Jane Steele(66)

“And to think that if the good Sam Quillfeather hadn’t posted me, we should never have known John Clements had died at all. It’s a hard push whether to be grateful or vengeful.”

My back was already against the wall, thankfully, or I should have fallen as the fear seized me—Sam Quillfeather, the policeman who questioned me after Edwin’s death? Sam Quillfeather, the inspector who had drawn unspoken conclusions over Vesalius Munt’s?

“It’s a lucky chance,” Mr. Singh agreed. “Enough to make me wish to meet him one of these days. Considering your new arrangement, doubtless I’ll make his acquaintance quite soon.”

My vision swam; I was in a crazily tilting corridor lit the colour of blood.

“You’ll like him—he takes more care with his profession than any man I’ve ever seen. Makes a point of keeping his investigations utterly quiet unless he has the evidence necessary to prove a party’s guilt, not like these boorish peelers who bully their way to solutions, pissing on every water pump they see. Certainly of all the lads going in for medicine at Charing Cross, I liked him best, for he’d no business being there and I felt as if neither did I. I was still sweating curry, and here’s this mad chowkdar* twenty years my senior taking desultory anatomy lessons. The mind reels, Sardar, that such wonders exist.”

“I’d be less shocked at a courteous tax collector.”

“Imagine if he had taken the tiger by the tail and joined the Royal College instead of merely brushing up on his tibia versus fibula.”

“Incredible. A constable who also just happens to be a doctor of medicine.”

“Because he thinks it will make him a better police officer.”

They were both laughing helplessly again, and a good thing too, for I was struggling noisily for breath. The notion that the Sam Quillfeather I had known would take an anatomy course upon a whim was directly in character—the man was the definition of inquisitive, which is why I felt sick at the mere mention of his name.

“Is it certain, then, Charles?” Mr. Singh’s voice had grown grave. “Are you positively certain John Clements was murdered, without question?”

My eyes, which had been shut in terror, flew open again.

“Certain as daybreak.” It was a complex tone, layers of sadness and regret. “Poor old Johnny, with that puppyish way he had about him. Remember when he used to sniff around your secretary as if she were Cleopatra?”

“The poor woman must have put him off a thousand times—I asked her if she wanted my help over it, but she said there was no more harm in him than a mule. I’ve never met a more credulous person.”

“True enough. Johnny had sand where his brains ought to have been, but he certainly didn’t deserve to be served cyanide with his tea, or however Sack managed it.”

“You seem very sure of yourself.”

“Consider!” Mr. Thornfield admonished. “Clements and Sack return from the Punjab together to rub elbows with the Company nabobs and kiss their grannies and such before being reassigned. Quillfeather gets called in as a special consultant after Clements expires mysteriously in his rooms, as Quillfeather is madder than a flock of loons but can both solve a murder and keep quiet, and the Director wants to know why they lost Clements. Sardar, you recall the poor blighter—he was tanned same as us, but he weren’t never ruddy, and his corpse was flushed something awful, not to mention the fact he was in the prime of life and a heart episode seems very unlikely. Cyanide is the military poison of choice, and who save Sack would be coward enough to stir prussic acid in his brandy rather than killing him like a man would do?”

“Yes, but where’s the motive? You said Quillfeather called you in initially because of some papers he discovered Clements was working on?”

“Aye, Johnny was looking up David Lavell’s record, and naturally there were our names in stark print—reports from his superiors, correspondence, journals. What cause could Johnny possibly have to investigate a scoundrel dead since the first war unless he suspected something amiss?”

“He wanted to know why we did it, perhaps.” Sardar said softly. “He knew we were guilty—he wanted to know why.”

“And Sack found out he was digging.”

“It doesn’t quite wash, Charles. Even supposing he discovered Lavell was a blackguard, what difference should that have made?”

“Puts a whole different colour on the affair, don’t y’ see? It’s one thing to harass a pair of footpads, quite another to persecute old friends—Johnny Clements was an intellectual ant, but he was damned decent to the end. The more he knew of Lavell’s character, the less easy it would have been for Sack to keep him leashed.”

They fell silent. I was breathing easier by this time, yet still hardly myself; I had wanted information, but this variety led only to more questions, and the notion that Mr. Thornfield had an arrangement with Inspector Quillfeather was nothing short of horrifying.

“How was dinner?” Mr. Singh inquired.

My feet sidled closer to the door.

“Very passable. Jas Kaur always did have a way with sheep.”

“Charles,” Mr. Singh chided.

“Oh, you mean how was the governess?” He was smiling, I could hear as much. “She gave me a straightforward explanation without much prompting. Hard living and harder men made her cautious, and the same circumstances led to the saltiest tongue I’ve ever heard in an English head.”