‘Ah, yes, that would be the young sahib Templar, sir. It stands for “attached”. I remember him well. He was spending some time on attachment here before being gazetted and going off to join his regiment on the frontier. Very nice young gentleman, sir, and, as you see, not at all boozy – just two glasses of port.’

‘Very abstemious, not rich enough perhaps to keep up with Bateman’s Horse?’

‘Very likely, sir.’

A trickle of excitement was running along Joe’s spine. He ran his eye down the list again. What he was looking at was a list, a list of soon-to-be-widowers. The first four men on the list had all lost their wives roughly on the anniversary of this night. The fifth was an unknown quantity. If the wild theory Joe was beginning to form was to be proven, this fifth man, this Richard Templar, might hold the key to the mystery. And Somersham? Surely he would be able to throw some light on this fateful grouping? Joe was struck by a shattering thought. This grisly party was held well before the war – Somersham was not married then, had in all likelihood not even met his future wife – Peggy must have been all of ten years old at the time.

His mind scurried over the information he had read and listened to over the last few days. On this particular day in 1910 Carmichael and Forbes only were married. Their wives had been the first on this list to die. Simms-Warburton had not married until the summer of 1912 and his wife had been drowned in the following March. And then came the gap. Not, as he – as everybody – had naturally supposed, because of the war but because there were no more wives left to this group! And then after a period of eight years, Somersham was promoted to Captain. Kitty’s awful little adage came to mind -

‘Captains may marry’. This one had taken up the privilege and, the following March, he too was a widower.

He had searched; Nancy had searched. The Naurungs, father and son, were searching their minds and searching physically to find a link – anything, anything in the world that would bind these victims together and to the bloody series of crimes. And could this be the link? A link which was not through the women at all but through their husbands? Could the fact that they had dined together on the night of the first tragedy seriously be held to be their common cause? Was their meeting casual? Was there some deeper, more sinister meaning behind their drunken dinner?

Joe recited the names to himself again, Suman looking on in puzzlement, acknowledging by his silence that he understood the entertaining enquiry had taken on a new and serious dimension.

‘ Carmichael, Forbes, Simms-Warburton, Somersham and young Templar,’ he muttered. Nothing obviously in common; completely different in character and ages. Not at all an outwardly congenial grouping.

A devastating thought came to mind. Suppose all these men had been Dolly’s lovers and Prentice was following some hideous Pathan custom by killing off their wives? No sooner had the idea formed than he dismissed it. Why would they all be dining together and on the very night Dolly died? And even his vivid imagination could not couple Dolly with the deeply unattractive Carmichael or the ‘nice young gentleman’ Templar.

And then there was the question of Prentice. The first to be bereaved, the rogue of the group, the one unaccounted for. Where did he fit in with these other fellows? If at all? He too was a March widower. Of the listed men, Somersham was on the station somewhere. He would interview him again in the morning. But, meanwhile, there was another witness, immediately available.

‘Were you here on this night, Babu-ji?’ Joe asked.

‘Oh, yes. In humble capacity then. Assistant clerk only on the strength because of the muddle. But I was there and I remember the fire. The fire at Colonel Prentice’s bungalow. It was very dreadful. I remember many things…’ His voice trailed away.

‘What do you principally remember?’ Joe asked. ‘In a sentence, if you can, what was important about that evening?’

‘Sheer chaos, sir! Sheer bloody chaos! Templar Sahib and the RMO saying, “Come on you chaps!” Carmichael Sahib shouting, “Mind your business! Stay put!” Bugles calling, shouts and even shots if you can believe. And all the time the Greys were too tiddly to think. They were watching the fire from the verandah as though fireworks, sir. Simms-Warburton Sahib called for a cherry brandy to be served to him on the verandah while he watched. In the end the doctor Forbes Sahib broke ranks and called for his horse. They all went down to the bungalow but – too late. And Memsahib Prentice dead. A fairly disgraceful affair. But we do not say that because we are shoulder to shoulder, knee to knee as good comrades should be. I can say this to you because it was a long time ago and you are one of us, after all. But Carmichael came back and – I thought at the time – looking like a dead man and said not a word but went straight to his bungalow. And Templar Sahib (he was only a boy; shaving every third day his bearer told me) was crying in the night.’

More than anything, Joe wanted a quiet moment or, not so much a quiet moment, a quiet half-hour to digest what Suman had just told him. He wanted to talk to Nancy. He looked into Suman’s face, smiling but concerned, and he wanted to go through the whole of the evening – March the 17th 1910 – in detail, but a glance at his watch told him that he was due – almost overdue – at Nancy’s dinner party and with profuse and repeated expressions of mutual regard, they parted.

Deeply puzzled by all that he had heard, Joe turned away to walk to Nancy ’s bungalow but as he stepped across the maidan he was arrested by a thought. A disturbing thought, a terrifying thought. Templar! What about Templar? Where was he? Was he still alive? Above all, was he married? The only member of the fatal dinner party unaccounted for, the only member of that fatal dinner party who might have a wife and, if he had a wife, would she not now – to complete the pattern – be in danger? How the hell would you find out whether an obscure army officer was married or not at eight o’clock on a Saturday evening?

A happy thought came to him – Uncle George! The omniscient Uncle George with access to information of all sorts. Telephone? Where was the nearest telephone? There was a telephone in the dim little cubicle off the vestibule to the officers’ mess. Did it work? Joe realised that he had never made a telephone call in India before.

He made his way to the cubicle and in the dimness located a small wooden box with a handle. Without much confidence he picked up the telephone and wound the handle. To his surprise and delight almost at once a clipped and efficient Eurasian voice said, ‘Number please?’

‘I don’t know the number,’ Joe began. ‘I want to contact the Acting Governor of Bengal in Calcutta. Sir George Jardine.’

The reply came back at once, ‘I have the number here, sir.’

Scotland Yard could not have been more efficient. After an interval a smooth English voice picked up. ‘ Calcutta Residence.’

‘I want,‘ said Joe, ’to speak to the Governor. Commander Sandilands here. It could be urgent.’

‘Sir George is just going into dinner,’ said the voice coldly.

‘Then,’ said Joe firmly, ‘you’ll have to see what you can do. As quickly as possible, please.’

Joe overheard the ensuing conversation.

‘Who?’

‘A Commander Sandilands.’

‘Oh! Oh? Put me through.’

And after a further series of clicks and purrings, the crackling voice of Uncle George. ‘Sandilands! Is this important? Make it as quick as you can, will you? I’m just going in to dinner.’

‘It might be important,’ said Joe, ‘and I will explain later why I want to know but – a subaltern, Richard Templar, was stationed in Panikhat in 1910. On attachment. He joined his regiment on the north-west frontier. I urgently need to know whether he is married.’