The chaplain excused himself, never altogether at ease in Hervey’s company. St Alban took his place.

‘A fine church parade, Colonel.’

‘I think it very properly done, Edward. It would perhaps have served better had we done it at once, at Chintalpore, but two months is hardly too long, and I would have had to wear a general’s coat.’

St Alban was glad enough, too, if only that he himself might be present – might take charge, indeed – which he most certainly could not have done from his hospital bed. ‘And it was right to include Waterman in the roll call. I shouldn’t have doubted it.’

‘If you don’t speak your doubts, Edward, you’re of no use to me as adjutant, as you very well know.’

‘Indeed, Colonel. And we’ll never know the truth now the provost marshal’s concluded the scent is cold. That there is no scent, in point of fact.’

Especially now that Askew, given his free discharge, was on passage home. (The Duke had said that pardon ought to follow the performance of a duty of trust, but it was another thing to keep such a man in plain sight.)

‘The truth will out,’ said Hervey decidedly. ‘If there was mischief. Though “when” is the question. In a regiment there can be no secret for ever.’

‘No, I suppose not … With your leave, then, Colonel?’

‘Go to it. March them off to a good swing. The band’s in fine voice.’

Others then left him to his thoughts.

For this was the church in which Clive himself had worshipped – and married. That greatest of generals in India would surely have approved the parade, and in what cause – the extension of the King’s Peace. Approved it probably a good deal more than Bentinck appeared to do, whose letter had seemed to Hervey a muted affair.

No, the other officers were giving their pensive colonel a wide berth. There’d be opportunity to speak at the tamasha, if need be.

Except for the surgeon. His age and calling always set him apart a little, and besides, there was a matter that wasn’t for the festivities.

He raised his bicorn as he came up.

Hervey smiled warmly. ‘Doctor, the dragoons did you honour. I’ve not heard the like before.’

When Milne had come into church, a little later than he ought, though all knew it would be on account of some invalid, the dragoons had shuffled their feet in acclamation.

‘Aye, well …’

‘You’ll come to Arcot House later?’

‘I shall, Colonel, don’t you fear.’

‘It will be as much comfort to Kezia as to me.’

‘Aye, well … It doesn’t do to trouble before it’s time. It’s like as not just a case of heat languor.’

Hervey nodded. Except that the heat was hardly oppressive. (He hadn’t yet braced himself to ask if ‘puerperal melancholy’ could follow from still-birth.)

‘But, Colonel, there’s something I must tell you. Indeed, I ought to have done so many weeks ago. I think it only right you should know, for it touches on my judgement.’