by Lyndsay Faye
“Miss Steele?”
My name brought me back to myself, but it was the scrape of the key in the locked door of the wagon which startled me into full consciousness; shivering, I sat up just as a man’s fingers gripped the bars and opened the box I had been penned inside. The blanket slipped from my shoulders as I blew a wisp of hair from my eyes, aware that however unruly it habitually looked, now my coiffure must be positively outrageous.
“Were you warm enough?” Inspector Quillfeather inquired.
“No.” I managed to get to my feet with my hands on the nearer bench; my legs prickled, and my limbs felt weak and coltish. “Where are we?”
“Well outside of London—not far from Waltham Abbey?”
I must have tottered on my way to the door, for Mr. Quillfeather gripped my waist with hands that looked absurdly long wrapped round it and swung me to the ground. We were in a stable yard outside a hostelry, and I blinked against the glare as my captor released me from the rust-scented handcuffs.
“I take it the plan worked.”
“Never did I doubt it would, but may I admit to some initial anxiety, Miss Steele?” Mr. Quillfeather dropped the darbies into his satchel and swung shut the door. “Happily, my fears were unfounded. You were most convincingly distraught as we left the Weathercock, and I observed two men who seemed, as you suggested, to be keeping a watch on the boarding house? They conferred quickly and departed in haste after you were shut in the conveyance.”
They will go straight to Sack with news of my arrest, I thought with dark satisfaction. He will search all the London gaols, and when he comes to the division which liaisons with Inspector Quillfeather when they need him in London, the sergeant will confirm my arrest.
I would not, however, be allowed any visitors; I pictured the apoplexed face of the Company diplomat when told by a placid bobby that he could under no circumstances see Miss Jane Stone before she had been thoroughly questioned, and could not help but smile.
“We’ve bought ourselves a bit of time,” I said, “but how long?”
Mr. Quillfeather called for the constable to drive off; gesturing to a much faster one-horse trap, my ally helped me into it.
“Enough, Miss Steele?” he answered gravely. “It does not matter precisely how much time, provided it is enough.”
Nodding, I watched the hedgerows blur as we quit the hostelry at twice the speed we had employed upon arrival. We covered our laps with layers of wool nearly as thick as my finger; silently, as if we had long been close companions, we shared bread and cheese from Mr. Quillfeather’s satchel. Keeping a fast pace, stopping once to change horses, we could be at Highgate House by dawn.
It only remained to determine whether I was more frightened of the accursed treasure I would encounter there, or of its keeper.
• • •
As it happened, our trials were to commence before we so much as set foot upon the property.
Mr. Quillfeather had at first met my suggestion of driving with resistance; but when I pointed out that a man yawning every ten seconds surely could not mind the roads closely, he thanked me, wondered aloud if there were a finer woman in all of England, tipped his hat brim over his eyes, and commenced snoring. Our horse was sturdy country stock which needed little minding, so I allowed my thoughts to drift; a fox barked mournfully in the distance, and I heard the soft hooting of owls, but these nocturnal companions were as nothing compared to the friend in my mind’s eye.
You are about to see Charles Thornfield again.
How would he look, after these weeks apart? Identical to the way he looked before, I thought, but then questioned the assumption. Jane Eyre, when leaving her fiancé to find her own way, writes:
As yet my flight, I was sure, was undiscovered. I could go back and be his comforter—his pride; his redeemer from misery; perhaps from ruin. Oh, that fear of his self-abandonment—far worse than my abandonment—how it goaded me! It was a barbed arrow-head in my breast: it tore me when I tried to extract it; it sickened me when Remembrance thrust it further in.
Charles Thornfield and I had only skimmed the rippling surface of an attachment which went, on my part, deep as the Atlantic; despite his refusals, I could not pretend my departure had affected him not at all. Mr. Singh had begged me to return, and even Mr. Quillfeather had sensed an “awareness” of me on the part of my former master. To this I could add the evidence of my own experience. Mr. Thornfield, upon learning I planned to leave Highgate House, had neither wept nor blustered; he had shrunk, this impossibly large presence curled in on himself as if acknowledging I was right to seek elsewhere for happiness and affection, for loyalty and love.
He had been wrong—but did he know as much? Would the absence of my face at the dinner table cause him to push his plate away? Would he have wasted, would he have—wonder of wonders—missed me?
It will likely make little sense to the reader that seeing my sad, sweet Clarke again had invested me with new hope of winning Mr. Thornfield; but she had transformed me into a creature who, rather than being loved solely by a madwoman, was loved by a madwoman and a precious friend. I grieved for her, I regretted her sorrows, and yet they inexplicably heartened me. Never had I doubted her devotion prior to her flight, but as to the nature of it—if Clarke could long for the touch of my hand, could not Mr. Thornfield learn to?
Brooding made the time pass more quickly than I should have thought possible, and the birds were chirruping in the yew trees outside of the familiar village when Sam Quillfeather awoke with a punctuating snort. The horizon flamed red-gold, and our second horse, which had given admirable service, snuffled tiredly.
“Nearly there, I believe?”
“Very nearly, Mr. Quillfeather.”
“We shall soon get to the bottom of this affair, eh?”
Twenty minutes later, we pulled into the village, and there was the sleepy half-timbered inn, there the post office, there the white steepled church, and there the road leading to Highgate House.
In the next instant, my gaze lit upon something foreign, however, something that emphatically did not belong.
“Get down, below the seat,” Mr. Quillfeather hissed. “Quickly!”
I threw myself to the floor. A band of half a dozen splendidly uniformed men approached the inn on horseback, presumably seeking eggs and sausages; I had never seen East India Company soldiers in the flesh previous, and yet I should have known one anywhere. These wore white breeches and white waistcoats with gold buttons, black neck stocks with scarlet sashes to match their brilliant blood-red cutaway coats.
“Mr. Sack planned to storm Highgate House for the trunk if he did not have his way,” I whispered loudly. “Do you think—”
“I do not know what to think, but we are taking no chances!” Mr. Quillfeather thrust his hawk-nosed face down at me. “Once they are indoors, you shall drive as fast as you can to Highgate House. If you can locate the trunk before giving the alarum, then your story will be strengthened by hard evidence. I fear they may not believe you otherwise, or that the guilty party may fly? I shall learn what these men are planning. Be of good courage!”
Forcing myself to breathe, I nodded. The inspector brought the trap into the yard and swung from it with his stork’s legs akimbo, waving away offers from the stable boys to wipe down and water the horse, telling them his niece had need of the vehicle. When Mr. Quillfeather had disappeared into the inn, the lads stared in wonderment as my head popped up like a jack-in-the-box; but I did not linger for conversation, snatching up the reins and setting off at as brisk a clip as the fagged horse could produce.
Mr. Sack’s words echoed, their urbanity laced with the tinny sneer of the school yard bully.
The Company owns this city, Miss Stone, and you have stolen from us—so now I own you.
If the Company owned London, its vast power feeding itself like a deadly serpent forever swallowing its own tail, how far did its reach extend? India, of course; China, certainly; the Punjab, without question—but a sleepy
hamlet a day’s hard ride from the metropolis?
Did Sack mean to wage a literal battle against the warriors of Highgate House? And if so, was he brilliant or simply obsessed?
My joints ached with fatigue when I pulled up to the gate, tethering the horse to the scrollworked iron. I wanted to treat the poor animal better, but I could not risk my approach being heard, and so caressed its ear and assured it of further attentions directly.
Skirting the main house along the edge of the forest was a simple matter, the dew wetting my boots as I strode round the back. The sun was well up, and my nerves sang so dissonantly with hope and apprehension that I wished only for it to be two hours from now, ten hours from now, when all was settled one way or the other.
I should never have wished such a foolish thing, so in part I blame myself for what took place that morning.
The kitchen door would be unlocked, I knew, for Mrs. Jas Kaur was always up with the dawn, grinding whole spices into blends and rubbing yogurt into cubes of freshly killed sheep. She was there when I appeared like a vision from the mists, pulling the feathers from a chicken, and she gasped out something in Punjabi before smiling at me.
“I’m sorry to have startled you—I’m afraid I wanted my return to have an element of surprise.”
Jas Kaur, who spoke no English whatsoever, chuckled and shrugged and waved a down-covered hand at the door, bidding me go about my business.
I did so, stepping into the wider hall of the servants’ wing.
The air here was cooler than the kitchen, thin and still; I had walked for perhaps twenty yards before I remembered the night prior to my quitting Highgate House, the terrible attack by Jack Ghosh and what came afterwards, and I knew I was heading in the wrong direction.
The treasure would be close to its possessor, and its possessor had recently moved.
Turning, I ran back the way I came and out the door, provoking another mild exclamation from Jas Kaur.
Sahjara will be having her morning ride, I thought, and everyone else wide awake and working, and only one guard set to impede you. I sprinted across the grounds, lungs burning in the cold, cloak flapping about my bright rose skirts. I will find the treasure, and give it to Mr. Thornfield, and all will be well, though it will hurt terribly.
When I reached my destination, to my surprise no bearded and turbaned Singh whatsoever awaited me. Having planned simply to wave my way through—as I was known to all the servants despite my terrible facility with their names—I hesitated momentarily. When I realised that Sahjara was the true commodity to be watched over, however, and decided her guard must surely be out riding with her, I gripped the door of the cottage and found it locked.
This, though not precisely surprising, was vexing—until, that is, I remembered my late mother’s enormous facility for losing keys, and recalled that Agatha had kept a spare underneath a loose flagstone a few yards from the entrance. It took a few minutes to recognise the right one, but barely a minute had passed before I stood there triumphant, with dirtied fingernails and an eroding key.
It fit, and the door creaked open.
I began the search with the bedrooms, but soon thought better of this and ran for the attic; up, up, up I went to the place where I had read Mamma’s letter so long ago. When I reached it, I took in the steep-roofed chamber, all its draped furnishings like censorious guards.
A large wooden crate which had not been there before rested under the round window.
The lid came off easily and revealed paperwork—written in Punjabi, but the neatly lined columns indicated records. I scattered them to the floor, heedless of the mess I was making. I had not tossed many aside before I found a thin piece of wood, and I clawed the false bottom from the crate.
Reader, no dolls rested within.
There were jewels, however—set jewels and loose ones, sapphires wrapped in velvet and topaz tumbling loose, an emerald bracelet which spanned wrist to elbow and a ruby tiara which would have caused the Queen of Sheba to swoon. There were ropes of pearls, golden chains, and the effect was nearly laughable in its opulence: so I did what I always do at inappropriate times, and I laughed.
“I shouldn’t celebrate prematurely, Miss Stone.”
I turned, electric with fright; there stood Garima Kaur, her once-handsome face set, holding a curved and long-bladed knife in her hand.
THIRTY-ONE
I requested him to shut the door and sit down: I had some questions to ask him. But when he complied, I scarcely knew how to begin; such horror had I of the possible answers.
Her words were free-flowing, practically accentless save for the same familiar lilt Mr. Singh owned, which made my very marrow quiver.
“I had supposed you didn’t speak much English?”
This amused the housekeeper, but the twitch of her lips was not even hinted at in her eyes. Where Mr. Quillfeather appeared affably cadaverous, all appendages and hooked nose, Garima Kaur looked as if her flesh had shrunk too tight to fit her, the sleeves of her drab housekeeper’s black loose around her pale brown wrists. Save the unsightly scar, one might wonder if she were a shade casting an illusion which only appeared to be human skin.
“Having deceived far better minds than yours, I cannot fault you for thinking so. Do not worry, do not worry,” she parroted, and then laughed, her lips stretched over her teeth. “I speak six other languages and worked with Sardar from the time we were both fifteen; he and Charles spoke Punjabi half the time, English the other—I could only have avoided learning your ugly tongue had I stuffed my ears with cotton.”
There were things about her I had slowly gleaned, reader, and things I had only just come to understand; I had not, however, expected her capacity for deception to exist on so global a scale, and could not help but admire her.
“And you never let on that you were fluent?”
“Why should I want to deal with every loutish ferengi* Sardar traded with?” she spat. “They only wanted to rob us, as you do now—Charles was raised better, but the exception proves the rule, as you say. Take the knife from your skirts and leave it in the trunk, covering all up again.”
Of course she knows about the knife, for we had been speaking English as she drifted the corridors all that while, and I never thought twice about it. Peering at her cruelly curved blade, I dropped my paltry weapon in the tangle of treasure at my feet; against a Sikh fighter, it may as well have been a berry spoon.
Lacking even that token means of defending myself, however—every hair on my crown stood on end. I returned the false bottom and the papers to the crate, fitted the lid, and then turned to face my captor.
“Please.” I raised my hands in supplication, “I mean you—”
“Surely you are not about to tell me that you mean me no harm,” Garima Kaur interjected, and again the shift of her mouth did not affect her cavernous eyes. “Do you really mean to suggest that you intend to leave that fortune in this garret and walk away from Highgate House?”
Deliberately, I exhaled. “There are half a dozen East India Company soldiers in the village sent by Mr. Sack, ready to raid the premises—it’s time this was ended.”
Conversely, her eyes burst now to life, as if I had turned up a gas lamp.
“Are there?” she said softly.
“Yes, so you see—”
“Then you are correct, Miss Stone. It is time this was ended.”
Garima Kaur’s voice was a scalpel, and a small wound in the rational world opened; I had assigned many characteristics to her since that morning—brilliant, vengeful, and ruthless all figured prominently.
Not once had I suspected her mad.
“You cannot mean to fight them,” I pleaded. “The people you care about will be hurt, maybe even killed, and the wars are over, you cannot bring the battlefield to England and expect—”
“How came you to be here?” she interrupted, swinging the long knife in a lazy, expert circle around her index and middle fingers before palming it again.
“I think
you killed David Lavell.”
She laughed. “Remarkable. What else do you think?”
“I think that John Clements was in love with you, and when his colleague Mr. Sack received a taunting letter from Sardar Singh, I think … I think he suspected you were the one behind it. All those years he trusted you, fed you information without realising that’s what you wanted him for. And I think when he concluded you had stolen the trunk, and had finished Lavell, I think he confronted you, and you poisoned him in his rooms in London.”
Her mouth worked again, but now pain warped the derision, and she paused before speaking. It was an expression I knew well and, though kissed by madness thanks to my mother, I did not think I lived in its embrace as Garima Kaur did, that obsessive desire to right the single great wrong which has swept your life off its course. We could have been sisters otherwise, for our propensities; we could have been friends.
Her silent shock confirmed my suspicions, albeit superfluously—I had only to recall the single thread connecting the dead men to know I was right.
Mr. Sack was the one who had first stimulated my interest, when he had said of John Clements, He was low over the project, over his lack of progress. Then he saw an old love of his briefly, and he sank further into melancholy. Honestly, Miss Stone? I believe he took the soldier’s way out.
Half a clue is as useless as none at all; but then I recalled a scrap of conversation which illuminated a dark landscape.
Poor old Johnny, with that puppyish way he had about him, Mr. Thornfield had said to Mr. Singh the night I had eavesdropped on them. Remember when he used to sniff around your secretary as if she were Cleopatra?
Garima Kaur, of course, was that secretary—a woman loved by a British political she used and despised, a woman capable of copying her employer’s penmanship and imitating his voice even in a language she loathed, writing, Your Company has raped my entire culture in systematic fashion. Mr. Singh had remained in Lahore throughout the First Sikh War guarding Sahjara, I was certain, for it fit all I knew of him, but his secretary—the loyal princess with the accomplished knife hand—had made at least one delivery to David Lavell in Amritsar, and she had left him with a gash through his neck.