“Our demands are entirely reasonable, sir,” my solicitor droned. To Mr. Sneeves’s immense credit, confronting the East India Company sounded as if it were the duller sort of business to conduct on any given Thursday. “You are welcome to this box so long as you never reveal from whence it originated. Mention of the Punjab is acceptable, but this gentleman is to be released from all liability regarding the ownership of these gemstones. To that effect, you shall simply sign this paperwork exonerating Charles Thornfield of any wrongdoing, and I shall have it copied and delivered to any litigators in your employ.”
“Surely you will comply, Mr. Sack?” Mr. Quillfeather pressed. “You now have my full report regarding the unsolved murder of John Clements, and the killer is beyond the punishment of mortals. All this, and a fortune in recovered property—what could be a happier circumstance?”
Charles Thornfield, meanwhile, continued to say nothing. When we had learnt the true intentions of the Company soldiers from Inspector Quillfeather, he had expressed profound relief; the sight of Augustus Sack, however, predictably wreaked havoc with his digestion. He sat expressionless before the political, one finger framing his temple, boring holes into the enemy with his pupils.
“You’ve forgot your gloves, Thornfield,” the Company man hissed.
“Lucky for you, or I would be challenging you to a duel with ’em,” Mr. Thornfield drawled. “Are you ready to steal a little girl’s property, Auggie, or shall we keep gassing? The box sits before you. You’ve won. It’s the last pound of my flesh and Sardar’s you’ll be taking.”
“And exactly how does she come into this, then?” Mr. Sack’s full lips curled in a sneer. “Miss Jane Stone, governess, who claimed to have robbed you of the trunk and then was hauled off in a police wagon. What am I to make of it?”
“A profit, I had presumed,” said I. Footsteps sounded in the hallway outside. Glancing from Mr. Quillfeather to Mr. Thornfield, I could not suppress a tiny pursed smile.
There was no knock. There was no warning. There was simply a tattoo of approaching footsteps and then the door banged open, revealing a half dozen Company soldiers and the man they all referred to as the Director.
“Oh, thank heaven,” Mr. Thornfield sighed, crossing his legs. “I was on the verge of physical violence.”
“Sir,” spluttered Mr. Sack. “I . . . You are most welcome. To what do I owe the honour—er, pleasure—of this visit?”
The soldiers from the previous day, resplendent in their white and red coats, formed a neat file behind their leader. The Director was a tall man, impeccably dressed in sober black with silver trimmings; he carried a cane but seemed not to require its use, and his face called to mind a dignified greyhound, lean and efficient. He tapped twice with his cane upon the carpet.
“Inspector Quillfeather, I offer you my congratulations.” The Director’s voice was high but firm. “Charles Thornfield, it has been too long, too long indeed, sir. It is a pleasure to see you in better health.”
Mr. Sack sank back into his desk chair like a deflated balloon.
“By the Lord, you’re in fine fettle, sir.” Mr. Thornfield offered his hand to the head of the Company. “Thank you for meeting us.”
“You have made it well worth my while.” The Director smiled coldly. “I was informed by Mr. Quillfeather here that you were being . . . how shall I put this . . . meddled with by certain of my staff. I at once launched my own internal investigation, and I have it on good authority that you are a wronged man. Naturally, the happy recovery of the item in question also sparked my keen interest, and I lost no time in sending a small body of troops to your residence after I had discovered the truth. Thankfully, I am told they were not required to defend you and Mr. Singh. Your services to the Crown and your family’s favours in the importation line have not been forgot and indeed continue to be valued overseas.”
“I’m damned grateful for your memory, sir,” Mr. Thornfield replied.
“Do you hold fast to your decision to turn these spoils of war over to the Company?” The Director tapped the crate with his cane, eyes gleaming with avarice.
“If I never see ’em again, I’ll die happier than I ever expected to.”
“We were just discussing the remaining formalities and awaiting Mr. Sack’s signature,” Mr. Cyrus Sneeves intoned, taking a large pinch of snuff to fortify himself.
Augustus P. Sack’s rosy features had paled during this exchange beyond a shade I had thought possible; he now gaped, fish-mouthed, as the Director stared at him with all the tender affection of a mongoose eyeing a snake. The soldiers at the back of the room stood at parade rest, eyes forward.
“Of course, of course.” Suddenly Mr. Sack was scrabbling at the documents on his desk, as if being asked to address them for the first time. “I shall be only too happy to sign.”
“See that you are.” The Director nodded to the soldiers; two sprang neatly into action, lifting the crate. “Take this directly to my private chambers—I shall be informing the prime minister I require a word with him this afternoon. Inspector Quillfeather, we are grateful for your efforts on behalf of Mr. Clements; Mr. Thornfield, thank you for your cooperation.”
“I was only too happy,” Mr. Thornfield parroted at Mr. Sack.