if the importance of discretion had been impressed upon him. And he was charming enough to entice information out of anyone if he chose. Yes, he would do quite nicely, I concluded.
And just as I made up my mind to make a partner of him, Plum entered the breakfast room, resplendent in a cherry-coloured waistcoat and a cravat of striped green and white.
“It is a very fine day today,” I told him. “So fine it would be a waste for you to stay at the Peacocks,” I began with an eye to inviting him upon my investigations.
“Indeed,” he agreed. “And that is why I mean to begin my sketches of Kanchenjunga. I have in mind a series of paintings based upon the mountain, perhaps even a mural.”
He attacked his food with gusto. “And you?”
I summoned a bleak smile. “I suppose I shall pay some calls. Alone.”
Determined to pursue my investigations even if I must do so alone, I collected my things and left word with Miss Cavendish not to expect me to luncheon. The second cook provided me with a bit of flat Indian bread and some crumbling white cheese to put into my pocket should I have need of it, and I took up my parasol, buoyed by the thought of properly beginning my own investigation at last. I had just reached the front door of the Peacocks when I heard my name called. I turned to find Harry emerging from his office carrying a small bundle.
“If you mean to go abroad on your own, you must take this,” he advised me, unwrapping the bundle and holding out his hand. Upon his palm lay a small pistol, a delicate feminine piece with mother-of-pearl inlaid upon the grip.
“It looks like a toy,” I observed. “A very pretty toy.”
“Pretty but lethal,” he corrected. “You were country-bred, so I presume you know how to fire it. Mind you’re careful. It is loaded.”
He brandished the pistol and I shied. “Is the valley so thick with brigands that I must go armed?” I asked with a forced air of jollity.
But he was stingy with his charming smiles that day, and I was struck by the seriousness of his expression. “Not brigands. Tigers, one in particular, as I am sure you have heard. He’s a nasty brute, and you are our responsibility. I have already made certain that Mr. March was armed before he left to go sketching. I would be remiss if I did not do the same for you, Lady Julia.”
I reached a tentative hand to take the pistol from him. “Forgive me, but I hardly think so small a gun could stop a tiger,” I observed.
“It is not for the tiger,” he said soberly. “It holds two shots. The first is for you should you be attacked.”
My mouth felt suddenly dry, my tongue cleaving to the roof of my mouth. I tried to swallow. “And the second?” I asked. I raised my eyes from the pistol in my hand to his grim gaze.
“There would not be time for the second. Believe me when I tell you not to hesitate. I have seen the alternative and it is not the sort of death any human being should suffer.”
I secured the pistol in my pocket. “I suppose I ought to thank you, Mr. Cavendish, for the loan of the weapon.”
“Pray God you never have to use it.”
He swung round on his booted heel and left me then, returning to his office and closing the door firmly behind him. I felt the weight of the pistol, small as it was, through the layers of petticoats. I sighed, wishing yet again that Brisbane had come. But he had not, and mooning about would solve nothing, I reminded myself firmly. I went in search of Jolly.
I had a few details to discuss with him, but he quickly sorted out what I required and in a matter of minutes presented me with Feuilly. The bird was wearing a collar and lead of thin gilded leather, walking sedately behind the butler. I blinked at the sight of them.
“I apologise, Jolly, if I was not clear in my request. I want to return Feuilly to his previous owner on behalf of Mrs. Cavendish. I need a basket of some sort, and a wheeled conveyance.”
Jolly inclined his head. “This thing is not possible, Memsa Julie,” he said with his usual courtliness.
“I thought there was a donkey cart,” I began. He bowed slightly again.
“And a goat cart as well, but alas, the donkey does not like the bird Feuilly.”
“And the goats?”
“The bird Feuilly does not like the goats. But these things are not of importance, for the path is too steep to admit either conveyance. A person must walk upon his own feet to see the monastery that faces the snows of Kanchenjunga.”
I cocked my head curiously. “You have been there, Jolly?”
“Of course, Memsa Julie. I received my letters there,” he said with an air of pride, and it occurred to me that this very correct servant doubtless spoke far more languages than I.
“When it was a school, run by the Irish nuns?” I inquired. Again, the sober nod. “Very well. Then you would know the path best, I suppose. And I must walk, leading that creature,” I said, raising a brow at the peacock. He fixed me with one large dark eye and I thought I saw malice there. “I do not think he likes me very much, Jolly.”
“No, he does not, but this must not distress you, Memsa Julie. The bird Feuilly does not like anyone.”
I smiled at him. “A small consolation. Very well, I will walk.”
One last bow from him and the bird Feuilly and I were on our way. Against all expectations, he followed sedately along, the plumes of his tail undulating softly in the dirt of the road. I kept up a soft flow of chatter, hoping to keep him calm so long as we walked. I had never seen a peacock attack, but that did not mean they were incapable of such a thing. If the murals on the walls of the dining room were anything to judge by, they were occasionally seized by great ferocity, and I had no wish to be on the receiving end of those menacing talons.
We passed a field planted with tea, the glossy green bushes stretching in tidy rows as far as the eye could see, and I noticed that the pickers were in the field, busily gathering the first flush of the harvest. They wore bright colourful clothes, with enormous wicker baskets strapped to their backs by means of leather thongs that circled their brows twice over. They bent and snipped off the upper leaves and buds of the plant, flinging the green matter over their shoulders and into the baskets without looking, with a skill born of long practise. It was mesmerising to watch, the peaceful rhythm of the pickers’ arms moving as if in a dance as the mist burned from the valley under the spring sun.
But I had not come to stare at the pickers, I reminded myself, and I clucked at Feuilly to hurry him along. In a few minutes’ time we reached the crossroads, marked by the Buddhist stupa Miss Cavendish had remarked upon. It was a sort of religious monument of the type we had seen many times upon our journey from Calcutta. They varied enormously, but always with a dome firmly upon a square base, the whole affair crowned with a spire from which stretched great lengths of rope tied with hundreds of squares of brightly-coloured fabrics—prayer flags, whipping in the wind to wing the prayers of the faithful ever upward. Next to the stupa, a child was playing near a bundle of laundry. I paused in my chatter to Feuilly to greet the boy. I nodded, certain we did not share a language, but to my surprise he returned the greeting in my own tongue.
“Hello, lady. My granny says only foolish ladies talk to birds,” he said, nodding toward the bundle of laundry. As I watched, the bundle began to unfold itself a little, revealing a human form, thickly shrouded in white robes and veils. Next to the bundle sat a begging bowl and a bell, the traditional accoutrements of a leper.
I smiled to show I had taken no offense. “Tell your granny I have no coins with me today, but if she is here again, I will bring some tomorrow.”
The boy shrugged. “Granny believes all that passes is the will of the gods, lady. If the gods will it, she will come. If they do not, she will not.”
Suddenly, the bundle began to speak, a terrible gabbling sound, and I realised her tongue must have been claimed by the