The Game

silent.

We were, as I’d anticipated, claimed instantly by a round and obsequious brown-faced man in a tropical suit, accompanied by a pair of uniformed chuprassis. He introduced himself as Mr Cook and apologised five times in the first quarter hour for this “unseasonable” great heat which his great city was inflicting on ourselves, since at this time of year we might have justifiably anticipated a more gentle climate, a temperature more suited to our English selves, a less trying degree of mercury. After the fifth such synonymous phrase I wished him violently struck mute, but I was too flattened by the “unseasonable tropical humidity” to do so myself.

He herded us off the ship in the shade of a wide umbrella, following in the wake of four scarlet elbows that jabbed a path through the riot of colour and motion, a confusion of tongues raised at never less than a shout, with the ferocious sun beating down on us all. The Goodhearts were ahead of us, their umbrellas larger, their crowds kept at bay by rifle-bearing guards in trim red turbans with a white device at the forehead. The three Goodhearts wore garlands of brilliant marigolds around their necks, and were under the supervision of dignified individuals with nothing of our Mr Cook’s air of commercial traveller. Their maharaja, it seemed, was already smoothing the path of his bison-providing guests; as some heavy foot came down upon my shoe, I could not suppress a twist of envy for the truly blessed.

But, I reminded myself, if Mycroft had thought it sensible for us to stand out from the other passengers, he, too, would have arranged for a noble’s escort—with a marching band and caparisoned elephants, if the fancy had struck him. This way was hellish, but unavoidable.

Had I been in charge of this adventure, I might also have given us a few days in Bombay to get our bearings before we were shut inside a rattling train car for twenty-four hours, for the northwards journey to Delhi. That idea, however, had died a quick death at the sight of the crowds all along the waterfront: If the remainder of the city was anything like this portion of it, a stay here would not be a restful thing.

However, it appeared that there was a problem with our onward journey. My luggage was incomplete.

“What do you mean, ‘incomplete’?” I asked Mr Cook, for whom I had developed an instant and completely unreasonable dislike. He was so polite, I longed to kick his shins.

“I mean, memsahib, that my list says that you, Miss Russell, are the possessor of two small trunks: one from your cabin, the other from the hold, which was sent down to the hold when the ship reached Port Said, and yet there is but the one which was in your cabin. I have had this trunk placed into the baggage car of the train, along with the two trunks of Mr Holmes, but alas, I lack the requisite companion from the hold of the ship.”

“What’s happened to the other one?”

“We are endeavouring to determine that, memsahib.”

“Oh Lord, they’ve lost half my things,” I groaned, then was nearly knocked down by a large woman clutching a carpet bag to her chest so tightly that it might have held her virtue. Holmes caught my arm to save me from falling amongst the feet. The shipping agent did not notice, so caught up was he in my accusation.

The round head shook vigorously. “Memsahib, the P. & O. does not lose trunks from the hold.”

“Then where is it?”

“We are endeavouring to—”

“Yes, I know,” I snapped. “Is there some place we can sit out of this heat?”

“I could, if you wish, have you taken to your train. I will, of course, remain here until the matter is made straight.”

More likely he would wait until our backs were turned and make off home, I thought sourly, preparing to dig in my heels. But Holmes, to my surprise, agreed. “I can’t see that our presence or absence will make the trunk appear any more rapidly. Mr Cook can be trusted to see the matter through. If necessary we can replace most of what you’ll need in Delhi.”

The small man practically melted in obsequity. “Oah, yes, sir, I will not sleep until I see the trunk of this good lady. I will personally see that it is delivered by hand to you in Delhi. I will not fail you,” he vowed, then rather spoilt it by adding as an afterthought, “if the trunk is on board the boat.”

I did not see where else it could be, but I bit back the remark, reminding myself that I had the clothing I had worn on the ship; I would not go naked.

Although, with my clothes already clinging against my skin as if I’d run several brisk laps through a steam- room, nakedness was not altogether unattractive. Indeed, the very idea of woollens was repugnant. I should miss my revolver, yes, but we had Holmes’ gun, and his box of magic equipment. If ever I needed something warmer than sheer lawn, I would buy it.

We oozed onto the train, our compartment dim and shuttered against the sun. I headed for the nearest sofa, tripped over a shallow tin tray that someone had abandoned smack in the middle of the floor, and sprawled onto the heat-sticky leather cushions. “Who the hell left that thing there?” I grumbled, neither expecting nor receiving an answer. I wrenched off my topee, threw it across the room in petulance, and lay back, grateful at least that the floor was not tossing underfoot. Yet. After a time, I dashed the damp tendrils of hair from my forehead and told Holmes grimly, “This compartment is far too big for two persons. If our companions are the Goodhearts, I’m warning you now, I shall walk to Delhi.”

“I believe you’ll find that Mycroft has exerted his authority to grant us solitude.”

“God, I hope so.”

At my tone, Holmes turned to look at me. I shut my eyes so I couldn’t see his raised eyebrow.

“It occurs to me,” he said, “that I have neglected to warn you against one of the dangers of life in India.”

I jerked upright, expecting a cobra or a scorpion, but he was shaking his head.

“India has a most unsettling effect on Europeans in general—which collective noun, by the way, embraces residents of England, America, and half of Russia as well. This is a land that gives one little of what is expected or desired, but an abundance of what proves later to have been needed. The process proves hugely disorientating, with the result that even the most stable of individuals rather go to pieces. One tends,” he concluded in a sorrowful voice, “to shout at people.”

“Holmes, I do not shout.”

“That is true. Nonetheless.”

I stared at him, wondering what on earth he meant. His words seemed to indicate a personal experience with that state of mind, but—Holmes, red-faced and furious? I could not begin to envision it. And I certainly was not in the habit of shouting at anyone, particularly strangers. I might let fly with a barbed and carefully chosen remark if need be, but shout?

“Don’t be ridiculous,” I told him, my voice low and reasonable, and subsided back onto the sofa.

While Holmes prowled the car, investigating its fittings, I lay motionless, wincing at the crashing, yells, and bustle outside, hoping that it would not intrude on us. After several minutes the voice of Mr Cook came from the entrance door, and before I could growl at him that we wanted no more news of disasters, Holmes called for him to enter. He did so, accompanied by the uniformed chuprassis carrying our cabin bags, the small carpet given us by the Aden carpet-seller, and a pair of closed-topped wicker baskets. Behind them came a sun-blackened man with a brief and grubby lunghi around his loins and a scrap of turban on his head. He staggered under the weight of an enormous block of ice, which he dropped with a crash into the offending tin tray, then vanished instantly. The two chuprassis paused at the door, and Mr Cook bowed nearly in half.

“This is for your comfort, in this most unseasonable heat, which truly I do not believe will continue to grip you as you journey to the north. If, however, it does, and if you wish the ice replenished, you need merely ask and it will be provided at the subsequent station. And although this train has a dining car, or you may wish to have a request for tea or a meal telegraphed ahead, I thought perhaps a little refreshment would not go amiss.” He gestured at the wicker baskets, and my unreasonable animosity against him retreated a small step.

“Thank you, Mr Cook.” I hoped I did not sound too begrudging. “That was very thoughtful. And I hope the hunt for my missing trunk does not prove too difficult for you.”

“I will not sleep until it is found,” he declared again stoutly.

“I shouldn’t want you to lose sleep over the matter,” I assured him, visited by a sudden image of the poor man fretting himself to an early grave, haunted by the memsahib’s lost baggage. “There