on them. And now I thought: till now, I had only heard, seen, moved—followed up and down where I was led or dragged—watched event rush on event, disclosure open beyond disclosure: but now, I thought.
It’s a lucky thing I left my card, isn’t it, Miss Steele?”
The sun had long since set, the eleventh hour dolefully chimed, and Mr. Quillfeather’s bright hazel eyes were creased with fatigue as he passed me paper after paper from a battered black case. Some were written in Punjabi, which I placed in a separate pile. Others were reports from Lavell’s superiors, however; some were letters writ in my native tongue; and a few were journals written by Lavell himself, which I snatched up eagerly.
“You were very frank with me, Mr. Quillfeather, and you seem a true friend to Mr. Thornfield, so I must learn to be at ease in your company. Thank you for bringing these so quickly—you’ve no reason to trust me, after all.”
“I have reason to trust myself, Miss Steele, and you have always struck me as a most scrupulous young woman?”
Smiling at this outrageous compliment, I touched the black buttons at the neck of the high-collared coral dress I had donned to hide my fresh battle scar. I had always thought Inspector Quillfeather remarkably affable for a policeman, and it was shocking to realise that speaking with him felt like conversing with an old friend.
“I will thank you for saying so by taking you entirely into my confidence—for I need you, Mr. Quillfeather, both you and your police wagon.”
“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—”