Before he could commit himself the door opened and Bahadur came back into the room ostentatiously consulting, Joe noticed, another impressive wristwatch. He was shadowed by Jaswant who was carrying a linen bag at his side. Half an hour had passed quickly in Lizzie’s company and, alarmingly, Joe calculated that, allowing for study or — heaven forbid! — capture, a family of dangerous snakes must be at large within a ten-minute walk of the Old Palace. He looked again at the bag Jaswant carried. He saw something stir in the depths.
Bahadur looked rather put out to find his nanny and his British bodyguard side by side on the sofa sharing a convivial whisky and said with some asperity that if Miss Macarthur could spare the Commander he was ready to take him to a further appointment. Another glance at the watch underlined his eagerness to be off.
‘I have a feeling,’ Joe muttered in Lizzie’s ear, ‘that someone’s playing Pass the Parcel with me!
‘Keeping you on the move, at any rate. Perhaps there is a thought that a rolling policeman gathers no information? Where are you taking him now, Bahadur?’
‘We are working in accordance with the Commander’s expressed wishes,’ said Bahadur loftily.
Joe wondered whether the ‘we’ was the royal we or referred to some company of which Bahadur now considered himself a part.
He took his leave of Lizzie and set off to follow a pace or two behind the heir to the throne, thinking that couldn’t be wrong. After a few yards Bahadur waited for him to draw level and continued at his side.
‘You will miss the heat and the beauty when you go away to school in England, I think,’ said Joe conversationally.
‘I shall not be going away to school,’ said Bahadur. ‘I have decided to stay here in Ranipur where I am needed. I can have tutors sent out to me to continue my education and I have no desire to learn to play cricket.’
Joe smiled to himself. This young Rajput promised to be a challenging ward for Claude.
‘I understand you would like to speak to my uncle, Zalim Singh?’
Joe agreed.
‘Well, he is anxious to see you and to conduct you to the zenana. An honour, sir. My uncle is the only person who has the authority to admit you and he only does this because an audience has been requested by First Her Highness. You will not forget what I told you about Their Highnesses?’
This last was not so much a question as a command. Again, Joe agreed.
‘Their grief and anger will have redoubled on hearing that I have been named Yuvaraj. I myself will not accompany you to the women’s quarters. It is full of their servants and who knows with what orders they may have been issued?’
They seemed to be working their way into the deep centre of the Old Palace and it was some minutes before they arrived in front of a pair of highly decorated doors flanked by two Royal Guards who promptly stepped forward and barred their way. Bahadur spoke up sharply and Joe caught his own name in the exchange. Moving with synchronized efficiency, the guards opened the doors and one of them stepped inside and announced him. Joe looked around for Bahadur but, disconcertingly, the boy had quietly slipped away.
‘Sandilands! Do come in!’ a welcoming voice boomed out and Joe stepped into the room that he guessed to be the command centre of the state of Ranipur. Indian rooms in Joe’s experience were sparsely furnished: often merely carpets and cushions were added, perhaps with the thought that nothing else was required to compete with the lavish decorations to walls and ceiling, perhaps in the knowledge that anything more substantial risked attack by armies of ants or some sort of tropical fruiting body. Joe had heard both explanations. This room was an exception. Although it had the customary hangings, a silk carpet held down at its four corners by carved lumps of precious stone and many breathtakingly lovely Rajput paintings, the largest part of the floor area was occupied by desks, tables, bookcases and racks of ledgers: all the accoutrements of an office in Whitehall were here. Clerks were busy. No fewer than three were tapping away at typewriters, the very latest American models. In pride of place was another upto-the-minute piece of equipment — a Bell telephone, its black and gold splendour holding its own against the Eastern glamour of its surroundings. Electricity had been installed even in this far corner of the palace. The air was stirred gently above them by electric fans and the working areas were lit by pools of shaded light supplied by Liberty lamps.
Poised and welcoming and obviously at the helm stood Zalim Singh, radiating efficiency in the centre of the busy scene.
‘Come in and take a seat, Sandilands! You discover me in full flow. Even on this sad day — no, I would say particularly on this sad day — there is work to be done. The funeral itself has thrown up a good deal of organizational matters which demand our immediate attention. I expect it is much the same with state funerals in London?’
‘Exactly, sir. And, I hope, having interrupted you, I will not long divert your attention from more urgent matters,’ Joe replied.
‘Oh, what could be more urgent than a murder investigation?’ Zalim said, a smile just failing to sweeten his blunt remark. ‘For I gather that this is what you are conducting under our noses, as you might say. But let me be frank and to the point, Sandilands.’ He waved a hand at one of the clerks. ‘I am even now dictating a report on the death of Prithvi Singh for the British authorities in Simla. As a matter of courtesy, you understand, for we are dealing with a purely internal, domestic matter. I will tell you now, Sandilands, as a trusted envoy of Sir George. . would that be a fair description of your role?. . that there is no mystery here. My report will state that the first two sons of Udai Singh have both died as a result of misadventure. There is nothing one could consider as sinister or worthy of further investigation in either death.’
‘As you say, sir,’ said Joe. ‘And if, when you have completed your report, you would like me to carry it back to Sir George in Simla I can guarantee its safe arrival,’ he added blandly. ‘Along with that of Mr Vyvyan.’
Zalim inclined his head, acknowledging the thrust. ‘Thank you. I shall be pleased to do that. Now, may I offer you a cup of tea?’
The door had opened to admit a servant carrying a silver tea tray and Zalim indicated that they should sit on divans at a low table to continue the discussion. He dismissed the three clerks and Joe found himself seated, alone, face to face with the real power in Ranipur.
The two men regarded each other over the rims of their Meissen teacups for a moment then Zalim burst out laughing and put his cup unsteadily down. ‘Shall we stop circling round each other like a pair of over-cautious wrestlers?’ he suggested. ‘Look here — unofficially I’m prepared to admit there are inconsistencies in the details of the deaths of the first and second sons but I’m certain Sir George would encourage us all to focus on the point we have arrived at and not let our eyes linger on the water that has passed under the bridge. And we have reached a position which I think is acceptable, even welcome, to the British as well as to the state of Ranipur. Do you agree?’
‘I do,’ said Joe. ‘But tell me, sir, are you content with the arrangements for your own future? Would you not have preferred to operate as regent within the state?’
Zalim looked as though he had anticipated the question. ‘A regency lasts for a few years only and, knowing Bahadur as I do, I can tell you, Sandilands, that it will not be long before he has dispensed with the services of his regents. We are being open with each other now — I speak to you as I would speak to Sir George.’ He gave a slight bow as though conferring honorary governorship on Joe. ‘The appointments were, as you have guessed, of a cosmetic nature. Her Highness Shubhada is thereby guaranteed the consequence she desires and the British Government through its agent, Vyvyan, feels itself included in the future affairs of the state and remains our ally.’