O’Hara and I looked at each other, then he kicked open the toy room door for Holmes and we ran to gather up the chuprassi. The servant had died instantly, shot through the heart. We took him, shoulders and feet, and scurried back to dump him inside the blue door.

“What the hell was that about?” I demanded of Holmes, but he could not enlighten me. I looked down at the dead man, but he, too, could tell me nothing apart from the obvious: that Goodheart had shot him, and not us.

“I think you two should get into the tunnel,” I said.

“I will wait here,” O’Hara said, but I was already shaking my head.

“You’re stronger than I am,” I told him. “Easier for you and Holmes to carry the maharaja five miles than Holmes and I.”

I did not wait for the men to agree, merely ripped the red turban from the dead man’s head and hurried back to where he had fallen, thinking that I might remove the worst of the stains from floor and wall, thus delay a full-scale search of this specific area. I shook out the tightly wrapped fabric and was just kneeling down to scrub at the stains when more gunfire cracked the stillness, followed by shouting voices. Or rather, a shouting voice.

I pinched out the oil lamp over my head, then ventured down the corridor to the nearest window onto the courtyard gardens. There I saw a puzzling sight: Thomas Goodheart, swaying like a foundering sailboat, seemed to be arguing with a pair of chuprassis.

“These god-damned bats!” he roared. “They drive a man insane with their infernal chatter. All night, in and out, get in the rooms and try and roost in your hair! I’m going to shoot every one of the accursed monsters.”

Quieter voices could be heard, apparently pleading for reason; the servants continually glanced over their shoulders at the dark rooms above.

“I won’t give it to you, damn you both!” the American raged. “I tell you the bats are—what’s that?”

More rapid conversation, much patting of hands in an attempt to reassure, and Goodheart swayed again, then suddenly relinquished his gun. The relief of the two servants was palpable and immediate, and the one with the gun took a step away from this obstreperous guest. The hand of the other hovered near Goodheart’s elbow, urging him back in the direction of the guest quarters, and he succeeded for a time. But when they reached the shadowy edges of the gardens, Goodheart shook the hand off. I heard him shouting again, something about leaving a man alone to have a quiet smoke.