The reception area of the hotel was deserted. I tapped the counter bell. Moments later a stout, twinkly-eyed fellow, as broad as he was high and with a nose to make Mr Punch proud, emerged from an inner office wiping crumbs from his mouth with one hand, and with the other hand fastening a reluctant b.u.t.ton on his braided navy jacket.

'Good morning, madam.'

'Good morning. I'd like a room please.'

He pursed his lips, allowed his eyes to pop, shook his head and let out a breeze expressive of doubt. 'I'm sorry. We are not accepting guests at present.'

'Do you have a room available?'

'Oh yes. But not for...'

'Not for what?'

'It's nothing to do with your being an unescorted lady.'

'What is it to do with?'

'We are in an unusual time, and not knowing who might come through the door I have instructions to be careful, and can say no more.'

I took out my business card and handed it to him. 'Please give this to the manager. Say I wish to speak to him.'

He held the card at a good distance and scrutinised it. 'Please wait. There is a seat over there.' He nodded towards the window.

I stayed put.

The manager was not long in coming, hurrying towards me. Of medium height, as wiry as his commissionaire was stout, he walked with ramrod-stiff gait, as though a cord of steel ran up his backbone.

He wore a dark suit, which somehow looked wrong. Here was a man I would expect to see in khaki. His small neat moustache said Military Man. 'Mrs Shackleton, I do beg your pardon for this slight. I was tipped by the India Office to expect you.'

Well thank heaven for that.

He made a small bow. 'I'm Sergeant. Clive Sergeant is my name and sergeant is the rank I rose to. I alerted staff to be wary of newspaper reporters. My apologies that c.u.mmings applied this caution to you.'

c.u.mmings, the commissionaire, ambled up, straightening his shoulders.

'You have luggage?' Sergeant asked.

'In my car, the blue Jowett.'

'c.u.mmings, see to Mrs Shackleton's luggage. The garden room.'

'Yes, sir.' c.u.mmings stopped short of saluting.

'Now if you'll come this way, Mrs Shackleton. I took the liberty of having my wife stand by to make you a breakfast. I believe you left home at an unG.o.dly hour.'

'That's very good of you, Mr Sergeant, but I am here to interview the prince's valet and his companion.'

'They are not going anywhere, madam. I've seen to that. Following your instructions, the Rolls-Royce is under lock and key. No one, including the prince's companion, will have access to it. As to the valet, he is standing by, waiting for his master's return. So, this way if you please, to the dining room.'

Breakfast sounded suddenly tempting. What's more, this man would make a good ally.

A few moments later we sat at a window table in a pleasant, half-panelled room that looked out onto the garden. Someone must have been peeping through the circular gla.s.s in the door that communicated with the kitchen because almost straight away a waitress appeared, carrying a tray.

Mr Sergeant waited until she had gone and then risked a small smile. 'I will see that you are well looked after, Mrs Shackleton. I served under the general, your grandfather, Lord Rodpen, on the Northwest Frontier. We all admired and respected him greatly. It will be an honour to a.s.sist you in any way I can in this dreadful business. I am most distressed to have let us all down by losing so important a guest as the Gattiawan heir.'

Of course he was not to know that the venerable grandfather, General Rodpen, was mine only by virtue of adoption.

He stirred his tea. 'And now this terrible business with young Osbert Hannon.' Sergeant lowered his head. 'Poor boy. What a blow. As if we haven't suffered enough losses already. He was his mother's only remaining son.'

'So I understand, and leaves a young widow.'

'How could someone so fit and agile have such a mishap?'

'Mr Sergeant, did Osbert seem in any way perturbed after escorting the prince yesterday?'

Sergeant shook his head. 'Not a bit of it. I saw him in the afternoon. He told me that the prince bagged a doe, and that he and Isaac had taken it to Stanks's barn. He said that the prince had gone on alone, to explore the moors. Last night, Osbert joined the search party and was out until the early hours.' Sergeant stroked his moustache. 'Surely to G.o.d Osbert wasn't so wearied that he slipped crossing the Strid. Local lads are so confident they can leap it that sometimes they misjudge. Osbert would have been in a hurry to rejoin the search at dawn.'

A breakfast was placed in front of me by the waitress. I gazed at bacon and egg, black pudding, fried bread and mushrooms.

'Is that all right? My wife said you may prefer a kipper or a boiled egg, but I told her, I said that the general always liked a fried breakfast.' He scrutinised the plate, and tutted. 'She left off the kidney.'

'It's all right. I don't want kidney, thank you. This should see me through the day.'

'You're sure?'

'Positive. Perhaps while I eat you would be kind enough to tell me something about Gattiawan. Having served in India you must know a great deal about the place.'

'About India, yes. It is a land of extremes, Mrs Shackleton, riches beyond the dreams of avarice, alongside the most abject poverty and starvation.'

'What is Gattiawan like?'

'Most of my time was spent on the frontier. I have never been to Gattiawan, or any of the princely states. I know that they are allowed to get on with their business as they please, as long as they pay taxes to the crown.'

I thought back to my schooldays, and the lessons on Peoples of the Empire. 'There are hundreds of princely states, I think.'

'Yes, five hundred and sixty or more, taking up about a third of the land. I do know that Gattiawan stood by us during the Great War. There are those in India who when push came to shove for the war effort said, "England's need is India's opportunity". Not to put too fine a point on it, they wanted us gone from India. But Maharajah Shivram and his son Prince Narayan fought alongside us. I would shift heaven and earth to find the prince.'

The breakfast was getting the better of me. I pushed the black pudding to the side of the plate. 'Mr Sergeant, The Times court circular item referred to the Maharajah of Gattiawan's arrival in Ma.r.s.eilles on the SS Malwa. I take it that was the senior Maharajah, Shivram, Prince Narayan's father.'

'Yes. The Indian princes have all manner of t.i.tles, nawab, nizam, rao, rawal, but in Gattiawan they use maharajah, which I believe is rather superior to a mere rajah.'

'But Prince Narayan is also a maharajah? So there are two maharajahs in the family.'

'Strictly speaking there are three, Maharajah Shivram, his missing son Narayan, and Narayan's young son. At the age of seven a prince who is in line to be ruler officially takes the t.i.tle. It can be confusing, but it helps that we more commonly refer to them all as princes.'

A surfeit of princes did not entirely clear the confusion. If I could find Narayan, I would at least put a face to the middle one.

'Did Prince Narayan and Miss Metcalfe travel on the SS Malwa with the family?'

'No. They were already in Paris and came to London to visit the British Empire Exhibition.'

'What brought him to Yorkshire in advance of the grouse shooting?'

'They came by way of Derbyshire Chatsworth. Miss Metcalfe is from these parts. I believe the maharajah wanted to see where she grew up her original habitat, I suppose you might say.'

'What kind of man is he?'

'He is handsome, extravagant, courteous, rides well, a superb sportsman, every inch a prince.'

Now I really did want to find him.

I placed my knife and fork on the plate. 'Please thank Mrs Sergeant for that excellent breakfast. Now I really must speak to the valet, and Miss Metcalfe.' I pushed back my chair.

'Who will you see first?'

'The valet.'

Sergeant rose from the table. 'Miss Metcalfe...' For the first time, he hesitated. 'She is in her room now. If, as I hope, the prince returns, he will be angry if she has not been treated courteously. On the other hand, if the Indian royal family arrive and she is here, that could be highly embarra.s.sing.' He sighed and spread his hands in a helpless gesture.

'Mr Sergeant, what would you do in the army?'

'I would have the day's orders, and contingency plans.'

We walked to the door. 'Our day's orders must be to find the maharajah. As yet, we do not need a contingency plan. Miss Metcalfe could have useful information. Did anyone else travel with the prince?'

I had already asked this of Mr Upton, the duke's agent, but I am not above asking the same question twice, in case I elicit a different answer. This time I did not.

He paused by a well-tended aspidistra. 'Prince Narayan and Miss Metcalfe drove up together. The valet, Ijahar, came by train. That is the extent of the entourage.'

'Strange. My Meeks encyclopaedia had photographs of Indian princes, seated on elephants, surrounded by ranks of soldiers and countless servants.'

'Mrs Shackleton, it is unheard of for such a man to travel with a single valet. He should have aides-de-camp, secretaries, launderers, drivers, drummers and trumpeters and their servants, servants' servants, and a dozen minions. It is Miss Metcalfe's influence that they travel like "normal people", as she puts it. She cannot abide hangers-on. If it were up to her, he would leave his valet behind, but Ijahar is so loyal he would have run after the motor all the way up the Great North Road.'

His description of Miss Metcalfe almost tempted me to see her first, but my uncle always maintains that if one wants to find out about a man, there is no better source of information than his valet.

'Does he speak English, this valet?'

'Yes, in his fashion.'

We reached the bottom of the stairs. 'So, Mr Sergeant, please lead the way to Ijahar.'

As we climbed the stairs, Sergeant said, 'The man's pestered the life out of my staff. Every five minutes asking, Have they found my master? He is in and out of the hotel like a jack-in-the-box, staring across the countryside, as if he'll divine where the prince has got to.'

Prince Narayan, Lydia Metcalfe and the valet occupied the entire first floor. From the landing window, I looked across at a spectacular, sunlit view. Only gently moving clouds cast a shadow across the scene.

Sergeant pointed to a closed door. 'Ijahar is in there. Will I come in with you?'

'No. Thank you, Mr Sergeant. I will introduce myself.'

Seven.

I tapped at the door. It was flung open by a young, thin Indian who stared at me from anxious eyes. One eyebrow had been obliterated by a great scar. He wore a white turban, tunic, baggy trousers and dhoti. The man looked at me expectantly, a smile beginning to form. 'They have found his highness?'

'I'm afraid not. Are you Ijahar?'

It was a stupid question. He could hardly be the night porter, disturbed in an illicit nap.

'I am Ijahar.'

'My name is Mrs Shackleton. I am here at the request of the Duke of Devonshire, to investigate your master's whereabouts. May I come in?'

The poor man seemed taken aback, and alarmed at the prospect of being alone with me. I wondered whether it would have been better to let Mr Sergeant stay.

Ijahar opened the door wide, and propped it with a shoe, which did not do the trick. He then placed a smoothing iron there, to hold the door open.

I watched in disbelief. Was he afraid I might slam the door and ravish him?

The room was little more than a linen cupboard. Pipes ran along the back wall, against which lay a roll of bedding. The slatted shelves held neatly folded clothing. On the floor was a doubled blanket, covered with a slightly scorched sheet and next to that an impressive collection of clothes irons and smoothing irons, one perched precariously on an unlit Bunsen burner. A shelf held an array of clothes brushes.

'You take very good care of your master, Ijahar.'

He nodded enthusiastically. 'I am dressing him since he was a child.'

Talking in a cupboard, albeit a large cupboard, did not seem a good idea.

'I have a few questions. Let us go into your master's room, where we can speak more comfortably.'

The thin face clouded with doubt. The scar on the absent eyebrow seemed to stretch. 'He is not liking it if you go in his room, memsahib.'

'I will take responsibility, Ijahar. I need to see the room.' Still, he hesitated. 'It is better if you show me. I could ask the manager.'

He sighed, and nodded. 'You follow me please.'

We stepped along the landing to the next room. Ijahar withdrew a key that hung on a ribbon around his neck. 'Manager Sergeant says keep it locked. Let no one in.'

'But you are letting me in now.'