Jane Steele(98)

“Here is your handkerchief,” I said, offering it.

“Handkerchiefs should remain where they are needed, don’t you agree?”

Weakly, I laughed at this, and Inspector Quillfeather beamed at me as he retrieved his hat and gloves from the table.

“I hope you will trust my complete sincerity in vowing never to reveal your secret to Thornfield?” he pressed. “I ought to say, however, that should you elect to reveal your true name to my friend, I believe he would treat you honourably.”

I haven’t any true name, I thought in despair, and he treats me too honourably by half.

“Forgive me—my words pain you. Here is my card, should you wish to contact me for any reason, great or small? You are looking well, very well indeed, Miss Steele, and I see by your attire that you have no need of governess work. But in any case, don’t stay away from Highgate House on my account?” he added kindly.

“I won’t.” Mr. Thornfield’s likeness appeared in my mind’s eye, deep-blue eyes and pure-white hair, and I banished the image. “I promise.”

He turned to go. We had not finished yet, however—nothing could be this simple. Though the thought of deliberately broaching the subject sent leeches slithering through my belly, I could not allow him to exit without truly mapping the miracle of my safety.

“Mr. Quillfeather, did you know that I was at Lowan Bridge School when . . .” I forced myself to look at him. “When Mr. Vesalius Munt was murdered?”

He lifted his overhanging brows, and the neat set of horizontal lines appeared along his forehead. “Miss Steele, I regret to say that I did, for you were included in the roster of some thirty missing girls? I always wished you well, you know, and I did seek you for a time.”

My heart slammed against my rib cage as if attempting escape. “Did you ever suspect anyone in particular?”

“Ah, that would be telling, wouldn’t it?” he mused. “But between us, yes, there was a clear suspect.”

“You cannot mean it!”

“I must assure you I do.”

“For my own peace of mind, then, I beg you to inform me who the culprit was.”

“It won’t upset you to hear the truth?”

“Not after that . . . other truth,” I replied in a hushed tone, and he smiled at me.

“Quite so. Do you recall Miss Amy Lilyvale?”

“Very clearly.”

“Yes, she gave me testimony that every single girl without exception had been present at chapel that fateful day, which quite clinched the matter.”

“Did it?” I questioned, feeling sick again.

“Oh, I should think decisively?” He began ticking people off on cadaverous fingers. “Miss Rebecca Clarke was not present—ill-usage, I gather, was the cause; you were not present, doubtless comforting your friend; and Miss Davies was laid up with a bad case of the croup. Therefore, Miss Lilyvale was not actually at chapel to check, and wished not to falsely throw any students under suspicion. Other teachers claimed she was there, but the inaccuracy of her attendance report convinced me they were lying in order to shield her.” Scowling, Mr. Quillfeather passed his hand forward over his head, a familiar gesture that made him resemble a ruffled bird of prey. “Your headmaster, Miss Steele, was no saint. He kept a diary? Oh, yes, I found it! In it he recorded, in the foulest language, the most disgusting perversions he could conjure, planning to visit all upon Miss Lilyvale. He wrote that he had been sharing such filth with her for years, the villain . . . One is not gladdened by any death, but some touch the heart rather less than others, do they not?”

“Undoubtedly.”

“Miss Lilyvale it was, that is certain, but I make a habit of never pursuing an unwinnable case, you see? I cannot find the good in it? And the evidence was so circumstantial! Nothing could be done.”

“Surely the diary counted for something?”

“Oh, the diary.” He made a subtle bow of acknowledgement. “Yes, that would have gone a very long way indeed, but sadly it was lost.”

“However did that happen?” I marvelled.

“I fear that I lost it, Miss Steele,” he declared, eyes twinkling. “In a lit fireplace. Clumsy of me, I know—can you imagine? And they call me a steady policeman!”

So saying, he donned his hat, tipped it, and walked straight out the door.

? ? ?

I had planned to pay a call upon Augustus Sack that evening regardless of the outcome of my meeting with my solicitor; however, the reader will likely empathise when I confess I was too prostrate with nerves following my identity exploding in multiple fashions to infiltrate the East India Company. A message dispatched via the boots conveyed my intention to call upon the morrow. Moving as if in a dream, I unfastened my fine jewellery, brushed and hung my clothing, donned my soft new nightdress, and crawled into bed with a wineglass full of whiskey and Jane Eyre within arm’s reach.

I was a rich woman now, even without Mr. Thornfield’s assistance. Time drifted sluggishly, distorted by the whiskey and the warmth. Everything about me had changed, and yet I could see the slender bend of my wrist at the end of a white forearm, looking the same as it always had, could see the tiny mole between my left thumb and index finger, assuring me that I was still myself.

I was not myself, however. I was a Jane with an imaginary surname, one who apparently was not to blame for failing to scream. It was too mad to comprehend in an instant, or even an hour, so I burrowed farther into the bedclothes to puzzle over it all. My life’s sole mission had once been a simple one: to carve out a tiny sliver of human affection, having none of the commodity for myself. For all that I so thoroughly disapproved of my own character, however, Mr. Sneeves and Mr. Quillfeather had proven that day I was capable of grievous errors upon the subject of Jane Steele.