Dark Road to Darjeeling

by DEANNA RAYBOURN

  Jane shrugged. “The little one who dusts the ground floor, why?”

  “Was she responsible for dusting the box?”

  Jane thought a moment. “Yes, it used to sit upon the piano. Aunt Camellia herself is the only one who dusts the dining room porcelains aside from Jolly, but the rest of the things she leaves to the maids. Why?”

  “It seems perfectly simple, dearest. She either broke the box or stole it, and made up the story of the ghost to explain its absence.”

  I regarded them smugly, and Portia curled a lip. “I do hate to admit it, but Julia has a point. It is the simplest explanation. And if you invoke Occam’s Razor, I will smother you with this pillow,” she warned me, brandishing a cushion.

  I clamped my mouth shut, and turned to Jane.

  “It is the likeliest explanation,” she agreed, “but what of the other things? The maids do not touch my jewellery. You think that could be put down to petty theft as well?”

  I shrugged. “A better explanation than the supernatural, don’t you think? And Freddie may well have misplaced his own clasp knife. Men do all the time.”

  She nodded slowly. “I suppose.” She gave us a nervous smile. “I didn’t really believe it was Fitzhugh. I wondered if it might have been Freddie playing tricks.”

  Portia kissed her hand, while I did a swift mental calculation.

  “But Freddie has only been dead a few months. If things had gone missing some time ago, how could it have been Freddie?”

  She looked confused a moment, then rubbed her head. “I think I must have been confused. So much has happened, and I remember seeing Freddie handling the vase in the peacock dining room shortly before it disappeared. It must have all got quite muddled in my head,” she said apologetically.

  “And why shouldn’t it?” Portia said stoutly. “You have been through an ordeal. But it is very nearly over.”

  I sensed she wanted me to leave off the questions, but something new niggled at me. “Jane, did Freddie have access to your jewellery?”

  “Well, I suppose. He knew where I kept the key to my jewel box.”

  “And no one else did?” I pressed.

  “Leave it, Julia,” Portia said, giving me a stern look.

  I ignored her. “Jane?”

  She thought, then shook her head. “No. I was always careful. I suppose it comes from living so long in London with all of those ghastly maids we got from Aunt Hermia’s refuge. They may have given up prostitution, but at least three of them tried to steal the silver. I always kept the key to my jewel box upon my person, except when I slept.”

  “And the only person in the room when you slept was Freddie,” I pointed out triumphantly.

  Portia’s expression had taken on Medusa-like properties, and I had no doubt if I looked directly at her, I should be turned to stone. I continued to look only at Jane.

  “You think Freddie stole. From the house, from me,” she said slowly.

  “Technically, it would not have been stealing,” I pointed out. “As the master of the Peacocks, everything in it, including your jewellery, would have been his property.”

  She considered this, shaking her head, but even as she did, I saw the conviction lighting her eyes. “But why?”

  “Was he short of money?”

  “No, he—” She broke off. “Oh, but he was! I remember now, he had a terrible row with Harry. Not long before he died. He had gone into the safe in the estate office and taken out the money meant to pay the workers their wages. Harry had no cash with which to pay them and he was furious. Freddie told him it was his money to do with as he pleased and Harry would just have to think of something, but he wouldn’t be spoken to as if he were anything less than master in his own house.”

  She collapsed against the pillows, her face white with strain. “I cannot believe it. Freddie, a common thief.”

  “Worse than that,” I mused aloud. “You have just given Harry Cavendish the strongest possible motive for murder.”

  We had all come over sober at the mention of Harry’s name. He was, after all, an immensely likable fellow. It did not please any of us to think of him as a murderer. And what of Lucy, I wondered? I related swiftly the news of her secret engagement, and Portia covered her face with her hands.

  “Not again,” she said, her voice muffled. She lifted her head. “Are you quite sure Emma would have been unable to do the deed herself? She might have wanted to secure Lucy’s future. What if she knew she were dying, but was still strong enough to call here at the Peacocks and visit with Freddie as he lay in his sickbed? She could have introduced some poison and done away with him on the grounds that his inheritance would most likely go to Harry in due course, enabling him to marry her sister.”

  I gave her a doubtful look. “Lucy indicated the engagement was not one of long standing. There would have to be some sort of understanding for such a scheme to be worthwhile.”

  Portia scowled. “It is possible,” she insisted.

  “Many things are possible,” I returned tartly, deliberately not looking at Jane.

  Catching my meaning, Portia flushed deeply. “I do not like the idea of a murderess so close to hand and yet not at all involved,” she said finally.

  “I know. It would be very tidy if she were the authoress of Freddie’s destruction.”

  We all fell silent again, musing on the suitability of the feeble Emma as a murderess.

  “It’s foul really,” Jane observed. “Here we sit like some unholy coven, hoping to lay a murder at that poor woman’s door when she is dying.”

  “All the more reason for her to own her misdeeds,” Portia said firmly. “If she is going to meet her Maker—” Her eyes flew to mine and I held up a hand.

  “No. I cannot ask him.”

  “But if she has made her peace with her past sins, she will have talked to the Reverend Pennyfeather,” Portia argued. “He is the only clergyman in the valley, the only possible confidant besides Miss Cavendish, and she would hardly tell Camellia if she murdered her nephew!”

  “Unless they did it together,” I said. I rose and began to pace the room. “I am sorry. I cannot seem to look at anyone without imagining they murdered Freddie.”

  Jane put out her hand and I took it. “I understand,” she said, smiling sweetly. “I have done the same these past months. There have been times I could hardly choke down my food, I was so certain it was poisoned. And it was during one of my worst moments that I wrote to Portia and confessed my unease. I am not sorry, for it has brought you here, both of you, all of you,” she corrected, “and you have been more my family than any blood kin I have ever known. But I begin to wonder if it even matters anymore.”

  Portia and I regarded her with outright astonishment. “Dearest,” Portia told her, “of course it matters. Someone killed Freddie and must be brought to justice.”

  “Did they?” Jane demanded. “We have no proof. Yes, we can construct a case that he was murdered. It is possible, it may even be probable. But we do not know for certain, and we may never know, and I am beginning to think it may be for the best.”

  I pressed her hand. “You are looking to the future.”

  Her hand dropped to her belly and she smiled again. “Yes. He kicks and I forget everything else, all my fears and doubts. I had forgot my strength, but you have returned it to me. All will be well,” she insisted, “and it is enough that Freddie is gone and past whatever demons he wrestled with in life. And if he was murdered, then whoever bears the guilt of it must do just that—bear guilt, and for the rest of their lives. Think of how awful it must be to any right-thinking Christian soul to carry that burden, how terrible and unspeakable it must be to know that you have taken the life of another human being. The fear of being discovered, the pain of knowing that you have done that which must never be done.”

  Jane had always been prone to the occasional philosophical turn of mind, but this new serenity in her could only be attached to her impending motherhood, I decided, and I for one would not th
ink of disturbing her newfound peace.

  I kissed her on the brow. “As you wish, my dear. All your thoughts must be devoted to this,” I said, placing a hand briefly upon her belly. The child kicked then, hard against my palm and I laughed at the feeling of it.

  “He already loves his Auntie Julia,” she told me.

  “He has an odd manner of demonstrating his affections if he kicks me,” I said with a smile.

  I left her then, and Portia slipped out to follow me. She grasped me by the elbow to face her. “Did you mean what you said? You will abandon the investigation?”

  I gave her a patient look. “Portia, Jane said she does not wish to pursue the matter any further, and she is quite right—she has a child to get into the world. She should not worry about such things.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “And you?”

  “I have a murderer to find,” I told her.

  She smiled, a cat’s smile, full of malicious promise. “Good. Because if anyone did murder Freddie, then if Jane bears a son, the child will be in danger, and I will not have that. You have until the baby is born to find whoever killed his father.”

  “And if I do not?”

  Portia’s expression turned grim. “Then I will find the villain myself.”

  The Fourteenth Chapter

  Sullen clouds are gathering fast over the black fringe of the forest.

  —The Rainy Day

  Rabindranath Tagore

  “Julia, is that you? What the devil are you doing under that shrub?” demanded my brother. I sighed. It was the fourth interruption of the morning, and if I did not have peace and quiet, I could not hope to catch my prey.

  “Yes, it is I. Do be quiet, Plum,” I ordered softly.

  Ignoring my wishes, he clamped his hands around my ankles and dragged me bodily from under the shrub.

  “Explain.”

  I dusted off my hands and gave him a cross look. “I am attempting to catch a lizard, and you have just caused him to scuttle off.”

  “What business do you have with a lizard?”

  I thought of half a dozen lies, then opted to tell him the truth. “I mean to speak with Robin Pennyfeather about Freddie and I thought the gift of a lizard might loosen his tongue.”

  His eyes narrowed precisely as Portia’s did when she was suspicious of something, and he put his hands to his hips.

  “I looked in on Jane last night and she said the investigation was at an end per her request.”

  “Her involvement is at an end,” I corrected. “Just because she is about to have a baby and has come over all sentimental does not mean I am prepared to let a murderer walk free.” I looked at him a long moment, considering, then decided to divert him with a bit of news that would strike closer to his heart. “Did you know that Miss Thorne is the granddaughter of Fitzhugh Cavendish on the wrong side of the blanket?”

  He blinked. “Yes, actually. I did.”

  “Really?” I rose and brushed off my skirts. “How?”

  “I made inquiries, Julia. You are the one who pointed out my interest in the girl. Did you really think that I wouldn’t make it my business to find out everything I could about her?”

  I nocked another arrow to my bow. “Did you know she has a twin sister who serves as cook to the Pennyfeathers?”

  “Lalita, yes. And did you know that their younger brother is the youth who tends the flower beds for Miss Cavendish?”

  I thought of the beautiful boy Naresh and cursed myself.

  Plum was clearly enjoying himself. “And did you further know that their uncle is Jolly?”

  I stared. “You are not serious.”

  “Well, not an uncle precisely,” he amended. “But some sort of relation on their grandmother’s side.”

  “What else have I missed?” I muttered.

  He grinned. “Be of good cheer, my dear sister. I am sure there are plenty of mysteries left for you to winkle out on your own.” He broke off and dove under the shrub, emerging a moment later with a fat blue lizard dangling from his grasp. He took up the jar I had brought, popped the fellow in, and clamped the lid down tightly.

  He gave me a pitying smile and strode off, whistling.

  “Of all the condescending,” I began. I broke off, studying the lizard. “At least he was useful enough to capture you,” I told him.

  And together we went in search of Robin Pennyfeather.

  To find Robin, I had of necessity to pass the crossroads where the leprous granny was once more installed with her merry grandson. The boy was playing a flute, a series of long, low maudlin notes that rose in the air and descended once more with a sense of sorrow.

  “Are you well today?” I asked him.

  He shrugged. “Today I am sad because I do not know how to read, and yet I have this book.”

  He showed me, and it was a volume of boys’ adventure stories. I could well imagine Robin passing it along after he had outgrown such things.

  “Have you no school?” I asked, passing it back.

  The granny began gabbling then, and the child cocked his head listening.

  “She is unpleasant today,” he told me, rolling his eyes like a reluctant pony. “She has nothing to say to you. But there will be a festival soon, and she will tell the fortunes of those who come. She hopes you will honour her by letting her tell your fortune.”

  I thought of the decaying flesh of those hands touching mine and repressed a shudder. “I do not know if I will be at the festival,” I hedged.

  The child’s eyes widened. “Of course you will be, memsa. Everyone in the valley will be there. It is to celebrate the end of the first picking. It would dishonour the gods who have caused the tea to flourish not to be present,” he warned.

  The granny raised an arm, or something where an arm must once have been, and waved it menacingly.

  “She says there will be misfortune for you if you do not go.”

  I gave him a hard look. “How does she know I said I would not go? I thought she did not understand English.”

  Suddenly, a horrible wheezing grating sound came from the bundle of rags, so much worse than her attempts to speak Hindu. “I know more than you think, lady,” she rasped out. Then she fell into her usual beldame cackles, and I dropped the customary coin in her begging bowl. Her mood changed then and she sketched a gesture of blessing over me, a faintly Catholic gesture this time, and I wondered how many tricks she had learnt to eke extra coin from her benefactors.

  I left them then, and continued on, reminding myself to ask Robin about the festival. If everyone in the valley planned to gather in one spot, it might make for some very interesting observations, I thought.

  I looked in at the Pennyfeathers’ garden first, wondering if I would find Robin close to home. He was nowhere to be found, but I came across Primrose in the garden, sunning herself in a rather abbreviated costume in spite of the cool air. I noted that the gardeners were not about, and I was glad of it. I had thought Primrose an odd mixture of woman and child, but I was wrong. The childish dresses with their frills and ruffles had hidden a perfectly mature, indeed voluptuous, figure.

  I coughed discreetly. “Good morning, Primrose. I do hope I am not disturbing you. It is a lovely day for taking in the sun,” I observed, although I noticed the quickening breeze had raised goose pimples upon her bared skin.

  She opened one eye and gave me a sullen stare. “It gets me out of the house when I do not feel like being with people.”

  She did not rise, and I reflected then that the Reverend had good cause to be concerned for her. The girl’s manners were atrocious.

  “I was looking for Robin. Do you know where I might find him?”

  She shrugged. “Try the lake. He said something about fishing today.”

  I thanked her and turned to leave, then turned back. “Primrose, I wondered if there was a problem in the valley with petty crime, things missing from houses, that sort of thing.”

  She puffed a sigh of impatience and sat up, shielding her eyes from t
he sun with her hand. “What things?”

  “I don’t know—jewellery perhaps, or small objets d’art. Things of value, but portable. One or two items have gone missing over the past few months at the Peacocks, and I wondered if the same had happened here.”

  It had occurred to me that if Freddie was not above stealing from his own home, he might not scruple at pocketing treasures from the houses of his friends and neighbours.

  She gave a short laugh. “If you have to ask, you do not know my parents. They are forever misplacing things—Mother’s photography albums, Father’s pipes. Miss Thorne spends half her time searching for things under cushions. Do not worry, Lady Julia. The valley is a very safe place, aside from the odd tiger, of course. I am sure the things will turn up sooner or later. Jolly probably took something to be mended and forgot to mention it.”

  As a solution, it was a feeble one, but just as likely as any other.

  I secured more specific directions to Robin’s favorite fishing spot and realised he would be found at the lake we had first seen at the mouth of the valley, thick with water plants and shimmering green.

  “Thank you, Primrose.” She settled herself back onto the grass, clearly finished with me. “And mind you don’t stay out for too long. Freckles are unflattering to everyone,” I said nastily.

  She sat up again, sputtering, but I made a hasty exit from the garden. There was an avenue of information now firmly closed to me, I decided, but it had been worth it. The girl was churlish beyond belief, and I had serious doubts about her mother’s system of child rearing if Primrose was the result of it.

  The lake was almost half an hour’s brisk walk, but at the end of it I found Robin lying flat upon his stomach on the bank, dangling the pole into the water and teasing it slowly back and forth.

  I went to sit beside him. “Good day, Robin. I have brought you something.”

  I brandished the jar with the lizard, now sluggish and out of sorts. I tapped upon the glass and he gave me a resentful look. “Well, the lizard does not seem appreciative, but I hope you will put him to good use.”