flickering flames reflected off a thousand shining surfaces.
In contrast to the brilliant setting, the guests were a sombre group in black and white. Soberly clad in deference to the recently bereaved, they had gathered at the far end of the room. At Joe’s entrance all stopped talking and turned to look at him. One of the men, wearing evening dress improbably topped off with a white silk turban in which winked a diamond aiguilette, came forward to greet him. He was leaning heavily on an ebony stick and, although a tall and well-made man, was obviously not in good health. His features could have been carved from aged ivory, the skin drawn tight over bones almost visible beneath diminished flesh. His dark eyes, however, remained full of life and were taking in his guest’s appearance as he approached.
Claude, at Joe’s elbow, hurried to make the introduction. ‘Your Highness, may I present Commander Joseph Sandilands?’
Maharaja Udai Singh smiled and nodded but, Joe noticed, did not go in for hand-shaking.
‘We are delighted, Commander, that you can be with us at such a difficult time. I understand that you have offered your valuable services and expertise to look into my son’s death which you were so unfortunate as to witness this afternoon.’
Joe found Indian voices attractive and musical but, even by Indian standards, this voice was remarkable. It was deep and liquid but the formal phrases were lifeless — formulae concealing despair and pain. His speech had the quality of the heart-rending adagio of a cello concerto Joe had heard at the Queen’s Hall the year after the war’s end. Edward Elgar’s, he remembered, and the composer himself had conducted. Joe had listened, tears in his eyes, as the music spoke to him of loss, regret and devastation. Udai Singh’s voice resonated with the same emotions.
Joe bowed. ‘It will be an honour, Your Highness, though a most unwelcome task,’ he replied with equal formality.
‘It is my wish that the cloud of grief which hangs over the palace should not be burdensome for our guests. You are not of our religion, tribe or culture and will play no part in our mourning. I am conscious that, as bereaved father, my attentions will be elsewhere for the coming days but you are my guests and will not be neglected. The palace is large and can accommodate both the sorrow we are feeling and the pleasure you may have been anticipating.’
Then, with a change of key, ‘Let that be our last mention of today’s events. Come and meet your fellow guests who ought to be able to put a few distractions your way during your stay. I cannot introduce you to your hostess because my wife, Shubhada, has yet to arrive. Are you married, Sandilands?’ He smiled enquiringly at Joe. ‘No? Well, a word of warning for when you are — for every pair of earrings you give her, she will hesitate a further ten minutes when dressing. So, the next senior lady. . Mrs Vyvyan! Lois!’
He addressed an Englishwoman who had detached herself from the group and was looking attentively in their direction.
Well, this was a surprise! Joe had not realized that Vyvyan was married but, shaking Mrs Vyvyan’s gloved hand, he decided she would have been easy to pick out as his consort in spite of the difference in their ages. Unusually, Lois Vyvyan appeared to be a year or two older than her husband. She was wearing a long black dress, a silken shawl covering her shoulders, and round her throat was a double row of pearls. Her skin was milky white and her dark auburn hair was swept up behind her ears in a twisted knot. Spare, elegant, proper, was Joe’s first impression, and very English. He was surprised, therefore, when she leaned confidentially towards him and he caught a scent of something oriental and seductive on her warm neck. Shalimar? He thought so.
‘Commander, we are all so delighted you could come,’ she said in an attractive voice which managed somehow to give an impression of cool distance. ‘Your reputation goes before you and we will all expect to be entertained by stories of your exploits on the North-West Frontier to say nothing of Whitechapel. I’ve never met a detective before. Do you drink pink champagne?’
With an effort Joe stopped himself from looking down to check that he’d wiped his police issue boots on the scullery mat. He thought of replying that a jar of ale would slip down a treat if it was all the same to ’er Ladyship but controlled himself. Smiling his most devastating smile he accepted a glass of champagne from a footman and looked at it critically. ‘In the absence of Krug ’15 a glass of pink fizz will be most welcome,’ he said easily and instantly regretted his pettiness. To his embarrassment, Udai Singh had overheard his set-down but, to his relief, a thin amused smile appeared on the lips of the ruler. ‘My preference also,’ he said. ‘I’m sure our cellar can supply?’ Without a further word, the attendant moved away, Joe was sure, to pass the unspoken instruction down the line.
‘As for Lois, this is a new experience for me also,’ Udai went on smoothly. ‘I don’t believe there’s any such thing as a detective in India. Though I understand there is a police force in Bengal and some of the other British Indian states. Perhaps during your stay with us you will encourage us to look into the possibility of establishing such a force? You must meet the captain of my guard. We have what you would probably consider a rather rudimentary squad which keeps the peace in Ranipur. I’m sure Major Ajit Singh will be intrigued to learn the Western arts of anthropometry and fingerprinting.’
‘Western? I understand, Your Highness, that fingerprinting originated in India. And, indeed, it has been practised by the Bengal Police — along with a system of anthropometry adapted from the Bertillon method — for the last thirty years. They were fingerprinting and recording criminals in Bengal two years before Scotland Yard got around to it, sir.’
The maharaja smiled. ‘You will have to work hard to convince Major Ajit Singh that there is anything to be gained by keeping an imprint of a thief ’s left thumb on a card in a filing system, locked away in an office, Commander. If Ajit knows a man to be guilty, that man will lose his fingerprints down to his wrist. The problems of identification, punishment and crime prevention will be solved. .’ He paused and added slyly, ‘. . at a stroke.’