Doors and windows in the sturdier dwellings were invariably barred at night, or even secured with a lock. The inspector banged with his fist.

No sound came from within.

He banged again and shouted for all the village to hear: he was an inspector of police and whosoever was inside must open the door at once.

Still nothing.

‘Havildar, fire your musket at the window.’

‘Ji, sahib!’

The noise was twice that by day. The ball struck dead centre; splinters flew; one of the shutters swung open.

The inspector told him to reload and fire again.

As the havildar came to the aim, however, they heard the bar being drawn.

‘Wait!’ The inspector held up the lantern, and his sword.

The door opened just enough to show a face, and another, that of a child.

The inspector spoke firmly but politely: was this the house of Arjan Brar?

The woman said it was, but that he wasn’t there. Another child’s face appeared.

Where was he, asked the inspector.

The woman said she didn’t know.

Fairbrother caught the Hindoostanee and became impatient.

But the inspector wouldn’t be hurried; he had the house in a noose as tight as the thug’s roomal. ‘You are his wife, and these his children?’

‘Ji, sahib.’

He asked if there were any others in the house.

She said there was a third child, an infant – a boy.

He asked if the boy were Arjan Brar’s son.

‘Ji, sahib.’

Only then did the inspector say he was obliged to search.

The woman made no objection.

The sepoys returned their swords and lit more lanterns.

The inspector began his search.

It was soon evident, however, that the woman had spoken the truth – at least that Arjan Brar wasn’t in the house. Whether or not she was his wife, and the children his, was another matter; as was his whereabouts.

The inspector now ordered his havildar to make a search of everything that was in the house: ‘Light all the lamps, and examine every last item.’

Fairbrother went outside again and told his men to make what breakfast they could: he expected they’d be here till daylight at least.

The inspector came out half an hour later, his face both anxious looking and exasperated. ‘Captain Fairbrother-sahib, he is gone, this instant I believe.’

‘This instant? How in heaven’s name—’

‘Sahib, there is door in floor of house, under bed of infant. There is hole in earth under wall, just one, two yard.’

Fairbrother quickened. ‘You mean he may have escaped us?’

‘Sahib, there is sandal in hole, and other door is open yet.’

Fairbrother angered. ‘But your men – didn’t they see him?’

‘They see nothing, sahib. It is black as the pitch, and door is hidden by wall.’

‘Wall? What wall? Oh, in heaven’s name … Too late now. We’ve just got to find him.’

‘Yes, sahib, but how?’

Fairbrother thought for a moment. This was the inspector’s business after all; surely they were used to hue and cry?