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papers on the table. ‘I haven’t had time to copy them — we can’t call on the squad of clerks I expect you’re accustomed to at the Yard — so for heaven’s sake don’t lose them. Documents relating to the other deaths the women are getting worked up about. I’ve put aside all the transcripts of all the police interviews in each case. Pretty formidable file, I’m afraid! And that’s something Naurung won’t be able to help you with — he doesn’t read English all that well. (He’ll have to improve if he’s going to get where he wants to in the force.) Ask him anything though — where to go, who to speak to, who to salute and who not to salute and so forth. Still, at least when you’ve read through these, you’ll be able to set the ladies’ minds at rest. Quell the clucking in the moorghi-khana
    ’
    ‘The
    ?’
    ‘The hen coop. That’s what we call the room the mems use at the Club. Humph! If they closed that down half our problems would disappear. Make life a lot easier. Anyway, Sandilands, they won’t listen to me, perhaps they’ll listen to someone who knows bugger all about it as long as he’s from London. Put your medals on, parade before them and tell them not to worry their pretty little heads — that’s all you need do.’
    He realised his tone was degenerating into bitterness and added crisply, ‘I’ve put an office by for you, unless you can think of something better. Poky little place, I’m afraid. It used to be the stationery store. I’ve cleared it out for you a bit. There’s a desk, two chairs and a window. No telephone, but you can always use mine. Now, let me offer you a peg.’
    Joe had resolved not to drink before midday but suddenly, insidiously, the idea of a whisky and soda was an attractive one and he accepted.
    The Police Superintendent poured out two whiskies and handed a glass to Joe. He jangled a little bell and the door opened to admit Naurung Singh. Naurung was tall and commanding. Despite luxuriant whiskers, Joe guessed that his age was not much more than twenty-five. His police uniform was topped with a blue turban. He bowed without much subservience and smiled a smile discreet but friendly.
    The Superintendent rose to his feet and spoke rapidly in Hindustani and said, ‘I’m going to leave you, Sandilands. Give you a chance to read your way through all this bumf. I’ll leave Naurung here so ask him anything you want to know. Oh, and by the way, you’ll be expected by the Greys for tiffin. One o’clock. Naurung will show you the way.’
    Joe drew the bundle of papers towards him and gestured at Naurung to take a seat. The Sikh hesitated. He perched for a moment at the extreme edge of his chair, rose, unnecessarily, to adjust the blind and did not sit down again.
    ‘I shall have to find out who to salute and who not to salute,’ thought Joe, ‘but I shall also have to find out who to offer a chair to and who not to offer a chair to. Obviously, Sikh policemen do not get a chair. In the Met I can think of a number of officers who wouldn’t let a constable sit in their presence
    Suppose it’s all one world.’
    He settled himself to turn over the bundle of papers before him. They were of all sorts and sizes, written on all sorts of paper, some on privately headed writing paper, some on lined foolscap sheets with a government watermark. Some were in an educated English hand by men accustomed to the Greek alphabet, others were in the flowing and elaborate copperplate of Indian clerks.
    ‘Naurung,’ he said, ‘have you read these?’
    ‘I have tried, sahib, but I do not read English easily.’
    ‘Do you know the stories?’
    ‘I have heard them.’
    ‘Now, you’re a policeman with experience. The Superintendent thinks there is nothing suspicious, only a series of
    ’ He had been going to say ‘coincidences’ but he changed this and continued, ‘a series of chance happenings
    a series of things that happened at the same time by chance. What do you think?’
    ‘I do not think it is coincidental, sahib.’
    Their