‘Help me, for God’s sake!’

‘No one could help you. You know that,’ said Edgar without expression. ‘Ten times as venomous as a cobra. You’ve landed right in the mulligatawny, old man.’

‘How long have I got?’

‘Ten minutes? A quarter of an hour?’

Claude staggered to the door. Raising his revolver he fired three shots into the air, paused and then two more. He came back into the room and faced them, waving his gun carelessly. He smiled his lopsided boyish smile. ‘One shot left. Whose shall it be?’ he asked. The barrel wavered over Joe and then over Edgar and finally he raised it to his own forehead. ‘Fifteen more minutes of your company, gentlemen? I think not.’

With an agility Joe had no idea he possessed, Edgar leapt on to Claude and knocked the gun from his hand.

‘Edgar! What the hell!’ said Joe. ‘For God’s sake, let him go cleanly!’

‘Sorry, Joe. I’d much rather he didn’t have any bullet holes in him when we haul his carcase back to Delhi. Death by natural causes, misadventure, whatever you like to call it. Anyone can get themselves killed by a krait out here. No explanation necessary. Just stay put for a few minutes. We’ll wait for him to die.’

Seeing his implacable face Joe understood Sir George’s game. Send in Sandilands to sniff out the troublemakers and leave it to Edgar to make sure they are not left lying around in an untidy state to embarrass the Raj. Udai Singh had suggested as much before he died. ‘We plan our last hunt, Edgar.’

‘No. You can wait for him to die! Those shots he fired were a signal. I’m going to find out who was listening for them.’

Joe ran with Ajit back towards the palace, panting out an explanation as they ran, ashamed that although he had twenty years of youth on his side, he could barely keep up with the Rajput’s loping stride. With lungs that threatened to implode at any second, Joe was relieved to be called to a halt by Ajit.

‘Listen!’ He pointed to the airfield.

‘A plane? Starting up? But who the hell?’

‘So that is how he was planning to leave!’ said Ajit triumphantly.

‘But Ajit . . . didn’t you say you’d drained all the fuel out of the planes?’

‘That is true. But . . .’ He paused and looked consideringly at Joe then with a narrow smile went on, ‘I left enough in the two-seater, if anyone were careless enough not to check, or in too great a hurry, to allow the pilot to take off and fly . . .’ He hesitated again and then finished, ‘. . . for a mile or two.’

Anger and despair sent Joe running on again, screaming uselessly to the pilot to stop. Of course he could not be heard above the din of the engine and the whirring of the propellers but he went on, shouting and waving his arms. As he neared the airfield, the plane gathered itself to make its dash down the runway and he looked on hopelessly as the figure in the rear seat caught sight of him and gave back a laconic wave. A black stocking mask covered the head, the obscene pigtail streaming out behind as the plane gathered speed.

Ajit had been joined by Ram and a squad of men who ran about quietly and purposefully. In no time saddled horses appeared and Ajit invited Joe to ride with him into the desert stretching ahead of the plane. Dry-mouthed and exhausted, Joe hung on, for the first time in his life unable to enjoy riding a horse. After one mile at a gallop the horses were still going strong but the plane was getting well ahead of them. Joe found he was praying that by some magic it would stay in the sky. Perhaps a store of spare fuel had been found? There was no change of engine note, no sound of distress from the plane. Joe would have liked to call a halt to this mad dash into the desert but Ajit rode on, firm as a rock in the saddle, the gleam of the hunter in his eye.

A further mile out and the horses were beginning to blow when Joe heard the sound he had dreaded. A cough from the plane ahead. A splutter of protest and it began to fall from the sky.

‘Glide it down, for God’s sake!’ Joe muttered under his breath. ‘Come on! Pull the nose up, you bloody fool!’

But with an unshakeable inevitability the plane continued its downward dive. It crashed on to its nose half a mile ahead of them.

They tethered their horses and approached the wreck carefully, one from each side. They had nothing to fear from the pilot who was lying across the fuselage, neck at a deadly angle. Joe knelt by the cockpit and gently began to roll back the stocking mask, no longer alarming but pathetic. As he tugged it away, the auburn hair of Lois Vyvyan spilled out to cover her bloodstained and shattered face.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

As they rode slowly back to the town Ajit, who had been wrestling with his thoughts, finally asked, ‘Memsahib Vyvyan? But why? How?’

‘The how is more straightforward than the why, I think,’ said Joe. ‘Her father, an army officer, was also a member – a founding member, I should guess – of the Royal Flying Corps. The pioneers were mostly army men, amateurs all. He wears the insignia on his army uniform in a photograph she has. She probably learned to fly some years ago in England. She kept it quiet but had a refresher flight or two with Captain Mercer. They tell me it’s quite easy to fly one of these machines . . . But why? Not so easy. She was working with Claude – in fact she could have been the instigator. Think of them as a hunting pair of tigers about the palace, shall we? Disillusioned with their circumstances, fearful for their future prospects and just plain greedy. I think they were prepared to take risks to get away with a fortune and prepared to deceive others along the way.’

That was as far as he was prepared to go in the delicate matter of the involvement of the widowed Third Her Highness. He could feel no pity for the manipulative princess who had, he thought, been used by the Vyvyans. He remembered his first night at the palace and Lois Vyvyan’s behaviour. While Shubhada had sparkled at the head of the table, Lois had remained quietly in charge. Claude it was who had a reputation for thoroughness but Joe wondered how much of the reputation had been earned for him by his determined and ambitious wife. And the scent which had so intrigued him? Lois herself, he suspected, must have had the cool head to think of taking the precaution of wearing the same perfume as the girl who was intriguing with her husband. She must have been very certain of him, Joe thought. And now, too late, he could understand her behaviour towards himself. Sir George’s envoy and a London policeman at that! Suspicion and anxiety had been bubbling below the surface in all her contacts with him. Small wonder that her tone had been brittle at times.

They were hailed on their way back by Edgar riding out, accompanied by Ram.

‘Who the hell?’ Edgar wanted to know.

Joe greeted him coldly.

‘Lois. It was Lois. So, Edgar, if the krait hadn’t got him, Claude would have crashed with her in the desert. Very satisfactory outcome for His Majesty’s Government, I’m sure you’ll say.’ Edgar turned his horse and, as they rode back, knee to knee, Joe asked angrily, ‘Now perhaps you can tell me what precisely were your instructions from Sir George? Follow Sandilands, wait for him to put up the game and shoot it down?’

Edgar remained impassive. ‘Something like that. Couldn’t be doing with a bright young spark like Claude, Indian Civil Service at its best, dragged off to Delhi for a show trial. If one Resident can misbehave – how can we ever trust the others? Could ruin the career of many a good chap. Set the hives buzzing in the Chamber of Princes . . . which, I understand, is about to form up for a very important meeting in the near future. A very important meeting. The timing would have been most unfortunate. Political nightmare. Better this way. Satisfactory outcome.’

‘Do you think so?’ Joe could not keep the anger out of his voice. ‘From the death of Udai Singh have flowed so many other deaths.’