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.
“There is one other small matter,” said I.
It was, of course, highly unlikely that the Director had ever been detained by a woman within the very walls of East India House, but a man who is a veteran of foreign wars ought to prepare himself for the unexpected, I reasoned. Dumbfounded, the Director tapped his cane against the rug again, frowning darkly, as Mr. Sack’s complexion shifted from white to green.
“Mr. Sack was under the mistaken impression that he confiscated a piece of Karman Kaur’s treasure from me, when it was in fact my property. I should like the misunderstanding rectified, and the necklace returned immediately.”
Mr. Quillfeather hid a smile, and Mr. Thornfield chuckled.
My solicitor’s speckled head bobbed dutifully as he suggested Mr. Sack send the item round to his offices.
“Do as she says, Mr. Sack,” the Director commanded. “And afterwards, you can clear out your belongings and quit this establishment permanently. You need not expect a reference of any kind from us—I will not tolerate conspiracies fomenting under my very nose. Unless, that is, I am invited to take part in them—trumped-up politicos with delusions of importance have toppled entire empires. I think everyone here knows to which I refer specifically. Deliver Miss Stone what you owe her, and pray to God Charles Thornfield doesn’t whip you through the streets like a stray pup. He would certainly, I daresay, have ample cause.”
• • •
We found ourselves, Charles Thornfield and I, walking slowly down a wide avenue in Westminster after finishing a celebratory repast with Sam Quillfeather. The high-hung moon was as pearly as the oysters we had consumed, and the cold wind whistled along the cobbles. It was the sort of silver-lit midnight which always reminded me of my mother, and made me wish there had been more picnics before she left the cottage and our garden forever.
Not having been sure of the outcome of our adventure, we had made no plans; now we strolled under winter plane trees, their inky fingers grasping at the stars, watching the lights flickering from within the pubs and the parlours. Mr. Thornfield was quiet with the uneasy calm of learning a long ordeal was behind him, as if not quite believing his fortunes had altered; I was equally still, but with apprehension.
My desire to never be parted from him was as ardent as my desire for breath; but I knew, should I fail to broach the subject of my past, I could become a puppet Jane, all wooden limbs and painted smiles. Reader, I do not foolishly suppose any one person can ever achieve perfect eloquence regarding their memories and affections and fears; if I did not take courage, however, I should always be viewing the man I loved through four eyes instead of two, ever cognisant of the monster hid deep in the back of my head.