The other two men had taken up positions at either end of the stretcher, waiting for instructions.

'Bring him to the estate office. Say nowt.' He turned to me as we walked towards the horse and pony. 'Thank G.o.d I didn't have the church bells rung to call off the search.'

The animals were grazing patiently. This time I mounted more easily. 'I must break the news to Osbert's wife and mother before I bring his body home to them,' Upton said as he swung into the saddle.

'Wait! The coroner will need to consider Osbert's death in relation to the maharajah's disappearance. There will be a post mortem, and an inquest. Have the body taken to Bolton Hall and notify the constable.'

The flat of Upton's palm went to his forehead. 'Of course. You're right.'

He called to the men and trotted up to them.

The wound on the back of Osbert's head may have been caused accidentally, when he fell into the water. But the river murmured murder. A man so young and lithe did not fall and drown. He was pushed. Why?

Four.

I dismounted from the pony in the stable yard of the Devonshire Arms Hotel. This was where Upton told me I would find Isaac Withers, the man who, along with Osbert Hannon, had accompanied the prince on his ride yesterday.

Hearing the pony's hooves, an elderly man emerged from the furthest stall, squinting as he came into the light. He looked at the pony, and at me. Ledges of pocked flesh crossed his cheeks and either side of his mouth. Two warts gave him the appearance of a lumpy old tree.

So this was Joel's father, Isaac. Either Joel was older than he appeared, or he was the fruit of old loins. Whereas the son gave the appearance of a poorly clad scarecrow, the father appeared to wear every item of clothing that had come his way. In spite of the warmth of a summer morning, he wore gaiters on his trousers, two pairs of thick socks, grey and brown, a heavy overcoat, scarf and an old cap.

'Are you done with the pony so soon, madam?' The sheer amount of clothing slowed his movements. He hobbled closer, narrowing his eyes, waiting to hear where I had been, and why.

'Are you Mr Withers?'

'That I be.'

'h.e.l.lo. I am Mrs Shackleton. I'm here to find out what has happened to his lordship's guest.'

Even his bushy eyebrows appeared extravagantly overdone. He raised them, giving a sparkle of surprise to rheumy old eyes that were exceedingly pink around the lids. 'Has summat happened to him?'

'Mr Withers, I need to ask you a few questions. When you have seen to the pony, please come and join me on that bench out there.'

'What do you want to know?'

'We'll speak when you are done. Five minutes?'

'I'm on me own, and I'm not as fleet as I were.'

'Then, when you are ready.'

I left the stable block and sat outside. On the bench, I stretched my legs, examining the toes of my well-worn boots. These boots have been my stand-by since the age of nineteen. Perhaps I shall still have them when I am ninety.

The tranquillity of this place was palpable. Yet it was not silent. Nearby, bees hummed in a patch of lavender. Birds sang. Above, small white clouds raced by; clouds with an appointment to keep.

After ten minutes, the sound of hobnail boots cut into the hum of b.u.mblebees. I edged to the far end of the bench to give the man room. 'Please sit down, Mr Withers.'

'They call me Isaac.'

When he sat down, a smell settled between us horse muck, animals, sweat, damp clothes dried out, stale tobacco.

He took out a clay pipe. 'Is it all right if I smoke?'

'Yes.'

I waited until he had filled and lit his pipe.

'Tell me about going out with the Indian prince yesterday, Isaac.'

'He's not found then?'

'Were you asked to go, or did you volunteer?'

'I'm better on a horse than on my feet these days, though I'll be joining the beaters when grouse-shooting starts. Mr Upton picked me and Osbert to go, on what whim I don't know. Me being the eldest and him the fleetest probably.'

'What time did you set off?'

He pressed his fingers on the centre of his forehead and rubbed his inner eye, perhaps to prompt his memory. 'Seven o'clock yesterday morning, that was the first time.'

'How did he seem to you?'

'He was right enough.'

'Was he friendly, aloof, did he ask any questions?'

'He wanted to know the lie of the land and asked about the grouse shooting. I pointed out Hazelwood Moor and Barden Moor. We took him through the Valley of Desolation, White Doe Path, all around. He were asking about Embsay Moor and the grouse b.u.t.ts. I gave him fair warning over the disused shafts up there, and peat pits.'

I made a mental note to ask Upton whether the shafts and pits had been searched, but given the man's thoroughness, I felt sure they had, if searching such places was possible. A thought struck me. Perhaps the prince would never be found.

'What was he like?'

Isaac sucked on his pipe. 'Not like any man I ever did see. Something special about him. You'd say he was royal even if you didn't know it.'

'Can you explain?'

He thought for a moment. 'I seen the king when he came here shooting twelve year ago. You know it's the king but that's because you know he's the king. This one, even the horse took to him. It's a horse with a wild streak, likes no one, tosses its mane, mount me if you dare. But when he came near, mild as a lamb it lowered its head and nuzzled his hand.'

'So were you surprised when the horse came back without him?'

'Surprised? I were fair flabbergasted.'

The curling tobacco smoke smelled sweet, too sweet.

'What else can you tell me?'

'His highness wanted to shoot. Said he'd shot his first tiger at ten, and shooting was what he were after.'

A sudden coughing made him thump his chest.

'When you went out with him the second time, in the afternoon, did you notice any change in his mood?'

'How do you mean?'

'Did he seem upset, or more caught up in his thoughts?'

Isaac shook his head. 'Not as I noticed. You'd have to ask Osbert. It's not up to the likes of me to take notice of a personage's frame of mind.'

'Tell me about the afternoon.'

'He left us by the stables and stalked up into the woods, after deer. Her ladyship made a deer farm on the park. There was five hundred head until four year ago, roe and sika. He said to wait and we'd hear a shot, or his whistle. We thought we could be there till doomsday. Them deer sense when someone's out walking with a gun. But sure enough we heard the shot. If I'd been there, I might have stopped him.'

'Why would you have stopped him?'

For the first time, he turned and looked at me full on, incredulity in his small, rheumy eyes. 'Why? Why? Didn't I say? He shot a white doe. The man shot a white doe, G.o.d help us. I went to the churchyard this morning to pray, but it's too late. My bones tell me it's too late. To shoot the white doe is sacrilege.'

What had upset the man so much? In my experience of country people there is nothing they like better than felling an animal, carrying home a carca.s.s, large or small.

And then it dawned. This was the land of the white doe. I tried to remember the Wordsworth poem, The White Doe of Rylstone. Emily and her soft-paced doe trek across Barden Moor to visit the grave of her murdered brother at Bolton Priory. When Emily dies, the faithful doe continues the journey. I had seen an engraving of the doe, lying beside a grave, the embodiment of gentleness and fidelity.

In a world of long-held superst.i.tions, where a four-hundred-year-old legend is alive and well, the prince had offended local sensibilities.

'He blundered out of ignorance then.'

Isaac grunted. 'Don't tell me he didn't know. You should hear him speak, like the duke himself. That Indian is more English than I am. Everyone knows the story and if you ask me...'

The clip-clop of hooves and clatter of cartwheels stopped his speech. We both looked up as the horse-drawn cart approached, on which the stretcher holding Osbert Hannon lay.

Isaac and I stood until it pa.s.sed, he clutching his cap.

The grit-stone man who had helped pull Osbert Hannon from the river flicked a whip that missed the horse's flank.

When the cart moved out of sight, Isaac said, 'I knew it would end badly. G.o.d bless us. Where are they taking him?'

'To the Hall.'

'Where was he found?'

He would know soon enough. I answered him to watch his reaction. 'In the river.'

Isaac closed his eyes. 'Drowned?'

'Yes.'

His breath came in rapid bursts. We both sat down again. Isaac pulled and twisted his cap. His hands were shaking.

I waited until his breath returned to something like normal. 'Isaac, when did you part company with the prince?'

'After he shot the deer, he left it to me and Osbert to take it to the barn. We would have gone on with him, for the pleasure of watching him ride, in spite of the deer. But he insisted. He'd go on alone. I expect we held him back, not being such fine riders.'

I sensed there was something he was not saying.

'What time was that?'

'About four o'clock.'

'Did he ask for directions anywhere?'

'Not as I remember. Osbert said he went towards Halton East. I were too upset about the doe.'

'Did he give a hint of going somewhere?'

'No. The good lord had another plan for him. The river claimed the heathen. The earth takes its revenge. An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, an Indian prince for the white doe.'

'Isaac, I have just one more question. When did you last see Osbert Hannon?'

'Osbert? He'd have no hand in such an impossible deed. Are you saying he drowned the Indian?'

'When did you see him?'

'It was last midnight, when some of us gave up, so we could come fresh to task in't morning.'

'You must have been bone weary.'

'That we were.'

'And did Osbert have far to go?'

'Not far, up by the Coney Warren.'

'And you?'

'Why, less still, at Strid Cottage.' The creases in his face deepened. He stared from frightened eyes. 'Tell me it's the heathen just gone by, not Osbert.'

Upton would by now have broken the news to Osbert's family. 'I'm sorry, Isaac. Osbert is the one who was taken from the river.'

Isaac shut his eyes. Colour drained from his gnarled face. The pipe clattered to the flagged ground. 'Then it's true.'

Terror rolled off him in waves.

'What is true? What are you afraid of?'