The sun shone over the bustling port of Bombay, a welcome sight of stone buildings, archways and palm trees. Jim and Westman descended along the gangway and found themselves amidst noise and crowds. Workers and traders jostled to and fro while travellers meandered their way to the train station gate. Their party assembled outside the railway line with their baggage, and McKusky placed a trunk filled with supplies and weapons on the ground. Blinks dodged a snorting bullock, accidentally backing into a man selling garlands. Before he could apologise, the peddler had him snared.

"Garland, sahib?" He put several strings of flowers over Blinks' head. "Very good luck, sahib."

"Cats and dogs," muttered Blinks, trying to fend off an onslaught of fragrant petals.

McKusky chuckled at the servant. "We need all the luck we can get."

A fat lot of good lucky flowers did, thought Jim, thinking of the heather he'd bought. That gypsy woman had swindled him.

Westman smirked and paid the persistent seller. It seemed the easiest way to get rid of the fellow. Then he turned to survey the railway line. "Well, we're here. I trust someone knows where we're going."

"The nearest station is ten miles from the cantonment," said Jim. "Miss Spencer's uncle gave us the address, and I have the map." He patted the canvas bag at his side. "We'll find it."

McKusky nodded. "When we reach our stop, we'll have to find our own way to the cantonment."

"Ten miles on foot in this heat? And through the jungle, too." Westman loosened his tie. "I hope it's cooler in the north. This blasted heat is unbearable."

"Then take off your coat." Jim smiled. He'd had the forethought to dress light in khaki trousers, boots, and a linen shirt. He led the way aboard the train. "I said you should've worn the white suit."

"The day I wear white will be the day I'm anointed a saint."

They boarded and set off on the long journey. By the following day, they reached the end of the track and hired two elephants and a guide to take them to the cantonment in Chagra.

"I don't feel well," moaned Blinks.

The passenger box atop the elephant rocked precariously. Jim could sympathise with the servant. The train ride had been hot, uncomfortable, dusty, sweaty and smelly. And now there was a risk of motion sickness, too.

Pale as an apparition, Blinks reached under the wilting marigold garlands to clutch his stomach. "I never got seasick on the voyage. What do they call this? Elephant-sickness?"

"Oh, I don't know," said McKusky from the rear elephant. He leaned against their luggage and scratched one of his thick sideburns. "It's rather relaxing."

The sway of the box had a lulling effect on Westman. Now coatless, with his shirt sleeves rolled up and waistcoat unbuttoned, he'd spent the last hour with his head resting on the sun shade post.

Arms crossed and eyes shut, he said, "Blinks, if you're going to be ill, go about it quietly, would you?"

The elephant, adorned with a tasselled blanket, marched onward beneath the dipping sun. Jim took a long drink of water from his canteen and squinted at the sun-speckled fig trees and tall pink mist grass at the edge of the track. A crocodile slid into a lily pond, and a moment later a deer ran across a meadow.

Blinks vomited over the side of the passenger box.

With cries of disgust, Jim and Westman edged away from him.

"I'm sorry," he choked out the words before another wave of nausea struck him.

Westman swatted away a flying insect and peered over the side of the elephant. "I'm tempted to walk. This box is too crowded."

Jim packed away his canteen. "If it's any consolation, we should reach the camp before nightfall."

A while later, they came upon an empty white tent in a field, its canvas door flapping in the light breeze. A battery of abandoned canons stood nearby, one overturned on its side, wheel turning in the air. Beyond the drill camp, the pale walls and roofs of cantonment dwellings came into sight, nestled on a gently sloping hill surrounded by jungle. An eerie quiet hung over the military barracks and civilian homes.

"Penderry," called McKusky. "The guide says this is definitely the place."

"It appears to be deserted." He clasped his rifle and dismounted the elephant, followed by McKusky. "Just a shell of a village."

His friends joined him and they peered through the main compound gate. From somewhere within the cantonment, a thin trail of smoke rose skyward.

McKusky rested his rifle on his shoulder. "The guide says there's a main fort further east. Perhaps the survivors moved over there after the werewolf attack."

"Perhaps," said Jim, pulling the screeching gate wide. "Either way, we're staying here tonight. We should take a look around before it gets dark."

A gunshot rang out, and the group instinctively took cover behind the wall.

Westman reached for the flintlock pistol at his belt. "Damnation. Where did that come from?"

"Inside the compound." Jim peered around the entry pillar, looking for the gunman.

Silence settled over the cantonment, then a pack of hyenas raced out from behind a bungalow. The hunched animals sped in their direction and more gunshots split the air. A chip of masonry exploded beside Jim's head and he ducked, his heart hammering.

"Dash me. That nearly took my bloody head off!"

The hyenas darted through the gateway, kicking up a dusty breeze. Jim and his friends kept close to the wall, avoiding the yelping, panting animals. Their wiry, mottled bodies disappeared into the surrounding trees, and two armed British soldiers skidded to a stop outside the gates.

"That's it, you filthy scavengers, run," yelled one of the men, lowering his gun.

Jim stood and brushed dust from his knees. "At least the place isn't abandoned."

The soldiers realised they had visitors and blinked.

"You there," the other man said. "Are you lost?"

"On the contrary," said Jim. "We're in exactly the right place."

The infantrymen, clad in crumpled and dirty uniforms, exchanged a glance. "They're British."

"Yes," answered Jim. "We sent a telegram-"

"The telegraph office has been out of action for weeks. Uprising in the city recently," the soldier explained.

No telegrams? If the regiment never received their message, no one knew of Bunny and Anju's abduction.

"Is Captain Spencer here?" asked Jim. "We bring urgent news about his daughter."

A look passed between the soldiers, then one motioned for them to follow. "You'd better come this way."

The soldier – a corporal judging by the chevrons on his coat sleeve – showed them inside a single-storey building and knocked on an office door.

"Yes?" A man's voice boomed.

The corporal opened the door and saluted. "Visitors, sir."

"Show them in, Wilson."

They entered an office. The room smelled of candle wax, coffee and gun grease. Faded daylight filtered through the open window, falling across maps and charts on the wall. An officer in red military uniform leaned back in a desk chair. Medals glinted on his dusty sash, and below a dark, overgrown moustache and sideburns, a crown and Bath star insignia marked his collar.

He turned a pencil between his fingers and studied them, brows drawn. "Good evening."

Jim extended his hand over the desk. "Good evening, sir. I'm James Penderry, and these are my colleagues, Westman, McKusky and Blinks. We're looking for Captain Spencer."

The officer rose and leaned across the desk to shake Jim's hand. "Well, you've found me. I'm Captain Hardy Spencer."

Jim smiled and released a breath of relief. "I don't mind saying I'm happy to find you alive, sir."

Captain Spencer eyed him with curiosity, or perhaps it was suspicion. "Barely. I'm still recovering from a broken rib. What do you know about the attack, lad?"

"Your brother and daughter told us what happened. Miss Spencer feared you were among the fallen."

His gaze widened. "You know my daughter?"

"Yes. I-" he hesitated, wondering how to break the news. He wet his lips and continued. "I'm afraid it falls on me to bring bad news. Your daughter was abducted in London, along with her companion. We followed their trail to India as soon as possible."

Captain Spencer gripped the desk for support. A red scar paled across his ashen cheek. "They were supposed to be safe in London. Damn it." He struck the desk with the palm of his hand. "Tell me what happened."

"Intruders forced their way into your brother's home. They took Miss Spencer and Anju against their will."

Captain Spencer peered at him, his brow creasing with anguish. "And my brother? What happened to him?"

"He is unharmed."

A brief flash of relief crossed his face, then his composure hardened. He stood straight, his chest visibly rising and falling. "And their abductors?"

"We believe the girls were taken by Prince Sujit Singh, the heir to a princely state not far from here."

Appalled, Spencer's face contorted in disbelief. "The crown prince of Purabad? Are you certain?"

"As certain as we can be, sir."

Spencer paced behind his desk, deep in thought. "Can I assume you're aware of the nature of the attack we suffered?"

"Are you asking if we believe in werewolves, sir?"

Spencer's gaze flicked over Jim for a moment. "Well, do you?"

"Investigating such bizarre tales is my job. It's how I came to meet your daughter, and the reason I stand before you now. Yes, I believe."

"I can see we have much to discuss. I sent the girls to England to keep my daughter safe and to prevent Anju falling into their hands. But now you're telling me the prince of our neighbouring state is behind this outrage?"

Jim met Captain Spencer's sharp gaze. "That is precisely right, sir. The prince and the royal family of Purabad are all werewolves."