Read Online Dark Road to Darjeeling by Deanna Raybourn - Free Book Online

younger sister abasing herself for such a man.”
    “Of course we have no proof that she is a murderess,” Portia reminded me thoughtfully. “But it does make one wonder.”
    “It seems entirely too coincidental that we have a suspicious death and a suspected murderess in the same vicinity.” The more I meditated upon the idea of Emma as villainess, the more I liked the notion. It was tidy.
    “But what possible motive could she have for killing Freddie Cavendish? She would not inherit his estate, and we have not yet established that it is even an estate worth killing for. It may be burdened with debts and mortgages for all we know.”
    “Perhaps it has nothing to do with the estate at all,” I mused. “Perhaps Freddie slighted her somehow.”
    “I wonder. Of course, I suppose it is a tremendous coincidence that two sets of our relations should have met on the same boat. What must the odds be?”
    “Rather good, I should think. Consider, Portia, it is not Australia. Criminals and poor men do not venture to India to make their fortunes. One must have connections or wealth in order to establish oneself in India—either good birth or money, and preferably both. What is more natural than ladies, of whom there would have been a limited number anyway, striking up conversation and comparing their acquaintance only to find they have distant cousins in common? It would have made a bond between them. Remember, dearest, we are a prodigiously large family with a very good name. I should think there are hundreds ofpeople who could claim connection with us and who would not hesitate to do so in order to gain a social advantage.”
    “True enough,” she agreed. “I once had a dressmaker tell me she was bosom friends with Lady Bettiscombe and dressed her exclusively. It was tremendous fun revealing to her that I was Lady Bettiscombe. The poor dear had to go and lie down with a vinaigrette from the shock of it.”
    “And think of the tedium on a long passage. What is more natural than to talk of England and the connections left behind? We must question Miss Cavendish, but discreetly,” I told her. “And we must pay a visit to Pine Cottage.”
     
    Before we ventured to call upon our cousins, I wanted a chance to speak with Jane. I found her in a little dooryard, scooping grain and overripe fruits into a basin.
    “Let me,” I said, taking up the weighty basin. She gave me a grateful look, straightening and pressing her hand to the small of her back. “Are you very uncomfortable?”
    “Not usually. I was desperately sick the first few months. And if I am not careful in what I eat, I have acute indigestion. But it has only been in the past fortnight or so that bending and walking have become such a chore.”
    “You should be in bed,” I scolded. She paused and drew in a great draught of the crisp mountain air.
    “Perhaps. But it does feel so good to be up and about. Come through. We must feed Feuilly. I ought to have one of the staff do it, but the hierarchy is so complicated, it is simpler just to do it myself.”
    She led me through an arched gateway into a part of the garden I had not seen before. If I had expected a pig or a little goat, I was entirely mistaken, for out of the bushes strode a peacock, trailing his train of feathers behind him. But this wasno ordinary peacock, for he was enormous, and bore the scars of battles, I observed from the marks upon his beak and legs. This creature was a warrior, like something out of myth to guard a rajah’s treasures.
    “Oh, my,” I breathed. Jane began to scatter grain and fruit from the basin. I watched him peck elegantly at her offerings before I turned to Jane.
    “What did you mean about the hierarchy?”
    She smiled, her lovely Madonna smile of old, although now it was tinged with fatigue and perhaps with something of melancholy as well. I wondered if it was a sort of catching disease in these remote mountains. “I am surprised you haven’t heard. One scarcely has