‘See, he can’t run far, not even with two sandals. It’ll be light enough in an hour to search every house in the village. And if he has run, then he can’t be more than a mile away now. We must make a cordon at once: four parties, two or three in each, to ride out a mile at the four hands of the clock – you understand, inspector-sahib?’

‘Accha.’

‘Then let my men take the lead, and give me four sepoys, and after you’ve searched all the houses you can begin searching within the cordon. There’s not a lot of cover as I saw. You’ll be able to search well from the saddle.’

‘Accha, sahib; it is good plan.’

But he sounded dispirited.

Fairbrother softened. ‘Inspector-sahib, we have his wife and children, and we can catch him.’

XIII

The Deceiver

Sthambadree, twelve days later

‘Not a job for cavalry, but only cavalry can do it.’ Hervey sighed, and none too contentedly. His regiment was strung out along the roads of the Northern Circars like the old Bow Street redbreasts. To see all of his five troop leaders in less than a week was no small achievement. The devil of it was that when they deployed in this way – not even as squadrons – they didn’t in truth need his command. Sleeman had devised a very promising scheme to overwhelm the thug circle south of the Godavari, and it was now just a business of awaiting results.

There was no doubt that the dragoons were enjoying the sport. He could see for himself, and Sleeman said the same. But pleasant as Sthambadree was, and comfortable his quarters – a fine haveli whose widowed chatelaine was only too glad of their company – he chafed at wasting his time here. He might as well have stayed in Madras and tried his hand in the Coromandel Cup. With Granite, his Marwari-Arab, he’d had a good chance of winning. Except that he could hardly prize chasing pig over even more dangerous quarry.

Perhaps there’d be opportunity next year. And a good many years after that. He smiled ruefully. The Indians always said they never saw a British grey-hair: the officer-sahibs either died or were posted home, the Company men took their fortunes and returned to England for a life of leisure. Yet he seemed destined to prove them wrong.

Not that prolonging command wouldn’t be the greatest satisfaction – he’d thought of little else but command for twenty years – but command prolonged was ultimately command exhausted. He didn’t feel exhausted – he wasn’t exhausted – and was sure that others didn’t think so; but five years, as soon it would be, and with little prospect of action … Action, at least, as he knew it …

Except this business of Chintal, perhaps. Yet somehow he couldn’t think it would come to a fight. When last he’d seen their army it was scarcely more than a rabble militia. A show of red-coated force would have scattered them like chaff before the wind. Nor was Chintal like Coorg: there were no mountains to speak of, no hanging forests, no rushing rivers. Above all, their ‘rajah’ was a woman.