For a good half hour I sat on the manager's chair, paced the room, sat down again, closed my eyes, tried to fathom how and why the prince had died. The means was clear enough a gunshot wound. But who had pulled the trigger, when, where and why?

I answered the telephone the instant it rang, announcing my name, disconcerting the operator who was clearly unused to such a speedy response.

A moment later, James came on the line.

'The Colonial Secretary is on his way to see Maharajah Shivram Halkwaer, to break the news of his son's death. He expects that the family will travel to Yorkshire tomorrow. I shall be making arrangements for a private train.' Perhaps it was my imagination, but I thought I detected a touch of reproach in his voice. I had done my job, but not well enough. My task had been to find the maharajah alive. James hesitated. 'Will you wait at Bolton Abbey until I arrive with the family tomorrow?'

'Of course.'

'His lordship will speak to the coroner and the chief constable.'

'Is there anything I can do, James?'

'Just one thing, regarding the Metcalfe woman; throw her off the pitch. I'm told her parents are tenant farmers somewhere nearby.'

'Consider it done.'

'Good. I don't want her in sight of the family when they arrive, or near the prince, nor any of his belongings. She is a menace.' He spoke with the kind of vitriol I would have reserved for the killer.

'All right, James. You make your point.'

'Does she know about the death?'

'No, or she would have had something to say by now.'

'Keep it from her for at least an hour. She mustn't be able to lord it over the family, saying she knew first.'

'What about the valet? I expect he should be told so that he can ensure the proprieties are observed.'

'You're right. Thanks, Kate. Oh and you are invited to stay at the Hall.'

The thought of staying at Bolton Hall gave me the shudders. 'It's all right. I have a room here at the hotel.'

I wondered what the Gattiawan royal family, used to the sumptuous life of a palace, would make of Bolton Hall. It might be good enough for the king but I doubted it would match Gattiawan standards.

'Very well. I shall see you tomorrow.'

'All right.'

'And Kate?'

'Yes?'

'Thank you.'

When I left the manager's office, I sought out Rachel, the chambermaid who had been the object of Lydia Metcalfe's ashtray-throwing wrath earlier. She looked drained, and should have been in bed with a hot-water bottle.

'Rachel, has Miss Metcalfe stirred from her room?'

'No. Mr Sergeant made me look in on her. She's in a dead stupor. I closed the curtains. Let sleeping dogs lie.'

'Thank you.' I would have liked to say more but feared too much sympathy might result in a fresh outburst of tears.

I walked up the stairs, to check that Lydia really was in a 'dead stupor', and not dead.

Close up, I watched the rise and fall of her ample chest. It would be time enough to tell her about Narayan's death when she woke. Give her a while longer of blissful ignorance. In the meanwhile, I would break the news to the valet, and hope that the poor man would not bring down the ceiling with his howls.

Eleven.

Although it is only a short distance from the hotel to Bolton Hall, I decided to drive. Ijahar had been back and forth between Hall and hotel, silent as a ghost, carrying cloths and incense.

I had barely driven a few yards when Isaac emerged from the stable. He stepped in front of the motor as though desirous of dying under the wheels.

I braked.

He spoke rapidly, a little out of breath. 'I mun know. Does blame attach to me, or my lad, or to Osbert?'

'No. I'm sure not. Why should it?'

'Then let me come with you, tell the constable about the horse.'

He was not making sense, but I could hardly leave him in the middle of the road, and his son was nowhere to be seen.

I stepped out of the car to help him in. He moved slowly and clumsily. As I was about to set off, Mr Sergeant appeared from the direction of the Hall.

'I'm asked by the duke's housekeeper to spare her some of my staff. She has every room in the place to be ready by tomorrow for the Indian party.'

I was not sure what to say to that. If he expected me to don a pinafore, he could think again. 'I don't suppose they'll set off at the crack of dawn. And perhaps they will travel with just a small entourage.'

He shook his head. 'You don't know Indian royals, Mrs Shackleton.'

Sergeant hurried on his way.

When I reached the Hall, there was just one motor parked at a careless angle the Bugatti belonging to Dr Simonson.

Isaac made no move to leave the car.

'Do you want to stay here, or will you come inside?'

'Yes, I will stay here.' But he immediately climbed from the car. We walked to the entrance, then came to a halt.

'Sit on that bench, eh?'

He refused but then sat down, clutching his arms around himself as if to keep warm.

Perhaps he and Joel would be sent for to help at the Hall, and that would give him something else to think about.

'Did you hurt your arm?'

'No. It hurt me.'

'Just rest awhile.'

I entered the Hall without knocking as the door was slightly ajar. Dr Simonson was seated just where I expected at the side of the great hearth, smoking a cigar.

On the balcony that surrounded this room, a maid hurried along, clutching a polishing mop.

Simonson stood as I approached and waited until I sat down beside him.

'Is the police inspector here, Dr Simonson?'

'He has left to consult with the chief constable. I said I would wait until the ambulance comes to take the prince's body to Skipton for a post mortem. It is to be done quickly, out of regard for the family.'

'Did you examine the body?'

'Yes. It is a long while since I examined two bodies in one day.'

'May I ask what was your conclusion?'

'It is too early for conclusions.'

'Were you able to establish the cause of death?'

'You have probably already done that for yourself, Mrs Shackleton.'

I had not put the question well. I wanted an interpretation, not facts. 'From what I saw when I looked at his body, he appeared to have been shot at close range. The entry wound was small.'

'Yes, a small round puncture hole, and the exit wound a slit.'

Before I had time to voice my suspicions that Narayan did not die where he was found, Dr Simonson said, 'Death would have been instantaneous. That may be a comfort to his relatives.'

'Could it have been an accident?'

He looked at me quizzically. 'That will be up to the coroner to decide.'

'How long has Prince Narayan been dead?'

'Difficult to say with certainty, rigor mortis has set in.'

'I don't believe he died in the spot where he was found. I think someone took his body there.'

The doctor threw the stub of his cigar into the empty grate. 'You would have to voice that suspicion to the coroner, or his officer, Mr Brocksup.'

'Where is the prince?'

'He is in a room at the rear of the building.' Simonson snapped his fingers. 'How could I forget? That is the message I have for you. The valet asked to see you.'

'Really? Where is he?'

Simonson reached for his walking stick and stood up. 'He has been to the hotel and come back twice, bringing incense and I don't know what else. I told him that he must not touch the body. He simply wanted to sit, to keep watch. The housekeeper chose a room that is cold the whole year round.'

'Not difficult in a place this size.' I felt a chill as we walked through the hall. 'Is...o...b..rt Hannon laid out here also?'

'No. His body has already been taken to the hospital.'

We entered a corridor, climbed a couple of steps, turned left, hit a blank wall, turned right, entered another corridor and walked into a room so dim that I just missed b.u.mping into furniture that was covered with white sheets.

I sniffed the air. The scent of jasmine and roses mingled with mildew.

'We're coming closer,' Simonson said.

The door was open a fraction.

'Ijahar, you asked for Mrs Shackleton.' The doctor strode into the room. 'She is here.'

But I was looking beyond Ijahar to the face at the window. Isaac was outside, peering in. An oil lamp burned under the window. In its glow, Isaac's lumpy face turned into that of a devil. Isaac saw me. He moved away.

Ijahar hurried towards me, as if I were his long-lost friend. On the floor behind him lay Prince Narayan, his body covered in a cloth of gold. A table should have been brought in.

The doctor read my thoughts. 'The valet insisted the stretcher be laid on the floor, their custom apparently.'

Ijahar bowed. 'I must have flowers for his body. They do not listen. I must have them now.'

'I see. Ijahar, what happened to your eye?' One eye was half-closed, and bruised.

He ignored my question. 'I cannot leave my master.'

'Look here, Ijahar.' Dr Simonson did not hide his irritation. 'If I'd known what you wanted I would have told you. It's not Mrs Shackleton's place to gather flowers. And you know that your master will be taken away shortly.'

'It's all right. I'll do it. What kind of flowers, Ijahar?'

'All flowers, roses, jasmine, the gold flowers, and the other, the one called... not a flower...'

'A herb?'

Under other circ.u.mstances, a walk in this garden on a sunny afternoon would have been sheer bliss. But here we were. The scent of wallflowers took me back to walks in the park. I picked some, along with marigolds. They grew in such profusion that they would not be missed. We had decided to keep to certain colours, so as not to make too gaudy a display. I concentrated on gold and yellows. Dr Simonson took out his penknife and cut white and yellow roses. He dropped them into the trug, sucking at his finger.

'Are you all right?'

'Just a thorn. I've got it now.'