As the war rolled to its close, the question of what to do with the contents of the prisons was mooted. Without a roll on the drums, since the much more important matter of the civilian concentration camps that had been established on both sides of the conflict was wringing everyone’s withers and claiming the headlines. But the army prisoners could hardly be abandoned in such a far-off place. Who would supervise them? They were military personnel, after all, whatever their crimes, and could not be abandoned to civilian jurisdiction. Their fit of pique and exercise of power largely forgotten, the old martinets had died off, retired or turned their attention to mischief elsewhere, and the decision to free the men with a general amnesty—very quietly given—was considered on the whole to be the least complicated thing to do.

Captain Dunne was rescued from enforced work on the railway by secondment to a mounted infantry unit about to sail to India to fight on the North West Frontier. They were short of experienced men up there on the fringes of Empire. They’d had plenty of recruits from young bloods like Churchill who’d woken up and realised that this guerrilla war in the tribal lands on the borders of Afghanistan was the sole conflict where a true blood-spilling fight was being conducted, and if they weren’t quick, they’d have missed the action. But there was a dearth of seasoned officers of middle rank. A Colonel Harris had, according to Redfyre’s informant in the regiment, decided Dunne was exactly the type of man he was looking for. He had gone personally to the jail and delivered an ultimatum to the prisoner: “Your choice, Dunne. Break stones for rail ballast until someone blows the whistle, which may take a year or two, or leave tomorrow with your rank of captain intact to pursue your army career. Soldiering on the North West Frontier. So: a slow death or a fast one?”

Dunne had chosen to die quickly and gloriously. In the company of the smart young Indian Army officers and their stylish and well-educated seniors, he had flourished. Displaying a courage that amounted to recklessness, he had impressed and won more medals—and, it was rumoured, hearts. A good conversationalist and an entertaining storyteller, he had been welcomed at the social gatherings of Delhi and Peshawar and Simla. That was as far as Redfyre’s informant could track the subject. Or anyone. For some reason, the army career had been abandoned. Captain Dunne had vanished from the records.

There had been the inevitable speculation in gossip-ridden India. That he’d “gone native, loincloth—the lot!” That he’d “found religion. Gone off to Tibet to practise Buddhism.” No, none of those. “Cherchez la femme . . . Eh? What?”

If Redfyre wanted to know more, it would have to be elicited by careful questioning from the man himself sitting opposite, smiling gently, reading his mind.