‘Better than the dozens it would have been some decades ago,’ said Edgar crossly. ‘And all can be accounted for in the most plausible way. Accidents do happen in India, after all. Damn dangerous place, I always say. And two of the killers were Westerners, never forget. Accounted for two heirs to the throne and that’s quite a bill to pay. Lucky we have some leverage . . . a few good cards in our hands. We’re fortunate also in that Zalim Singh is left at the end to pick up the pieces.’ He paused but, receiving no response or encouragement from Joe, carried on, ‘But, if it’s luck we’re talking about, I must say I’d like to know the odds on Claude’s putting his thieving hands all unexpected on a krait snake. Lurking in a jewel coffer . . .’

His voice was heavy with suspicion. He looked at Joe, waiting for a comment.

Joe thought of Lizzie’s avowal that she would go a long way to protect her charge, Bahadur. He remembered the trust with which the boy had gone off with the hill man, Jaswant. Would their love for the Yuvaraj extend also to revenge when he was beyond their protection? Joe thought it would.

‘Yes, wasn’t it?’ he replied. ‘Quite a piece of luck, I mean.’

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Lal Bai was already awake when her maid came to rouse her. She crept to the window, pushing aside the curtain of khas-khas matting, and looked down on to a milky-grey landscape lit only by the sinking moon. It would be two hours before the sun’s rays poured back heat and colour into the world, two hours before the flames of her lord’s funeral pyre leapt skywards to meet and mingle with them.

She stood for a moment, feeling at one with a world drained of colour, relishing the deep stillness. Across the river a wild dog called from the desert and was answered a moment later by its mate. In two hours their calls would be unheard, swamped by the deluge of sound that would pour from the palace. There would be howling and wailing as never before; the crowds would chant, ‘Ram nam sat hai!’, The name of God is Truth!; drums would beat and the pyre at the burning ghat would be lit at the very moment the sun rose, to the accompaniment of the ruler’s last cannon salute. Nineteen times the big guns would boom out from the elephant gate. Nineteen times, for Udai had been a maharaja, a great ruler. Lal Bai resolved to count the blasts as far as she was able to count.

Chichi Bai anxiously reminded her that all was ready for her prayer ceremony but first, before puja, she must wash and dress. Silver bowls and copper vessels were laid out, filled with fragrant oils and waters, and numbly Lal Bai offered her head and then her limbs for the ritual cleaning and scented massage. That complete, she put on the bright red silk skirt her maid held out, then the tight bodice and the ganghra. One by one ivory bangles were slipped over her upper arms and gold anklets passed over her hennaed feet for today she chose to appear in the costume of a bride. Finally, Chichi Bai clasped about her mistress’s throat the most precious of her ruby necklaces.

A thread of saffron intruded into the grey shot silk of the sky. ‘It is the time,’ whispered Chichi Bai and she left her side to glide to the door. An escort of palace servants had assembled outside and formed ranks, silent but sorrowful and agitated. Her maids, in tears, withdrew and went to stand with the other women at the latticed windows. Lal Bai placed herself in the centre of the group ready to join the procession down to the river bank. Once she was safely shielded from the eyes of the interfering ferenghi, they began their funeral chant.

‘Ram! Ram!’ Lal Bai began her own chant as the cort`ege moved forward.

When they reached the courtyard the little procession halted, held back for a moment by the wave of sound that met them. The whole city was assembled in the courtyard and on the staircases down to the river to pay a loud, grief-stricken farewell to Udai Singh. At the burning ghat below them, a torch-bearer stood by the pyre awaiting the body of the ruler. They watched as the bier passed through the elephant gate. Lal Bai’s eyes shone with excitement and longing as she caught her last glimpse of her lord, lying, regal, in ceremonial costume and garlanded with marigolds. All was ready.

Not quite all. There was one last ritual gesture to be observed before they could move onward. A footman moved forward holding out a pot of ochre. Without stopping her chant, Lal Bai put her right hand into the powder and withdrew it. To the accompaniment of an increasingly fervent chanting from the crowds of mourners who stood back in awe and respect for the determined slight figure, she solemnly went to the wall of the palace by the elephant gate and pressed her red right hand firmly on to the smooth white surface.

The first of the cannons crashed out its salute and Lal Bai began to count.