‘You’ll do no such thing! I’ve always used a Cerebos Salt tin and I see no reason to stop.’
‘But it’s disgusting – it’s rusting away.’
‘What do you expect? It’s travelled across oceans and halfway round India. It made an appearance at a far grander establishment than Gratton Court.’
‘India? Oh, no! You’re telling me you took this insanitary object with you when you stayed with the Maharajah What’s his name?’
‘I did. A humble salt tin stood on a marble bathroom shelf in the Palace of Ranipur, batting for England amongst the crystal, the jade and the gold accessories, placed there – without comment – by the bearer who unpacked my things.’
‘I’m surprised someone didn’t remove it.’
‘Someone did. When I unpacked on my return to Simla I noted that my faithful old receptacle had been taken away and replaced … with a brand new Cerebos Salt tin! This very one.’
Lydia chuckled. ‘Now that’s style.’
‘That’s Indian good manners – and humour,’ Joe agreed quietly. ‘Can’t tell you how glad I am to be home, but … I miss the laughter, Lyd. And the colour. In sober old London.’ He saw dismay dawning in her eyes and hurried to add: ‘But I’ve done with serious travelling for now. Got a career to relaunch!’
A sudden understanding of the tin’s significance silenced her. Schoolboys, soldiers and now, apparently, strapping great police commanders – they all needed a reminder of home in strange or threatening situations. Lydia put it back in the suitcase. ‘You can always claim then that it was a gift from a maharajah – should anyone ask,’ she said comfortably. ‘But I suppose they must be used to eccentricities at Gratton Court – the old Prince of Wales was a constant guest there in the good old days.’ She gave a mock shudder. ‘Now I shouldn’t have liked to view the contents of his salt tin!’
Joe responded to his sister’s unexpressed anxiety. ‘I’ll be fine, Lyd. Don’t worry about me. Big boy these days. And it’s not as though it’s an interview I’ve been called up for. There’s nothing much riding on this, you know. I’ve already got the job – had it for two years now. They just want to check I can drink my soup without slurping and get through dinner with a selection of rabid old fire-eaters without poking one in the eye with a fish knife. I shall keep smiling, tell a few tall stories, sing baritone in the after-dinner choruses round the grand piano and shoot a commendable but not showy number of birds.’
‘What are you using for guns?’
‘Pa’s old pair. I’ve sent them ahead. Respectable but nothing flashy. Now if we were going for real game, I could have impressed them with the Holland & Holland Royal I used in India. Sir George insisted on giving it to me. Not many charging buffalo offering themselves as targets on Exmoor, though.’
‘You used it in India? Joe, you don’t like shooting animals.’
‘True. But the animals in question were tiger. Man-eaters both. With hundreds of deaths on their rap sheets!’
‘Both?’
‘I shot two of them, in as many minutes. One male, one female. They were hunting as a pair.’
Lydia laughed. ‘You’re having me on. Sounds like the beginning of a good yarn, though, for when the port starts to circulate.’
‘Oh, if I were vandal enough, I could carve two grooves on the glossy French walnut stock of the Royal. It saved my life. But I prefer to carry my grooves concealed.’ With a sister-baiting grin of mischief, Joe pushed up his right sleeve to show her two raking claw marks, well healed by now. He enjoyed her squeal of horror. ‘I had the luck to be treated by an English doctor who’d studied ancient Indian medicine. Lord only knows what he poured into the wound but it worked a treat. Wounds can go rotten faster in India than they did in Flanders.’
Lydia shuddered. ‘Well, watch your back, little brother. I’ve sneaked a look at the guest list you’ve popped behind the clock on the mantelpiece. Impressive and surprising. Something’s brewing. And I think I can guess what – I read the papers! And I get Marcus to repeat the political gossip he comes by at his club. He can’t always make sense of it but he’s worth hearing. England’s not been standing still while you’ve been living it up in India, you know – it’s started rolling downhill. Joe, the men you’re meeting are not only running the country – they’re a ruthless, manipulative bunch.’
‘Oo, er … I shall think of them as the Gratton Gang.’