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down to you and you might start by explaining who this dead gentleman is in the back of the Governor’s car. I assume he’s dead?’
    ‘Oh yes, he’s dead,’ said the stranger. ‘And you may not believe this, in fact I’m not quite sure I believe it myself, but his name is Feodor Korsovsky and he’s a Russian baritone.’
    The superintendent looked at him with disbelief. ‘That’s fine,’ he said. ‘That tells me everything I want to know. A Russian baritone – of course – how stupid of me and – lying dead in the back of the Governor’s car. Where else would you expect to find a Russian baritone? And before we go any further, perhaps you would tell me who you are?’
    ‘My name is Sandilands,’ he began but he was instantly interrupted by the superintendent.
    ‘Sandilands! Commander Sandilands? Ah, yes, the Governor mentioned your name to me. Told me you were a detective. From Scotland Yard? Yes? Didn’t tell me you were in the habit of hauling in your own corpses though
    This man has been shot?’ He turned to the driver who explained rapidly in Hindustani what had happened and where it had happened.
    ‘I offered the gentleman a lift in the car which had been sent to Kalka to meet me. He was the victim of a sniper about five miles down the road. .303 rifle, two accurate shots to the heart. Soft-nosed bullets – the entry wounds you see are quite small but turn him over and you’ll find holes the size of your fist. To say nothing of the extensive damage done to the Governor’s upholstery. May I suggest,’ said Joe, ‘that we travel to the scene of the crime? And perhaps we ought to go at once? The driver and I marked the spot. The trail is cold and cooling.’
    The police superintendent appeared to consider. ‘My name’s Carter, by the way. Devil’s Elbow. This side of Tara Devi. That’s a damned nasty place you’re talking about. To search the ground you’d need a regiment. Now, if we were in the Wild West I’d say “Take a posse” and that’s exactly what we’re going to do.’
    He shouted orders, following which six police sowars mounted and led forward two horses for Joe and for Carter. Before mounting, Carter spoke urgently to a police daffadur with a gesture towards the body and the car. The Governor’s driver was escorted into the police station to make a statement.
    ‘We can talk as we go,’ said Carter as they mounted. ‘I’ve got a vague idea of what happened but tell me, what are you doing in Simla?’
    ‘I’m on leave,’ said Joe. ‘I’m a London policeman on detachment to the Bengal Police. I was, but now I’ve finished my tour and Sir George has kindly offered me the use of his guest bungalow for a month. To round off my tour of duty before going back to England. You’ve probably heard rumours, India being what it is, of what I’ve been doing in Calcutta?’
    He shot a questioning look sideways at Carter. The policeman was struggling to suppress a smile. He had realized that the raised left eyebrow which had been fixing him with a chilling expression of query and disdain was, in fact, permanently fixed at this disconcertingly quizzical angle by clumsy surgery.
    ‘I’ve heard – and tell me if any of this is wrong – a lowly police superintendent is often at the end of the gossip chain, you know – that you are a highly decorated soldier – Scots Fusiliers, was it? – latterly of the Intelligence Corps and now recruited into the CID. An injection of brains and breeding to shake up the postwar force is what they say.’
    Sandilands gave him the benefit of his left profile again but Carter pressed on, matter-of-fact and friendly, ‘And that you’ve had a success in Bengal bringing the force there up to scratch on intelligence-gathering, interrogation techniques – that sort of thing.’
    ‘True,’ said Joe. ‘But, look here, Carter, I’ll say again – I’ve finished my tour and I’m on leave. I’ve not come here to lecture you or get in your way. The last thing in the world I want is to get drawn into this.’ But even as he