His only reply was the soft snick of the lock turning behind me.
I dropped to the floor and looked through the keyhole just in time to see Brisbane, nude and thoroughly unconcerned, resuming his place in our marital bed.
“You cannot seriously believe I will stand for being locked in the dressing room,” I called through the keyhole.
He picked a book up from his night table and began to read. “Julia, I have no intention of discussing this with you now. It is late and we both have beds. Go to sleep and we will speak in the morning.”
I fumed and aimed a well-placed kick at the door which left my slipperless foot in agony.
“Oh, and Julia?” he called. I dropped once more to the floor to peer through the keyhole.
“What?” I demanded.
He raised his hand, brandishing the slender metal rods he had given me. “As I have told you before, a good detective is never without his lockpicks. Good night.”
In spite of my rage, I slept, at least until dawn when Brisbane unlocked the door to the dressing room and slid into the narrow bed beside me.
“Stop fidgeting, your feet are unbearably cold,” he told me. I tucked them between his legs and smiled a little to myself when he winced.
“I ought not to be speaking to you,” I said with a yawn.
He nuzzled his nose into my hair. “You were angry and I did not want to argue. It seemed the simplest solution.”
“Not that,” I said, pushing against his chest with the flat of my hand. “I am still not happy with your decision to employ Plum and not to tell me.”
He said nothing, and I turned, burrowing my face into the hollow of his neck. “I will concede that it is your business, and that you know best how to manage it. And I understand that I cannot always be part of it. But when it concerns my family…” I trailed off and began to trace circles in the hair of his chest with my finger.
He sighed. “You are right.”
My hand stopped. “I beg your pardon?”
“You are right. It pains me to admit it,” he said ruefully, “but Plum is your brother and I ought not to have kept it from you. Your father, and very likely all of your siblings and Aunt Hermia as well, will certainly have something to say about the matter and I should have taken your feelings into account.”
I sat up, buoyant in my enthusiasm. “Does this mean we are partners then, fully?”
He thrust himself out of bed and began to rummage about for his clothes. “No.”
I threw the pillow at his backside and slumped back into the narrow bed. “You are the most impossible man.”
He turned, and to my astonishment, I saw he was truly angry. “And you are the most completely selfish woman I have ever known.”
“Selfish? How dare you? I am not the one clinging to every last shred of independence, keeping everything that is most important entirely to myself.”
“You are the most important thing in my life, you bloody stupid woman,” he said, grinding out the words through clenched teeth.
I stared at him, taken aback by the naked emotion on his face. I opened my mouth to speak, but he gave me no chance.
“Have you ever once considered the dangers I face every day? Do you have the merest notion of what it means to be an enquiry agent? I expose people’s nastiest secrets, Julia. Secrets they would kill to keep. I have been shot at, stabbed, poisoned, bludgeoned, and on one memorable occasion, flogged with a bullwhip. There is not a month has gone by since I undertook this business that my life hasn’t been in danger. It does not bother me in the slightest,” he said, his eyes bright with a ferocious light. “I can take care of myself, as I have proven time and again. But you come stumbling in with your enthusiasm and your forthright ways and it is like trying to protect a newborn deer from a pack of wolves.”
“I am not a newborn deer,” I said sullenly.
“You may as well be! You are completely unskilled and un-schooled in the ways of detection or in defending yourself. You cannot shoot or fence or box. You were taught to wield knitting needles and writing pens, not daggers and revolvers. You simply cannot take care of yourself in my world and I cannot always be there to protect you.”
Some of the anger seemed to ebb then, although the anguish remained. “If anything happened to you, I would cease to exist. Do you know that?”
His tone was gentler, almost pleading for me to understand, and I hated myself for reducing this proud and dignified man to a supplicant.
Before I could respond, a sharp rap sounded at the bedroom door.
I rose and took up my dressing gown. “I will go.”
I left him to dress and opened the bedroom door to find Portia standing there, her hair in disarray, still tying the sash of her dressing gown.
“Portia, it is barely dawn. Is it Jane?”
“No, but you must come with me. Emma Phipps has just died.”
The Sixteenth Chapter
Why do you whisper so faintly in my ears, O Death, my Death?
—The Gardener
Rabindranath Tagore
I did not like to leave Brisbane with so much unsaid between us, but when I explained to him about Emma he said nothing and simply rang for Morag before kissing me goodbye.
I washed and dressed hastily in black—no gentlewoman travels without a black costume should she have sudden need of mourning clothes—and met Portia in the entry hall.
Jolly himself opened the door and bowed us mournfully on our way. As we passed, he said suddenly, “Memsa Porshy, Memsa Julie, I am sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you, Jolly. You are very kind. Please send word to us if Mrs. Cavendish has need of us. We will be at Pine Cottage,” I told him.
He bowed again and we hurried from the house. Once we passed the gates of the Peacocks, I put my hand to Portia’s arm and made a deliberate effort to slow my steps. “We fairly bolted out of the house and I am not certain I even have my petticoats on. Let us compose ourselves. We will be no use whatsoever to Lucy if we do not have our wits about us.”
We fell silent a moment, breathing in the crisp morning air of the Himalayas. Kanchenjunga was spreading her snowy skirts of pink and gold and coral in the light of the rising sun, and in spite of our errand, it felt like the most peaceful spot on earth.
“What were you and Brisbane quarrelling about?” Portia demanded suddenly.
“What makes you think we were quarrelling?”
She snorted. “I could hear you. Brisbane is not the quietest of fellows when he’s angry, and you have a shrill quality.”
“I do not have a shrill quality.”
“You do,” she insisted, “rather like those obnoxious peacocks.”
“He said I was selfish,” I confessed.
“And so you are.”
I blinked back sharp tears.
“Oh, for the love of Heaven, Julia. Do not blubber about it.”
“I am not blubbering. I have a cinder in my eye.”
“In both of them? As I said, you are selfish, Brisbane was quite right. But then so am I. It would be a rather nice trick if we were not.”
“You really think so?”
“My dearest, we have every possible advantage of birth and wealth in this modern age. The blood of kings flows in our veins and our father’s skill with money makes Croesus look like a beggar man. Our every whim has been attended to all of our lives by a loving family and a staff paid to treat us as if we were minor deities.”
“We are not so bad as all that,” I protested weakly.
“Of course we are. But we do try to think of others, and that is what saves us from being deplorable and weak of character.”
“I do try to think of others, but it is a rather difficult habit to form,” I admitted. “I never even considered Brisbane’s position before I talked to you. And you were right, he does worry for my safety.”
“Aha,” Portia said smugly.
“But I do not know how to reconcile what we both want. I cannot sit at home embroideri
ng slippers and poking up the fire.”
“We have footmen for that.”
“You know what I mean,” I told her, my tone sharp with exasperation.
“I do,” she said, attempting to soothe me. “You must find a solution that the pair of you can live with, something that takes into consideration his need to protect you and your need for adventure. Perhaps you could take up a hobby, something invigorating but not actually dangerous. How do you feel about gymnastics?”
“You are less than helpful.”
She shrugged. “I could think of a few more if you like. What about beekeeping? Or philately?”
“Do not trouble yourself. You know, it occurs to me that marriage is rather more difficult than I expected.”
“It always is.”
We arrived in good time at Pine Cottage to find Lucy most unexpectedly composed. She ushered us into the little sitting room and sent Lalita for tea.
“It was so good of you both to come. I shall be quite devastated later, but for now, I keep thinking of her as I saw her last, so peaceful and composed. She is upstairs if you would like to see her.”
“Perhaps later,” I said. Viewing a corpse when I had not even had a proper breakfast seemed a trifle indecent.
Lucy put out a hand to Portia. “I am so glad to see you. I have heard that Jane does well, and I am exceedingly glad to hear of it.”
“Yes, she does. I will give her your regards.”
Lalita bustled in with tea things and a stack of bread and fresh butter and damson plum jam. Portia busied herself with the toasting fork and soon we were settling in with hot buttered toast liberally spread with jam and steaming cups of strong tea.
“I did not think I could manage a bite,” Lucy said apologetically after buttering her third slice of toast. “But this may be the best food I have ever eaten.”
Portia nodded. “You have been under a strain. And you are quite right. The sorrow will come later. For now, you will have a respite, a period of calm while you put your affairs in order. When everything is attended to, then you will find yourself quite overcome.”
I shot her a withering look, but Lucy merely smiled. “Do not chide her for lacking tact, Julia. She is quite right. I have suffered enough losses to know. Just now it is the quiet interlude. I will see her buried and make my own plans. Later, when I am settled, then I can mourn for her properly.”
It was on the tip of my tongue to press her about Harry Cavendish, but considering the fact that Emma’s body was still cooling upstairs, it hardly seemed the time.
We crunched our toast and exchanged cousinly gossip and Lucy related her plans regarding Emma. “It is the custom here to bury quickly. I have already spoken with the Reverend Pennyfeather, and he has kindly agreed to speak the eulogy. We will have the funeral tomorrow.”
“Quickly indeed,” Portia murmured.
Lucy shrugged. “It is a Muslim tradition and with the heat in India, the English have adopted it as well. The Hindus do all manner of unrighteous things with their dead, I have heard. Burning and exposing them to buzzards and floating them down the Ganges.” She gave a shudder.
“Have you given any thoughts to music?” I asked.
“Yes. Dr. Llewellyn has a little harp and a fine tenor voice. I will ask him, if he is not indisposed, to honour us with a few hymns. And the Pennyfeathers will provide flowers. I know Miss Cavendish will wish to contribute, but I cannot think how.”
“Funeral baked meats?” Portia suggested, only slightly facetiously.
But Lucy considered it. “I had thought to ask Lalita to cut some sandwiches and bake a sponge.”
“Far too small here for everyone to gather,” Portia said promptly. “You will not want everyone crammed together like a village fête. I will speak to Miss Cavendish and we will have refreshments at the Peacocks.”
Lucy murmured her thanks and fell into a reverie. I wondered what she was thinking of then. Was she pondering life without her sister? Or was she considering the fact that she would be hosting her friends for the first time under Harry Cavendish’s roof?
The day of Emma’s funeral dawned grey and thick with cloud.
“Excellent,” Portia said with some satisfaction. “I always think a funeral should be atmospheric.”
I told her to shut up and we proceeded to the tiny graveyard, decked in deepest black and carrying stout umbrellas. I had had no opportunity to conclude my conversation with Brisbane, and the uncertainty between us pricked at me like a thorn. We had seen one another at meals and he escorted me to the funeral, but we had had no intimate conversation, and my heart felt heavy as I took my place beside the open grave. The graveyard was crowded with English and the upper servants of the English households, but beyond the gates stood a large contingent of tea pickers, respectful in their silence. There were several children among them, which I found odd, but then the Pennyfeathers arrived with their children in tow, and it occurred to me that death was observed rather differently in this place than it had been in England, for all the efforts to bring a bit of home into the Himalayas.
Lucy arrived last, on the arm of the Reverend Pennyfeather and shrouded in a thick black veil. I could not see the expression upon her face, but the heaving of her shoulders told me that she wept. I glanced quickly at Harry Cavendish, but he did not look at her. He merely held the umbrella steadily over his aunt’s head and stared at the coffin, already lowered into the ground.
The Reverend Pennyfeather opened his little book and began to read.
“‘I am the Resurrection and the life,’ saith the Lord. ‘He that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live; and whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall never die.’”
His voice was clear and strong as he moved into the twenty-third Psalm, the familiar words of comfort falling from his lips like the drops of rain from heaven. He continued on, speaking briefly of Emma and the love and care she had had for her sister, and then, more slowly and solemnly he returned to his book and read out, “‘We therefore commit her body to the ground; earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust; in the sure and certain hope of the Resurrection to eternal life.’” He nodded to Dr. Llewellyn who stepped forward with his harp to play, softly at first, and then with growing confidence, a mournful Welsh air as Lucy took up a handful of wet earth. There was a hollow thud as the earth struck the coffin, and Lucy gave a low, animal cry of pain. The Reverend offered his arm again, and she crumpled against him. I glanced once more at Harry, astonished at his sang-froid in the face of his fiancée’s distress, but he remained motionless.
As cousins of the deceased, Portia and Plum and I each took up a handful of earth and followed Lucy’s example. We finished just as the last sad note of Dr. Llewellyn’s melody died. A poignant silence fell, and the Reverend Pennyfeather nodded toward Miss Thorne. She stepped forward and turned to the native children. She raised her hand, held it a beat, then began to lead them in “Abide with Me,” their infant voices carrying high and clear in the mountain air. It was almost more than I could bear, so innocent and angelic were their voices, singing a hymn they could scarcely understand, but with such purity and grace that the angels themselves must have paused to listen.
Just then I looked beyond them, and there, in the thick, green shadows of the deodars stood the figure of Chang, the servant of the White Rajah. Unwilling to break his solitude, he had sent his servant as a gesture of respect to a woman he did not know, I reflected sadly. I made up my mind to call upon him later and thank him on behalf of the family. Lucy would not be fit to pay calls for some time if her noisy sobs were any indication, and I had neglected my old friend these past few days. I hoped Chang would tell him about the children, and regretted he could not hear them for himself.
We passed from the graveyard as they sang, their voices clinging to us as we left. I leaned heavily upon Brisbane’s arm. He held me firmly and we had no need of words just then. There were times when we communicated rather better without them, and that moment was on
e of them.
The atmosphere lightened after we reached the Peacocks, for the clouds broke and the sun shone, almost apologetic for its tardiness. The afternoon was passed in sandwiches and mournful conversation, and after a while I had had my fill of it. I slipped out to the verandah to watch the peacocks. They strolled aimlessly in the garden, preening a little when they saw they had an audience. I fell to musing upon Emma and how little I had really known her, and it was thus that Brisbane found me.
“Whatever she has done, she has paid for now,” Brisbane said quietly, intuiting my thoughts.
“Has she? I wonder.”
Brisbane said nothing, but gave me a quizzical look. “What if she did not murder Cedric Eastley?” I went on. “We believe she persuaded a man to commit murder, but what if she did not? And what if Aunt Dorcas was wrong, and Emma was entirely innocent of her sister’s death? Three deaths we have laid at Emma’s door, and she mightn’t be guilty of any of them. What if we did her a terrible injustice and she went to her grave with us believing the worst of her? She had not the means to prove her innocence. It was a witch hunt, nothing but gossip and innuendo,” I said bitterly.
He folded me into his arms and I listened to the deep, slow rhythm of his heartbeat, as steady as the ground upon which I stood.
“You will never make a detective if you are afraid to believe the worst,” he said into my hair.
I drew back. “According to you I am not suited to make a detective at all. I believe when last we spoke upon the subject, you called me stupid and selfish,” I reminded him.
A tiny muscle began to jump in his jaw. “I was angry.”
I stared at him. “But you do not deny it, I note.”
The tips of his nostrils flared slightly, and I knew he was striving for patience. “No, I do not. I ought to have phrased it better, but I will not deny that I have thought it.”
I turned to leave but he caught at my wrist, clamping his hand firmly around my arm. “We are not finished.”
Dark Road to Darjeeling Page 25
