“Yes, you mentioned having committed a crime?” Inspector Quillfeather’s prominent brows wriggled in disbelief. “Surely you do not expect me to believe—”
“Let me tell you the story from the beginning. You first called Charles Thornfield to examine the body of John Clements because you knew Clements had been studying Lavell, and that all these men were acquainted in the Punjab?” He nodded. “Would it shock you to learn that Mr. Thornfield has taken me into his confidence regarding that subject?”
“Certainly not.” He sniffed. “Forgive my candour, Miss Steele, but may I remark that Thornfield seemed quite, er, aware of your presence, very aware indeed?”
My heart leapt skyward at this, but I forced myself to focus. “And you still have no suspects regarding the Clements poisoning?”
“None, though I am convinced that a man in the midst of an investigative effort is very unlikely to commit suicide.”
“Then may I ask whether you know the story of the lost trunk?”
“That has rather an air of romance, doesn’t it? I fear I do not.”
I thought of Mr. Quillfeather losing Vesalius Munt’s lust diary in a fireplace, steeled myself, and heaved a great breath.
“If I were to tell you of a mistake that Mr. Thornfield and Mr. Singh made long ago in the Punjab, would you hold it against them? If what they did to protect someone they loved was not . . . entirely legal?”
The tufted brows now swooped like carrion birds towards his nose. “Charles Thornfield is the very best of men, and any friend of his, especially for so long a period, must be exceedingly well chosen. Please continue?”
Telling the tale of the trunk took us to the midnight hour. Mr. Quillfeather, positively twitching with interest, paced as I sat painting a crimson picture of a bloody history for him. When I had nearly concluded, after confessing all my prevarications at East India House in an effort to protect my unlikely friends, I began unbuttoning my frock, and he froze in astonishment.
“This is what Augustus Sack did when he saw even a taste of what he thinks is coming to him,” I said, revealing the ugly stripe.
“The brute!” he exclaimed.
“We haven’t time for outrage,” I protested, quickly righting my attire. “Without your help, I am lost, Inspector, and I have an intuition that the trail, though cold now, leads back to Amritsar and David Lavell’s demise. You see why I must help you to solve it, and before midnight tomorrow? I’ve only a day, and the pieces don’t fit. Please say you’ll assist me.”
Mr. Quillfeather flung a long arm out, palm up. “Miss Steele, can a man make a greater blunder than to ignore the intuition of a woman? When our mutual friend has been wronged unspeakably, yourself injured, and a child shamefully abused? I am your man to the marrow!”
“We have only until tomorrow,” I breathed, “and if you make an enemy of Mr. Sack, you could—”
“Sleep is for the weak, and what is an East India Company bureaucrat to a seasoned peeler?” He landed in the chair opposite, somehow still conveying the impression he was in motion. “We begin work at once, and I shall tell you all about these documents, and we shall see what we can accomplish.”
I opened a bottle of claret, Mr. Quillfeather finished emptying the case, and the clock ticked inexorably onward.
So commenced a strange stretch of hours during which I consulted with the man I had once feared as I do the gallows. Inspector Quillfeather saved me time reading by detailing what the officers’ reports contained, outlining the contents of the Punjabi documents, and summing up the early diaries. David Lavell, it seemed, was every bit as thoroughgoing a scoundrel as his crony Augustus Sack. His superiors commended his ruthless ability to worm his way into any society he wished whilst revealing, even in their compliments, their distaste at his complete lack of principles. The Company men relied on his insinuating ways as well as his connections to Karman Kaur’s family: between them and the Thornfields, the few scattered politicals north of the Sutlej when the fighting broke out were still kept in French wine and aged Scottish whiskey. Lavell’s throat had been cut in his own rooms, which led the Company to imagine that one of his many dalliances had grown jealous of Karman, or that a Sikh acquaintance had been fleeced one too many times at the tables.
“The domestic setting means it is extremely unlikely that Lavell should have been killed by a stranger?” Mr. Quillfeather thrust his jutting chin as if to inquire whether I agreed.
I did, and we continued. Lavell had bled out quickly, and there were no witnesses; he was found cold in his bed a week before the Battle of Sobraon.
“Sahjara Kaur inherited, of course,” I mused.
“Quite right, but inheritance could not have been the motive, even if the heir had not been a little girl. Despite her mother’s assets, her father had amassed considerable gambling debts?”