The Fourth Estate

Townsend slammed the phone down and turned round to find Kate standing behind him. “I’m going on to Sydney, but I want you to return to London and find out everything you can about a man called Richard Armstrong.”

“So that’s the name of the man who was sitting in the next alcove to us at the Savoy.”

“It would seem so,” said Townsend, spitting out the words.

“And he now owns the West Riding Group?”

“Yes, he does.”

“Can’t you do anything about it?”

“I could sue him for misrepresentation, even fraud, but that could take years. In any case, a man who would go to that amount of trouble will have made sure he stayed within the letter of the law. And one thing’s for sure: Shuttleworth isn’t going to agree to appear in any witness box.”

Kate frowned. “Well then, I can’t see much point in returning to London now. I suspect your battle with Mr. Richard Armstrong has only just begun. We may as well spend the night in Bombay,” she suggested. “I’ve never been to India.”

Townsend looked at her, but didn’t say anything until he spotted a TWA captain heading toward them.

“Which is the best hotel in Bombay?” he asked him.

The captain stopped. “They tell me the Grand Palace is in a class of its own, but I’ve never actually stayed there myself,” he replied.

“Thank you,” said Townsend, and began pushing their baggage toward the exit. Just as they stepped out of the terminal it began to rain.

Townsend loaded their bags into a waiting taxi that he felt certain would have been decommissioned in any other country. Once he had joined Kate in the back, they began the long journey into Bombay. Although some of the street lights were working, the taxi’s were not, nor were its windscreen wipers. And the driver didn’t seem to know how to get out of second gear. But he was able to confirm every few minutes that the Grand Palace was “in a class of its own.”

When they eventually swept into the driveway, a clap of thunder struck above them. Keith had to admit that the ornate white building was certainly large and palatial, even if the more seasoned traveler might ungraciously have added the word “faded.”

“Welcome,” said a man in a fashionable dark suit as they entered the marble-floored foyer. “My name is Mr. Baht. I am the general manager.” He bowed low. “May I ask what name your booking is in?”

“We don’t have a reservation. We’ll be needing two rooms,” said Keith.

“That is indeed unfortunate,” said Mr. Baht, “because I am almost certain that we are fully booked for the night. Let me find out.” He ushered them toward the

reservation desk and spoke for some time to the booking clerk. The clerk kept shaking his head. Mr. Baht studied the reservation sheet himself and finally turned to face them again.

“I’m very very sorry to tell you that we have only one room vacant,” he said, placing his hands together, perhaps in the hope that through the power of prayer one room might miraculously turn into two. “And I fear…”

“You fear…?” said Keith.

“It is the Royal Suite, sahib.”

“How appropriate,” said Kate, “remembering your views on the monarchy.” She was trying not to laugh. “Does it have a sofa?” she asked.

“Several,” said a surprised general manager, who had never been asked that question before.

“Then we’ll take it,” said Kate.

After they had filled in the booking form, Mr. Baht clapped his hands and a porter in a long red tunic, red pantaloons and a red turban came bustling forward.

“Very fine suite,” said the porter as he carried their bags up the wide staircase. This time Kate did laugh. “Slept in by Lord Mountbatten,” he added with obvious pride, “and many maharajahs. Very fine suite.” He placed the bags by the entrance to the Royal Suite, put a large key in the lock and pushed open the double door, then switched on the lights and stood aside to usher them in.

The two of them walked into an enormous room. Up against the far wall was a vast, opulent double bed, which could have slept half a dozen maharajahs. And to Keith’s disappointment there were, as Mr. Baht had promised, several large sofas.

“Very fine bed,” said the porter, placing their bags in the center of the room. Keith handed him a pound note. The porter bowed low, turned and left the room as a flash of lightning shot across the sky and the lights suddenly went out.

“How did you manage that?” asked Kate.

“If you look out of the window, I think you’ll find it was carried out by a far higher authority than me.” Kate turned to see that the whole city was in darkness.