Dark Road to Darjeeling (10 page)

“Was he intoxicated whilst he treated Freddie?”

“Doubtless,” he replied robustly. “The poor fellow was entirely incapable the afternoon his wife was carried home on a litter. She lived, you see. For some time and in unspeakable agony. But he could not treat her, and he was the only one who might have saved her. After that, it became exceedingly difficult to find him without the effect of drink upon him.”

There was something slightly prim about the Rajah that made me believe he did not care for such immodest behaviour. For all his reputation as a roguish old devil, the Rajah was proving to be something of a maiden aunt in his morality.

I sighed. “I do not see how it will be possible to prove then that Freddie was killed by anything other than natural causes or the doctor’s incompetence.” The sting of my failure was sharp and merciless. I had not realised until that moment precisely how much I wanted to triumph in this investigation and face Brisbane as an equal.

“I do not know,” the Rajah said slowly, stroking his beard with a thoughtful air. “It might have been done, but by a clever hand. Striking down a young and healthy fellow can be a difficult trick, although the stories I could tell you of my time in Cawnpore would curl that pretty hair of yours,” he said with a meaningful nod. “But suppose someone had a grudge against young Freddie. Or a reason to wish him out of the line of inheritance. Such a person could bide their time, waiting for an opportunity, poised to strike at him. And then it comes, opportunity in the form of a tiny snakebite. It is nothing, the merest scratch it would seem, but it is the vulnerable spot in the impregnable fortress, is it not? Because it is not merely a scratch, but the means by which poison may be introduced without anyone being the wiser.” He broke off, his eyes shining, his colour almost alarmingly high. I began to fear he might have an apoplexy at his excitement, and I endeavoured to calm him.

“Perhaps,” I allowed, “but it will be very difficult to prove.”

“Then we must seek out the guilty conscience,” he said, his eyes suddenly sly and devilish. “The folk here are good, God-fearing people. If someone did hasten poor Freddie’s end, they will feel the sting of it, mark me well. Someone will not be sleeping well at night. Their nerves will be strung taut as an archer’s bow! We have only to ask the right questions, but deftly and with great subtlety, and then watch.”

“Watch?”

“For a reaction,” he said impatiently. “Did you never play with a crucible, child? One puts the various elements together in the bowl of the crucible, but this alone is not enough for a chemical reaction. One must apply heat,” he added, rubbing his hands together in glee.

I felt a thrust of worry. “Sir, I must remind you that to fence with murderers is a fool’s game, and I ought to know, I have done
it often enough and been lucky to escape with my life. You cannot simply dangle hints in front of the suspected villain and wait for him to strike at the bait. You may get far more than you intended.”

He narrowed his lips in disappointment, but there was still one trick left in his conjurer’s bag. “Have you a better plan?” he asked, watching me closely.

I considered a long moment. “No,” I said at last, feeling my control of the situation slipping rapidly from my grasp.

He sat back, smiling triumphantly. “Then fencing with murderers it is.”

I left shortly afterward, having made the acquaintance of the mysterious Chang, who proved, to my surprise, to be a rather elderly woman of Chinese extraction. She shuffled along in tiny silken slippers and chattered irritably in Chinese at the White Rajah, who watched her with an air of amusement.

“She likes to organise me,” he confided in a low tone. “But she is a very loyal soul and a brilliant cook. You ought to take luncheon with me,” he said, brightening.

But the atmosphere had grown thick from the incense and I longed to breathe the fresh, bracing mountain air again, so I made polite excuses and left, although not before settling the question of Feuilly.

“He is lonely, my dear! It is entirely my fault for sending the old fellow without a companion. All of God’s creatures do desire a companion,” he added a trifle piously, and before I could gather my wits enough to refuse, I found myself passing through
the gates of the monastery holding two gilded leather leads, each attached to a peafowl. Feuilly preened himself in the company of his concubine, but the striking and snow-white Madame Feuilly merely stared at me unblinkingly.

“Believe me, I am no more excited about the prospect than you,” I assured her.

I trailed my way back down toward the Peacocks. It was later than I had imagined, for the pickers had disappeared from the fields to take their luncheon, and it was oddly still, nothing stirring save the wind that blew from the mountain, rustling the leaves in the trees as I passed.

As soon as I reached the Peacocks, Plum appeared, staring at the pair of birds in confusion. “I thought you were meant to be getting rid of that thing,” he began.

“That was the intention,” I informed him coolly. “I thought you were off sketching your masterpiece.”

He pulled a face. “I was, until I looked down from my lofty perch and realised that there was a new resident of the Peacocks. I thought it only polite to come and say hello.”

For an instant I thought he meant the bird, but suddenly I understood. I thrust the gilded leads into his hands and rushed indoors, taking the stairs as fast as my petticoats and corset would allow.

Brisbane was in my bedchamber, stripping off his clothing when I burst in upon him.

“Brisbane!” I cried.

He kissed me soundly, but as he caught me to him I felt something unaccustomed in his embrace. I stepped back sharply and opened his coat.

“Brisbane, what in the name of heaven—”

“Do not touch it,” he cautioned. “It is loaded.” He removed a firearm the like of which I had never seen from his belt and placed it carefully out of reach on top of the wardrobe.

“I have never known you to carry a revolver,” I told him.

“You have never known me to ride alone where a tiger is on the loose,” he pointed out. “And that is not a revolver. It is a howdah pistol.”

“It looks more like someone simply sawed the end from a rifle,” I replied, regarding the weapon with a wary eye.

“It is essentially so,” he acknowledged. “It is meant to kill a tiger or a bear with a single shot.” His brow furrowed. “Do you suppose Morag will find it there? She might hurt herself.”

“I should not mind if she did. She has been in a foul mood since we arrived,” I told him waspishly. But I was too happy to have him with me to dwell upon Morag’s sour temper. I embraced him again, kissing him properly this time and it was some minutes before we broke apart.

Still, pleased as I was to see him, I did not overlook the fact that his face bore traces of fatigue and pain and he wore his smoked spectacles, a sure sign that the migraine was almost upon him. I cursed under my breath, wishing I could do something, anything to take away his pain. He had not felt the weight of one since we had been married, and I had dared to hope he might be free of them at last. But I knew the cause of them, and it should have occurred to me that he would not be rid of them so easily.

I lit one of the low lamps, then moved to the window to shutter the light, leaving the room gently illuminated.

“Better?”

“Yes,” he sighed, removing his spectacles. He rubbed at his eyes, then blinked hard. “Have I been engaging in hallucinations, or did I see you walking peacocks like dogs just now?”

“There is a perfectly logical explanation, I assure you.” I unwound his cravat and began to unbutton his waistcoat. “Has hot water been sent for?”

He nodded. “Some fellow in a white turban said he would fetch it.”

“That was Jolly, the majordomo,” I advised him. “It will be awhile, I suspect. Lie down and let me rub your temples.”

The fact that I offered and Brisbane did not demur was indicative of both our moods. I seldom fussed and Brisbane seldom let me, but once he had heaved off his boots and eased himself gingerly onto the bed, I pulled his head onto my lap and began to stroke the hair away from his temples.

“I did not expect you so soon,” I murmured, my voice thick with sudden emotion. I had missed him terribly, far more than I would admit to anyone. Even myself. Even him.

Eyes closed, he still managed to pull a face. “There is no point in keeping it from you now. I was investigating Freddie Cavendish.”

My hand stilled. “What did you say?”

“I. Was. Investigating—”

I slapped lightly at his shoulder. “Leave off. What changed your mind?”

“Nothing. I always meant to look into Freddie’s interests in Calcutta. If he had debts or curious habits, the planters’ club would be the best place to discover it. When planters come to the city, they congregate to drink and gossip. If there had been anything irregular in Freddie’s affairs, the club would know of it.”

He kept talking and I resumed my ministrations, my mind reeling. “Unfortunately, there was nothing to learn in Calcutta. I spent five days chasing ghosts. He joined the planters’ club, but never stayed there, merely passed through on his way to Darjeeling, and their impression of him is precisely the same as yours—a charming wastrel with no real malice in him, but not the sort of fellow to hang one’s hopes upon. I poked around a little for a day in Darjeeling as well and it was as fruitless as my
inquiries in Calcutta. Freddie Cavendish left no impressions whatsoever. I found one fellow who remembered him and said he was a pleasant enough chap and that was the extent of it.”

I added the days in my head. “But if you spent five days in Calcutta and one in Darjeeling, you must have made the journey in—”

“A day and a half of hard riding,” he said, peering up at me with one eye. “It was easy enough. I did not have your family to slow me down.”

I tugged at his hair. “That is hardly fair. We travelled with your trunks,” I reminded him.

“Thank God for that,” he said, yawning broadly. “I had one change of clothes and I suspect they will want burning after that ride.”

I snorted. Brisbane was fastidious as a cat. The fact that his linen was as white as the day he had donned it for the first time did not surprise me. He could be dropped in the midst of a desert and still emerge exquisitely turned out.

We fell silent and I continued to stroke his head. I thought he had fallen asleep, but suddenly he opened his eyes and fixed me with a firm look.

“Have you been investigating on your own?”

I refused to lie to him, but neither could I be entirely truthful. “It is impossible to come into a house as a guest and not learn something,” I temporised.

“And what have you learned?” His voice was soft, but soft as the growl of a tiger before it springs.

“I have learned that the Cavendishes are a kindly enough family who seem to have accepted Jane. And I learned that Freddie Cavendish’s death was very likely due to natural causes.” None of which was a lie, I reminded myself to silence my conscience. I had employed enough modifiers to leave room for
doubt. But the knowledge that Brisbane had inserted himself into the investigation left me with warring emotions. I was thrilled for Portia’s sake that he had undertaken the case, but bitterly disappointed for my own part. I had wanted desperately to prove my worth to him as a partner, and without deliberate forethought, I withheld just enough information to leave myself an advantage in the field.

“And what precisely were the natural causes of Freddie’s death?” he asked.

I opened my mouth to answer, then snapped it shut.

“So you do know,” he surmised with a note of satisfaction in his voice. He sat up, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. “I knew you could not keep yourself from meddling in this.”

“It is hardly meddling as I was
asked
to do it by my own sister,” I reminded him. I smoothed my skirts. “Now if you would like to discuss this calmly and rationally, I will share with you the fact that Freddie Cavendish was killed when the bite of a non-venomous snake turned septic.”

Brisbane began to pace the room, his brow furrowed. He thought better upon his feet, and I knew he was wrestling with himself, torn between annoyance with me and curiosity about Freddie’s death. In the end, the investigator won out and he stopped, bracing his hands upon the bedposts.

“I do not like it,” he said. “It is too convenient. Freddie was young and healthy. There was no call for something so trivial to have felled him.”

“That is precisely what the White Rajah said!” I exclaimed.

Brisbane’s gaze narrowed. “Who?”

“The White Rajah. He is the most darling old gentleman. He puts me in mind of my father—rather eccentric but harmless. He lives in the old Buddhist monastery upon the ridge. He is a terrible old gossip, the match of any spinster I have ever seen.
But I called upon him today and we fell to talking about Freddie’s death. He made exactly the same observation as you.”

“Did he now?” Brisbane’s voice was icily calm.

I rose and pressed a kiss to the little muscle that jumped in his jaw. “You cannot possibly be jealous of that dear old man. He was simply relating his own suspicions about Freddie’s death. If anything, it ought to please you that someone else thinks Freddie was murdered.”

Brisbane reached up to the canopy above my head, one strong arm braced on either side of me, and leaned forward, causing me to bend backward as his legs straddled mine.

“Let us have one thing quite clear, Julia. I am reluctant enough to admit you to this investigation. I have absolutely no intention of working with some decrepit old relic who lives on a rock. No more confidences.”

“No more,” I agreed.

He moved closer still, and his head dropped to nuzzle into my hair.

“Brisbane—” I said, a trifle breathlessly. I meant to warn him that Jolly would doubtless arrive with his hot water at any minute, but before I could speak, there was a sharp rap at the door.

“Sahib Nicky, I have the hot water that you requested,” Jolly called.

“Come back later,” Brisbane growled, pushing me onto the bed.

Brisbane’s arrival, coupled with the beginning of the tea harvest, heightened the atmosphere at the Peacocks, and we were a merry party that evening. Portia was persuaded to join us for the sweet course and tea afterward, and it was a mark of
her affection for her brother-in-law that she permitted herself to be coaxed into coming down.

“You must allow Jane to rest, and you must not give yourself over entirely to nursing her,” Miss Cavendish advised Portia. “The second cook will have the running of the kitchen tomorrow so that Mary-Benevolence might sit with Jane and you will come out with us.”

“Come out where?” Portia asked, and her curiosity surprised me. I should have thought the possibility of an outing completely out of the question, but Portia did look peaked, and perhaps the thought of some fresh air cheered her.

“It is the custom to arrange a
pooja
in the fields,” Harry told her. “It is a sort of ceremony of thanksgiving for the beginning of the tea harvest, followed by a luncheon served
al fresco.
”

“You oughtn’t to have gone to such trouble,” I began, but Miss Cavendish held up a hand.

“It is tradition, Lady Julia. Always, the first Sunday of the tea picking is given over to the
pooja
. There are cakes for the pickers who eat on their own, of course. It is a merry party always, and the Pennyfeathers will be present.”

She did not mention the Phipps sisters, but I had already decided to pay an early call upon them myself.

“And I daresay with the house almost empty, Jane will rest more soundly,” Miss Cavendish said firmly. I had to credit her, the tactic was a brilliant one, and Portia required little other persuasion.

“Very well,” she said wearily. “If it is all arranged.”

Miss Cavendish seemed well pleased, as did Harry, and I noticed Brisbane watching the pair of them speculatively. It was not until we had regained the privacy of our bedchamber that I was able to pry into his thoughts.

“Do you like the Cavendishes for villains?” I teased.

I had expected him to wave the question aside for the piece of foolishness that it was, but his expression was thoughtful.

“I do, actually.”

“Brisbane! They have behaved with perfect courtesy towards us and, more to the point, towards Jane.”

He shrugged out of his evening coat. “Any devil may put on an angel’s face.”

“True enough, I suppose,” I said, thinking with a shudder of the last murderer we had encountered.

“But what specifically spurs your suspicions of them?”

He paused, then closed his eyes, as if conjuring a picture. He opened them and still they held a faraway look. “There are pieces missing in the drawing room.”

“Missing?” I slid my feet out of my evening slippers and wriggled my toes. The slippers were new and pinched a little.

Brisbane settled himself in a chair and reached for my feet, curling his fist into the arch of my heel. I sighed and stretched like a contented cat.

“Yes,” he said, cataloguing the missing items. “The two niches flanking the fireplace. There are marks upon the paint of the wooden shelves where something heavy once stood, and the marks are identical. A matched pair—perhaps urns or statues. There is a patch of wallpaper, very faintly darker than the rest in the hall, where a painting has been moved. And the set of blue-and-white porcelain in the peacock dining room is missing a vase.”