A Division Of The Spoils (Raj Quartet 4) by Paul Scott Page A

him, still with that expression of giving nothing away although Perron fancied he now read into it an understanding that Miss Layton’s name had just been mentioned and a warning to give nothing away himself, as if they both had something to hide: Perron his real identity and Merrick – what? Just the fact that they had met before or, primarily, the circumstances of that meeting? The interrogation of the Pankot Rifles havildar? Sarah Layton was one of Colonel Sahib’s daughters. Although he now recognized the name Sarah in this connection he could not remember the name of the other daughter – the one presumably married in Mirat. Merrick had referred to them both when questioning the havildar. Sarah mem and – mem.
    He turned back to Kasim.
    ‘Is Colonel Layton back in India yet?’
    Mr Kasim had to incline his head and ask him to repeat the question, but before he could do so there was a cry, ‘Ahmed, darling!’ and an elderly Indian woman in a green and gold saree brushed them apart to embrace the young man. ‘What are you doing in Bombay? Is your father here? I wrote to him after the Simla fiasco but he never replied.’
    Perron stood back to give them more room. She ignored him. ‘Is it true what Lodi told me about your poor brother Sayed?’ she shouted. Perron moved away and did not hear Kasim’s reply. Gramophone music started up and the stunning Eurasian girl began dancing with one of the two Indian girls who had come in with her. The other rather reluctantly accepted a young English officer as a partner but talked to the Eurasian girl as they moved round in the limited space available. So far the services were represented entirely by officers. Perron was the only non-commissioned man in the room. Four Indian women, neither young nor handsome, had settled themselves on a long settee and were in conversation of the kind that did not invite interruption. The servants hadmultiplied and the room was quite full. There was still no sign of the Maharanee.
    He made his way through the room towards the hall. At the door he stood aside to let in a middle-aged, portly, red-faced English civilian in open-necked shirt, white duck trousers and black cummerbund. The civilian said, ‘Hello, Sergeant, where’s the bloody bar, then?’ and looked ready to talk but Perron, indicating the direction, went through. There were more people in the hall. A servant stood at the front door staring at the wall above it where there was what looked like a bell-box, which in a sense it turned out to be because an orange bulb inside it suddenly lit up and the servant promptly opened the door and admitted two more guests. Perhaps the same sort of signal was given in the servants’ quarters. Perhaps there was a bell-light watcher on the staff. Perhaps the Maharanee didn’t like the sound of bells ringing. He was glad to have the question basically cleared up.
    ‘Hey, Sarge, what d’you reckon, then?’
    The speaker was a REME corporal. He was standing against a wall with an AB of the Royal Navy.
    ‘Reckon?’
    ‘To all this.’
    ‘Are you on your own?’
    ‘No, with him.’ The corporal nodded at the sailor then looked at Perron’s glass. ‘What they rush you for the booze?’
    ‘They don’t. It’s free. It usually is at parties.’
    ‘Parties? Isn’t it Amy’s?’
    ‘Well the hostess’s first name is Aimee.’
    ‘Hostess?’
    ‘The lady giving the party.’
    Perron recited the Maharanee’s full title. The corporal looked at his mate. The sailor said, ‘The rotten sods.’ The corporal felt in a pocket and produced a grubby piece of paper. He looked at it and then showed it to Perron. On it was written: ‘Amy’s’, the address and flat number and a note at the bottom saying: ‘Six chips.’ Perron handed the paper back. He shook his head. ‘I think someone’s played a practical joke on you. It’s not that kind of place. What did you say when the bearer opened the door?’
    ‘I just said, “Amy’s?” He