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birth, a natural intelligence that would take her far in the world. It already had. He admired her hugely, he concluded, but that wasn't the same as love. Or was it?
    Back in his room he read her letter:

    The Lucky Strike
    Long Street
    Kimberley
    Cape Colony

    Dearest George
    I can hardly write I'm shaking so much. This morning I received a letter from that monster Colonel Harris, threatening to expose us both as murderers unless I return to England and re-enter his service, in line with the terms of the loan he agreed with my father. I don't know what to do. I daren't mention this to my protector, Mr Barnato, for fear he'll turn me out. I'm terrified Harris will pay me a visit. Please advise me.
    Your loving friend
    Lucy

    Anger flared in George's breast. Poor Lucy, he thought, hounded by that brute. He knew, though, that Harris was bluffing and said as much in his reply, counselling Lucy to sit tight and destroy any subsequent letters. Harris had no evidence against them, he added, and would find it impossible to refute the alibi that George's former lover, Mrs Bradbury, had given them to atone for a previous wrong. As for Harris paying her a visit, it was impossible for him to do so while the Zulu war was still being fought and likely to continue for some time. Meanwhile George promised to return to South Africa as soon as he could to reassure her in person. He signed off 'with much love' and, for the first time, meant it.
    Later that morning, as George was handing in the letter for posting and paying his bill at the front desk, he caught sight of a tall, fair-haired man on the far side of the lobby he was sure he recognised from the voyage. The man was smartly dressed in a cream linen suit and apparently reading a newspaper - but George was convinced he was being watched because every time he glanced in that direction the man looked back to his paper. He was about to go over and ask him his business when the hotel manager, an unctuous European called Beresford, interrupted his train of thought: 'I trust you have had a pleasant stay, Mr Harper, and that everything was to your satisfaction?'
    'What's that?' said George. 'Um . . . yes, very satisfactory, though I can't say I've enjoyed being woken every morning by the Muhammadans' call to prayers.'
    'No, sir, but there's little we can do about that. If the Mutiny taught us anything it's that you tamper with the natives' religion at your peril.'
    'I'm sure. I wasn't suggesting . . .' George trailed off as he remembered the man observing him. He looked over again but he had gone.

Chapter 4

    Kotri railway station, Sind, midsummer 1879

    The whistle sounded twice as the train approached the small town of Kotri, an oasis of whitewashed buildings fringed with orange, lime and mango trees on the right bank of the Indus. George could feel only relief that the tedious ten-hour journey was over and that he no longer had to stare at the drab, featureless desert that covered much of southern Sind.
    The small station was packed with passengers, and as the train juddered to a halt with a squeal of its brakes and a great whoosh of steam, they surged forward, some clambering onto the roof, others passing children and sacks of their possessions through open windows, one or two even using the doors.
    George stepped down from the cool haven of his first-class carriage into this seething mass of humanity, keeping a tight hold on his kit-bag as turbaned traders offered their wares from behind carts heaped with colourful spices, and railway officials, in their blue tunics and caps, tried in vain to keep order. He had been warned about the chaos of an Indian railway station but nothing, he now realized, could have prepared him for such a sensory overload. A voice hailed him. ' Huzoor! Wait there!'
    It was Ilderim, towering head and shoulders above the other passengers, but still a good fifty yards further down the platform, having just got out of third class. As he moved towards George the crowd