The baboo whispered it in Fairbrother’s ear.

Fairbrother tried to take the measure of him, a man of his own height and build, perhaps even of his age, with the appearance of rank and respectability. He could certainly pass for a pilgrim, although the half-dozen or so with him were less refined looking.

What to do – wait for him to make his approach? What if his design, though, was to wait until they’d crossed, away from the police and customs men?

Suddenly, Banji Lal himself became animated. ‘Huzoor, that man, the one in yellow kurta, I know him. He is Ghufoor Khan. He is thug of great reputation. If he see me, all is lost.’

Fairbrother had always supposed this might happen, Banji Lal recognized and the game then up. His plan had been to have one of the corporals bundle him away until the threat was past or they’d made their move and taken the thug. Here, though, it would split their little party if he himself was then to cross the river (and he hadn’t the men to risk that). But he could hardly cast Banji Lal adrift. The approver was one of Sleeman’s best, and besides, he still couldn’t entirely trust him.

But he must act fast, both to preserve their disguise and to take their man. It wasn’t Arjan Brar, Sleeman’s prize, but Banji Lal made him sound almost as good as.

‘Tell him to get into the bullock cart and pretend a fever, baboo-sahib.’

He got hold of the corporals – Askew too – and pointed out Ghufoor Khan. ‘Pistols primed. We’re going to make our crossing, and if we’re followed we’ll move at once to take him. If luck goes with us, it may be the end of our work.’

The ferry was mid-stream. They hadn’t long to get through the press of people, therefore, but Fairbrother reckoned it might work to their advantage, for the hubbub would surely draw in the Khan. He paid off the old sipahi, then told the baboo to ease their way through the crowd with handsome quantities of coin, if necessary telling people of the fevered passenger in the bullock cart. (He reckoned, too, that Ghufoor Khan might think it a ruse to protect the gold and rubies they were carrying.)

Corporal Spence led the way, roughly pushing aside vendors, travellers and placeholders alike, for as soon as the baboo produced the coin, the press became greater. It worked though: by the time the ferry touched the bank they were at the ramshackle pier, with no one in front of them. Close behind, however, and Fairbrother smiled to himself in satisfaction, was Ghufoor Khan.

But now he would have to separate him from the rest of his thugs. Thirty would be altogether too many to manage, even with a pistol at their leader’s head.

‘Tell the ferryman that only our party is to cross – tell him of the fever – and offer him gold enough that he doesn’t think twice about it.’