THIRTY-SIX

Dinner was a low-key affair, at least by Sambalpori standards, and probably because Punit wasn’t exactly in high spirits. I didn’t blame him. Being a target for assassination was guaranteed to put a dampener on anyone’s day; for a prince accustomed to adoration and obeisance, it must have been particularly troubling.

That was, of course, assuming he hadn’t staged it himself. However unlikely that theory might be, I wasn’t about to discount it just yet.

There had been the usual pre-prandial drinks, but Annie had turned up only minutes before the servants rang the gong and I suspected her tardiness hadn’t helped the prince’s mood. He’d barely said a word to Carmichael – not that I could fault him for that – nor to the Dewan; what he did say tended towards the monosyllabic. Fitzmaurice was missing from the ensemble, no doubt en route to the station to catch the train back to British India.

It was only when the conversation turned to hunting that the prince became animated. Carmichael began to retell the day’s events for the benefit of the Dewan, who, to his credit, feigned interest remarkably well. Then came stories of Carmichael’s previous hunts, where it sounded like he’d bagged pretty much every creature that had had the misfortune to cross his path, everything from antelope to water buffalo, like King Leopold of the Belgians shooting his way across the Congo. Bored, I spent a few pleasant moments imagining what his own head might look like mounted on a wall.

Annie’s eventual arrival felt like a godsend. She was dressed in ivory silk and sported a golden necklace, intricately designed in the Indian style and studded with small diamonds. I’d never seen her wear it before, and the thought hit me that it might be a present from Punit. For my part, I’d once bought her flowers, so I felt we were pretty much even in the gift-giving stakes.

In the absence of his father, Punit sat at the head of the table, with Annie to his right. Colonel Arora made for the chair beside her, but I wasn’t keen on that. In the nick of time I dispatched Surrender-not to beat him to it. Arora seemed rather put out, but there wasn’t much he could do. Instead, he consoled himself by taking the seat next to me.

This all turned out to be a tactical error. Surrender-not said very little throughout dinner and Punit had Annie’s undivided attention. I cursed myself. The colonel might at least have put up a conversational fight. Surrender-not just sat there chewing his vegetables.

Beside me, Arora sat with a face like Sisyphus behind his rock. He seemed to have as little time for Punit’s stories as I did. As the meal ended, though, he became more animated. He murmured to me to wait.

As the others left the dining room, he reached into his jacket pocket and extracted a sealed envelope and passed it to me.

‘Keys,’ he said. ‘To Davé’s office and the safe. Happy hunting,’ he continued as I pocketed the envelope. ‘Now we should rejoin the others.’

In the lounge, Punit was busy placing a record on the gramophone, and soon the syncopated rhythm of ragtime burst forth.

‘Come on,’ shouted the prince, taking Annie by the arm, ‘let’s dance!’ She smiled and followed him into the middle of the room, and I looked on as Punit indulged in a series of physical jerks and gestures that reminded me of the actions of shell-shocked men in the trenches. Not that anyone else seemed to notice anything odd. Some of them even clapped.

‘What’s he doing?’ I asked Carmichael.

‘It’s called the Turkey Trot,’ he replied, taking a sip of whisky, ‘an American dance that the prince is quite fond of.’

‘It looks like he’s having a fit,’ I said.

‘Don’t let him hear you say that, old man,’ he replied. ‘He thinks it’s the height of sophistication.’

‘Your Highness is quite the dancer,’ said Annie as the music ended and she and the prince walked over. ‘Wherever did you learn?’

‘Right here,’ he replied, panting, ‘though my teacher was from Blackpool. It is a fact, my dear, that all the finest dancers hail from Blackpool.’

He clicked his fingers and a liveried waiter appeared carrying a bottle of Dom Perignon and half a dozen champagne flutes on a silver tray. The prince took one and passed it to Annie, before helping himself to another.

He took a sip and laughed. ‘Tonight we shall party with gay abandon!’

I took two glasses from the waiter and headed over to where Davé stood watching the proceedings. He declined my offer politely.

‘Thank you,’ he said, ‘but I don’t drink.’

‘I thought everyone at court drank?’ I said.

‘Not all of us,’ he replied. ‘And someone must remain sober to ensure His Highness makes it safely to his bed.’

‘Babysitting the heir to the throne,’ I said. ‘That hardly sounds like a job for a prime minister.’

‘Well,’ he sighed, ‘let us say that my role is somewhat more all-encompassing than that of your Mr Lloyd George.’

‘You’d better make yourself comfortable,’ I said. ‘It doesn’t look like the prince is in much of a hurry to get to his bed tonight.’

I turned back to the revellers. The Carmichaels had joined the prince and Annie in the centre of the room, though from his face, it looked as though Mr Carmichael had not gone particularly willingly.

‘You don’t dance?’ asked the Dewan.

I nodded towards Punit. ‘Not like that, at any rate.’

I downed the champagne, made my excuses and headed for the exit, collecting Surrender-not on the way.

‘Come on, Sergeant,’ I said, ‘we’ve got a report to find.’