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back to him. Then, he shook his head.
    Upton picked up a stone and slung it into the river with great force. He wheeled round, turning on the two men. ‘Why didn’t you say who you’d found? I thought it was the Indian.’
    The stone-faced man said quietly, ‘Matty knew it were Osbert. He went running to find you, and then to get a stretcher.’
    ‘God help Osbert’s mam, sir,’ added the other. ‘And he’s no sight for a lass in his wife’s condition.’ He ran his fingers through his wiry hair, making it stand on end.
    Upton did not answer. He turned his back.
    I stared at the horizon. White clouds scudded hastily across the blue sky; the world hurrying to mock the quick and the dead.
    We spoke no more, until the fellow they called Matty came into view, carrying one end of a canvas stretcher with wooden rods.
    Behind him came Joel, holding the other end.
    They placed the stretcher on the ground. Upton picked up Osbert Hannon’s body, as gently as if he were about to nurse a baby. As he did so, I noticed a nasty wound on the back of the young man’s head. This could have been from the rocks on the riverbed, or it may have been inflicted before he entered the water. Upton laid Osbert on the canvas and covered him, as though tucking him in for the night.
    ‘Matty, Joel, go on searching along the river.’
    Matty nodded.
    Joel looked blank. ‘What for?’
    ‘For an Indian, dead or alive. What do you think? I’m not sending you on a bloody fishing expedition. Go as far as the weir. And keep your traps shut about Osbert till I say open ’em.’
    The other two men had taken up positions at either end of the stretcher, waiting for instructions.
    ‘Bring him to the estate office. Say nowt.’ He turned to me as we walked towards the horse and pony. ‘Thank God I didn’t have the church bells rung to call off the search.’
    The animals were grazing patiently. This time I mounted more easily. ‘I must break the news to Osbert’s wife and mother before I bring his body home to them,’ Upton said as he swung into the saddle.
    ‘Wait! The coroner will need to consider Osbert’s death in relation to the maharajah’s disappearance. There will be a post mortem, and an inquest. Have the body taken to Bolton Hall and notify the constable.’
    The flat of Upton’s palm went to his forehead. ‘Of course. You’re right.’
    He called to the men and trotted up to them.
    The wound on the back of Osbert’s head may have been caused accidentally, when he fell into the water. But the river murmured murder. A man so young and lithe did not fall and drown. He was pushed. Why?

Four

     
    I dismounted from the pony in the stable yard of the Devonshire Arms Hotel. This was where Upton told me I would find Isaac Withers, the man who, along with Osbert Hannon, had accompanied the prince on his ride yesterday.
    Hearing the pony’s hooves, an elderly man emerged from the furthest stall, squinting as he came into the light. He looked at the pony, and at me. Ledges of pocked flesh crossed his cheeks and either side of his mouth. Two warts gave him the appearance of a lumpy old tree.
    So this was Joel’s father, Isaac. Either Joel was older than he appeared, or he was the fruit of old loins. Whereas the son gave the appearance of a poorly clad scarecrow, the father appeared to wear every item of clothing that had come his way. In spite of the warmth of a summer morning, he wore gaiters on his trousers, two pairs of thick socks, grey and brown, a heavy overcoat, scarf and an old cap.
    ‘Are you done with the pony so soon, madam?’ The sheer amount of clothing slowed his movements. He hobbled closer, narrowing his eyes, waiting to hear where I had been, and why.
    ‘Are you Mr Withers?’
    ‘That I be.’
    ‘Hello. I am Mrs Shackleton. I’m here to find out what has happened to his lordship’s guest.’
    Even his bushy eyebrows appeared extravagantly overdone. He raised them, giving a sparkle of surprise to rheumy old eyes