We talked much that afternoon, and though I explained that I had schemed to outwit Mr. Sack—much to Mr. Thornfield’s belated but vocal dismay—I said nothing yet of my greater history with Inspector Quillfeather, nor did that gentleman press me into broaching the subject. The most difficult moment, therefore, occurred when we had reached an understanding and regarded each other in the pale amber glow of the dying fire, knowing we could postpone the inevitable no longer.
“I shall glance at Mrs. Kaur’s remains and fill out the death report, as the task would pain you, Thornfield,” Inspector Quillfeather kindly offered. “There is, if all I have heard is true, no need for an autopsy?”
“I should not be offended,” I assured them.
“No need.” Mr. Thornfield tapped his fist against his brow, the curve of his wide shoulders slack with grief. “I just stitched up what Garima did to Sardar—she could have been in no state to manage Nalin. I only thank Christ you were there, Jane.”
Mr. Quillfeather rose. “I shall also get a message to Mr. Sack, and arrange for the village physician to be here by morning. Time this was ended, don’t you think?”
“High time,” Mr. Thornfield grated, donning his hat and coat as we three exited the parlour.
Mr. Quillfeather headed for the underground mortuary, Mr. Thornfield and I out of doors. The stars were a cold spill of glass shards in the darkening sapphire canopy, sharp and treacherously beautiful; I wondered whether they looked the same in the Punjab, and if Garima Kaur thereby had at least the same sky to wish upon, or if they were hung at another angle in England, and the housekeeper thus entirely alone. Mr. Thornfield, seeming to see me for the first time, shook his head in annoyance.
“You’ll catch your death without an overcoat, you mad thing.” He passed his own round my shoulders and coughed, abashed. “Your cloak is quite irretrievably ruined, by the by.”
“I should think so.”
“You’d not have wanted it again in any case, I imagine.”
“No, Mr. Thornfield.”
“Your new frock suits you much better than governess weeds, though you did ’em better justice than most.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Is that what you wanted the advance in wages for—to convince Sack you were a thief?”
“No . . . well, yes, but I’ve also had an inheritance. I shall tell you about it when we are through.”
“Confronting Sack in such an audacious fashion—I hardly know what to make of these extraordinary efforts upon your part.” He gazed upwards as if only the firmament were equally unfathomable. “You could have found a far better recipient for your loyalty, you realise, than a ruffian with a curse upon his house.”
“I don’t agree,” I said, and all my heart was in those words.
“Jane, blast it to pieces, I don’t know whether I can do this.”
“At least you need not do it alone,” I breathed, wanting only to reach out and fold my arms around him.
Charles Thornfield shifted upon the grass, shoved his hands in his trouser pockets, and strode towards the cottage.
I hastened after. We traversed the grounds in lockstep, lit a lantern within the cottage’s sitting room, carried it with us as we trotted up the stairs; the door to the garret remained open and Mr. Thornfield made at once for the crate, flinging the lid aside and digging through papers until he arrived at the false bottom and tore it open.
The treasure gleamed with the too-saturated colour of poisonous vipers and venomous toads—a rainbow’s spectrum of danger, those jewel tones which Nature employs to warn keep away.
“Yes, these are Karman’s,” Mr. Thornfield said, and it scored my heart to hear his voice breaking. “Oh, Jane, so much suffering, and for this pile of trinkets? You cannot know how I loathe myself, little friend, and the only riddle left to solve is why Sardar doesn’t detest me as well.”
Then I recalled one of Garima Kaur’s last confessions, and why the seemingly trivial detail mattered.
“Garima Kaur said that Karman had her first Khalsa cavalry uniform altered to fit her when she was eighteen.”
“What?” Mr. Thornfield’s rugged face tilted in confusion.
“She wanted to fight long before her jewels went missing.” My entire frame was taut with nerves and desperate hope. “Garima told me so. So now you know it had nothing to do with you—she would have risked all for glory anyhow, can’t you see? No object is served by flaying yourself over the circumstances of her departure. War was in her blood and bones, and doer of deeds is what Mr. Singh said her name meant, and perhaps you left the Punjab to escape your heartbreak and made mistakes afterwards, but maybe the rest of it—the death, the loss—that was only what happens to us after we are born, and not a punishment at all.”
“How do you know she died in battle?”
“Mr. Sack told me.”
“Damn his eyes.” Mr. Thornfield drew a shaking breath. “Jane . . .”
“I learnt in London that there was no subject upon which I was more mistaken than that of myself, sir.” Brushing my fingertip over the blood still soaking his sleeve, I met his tearful gaze with my own. “Of you, however, I have made a close study, and I vow that I think no man more deserving of a measure of happiness, and that if I could fetch it for you, I should travel the globe.”
“What if my remaining here whilst you travelled the globe would rather hamper my contentment than enhance it?” he answered after weighty pause.