When I looked again, he was examining a roll of red carpet that stood in the corner of the room. I knocked.

He put on his cap and opened the door.

I introduced myself.

'I heard you were here, madam, looking into things. And you're the lady got poor old Isaac into the hospital.'

'I would like to take credit, but that was the doctor's doing.'

'You were there, madam. A gentleman always does the right thing in the presence of a lady.'

I felt sure he was wrong about that, but now was not the time to argue about the doctor's integrity.

'Mr Simpson, would you be so good as to tell me the timetable for today.'

He puffed up a little at my use of his name. If he asked me how I knew it that would give me an opportunity to mention his daughter. He did not. I would have to find some other way of introducing that topic and testing out his feelings about Osbert Hannon.

'A special train is on its way from Kings Cross, to Leeds, to Skipton scheduled to arrive here at 7 p.m.' He consulted a sheet of paper. 'There will be three first-cla.s.s carriages and five third-cla.s.s carriages for staff. The d.u.c.h.ess will travel in the first compartment with the two maharanis, wife of Maharajah Shivram Halkwaer, and Maharani Indira, who is the unfortunate widow. Her young son, Prince Rajendra is with them. They will be accompanied by a maid or maids. Prince Jaya will join the royal train at Leeds. In the next carriage will be the Right Honourable James Rodpen and aides-de-camp. A fleet of Bentleys will be here to meet the train and take the party to Bolton Hall.'

'What about the Duke of Devonshire and the senior maharajah?'

'They will be arriving by aeroplane.'

'Goodness, I would never have expected that.'

'Nor me neither, madam. But that looks like the future. G.o.d help the birds is what I say.'

'Are you expecting many other visitors today?'

'Oh no. Today's sightseers are being turned back at Skipton. They're being told that Bolton Abbey is closed to visitors today.'

'Tell me, have there been any other Indians arriving by train this week?'

'Only the servant. He came with a little placard, giving details of his destination, and in charge of a tremendous amount of luggage.'

It would have been too good to be true that another Indian had arrived. But there were other stations. 'Mr Simpson, has there been very much activity at the stations along your line this week?'

He shook his head. 'No more than usual. The mail arrives, the mail is despatched. People take their goods to Skipton market to sell and others go to Skipton market to buy.'

'Have any strangers arrived here, or at your neighbouring station?'

'No. Not here, and not at Holywell.'

His curiosity was aroused. 'You're thinking of that story madam, started by Deakin.'

Was there no news that did not travel faster than I? 'It was just a general enquiry, Mr Simpson. I am trying to establish a pattern for what life is normally like in this very peaceful spot, so that we may rea.s.sure the Indian family.'

It was as if I had not spoken. He saw straight through my words.

'I understand, madam. That Deakin, he sees all sorts when he's in his cups, which is most of the time, and he'll tell any tale to ease a pint out of a body. Mind, I'm not criticising him, due to the war he had. It takes some people down a certain path if you follow my meaning. My wife counts every bag of cobs and nutty slack that man delivers.'

So Deakin was regarded as a drunkard, and a cheat who gave short measure in his coal deliveries, and was generally disliked. But was he lying when he said he saw an Indian, or when he said he did not?

Mr Simpson stroked his moustache thoughtfully. 'I wonder if I might ask you a question, madam?'

'Of course.' Was this the moment when we could discuss Rachel and her love for Osbert?

He pointed to a couple of trunks labelled Miss Lydia Metcalfe, Dorchester Hotel, London.

'The trunks?'

'No. The red carpet next to them. I am debating with myself whether it is appropriate, under the circ.u.mstances, to roll out the red carpet. We don't run to black you see, and given the tragic accident, red may seem a little tasteless.'

'It's a dark red, and it will be most suitable I'm sure. I notice that the maharajah's valet has laid out his master's body without regard to our usual mourning rules. They do things differently I believe.'

'That is a relief. Then we shall lay the red carpet. The senior maharajah and his lady have been here with Prince Jaya, for the grouse-shooting, and so it will be just the same as always, in spite of the tragic accident to the maharajah.'

Tragic accident. I wondered whether those were his own words, or what he had been told by someone.

'Mr Simpson, about the other death, the one that is closer to home.'

He grimaced. 'Has my Rachel been blubbing at her work?'

'She has been very brave.' I sighed, hoping to convey a great deal of sympathy rather than nosiness. 'I have the impression that Osbert broke more than one girl's heart.'

He saw through me. 'I've heard that you are a detective.'

'Yes.'

'Well, madam, there is nothing to detect in relation to Osbert's death. A good hiding was on the cards for him, but not a murder. He was the only support for his mam, and for the foolish la.s.s who wed him. I would have sooner sent my Jenny out of harm's way to live with her gran than have her take up with a young philanderer so light in his ways. But we should not speak ill of the dead. Perhaps he would have made a good father and husband had the lord spared him.' He stopped, and gulped. 'I hope n.o.body says I've done away with him?'

'Is anyone likely to think that?'

'n.o.body would be so foolish. But there's a lot of loose talk in a village. If they're slandering me, they're leaving Metcalfe alone.'

'The farmer?'

'Aye, and I can vouch for both of us, myself and Tobias Metcalfe, there's no truth in it.'

'What are they saying?'

He bit his lip. 'You hadn't heard. I should've kept my gob shut.'

'Tell me.'

'No father would want his la.s.s to take up with a foreigner, but he wouldn't have shot the man for it.'

'Then who is saying he did, and where are they saying it?'

'Oh you know what men are like when they've had a drink. The Indian hadn't been missing five minutes. It was in the Elm Tree. But I know Tobias Metcalfe and he's no such fool. Folk don't want to believe there could be two tragic accidents falling out of a clear blue sky. But it has to be that, because otherwise the finger points at one of us.'

Those words again; tragic accident.

Back at the hotel, I availed myself of the telephone in Mr Sergeant's office and put in a call to my housekeeper. It was clear from my conversation with the stationmaster that what little gossip swam to the surface here came from men in public houses. If anyone was likely to catch a good bite, it would be my able former policeman a.s.sistant, Jim Sykes.

As I waited for the connection, I glanced at this week's Craven Herald, open at a page giving an account of the maharajah's visit to Yorkshire.

Moments later, Mrs Sugden's familiar voice a.s.sailed my ears. 'You didn't pack enough clothes and you're regretting that shabby costume.'

'Well all right, yes I am, but that is not why I am telephoning.'

'What's up then?'

'Please take a message to Mr Sykes. Tell him he would very much enjoy a fishing break at the Devonshire Arms, Bolton Abbey, and today would be an excellent time to begin.'

'I'll go round there now. And I'll ask him to fetch another suitcase for you.'

'Thank you, Mrs Sugden.'

'Oh and your mother telephoned yesterday. She has heard that your cousin is coming to Yorkshire.'

Panic rose. Whenever my mother hears I am investigating in a picturesque place, she feels the urgent need to make an immediate excursion to that particular spot.

'If she calls again, tell her I know all about James's visit and it is to do with work. I have to go now.'

I straightened the Craven Herald. There on the front page was an advertis.e.m.e.nt, announcing that Mr Deakin, Coal Merchant of Embsay, would supply cobs and nutty slack by the hundredweight.

It was high time for me to discover whether Mr Deakin really had seen an Indian on Bark Lane last week.

As I drove away from the hotel, c.u.mmings appeared in the doorway, his jacket undone. That man must spend an inordinate amount of time undoing and doing up his b.u.t.tons. He waved to me. Perhaps he was hoping for another half a crown, even though he had not earned the first one.

Seventeen.

Reaching Embsay, I parked the motor by the church and walked in what I hoped was an inconspicuous fashion along the main street, looking about until I spotted the coal merchant's house.

A small plump woman in patterned pinafore, her hair almost covered by a turban, answered the door on my first knock.

'Mrs Deakin?'

'Yes.'

'I'm Mrs Shackleton. I'm sorry to disturb you on a Sunday morning but I wonder if I might speak with your husband.'

She hesitated, before answering me in hushed tones. 'Well, you know, he's still sleeping.'

'I could walk about and come back in half an hour or so.'

'If it's coal, I can take your details.'

'No. I do need to speak to him. It won't take long.'

'He's not in any trouble is he? If it's about that delivery to the farrier's house, he's adamant he left the eight bags.'

'It's just a question I have, concerning the Indian prince, and a sighting Mr Deakin made on the road.'

'He was mistaken. He's said he was mistaken. It was just something that came up over a pint in the Elm Tree.'

'All the same, I do need to speak to him.'

'You better come inside.'

The door opened straight onto a tidy room, cheerfully furnished with, as might be expected in a coal merchant's house, a goodly fire burning. The room felt almost unbearably warm.

'Sit yourself down. I'll see if he's stirring.'

Mrs Deakin climbed the stairs to the room above. Sound travelled well in the small cottage, but she spoke so softly I could not make out her words.

Mr Deakin's answer came clearly enough. 'Can't a man have his bit of peace and quiet, woman? Who is she?'

More murmuring.

'What does a posh woman want with me?'

Murmur, murmur.

'Tell her she can wait.'

Mrs Deakin reappeared. 'He says he won't be long. Will you have a cup of tea? I'm just about to make a pot.'

'Thank you.'

From upstairs came a cacophony of coughing, wheezing and spitting, followed by loud p.i.s.sing in a pot.

Shortly after that, Mr Deakin appeared, dressed in trousers as black as his coal and a worn khaki shirt, braces dangling. He was a stout man, bearing a belly designed to hold a great deal of beer. 'How do.'

'How do you do, Mr Deakin. I'm Mrs Shackleton, looking into the recent events at Bolton Abbey, on behalf of his lordship.'

'What's to look into?'

'I want to try and account for the hours when the prince went missing, so that the coroner will have a full picture.'