When the carriage pulled up the drive before Highgate House and I beheld it again a week later, it was with a wardrobe suited for a governess (staid blacks and greys with high necks and infuriating buttons) and a keepsake in the form of a newspaper (the Pall Mall) containing an obituary:
DECEASED, Judge Arthur Polonius Frost, aged 66 years. Judge Frost was a pillar of the legal community, an advocate for harsher sentencing of those he termed “irredeemables” or that segment of society which makes peaceable living so dangerous for the honest and upright. He died of heart failure following a violent nervous attack in his home in Westminster.
The reader may not be shocked to learn that following Tilly’s account, I blackmailed Judge Frost via a street Arab’s verbal message, demanding he meet me after giving his servants a half day. When I arrived, he announced his intention to see me hanged. I should have been fidgety over this save for the fact the blackmail was a ruse; I feigned a fainting spell in order to drop arsenic, charmingly known as “inheritance powder,” into his half-drunk glass of brandy when he went for help disposing of me.
Did I regret this latest casualty of my nature, reader?
No; I did not regret it at all.
My nerves shrieked like a steam whistle as I alighted from the carriage, however. Highgate House seemed unreal, as if someone had told me a fairy story and I dreamt of the castle that night. The countless windows like eyes, the sinister forest—I could have visited a witch’s lair and been more easy. The air numbed my fingers, and my breath came in ghostly gusts.
A man walked out the front door; he was tall and the colour of strong tea, and a tingling in my spine informed me that here was a presence which would somehow influence my life—for better or for worse, I could not say.
“I am Sardar Singh,” said he.
Mr. Sardar Singh was strongly but efficiently built—he seemed a whip tensed to crack, all poise and precision. His nose was regal and hooked, his black beard long, and his head was wrapped tightly with a pale blue strip of muslin so that it resembled a beehive; otherwise, he was dressed in quiet English black.
“I am the butler here. You are Miss Jane Stone?”
I nodded, having thought it prudent to conceal the other name. Briefly, I wondered whether I ought to shake hands; but he turned to take my luggage from the coachman, so I simply followed him into the house.
And what an astonishing sight met my eyes! Lips parted, my head slowly revolved. I left behind a staid British manse, all mauve ruffles and china dogs; here were hanging cloths of crimson and gold and indigo, a beautifully carved wooden figure wearing a bronze-painted shawl, an ivory writing box on the hall table, so many potted plants I might have been in a jungle.
Mr. Singh made for the parlour, and I raptly pursued; where once was an open sitting room now a screen stood half blocking the settee, detailed with women carrying water, their hips as curvaceous as their mesmerising eyes. A peculiar smell permeated the place—part clove and part sweet herb, and I soon divined that it emanated from the glowing brass chandelier which hung in the shape of a great starburst above us.
“Welcome to Highgate House, Miss Stone,” said Mr. Singh. “Might I bring you anything to refresh your spirits?”
I sat, removing my gloves. “A little wine would be welcome, thank you—the road was long and cold.”
“So often the way with roads,” said he, crossing to unstop a crystal decanter.
Mr. Singh’s voice owned a light lilt, but his diction was crisp and clear. As he poured the claret, I saw that he wore a single steel bracelet, a sort of cuff. Additionally, there was a silver comb wedged into his hair just below the pale blue turban, glinting dangerously.
“Sardar? What on earth are— Oh, but I see she’s arrived,” a crisp new voice interrupted.
Here I was introduced to Mr. Charles Thornfield. It would be inaccurate to say that my heart skipped—nothing whatsoever happened to that poor excuse for an organ. My breath quickened, however, and my hands fretted, and all other outward manifestations manifested.