I went back to Holmes, and was glad to find him still seated and juggling, turned slightly downhill now. I hunkered onto my heels at his side.

“Thomas Goodheart looked back at you before they went into the tea shop,” I told him.

“Did he now?”

“What do you suppose they’re doing up here?”

“They must have diverted on the way to Khanpur. I can’t see them going the land route through Simla, even if the pass is still open.”

“Mrs Goodheart doesn’t seem too pleased to be here.”

“Perhaps Nesbit will find out why they’ve come here rather than visit Jaipur or any of the usual places. Thanks to your quick eyes, I had just enough time to tell him who it was.”

“I do wish there were some way to disguise spectacles,” I grumbled. It was a complaint I had made before.

“We shall have to see about getting you a pair of those on-the-eye lenses the Germans are working on,” he said thoughtfully, and I shuddered; the very thought of wearing paper-thin slivers of curved glass pressed up against my corneas made me queasy.

“Thanks, but I prefer to walk into things,” I said. “How will we get back into touch with Nesbit?”

“Look in the cup.”

Among the small coins in the tin mug Holmes had set out lay a twist of fine paper. I reached for it, then paused. If I tried to pick it up, it might well be lost to my clumsiness.

“Perhaps we might go back to the hotel for a while?” I pleaded. “My fingers are numb to the elbow.”

We were greeted at the hostelry door by young Bindra, who crowed “Look! Look!” and set four balls into the air. Holmes patted his head by way of approval, I told him “Good job” around my chattering teeth, and we requested much hot tea and made for the nearest fireplace.

The note Nesbit had dropped into Holmes’ cup bore the words “Viceregal Lodge, 10:00 P.M.” I hoped the formal venue did not indicate that we were to dress, but decided that the hour was not that of a dinner invitation. It scarcely mattered: I had nothing suitable to wear anyway.

Chapter Thirteen

At nine-thirty of a winter’s evening in the Himalayan foothills, few pedestrians picked their way over the ice-slick roads. Those who did were so thoroughly bundled that only the breathy clouds rising from their swathed heads showed that they were animate. The thin air here smelled of wood smoke instead of dung fires, and the sharp green aroma of deodar was intoxicating.