Joe knew when he was being baited and smiled politely.
‘I suppose, Commander, you’re a blend of wise man, soldier and executioner?’
‘Not the last, I hope, sir!’
‘But a man of action, I hear. Edgar speaks highly of you. Ah, now here’s another man of action — Colin O’Connor, tiger hunter, naturalist, my oldest friend. And Edgar’s mentor. Did you know that? Colin taught him all that he knows — about hunting, that is! Colin! Come and meet a policeman! I’ll leave you for a moment — I must greet Sir Hector who, I see, has just come in.’
Colin O’Connor, a gaunt middle-aged man, took Joe’s hand in a sinewy grip. His evening suit was a good one but much worn and faded. His lined face was deeply tanned, his brown eyes under bushy grey brows were searching and humorous. ‘How do you do, Sandilands? I understand you’re to be my next pupil?’
‘What has Edgar been telling you?’ said Joe. ‘No, really, I must ask you to disregard anything he has said. I have no ambition to kill a tiger though I would very much like to see some. A day’s stalking, perhaps?’
Colin O’Connor laughed. ‘This is not red deer country, Sandilands! In the forest, the tiger stalks you. But I’m glad to hear what you say. I am, in fact, a reformed tiger hunter. It’s a wonderful creature, Sandilands, perhaps the handsomest God designed, but the numbers are so reduced that I fear that by the end of the century there’ll be none remaining. I hunt them, these days, with a camera, not a rifle.’
‘That must be dangerous?’ said Joe. ‘I don’t know much about photography but I do know that you have to approach within feet of your subject.’
‘Yes, you have to get close to the beasts and a tigress with cubs, for instance, is likely to object to my presence — if she can detect me, that is!’
‘But you’re here to kill a tiger, are you not? A renegade, I hear.’
‘Yes. A service I still perform when called on. These days I shoot only for the pot or to kill man-eaters, be they tiger or leopard. So, if the idea of pitting your wits against a creature that’s eaten over a hundred villagers, some of them children, appeals to you, join us on the hunt.’
‘In the circumstances, I’d be delighted,’ said Joe. ‘But won’t it have to be put off until the mourning period is over? I mean, it will involve local organization and supplies, local men. And wouldn’t a tiger hunt be regarded as a bit frivolous at a time like this?’
‘Normally yes,’ said Colin, ‘but I’ve spoken to the ruler and he was firm about it. “My son has died,” he said. “Is that a reason to stand by and allow more sons and daughters of my people to be killed each day we leave the tiger alive?” No, he’s quite right, of course. Three or four dying every day in the northern villages. Everyone’s too terrified to leave their home and there’s work to be done in the fields, animals to graze. The hunt has to go ahead and as soon as it can be managed.
‘It’s usual for the population to be confined to the town for the mourning, gates closed and so on, but the ruler’s given dispensation to all involved to carry on as normal. You’ll find that’s typical of Udai. Known him for years and I can tell you, under all that flim-flam and the layer of Western sophistication, the real force that drives him is concern for his people. You’ll hear them calling him “Bappa”. It means “father” and he takes the title seriously.’
Joe caught sight of Edgar on the fringes of the group, watching his exchange with O’Connor. Edgar ran a finger round his collar which, like the rest of his outfit, was straining at the seams and nodded in Joe’s direction. His face was gleaming with sweat and he was clearly in some discomfort. The reason for his discomfort appeared to be a small woman who had backed him into a corner and seemed to be lecturing him.
Colin O’Connor followed Joe’s glance and laughed. ‘Shall we go and rescue poor Edgar?’ he said.
‘Who’s he talking to?’ asked Joe, curious.
‘He is being talked to by Lizzie Macarthur,’ said O’Connor.
‘Miss Macarthur? You mean Bahadur’s nanny?’
‘Yes. I see you’ve been doing a bit of scouting around already? Beating the thickets of the palace jungle? Beware, Sandilands! Who knows what strange birds you may put up! Lizzie’s a royal nanny, cousin of the last Viceroy but one, I think. She’ll have been invited this evening to make the numbers a little more even, I shouldn’t wonder. We’re to sit down to dinner six gentlemen and four ladies. I bet the Vyvyans have been doing a bit of pencil-chewing trying to do the seating arrangements! Keeping separate the sexes, the married couples, the siblings and the people at each other’s throats — that doesn’t give you much leeway!’
‘Invited just to make up the numbers?’ said Joe. ‘Hardly fair treatment?’
‘She’s not normally called on for the usual-sized dos, which can be anything up to a hundred people, but with a small gathering like this she’s expected to help out. But don’t waste your sympathy on Lizzie! Come and meet her.’
They made their way across the room to the ill-matched couple. Lizzie Macarthur was short and slight and somewhere in that indeterminate period approaching middle age. Thick brown hair cut short with an abundant fringe framed a pink and angry face. She was wearing a demure, old-fashioned dress which might have been dark blue or dark green or even faded black.
She turned to Joe without waiting for an introduction. ‘Commander Sandilands, am I to understand you have some influence with this gentleman?’ she said in tones which left no one in doubt that she considered Edgar anything but a gentleman.
‘Good Lord, no! If you’re having a problem with Edgar your only recourse would be Sir George Jardine who is known to have occasionally brought the rogue to heel!’
Joe noted that a corner of Miss Macarthur’s mouth twitched in a not unfriendly way. ‘Sir George sends his regards and asks to be remembered to you,’ he lied, seeing his advantage and following it up. ‘Now, Edgar, what on earth have you been saying to offend Miss Macarthur? Let me guess! She’s had to correct your view that Robert Burns is possibly not the most wonderful poet in the world?’
‘I can assure you our disagreements are on more weighty matters! Your friend has just been telling me that he opposes the idea of education for girls.’
‘Ah. .’ said Joe, shaking his head reprovingly. He refused to be drawn into a serious discussion at a dinner party. ‘Then let me reassure you, Miss Macarthur. Edgar is an opponent of education for girls and for boys alike and is himself a walking example of his policy.’
‘Levity,’ said Miss Macarthur frostily, ‘is the last thing I would have hoped to hear spicing the conversation of a man whom I understand to be a fellow Scot, a war hero and at the spearhead of his profession.’
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said Joe easily. ‘It helps to lighten the burden of those three dubious attributes.’ He hurried on, ‘But what an interesting necklace you’re wearing, Miss Macarthur! Am I mistaken or are those golden stones cairngorms from the Grampian mountains? They were a favourite of my mother’s. How good it is to see a bit of home in these outlandish parts — a bracing contrast with the diamonds and pearls on view at every hand.’
Miss Macarthur made a sound that might have been ‘Pish!’ or even ‘Tush!’ and added, ‘A pupil of Sir George’s, I see. Lesson One in the Seduction Handbook? “Oily charm and how to apply it”? But stick at it, Commander! I think you have potential.’
‘Humph!’ said Edgar, glad to find himself no longer her target. ‘“All the charm of all the Muses,” that’s what he’s got,’ he muttered.
‘And, Mr Troop, I would not be standing here appreciating your quotation from Tennyson had I not myself, although a female, been properly educated!’
Joe was beginning to enjoy the sparring but his attention was attracted — everyone’s attention was attracted — by a figure making an appearance at the door, though ‘making an entrance’ was the phrase which came first to Joe’s mind. There was something theatrical in the way the young woman paused, exactly framed in the doorway.