Jane Steele(122)

“You’ve forgot your gloves, Thornfield,” the Company man hissed.

“Lucky for you, or I would be challenging you to a duel with ’em,” Mr. Thornfield drawled. “Are you ready to steal a little girl’s property, Auggie, or shall we keep gassing? The box sits before you. You’ve won. It’s the last pound of my flesh and Sardar’s you’ll be taking.”

“And exactly how does she come into this, then?” Mr. Sack’s full lips curled in a sneer. “Miss Jane Stone, governess, who claimed to have robbed you of the trunk and then was hauled off in a police wagon. What am I to make of it?”

“A profit, I had presumed,” said I. Footsteps sounded in the hallway outside. Glancing from Mr. Quillfeather to Mr. Thornfield, I could not suppress a tiny pursed smile.

There was no knock. There was no warning. There was simply a tattoo of approaching footsteps and then the door banged open, revealing a half dozen Company soldiers and the man they all referred to as the Director.

“Oh, thank heaven,” Mr. Thornfield sighed, crossing his legs. “I was on the verge of physical violence.”

“Sir,” spluttered Mr. Sack. “I . . . You are most welcome. To what do I owe the honour—er, pleasure—of this visit?”

The soldiers from the previous day, resplendent in their white and red coats, formed a neat file behind their leader. The Director was a tall man, impeccably dressed in sober black with silver trimmings; he carried a cane but seemed not to require its use, and his face called to mind a dignified greyhound, lean and efficient. He tapped twice with his cane upon the carpet.

“Inspector Quillfeather, I offer you my congratulations.” The Director’s voice was high but firm. “Charles Thornfield, it has been too long, too long indeed, sir. It is a pleasure to see you in better health.”

Mr. Sack sank back into his desk chair like a deflated balloon.

“By the Lord, you’re in fine fettle, sir.” Mr. Thornfield offered his hand to the head of the Company. “Thank you for meeting us.”

“You have made it well worth my while.” The Director smiled coldly. “I was informed by Mr. Quillfeather here that you were being . . . how shall I put this . . . meddled with by certain of my staff. I at once launched my own internal investigation, and I have it on good authority that you are a wronged man. Naturally, the happy recovery of the item in question also sparked my keen interest, and I lost no time in sending a small body of troops to your residence after I had 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.”