We jogged along for nearly an hour, past the polo grounds and the elephant pens with their Brobdingnagian stables, then skirting the air field, which showed no sign of life this morning, not even around that tantalising cluster of godowns at the northern end. My cheeks tingled with the brisk air, and I did not need the sight of the surrounding peaks to be reminded of Khanpur’s altitude. An eagle rode the breeze above our heads, the air rang with the pleasing sounds of bridle and hoof, and I listened with half an ear to the conversations wafting to and fro. Thomas Goodheart was even less responsive than usual, being either hung-over or just uninterested in scenery and small-talk, or both. Two of the others began to grumble interestingly about their losses the previous night at cards, speculating on just how it was the maharaja had been cheating, but revelations were cut short by their belated awareness of an audience, and they talked about the Delhi races instead. Sunny commented on every form of wildlife we passed, and half the domesticated stock, topics that did not distract me much from my own appreciation of the day. Once past the air field, we entered a land of cane and corn. Men working their fields paused to honour our passing. A whiff of gur came to me from a nearby factory, followed by the rhythmic creaks of a water wheel whose design was older than India herself. I mused over the range of technology represented in such a short space, from Persian wheel to modern air design, and made a mental note to talk about it with Holmes when I next saw him.

Whenever that might be.

Four or five miles past the air field, at a spot on the road marked by a small wayside shrine, we turned into an area of terai, open scrubland dotted by trees. Half a dozen shikaris—hunt attendants—squatted near a smokey little fire, standing up as we came into sight. One of them walked out into the road, waving his arms in some unintelligible signal directed, not at us, but at another figure on a nearby hilltop. Signals exchanged, he then came forward to speak with the prince, who, after a few minutes’ consultation, wheeled his Arab and joined us.

“The beaters have found pig, they’re driving the sounder—the herd—towards us up the next hill. I would suggest that you ladies rest here, or if you’d like to continue on to the tank—the lake—you’ll find tea set up there.”

“You’re going pig sticking?” I asked.

“We are.” Was that a challenge in his eyes, or did I imagine it? I had no real desire to murder pigs with a sharpened stick; on the other hand, what was I here for if not to work myself close to the maharaja? If that weedy Flapper cousin of his could stick pigs, so could I.