Lily broke the silence. She seemed to be quoting from a poem that was unfamiliar to Joe.

‘So many gods, so many creeds,

So many paths that wind and wind,

While just the art of being kind

Is all this sad world needs.’

Lily added, ‘Ella Wheeler Wilcox. Something to be said – after all – for an American education?’

Joe smiled at her. This darned girl, for whose safety he’d once condescendingly assumed responsibility, had the knack of reading his thoughts, pricking the balloon of his pomposity, of pushing him in the direction he knew he ought to be taking. ‘I’m not aware of your Miss Wilcox, Lily, but I applaud her sentiments… though I prefer the more lyrical approach of Portia perhaps.’

Sir George interrupted. ‘No need to go into all that “quality of mercy” business. We’re all familiar with it. But how many people bother to quote a later line from Bassanio in support? Just one line. Says it all really. “To do a great right, do a little wrong.” Often say that to myself. What about it, Joe?’

‘Would there be any objectors if, after all, I proposed that the original findings of the autopsy carried out by Grace be adopted as the true record of what passed here at the fort on the evening of Thursday and the early morning of Friday?’ Joe asked.

All shook their heads or murmured, ‘No.’

‘Carried unanimously,’ said Sir George. ‘And now I think we can all be away to our supper.’

As Joe walked along to the mess Lily took his arm and asked, ‘Joe, can you tell me whether I’m left or right-handed?’

Joe was puzzled, thought for a moment and then said, ‘Right-handed, but I couldn’t swear to it.’

‘Yes. You say that because you’ve watched me eating with my right hand but, actually, I’m left-handed. There aren’t so many of us lefties around and I always notice when I come across another.’

‘I see where you’re going with this, Lily and – yes, you’re right! But in view of what was said just now in the durbar room I think – better left alone, don’t you? No good and quite a lot of harm might result if we went about stirring things up again. Time to practise “the art of being kind”, wouldn’t you say?’

‘Okay by me,’ said Lily cheerfully. ‘Let’s just think of it as “doing another little wrong”, shall we? I understand now how Sir George can sleep at night!’

Chapter Twenty-Two

Grace stood on the wall looking down on the courtyard where her escort was assembling, feeling, for perhaps the first time in her life, the giddiness of self-doubt. She reminded herself briskly that cantonment life didn’t really suit her. She wasn’t cut out for intrigue (though she had done her best!). It suited her better to be in tribal territory. Issues were clearer there. She smiled. What nonsense! That’s what she would have said a week ago. But now if she were honest she would admit to discovering in herself a quite reprehensible natural ability for deception! And that was a skill which might well come in very handy for survival in amongst the palace intrigue she was heading for! She brought her thoughts up short. Harry! What would Harry say if he could hear her?

As she watched, a troop of Afghani horsemen was forming up. The escort to Kabul, and the sort of people she could deal with. But they must be a bit puzzled by all their comings and goings over the last week! Perhaps it was just routine for them? And at least they were heading for home now. And Iskander? Grace acknowledged there were fences to mend there. How could you ever be sure with Iskander? On the whole, Grace thought he had probably forgiven her. And, after all, they were always, both of them, on the side of peace. It would even be a consolation to have him close by in Kabul – but that wouldn’t please poor Lily.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a high-pitched, raucous wailing which made her flinch. Filing out into the courtyard, beaming with pride and preceding the escort through the gates, came the Scouts’ pipe band. Hill men themselves, the Scouts were accustomed to bagpipes though not perhaps the authentic Scottish article. They were, nonetheless, practised in Scottish airs acquired from long-forgotten Victorian pipe-majors. Acquired also were the pipe banners, bright tartans, the pride of long-gone Scottish officers, making, as they fluttered in the wind, a gay contrast to the mud-coloured buildings, the mud-coloured hills and the khaki uniforms.

As Grace watched, James came and stood beside her. ‘Come on, Grace!’ he said as the pipe band struck up. “This is all in your honour! “Bonnie Charlie’s noo awa… Will ye no come back again?” Hope you don’t mind? They’re putting on quite a show to see you off!’

The band, playing lustily, skirled its way through the gates and fell in outside. The Afghani horses kicked and fretted, each restrained by a lean and rock-like bridle hand as they too lined up, baggage horses at the rear, Grace’s horse and that of Iskander standing ready at the head of the double file. Joe, Lily and Betty made up a farewell party. All goodbyes and farewell speeches, Sir George officiating, had been said an hour earlier and there was nothing to prevent a smart take-off into the hills. Betty silently watched the departure of Grace, her friend and refuge. Reserved and watchful, Joe and Lily looked about them. Joe followed the direction of Lily’s gaze and found, with no surprise, her attention concentrated on Iskander.

Calm and authoritative, Iskander said a few words to James and stepped forward to lead Grace to her horse. He handed her up on to the tall grey and took the reins of his own horse while Grace waved goodbye to the line of civilians and turned her head resolutely to the Khyber. The cortège started on its way. With the pipe band still playing enthusiastically, Joe, Lily and Betty began to make their way back into the fort.

‘Let’s go up on to the wall to watch them go,’ said Lily. ‘Anywhere so long as it’s out of earshot of this mob!’

But once inside the fort Betty hurried to her room in distress. Walking slowly, Lily took Joe’s arm. It was an emotionally charged moment and clearly she was wrestling with indecision, wondering perhaps whether to confide in him until, ‘Go ahead – ask me, Joe!’ she said finally. And when, tactfully, he just looked a question, ‘Nothing to tell, I’m afraid. He hasn’t said a word about his intentions! He had chance enough but I suppose he has to get back to Kabul to find out what his position is there. Who knows – he may turn up in Simla or Delhi and then we’ll think again. But I’m not counting on it! I think he’s gone for good, Joe.’

Joe looked at her carefully. What was he looking for? Signs of a broken heart? There were none. No tears. A level tone. Could Grace have misinterpreted Lily’s interest? She seemed thoughtful but there was something overriding this. Relief? Yes, he thought – relief. Perhaps Lily Coblenz had, after all, regretted her rash offer of a golden cage to a man of the hills. She would take back to Chicago the romantic and desperately sad tale of a handsome Pathan who broke her heart and whose heart she broke when she left him behind, in the comfortable knowledge that the man himself was not there to spoil her story with his awkward, untameable nature.

Joe wondered whether he was close enough to Lily to risk asking her directly about her feelings for Iskander. What the hell! He decided he was. ‘Look, Lily,’ he said. ‘They made me responsible for your welfare and your safe return to Simla. Not a job I wanted but it’s turned into more than just a responsibility. I care very much that you should return in good heart as well as sound in limb. What I’m trying to say is – well – I’d be very distressed if I thought you’d given your affections to a man who is incapable of returning them, a man who, as we speak, is riding away over the frontier, perhaps for ever. It might sound like the last reel of a moving picture, cinema organ playing in the background, but in real life it can be miserable! So – can you tell me? I’m your friend, remember!’