‘Dagger? What dagger? Oh, yes,’ said James miserably. ‘But it’s probably no use trying to send him a message. If he’s gone off back over the border, he’s out of earshot, so to speak. It’s my guess he wants to avoid any parlaying. He’s shot his arrow and wants no riposte. He’ll sit up there in the mountains, out of our reach, and come down to witness the execution.’ He sighed. ‘He’s got us sewn up! But I suppose we ought first to go and check on Rathmore. Iskander didn’t write this letter in the middle of the night seconds before they set off. He wrote it – and this chills the blood, Joe – yesterday morning when he was closeted in the library for three hours. He’d had a talk with his men, they’d chosen their hostage, planned this action and they put it into smooth operation hours later. I wonder how the devil they managed to get him away?’
‘And all that jovial bonhomie on the cricket ground was so much eyewash!’ Joe said bitterly. ‘All that chatter and joking was a blind. They were fixing the sentries using whatever pressure or inducements came to hand – I don’t know what – family ties, favours called in, gratitude of the Amir . . . And the sentries turned a blind eye or even helped with bundling poor old Rathmore out of the fort through the back gate. They had horses enough. Four spares, was it?’
They hurried along to Rathmore’s room on the ground floor of the guest wing and looked about them. ‘Bed hasn’t been slept in,’ said James. ‘Apart from that, nothing untoward, would you say, Joe?’
‘All his personal effects are still here,’ said Joe, checking the wardrobe and the shelves in the bathroom. ‘Slippers under the bed so he was wearing his outdoor shoes. I don’t have Rathmore’s wardrobe by heart so I can’t say for certain what he’d got on but I can’t see here the outfit he was wearing when he arrived – wasn’t it a sort of highly tailored colonial traveller’s outfit? Khaki drill with lots of pockets and leather patches on the shoulders?’
‘It was. So you’re saying that after supper he comes along to his room and chooses to put on not his dressing gown but a substantial suit and his walking shoes? Odd. Almost as though he knew he was going to be snatched!’
‘Well, expecting to go out for a night-time walk, anyway. That’s as far as we can go on the evidence,’ said Joe carefully. He walked over to the dressing table and examined the effects laid neatly and innocently out on the top. A pair of ivory-backed hairbrushes, silver comb, a shoe horn, a flask of Trumper’s ‘Eucris’ and a leather writing case. Joe opened the writing case and looked carefully at the contents. A few letters from England and copies of outgoing letters, a small diary with nothing of importance to Joe. An entry made for seven days hence told them that Rathmore was confidently expecting to be back in Simla. Unused envelopes, a writing pad, a fountain pen and two HB pencils made up the contents. Joe examined the pen. ‘Out of ink,’ he commented. Lastly, he took out the writing pad and held it at an angle to the light.
‘Well, sometimes you have a bit of luck! Look, there’s something here, James,’ he said. ‘Give me your torch.’
He shone the light at a narrow angle against the page.
‘What does it say – “Dear John, Pig gone. Soldier on.”?’ James managed a weak smile. ‘I see it. Indentations. Letters. From the page above. Must have been writing with one of those hard pencils for it to show through like this. Can’t make it out though. I say, is this all right? I mean, peeking at a chap’s correspondence? What’s he going to say if he ever finds out?’
Joe ignored him and took out his magnifying glass. ‘Got it! Well, one word at least and perhaps the most important. The first one, not surprisingly, while the pencil was at its sharpest. Look, you can just make out the heavier down strokes. And, if I’ve got it right, this word’s nearly all down strokes. And Rathmore would appear to be heavy-handed in this as in everything! Looks like L I L Y. He’s writing to Lily Coblenz! But why would he do that? He was sitting opposite her at supper, he could have said anything he wanted to say to her face.’
‘Not if it were clandestine in any way,’ said James. ‘Something he wouldn’t want any of us to overhear. Love letter? Oh, Lord, that’s all we need!’
‘Well, whatever it was, it must remain Rathmore’s secret,’ said Joe, ‘I can’t make out anything more. I wonder if the recipient of this billet doux will feel able to inform us? Let’s go and have a word with the lucky lady, shall we?’