'Anything else?' Sergeant said.

'Was Mr Presthope in the hotel today?'

'If he was, I did not see him. I can ask the staff.'

'Has anyone been in this room apart from the valet and the chambermaid?'

'It is possible. Ijahar came back for the prince's laying out clothes, and then for every bit of silk, velvet, muslin that was on the chairs, the bed, and in the trunks, and for some ointment and incense. Given the state of the man, he may have failed to lock the door.'

'Yes, I suppose that is possible.'

'Shall I question the staff?'

'That would be a good idea. I know you'll be discreet.'

'Very well, and now my wife asks will you come to the dining room. She will cook you a chop.'

'Thank you but there is something else I need to do. Does anyone in the area have a dark room and photographic facilities that I can use? I have a film to be developed and printed.'

'Sorry, no one in the hotel. There is a photographer in Skipton but he does not live on the premises and his shop will be closed now.'

'That's a pity. But never mind, I'll drive home, and come back early tomorrow.'

'Wait a minute. We do have one keen photographer nearby. Dr Simonson at Embsay. Shall I telephone to him?'

'There's no one in the village? Nearer to hand?'

'Not that I know of.'

It would be a lot nearer to drive to Embsay than to Leeds and back. That decided me. 'Then yes please. It's a bit of an imposition on a Sat.u.r.day evening.'

Not only did the doctor let me use his dark room, he shared the shepherds pie left for him by his housekeeper. We tucked in while my prints were drying.

'Do you take the British Journal of Photography, Mrs Shackleton?'

'Yes I do.'

'I have quite a collection, pa.s.sed to me by my father. Did you know that Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, when he was a young medical student, wrote accounts of his photographic adventures, to supplement his income?'

'No. That's news to me.'

I do know Sir Arthur slightly. He is a friend of my aunt and uncle. But I decided against mentioning this to Dr Simonson.

When we had finished the shepherds pie, he pushed the plates to the edge of the table and crossed to a bookshelf in the corner of the room, returning with a pile of old, well-thumbed magazines. He opened one and turned the pages.

'Hark at this, eh? He writes of himself in the third person and never by name. He refers to himself as The Doctor, and he is travelling with The Commodore. So witty. Listen to this: "The Commodore is not a conversationalist. Though more lively than the proverbial tombstone, he is taciturn when compared to an eight day clock. Clearly, a third companion was necessary... The Genius." They sail the coast line from Eddystone.' He ran his finger down the page. '"None of our results did justice", he says. Don't you know the feeling?'

'I do indeed.'

He set the magazine down on the table. 'It was reading Arthur Conan Doyle that lured me into photography. I thought the adventure part sounded like a great lark, not that I travel far now.'

'Did you take your camera with you during the war?'

'Heavens no. I thought I'd have plenty of time for taking photographs when I got back, if I got back.'

I almost told him that my husband, Gerald, had carried a camera with him to the end, but I am trying to wean myself away from mentioning him in these sorts of situations. I busied myself looking at the ill.u.s.trations in the journal.

He opened another copy and scanned it. 'Here, read this.'

'You read it to me.'

'Conan Doyle is talking about not being able to capture colour. He says, "Are we never to have the yellow of the sand and the green of the gra.s.s and the blue of the ocean transferred to our plates? It seems to me that a standing fund should be put by as a reward, to attract the researches of chemists and physicists in that direction." He had a point, eh?'

'Perhaps we would be even more disappointed in our efforts if we had colour.'

'Oh I don't think so. What brought you into photography?'

'My aunt and uncle bought me a Brownie for my twentieth birthday.' The old journals were dusty. I pulled a hanky from my pocket as a sneeze began. 'I enjoyed taking pictures but it was not until I visited Frank Meadow Sutcliffe's studio in Whitby that I began to take it seriously.'

'Oh? I've never visited Whitby, or Sutcliffe's studio.'

'You should.'

I turned the conversation quickly, before he took my comments as an invitation. I liked the man but after all, I had known him just a few hours. 'I think my prints will be dry. Would you like to see them?'

'Not before pudding, thank you.'

'Of course, tactless of me.'

He laughed. 'Not at all.' He rose from the table, gathering up the plates, turning his back to me. 'I had better not see them, Mrs Shackleton. I was drafted in to do the autopsy and prefer not to have the complication of having seen your photographs of the body in the wood, however professionally expert.'

It was a kind of rebuke and a closing down of the conversation.

On the way back to the hotel, I noticed a light still on in the police house. My knock was answered by Mrs Brocksup, a tall, angular woman with grey hair done up in a bun above her head. I introduced myself.

'Here are some photographs for Mr Brocksup to pa.s.s to the coroner.'

She took them from me. 'I'll hand them to him.'

I thanked her, and wished her goodnight, once again with the feeling that my photographs were not wanted. I would be glad to see the back of this day, and hoped that James's arrival tomorrow might mark a change of some kind.

It was eleven o'clock when, back at the hotel, I asked Mr Sergeant to lock my photographic negatives in the safe.

Like Dr Simonson, Sergeant showed no curiosity.

At the time, I had accepted Simonson's explanation of why he did not want to see the photographs. Now, I thought again. Neither man wanted to see because he did not need to know, and therefore did not want to know. There was something very military in that att.i.tude.

Sergeant turned the key. 'All done.' He slipped the safe key into his waistcoat pocket.

It occurred to me that a retired army man, like Sergeant, falls into a position of trust, such as hotel manager, for services rendered, and because he is known to be reliable. Not exactly 'one of the chaps', the wrong social background, the wrong school for that, but utterly reliable all the same.

Fifteen.

In Westy Bank Wood, a spindly-limbed young white doe paused by a felled tree. Head raised, it sniffed the air and looked about nervously from big round eyes. Suddenly confident of being unseen, it lowered its snout and nudged a branch aside, and another, until it revealed a man's face. The maharajah rose like a spirit. Wordlessly, he called for his horse. Betsy, the white pony, galloped towards him from one direction and the Arab stallion from the other. As the horses hurtled towards him, about to collide, about to trample the maharajah and the doe, a suffocating sense of panic flooded over me.

The doe fled.

A disembodied voice said, 'He is too young.'

I woke, unable to see or think because of the power of the dream. Outside, a dawn chorus chirped, mocking my fears. Slowly, I remembered it was Sunday morning. I took in the unfamiliar bed and the strange room.

What did the dream mean? It could be something or nothing. After the events of yesterday, it was hardly surprising that my mind struggled to take in everything that had happened.

Unwilling to return to haunting dreams, I swung out of bed, still feeling a little shaky. It was not yet 6 a.m. I would go for a walk before the world came to life.

At the small basin in my room, I brushed my teeth and washed.

Looking through the clothes that I had brought, I now saw everything was wrong. How dowdy that old tweed costume I had grabbed in such a hurry. It would have to be the walking boots; not exactly a good pairing with my summer coat.

As I dressed, the sentence from the dream rang in my ears. 'He is too young.' Who was too young?

The maharajah, I supposed. He was too young to die.

I drew back the curtains. Of course being the country it was not too early for people to be out and about. Beyond the hotel grounds, I saw a familiar figure walking along the path towards the hotel. It was Upton, the duke's agent. He walked like a man who had been hollowed out. Every step seemed an effort. I turned away, feeling like a spy.

My room was at the wrong side of the hotel for me to see the wood, but not seeing it made it that much more real, a dark and mysterious place that called out the word murder. I could not shake off the dream. Perhaps it was trying to tell me something. Are we cleverer than our dreams, or do they outsmart us?

The best way to dispel the dream would be to stroll to the wood. The hotel was eerily quiet as I walked from my room to the entrance. I wondered would the doors be locked from the night before. Fortunately, someone had been up and about. I closed the door quietly behind me and turned to walk through the village.

It was a relief to stroll along the road in such silence. Even the birds had disappeared into the woods or some other haunts. After the manic activity of the day before, the very air, with its slight breeze, urged me to slow down.

As soon as I noticed a path leading to the trees, I took it. Of course that was a mistake. The path meandered and led me higher than I intended. I somehow missed the way to the place where the prince had lain.

Trying to picture the map in the estate office, I realised from the slope of the hill and the farm not far off, that I was near Stanks's farm. If I went by it, I should be able to turn and find my way back to that fateful spot in the wood. Had it been cordoned off by the police, I wondered. James would want to look at it. So, too, may Narayan's father.

Smoke curled from Stanks's farm chimney.

I realised I was on their land and that the working day had already started. Hens pecked across the yard. I strolled towards the gate, intending to leave quickly. That was when I saw the barn. It must be the one where the doe had been taken. What if it was exactly like the doe in my dream?

Quietly, treading like a thief, I pushed open the barn door, just enough to allow me to squeeze in.

It was dim inside after the brightness of the morning. I blinked and glanced about. There hung the white doe. In my mind, it was a small, delicate creature, like the one in Inchbold's painting. In reality, it loomed much larger than I imagined, smooth and magnificent, in spite of being inelegantly trussed by its limbs to the rafters. There was something ancient, almost sacramental about viewing this upside-down creature. I suddenly understood how animals can be imbued with qualities and powers beyond knowledge.

I sat down on a bale of hay and contemplated the beast so calm and regal, in spite of this undignified ending.

My semi-worshipful staring at the deer would bring me no nearer to finding who murdered the prince.

I averted my eyes from the doe and took out my notebook and pencil. Jot something down, I told myself. James will be here today and will want to know everything. But all that came to my mind were questions. If, as Lydia claimed, her maharajah was so keen to marry her, why had they not married in Paris? She must have told Narayan what her father's att.i.tude would be and that his blessing was unlikely.

Why come to Yorkshire?

They were free agents. No reason why they should not come here. Perhaps the maharajah really did want to see Lydia's birthplace, if he were so besotted with her. He clearly thought he would be able to persuade Mr Metcalfe to give way.

Of course the prince was also here for the sport. Being here would give him the run of the Duke of Devonshire's estate before the hordes arrived for the glorious twelfth.

Since Lydia was unwelcome at Chatsworth, Narayan may have wanted to test how it would be here. He had never been on a shooting party at Bolton Abbey. Perhaps he thought being near her parents' farm would give her somewhere to visit and something to do. He would feel easy knowing she had family nearby.

He had another reason to come here, renewing the acquaintance of his old school friend, Thurston Presthope.

Perhaps there was some a.s.signation that he had revealed to no one. If there had been an Indian in the area, was this someone the maharajah had arranged to meet?

What enemies did he have, and who would benefit by his death? Thurston Presthope had much to gain, if he believed he could pocket the ten thousand pounds that was to have persuaded Mr Metcalfe to give his blessing to his daughter's marriage.

There was still the question of whether the coal merchant did or did not see an Indian on Bark Lane. By the time James arrived, I would try and have an answer to that question at least.

Sometimes, when investigating, I feel that a small fact has escaped me, or there is some person I have overlooked. This time, there were just the tiniest facts and only two suspects in sight. There was the respectable stationmaster, suspected because of his anger at his daughter's love for the man who had jilted her, Osbert Hannon. I must meet the stationmaster, and soon. But my earlier theory that the stationmaster fired at Osbert and hit the maharajah now struck me as unlikely.

Both Presthope and the stationmaster knew the area well. I was convinced that the maharajah's body had been moved. Whoever moved the body must be familiar with the area, and confident enough to choose a time and place when he would be un.o.bserved.

I put away my notebook without writing a single word.

A bluebottle appeared and buzzed about the unblinking eye of the dead doe. Hating to witness the creature so pestered, I stood to leave the barn.

As I stood, so did someone else.

The figure rising from a kind of trough at the far end of the barn almost made me jump out of my skin. Straw clung to his hair and to his striped shirt.

I froze; so did he.

'Joel?'

He climbed from the trough, picked up a cap and twisted it in his hands.

Act normally. Behave as if you see people climbing out of troughs every day.

'I've done nowt wrong!' He stayed glued to the spot.

'I'm sure you haven't. Did I disturb you?'

He shook his head.