Free Barbara Cleverly by The Palace Tiger Page B

in the centre of the room. Two crystal chandeliers, Lalique, he guessed, and ranks of white candles set on low tables in the corners of the room provided the lighting; flickering flames reflected off a thousand shining surfaces.
    In contrast to the brilliant setting, the guests were a sombre group in black and white. Soberly clad in deference to the recently bereaved, they had gathered at the far end of the room. At Joe’s entrance all stopped talking and turned to look at him. One of the men, wearing evening dress improbably topped off with a white silk turban in which winked a diamond aiguilette, came forward to greet him. He was leaning heavily on an ebony stick and, although a tall and well-made man, was obviously not in good health. His features could have been carved from aged ivory, the skin drawn tight over bones almost visible beneath diminished flesh. His dark eyes, however, remained full of life and were taking in his guest’s appearance as he approached.
    Claude, at Joe’s elbow, hurried to make the introduction. ‘Your Highness, may I present Commander Joseph Sandilands?’
    Maharaja Udai Singh smiled and nodded but, Joe noticed, did not go in for handshaking.
    ‘We are delighted, Commander, that you can be with us at such a difficult time. I understand that you have offered your valuable services and expertise to look into my son’s death which you were so unfortunate as to witness this afternoon.’
    Joe found Indian voices attractive and musical but, even by Indian standards, this voice was remarkable. It was deep and liquid but the formal phrases were lifeless - formulae concealing despair and pain. His speech had the quality of the heart-rending adagio of a cello concerto Joe had heard at the Queen’s Hall the year after the war’s end. Edward Elgar’s, he remembered, and the composer himself had conducted. Joe had listened, tears in his eyes, as the music spoke to him of loss, regret and devastation. Udai Singh’s voice resonated with the same emotions.
    Joe bowed. ‘It will be an honour, Your Highness, though a most unwelcome task,’ he replied with equal formality.
    ‘It is my wish that the cloud of grief which hangs over the palace should not be burdensome for our guests. You are not of our religion, tribe or culture and will play no part in our mourning. I am conscious that, as bereaved father, my attentions will be elsewhere for the coming days but you are my guests and will not be neglected. The palace is large and can accommodate both the sorrow we are feeling and the pleasure you may have been anticipating.’
    Then, with a change of key, ‘Let that be our last mention of today’s events. Come and meet your fellow guests who ought to be able to put a few distractions your way during your stay. I cannot introduce you to your hostess because my wife, Shubhada, has yet to arrive. Are you married, Sandilands?’ He smiled enquiringly at Joe. ‘No? Well, a word of warning for when you are - for every pair of earrings you give her, she will hesitate a further ten minutes when dressing. So, the next senior lady
    Mrs Vyvyan! Lois!’
    He addressed an Englishwoman who had detached herself from the group and was looking attentively in their direction.
    Well, this was a surprise! Joe had not realized that Vyvyan was married but, shaking Mrs Vyvyan’s gloved hand, he decided she would have been easy to pick out as his consort in spite of the difference in their ages. Unusually, Lois Vyvyan appeared to be a year or two older than her husband. She was wearing a long black dress, a silken shawl covering her shoulders, and round her throat was a double row of pearls. Her skin was milky white and her dark auburn hair was swept up behind her ears in a twisted knot. Spare, elegant, proper, was Joe’s first impression, and very English. He was surprised, therefore, when she leaned confidentially towards him and he caught a scent of something oriental and seductive on her warm neck. Shalimar? He thought so.
    ‘Commander, we