Jane Steele(109)

I opened a bottle of claret, Mr. Quillfeather finished emptying the case, and the clock ticked inexorably onward.

So commenced a strange stretch of hours during which I consulted with the man I had once feared as I do the gallows. Inspector Quillfeather saved me time reading by detailing what the officers’ reports contained, outlining the contents of the Punjabi documents, and summing up the early diaries. David Lavell, it seemed, was every bit as thoroughgoing a scoundrel as his crony Augustus Sack. His superiors commended his ruthless ability to worm his way into any society he wished whilst revealing, even in their compliments, their distaste at his complete lack of principles. The Company men relied on his insinuating ways as well as his connections to Karman Kaur’s family: between them and the Thornfields, the few scattered politicals north of the Sutlej when the fighting broke out were still kept in French wine and aged Scottish whiskey. Lavell’s throat had been cut in his own rooms, which led the Company to imagine that one of his many dalliances had grown jealous of Karman, or that a Sikh acquaintance had been fleeced one too many times at the tables.

“The domestic setting means it is extremely unlikely that Lavell should have been killed by a stranger?” Mr. Quillfeather thrust his jutting chin as if to inquire whether I agreed.

I did, and we continued. Lavell had bled out quickly, and there were no witnesses; he was found cold in his bed a week before the Battle of Sobraon.

“Sahjara Kaur inherited, of course,” I mused.

“Quite right, but inheritance could not have been the motive, even if the heir had not been a little girl. Despite her mother’s assets, her father had amassed considerable gambling debts?”

“Was no one ever suspected?”

Mr. Quillfeather drummed spindly fingers on the tabletop. “I don’t believe so? The housekeeper was questioned, and said Lavell had returned, after picking up another delivery of imports and contraband to buy the goodwill of the Amritsar elite.”

The clock’s hands spun too swiftly, dizzying me. A second bottle of claret became necessary at three in the morning, and at six we called down for toast and kippers. Try as we might, we could find no clue—and if Lavell had died at the hands of an anonymous badmash, then I was wrong, and the murder in Amritsar meant nothing, and barring a miracle I would fall into Mr. Sack’s clutches upon the morrow.

“We’re going about this wrong,” I sighed at nine o’clock, squinting balefully at the sunlight shearing through window. “We must consider who wanted Lavell dead.”

“I fear there are too many options to narrow our choices?”

“Any number of people hated him, but if unrelated to the trunk, they don’t help us, so we can discount them anyhow,” I answered, shuffling papers. “Mr. Clements could have had nothing to do with it, for he died trying to solve the crime just as we are. Mr. Sack needed him alive if he wanted to keep bleeding Lavell of Karman Kaur’s money. Mr. Thornfield had cause, but he was already at war. Mr. Singh . . .”

My eyes flew open again as I gasped aloud.

“Miss Steele?”

No, it cannot be. My stomach fluttered weakly with horror.

Yes, it can.

“Lavell picked up a shipment of goods to use for bribes that day, you said. Did any of the officers’ letters mention what he employed to curry favour or with whom he did business?”

“He did business with his wife’s family, naturally,” Mr. Quillfeather said as the colour left his gaunt face. “But by all accounts, Mr. Singh was in Lahore throughout the First Sikh War?”

I thought about Sardar Singh—his history, his noble bearing, his monkish preference for a solitary life of few friends, simple comforts, and quiet study; I thought of his almost casual celibacy. I thought of his distinctive handwriting, the paper Mr. Sack had thrust before my eyes reading, Your Company has raped my entire culture in systematic fashion; what is in my possession will remain there, and any attempt by you to retrieve it will result in your bloody death, and swallowed black bile.

“I think I have it,” I whispered.

“What is it, then, Miss Steele?” Mr. Quillfeather pressed.

I told him, hoarsely but efficiently, precisely what it was. The policeman’s hollow chest leant towards me until I thought he should fall from his chair, and his hand ruffled his hair in appalled disbelief.

“All this time?” he marvelled when I was through.

“All this time.” I pressed my hand over my breast, for it ached beyond bearing. “Oh, Mr. Quillfeather, there is only one thing to be done.”

“What is that, Miss Steele?”

I held out my wrists. “I’m a hardened criminal—write a note to the nearest station house and have a police van sent round at once. You’ve a pair of darbies, about you, I assume?”

? ? ?

Plentiful hay littered the back of the wagon, which clanked as it traversed the ancient streets. There were also blankets and, though they smelled of mildew, I managed awkwardly to wrap one about myself with my hands shackled together, for my lovely blue cloak could not protect me from the freezing draughts gushing through the iron-barred windows. Once bundled, I fell to the straw and rested my head, for by now it was ten o’clock and, for all that I was strung tight as a violin, my eyes kept fluttering closed.

So weary was I, and so overwhelmed, that no blackness resided behind my lids; rather, a kaleidoscope of colours whirled. My scalp ached and my neck throbbed, but these tangible discomforts were as nothing. I knew what must be done and loathed to do it; I knew what must be said, and the words pierced, cold as icicles in my throat.