The following day it was announced that Lieutenant Grant had been recommended for the Victoria Cross and his havildar the Indian Order of Merit, first class – sepoys were not eligible to receive the Cross – and the General led a small force round the back of the fort to clear out the town and the monastic complex there. No further opposition was found and it was clear that what remained of the Tibetan army and the civilian population of the Gyantse had fled along the road to Lhasa. A search of the monastery, however, revealed 3,000 pounds of atta, or ground flour – a much prized addition to the expedition’s dwindling food supplies. While some of the officers and men took part in strictly illegal looting of the fort, others were given the melancholic task of burying the dead.

Once again, the cost of the attack on the Tibetans was remarkably small: just three dead and seventeen wounded. And, as always, the intensity of the British firepower showed in the far greater number of defenders killed and wounded. As F Company of the Royal Fusiliers marched up to the fort to take over guard duty there they passed ‘dead Tibetans lying in heaps’.

Ever assiduous in her reporting of the losses of both sides, Alice strode up with the Fusiliers. She stumbled upon a trench which ran the whole length of the fort and which was full of the dead defenders who must have been caught by overhead bursts of shrapnel as they sought to flee. Putting a handkerchief to her nose she carefully noted the methods used by captured prisoners to drag the dead away.

‘They tie two ropes to the heels,’ she scribbled, ‘and two men pull while a third lifts the head by the pigtail. So the corpses are carried away.’

Later, she walked to where the monastery buildings had been demolished and picked her way delicately over a line of corpses: those of warriors from the Kham country whom she identified by what Sunil had told her about their giant physiques and long hair: ‘glorious in death,’ she wrote, ‘lying as they fell with their crude weapons at their side and usually with a peaceful, patient look on their faces.’

She sent her despatch back down the line to be cabled to The Morning Post in London, sparing none of the details of the losses born by the Tibetans. Nor could she refrain from hinting at the breaking of the General’s orders that no looting was to be permitted either in the ruins of the monasteries or in the fort itself.

‘This expedition is becoming a disgrace,’ she confided to Simon as they sat in their tiny room in the mission headquarters. ‘The censor will probably strike out much of what I have written, but I don’t think I can stand much more of the slaughter of these peoples and the desecration that civilised men in our army – and I speak of the British, not the sepoys – are doing to sacred sites here.’

Fonthill sighed. ‘You know as well as I do, darling, that if the Tibetans continue to oppose us, there will be more killing – on both sides. And as for the pillaging, well, I suppose it is a sort of tradition in the army: the privilege of the victors, if you like. Wellington probably began it in recent times and Gordon certainly continued it in China.’

‘Privilege be damned, Simon. It’s against army law and as for any further killing by machine guns and artillery against muskets, I have got to think of some way of stopping it now. It simply can’t go on.’

‘I don’t think there is anything you can do, my love. Anyway, the good news is that Lhasa is virtually within our reach now. It’s about a 150 miles away and the rumour is that Y has received a message from India giving permission at last to march on the capital and, if necessary, to winter there and iron out a treaty with the Dalai Lama and his henchmen. I am told that there are plenty of monasteries lining the route and that we shall be able to buy grain from them and more or less live off the country, although we must give assurances that we shall not occupy them.’

‘Nor loot them, I hope!’

Alice looked affectionately at her husband. Despite the fact that he was nearing fifty, this hard-riding life with his mounted Sikhs and Gurkhas was undoubtedly suiting him. He had lost weight and his body was hard and trim; his face and the backs of his hands were burnt dark brown by the sun and wind; and, although he wore a piratical fur hat most of the time he was in the saddle, somehow his brown hair had become bleached in the thin air to a rather becoming blonde. He was – and she hugged the thought to herself – now a very handsome, middle-aged man.

Then she frowned. But had he reverted to becoming a professional soldier again: a give-no-quarter, sabre-wielding, hunter-down of fleeing peasants? He was undoubtedly enjoying himself, as he had on the South African veldt only three years ago as he pursued those elusive Boer generals. And he was always quick to defend Younghusband and Macdonald in the face of her criticisms.

Alice sighed. Her resourceful, brave husband had always had a gentle, liberal side to him. She only hoped now that he had not lost that, here among the cold, ice-tipped mountains of Tibet.

On 14th July, under a heavy downpour that marked the beginning of the summer monsoon in India, the British force marched eastwards out of Gyentse on what everyone felt was the last lap to the Tibetan capital. Throughout the armed force, the general feeling was of hope that there would be no further attempt to delay the march by the Tibetans seeking to negotiate en route, for even the sepoys were now anxious to enter the fabled city of Lhasa.

It had been agreed between Younghusband and Macdonald that this last lap should be covered as speedily as possible, for the full column, with its supplies, could now stretch back, marching on a single-track file, a vulnerable seven miles in all. The column’s flock of sheep had become a major nuisance, slowing the marching men down as they waded through the bleating animals, so they were left to straggle behind, much to the relief of the troops who had all become heartily sick of the stringy mutton and lamb, likened to ‘piano wire’.

So it was a slimmed-down force – reduced, apart from the need for speed, by the necessity of leaving a garrison at Gyantse – that set off through the rain. Even so, it now included 91 British officers, 521 British NCOs and other ranks, 32 Indian native officers, 1,966 Indian and Nepali sepoys or riflemen, and approximately 1,500 orderlies, porters, transport drivers and other camp followers – in all, just over 4,000 men.

‘Well,’ observed Jenkins, ‘it’s got to be bloody obvious to even the most blind chink-eyed Tibbo that we mean business now. P’raps they won’t be building any more walls in the mountains to stop us.’

That proved to be a pious hope, for, scouting ahead as usual with his two companies of Mounted Infantry – now a supremely confident, grinning ragged bunch of rough riders, looking more like brigands than soldiers – Fonthill rode cautiously up to the scene of the battle at Karo La and found that the Tibetans had strengthened their old position and were manning it once more. A second wall had been built behind the first and new sangars had been erected, even higher up the mountainside than before, to protect both flanks.

Riding back to report, however, the horsemen captured a convoy of 130 loaded yaks, together with several prisoners, which put the men in even better heart than before.

Macdonald decided to attack at once and moved into the defile on 17th July, advancing on the wall and sending up his Gurkhas once more, scrambling up the mountainsides to attack the sangars. These returned but little fire this time and these key positions were abandoned, causing the main defenders of the wall to retreat without firing a shot.

‘They’ve had enough of our firepower to stand up to it again,’ said Ottley. ‘Once bitten twice shy.’

Once again it was decided, much to Fonthill’s relief, that it would be useless for the Mounted Infantry to attempt to ride down the retreating Tibetans, for it would take at least a day to dismantle both walls. So it was a leisurely army that eventually debouched from Karo La and found itself looking down on a great and remote basin, filled by an immense lake. It was found to be drinkable, not salted, and its swampy shore was dotted by half-ruined castles from which screeching redshanks rose in protest as the troops ambled towards them. The lake’s colour was deliciously soothing to foreign eyes accustomed to the grey shale and dirty snow of the mountains.

‘It’s called Yamdrok So, or the Turquoise Lake,’ explained O’Connor to Fonthill. He pointed. ‘See the way the white sand shows through as the shore is reached and then the water deepens to that lovely half-blue half-green colour? I wouldn’t mind betting that we are the first Europeans to see this lake since the Jesuits came this way centuries ago.’

A little ahead of the lake and immediately in their path, the trail was dominated by the fort of Nagartse and here, much to everyone’s chagrin, another Tibetan delegation rode out to meet the column. Once again it was led by the Ta Lama and the still adversarial Grand Secretary. This time, however, the Gyantse team was reinforced by the Yuthok Shapé, one of the four state councillors from Lhasa.

Once again, the ceremonial rugs were laid on the floor of a large tent and hopes of the Yuthok Shapé’s placatory and conciliatory interventions winning the day were crushed by the Grand Secretary’s aggressive rejection of every point offered by Younghusband. The parley lasted for seven long hours, most of which Fonthill observed from a chair behind the Commissioner.

His main admiration during the long day was for O’Connor, who translated once again. Later, he reported to Alice.

‘It was mind-numbing,’ he said. ‘The Tibetans seem to have no idea of logic or of the niceties of diplomacy. Poor old O’Connor had to strain his ears to catch the mumblings of each delegate, who, in turn, simply repeated exactly what had been said by the previous speaker in the delegation. It was, in effect, a low, continuous gabble with absolutely nothing new being said. It was as if the durbar at Gyantse and the attack on the fort had never taken place.’

Alice was scribbling. ‘What about Younghusband?’ she asked.

‘Oh, he sat like some implacable Bhudda, no expression crossing his face. I must say I admired his patience and courtesy. But, of course, he gave nothing away, repeating all that had been said before about the frontier transgressions and so on, and saying that we needed a new treaty, confirming a closer relationship between our two countries. It was all another waste of time. Nothing came of it at all.’

During the enforced stay at Nagartse, rumours reached the staff that Macdonald had once again written to Younghusband – written, his tent was only 200 yards from that of the Commissioner! – expressing his doubts about advancing on Lhasa and requesting confirmation of the need to do so. But Younghusband, it seemed, was firm. The mission would advance on Lhasa and if any opposition was offered to its passage the General would be expected to overcome it.

And so the mission plodded on, marching along the shores of the beautiful Yamdrok So, passing another dilapidated fortress before the route led them up to the Kamba La, which, at 15,400 feet, was the last pass on the road to Lhasa. Trouble was expected here but, once again, it proved to offer no obstacles, either from the Tibetans or from the weather, for the lake was already 14,400 feet above sea level and so the climb was comparatively short-lived. Below them ran the Tsangpo river, running through a valley much lusher and more fertile than any the troops had set their eyes on in Tibet.

The descent to it was as precipitous as any so far encountered, for the column was forced to march down into the valley along a zigzag track which descended 3,000 feet in five miles. This, however, was summer and the descent lacked any of the ice-fuelled perils that the troops had met earlier.

For the first couple of 1,000 feet the march down was through the usual bleak, grey, black, rocky hillside, after which the wood line was reached, which was welcome for it meant that firewood was plentiful. Then as the troops came into the open the most glorious sight met their eyes: thick green crops through which the yellow river meandered and large prosperous-looking villages and monasteries dotted along the riverbank, offering the prospect of good grazing for the animals and grain from the holy buildings.

Even Jenkins walked along – albeit close to the cliff face – singing the praises of the view. Not so General Macdonald, whose condition had now worsened, for dysentery was now suspected and he had to be carried down the winding track in a dhoolie. It was whispered again that it was his indisposition that had coloured his reluctance, expressed at Nagartse, to continue the advance to Lhasa.

The Tsangpo, however, presented a different problem. It was wide, yellow-looking and turbulent and it had to be crossed. Fonthill and his horsemen ranged on ahead to secure the crossing some ten miles upstream at a place called Chaksam, ‘the Iron Bridge’, at a place where the river was at its narrowest. They were just in time to see a last load of hard-fighting Khampa warriors, the remnants of the retreating Tibetan rearguard, disembarking on the far side and crying out in derision in the heavy rain at their belated pursuers.

For the bridge, an ancient – at least six centuries old, it was rumoured – suspension affair, made of old iron chains and slats of wood, could obviously not be relied upon for a safe crossing. The main method was clearly a ferry consisting of two large rectangular boats, each capable, thought Ottley, of holding a hundred men or at least twenty mules. But these had been left on the far northern side by the retreating Khampa soldiers.

Fonthill turned and shouted an order. At last, there was a role to be played by the four Berthon, canvas and wood, folding-boats that had been brought from India for just such an occasion as this. They were brought up and, with much shouting and jocularity, assembled on the riverbank. Then, as the last of the Khampas disappeared into the distance, the boats were crewed and rowed to the other side, while the rest of Fonthill’s men covered them from the riverbank. So the ferries were seized, but how to get them to the southern bank? Crewing them seemed to be a skilled business.

The riverside village, Chaksam Chori, had its statutory monastery a little further upstream. Fonthill stood in the stirrups and studied it. It seemed empty but then he caught a glimpse of movement on its walls.

‘William,’ he called to Ottley. ‘Take six men and flush out the abbot from the monastery. I bet you will also find the ferrymen hiding there. Be sharp. We don’t want to keep the main column waiting when it comes up.’

Ottley rode away and within fifteen minutes had returned, ushering a flustered-looking monk and twenty desperately frightened river boatmen.

‘Tell them,’ ordered Fonthill to a Tibetan that they had brought with them from Gyantse as interpreter, ‘that they will each have twenty rupees if they will cross and bring the ferries back.’

Much heated conversation ensued until the interpreter shrugged his shoulders and turned back to Simon. ‘They don’t go,’ he said. ‘They frightened that if they work for you their own people kill them.’

Fonthill drew his pistol slowly from its holster. ‘Very well. Tell them that I will undoubtedly shoot every one of them now, if they do not fetch those boats.’

The effect was immediate and the ferrymen rushed to climb into the collapsible boats, with a rifleman in each to ensure that they did not run away once on the far bank. Within minutes both of the ferries had been brought back and safely moored on the southern bank.

Simon immediately ordered the abbot – happy now to be of any assistance – to fetch some chung, local beer, and ten sheep from the monastery. He then distributed the beer and sheep to the ferrymen and also paid them twenty rupees each. Suddenly, all was sweetness and light and the Tibetans immediately produced coracle skin boats from hiding places on the riverbank, which, as they demonstrated, proved admirable shelters from the consistent rain for the horsemen who had travelled light and therefore had no tents to provide shelter for the night.

Jenkins flicked the rain from his glistening moustache. ‘Ain’t it amazin’ what a bit of a threat backed up by love an’ kindness can do,’ he observed. ‘Let’s feed the ponies an’ then find ourselves a nice little dry boat to crawl under and drink some of that awful bloody beer.’

It was a wet and miserable night for them all, despite the coracles, but the rain eased a little in the morning and Fonthill was able to cross his men over the river in the ferry boats soon after dawn to establish a bridgehead on the far bank just as the main column came up.

The ferry boats were put into use for the main crossing straight away, but it proved to be slow work, for the river had to be crossed in two stages: first from the south bank to a sandbank in midstream, using the ferry boats, then in the yak-skin coracles to cross a shallower side channel to the far bank.

To speed things up, the engineers were able to throw a steel cable across the river and, at the same time, Major Bretherton, the column’s transport officer, experimented with lashing together the Berthon boats underneath a wooden platform. Then, with another officer, Captain Moore, seven Gurkhas and two Indian camp followers, he boarded the makeshift raft and attempted the crossing.

It looked perilous and so it proved. Halfway across and before they had reached the sandbank, a strong eddy caught the craft and it upended, tipping all of the men into the surging water. Moore and five of the Gurkhas were able to reach the riverbank, but Bretherton and the remaining men, laden with packs and rifles, were swept away and drowned.

This took place while the whole column and the journalists, including Alice, were watching. Immediately a groan went up from the watchers, for Bretherton had proved to be one of the most popular officers in the whole expedition, always working to relieve the strain on his men and to think of innovative schemes to hasten the progress of the column.

Later, Alice sat sipping one of Jenkins’s cups of scalding tea in the tiny, one-woman bivouac tent that she used on the march, Simon just able to crawl in and crouch beside her.

‘Watching that lovely man drown was the tipping point for me,’ she muttered into her cup.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Surely there has been enough killing on this disgraceful invasion of a hitherto peaceful country without having an accident of this kind – just because we must press on to bloody Lhasa at all cost.’

Simon looked at her sharply. They had had little opportunity to be together on these latter stages of the march, for he was consistently out riding ahead of the main column. On the rare occasions that they met, however, he had found her withdrawn, preoccupied and reluctant to talk very much.

‘Oh come on, Alice,’ he said now. ‘You know as well as I do that these things happen on campaign. This is a war, after all – albeit a one-sided, most peculiar one – and accidents happen under pressure. And we are on the last lap now, not far from Lhasa and I am not at all sure that the Tibetans will try and stop us now.’

‘Really?’ She sniffed. ‘What about those tough so-and-sos, the Khampas, or whatever they are called, who you said shouted at you when you arrived on the riverbank? It looks as though they haven’t given up yet.’

Fonthill shrugged. ‘Who’s to know? But I can’t see Younghusband stopping now. We have all come so far. He wants his treaty, you know.’

‘To hell with his treaty.’ Alice leant and threw the dregs from her tin cup out into the rain. ‘Forgive me, my love, but I am very tired. I know it’s early. Would you mind if I turned in now?’

‘Of course not.’ Her husband leant across and kissed her quickly. ‘We’re both a bit old for this game now, I think, darling. And you just a poor, vulnerable woman out in this freezing cold and wet. Tuck in and get a good night’s sleep.’

But Alice did not. When she was sure that Simon had retreated to his own bivouac with Jenkins and his men on the far side of the camp, she pulled on her oilskin and went looking for Sunil. She found him, not far away, curled up already in the tiny tent she had procured for him back in India.

‘Can I come in, Sunil?’ she whispered.

‘Ah, memsahib. I come out.’

‘No. I will come in. There will be just about room.’

She crouched beside him under the noisy, rain-battered canvas. ‘I am sorry to disturb you,’ she said. ‘But tell me. When you lived in Tibet as a boy did you live in Lhasa itself?’

‘Oh no. I never been there.’

‘Ah.’ Disappointment sounded in her voice. ‘Where, then, did you live? Do you remember?’

‘Yes. Remember very much. I was, I think about seven when uncle take me away. Father and mother dead, you see.’

‘Yes, I knew that much. But where did you live?’

‘Well, strange. I think it not far from here, if I remember well. Because I know this river well. I live at place called Nethang. It is this side of Lhasa, though I never went to sacred city. It is on this road to the city, I think.’

Alice awkwardly uncrossed her aching leg. ‘How far from here, do you think?’

‘I don’t know. But I find out.’

‘Good. Do you … er … have any relatives still living there, Sunil?’

‘Oh yes. I know that. I still have uncle. Brother of my father and man on your plantation in India. I know he still alive because my uncle told me when we left. He say: see Chung Li when you get to old country. Why you ask these things, memsahib?’

‘Because … well, because it will take probably a week at least for this great army to cross this damned river and I don’t want to wait here. I want you to take me tomorrow to where you used to live and find your uncle.’

‘Ah!’ Alice saw Sunil’s black eyes open wide in the half-light. ‘Why you want my uncle, then?’

‘I think he may be able to help me. I will explain tomorrow. Keep what I have asked you very confidential – just between us. Yes?’

‘Oh, yes, memsahib. Big secret. Yes.’

‘Good. Now get a good night’s sleep.’

‘Goodnight, memsahib.’

Shortly after dawn, Alice was up and scribbling a note to Simon. She explained that she was having problems with the cable clerks back in Gyantse and was taking opportunity of the pause by the riverbank to ride back there with one of the supply trains to sort it out. She would be away less than a week and would easily catch up with the column. Then, she scribbled a second note, which merely said:

She gave five rupees to one of the servants and asked him to deliver the first note to Fonthill after 8 a.m. that morning. The second he was to deliver in one week’s time – and, she warned, she would know if the man did not follow these instructions and he would be punished if he did not.

Then she made for the major who was the liaison officer for the correspondents. She bestowed on him one of her most radiant smiles.

‘Now that the rain has stopped, Major,’ she said. ‘I would be most grateful if you would allow myself and my boy, Sunil, to cross to the far bank with the next ferry with our ponies, so that they can feed on that good grazing over there for an hour or two.’

‘I see no reason why not, Miss Griffith. I will write you a chit for the ferry captain.’

So it was that Alice and Sunil, together with their mounts, plus food for three days tucked away in their saddlebags, crossed on that first ferry – even before Fonthill and his Mounted Infantry had mounted up for their normal daily patrol. Once on the other side, they languidly led their ponies away in the luscious pasture, until they were out of the sight of the ferrymen. Then, they mounted, dug in their heels and galloped up the road towards Lhasa to be well ahead of Simon and his first patrol.

They had trotted and cantered for two hours before Sunil, his precious rifle nestling in its saddle bucket, pulled his pony alongside that of Alice.

‘Now, memsahib, you must tell me why you want see my uncle. You don’t know him, do you?’

Alice grinned. ‘No I don’t, Sunil. But I want to ask him to guide us into Lhasa. It is only forty-three miles away from here. He will know the way and he will know the city, won’t he?’

‘Oh yes. But why you go before the army? Tibetans might kill us.’

‘That’s why I want your uncle to be with us, to explain that I am on a special mission to see the Dalai Lama. I will pay him well.’

Sunil’s jaw dropped. ‘You want go see Dalai Lama? Nobody sees him. Certainly not English lady. We get killed for sure.’

‘I think not.’ Alice’s smile faded quickly. ‘You see, Sunil, I am sick of being with this army of the British Raj, which is rampaging its way through Tibet, killing Tibetans with its modern weaponry. I am tired of merely reporting what happens. I want to actually do something, to stop this killing.’

‘How you do that, then?’

‘Well, you are right that I probably won’t get to see the Dalai. I have heard rumours that he has fled the city, and I am not sure that he really has much control over his so-called government, anyway. But I am determined to get to see the senior lamas, perhaps all of the state councillors, who are the real decision makers.

‘What you say to them, then?’

‘From what I have heard and seen of the delegates that have come to see Colonel Younghusband, they have not the faintest idea of the strength and power of the army of the Raj. Even though they have fought and lost quite a few times to the British already, with fearful losses in manpower, they still seem to think that praying and pushing forward peasants with muskets and old swords will deflect our troops. I am going to beseech them to allow Younghusband Sahib to enter Lhasa and to sit down with him to negotiate a treaty with the British. No more killing and silly talking. Proper negotiations.’

Sunil pondered this for a moment. ‘You think they listen to you?’

‘I don’t know. Maybe not. But I have to try, don’t you see?’

He nodded. ‘You brave lady, memsahib.’

‘It’s not being brave. It’s trying something, well, different. Something instead of Younghusband just marching in troops and making demands. I shall say that I am married to one of the British generals in the expedition – which is almost true – and that I am an influential writer for one of England’s main newspapers, which is completely true. They would not dare to harm me, with a British army on their doorstep. Dammit, Sunil, it’s worth a try.’

‘You still a brave lady.’

‘Well, I don’t know about that. But I am well aware that I am possibly putting you in danger, so, if I can persuade your uncle to take me into Lhasa you are most welcome to stay behind in the village if you wish.’

‘Oh no. I go where you go. I promise Fonthill Sahib that.’ Suddenly the boy held up his hand. ‘I hear. Someone coming. We go here quickly now.’

He grabbed Alice’s rein and pulled it behind his own pony whom he kicked into a scramble over the shale to take both mounts and their riders behind a group of rocks, a little way up the hillside.

There they waited, hidden, and watched as a remarkable procession rounded a bend in the rocks a little more than one hundred yards ahead of them. It comprised some twenty horsemen, of which the central core were four magnificently robed lamas, one of whom Alice recognised as the Shapé who had come to negotiate with Younghusband at Nagartse.

When the retinue had wound out of sight, Sunil turned and looked, awestruck, at Alice.

‘Them important people, I think. Where they go?’

Alice nodded. ‘Yes. I think they have been sent to attempt one more talk with Colonel Younghusband to stop him from entering Lhasa.’

‘Ah. Will Colonel Sahib stop, then?’

‘Only just to listen to them. They will probably say the same thing to him as before. He will continue his advance on the city. He is determined to get there.’ She paused for a moment, deep in thought. Then: ‘They will do us a good turn. My husband will be scouting not far behind us. He will meet the delegation and have to escort it into our camp. That will mean that he won’t be on our heels. We can move on now at a more comfortable pace. Come on, Sunshine.’

The two continued their journey, with Sunil now riding on ahead a little way to ensure that they did not stumble into the rearguard of the retreating Khampa troops, whose hoof marks straddled across the track in trampled numbers. They passed, in fact, only two shepherds, tending their scattered sheep up the mountainside. They looked down at Alice in some consternation, but she gave them a cheerful salute and a smile.

That night they made camp without a fire, tethering their horses some way off the track in a little glade and taking it in turns to keep watch. The following day was equally uneventful, although they passed more people, who gazed at them inquisitively but did not harass them. They slept out in the open again and broke camp early the next morning and set off on what Alice felt would be the last lap to the village of Nethang, which Sunil had discovered from talking to passers-by was on the outskirts of Lhasa on the road they were taking.

Alice had felt the need to change her appearance to avoid suspicion, now that they were nearing the capital, for the sight of a European woman on horseback had already caused considerable interest and she did not want to draw overt attention to herself before they had met the man whom she hoped would be their guide. Accordingly, she put a blanket loosely over her head, Tibetan style, with the ends reaching down and covering, to some extent, her boots and riding breeches. She rubbed red clay onto her face in the manner of Tibetan women and she rode now with downcast gaze. More she felt she could not do.

They reached Nethang on the late afternoon of the third day after leaving the river at Chaksam Chori. It was little more than a hamlet, off the main road, with the usual collection of one-storey, mud and stone dwellings lining the very narrow streets. The smell of yak dung and human excrement hung over the place and Alice wrinkled her nose in disgust.

‘No wonder your uncle took you away,’ she murmured to Sunil.

The boy looked momentarily ashamed. ‘It is a stink, yes,’ he muttered.

Alice felt a sudden sharp pang of doubt. What a risk they had taken! What if Sunil’s uncle no longer lived here and, indeed, had died? They could not ride just blindly into the holy city. They would need some sort of guide. ‘Do you know where Chung Li lives?’ she asked.

‘No. But I find out.’

‘Very well. I think I would only draw attention to us if I came with you now into the village. I will dismount and pull under these trees here, in this gulley, and wait for you. Leave your pony here, too. Please don’t be too long, Sunil. I shall feel exposed without you.’

‘No, memsahib.’

In fact, the boy was away for only ten minutes when he came running back, a grin splitting his face from ear to ear.

‘I find him! He glad to see me after all these years, though he not recognise me. He happy to meet you but a bit afraid of what lamas do to him if he help us. Come now. He waits.’

Alice blew out her cheeks in relief. ‘Thank goodness. Lead on. I think we should lead the horses and not ride in.’

Chung Li’s house, in fact, was right on the edge of the village, very near where Alice had waited. She was glad to note that it seemed rather more substantial than the dwellings surrounding it, being built of stone and timber and having some sort of second storey. Importantly, however, there was a patch of land at its back, where grazed a pair of goats and where it was possible to leave the ponies.

The old man was waiting for them, his hands folded together and thrust into the capacious sleeves of his old, cotton jacket. He was quite indistinguishable from any of the Tibetan peasants that Alice had seen on her journey so far: his features were wrinkled so that his face looked like a scroll parchment and his hair had been pulled back into a pigtail, Chinese fashion. His eyes remained quite impassive but the wrinkles on his face had fallen into a great grin, as his head bobbed up and down in greeting. Stretched behind him was an equally elderly woman, obviously his wife, and several middle-aged men and women whom Alice presumed were his children. They, too, were smiling and the women had extended their tongues in the Tibetan act of welcome.

The elderly woman now produced a piece of paper from her sleeve and waved it in the air, while talking to Sunil.

The youth turned with an air of pride. ‘This letter from my uncle on your plantation,’ he said. ‘He write to his brother to say that I had gone to join British army in invading Tibet and to tell him to watch for me. They heard army is near but not sure if I was with it.’

‘How splendid,’ said Alice. And she extended her hand to the old man.

At first, he thought she wanted the letter and he snatched it back from his wife, but Sunil intervened to explain the British way of shaking hands, so he extended his own hand and gave hers a lifeless shake. Alice then, smilingly, shook hands with the whole family.

Old wicker chairs were produced and the guests of honour made to sit while Sunil and his uncle and aunt talked in a kind of sing-song gibberish and the rest of the family squatted on the earthen floor. Then tea was produced, a fine brew that Alice felt no hesitation in nodding to her hosts enthusiastically in thanks, followed by what appeared to be sweetmeats and wrapped in little balls of dough. They, too, were delicious. It appeared that Chung Li, if not exactly rich, was a man of some substance.

‘They say,’ said Sunil, a touch proprietarily, ‘that family is honoured to have such fine English lady in our house. We invited to stay. We eat with them tonight, but no talk business until tomorrow. That is Tibetan custom.’

‘Please say,’ said Alice, inclining her head to the family, ‘that it is I who is honoured to be in their house and to accept their hospitality.’ Then lowering her voice slightly. ‘Do you think he will help us?’

‘Don’t know yet. See in morning.’

‘Very well. Please, Sunil, would you unsaddle the horses and bring our things in. Oh, and ask if there is somewhere I could wash to take this disgusting red stuff off my face. I must try and look a little like an English memsahib.’ And she inclined her head once again and smiled all around.