Hervey put a ball between its eyes to make sure, and slid from the saddle as calmly as he could to head for Georgiana.

‘Stand fast! There’s another!’ shouted Garratt, on his feet and making into the lemon grass.

Fairbrother went after him.

Annie had scrambled to Georgiana’s side almost as fast as St Alban. Only Acton and Johnson stayed mounted, the one to cover his colonel, the other to gather loose reins.

St Alban managed to get the stricken mare to her feet. Hervey and Annie got Georgiana to hers. There were no bones broken – none apparent at least – and though winded she was composed enough to brush the dust from her skirt.

The mare stood stock still, her quarters badly torn. He’d seen worse in the Peninsula, but Hervey contemplated putting a bullet in her brain nevertheless … ‘Annie, get back into the saddle. Georgiana, you’ll ride with me. Corp’l Johnson, take her in hand,’ he said briskly, giving him the mare’s reins.

But Annie couldn’t settle her mount to get a foot in the stirrup. Hervey grabbed her by the waist and lifted her roughly, but then recollected himself enough for a smile of sorts – reassurance.

Acton remained restless until Hervey was back in the saddle, only then letting his sabre drop into the shoulder, at ease, as if sighing with relief.

Garratt and Fairbrother reappeared. ‘Gone away,’ said the major.

Hervey nodded. It wasn’t the time to enquire – nor to congratulate or thank. ‘We’d better have the villagers retrieve your trophy.’

V

The Penalty of Death

Next morning

Burra hazree: the governor breakfasted heartily only occasionally these days, mindful of his constitution. Chota hazree, ‘little breakfast’ – a dish of tea and a sweet biscuit or the like – was all his physician recommended as a rule. This morning however he had business to transact, and it was as well to do it with the aid of the table. They began with furmity made with almond milk, which Somervile confessed to liking immoderately, and then the khitmagars brought a silver tureen the size of a bucket.

‘I imagine you’ll have had kichree since your landing here, Captain Fairbrother, though in the hot weather it’s not eaten so very much. I venture to say, though, that you’ll not have eaten so good as this. Every establishment in Madras has its own receipt, but here my cook excels. Such a way with fish and the smoke box; and the rice – not a grain that sticks to another; and a spiced sauce he makes at midnight when no one is abroad to observe. Servez-vous, servez-vous!’

Fairbrother helped himself liberally. He’d returned late after the evening’s exertions, lain down and fallen into a deep sleep, waking only with the dawn and his bearer bringing tea. He’d eaten nothing since the middle of the day before, and the kichree – all saffron yellow rice, pink fish and golden-yolk eggs – was a picture.