‘I shall indeed, Sir Eyre, the very worst of a Sabar band from Odisha – a thoroughly criminal tribe – brought five days ago on account of an approver. And thanks to your Captain Vanneck’s troop, Colonel Hervey.’

Hervey, sitting opposite and to Somervile’s right, nodded appreciatively. ‘But not the worst of Ghufoor Khan’s band yet, Major Sleeman?’

‘Their time will come, Colonel, I assure you,’ he replied firmly.

‘But not the very worst, I fancy: Khan himself.’

‘With respect, Colonel, we have discussed this already, and at some length. I must choose the greater good.’

Somervile, warming to the discussion, decided to press him. ‘So, Sleeman, you play God.’

‘I fear, Sir Eyre, that from time to time we must do so.’

The governor tapped the table. ‘I heartily concur. That indeed is our burden. I myself would declare the entire thuggee caste – for a caste apart is what it is – outlaw, and then there’d be an end to the elegant points of what our American cousins are wont to call “due process of law”. No honest Hindoo I’ve met in all my years – and they’re mostly honest, in their own way at least – would ever object to such methods.’

Hervey had no argument with that, or indeed with Sleeman’s doctrine. He wished only for retribution for the murder of Bunda Ali and his family, the more so since hearing Fairbrother’s account of finding their remains.

He glanced towards the end of the table to see how Georgiana was faring – if she was listening indeed – and saw both she and Annie were quite oblivious to the talk, and instead engaged in diverting conversation, Georgiana with St Alban, and Annie with the aide-de-camp. Except that whereas St Alban managed wholly to engage Georgiana’s attention, Annie’s eyes were still able from time to time to take in the rest of the table.

He smiled to himself; she really was a most diligent governess.

‘So this Ghufoor Khan, Hervey, will have to fall prey to a hungry tiger, or to one of his own band, except that Sleeman here will’ve hanged ’em all,’ concluded Somervile, taking up a spoon to his soup.

‘I’ve no hesitation in saying “Amen” to that, however profane,’ replied Hervey.

Somervile nodded. ‘By the bye, I gave my travelling chef licence to surpass himself this evening, for I fancy you’ve been on meagre fare these past weeks.’

Hervey smiled again, but this time not to himself. Somervile’s delight in the pleasures of the table would surpass that of the hungriest cornet.

‘Potage à la Julienne, gentlemen. Not St Sulpice’s best soup, but lobsters are not too many to be had, if at all, this side of the Krishna.’

He smiled again. When first they’d met, not long after the French wars, Somervile had called himself a Hindoo, and damned the eyes of those setting themselves apart from the country – those who on every occasion insisted on ‘the roast beef of old England’ instead of curry and rice. John Bull himself would have eaten curry and rice were he to have come to India, said Somervile. Yet here he was, now, ‘Frenchified’.