'No sacrifice is too great, Mrs Shackleton.'

'I shall type a report for my cousin. He is the one who gave me this a.s.signment and will be arriving this evening. What room are you in?'

'Seventeen.'

'Expect a copy under your door sometime this afternoon. The chartered train is due at seven.'

Sykes folded the Sunday paper. 'I considered taking the precaution of signing in under a false name "Mr Fish" a scrupulously neat gentleman angler of impeccable habits.'

'And did you?'

'I decided against.'

'That's a pity. I should like to see scrupulous neatness and impeccable habits.'

'Shall we have lunch?'

'Don't push your luck. You're just a pa.s.sing angler. I have my reputation to think of.'

'I'm a pa.s.sing angler who will attend evensong at the church. There are bound to be homilies about the dead. It's the kind of topic that could interest a murderer.'

'And then?'

'I shall just have to force myself to try the local ale and be generally agreeable to the populace.'

Through the open window came a distant hum. Two waitresses appeared on the lawn, looking up at the sky.

We went out through the French windows and gazed up to the heavens. Sykes sidled across to the waitresses.

Mr Sergeant came to join me, shading his eyes as he looked up. 'That'll be his lordship and the senior maharajah. They've flown from Croydon.' He blinked and screwed up his eyes as the plane came closer. 'It's a de Havilland 50.'

'You can tell that from here?'

'It's an interest of mine.'

The hum of the aeroplane grew louder. It dipped a little.

'Where will it land?'

'I don't know. I expect the pilot has his eye on some long stretch of ground over there.' Sergeant glanced towards Sykes who was chatting to the two waitresses. 'What did you find out about our new guest, Mr Sykes? He's a bit over-curious for my liking.'

Twenty.

After lunch, Mr Sergeant had his office typewriter brought to my room, along with paper and a fresh sheet of carbon paper. No self-respecting private detective would use someone else's carbon paper, to be perused by any nosey parker capable of reading inside out.

I used two sheets of carbon paper, top copy for James, second copy for the coroner, third copy for me and Sykes. After making a few preliminary notes, I began to type.

As my fingers. .h.i.t the keys, I realised how furious I was with the whole business of feeling pushed to one side by the coroner's officer. I must not take out my annoyance on the typewriter, or every p and every o would have a hole in it.

To:The Hon James Rodpen From:Mrs Catherine Shackleton cc:Coroner 3rd August, 1924.

Report into the circ.u.mstances surrounding the disappearance and discovery of Maharajah Narayayn Halkwaer at Bolton Abbey Following your telephone call on Sat.u.r.day 2 August, I drove to Bolton Abbey where I met Mr Upton, the Duke of Devonshire's land agent at his office. He and the hotel manager briefed me as follows: Prince Narayan booked into the hotel on Wednesday 30 July, with his companion Miss Lydia Metcalfe. They had arrived the previous day and stayed with T J Presthope, Esquire, of Halton East. His highness went riding on the morning of Friday 1 August, accompanied by grooms Isaac Withers and Osbert Hannon. In the afternoon, he went deerstalking in Westy Bank Wood and shot a doe. According to the escorts who carried off the doe, he then rode on alone. No other sightings have been reported Further enquires reveal the Prince to have been in good spirits. He rode an Arab known to be a powerful horse but a breed to which he was accustomed. When the horse returned without its rider, a search was immediately undertaken, continued into the night, and resumed at dawn on Sat.u.r.day.

I rode with Isaac Withers, following the route of the morning ride. We then entered the wood. At 3 p.m., in Westy Bank Wood, we came upon Withers's son, Joel, who was about his business of shooting crows. He cried out in alarm at having seen the Prince's body, concealed by branches. (Photographs pa.s.sed to coroner's officer, Constable Brocksup.) Mr Withers notified the duke's agent who duly arrived and we stayed by the body until Constable Brocksup took control of the scene. The maharajah was taken to Bolton Hall where formal identification took place by the valet, Ijahar. From there, the deceased was taken to Skipton hospital for post mortem examination.

I stopped typing. It is strange that in a language as rich in synonyms as ours there is no word that carries the same weight as tragic. I was loath to use the word, given that it tasted wrong in my mouth, having been used to describe what happened to Narayan as an accident. Yet to leave such an incident without an adjective seemed heartless. Distressing would not do, not in an objective report. Shocking? Shocking it must be.

This shocking event has touched the lives of those who came into contact with the Prince. Osbert Hannon, the twenty-one-year-old groom who accompanied the maharajah, was found drowned in the Wharfe on Sat.u.r.day morning, having left home at dawn to join the search.

Attending Bolton Abbey, to offer his services if required, Isaac Withers suffered a stroke and is now in hospital, robbed of speech.

Miss Lydia Metcalfe is staying with her family at their farm. She expresses a desire to leave for London.

Mr Thurston Presthope of Halton East provided hospitality to Prince Narayan and Miss Metcalfe on Tuesday 29 July. While, in the presence of Ijahar, searching the maharajah's writing desk for sight of any invitation he may have received that took him out of the area, I came across a note signed by Mr Presthope acknowledging the receipt of ten thousand pounds to be paid by Mr Presthope to Mr Tobias Metcalfe, Lydia Metcalfe's father. I placed this item in the hotel safe. I have reason to believe Mr Presthope, or someone close to him, gained entry to the room and destroyed a similar sheet of paper that I left in place of the receipt and that Mr Metcalfe received no such amount.

One other item in the maharajah's room is a telegram received on Friday morning with the text Ides of August, signed C.

It is never hard to know what to put in a report. The hard part is what to leave out.

In conclusion, the puzzle remains as to why, when the wood was thoroughly searched, the body could have lain there for twenty hours. From my cursory examination, it appeared that this was not the case. The Prince's clothing was dry. The state and placing of the body indicated to me that he had died elsewhere. No doubt the post mortem examination will cast light on this possibility.

In a small community, the tragic death of Osbert Hannon was deeply distressing. For this to be followed by the discovery of the Prince's body in the woods has shocked inhabitants, here and in the outlying districts. The events may have precipitated Isaac Withers's stroke. Under such circ.u.mstances, rumours and hearsay abound. Further enquiries may reveal more information about the circ.u.mstances surrounding events at Bolton Abbey.

There ended my report. They would see from the photographs that the gun was unbroken.

I signed and folded the sheets and put them in envelopes.

When I looked up, I saw that Sykes hovered outside.

I opened the window.

'I heard you stop typing.'

I thrust an envelope at him. 'Go away. You will be mistaken for a peeping Tom.'

I shut the window.

Suddenly, tiredness. .h.i.t me. I had been up at dawn two mornings running, and had eaten a tremendous Sunday dinner. When James and the Indian family arrived, I would need my wits about me. I shut the curtains and thought about entering the land of nod.

There was a knock on the door.

I opened it to find Mr c.u.mmings, every bra.s.s b.u.t.ton done up, looking shifty, glancing right and left.

He handed me a piece of paper. 'The prince sent a telegram from the post office on Wednesday morning, addressed to Mr Mohinder Singh Chana at the Ritz Hotel in London.'

I glanced at the paper. The message read simply TWENTY-ONE FORTY.

It was signed NH.

'This was it?'

'Yes. Please destroy it. My cousin would be in serious trouble if this comes out.'

'Do you know whether there was a reply?'

'I don't know if it was a reply but his highness received a telegram on Friday. I've written it on the back.'

I turned the paper over. This was the same telegram that the prince had tucked under his writing case: Ides of August C.

'I never would have done this as a rule, but you are working for his lordship. All the same, if this prying comes out my cousin's livelihood is at risk.'

'Here.' I reached for my purse, and gave him another half crown. 'What time did he receive the telegram on Friday?'

'I gave it to him myself when he came back from his morning ride, about twelve o'clock.'

'Did he say anything?'

'He opened it then and there, and he looked pleased.'

'Anything else?'

c.u.mmings slipped the half crown in his pocket. 'He said he'd do a bit of deerstalking that afternoon.'

'You look as if this surprised you.'

'I thought he'd want to be with his companion. They were inseparable all day Thursday. Later, when I went up to tell him that Isaac and Osbert were here, I heard Miss Metcalfe complaining about him going out again. He said this would be his only opportunity to go shooting, because he had a surprise for her later.'

There was a noise in the corridor. c.u.mmings looked about him, and then scuttled off.

My tiredness fled. From what c.u.mmings said, this cryptic telegram signalled the prince's imminent departure from the hotel, otherwise he would have had plenty of time to go deerstalking before the grouse shooting began on the twelfth.

Ides of August.

What was significant about this date in August?

Slipping the cryptic notes in my pocket, I decided not to rack my brains. Answers have a habit of emerging in their own good time.

Twenty-One.

Waiting is the hardest part. At 6.30 p.m., I sat on the edge of the ornate memorial fountain, a little way up the road from Bolton Hall. Usually, I like fountains, and enjoy watching them cascade, catch the light, and create the feeling of being freer than air. But this creation, dominated by an enclosing heavy stone structure, did not tempt me to trail a hand in the water.

In half an hour the train would arrive, bringing the Indian family, grieving mother, widow, fatherless child. James would alight from the train and into a waiting Bentley. I would hand over my report, to him and to the coroner.

What would happen then? James would thank me oh so politely on behalf of the India Office and the British government. He would tell me that my services were no longer required.

Or he might say, 'You are quite right, Kate. This was no tragic accident, this was murder. It must be properly investigated.'

'He was murdered.'

The voice startled me. I looked up to see who had spoken. It was Mr Upton. He, like me, was waiting for what might happen next the arrival of the Indians. Yesterday morning, he had looked tired and a little put out by my arrival on the scene. Between then and now there had been a subtle change in his manner, as though something had been taken from him. But what? And was he speaking about Osbert, or about Narayan?

'Who was murdered?'

He pointed to the inscription on the fountain. 'Lord Frederick, second son of the 7th Duke of Devonshire. This fountain was built in his memory. He was Gladstone's private parliamentary secretary. When Gladstone tried for conciliation in Ireland, Lord Frederick took on the job. He travelled to Dublin with Earl Spencer, bearing a message of peace. They did for him in Phoenix Park.'

'Won't you sit down?' Was Upton trying to say that he, like me, believed there had been foul play here at Bolton Abbey?

He shook his head. 'Jobs to do. There's all the extra work at the Hall, and we've lost three men.'

'Three?'

'Osbert drowned, poor Isaac beyond help in the hospital, and now Joel.'

'What has happened to Joel? I saw him this morning.'

'No one knows. He has run off. Who can blame the lad?'

'Shouldn't someone be looking for him?'

'He knows his way about. Daft as he is, he has a notion of self-protection. No one wants to be called at the inquest.'

'Why not?'

'He doesn't want to be called, I should have said. He is afraid to speak in public, and lost without his dad.'

He touched his cap and strode off in the direction of the Hall.

No one wanted to be called, he had said. Did he include himself in that? I would like to be called.

After a few moments I followed, wishing I had detained him, questioned him, to discover whether he knew something I did not.

I walked to the priory and wandered among the gravestones until I heard motor car engines on the road. Curiosity drew me to look as the fleet of Bentleys came into sight. To observe people climbing out of the cars, I had to walk away from the priory, round to the side of the house, where a tree screened me from view.