Death in Kashmir by M. M. Kaye

beginners’ race this morning.’
    The arrival of the Coply twins, smothered in the snow of frequent falls, together with Fudge and the Warrenders, put a stop to the conversation; and half an hour later, as they were washing up the breakfast things, Reggie Craddock put in an appearance, having abandoned his proposed trip to the Frozen Lakes owing to doubts as to the weather. There was no sign of Mir Khan, who was apparently still engrossed in the practice of jump-turns on the snow ridge known as Mary’s Shoulder.
    Reggie ate a hurried breakfast and looked at his watch. ‘It’s fairly early yet,’ he announced, ‘so I suggest we slide down and head off the people who are coming up here for the day. I don’t like the look of those clouds at all. There’s a nasty storm coming up, and I’ve a feeling it’ll be here a lot sooner than we think. I’m not for having a packet of people caught up here by bad weather. What do you say, Johnnie?’
    Johnnie Warrender lounged to the door and looked out above Gulmarg to the far side of the valley, where the sky was darkening above the cloud bank that concealed the Nanga Parbat range. The sun still shone serenely, but the curious, dirty yellow stain above the black bar of cloud was spreading rapidly over the cool blue of the sky, and there was an uneasy mutter in the air.
    â€˜Perhaps you’re right,’ conceded Johnnie, who was looking tired and cross in the morning sunlight. There were dark pouches under his eyes and he had cut himself shaving. ‘Personally I shouldn’t say it’ll be here for hours yet—if at all. It may go down the valley and miss us altogether. However, it certainly looks as though something sticky was brewing over there, so I suppose we’d better play safe.’
    They had rolled up their bedding and the various items that would be carried down by coolies, packed their rucksacks and strapped on their skis, when Reggie Craddock asked: ‘Where’s Janet?’
    â€˜Gone down ahead,’ said Ian Kelly. ‘What about Mir?’
    â€˜Oh, Mir’s quite capable of looking after himself. I couldn’t spot him anywhere when I came back, so he’s probably gone down too. But in case he hasn’t I’ll leave a note on the door to tell him we’ve gone on ahead.’ Reggie scribbled a few words on a page of his pocket diary, ripped it out, wrote Mir’s name across the front in block capitals, and tucked it under the latch where he could not miss seeing it. ‘Come on, we’d better get going if we want to stop the rest of them coming up. We’ll go down by Red Run. You two’—he addressed the Coply twins—‘had better stick to the path. I won’t have you risking your necks on the top half of the run. We’ll give you a quarter of an hour’s start. Shove off.’
    The twins broke into injured protests, but Reggie was adamant. Fudge volunteered to accompany them to see that they got down without mishap, and after a moment’s hesitation Helen Warrender decided to go with them too. She was not a particularly good skier, and disliked fast running except on open snow.
    Fifteen minutes after their departure Reggie Craddock gave a hitch to his rucksack and set off down the slope with Sarah, Ian, Johnnie Warrender and Meril behind him. They fanned out on the crest of Slalom Hill and each took their own line, swooping down over the crisp shimmering surface like a flight of swallows; dipping, swaying, turning in a swish of flung crystals, and leaving behind them clear curving tracks on the sparkling snow. The icy air, whipping past them, sang a shrill crooning song in their ears as they swung round the Brooklands curve and shot over Hill 60, and presently they were among the tall tree trunks; swerving and swinging down the track under the dark snow-laden boughs of pine and deodar.
    It is not far short of the first houses that Red Run is