Jane Steele(118)

“Mr. Singh?” I asked again. “I must know how he fares, and what he told you. Please—”

“He told me, in brief, everything. And he will live, thank God. I was just arranging with Jas here to steep claret with oil, rosemary, and oregano to prevent infection. Supposing that fails us, I’ll resort to pine pitch, but Sardar is an accommodating bastard, so I don’t suppose he’ll put me to the trouble if he can help it. I’ve knocked the poor fellow cold with laudanum, so now it is merely a matter of vigilance. All right, darling, hush,” he spoke against the crown of Sahjara’s head. “I was sick with worry over you, but I was busy saving your uncle’s life.”

“My uncle?” she repeated, dazed.

“Yes, I know you don’t remember,” he returned tenderly. “Your uncle Sardar he has always been, and ever will be. I didn’t quite know how to introduce the topic. Forgive me?”

“Of course,” she murmured. “What happened to him?”

“He was hurt.” Mr. Thornfield shifted as if to set her down, but she clung to him. “All right, all right, Young Marvel—he’ll be fine. Everything is fine now.”

“It isn’t fine,” she choked, clutching his collar. “Garima was thrown from Nalin. Miss Stone dragged her out of the road, but she’s . . .”

Charles Thornfield had endured such atrocity in his life that he simply glanced at me and then closed his eyes, nodding after he had seen the answer there. Yes, 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.”