Free Barbara Cleverly by Ragtime in Simla Page B

and Plain Tales from the Hills in English yielded up no secrets. Dutifully Joe looked at the yellowing newspaper. A French national paper, Le Matin, and a date in 1919. But more, evidently, than just a lining for the trunk.
    A short handwritten message in French in the margin said, ‘Feodor – as promised. I can’t tell you how sorry I am.’ And there followed initials so flamboyant as to resemble a coat of arms. G.M.? Joe thought back to his journey with the talkative Monsieur Korsovsky. He had mentioned his agent
    Grégoire, was it? Grégoire Montefiore
    something like that. He wondered what the agent could possibly be apologizing for. He glanced at the headlines. The French Minister for Finance was announcing strict measures to control inflation. A severe frost had decimated the vines in the Rhone Valley. Miracle baby, six-month-old orphan Jules Martin, was once again in the arms of his grandmother.
    Fighting the temptation to dip deeper into three-year-old news Joe turned to the inside page where he knew he would find the Arts Diary. Yes, there it was. An article about Korsovsky. He read it quickly. After his phenomenal success in New York and New Orleans the singer was to return to Europe where he was booked to appear at the reopening of the Covent Garden Opera House in the autumn. And – a treat for French music lovers who had, after all, been the first to recognize his talents – he was to give three summer recitals in the Roman theatres of Provence.
    Was this what his agent was apologizing for? It looked like a case of enthusiastic overbooking to Joe. He replaced the newspaper in the bottom of the trunk and continued his search.
    Looking more closely at the trunks themselves, he noticed that under the lid of the second was a slim compartment built into the lining. He slid in a hand and took out a leather satchel containing a leather writing case. A leather writing case with Russian writing on the cover and embossed with a coat of arms. This once smart and very expensive item was the only thing which showed any signs of wear. It was, indeed, much used. On a small chain in the satchel was a key which fitted and Joe opened the writing case and took it over to the window. He settled down to go through the contents.
    There were several letters of recent date still in their envelopes. There was a photograph of a family group. A bearded man, a smiling woman in a large sun hat and a little boy in a sailor suit who by a small stretch of the imagination could have been Feodor himself. There was a group photograph by a professional photographer of an operatic cast. Rigoletto, Joe decided after a little examination. There was a family group on a seaside terrace with a large house in the background and now Korsovsky appeared to have been joined by a younger brother and a baby in his mother’s arms.
    Joe took the letters one by one from their envelopes. These seemed to be letters from his agent bafflingly written in a careless mixture of Russian and French and signed with the flourishing G.M. But there was one letter with a Simla postmark. On headed Gaiety Theatre writing paper an official and impersonal typed message confirmed the arrangements for the recital. It referred to terms agreed in previous correspondence, politely said how much they were looking forward to his visit and how honoured they would be by this. It concluded with the words: ‘
    you should leave the train at Kalka and come on by tonga. The Toy Train (!) is really not to be recommended at this time of year and is likely to be very crowded. Yours sincerely
    ’ A signature he couldn’t read followed.
    What had been Korsovsky’s words? ‘I was instructed to proceed by tonga.’ This, presumably, was the instruction. The instruction which had led him to his death.
    ‘I wonder who the devil signed this?’ thought Joe.
    The old programme with its wine-stained front looked so ordinary Joe nearly thrust it back into the leather case unexamined. Professional procedure