‘Etiquette?’ said Joe, startled. ‘We too have our problems not unconnected with Prithvi’s death, sir, but I wouldn’t have said that protocol featured particularly in our –’

‘Yes, I’m sure, and you can tell me all about them in a moment. Now listen, Joe. On Tuesday night the good Edgar telephones me saying that the second heir to the throne has been killed. Now – not sure where you’ve got to down there but it’s Friday in Simla – yesterday, while you were all away chasing tigers, I received a missive from the maharaja. Sent, quite properly, by special messenger. It had been sealed and dispatched the day before Prithvi died. Quite extraordinary and – I’m sure you’ll agree – significant. It contained official advance notice of the betrothal of the prince’s second son Prithvi Singh to . . . what’s the girl’s name . . .’ Papers rustled and George began again, ‘Princess Nirmala, one of the daughters of Mewar state. Sensible move. An alliance between Ranipur and Mewar would, of course, always be interesting to His Majesty’s Government. Preliminary announcement and all that to assess our reaction to the forthcoming marriage. A fixture set for next month, I’m informed. Polite of him to let me know . . . all very correct . . . but you see my problem, Joe. Do I reply to this, causing hurt and offence, or do I tear it up and send my condolences on a death of which I have not yet been officially informed, possibly causing hurt and offence. Advise me.’

‘George! I had no idea! No one has mentioned this, not even his first wife . . .’ said Joe, reeling at the information.

‘Ah, yes, the fan-dancer. Is she still about the place?’

‘She is.’

‘Well, they couldn’t have kept it quiet for much longer but as the poor chap died before anything could come of it, they’ll want to keep it to themselves for the princess’s sake. Very Rajput. Wouldn’t want her name spoken of in harness with that of someone who’s no longer with us – could be damaging to her future prospects. With a bit of luck they’ll have been able to cancel the invitation cards. Anyway, I’ll hold fire for a day or two, see what transpires, what? Now tell me what you’ve been up to.’

Wearily, Joe started on his concise account of events since his arrival in Ranipur. Sir George listened so quietly Joe once or twice had to check that the line had not been cut. Finally George asked, ‘Is it too early to ask if by any chance you’ve come up with a solution to these mysteries? Three deaths? Any idea who’s behind all this?’

‘Yes. I have. Yes, I really think I have,’ he said. ‘Now that the evidence is in. I’d like a little more time to clarify things,’ he finished uncertainly.

‘Quite a puzzle, I agree,’ said Sir George, ‘but, look here, I think at least I can help you out with 3 across. Still got Edgar with you?’

‘Yes, he’s here.’

‘Right. He’s just the chap you need. Put him on for a minute, will you?’

Joe passed the earpiece to Edgar but heard every word of Sir George’s commands before he signed off.

‘Edgar, can you find your way to the silah-khana?’

‘Of course, Sir George.’

‘Then take young Sandilands there at once. You’re to show him the baghnakh. See if it gives him a few ideas.’

Edgar hung up the receiver with a hand shaking with excitement, his expression one of stunned amazement. ‘The baghnakh! The bloody baghnakh! That’s how he did it!’

In the irritating way of a conjuror who is determined to hang on to his surprise until the last dramatic moment, Edgar would say no more but hurried along the corridors until they arrived at a door Joe recognized. The armoury.

They slipped inside, having checked that they were unobserved, and Edgar switched on the lights. ‘Now, Sandilands, remember turning down my invitation to view the gladiatorial exhibits, the other night? This time you can’t refuse. George’s orders.’

‘Stop being so bloody mysterious and get on with it!’ Joe snapped.

Edgar approached a glass case and lifted the lid. ‘Ah. Both still in there, I see. Probably nothing in it but you can see what George was getting at. Hideous, hideous things! Baghnakhs! Sorry but there’s no word for them in English. Wouldn’t want one. The sound of the Hindi says it all, I think.’

Joe was looking at twin objects. Two huge paws of a tiger had been mounted on short thick handles. Joe shuddered. ‘What the hell are they for, Edgar?’

‘Well, they’re not back-scratchers. They’re for killing. What else? They were used as weapons in gladiatorial combats. There’s a rather lurid account by a Western traveller, top-brass, staying as the guest of a maharaja who staged some fights for his entertainment, boxing, wrestling and so on. For the grand finale, a couple of stout chaps appeared armed with these things and started hacking chunks out of each other. The guest was so sickened by the performance, especially when he was hit in the face by a gobbet of flying flesh, that he called a halt.’

Joe was not deceived by Edgar’s insensitive delivery. He thought it masked a horror he would not have been capable of articulating. He took one of the weapons from its place and turned it over. They looked at it carefully. ‘Good Lord – it’s the size of a dessert plate but nothing untoward there, I think,’ said Joe. ‘Seems to have all its claws. Try the other one.’

‘Ah. One claw missing.’

‘We’ve got to get this to the doctor. He’s got a microscope in his room, perhaps he could compare these claws with the one we found in Bahadur . . . yes, I kept it. And who knows what he might find traces of, unless it’s been thoroughly cleaned and there hasn’t been a great deal of time for that, I’d say. But how in hell do you transport something like this to the hunt? And back? Without someone noticing. Servants packing and unpacking . . .’

‘Same way we’re going to take it out of here,’ said Edgar with a grin. ‘See that gun case over there? Empty it, will you, and we’ll stuff it in there. Nobody looks twice at anyone carrying sporting equipment about in this place!’

As they passed the ranks of ceremonial daggers, jewelled hilts twinkling, they both stopped, turned and looked.

‘Something here for every taste and purpose,’ said Edgar. ‘From castrating an elephant to paring your toenails. Take your pick. What about this?’ he said, pointing to an evil-looking Afghani punch dagger. ‘Easy to hide about the person.’

‘No, too broad in the blade,’ said Joe, looking carefully at it, ‘and the blade’s triangular. Wouldn’t match the wound profile. But, yes! Look! Over there.’

Six slender knives with plain undecorated steel hilts were mounted in a row.

‘Never noticed those before,’ said Edgar. ‘No winking jewels set in the hilts to catch the eye, I suppose. Medieval? European, would you say?’

Joe sighed. ‘This is where I click my finger and summon up a sergeant who arranges for the whole lot to be wrapped in a handkerchief and taken away to the laboratory. And an hour later they ring me on the telephone and say suspect item number five has traces of human blood recently deposited and a complete set of fingerprints on the hilt. But – for now, for here . . . let’s just note, shall we, that number two from the right is shinier than the rest so it’s probably been recently cleaned,’ muttered Joe. ‘Pop it in the box, would you, Edgar?’

They walked on nonchalantly through the palace, Edgar carrying the gun case, until they reached the rooms of Sir Hector Munro. He was supervising the unpacking of his effects but sent his servant away immediately he caught the expression on the faces of his two callers. It was enough to open the case and show him the contents. With an intake of breath and a shudder of revulsion, he understood what he was looking at and what was required of him. He carried the weapons to a bench, checked and adjusted his microscope and set to work.

‘I hardly need to inspect the dagger,’ he said. ‘An exact match with the wound, I’d say. Been cleaned and polished. Can’t say I can see a trace of anything but smears of Brasso on it.’