Gareth’s gaze touched Del’s, and he nodded. No sense taking any unnecessary chances with Miss Ensworth.
Their interaction had passed over Emily Ensworth’s head. She nodded graciously to Gareth. “Thank you, Major.”
Then she inclined her head to Del and the other two. “Good evening, Colonel. Gentlemen.”
“Miss Ensworth.” They all bowed, waited as Gareth led her away, then resumed their seats.
They stared at the packet lying on the table before Del. Without a word, they waited for Gareth to return.
The instant he did, Del picked up the packet. Removing the outer sheet, he laid it flat, revealing it was blank. It had been wrapped around a single document, a letter, the seal already broken.
Del unfolded the letter, briefly scanned. After a quick glance around, he leaned on the table and, voice low, read the contents aloud.
The letter was addressed to one of the more influential Maratha princelings, one Govind Holkar. It began innocently enough, with nothing more sinister than social news revolving about what was loosely termed the younger Government House set. But after those first paragraphs, the tone of the letter changed to one of offer, a blatant inducement to persuade Holkar to commit more men and resources to the Black Cobra cult.
The further he read, the more Del frowned. Reaching the end, he concluded with, “And, as usual, it’s signed with the mark of the Black Cobra.”
Letting the letter fall through his fingers to rest on the table, Del shook his head. “This isn’t anything more than we’ve already got-than James knew we already had.”
Gareth reached for the letter. “There has to be something more in it-something concealed.”
Del sat back, feeling oddly dead inside, and watched while Gareth silently went through the letter. Then Gareth raised his head, grimly shook it. “If there is, I can’t see it.”
Logan took the letter, read it, then, with a swift shake of his head, passed it to Rafe in his corner.
It didn’t take Rafe long to scan the single sheet. He slumped back in his chair, the letter held in one hand at arm’s length. “Why?” He shook the letter. “Damn it, James, why did you give your life for this? There’s nothing here!”
Rafe flung the letter toward the table. It flipped and landed upside down. He scowled at it. “That’s not worth-”
When he said nothing more, Del glanced at him and saw him staring, as if mesmerized, at the letter. As if it had transformed into their nemesis.
“Oh, Lord,” Rafe breathed. “It can’t be.” He reached for the letter.
For the first time in all the years he’d known him, Del saw Rafe Carstairs’s hand shake.
Rafe lifted the letter, held it closer to his face, staring…
“It’s the seal.” Voice firming, Rafe leaned forward and turned the letter, held it so the seal, largely intact, was on a level with the others’ eyes. “He’s used his own seal. Bloody Ferrar finally made a mistake, and James-youthful-sharp-eyes-and-even-sharper-wits James-caught it.”
Gareth reached out and took the letter. He was the most familiar with Ferrar’s seal; he’d been the one to go through the man’s desk. He studied the imprint closely, then looked up and met Rafe’s eyes. Nodded. “It’s his.” The suppressed excitement coming off both of them was palpable.
Del asked, “Could he say someone had stolen the seal and used it to implicate him? One of us, for instance?”
A slow smile spread across Gareth’s face. He looked at Del. “That won’t wash. It’s a seal ring, and it never leaves Ferrar’s pinky. In fact, short of him losing the finger, it can’t. All the clerks and secretaries at Government House know that-he makes quite a show of his lineage and its accoutrements. The whole office knows about his seal ring-and there’s not another like it in all of India.”
“Could it have been duplicated?” Logan asked.
Gareth handed him the letter. “See what you think. And anyway, why would anyone bother?”
Examining the imprint, Logan grunted. “I suppose that’s why people use seals, but you’re right-this has curlicues, swirls, and they look like they’re cut to different depths. It wouldn’t be easy to duplicate.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Rafe said. “What matters is that we know that’s real-and so does the Black Cobra.” He met the others’ eyes, excitement plain in his. “And I’ve just realized the true beauty of Wolverstone’s plan.”
Del frowned. “What? Beyond being the most effective way for us to get this back to England.”
Rafe checked their surroundings, then leaned in, forearms on the table. He spoke soft, low, quickly. “He told us to make copies, and then separate and head home. What do you think Ferrar’s going to think-and do-once he learns we’ve done that, as of course he will? You said it yourself-he knows we’re investigating him. Suddenly, without warning-worse, immediately after James’s death at the hands of the Black Cobra-we up stakes and resign, something we’ve been thinking of, but no one else knows that. And, to cap it off, we all head home by different routes. What will he think? What will he do?”
Logan had caught his enthusiam. “He’ll think we’ve found something that incriminates him.”
“And he’ll come after us, and by that very action prove the validity of our evidence.” Del nodded. “You’re right.” He looked at the others, met each gaze. “Gentlemen, thanks to James, we have our proof. Thanks to Devil Cynster and Wolverstone, we have a plan and know what we have to do. Thanks to Hastings, we have the freedom to do as we wish. I vote we follow the plan, carry out our last orders, and bring the Black Cobra to justice.”
While Del had been speaking, Rafe had recharged their glasses. They each claimed theirs.
“To success,” Del said, raising his glass.
“To justice,” Gareth offered, putting his glass alongside.
“To James MacFarlane’s memory.” Logan raised his glass to the other two.
They all looked at Rafe.
Who raised his glass to theirs. “To beheading the Black Cobra.”
They clinked, then drained their glasses.
Setting them down with a snap, they rose and left the bar.
September 14, twelve days later
Bombay
They met in the back room of the Red Turkey Cock, a smoke-filled tavern down a minor side street in one of the seedier native quarters of Bombay.
The tavern’s back room was a small square chamber with no window, the only entrance the doorway behind the scarred bar through which they’d entered. Logan, the last to arrive, let a bamboo screen rattle down to the floor behind him, a sufficient impediment to interested eyes. With Gulah, a massive ex-sepoy, manning the bar, and the otherwise flimsy walls reinforced by countless boxes and crates stacked against them, they weren’t too worried about interested ears.
“I don’t think I was followed.” Logan sounded disappointed as he slipped onto the last of the four rickety chairs set about a square wooden table.
“I don’t think I was either,” Gareth said. “But in this district, four anglos like us will be noticed and remembered-the Black Cobra will hear about our meeting without a doubt.”
“Ferrar knows something’s up.” A grim smile curved Del’s lips. “He knows we’ve resigned, and isn’t swallowing the gossip that we’re all devastated because of what happened to James. He’s been asking questions about our plans for the future.”
“Perhaps he’d like to recruit us?” Rafe said. “Come to think of it, that’s a tack we never tried.”
“Because he’d never believe it. The man isn’t just a cold-blooded killer-”
“Torturer, maimer, fiend,” Rafe supplied.
“-he’s clever, and cunning, and a great deal too powerful. So”-Del looked at Gareth-“are we ready to move against him?”