'And have you or your husband seen the prince's friend recently, Mr Presthope who put them up on Tuesday night?'

'No. We have no cause to go to Halton East, and a man like him wouldn't have the time of day for us.'

I believed her. That meant Thurston Presthope still had the ten thousand pounds that he was meant to offer to Mr Metcalfe.

'How did Mr Metcalfe and your sons take to seeing Lydia again?'

'Still on that line are we? The lads were pleased enough to see her. Course her dad's not speaking to her. He doesn't like that Lydia took up with a darkie, no matter how high-placed the man is. The races shouldn't mix, according to him. And of course he knew the man was married. He said he'd stick our Lydia in a harem and she'd never get out again, and that would be her comeuppance.'

'Did your husband meet the prince?'

'No. He kept out of the way.' She began to sc.r.a.pe carrots. 'Said he didn't want to clap eyes on him or he wouldn't be answerable for his actions.' For the first time, she stopped what she was doing and rested her arms on the table, looking at me steadily. 'That's why my first thought was the same as yours. But I was wrong, and so are you.'

'But he was murdered.' The voice came from the door on the far side of the room. Lydia glided in, wearing a peach negligee and matching satin robe and slippers.

'You didn't stop up there long enough. There's still onions to chop and gravy to make.'

Lydia came and sat at the table. 'I was listening to you and just thought it was time to come down and add my tuppence worth.' She looked at me. 'It was murder. That's why I let you bring me here. It might have been me next.'

'I am not saying it was murder, Lydia. I am just trying to gather information.'

She examined her nails. 'Narayan would not have accidentally shot himself. He has been handling guns, and horses, since he was a child.'

'Accidents happen. It will be for the coroner to decide.'

She took a nail file from her pocket and began to move it carefully around her thumb nail. 'That's why the coroner doesn't want me there. I'd speak up.'

'Who said the coroner didn't want you?'

'Oh you don't know everything then? Our good and true constable called. Full of himself because he is coroner's officer for two deaths, when all he's ever done is clip lads round the ear and tell farmers to keep their sheep under control. "You won't be needed, Miss Metcalfe." Translated into English, that means sling your fancy hook.'

'You're right. I didn't know.'

'They wouldn't want me to take the stand, tell the truth and shame the devil.'

Mrs Metcalfe began to chop an onion with ferocious speed.

'Tell me, Lydia, do you know whether there were any of Narayan's fellow countrymen in the area, any other Indians?'

'Not that I know about. Why do you ask?'

'A story I heard. And I'm trying to explore every possibility, whether there was rivalry with another state.'

'There is always rivalry between Indian princely states. The British government sees to that. One state has a seventeen gun salute and wants an eighteen gun salute like their neighbours; another has a nineteen gun salute and wants a twenty-one. It's all nonsense. Doesn't amount to a row of beans. I know who would have it in for him the British government.'

'Why?'

'Because they can. He embarra.s.ses them. He puts them all to shame. He is a better man than any of them, a better sportsman, cleverer, knows how to enjoy life to live, not just exist. And I'll tell you who would have worked with them, for a price, Thurston Presthope. That's why he fleeced Narayan while he was still alive.' She fumbled up her sleeve for a hanky. 'I want my car back. I want to get away from here.'

'When will you go?'

'As soon as they give me my car back.'

I rose to leave.

'Not stopping for your dinner then?' Mrs Metcalfe asked.

'Thank you, but I have to go. It was nice to meet you.'

'And you. Not every day someone steps across the threshold and accuses my family of murder.'

Lydia walked me into the yard.

She stayed on the mat by the front step. 'What did my mother mean by that?'

'She wanted me to know that your father did not shoot Narayan.'

Lydia snorted. 'She would say that.'

'Do you think he did?'

'He doesn't have the nerve. Hitting a small girl who wouldn't play the part of mother's little helper was more his line. He would not have got within a foot of Narayan.' She looked at my Jowett. 'What a d.i.n.ky motor.'

'It suits me very well. Mile for mile I'd trust it more than your Rolls.'

'Take you up on that. When I get my Rolls back, I'll give you a run for your money.'

Nineteen.

Mr Sergeant strode from his office as I was about to enter the hotel lounge.

'Mrs Shackleton, enjoyed your drive, I hope?'

'Yes thank you.'

'You missed breakfast.'

'Guilty. But I'll be more than ready for Yorkshire pudding and whatever joint of meat you are roasting.'

'Glad to hear it.' He gave me a conspiratorial glance and continued his stroll to the desk, indicating that I should follow. He did not speak until we were well away from the lounge. 'Another guest has arrived this morning.'

This was not news to me. I had seen the familiar car parked outside. It had belonged to me for a very long time, until I bequeathed it to my a.s.sistant, Mr Sykes. He insisted on having it painted black, which was just as well or our motors would have pa.s.sed for close cousins.

I had no intention of revealing to Mr Sergeant that I had sent for reinforcements. 'This must be a busy time of year for the hotel.'

'I was unsure whether to turn him away. But he seems genuine. He is here to fish and has all the right tackle for brown trout. I don't believe that a newspaper reporter would go to such trouble, and he shows no curiosity about recent events.'

'Mr Sergeant, you have a business to run. Welcoming guests is what you do.'

He relaxed a little, but his worried frown did not entirely disappear. 'You are probably right. He shows no sign of having heard about the tragic accident, but then, reporters are crafty.'

There were those words again: tragic accident. I could understand that Mr Sergeant would wish to avoid scandal in the press concerning the late prince and Lydia Metcalfe but their affair was common knowledge. If he were so sure that Narayan had died in a tragic accident, what was there to hide?

'Would it be so terrible if he is a reporter? The story is bound to come out.'

'You are right. I just hope I have not let a viper into his lordship's nest, though I believe there will be one reporter allowed in to tomorrow's inquest.'

So he also had information about the inquest. I was beginning to feel like Mrs Shut Out.

'Is there more news of the inquest?'

'His lordship has given permission for it to be held at the Hall, eleven o'clock, tomorrow.'

'If your angler guest tries to w.a.n.gle his way in, that might be the moment to suspect him.'

'This is a terrible imposition, Mrs Shackleton, but would you mind, if the opportunity presents itself, speaking to the gentleman and telling me if you think he is a newspaper reporter? If so, is he the one that is in the picture?'

What picture, I wondered.

'Not at all, Mr Sergeant, our being fellow Jowett owners gives me the perfect opportunity. I will speak to him before lunch.'

He thanked me profusely.

Of course, it would not do to appear too eager to chat to a strange man, even if that strange man were well known to me.

I made my way to my room for a spit and lick.

As I turned from the wash basin, I noticed a familiar suitcase by the wardrobe my own suitcase. How had Sykes found my room number and unlocked the door? Not for the first time, I was glad to have him batting for my team, as cousin James might say.

I placed the suitcase on the bed and snapped it open. Mrs Sugden had cleverly packed my violet afternoon dress and jacket, a suitable colour for mourning. The silk pink patterned dress with cap sleeves also looked good. Ever practical, my housekeeper had also included bath salts as well as writing and carbon paper.

I would ask Mr Sergeant to loan me a typewriter.

Having decided on the violet, with black Cuban heel shoes, I made my way to the lounge, feeling a little guilty at having dragged Sykes away from Rosie and the family on a fine Sunday.

He looked happy enough, seated by the French windows, reading the Sunday Pictorial. We exchanged a polite greeting.

I took a seat nearby and picked up a magazine.

After a few moments, he offered me his newspaper, and I accepted, allowing myself to be drawn into conversation.

The positioning of our chintz-covered chairs afforded a pleasant view of the garden, and also gave Sykes a view of the door. Although no one was in earshot, as far as I could tell, we uttered a few pleasantries before I said, 'You went into my room with the suitcase. That was taking a chance.'

'Everyone was otherwise occupied and I was very quick.'

Sykes would make an excellent burglar. He has tried to pa.s.s on his lock-picking skills, but my abilities are a pale shadow of his.

'Tell me something about your plans to fish, so that I can a.s.sure the hotel manager of your bona fides.'

'He's still suspicious of me, after my grand performance? That's an army man for you.'

'He believes you may be a newspaper reporter, here to dig the dirt on the late prince and his paramour. I'm also beginning to think myself half mad because apart from Lydia and her mother I am the only one who suspects foul play. Everyone else is at pains to proclaim the "tragic accident", well, accidents, to be precise.'

'Plural?'

'One of the grooms who rode with the prince has drowned. That may or may not have been accidental. I am inclined to think not.'

'Because...?'

'Too much of a coincidence. He was young and fit. I find it hard to believe that he slipped while leaping the river.'

'And the prince?'

'He died of a gunshot wound to the heart. Now there is the faintest of possibilities that his horse baulked and it was an accident. But in that case, he would have lain where he fell and would have been found on Friday. His clothing was dry. He had been covered in branches. It was not even a very proficient job.'

'So whom do you suspect?'

'Either someone local, or connected with a rival Indian state, or he may have become inconvenient to the British government.'

Sykes let out a whistle. 'Now I wish I really were here for the brown trout. What are the police up to?'

'With a piece of charcoal in his hand, the local constable is the Leonardo of the North Riding, sketching the scene and ignoring my photographs. Unfortunately, he is acting as coroner's officer and intent on brushing me aside.'

'Ignoring you? Doesn't the man know that's a hanging offence?' He glanced beyond me towards the door and then evinced a sudden interest in a newspaper.

I took the hint and asked about how he planned to spend his time at Bolton Abbey.

Sykes captivated me for six long minutes on the topic of rods, lines, nets and bait, until Mr Sergeant had given up his eavesdropping.

'All right then, boss. Tell me what you want me to do.'

'Blend in. Have a drink at the Elm Tree in Embsay. There's a coal merchant called Deakin who saw an Indian on Bark Lane on Friday afternoon and now claims he did not see an Indian, but a gipsy on a bike.'

'A gipsy on a bike? No.'

'That's what I thought. Whether it was something or nothing, I would like to know. Also, an old school chum of the prince's, Thurston Presthope, is now trying to defraud the royal heirs of ten thousand pounds. He believes he will get away with it because the prince asked him to buy the goodwill of his mistress's father, Tobias Metcalfe. Presthope thinks no one else knows about it.'

Briefly, I told Sykes about Lydia Metcalfe, and my visit to the farm.

'It's the men round here who are the best gossips, Mr Sykes. So you won't be sorry to hear that I want you to frequent the local public houses.'