They were twelve at dinner, all in uniform save Somervile himself and his secretary, who both wore plain white kurtas, and Georgiana and Annie, who both wore silk. Fairbrother, released from his disguise as a seth, shaved, scrubbed and his hair cut and dressed, was immaculate in rifle green; the commanding officer of the Bodyguard and Somervile’s aide-de-camp were equally immaculate in red; Sleeman wore the frogged kurta of the Political Service; while Hervey, Milne, St Alban and Major Garratt were in their best blue, their red put away until it could no longer be avoided.

Hervey was surprised by how pleased he was to see the major, for all the trouble he’d given him lately (the anticipation of trouble, at least). Garratt was as affable as ever. To all, he could only appear the ideal of the man of candour, the man altogether confident in his ability as a soldier, who took delight in simple pleasures – the hill and the stream, the table, and cards – content in his comfortable-enough circumstances, even though in age senior to his superior. There was really nothing more that he, Hervey, could reasonably have desired in his second in command.

And yet this wretched … misfeasance (there was no denying the word). And the worst of it was that if it were so, there was no knowing what else the major indulged himself in. But he’d decided on this already, had he not, in seeking to arrange the appointment at St Helena? He’d judged that the corn dealer’s inducement (if it was no more than that) was a peccadillo rather than a crime; for a crime could not be overlooked. And it must surely be so, for Garratt couldn’t possibly be the man he saw before them now – brave, resourceful, sociable – if at heart he was corrupt?

Then why had he not just told the commissary to bring charges, and let the major refute them and a court martial decide?

The answer was, in truth, that in his heart he feared the accusation was true, and that it might amount to a crime, and he simply couldn’t bring himself to let such a friend as Garratt be brought down, and on account of a merchant who was himself corrupt enough to have bribed in the first place. He told himself it was prudential judgement; but he feared that St Helena was a stratagem of evasion.

The die was cast, however, and for the time being he had back with him a man he could trust to command the regiment in his absence, first during his exploration in Chintal, and then when he took command of the field force. For he’d done so, admirably, in Coorg. Ought he not to have told him, though, about St Helena? Yes, in the ordinary course of things, but …

‘And so tomorrow you’ll hang another half a dozen, Major?’

Sleeman was somewhat taken aback by Somervile’s bluntness, if only because there were ladies present and the khitmagars were still serving.