his jaw tightened painfully, but he gave no other sign. I do not think he meant to be stoic; he had already suffered so deeply, however, and gained so much back in a single hour—Sardar’s life, Sahjara’s safety, Karman’s fortune—that news of Garima’s death caused him to bend rather than break.
I shall never forget, however, that after he turned to Jas Kaur and told her the news in Punjabi, she sat at her worktable and split in two—sobbing, palms upwards in helpless anguish before her, her breaths like a death rattle.
It was a lesson, and a welcome one, that one member of the household had not been indifferent to Garima Kaur’s existence; it was a lesson that everyone—even myself, I dared to hope—would be mourned by one fellow traveller.
Mr. Thornfield pressed her shoulder warmly and carried Sahjara from the kitchen. As I likewise exited, granting Jas Kaur some privacy in the rawness of her grief, I called, “Mr. Thornfield, there is much which I can explain to you, if you will allow it.”
“Allow it?” Despite all which had occurred, a spark of gallows humour entered his eye. “Jane, I think it is safe to say I shall insist.”
He was about to take Sahjara upstairs when a forceful knock sounded; instead, he set her down with a quiet, “Stay with Jas, darling,” whisking her behind the kitchen door and shutting it firmly.
It is a testament to how well used to this household I had grown that I did not even blink when he pulled a short sword with a carved ivory handle from its place upon the wall. When I snatched up a dagger from farther down the corridor, however, he hissed, “What the devil can you be thinking? That could very well be half a dozen Company soldiers.”
“Your point, Mr. Thornfield?”
“For God’s sake, Jane, I—”
“Mr. Singh is incapacitated, and if you think I am going to allow you to face badmashes alone, you’re cracked in the head. Sir.”
Mr. Thornfield pronounced several exasperated curses, barked, “Keep well back, do you understand me?” and then strode for the entrance, where our visitor was creating still more of a racket than previous.
When he threw wide the door, however, I dropped the blade upon his pile of correspondence there on the table, weak with relief; Sam Quillfeather stood at the top of the steps, his aquiline nose thrusting urgently indoors. Mr. Thornfield gripped his hand even as he turned to cast a concerned eyebrow at me.
“Inspector, I hardly dare inquire as to what happened between you and the Company men—though last I saw you, this pixie vanished seconds later, and that sits poorly enough in my gut. We have much to discuss.”
“Yes, upon this very instant lest disaster befall you!” Mr. Quillfeather returned. “And Miss Stone will correct me if I am mistaken, but I think she and I have reached an amicable understanding? Good heavens, Thornfield, whose blood is that?”
Mr. Thornfield gripped his neck, rubbing exhaustedly. “Sardar’s, I am sorry to say. He will live, thank heaven, though ’tis a grievous injury. There are tales to be told.”
Mr. Quillfeather’s fingers clenched around his tall hat. Stepping within, he scuffed his boots upon the rug.
“Then shall we pour a spot of brandy, sit before a fire, and tell them?” he suggested. “Perhaps if we are wise enough, there may be a happy outcome after all?”
“I don’t think after all this anyone will accuse me of possessing a speck of wisdom, but I can certainly contribute the brandy and fire.” Mr. Thornfield sighed, taking the inspector’s place before the door. “Only let me quick march to have men sent for Garima’s remains and I’ll join you in the parlour.”
“Remains?” Mr. Quillfeather asked softly when Mr. Thornfield had vanished. “Oh, Miss Steele, what must you have seen today?”
“Enough,” I admitted, drying my eyes. “But far less than some.”
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,