Jane Steele(111)

Brooding made the time pass more quickly than I should have thought possible, and the birds were chirruping in the yew trees outside of the familiar village when Sam Quillfeather awoke with a punctuating snort. The horizon flamed red-gold, and our second horse, which had given admirable service, snuffled tiredly.

“Nearly there, I believe?”

“Very nearly, Mr. Quillfeather.”

“We shall soon get to the bottom of this affair, eh?”

Twenty minutes later, we pulled into the village, and there was the sleepy half-timbered inn, there the post office, there the white steepled church, and there the road leading to Highgate House.

In the next instant, my gaze lit upon something foreign, however, something that emphatically did not belong.

“Get down, below the seat,” Mr. Quillfeather hissed. “Quickly!”

I threw myself to the floor. A band of half a dozen splendidly uniformed men approached the inn on horseback, presumably seeking eggs and sausages; I had never seen East India Company soldiers in the flesh previous, and yet I should have known one anywhere. These wore white breeches and white waistcoats with gold buttons, black neck stocks with scarlet sashes to match their brilliant blood-red cutaway coats.

“Mr. Sack planned to storm Highgate House for the trunk if he did not have his way,” I whispered loudly. “Do you think—”

“I do not know what to think, but we are taking no chances!” Mr. Quillfeather thrust his hawk-nosed face down at me. “Once they are indoors, you shall drive as fast as you can to Highgate House. If you can locate the trunk before giving the alarum, then your story will be strengthened by hard evidence. I fear they may not believe you otherwise, or that the guilty party may fly? I shall learn what these men are planning. Be of good courage!”

Forcing myself to breathe, I nodded. The inspector brought the trap into the yard and swung from it with his stork’s legs akimbo, waving away offers from the stable boys to wipe down and water the horse, telling them his niece had need of the vehicle. When Mr. Quillfeather had disappeared into the inn, the lads stared in wonderment as my head popped up like a jack-in-the-box; but I did not linger for conversation, snatching up the reins and setting off at as brisk a clip as the fagged horse could produce.

Mr. Sack’s words echoed, their urbanity laced with the tinny sneer of the school yard bully.

The Company owns this city, Miss Stone, and you have stolen from us—so now I own you.

If the Company owned London, its vast power feeding itself like a deadly serpent forever swallowing its own tail, how far did its reach extend? India, of course; China, certainly; the Punjab, without question—but a sleepy hamlet a day’s hard ride from the metropolis?

Did Sack mean to wage a literal battle against the warriors of Highgate House? And if so, was he brilliant or simply obsessed?

My joints ached with fatigue when I pulled up to the gate, tethering the horse to the scrollworked iron. I wanted to treat the poor animal better, but I could not risk my approach being heard, and so caressed its ear and assured it of further attentions directly.

Skirting the main house along the edge of the forest was a simple matter, the dew wetting my boots as I strode round the back. The sun was well up, and my nerves sang so dissonantly with hope and apprehension that I wished only for it to be two hours from now, ten hours from now, when all was settled one way or the other.

I should never have wished such a foolish thing, so in part I blame myself for what took place that morning.

The kitchen door would be unlocked, I knew, for Mrs. Jas Kaur was always up with the dawn, grinding whole spices into blends and rubbing yogurt into cubes of freshly killed sheep. She was there when I appeared like a vision from the mists, pulling the feathers from a chicken, and she gasped out something in Punjabi before smiling at me.

“I’m sorry to have startled you—I’m afraid I wanted my return to have an element of surprise.”

Jas Kaur, who spoke no English whatsoever, chuckled and shrugged and waved a down-covered hand at the door, bidding me go about my business.

I did so, stepping into the wider hall of the servants’ wing.

The air here was cooler than the kitchen, thin and still; I had walked for perhaps twenty yards before I remembered the night prior to my quitting Highgate House, the terrible attack by Jack Ghosh and what came afterwards, and I knew I was heading in the wrong direction.

The treasure would be close to its possessor, and its possessor had recently moved.

Turning, I ran back the way I came and out the door, provoking another mild exclamation from Jas Kaur.

Sahjara will be having her morning ride, I thought, and everyone else wide awake and working, and only one guard set to impede you. I sprinted across the grounds, lungs burning in the cold, cloak flapping about my bright rose skirts. I will find the treasure, and give it to Mr. Thornfield, and all will be well, though it will hurt terribly.

When I reached my destination, to my surprise no bearded and turbaned Singh whatsoever awaited me. Having planned simply to wave my way through—as I was known to all the servants despite my terrible facility with their names—I hesitated momentarily. When I realised that Sahjara was the true commodity to be watched over, however, and decided her guard must surely be out riding with her, I gripped the door of the cottage and found it locked.

This, though not precisely surprising, was vexing—until, that is, I remembered my late mother’s enormous facility for losing keys, and recalled that Agatha had kept a spare underneath a loose flagstone a few yards from the entrance. It took a few minutes to recognise the right one, but barely a minute had passed before I stood there triumphant, with dirtied fingernails and an eroding key.