They reached the crest, and emerged upon an undulating plateau of fine sand, dappled only, here and there, by low clumps of tamarisks and wisps of dry grass in the slightly sheltered places, and little stars of sea plants. Here the coast rose in a jagged series of low cliffs embracing, with long, steely arms and granite talons, deeply indented coves into which the waves came seething at high speed, over sands fantastically coloured in shades of dark blackberry reds, and angry purples, and rusty black. These shades seemed to be laid down by the tides in a series of overlapping scallops, and in places the dark, sultry colours were varied by planes of yellow and grey-green. The necklace boys, amused by Larry’s surprise and interest, shrugged their shoulders over this phenomenon; everyone knew that the sands at the Cape, and further up this western coast in Kerala, too, were coloured like this.

  ‘It’s ilmenite and monazite mostly,’ said Purushottam. ‘Quite valuable deposits. They get most of the world’s thorium supply out of monazite sand. It occurs in this same form in other places, too.’

  They slithered down a narrow, rocky path, and picked up handfuls of the copper-beech-red and crow-black sand, clean and fine and glittering, cool in the palm of the hand. For a while they walked along the beach, but the coastline was too deeply indented, and rocks and tide drove them up to the dunes again. Fold upon fold of sand, rolling in smooth curves from the broken coast more than a mile inland, to where the distant and scattered crests of trees showed like stains of green moss. The Swami had known what he was talking about. No one in his senses would dare to attempt to get within striking distance of a prospective victim here at this hour, where there was no cover at all, and no hope of withdrawal unseen.

  There was only one thing to break the monotony, a squat little hut of timber and matting and thatch, perched on the neck of a long, narrow peninsula of rocks, tilted in knife-edged, striated layers. There was a small cove beneath it, the alluvial sand patterning it in dull green and sultry crimson. They crossed the neck of the peninsula behind the hut – it was only a few yards – and looked down into another bay, somewhat larger than the first and much more sheltered by the enfolding arm of rock; and here there were two fishing boats beached above the tide, and covered over with little gabled roofs of coconut fibre matting, and a net lay draped to dry in long serpentines across the sand, which here was clear and golden. The hut was evidently for the storage of nets and ropes and tackle, and had access by steep and difficult rock tracks to both little bays. It turned its back upon the weather and the sea, crouched into the last sheltering rise to the cliff-edge, and opened its narrow doorway and mat-screened window towards the land, scanning the miles of dunes with one blank dark eye beneath a coconut fibre eyebrow.

  They sat down in the sand, in the lee of the hut on its blind side, facing westwards over the beach and the cobalt sea. Over the yellow of the sand the deep blue was transmuted into emerald green. The deserted boat below had a high prow like a gondola, and the net was a muted sand-brown, faint as a mist against the gold.

  They saw when they looked back over the dunes that the solitude was beginning to be peopled. Several family parties of Indian pilgrims and tourists had streamed out from the village, and were making their way at leisure towards the sinking sun. And there among them came the Bessancourts, Madame thrusting indomitably through the sand in her sensible sandals and her black shalwar and kameez, her husband plodding tirelessly beside her with his box camera. And the Manis, immaculate and determined as ever, with Sushil Dastur labouring behind, this time with two small folding chairs in addition to Sudha’s beach-bag. The sun was going to have a very respectable audience, in spite of the fact that it was already half-obscured by towering clouds, and more were driving up to join the accumulation.

  ‘As a matter of fact,’ Priya said almost apologetically, ‘it almost always is cloudy. In the morning, too. Even if the day is very fine.’

  The spectacle, nevertheless, was sufficiently arresting The clouds changed and dissolved in a multiplicity of colours and shapes, and at the fieriest moment of the sunset, over that dazzling, dark sea, they ripped themselves away on either side, and let the crimson eye burn through and set fire to the miles of shadowy sand and the upturned, devout faces. For a few moments the dunes were molten. Then the great eye closed again, and the clouds banked low, touching the sea; and quite suddenly it was more than halfway to being night.

  The bead-sellers had left them by then to go and tout for a few more sales among the pilgrims; but when they turned back towards the hotel and the village, one of the boys came trotting back and re-attached himself, making gay conversation with Purushottam all the way back to where the dunes dived headlong to the submerged road. Then he suddenly salaamed, and made off at a brisk trot towards the village, taking it for granted that his friends would turn aside into the hotel garden.

  ‘Let’s go on to the temple and the memorial,’ Dominic suggested. ‘There’s plenty of time, no need to go in yet.’

  It was very easy. They were ready to fall in with any plan that kept them outdoors in this mild, pleasant evening, and a part of this curious holiday scene. No one needed any persuading even when he proposed that they should forego dinner at the hotel, and eat like the pilgrims who thronged the forecourts of Kumari’s temple. There were stalls selling every conceivable kind of spice, hot food, soft drinks, fruit, rice, various breads and in particular the highly-coloured and highly-sugared sweets that proliferate everywhere in India. After the dunes, the village was a revelation, crowded, busy, noisy and gay, a twilit fairground soon sparkling with little lanterns. Both village and temple stood on the levelled strata of the rocks, as near kin to ocean as to land. The sound of surf was a continuo to the sound of so many voices.

  Afterwards they went, among many others, to the highly-polished blue-and-white plastic memorial, and climbed to the base of its white, lotus-bud-shaped tower to look out over the sea. A few child beggars came pestering, the first they had seen here; naturally they made their base where the foreign tourists were most likely to be found in profitable numbers. Purushottam bore with them for a while, and then gave them some small coins and ordered them crisply away, and they removed themselves without resentment, grinning.

  ‘They do quite well here,’ said Priya practically. ‘Where there are pilgrims there must be some tender consciences, and the easiest way to peace of mind is to give. It is a fairly cheap way to acquire merit.’

  The fairground showed no signs of closing down with nightfall. When they had walked themselves into a pleasant weariness, the village was as gay as ever; and when at last they turned back towards the hotel, the lighted stalls were still twinkling behind them like terrestrial stars.

  Madame Bessancourt was installed in the foyer with her knitting, now a formidable roll of blue moss-stitch. She saw them come in from the night, and made them her invariable brisk bow over the flashing needles. Her smile was immemorial France, friendly but self-contained. The three who knew her halted to exchange the customary courtesies; Purushottam, after a quick glance, went on to the desk like a conscientious guide, and collected the keys.

  ‘I saw in the newspapers,’ she said, putting down her needles momentarily into her lap, ‘about the death of your friend. I am very sorry. When Romesh told me you were here, I hoped to see you again, and at least express my sympathy. I know well there is no more one can do. The death of the young cannot be made good by anything the old may do or say. I have experienced it. But for my husband and myself, I offer you our sincere sorrow.’

  There were no evasions about Madame Bessancourt. She looked them in the eyes, one by one, and her own eyes were as steady and dark as the rocks under Cape Comorin.

  They told her she was very kind, and could find almost nothing else to say. To comment on the beauties of the Cape and the coast, after that direct assault, seemed meaningless. But she was not curious about their presence here, or about the new member they had acquired in place of Lakshman, or about any item of what was essentially their business. She had said her say and done her duty. After a few civil exchanges they said good night, and moved on to join Purushottam, who was waiting with the keys.

  On impulse, Dominic turned back. There was never any harm in checking credentials.

  ‘Madame – Romesh tells me you’ve taken him on to travel with you as far as Dindigul.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, her needles clicking again. ‘He asked us. And it is a very little thing to do for him. I only hope there will really be a job for him there, since we are not in a position to provide one. He seems a good boy.’

  That was all he had had to ask, but for some reason he still lingered. ‘You’re going on to Pondicherry?’

  ‘Yes. It is not so far now, we don’t really need a third driver, but it satisfies him that he’s doing something for his keep. Two days’ drive, would you say?’

  ‘Or three, as you feel inclined. I suppose it must be about three hundred and forty miles or so. Will you be making an early start tomorrow?’

  ‘No, we want to have a look at the village and the temple in the morning. We have plenty of time.’

  ‘And after Pondicherry?’

  ‘Our tour ends with Pondicherry,’ she said. Her fingers, broad and strong and brown, halted on the needles. She looked up at him with a shrewd smile. ‘I think you must find it a little strange that two elderly people like my husband and myself should suddenly leave our provincial town and come here to India like this. No, no, please don’t apologise, it is very natural. Sometimes I find it a little strange myself. Monsieur Bessancourt and I had a son, you see – our only child, and born rather late in our lives. He was a student of architecture. Three years ago he came out here to join the international team which is working on the first stages of Auroville. You have heard of Auroville?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Dominic. ‘It’s the ideal city of the future that they’re hoping to build near Pondicherry. The people at the Sri Aurobindo ashram there started the idea, and I know a lot of the drive and talent is coming from France.’

  ‘Raoul was an idealist. He believed in the future, and he wanted to have a hand in building it.’ She folded her needles Together with perfect composure, and began to roll the blue knitting round them. Her husband had just appeared in the doorway, returning from a last stroll before bed. ‘Two days after he landed in Bombay,’ said Madame, ‘he was killed in a street accident.’

  There was nothing he could say to her; she had herself made it impossible to offer her anything, nor did she need anything from him. She gave him a small, reassuring smile, well aware of everything that was happening within him. ‘We were in any case near retirement. We sold our business, and came out here after him. And a part of the proceeds we have spent in travelling round India, where he wished to live and work. Is it very surprising that we should plan the tour to end at Pondicherry?’

  ‘No,’ he said in a low voice, ‘not surprising at all. I can understand that very well.’ He looked her in the eyes, and said, as she had said: ‘I am very sorry.’ And then, in delicate withdrawal: ‘You will have a whole world of memories, when you get back to France.’

  Madame Bessancourt tucked her knitting into her bag, and rose smilingly to meet her husband, who was crossing the hall.

  ‘We are not going back to France,’ she said. ‘We are not young, we have not much to offer – yet still, perhaps something more than merely what remains of the price we got for the shop. When the time comes, we shall die in Auroville.’

  They took Priya to her door and said good night there very quietly, for by the hush that had settled over the house they knew that most of the guests were already in bed. Larry let himself into the room next door, and Dominic and Purushottam went on, soft-footed, into their narrow side-corridor.

  A dim light had been left burning at the turn. By its subdued gleam they saw, the moment they turned the corner, that the louvred outer door of their room was not closed. One leaf of it jutted into the passage, and a squat figure was leaning inside it, a hand on the door-handle, and an ear inclined against the upper panels, listening for any sound within.

  Dominic came out of the haze in which Madame Bessancourt’s confidences had left him, and leaped at the intruder. He made very little noise, but the rush of air alerted the listening man. He recoiled across the passage with a faint squeak of terror, turning to face the threat with shrinking shoulders and apprehensive eyes; but he did not run, for the corridor was a dead end, and there was nowhere to run to. The louvre swung back and forth, gently creaking; and they found themselves staring into the frightened and mortified face of Sushil Dastur.

  Before they could utter a word he began to babble in a frantic whisper, excuse and apology tumbling over each other in their haste. ‘Please, please, I beg you, Mr Felse, please don’t rouse the house, please, I beg for silence. I can explain all… I was not trying to enter… I am not a thief, please believe me, I would not… It was a mistake, only a mistake. I thought this was Mr Preisinger’s room …I wished to speak with Mr Preisinger…’

  ‘At this time of night?’ demanded Dominic disbelievingly.

  ‘Hush!’ pleaded Sushil Dastur in a frenzy of muted terror. ‘Please, please keep your voice down! If Mr Mani should hear — Oh, I am so unlucky, so ashamed! What can you think of me? I wanted only to speak with Mr Preisinger privately… Mr Mani must not know about it, please, I beg you, don’t tell him I came here…’

  ‘What did you want with Mr Preisinger that Mr Mani mustn’t know about?’ Dominic asked in a milder tone, baffled by so sudden a manifestation of the devious in this hitherto predictable and inoffensive person. How could you tell, when it came to the point, who was capable of involved and circuitous evil, and who was not?

  ‘I wanted to ask him – Mr Preisinger is an American, he travels with an Indian guide, he must surely be a person of importance. I wished to ask him,’ whispered Sushil Dastur abjectly, ‘if he does not need a good secretary during his stay in India. I should be glad to work for him if he can employ me…’ No wonder he was trembling at his own daring and its ignominious ending. ‘Or I thought that perhaps Mr Preisinger is connected with some firm which has business interests here, and could get me a job with them if I asked him. Please, please, Mr Felse,’ he begged piteously, ‘don’t tell Mr Mani about this… You understand, it would be very unpleasant for me… very difficult…’

  It would indeed, Dominic thought, it would be a minor hell, especially if he really is a poor relation. They’d never let him forget it, life-long. And jobs in India are very, very hard to get, that’s no lie.

  ‘I am so unhappy… I have made you think ill of me, and I so much wanted your good opinion. Please do not think badly of me, I am telling you the truth – I had no other reason for coming here, none. It was a mistake about the room, please believe me…’

  He was nearly in tears of mortification. It all sounded plausible enough, even probable. Many a time he must have toyed desperately with the idea of putting an end to the endless hectoring and harassment to which the Manis subjected him, and looked in vain for a way of setting about it. Small blame to him if he at least attempted it when an apparently well-to-do American came his way; and small blame to him if he did his best to keep the move secret from Gopal Krishna. All quite plausible. But then a story for an occasion like this would have to be plausible. And might it not be even a little too apposite? Thought out in advance to be used in the event of discovery?

  ‘All right,’ Dominic said. ‘But better not disturb Mr Preisinger tonight. Mind you, I doubt very much if he wants or needs a secretary, or has any jobs to offer, but you can ask him tomorrow if you still want to.’

  ‘Oh, no, I could not ask him now, I am so ashamed… But thank you, thank you… And you will not say anything to Mr Mani?’

  ‘No, we won’t say a word to Mr Mani.’ What else could he do but accept it at face value and let the man go? There was no possible way of proving any ill intent on his part, and nothing to be done but go on keeping a close watch on Purushottam until morning. And then? The Swami had said no word of what was to happen afterwards.

  ‘You are most kind, Mr Felse, I am grateful… So unfortunate, I’m sorry… I’m sorry… Good night!…’

  Sushil Dastur scuttled away thankfully but still miserably, his big head drawn deep into his shoulders with shame and distress. They watched him creep round the corner, and heard the soft slur of his feet on the stairs. Without a word Purushottam inserted the key into the lock of the inner door, and opened it. Nothing was said until he had locked it again carefully after them. Dominic switched on his bedside light, and they looked at each other doubtfully.

  ‘It could be true,’ said Dominic fairly. ‘You haven’t seen as much of them as we have.’

  ‘In any case, even if he was up to something, he seemed to be only just trying the door. It was double-locked, I doubt if he could have got in.’

  Purushottam crossed to the window, which was open on the balcony. The filigree of the wrought-iron railings stood out blackly against the phosphorescence of the sea, and the lambent sky that seemed to reflect its glow.

  ‘Come in,’ said Dominic shortly. ‘Leave the window open but draw the curtains. We’ve got our orders for the night, and we don’t want to advertise the preparations. As far as the outside world’s concerned we’re now peaceably getting ready for bed.’

  Purushottam turned back into the room obediently, though he did nothing about the curtains. ‘And aren’t we?’

  ‘Not here, anyway.’

  ‘Interesting! And when did we get our orders? And from whom?’

  ‘From the Swami. I telephoned him this afternoon, before we went out.’ He told him exactly what had been said. Purushottam stood attentive but frowning; his respect for the Swami Premanathanand was immense, but he still found it hard to credit that so much ingenuity was being spent either on hunting him or protecting him.