"The Damascened Blade" - читать интересную книгу автора (Cleverly Barbara)

Chapter Three

Joe Sandilands sat at ease. The day had been spent in the company of a Scouts’ patrol which he had learned to call a ‘gasht’. He couldn’t remember when he’d more enjoyed a day – a day spent happily in all-male company. He’d watched with admiration the meticulous precautions and the well-drilled routine. He’d admired the camaraderie between all ranks and now, at the end of the day, admired and appreciated the comforts of the fort. He was very glad to have a double gin, he was looking forward to a second. Shamefacedly he was glad to take off his boots and wished he was equipped with a pair of chaplis, the stout nailed sandals the Scouts and their officers wore. He rubbed his red-rimmed eyes and thought a pair of sun goggles would have been welcome.

Hungry, he wondered what was for dinner and if he had time for a swim in the large concrete tank which did duty for a swimming pool. His friend James Lindsay, having dismissed the gasht, came up to join him. ‘Better slip along to the office, Joe, before you seize up – it seems there’s a cable for you. Let me just finish here and then we’ll meet for a swim. Dinner at half-past seven or thereabouts.’

And, unsuspecting, Joe went to read his cable. It was long. It ran to several pages. It was perhaps predictably from Sir George Jardine. It was friendly, it was colloquial, it was lengthy, it was unequivocal. It told him that he’d been awarded the job of looking after a demanding, irresponsible, independently minded, fabulously wealthy and totally infuriating American heiress. ‘She’s coming out from Peshawar tomorrow and you’re to welcome Miss Coblenz to the fort and show her something of the North-West Frontier, Joe. Bit of local colour and excitement, you know the sort of thing. She’s looking for an experience I understand is no longer available to adventurers even in the wilder parts of her own largely now civilized country. She tells me she can “shoot like Wyatt Earp and ride like an Apache” – I wonder where she read that? – so I think it will be a sound idea to keep her well away from both guns and horses. As far as that’s possible in a frontier fort, of course.’

Dumb with horror, Joe slumped on the edge of the tank, a towel round his shoulders and this terrible document in his hand, and here he was joined by James Lindsay who eyed him with curiosity.

‘What’s the matter, Joe? A further round of dizzying promotion? Knight Commander of the Star of the Indian Empire?’

It had been three years since they had last met but time had changed neither man and they had picked up their easy friendship without the slightest hesitation, a friendship based not only on shared memory and shared background but on something less overt, less explainable, amounting perhaps to an ability to catch each other’s thoughts and moods with ease. It had not been a friendship either had expected or worked towards; it seemed to have announced itself from their first meeting.

They had met on the Western Front. James’s mind went back to that pit of horror under the ridge at Passchendaele and his commanding officer’s words: ‘Royal Scots Fusiliers should be coming into the line on your right. Your first job is to get in touch with them. I can’t give you any more men, you’ll have to do the best you can with what you have. Don’t know anything about these chaps… Borderers… Lowlanders… Sweepings of Glasgow… But they’re probably all right. Look, lead this yourself. Leave Bill in command and work your way over to the right until you hit something solid. I can’t say more than that but – good luck! Here – before you go, have a swig of this!’ And he passed across probably the most welcome drink in James’s life. A silver flask in a leather case from – he noticed – Swaine, Adeney amp; Briggs of London but now filled with Glenfiddich, a touch of reassuring London elegance in the mud and stink.

Thus reinforced, at the head of a section, slipping, swearing and wading through the mud, he had set off into the darkness into the shower of mortar bombs and, leprously lit by flares, hoping as he turned each corner in the traverse to encounter the relieving Fusiliers, he saw at last the stolid figure of a sentry standing on the fire step. James greeted him as he turned the corner. ‘Are you the Scots?’ But there was no reply. He went forward and shook the man by the elbow. Faithful unto death, perhaps, but dead. James’s torch illuminated a haggard face, dead for some time. But at this unpropitious moment there was at last the sound of fresh voices, there was the sticky tramp of muddy boots, and a man came into view.

James’s torch caught a familiar cap badge and dwelt for a second on the identifying thistle and the swaggering motto – Nemo me impune lacessit. ‘No one provokes me and gets away with it!’ James translated and smiled as, below the cap, the light picked up black curling hair, dazzled dark eyes in a lean and smoke-blackened face, the flash of white teeth bared in a grimace against the glare of the torch. ‘Can’t say I haven’t been warned!’ James thought.

What do you say to a total stranger in a place like this? What James did say, extending a dirty hand was, ‘You’re a long way from the Borders?’

‘Bugger the Borders!’ came the reply. ‘And put that bloody torch down!’

That was all they had time to say because at that moment a German mortar bomb came lumbering over the line, ricocheted from the parapet and fell straight into the trench some yards away. They dug each other out and spent the rest of that campaign fighting shoulder to shoulder and sometimes back to back, both amazed to have survived. James, the bolder of the two, came through the war unscathed. Joe, the more calculating and more careful of life whether his own or that of his men, did not. A head wound put Joe out of action for a while but not out of the war. His injury chanced to coincide with the virtual collapse of the Russian front. Bolshevik infiltration of Imperial Russian units was detected and people began to say, ‘If it can happen to them it can happen to the Indian units on the Western Front. The Jerries are nothing if not skilled propagandists, you know.’ And Joe found himself moved out of the shooting war and pushed in at the spearhead of the Military Intelligence operation to identify and counter the infiltration. His quick wits, his language skills and personal knowledge of the battle arena brought him success and esteem and his abilities had not gone unremarked when, after the war, he had decided to join the police force.

James had spoken lightly but, truly, he was curious to know the secret of his old friend’s rapid promotion to his present eminence in the police force. He remembered the derision with which he and other friends had greeted Joe’s decision to leave the army and become a policeman. ’

‘ ’Ullo,’ ullo, ’ullo! Wot’s all this ’ere, then?’ they would say whenever they met Joe, and James had admired the patience with which Joe had received these sallies.

‘Promotion?’ said Joe, reading the cable again. ‘Quite the reverse! It would appear I’ve been demoted to escort duties! Army Nanny? Military Gigolo? Not sure… What do you make of this?’

Silently Joe handed the cable to James. ‘Just read this rubbish and use your wits. How the hell do I get out of this? Sir George! God Almighty! After the last round I thought he was my friend!’

‘He is your friend. He’s everybody’s friend. Yours, mine, intimate friend of every scoundrel, eyes in the back of his head, a finger in every pie and a foot in both camps, shouldn’t wonder. But he obviously has an especially high opinion of you. It’s no secret, I think, that you were of considerable help to him down in Bengal. Cleared up that series of killings. Your reputation stretches to the limits of Empire, you see!’

Joe snorted.

‘Got your man, didn’t you?’

‘The case was concluded successfully in the eyes of the establishment,’ said Joe carefully. ‘And that’s as much as I can say, even to you, James. My hands were tied with red tape and I was gagged with a wad of moral blackmail. The Empire was served but not Justice.’

‘Oh, I say! Less said, the better, eh? And then he sent you off up to the Simla hills to cool off?’

‘Ostensibly. He shot me straight into a year-old unsolved murder that had been nagging at him and this was followed the minute I arrived by a second similar killing. Before you ask – yes, I solved that one too. Though “solved” is perhaps an overstatement. The killer is known to me and to Sir George but, the demands of diplomacy perpetually overriding those of justice in India, I’m afraid there’s a murderer still at large in the country.’

‘That wouldn’t suit Honest Joe!’

‘No. It’s not white as the untrodden snow in England but at least I know what the rules are and so do the villains. George has a compulsion to find out the truth – oh, yes, he likes to know what’s really gone on – but then, instead of letting the law take its due course, he diverts it, runs it down channels he’s dug himself. It goes against everything I believe in! Cover-ups, pretence, turning a blind eye – it’s not my style, James! I admire but I don’t approve.’

‘No, you never were much of a politician, Joe. But you’re safe from his machinations out here at least. Plenty of shooting going on but it’s all above board! But there can’t be anything sinister in this request, can there? Dancing attendance on an American girl? Some would jump at the chance.’

‘I don’t like it. Look, James,’ said Joe desperately, ‘you command this blasted fort – or don’t you? Can’t you just say no? Isn’t there a system of passes to travel west of Peshawar? There is, you know! I remember on mine it said in block capitals that no women were allowed into the war zone. And this is the war zone, dammit! We were shot at a dozen times this afternoon.’

‘Believe me, Joe, I’ve been saying no for weeks! This place is filling up like a five star hotel. The Waldorf Astoria perhaps.’

‘Why? How do you mean?’

James Lindsay rubbed his face morosely. ‘Trouble is,’ he said, ‘the fort is something of a model. Football ground, hockey ditto. Squash court under construction. Tennis courts. Perhaps you’d care for a game of cricket? We can provide! Every conceivable modern convenience, every conceivable military convenience too for that matter. Security the like of which we’ve never seen on the frontier before so what’s the result? Every wandering idiot in the bloody Empire with the slightest influence thinks he (and now she, it appears!) is entitled to a jolly weekend in the spearhead of British Imperial expansion! And on whom does the burden fall? On Sucker Lindsay to be sure! Do you realize this? – apart from ourselves and apart from those who actually do all the work, we have on board, or very shortly will have on board, a senior Indian civil servant from the Viceroy’s office on a “fact-finding mission to evaluate the work of Scout forts and their significance in the overall defence of the Indian territories”. Sir Edwin Burroughs, no less! Not the easiest man to have looking over one’s shoulder.’

‘Never heard of him. But, whoever he is, he’ll never see a better run fort, James. No reason for concern there, surely?’

‘Oh, but there is! Sir Edwin’s views on the border forts are well known and very uncomplicated: “Shut the buggers down!” He’s advising the government and anyone who will listen to him that the British should pull out, abandon the Durand Line and retreat back east to the Indus. And there are some days, believe me, Joe, when even I can see the sense of that! But for the duration of his visit I’m expected to put on a show of efficiency to make your eyes water. It’s all a propaganda exercise to reassure HM Gov. that we’re firmly in control. Or otherwise. What the hell am I supposed to do with him?’

Joe laughed. ‘Take him out on a gasht and lose him! But, seriously, the chap’s not military – he’ll be cosseted Indian Civil Service from Calcutta or Delhi. All he’ll be concerned about is that you offer him the right kind of marmalade for breakfast.’

‘There’s more, Joe! As if that weren’t enough, even you will have heard of Dr Grace Holbrook? Pioneer of medical missionary zeal? She’s much admired by His Excellency, she’s quids in with Sir George and – unbelievably – quids in with the bloody Amir of Afghanistan! Our friend over the border. Ever since she successfully treated his piles or was it his worms? Anyway she’s en route for Kabul, it’s said to take up a post as the Amir’s personal physician, and spending “a day or two in the fort” to rest and wait for her Afghani escort to take her on to Kabul. I tell you, Joe, this is going to be a shambles! At least it would be enough of a shambles if it weren’t for Lord Rathmore who’s also chosen this moment to drop in on us.’

‘Lord Rathmore? Who’s he, for God’s sake?’

‘Chairman of West India Trading, very eager to see British goods replace Russian goods in the Kabul bazaars and I don’t only mean pretty leather boxes, tins of turtle soup and cakes of Pears soap – I’m speaking of military hardware as well. And, inevitably, there’s a sheepdog to herd this mob, an RAF man, Fred Moore-Simpson (nice chap, I don’t mind him staying). He’s coming to consider the problems and advantages of aerial proscription and hoping to site a squadron of light fighter-bombers to patrol the frontier from the air. It’s not a bad idea but I do just wish it could have cropped up at any other time.’

Joe had listened to this catalogue with a certain amount of amusement as he saw James’s anguished face. ‘I think you’re going to have to go over that cast list again for me! How many was that? Five including the Coblenz girl? And two of us – one more and we could have a dinner party! Or two tables of bridge! That’s it then, is it?’ he asked. ‘Anyone else you’ve forgotten to tell me about?’

‘Yes,’ said James, his expression changing to one of happiness, ‘there is one more. Betty!’

‘Betty? She’s not coming up here, is she? Surely it’s against all the rules to have your wife on the station?’

‘Well, since everybody else seems only too happy to break the rules I don’t see why I shouldn’t! And she’s on her way. I shall be very happy to see her.’

‘Me too,’ said Joe who remembered Betty Lindsay very well. ‘I shall be delighted to see her… always provided she hasn’t got that wretched little dog with her! Did she bring it out to India? What was it called? Minto?’

James sighed. ‘Minto yes. Can’t promise you, Joe. I mean, after all, what would she do with him if she didn’t bring him with her? Can’t leave the little thug with anybody else. Bites like a baboon. Come on, Joe! Ten lengths – I’ll race you!’

They both smiled, happy with their shared memories. When they had found themselves going home on leave on the same boat after their first campaign together Joe had asked James where he was bound. A stiffness had descended on the lively features and he had confided that he was going to spend his precious fortnight with the only family he had in England – two elderly uncles in Camberwell. It had been easy for Joe to say, ‘Don’t do that. Come and finish this game of chess at home with me. At least not my home but my sister’s. She and her husband live in Surrey, place called Upfold House. There’s not a lot to do – tea on the lawn, bridge, going to church. Pretty boring really, and I’m beginning to be sorry I asked you, but you’d be very welcome.’

‘Heaven!’ James had said. ‘It sounds like heaven!’

And he had found his heaven, though not at Upfold House. Joe discovered that James’s constant visits to Upfold Rectory were prompted not by religious fervour but by a more particular interest (amounting perhaps to fervour) in the rector’s pretty daughter, Elizabeth. All James’s subsequent leaves, with or without Joe, were spent at Upfold and when the war ended he married Betty and took her back to India to resume his career. It had been decided that his military experience was exactly what was needed on the North-West Frontier, and Major and Mrs Lindsay were sent north to Peshawar.

To Joe’s irritation James Lindsay won their race by a wide margin. ‘I almost met myself coming back,’ James said with satisfaction. As they emerged from the tank and wrapped themselves in towels, a Scout havildar came efficiently to attention at James’s elbow with a written message in his hand. He spoke rapidly in Pushtu and James listened with close attention, interpolating a question or two from time to time. Finally he turned to Joe. ‘Message,’ he said, ‘by helio. From one of our pickets. A cavalry force, thirty strong they say, is coming in down the Khyber road. This must be Grace Holbrook’s Afghani escort. Typically twenty-four hours before I was expecting them! I think I’ll send some chaps to meet them. I like to retain the initiative. But, on second thoughts, perhaps I’ll go and meet them myself. Why don’t you come with me? Just give me time to get dressed and hand over to Eddy Fraser and we’ll go!’

He shouted down into the courtyard and at once horses were led out and mounted Scouts were forming up.

Twenty minutes later, Joe and James rode out through the main gate of the fort at the head of a small escorting group. ‘We won’t hurry,’ said James. ‘We’ll just amble out to greet them, looking at the view and chatting of this and that as we go. Don’t want to assume the character of an official delegation. This is just a private arrangement between Grace Holbrook and the Amir and we’re doing what we can to help them. No more than that.’

Squinting into the sun dipping behind the forbidding khaki bleakness of the Khyber, Joe took out a pair of binoculars and focused on the riders coming on towards them. They presented an alluring blend of banditry and military precision. They advanced under a haze of fluttering battle standards. They seemed to be a regular army force down to the waist but irregular frontier raiders below that. Chestnut silk turbans, loose khaki tunics, patch pockets, cross belts and aiguelettes with, below them, baggy trousers and tall boots. Many were armed with spears which, taken in conjunction with the fluttering flags, managed to give an air of a medieval force. All, Joe noticed, were equipped with bolt-action rifles as good as anything carried by the Scouts. Their air of efficiency and menace was not lost on Joe. This was no carnival army.

‘Friendly enemies, would you say? Or hostile allies?’ he murmured to James. ‘Are you sure we’re not still at war with these gentlemen?’

‘The third – but I suspect not the last – Afghan war was over three years ago and we signed a peace treaty with the Amir only last year.’ James paused for a moment and added, ‘But I’ll remind you of an old Pathan proverb shall I? “When the peace treaty’s signed – that’s when the war starts.” And I’ll tell you something else – they’re not coming into the fort! Plenty of them have got scores to settle with the Scouts and plenty of Scouts would welcome above all things an opportunity to have a go at them. They can camp on the football ground for tonight. We can board them but I’m damned if I’ll lodge them as well. Far too volatile! Hell’s bells! Shouldn’t have let this happen! But then what could I do? Could you get me a job in London, do you think, Joe? This is all getting a bit delicate for me!’

They threaded their way through the irrigated, crop-green land beyond the walls which served both as a clear field of fire, vegetable garden and orchard for the fort and ambled on. The two troops closed until they were a hundred yards apart. The leading Afghan raised a hand and his men came to a halt. Escorted by one man riding at his side and a little behind, the leader came on at walking pace, mounted on a tall grey Khabuli stallion. To Joe he seemed a very impressive figure. Young and handsome with dark eyes and a heavy black moustache, he turned a direct and enquiring gaze on them. Over one hip was slung a Mauser pistol and over the other a jewel-encrusted Persian dagger.

James surveyed the newcomer through narrowed eyes.

‘Who’s this, James?’ Joe whispered, curious and intrigued.

‘Zeman Khan!’ said James. ‘Very prominent local citizen. Nephew – or is it cousin? – of the Amir. About twenty sons and brothers between him and the throne but that’s not a formidable barrier in Afghanistan.’

‘What – you mean…?’

‘Oh, yes. The Afghan royal succession makes the last act of Richard the Third look like the Teddy Bears’ Picnic! The present Amir owes his position to the fact that someone shot the top off the head of the previous one, his father, while he was asleep. Some say Amanullah knows more about that than he lets on and others say it was a nephew who killed him. We only care in so far as the present incumbent is not unfavourable to the British and discourages any Russian incursion from the north. Not sure where Zeman Khan stands though.’

He halted the escort and rode forward with Joe. ‘Having said all that, I’ll add that I wouldn’t trust him one inch. He’ll be staying with us tonight – guest of honour, you might say – and he won’t have his eyes shut! He’ll be looking; he’ll be evaluating. He’ll see what we’re up to. He’ll note the number of men we have, the quantity and quality of our armament. He’ll count the pea-shooters and the catapults. Nothing I can do about it. I’ll just have to make it plain that we know what he’s up to and we’re so confident we don’t need to worry too much about a spy in the camp. I’d stick him down with the rest of his bandits on the football ground if I could but that would be a hideous social gaffe.’

He cupped his hands round his mouth and shouted in Pushtu and the oncoming horseman did likewise. Judging by the ribald laughter from both sides which greeted this exchange, it had been one of practised and amiable insult.

‘God!’ thought Joe. ‘I wish I could do that!’

With outstretched hands the men advanced to each other. James spoke again in Pushtu then in English. ‘Let me present Zeman Khan and this is my friend Joe Sandilands.’

The black eyes looked him up and down, resting briefly on Joe’s scarred forehead and the row of medal ribbons on his jacket. They took in the unfamiliar police uniform, showing slight surprise that Joe was unarmed. Zeman Khan smiled and extended a hand. ‘How do you do, Sandilands? I’m so pleased to make your acquaintance. I had heard that you were in Simla but never expected that I should have the pleasure of meeting you here. May I welcome you to this backward and flea-bitten annexe to the mighty British Empire?’

The voice was low and smooth, the accent pure British Public School. Joe mastered his astonishment and replied, ‘I am flattered that the distinguished Zeman Khan, so close to his Highness the Amir, would condescend to know the name of so humble an individual as myself.’

They looked at each other for a moment and then began to laugh. ‘Of course,’ said Zeman, ‘we should be speaking in Persian which is the language of elegant diplomacy but I will settle for the more comprehensible though less elegant language adopted from the conqueror.’

‘Conqueror?’ said James. ‘Rubbish! You’re wasting your time, Zeman! You won’t fool Joe!’

Zeman flashed a slim silver cigarette case from his pocket and held it open to them. ‘Russian cigarettes, I’m afraid,’ he said, ‘but supplies have been rather interrupted of late.’

‘Relief is at hand, Zeman,’ said James easily. ‘I’ve arranged for two hundred Players Medium to be brought out for you. We are as aware of melmastia and the sacred ties of hospitality as you are.’

Joe had a clear impression that in these few brief exchanges between two practised duellists they had covered an agenda which politicians would have wrangled over for a week.

‘Your charge, Dr Holbrook, is not expected until tomorrow, Zeman, so this will give you time to rest and recover from your journey and for us to enjoy your company. We hope that you and your aide,’ he smiled towards the officer escorting Zeman, ‘will consent to be our guests in the fort for the next two nights at least. We are expecting other guests to arrive with Dr Holbrook’s party and I’m sure you will be happy to meet them.’

‘My aide,’ Zeman said, waving a hand at the young Pathan at his side, ‘Muhammed Iskander Khan, and I will be delighted.’

Joe looked again at Iskander Khan. Watchful but not unfriendly green eyes looked back at him. He was a pale-skinned Pathan, one of the tribesmen who claim that their colouring comes from the ancient line of Alexander the Great whose Macedonian army had passed through these hills two thousand years before. His brown hair was bobbed and curled, wind-blown around his turban, his nose, like Zeman’s, was magnificent, but he was cleanshaven and lacking the luxuriant moustache.

‘Then come with us,’ said James, turning his horse. ‘Your men will be taken care of.’

He summoned a havildar who, though suspicious and wary, began with a formal bow to talk with the senior remaining Afghan.

Out of earshot, Joe leaned towards James and hissed, ‘You might have warned me! What shall I guess? Wellington and Sandhurst?’

James grinned. ‘No. As it happens – Rugby and Sandhurst. You’ll have a chance to get better acquainted over supper. His mother is an Afghan princess, Durrani tribe, royal blood, and his father is a chief, a Malik, of a branch of the Afridis who live this side of the border. Now he’s a nasty old brute! Hates the English but he’s not above using the large grants of English cash we give him to send his only son off to Europe for a military education. Nothing like learning how your enemy ticks from the inside, I suppose.’

‘So when Zeman sticks his dagger in my throat I may expect him to say, “Sorry about this, old chap! Nothing personal you understand,” in the best Sandhurst drawl?’

James considered for a moment. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘you’ve got it just about right. Don’t forget to lock your door tonight!’

The next morning Joe and James stood together on the roof of the fort, already uncomfortably hot by ten o’clock, binoculars sweeping the road up from Peshawar. They were joined by Zeman Khan. ‘When do we expect to see this so important delegation?’ he asked easily, seating himself on the parapet.

‘At any moment now,’ said James, offering him the binoculars.

With a smile Zeman waved them away and looked towards the Peshawar road. ‘At any moment now? Then unless I mistake, here they are.’

And a motorized convoy, an armoured car leading the way, began to appear, slowly making its way along the newly metalled road to the fort.

‘Do you recognize anybody?’ Joe asked.

‘Well,’ said James, ‘one of the men in the first car is in RAF uniform so that can only be Moore-Simpson.’

‘Moore-Simpson?’ said Zeman, suddenly alert. ‘I didn’t realize he was coming. What’s he coming for?’ His tone was suspicious.

‘Well, primarily,’ said James pacifically, ‘if he’s done what I asked, he’s got two hundred Players Medium Navy Cut fags on board for you. But, beyond that, it’s not for me to expound the motives of my lords and masters. And with him in the car, I note, there’s Sir Edwin Burroughs of the Indian Civil Service.’

‘That’s a funny pairing,’ said Zeman. ‘Moore-Simpson’s well known to be in favour of bombing the wicked tribesmen into submission and Sir Edwin is in favour of anything, including a British retreat from the frontier, that might save money! Ha! I should think they had an interesting journey together!’

James evidently thought the same but didn’t care to have British frontier policy explained to him from the other side of the tribal boundary.

‘Next car? That’s a Dodge, isn’t it?’

‘Buick, I think.’

‘Delage,’ said Zeman authoritatively.

‘Well, whatever the car, it seems to contain none other than the formidable Grace Holbrook. Yes, undoubtedly – motoring veil! That’s her all right.’

‘Who’s that in the car with her?’

‘That must be the Lord Rathmore, I’d guess. And opposite him and turning towards us… ’ He spoke with studied calm. ‘Yes. It’s Betty. Do you see her, Joe?’

The first two cars were separated from the next two by a lorry full of Scouts infantry. A third car came in view.

‘Luggage,’ said Joe, staring. ‘Nothing but luggage. Any more to come? What’s the matter, James?’

‘Well,’ said James, ‘I’m looking for the member of this party for whom I have the greatest anxiety and I do not see her. Where the hell’s bloody little Miss Lily Coblenz got to, I’d like to know? Here comes another car… but there’s no one in it but the driver. And there’s the troop of Lancers bringing up the rear. That’s it. Now what? My orders were absolutely specific! She was to travel in the second car with my wife and Dr Holbrook. Ah, dammit! I should have gone down myself!’

‘Or maybe I should have gone down,’ Joe said. ‘Not sure when exactly my stewardship kicked in.’

Zeman eyed the two men in their manifest consternation with malicious amusement. ‘Dropped your heiress by the roadside, have they?’ he asked.

‘Don’t even mention such a thing!’ said James, biting his finger. ‘If such an awful thing could possibly have happened, that’s the end of my promising career! I’ll kill that bloody Monty Melville!’

Joe looked a question.

‘Monty Melville. Ninth Lancers. He was supposed to shepherd this convoy to us. There he is! Prancing about in front of the troop. What the hell have you done with her, Monty? I suppose the damned girl hasn’t travelled with the Scouts?’ he said, tracking back to the lorry-load of Scout infantry in the centre of the column.

All three men stared and said together, ‘She’s not there.’

‘Perhaps she changed her mind?’ said Joe hopefully. ‘Perhaps she’s stayed on to taste the delights of Peshawar?’

‘The only explanation and what a relief that’ll be!’ said James. ‘All the same, I’d have expected them to tell me that when they radioed they were about to set off, wouldn’t you?’

‘Probably changed her mind at the very last minute. Decided to go shopping or something. Didn’t much like the look of the other travellers… anything… ’ suggested Joe.

Zeman had been sweeping the convoy with his hawk’s eyes. Suddenly he laughed. ‘This lady whose non-appearance causes you so much anxiety – would she be young and fair-haired, athletic, capricious? Yes? Then I fear I have bad news for you both!’

He pointed downwards to where the cavalry troop, partly obscured by a haze of dust, was coming more clearly into view. ‘I had heard,’ he said, ‘that we were to be honoured by the presence of a British cavalry regiment. Rare but not unknown in this part of the world, and here they are. But that’s not all! When I report back to the Amir do I tell him the red line is running so thin these days that the British are reduced to recruiting women?’ He began to laugh. ‘Hedged about in the centre of this martial array I think you’ll find what you’re looking for!’

James stared and stared. ‘Bloody hell!’ he said. ‘Bloody girl! How the hell did she get there? I’ll kill Melville when I catch up with him! How on earth could he have let this happen?’

‘I don’t think you need worry,’ said Joe. ‘I think she’s safe enough. I can’t think of anywhere more safe within the bounds of the Indian Empire. Either way, I’m going down to meet the damn girl.’

‘I think I’d better stay here with James,’ said Zeman, ‘though I must admit I am very curious to meet this paragon. She might be disconcerted to confront a hairy tribesman such as myself. I’m sure she must have been warned about “men like me”.’

‘If she has, she doesn’t seem to have heeded the warning.’

Indignantly, Joe clattered down to the courtyard, mounted the horse being held ready for him and set off through the gates of the fort. Pausing briefly in the garden and leaning low he picked two choice roses and tucked them into his epaulette. He cantered down the road to meet the oncoming convoy, passing each car in turn with something between a wave and a salute, acknowledging the lorry-load of armed Scouts and finally confronting the troop of Ninth Lancers led by Monty Melville. Carefully sunk in the protection of this force, pink, dishevelled and wearing a borrowed Lancer’s helmet, dark glasses pushed up on her damp forehead, riding firmly astride, his charge raised an excited face to him and he bore down upon her in wrath.

‘Just what,’ he said, hardly able to pick his words, ‘the hell do you think you’re doing?’ He crooked an imperious police forefinger at her and indicated that she should withdraw from the crowd and present herself.

‘Well, my!’ The voice could not have been more cheerful and unconcerned and could not have been more incongruously American. ‘I guess you must be my policeman, Commandant Sandilands!’ she said, easing her horse out of the mêlée. ‘Do you know – they tried to put me in a – what did they call it? – a staff car! I wasn’t going to do that. I haven’t come all the way from Chicago to drive about in a Delage! Gee! This is just great! This is the proper way to travel in this country!’ She beamed round her at the line of admiring British troopers.

‘Young lady did well!’ said the troop sergeant. ‘Could have been doing it all her life.’ And there was a murmuring of adoring agreement from the troop.

‘I’m sorry, sir!’ said Monty Melville. He turned a desperate face towards Joe and hissed, ‘I know what the orders were and I did my best but you might as well explain King’s regs to a langur monkey as get any sense into this blasted girl!’ He shot a sweating and indignant glance at Lily. ‘Especially as she seems to have got all my chaps on her side.’

‘I see,’ said Joe, turning a frosty glare on Lily, ‘that I’m going to have to explain the facts of life – the facts of frontier life, that is – and, not to put too fine a point on it, you can count yourself lucky you’re not put on the next “staff car” and sent back to Peshawar! If I had my way that’s just what would happen. I’m getting too old to play hide and seek with little girls.’

‘Aw!’ said Lily. ‘Don’t be like that! This is what I came for.’ She swept a complicitous glance around the troop and added, ‘Sir George warned me about him. But they say his bark’s worse than his bite! Is that right, Commandant?’

‘Can I explain that this is a dangerous part of the world? You’re not on a dude ranch here. You could get into serious trouble. I wouldn’t mind that myself but some good men might find themselves put into danger pulling you out of it. I’m responsible for your safety – problem enough if you do what you’re told, impossible if you don’t. Is that clear, I wonder?’

Lily’s reaction to this was to favour him with a cheeky salute copied, Joe supposed, from the convention of West Point.