'Kate, we rule in India because we know how to do things properly...'

'What do you mean by properly?'

'As far as I can gather, no one but you believes there was foul play.'

'The family will want the truth.'

'And they shall have the truth. But we will do it properly.'

'Properly means examining the facts, sifting stories, corroborating statements.'

'We have our way of doing things. Maharajah Shivram trusts us.' He spoke slowly, as if explaining multiplication tables to a six-year-old. 'We have given India a language, a system of law, a trusted civil service of the highest quality, railways, and an army. They look up to us because we know how to go about things in the right way.'

'That was why Lydia Metcalfe spoiled the picture. You only ever like Indians to see the cream of the British crop, and their wives, sisters and daughters.'

'Precisely.'

He offered me his hand as we reached the stile.

'Is that it then? Are my services dispensed with?'

'Of course not. I am authorised to give you payment in recognition of your success in finding the prince.'

We had reached the lane. The rumbling sound of a cart caught my attention. A handcart with very large wheels came into view, loaded with timber and an old chest. It was being pushed by the stony-faced man who had pulled Osbert Hannon from the river.

James did not meet my glance when I looked at him. He simply said, 'It's for the cremation.'

'Cremation?'

'The coroner will issue a certificate tomorrow, granting permission. I've forgotten the name of the place.' He stopped the man who was pushing the cart. 'Where is it you are taking the timber?'

'To the Valley of Desolation, sir. And his lordship ordered this chest be given up, to help make the right sort of fire. It is an old cedar wood, and the kind that is preferred for Indian cremation.'

He walked on.

The stark reality of watching the timber being trundled along gave me the shivers. 'Why such a hurry?'

'It is Hindu custom not to delay. If they were at home and the body lying in state, things may have been done differently.' James held out his hand. 'I had better get back to the Hall. Thank you for everything you have done.'

I took his hand. 'What happens now?'

'I will call for you tomorrow morning, at least an hour before the inquest. I expect the coroner will issue a certificate authorising cremation.'

Sykes appeared from the direction of the river.

I was continuing my walk back to the hotel. Although there was no one about, he maintained his guise and hailed me as one might greet a fellow hotel resident.

There was no point in telling him of my conversation with James. My former policeman a.s.sistant would rightly be outraged at the thought of a suspicious death not being fully investigated. My approach was different to his. I would investigate anyway, leaving aside the outrage.

'Do you want to hear about the church service?'

'Yes.'

'Only you seem preoccupied.'

'No, it's all right. Tell me.' I slowed my step and looked towards the river. It was a fine evening. The sun glowed red. 'Let's walk by the water. We can come back up to the hotel separately. Don't want to start tongues wagging.'

We left the road and walked the gra.s.sy slope towards the Wharfe. Finally, he said, 'It was so very sad, that service. There's a beautiful west window and the evening sun shone through. It lit up a very pregnant young woman, the widow of an estate worker who drowned. The older woman with her was in shadow. It seemed most odd.' That was a rather poetic observation for him. 'The duke was in his pew. I suspect he had instructed the parson to keep his homilies short and to the point. There were prayers for the souls of Prince Narayan and for Osbert Hannon. And he had a warning, too.'

'What sort of warning?'

'He said that no one in this congregation, indeed in this village or on this estate, should believe the superst.i.tion that the death of a white doe brought ill fortune. These were tragic events and no one could fathom the ways of the Lord. And they must not forget to pray for Isaac Withers who was sorely afflicted and being cared for in the hospital. That was the signal for the organ to shatter the silence, and for the choir to strike up. Afterwards, I saw the duke talking to the young widow and Osbert's mother, which I thought was very kind.'

'Yes. It's so shocking, a terrible blow for them.'

'People congregated outside after the service. There was speculation about whether there would be grouse-shooting this year, and a rumour that King George would have taken part but won't now be coming.'

'Nine days to go. I can't see any shooting happening on the twelfth.' A flock of slipstreaming birds pa.s.sed overhead. 'That coal merchant, Deakin, the one I told you about I don't suppose he was at the service?'

'No. But Mrs Deakin was. Someone did ask her about her husband having seen an Indian in the area. She claimed not to know anything about it.'

'She does know!'

'I'm sure. But I don't believe we should set too much store by what that man said. I gained the impression that he would not be a reliable witness.' My a.s.sistant never fails to amaze me. I am quite good at drawing people out individually, but he has the ability to work a crowd. 'Oh and I chatted to the verger. He said it was typical of Mrs Hannon and her daughter-in-law even at a time of such grief to be concerned about a young man who has gone missing from his cottage, and from his work.'

'Joel Withers?'

'Yes.'

'He is a simple soul, scared of his own shadow. I came across him this morning, sleeping rough in the barn, where the doe is hung. He was reluctant to go home alone. Poor fellow woke from a nightmare.'

'What kind of nightmare?'

'He thought the prince's ghost was in the barn with him. The poor chap saw a spectre rising from the hay, he smelled him, he probably even heard him. If you can find where Joel is hiding, I should like to speak to him again. I would hate for him to come to harm.'

'I wonder if it's too late for me to take a look at that barn, or see if I can find Joel's hiding place.' He looked at his watch and spoke the time aloud.

As he did so, something clicked for me. Twenty-one forty. Twenty minutes to ten. Prince Narayan had telegraphed the time of Lydia Metcalfe's birth to Mr Chana in order to have her horoscope cast. Mr Chana had done as he was asked. He had sent an answer that not everyone would understand. A favoured day for the marriage of Lydia Metcalfe to Prince Narayan Halkwaer was the Ides of August. Presumably Chana was sure that the prince would understand this, or perhaps Chana had been deliberately ambiguous. And did the wording contain a threat?

Twenty-Two.

On Monday morning, at breakfast, I exchanged polite good mornings with the other guests in the hotel dining room, two elderly couples and a gentleman with the rea.s.suring appearance of a retired city bank manager.

Sitting not far from the door to the kitchen, within hearing distance of clattering pans and a chattering Mrs Sergeant and her waitress, I ate a leisurely breakfast of bacon, egg, mushrooms and fried bread. If James was as good as his word, he would not be long in calling for me and giving me more information about the inquest to be held at Bolton Hall. I a.s.sumed that it would be an affair of a few moments, to be opened and adjourned until a later date. Until that was done, investigations stood still for me. It was too soon to expect an acknowledgement of my report. James might hope for a verdict of accidental death, but a coroner, with all the independence and traditions of his office, would not be satisfied with such an interpretation.

Sykes was not at breakfast. I guessed that he must already be up and about his business. If a brown trout had information, he would fillet it out.

No sooner had this thought occurred to me than I saw him, seated outside in the garden.

When the waitress brought my coffee, I asked her to bring it outside. 'It's such a lovely morning.'

She carried the coffee out for me. My fellow guest waved his newspaper. 'Good morning, won't you join me, Mrs Shackleton?' The waitress gave me a questioning glance.

'I will join Mr Sykes.'

I sat down beside him.

He tapped the newspaper. 'Interesting t.i.tbit of information here.' Until the waitress was well out of hearing, he regaled me with a story of an extension to the sewage works at Esholt, and the daring plan of the Jowett brothers to have four cars drive civic dignitaries through the tunnels on the day of the opening ceremony. 'You have to hand it to them. When it comes to promoting their motors, they're not backward in coming forward.'

'Is that true? Cars driving underground?'

He handed me the newspaper. 'Here it is in black and white. It must be true.'

I glanced at the paper.

As I did so, he leaned in and said quietly, 'No sign of your missing Joel Withers, but I did take a look at the barn where the doe is hung.'

'Poor Joel seemed quite cut up about it. What with that and his father's stroke, I'm not surprised if he has crawled off to lick his wounds. I only hope nothing bad has happened to him.'

'I wonder if there is more to it.'

'Such as?'

'He told you he saw the prince's ghost, and that there was a smell.'

'Scent rather than smell. What of it?'

'You believe the prince did not die in the wood so I thought it worth checking the barn.'

'Did you find anything?'

'Not a bullet, though I did look for a bullet. Not traces of blood, though it would take more light and more time than I had. But there was a smell.'

'Joel said it was a sweet smell.'

'And so it was, in the straw, something like perfume among the other more usual whiffs to be found on a farm, faint but definite.'

'Perhaps some courting couple had been there.'

'This was not cheap scent that a country girl might dab behind her ears, something more exotic than that. Of course it won't last, and would not stand up in court, but that barn warrants closer examination.'

Before we had time to say more, I saw Mr Sergeant approaching from the direction of the Hall. I thought he looked in our direction, and that he would wave. As he drew closer, I realised he was not seeing me, not seeing anyone. The man who usually walked so decisively, so ramrod straight, now slouched and dragged his feet. Something had happened. My first thought was of Joel, the nagging feeling that he may have come to harm.

Sykes noticed the change in Sergeant, too, but we did not comment. Time would tell what had brought about this transformation in the once-confident hotel manager.

'What next for me, Mrs Shackleton?'

'Go on looking for Joel. I'll persuade James to ensure there's a thorough search of the barn.'

James arrived on the dot of nine, striding across the garden, waving.

Some people yawn when they are tired. Others yawn when the world is not going their way. James falls into the latter category.

'What's up?'

'Nothing.' He spoke without any great conviction. 'I didn't sleep well, that's all. Always takes me a while to become used to the quiet of the country after London.'

He reached out a hand, as if I needed to be hauled from the garden bench. 'Come on then, old girl. I know you'll want to see this through to the last wicket.'

I held out two hands and let him pull me from the bench. 'Lead on.'

As we walked back across the gra.s.s to the road, I told him about the possibility that Narayan had died in the barn. 'It should be examined carefully.'

He made one of those agreeing yet non-committal sounds perhaps best represented by the letters huhuum.

'I realise it could be awkward to mention it at this time, but given that the inquest will be opened and adjourned...'

James stopped in his tracks. 'Who said that, that it would be opened and adjourned?'

'I just a.s.sumed it would.'

'Well, no. There has been some fairly solid evidence gathering. I believe it is hoped there will be a verdict.'

'I don't see how.'

'Unless I am very much mistaken, it will be game, set and match this morning.'

James must be totally naive to believe that within these few short hours there could be a satisfactory outcome. Suddenly I understood why Mr Sergeant had dragged himself back along the road. He must have been to see the coroner's officer. But what had taken place to bring about such a change in the upright Mr Sergeant?

'So a full inquest is to be held at Bolton Hall. Isn't it unusual to hold an inquest in a private house?'

'Not at all, apparently. I'm told there are a number of precedents for doing so, dating back to the Middle Ages.' Before I had time for another question, he said quickly, 'And tomorrow there will be an inquest into Osbert Hannon's death, at Skipton.'

As we came in sight of the Hall, I noticed that Dr Simonson's car was parked crookedly on the side of the road, behind a black Austin.

The front door of Bolton Hall stood ajar.

I paused by the entrance. 'Just a minute, James. Before you usher me in, tell me something. Mr Chana, could he have been here on Friday?'

'Good heavens, no. He was at the Ritz. I saw him there myself.'