Letters to me can be sent to the above address under the name Miss Jane Smith, as bloody deeds were enacted which precipitated my flight from Highgate House. Speak to no one of Miss Stone, if you would be so kind; a Mr. Jack Ghosh, or so I have been told he was identified, broke in during the small hours and died of some misadventure. Singh and Thornfield give out to the police inspector that he cut his thigh upon a piece of window glass when entering, but I cannot believe this account, and when I made the discovery which enabled my departure, the devil himself could not have spirited me away quick enough.
It is this matter of finances of which I wish to speak with you. Do not entertain the idea of coming to my lodgings, for I am not in immediate possession of the item in question; send me a summons for an appointment, however, and we may be able to assist each other.
Expectantly,
Miss Jane S——
I addressed the envelope to Mr. Sack in care of the undersecretary at the Company’s headquarters, which was the intentionally imposing East India House in Leandenhall Street. Having passed it before, I realised it suited what I knew of the Company itself: opulent, powerful, and cold as marble.
An equally frigid smile touched my lips at the thought I might soon enter its stone maw, a predator in the guise of a slender young woman.
TWENTY-SIX
The fact is, I was a trifle beside myself; or rather out of myself, as the French would say. . . .
Days of preparation followed, reader, ones which left me in a strange daze of commingled purpose and despair. By now, I thought I might actually expire without Mr. Thornfield, sudden heartaches piercing with the lances of a hundred Khalsa cavalry; at others, I felt haler to know I served him still. I read my borrowed novel twice through, then bought a copy at a quaint bookstall—I have not yet got out of the habit of reading Jane Eyre, come to that—and idled, and schemed, and awaited answers to my letters.
I had only to wait one day to hear from Mr. Sneeves; he was from home, the message having been forwarded, and so I must wait two more days to meet with him. Hastily agreeing to this via his clerk, I gnawed my thumb and hoped for a missive from Mr. Augustus Sack.
I got one, too, on the very morning I was to meet with my solicitor, and it read as follows:
East India House, Leadenhall Street
My dear Miss Smith,
Of course I recall the pleasure of your company, a boon which rendered bearable an otherwise profoundly distressing journey. I confess that, though I may have an inkling of the matter to which you refer, the less said in written form the better, for this is very much a Company affair, and therefore I propose you visit me in my office. My hours are from eight to seven, but a request from you could find me there at any time.
Very sincerely &etc.,
Mr. Augustus P. Sack
My lips twisted into what resembled a smile, but may have invested the casual observer with more fear than mirth.
Then I donned another of my new frocks in order to properly present myself to Mr. Sneeves. This costume was all of the same patternless fabric, a shimmering fawn colour, but the detailing was exquisite—ten deep pleats, a plain band of the same fabric at the waist, and then it blossomed into fold after fold, like a modern woman’s dream of a Renaissance belle.
My eccentric looks did not quite do the workmanship justice; but next I added a calculated finishing touch, a demure but real set of necklace and earrings, the stones of which the jeweller assured me had travelled straight from the Punjab. I had sixty pounds of Mr. Thornfield’s advance remaining, and I assured myself that the rest of the money could not possibly have been better spent.
? ? ?
The first sense engaged upon entering Mr. Sneeves’s offices was that of smell; the reek of snuff greeted me long before the man himself did, though he was scrupulously prompt. Mr. Sneeves introduced himself in a reedy voice, hastened me into his consulting room, and shut the door.
As soon as we were alone, he lifted a teak snuffbox. “You don’t mind, I hope?”
“Not at all.”
I must waste no time over describing the chamber—the usual maelstrom of ledgers, untidy bookshelves, and the like—for Mr. Sneeves had my passionate attention. He was a little man with a great round balding dome covered in freckles, as if his shoulders had sprouted a mushroom. Though of fine quality, his black coat was in no way ostentatious, and I realised that—apart from the almost dizzying aroma of snuff—Mr. Sneeves preferred his clients to forget they had ever required his services at all.
“You are most accommodating. Thank you.” Mr. Sneeves set the snuffbox down and commenced staring at me with pale eyes beneath thistly brows.
An interminable period passed, during which my sweat began to seep forth like morning dew.
“Pardon, Miss Steele, but you stir up old memories,” Mr. Sneeves concluded at last, sitting back in his chair. “You resemble your mother, you know, save in colouring—that is entirely upon the paternal side. What should you prefer to drink?”
I sat there, dumb; resembling my adored mother was enough news, leaving me hotly aglow, without the fact that I apparently took after my unremembered father as well. Meanwhile, Mr. Sneeves was already headed for the sideboard with a shuffling gait. I reminded myself of the role Jane Steele was to play today—a moderately interested but well-off woman, that she might get all answers not generally imparted to a beggar at the door.