Colin, with a look of great distaste on his face, shoved handfuls of his garments into the trunk.

He had locked himself in his new bedroom — the place from which he would have to soon part without even getting the chance to get properly acquainted with it. The trunk was atop his bed and so were most of his clothes, which looked out of place in his otherwise organised room. A work of the servants under the watchful eyes of Cecilia, it was.

A day or two, he could not exactly remember, had passed since Davenport summoned him to discuss with him about the murder of Frederick Clarkson. It was his last day in Calcutta. Early the next morning, he would board the train that would take him to his destination. A short boat ride would ensue right after, which would carry him the rest of the way to Nishikantopur. Colin was unaware of his accommodations; all he knew was that he was to stay in the zamindar house and carry out his work from there.

With a sigh, he sat down on the bed. Lines of worry were visible on his forehead and under his eyes. Colin was still reluctant to go, but now a bit of fear had mingled with that reluctance. What was he to expect there? How would the people there receive him? And what would he find in the pursuit of Frederick's killer?

He was thinking a lot. His palms were clammy, his breath much shallower than normal. The more he pondered upon the matter, the more his nerves got the better of him. Yet, was there an escape? No, there was not. Even if it was there, he knew not about it. One can fight with the world but not with their mind. It is quite a difficult endeavour.

Thus, in the next few moments, Colin did what he did the best: do nothing. Instead, he gazed at the wall in front of him. So intense was his gaze, that one would think that he was trying to memorise the surface, to know and understand its every little nuance and irregularities.

Colin's bedroom was wide, the walls painted in a soft beige shade and decorated with small crimson flowers with a speck of yellow in their middle. Furniture in the room was sparse. Only a bed, a mirror and a table occupied it. He had stacked the said table with journals used and unused and a bunch of books.

A flicker of warmth rose in Colin's eyes. He stood up from the bed and walked over to the table, and picked up a journal. An unused one. With longing, he caressed its thick leather cover. He could not help but wonder if the time had come again. Nishikantopur would be perfect to rekindle his passion for poetry. He knew it.

For years, he used to write in secret, for he was afraid to show anything of this kind to his father or others. Uncle Duncan was supportive, but he still felt shy. He wrote nothing too special or serious but what his thoughts and ideas were. Colin never considered himself to be a poet. It was just a pastime. A pastime that he found himself unable to practise. Little time did he have in his hands these days. He closed the journal and took it to his trunk. Moving aside a few of his clothes, he put the journal in their midst.

Colin was about to close the trunk when Cecilia arrived at his threshold, her steps light upon the marble floor.

"Dinner is ready, brother!"

It was a bit too sudden for Colin. Startled, he let go of the trunk lid, which fell with a noisy clang. He flinched as the thing was only moments away from falling on his hand.

"Cecilia!" He ejaculated, eyes widened like dinner plates. "You scared me, sister."

Cecilia scratched her jaw, suppressing a laugh. "What in the world were you so engrossed in that you failed to hear my footsteps?"

Colin rolled his eyes. "I was packing for tomorrow."

"Is that it, or is there something more insidious, huh?" Cecilia winked.

Colin pouted. "I do not understand what you mean." A warm flush rose to colour his cheeks a delicate pink.

Cecilia feigned a frown. "Perhaps you have a secret lover. Perhaps you were reading their letter, and that is why you never noticed when I came." She said with a conspiratorial wink.

"You know well that father will kill me if he found out I was having an affair here!" Colin replied, horrified. "And I love my life, Cece. I have no intention of dying so young."

"Why can you not have one?" Cecilia asked. "I found nothing wrong with it. Women here are much more interesting than back at home, if you come to think of it. Have ever seen them in that traditional garb of theirs? The one they drape over their body? Oh, they look luscious." She smacked her lips in such a manner that Colin blushed even harder.

"Do not tell me you are lusting after women, Cecilia." Colin shook his head. "That will be…scandalous."

"Shut up, Colin. I am not lusting after anyone." Cecilia retorted. "I meant that women here have more personality than the plain white ones we have in Britain. If they weren't, why would uncle Duncan's best friend have married one of them?"

"Mrs Grayson's mother was Moroccan, not Indian." Colin replied. "And will you stop making me embarrassed by saying all these things?” Never had Colin felt at ease discussing sexuality and never would he.

"Stop being a bore, brother." Cecilia furrowed her brows.

Colin backed off in surrender. "If you are so interested, you get married to an Indian man. You have always been the rebel, not I. That is how I want it to be for the rest of our lives."

Cecilia curled her lip. "You are as plain as a pikestaff! Do you ever think about something which pleases you and not our parents?"

"Not this again, Cece-"

Cecilia raised her hand, stopping him mid-sentence. "You need not to give any excuses. Now come, have your dinner, golden child. Else daddy will get angry."

With a brazen smirk, she took her brother's hands in hers and dragged him to dinner, not heeding to any of his cries or protests to release him.

~•~

It was raining profusely that night, the night after which Colin was supposed to set out for Nishikantopur. There was almost no one out on the roads, except for the lane in front of officer Davenport's bungalow.

A black Ford rested there, well merged with its dark surroundings. And up above on the balcony on the second floor of the house sat Davenport with a colleague of his. In the scant light of a chandelier, they were smoking their cigars, having a grave conversation.

"But Mr Silverthorne belongs to a family of good reputation," Mr Pierce said. "We all know that his mother belongs to the peerage, while his father has served in the royal navy for a long time. I see no reason to not have faith in him."

Davenport released a whiff of smoke from his mouth. "Instead of parentage, we must look into the character of a man. We must know what he thinks and what his beliefs are.”

"Well, we did not make such considerations with Frederick Clarkson," Pierce shook his head. "That boy did not even survive a full year. More so in a region that we consider being rather peaceful."

Davenport frowned. Why does Eugene have to defend that useless lad? "Frederick had potential. You could see it in his eyes. The only problem with him was that he was too rash. That has cost him his life."

"What did the Earl's son have that Colin Silverthorne lacks?" Pierce questioned.

Davenport took another long swig from his cigar. "He is a man with a weak heart, like that of a woman. Frederick sure did not have this problem."

"How is it supposed to interfere with the investigation that has been handed over to him? He is not going to war, for heaven's sake." Pierce glared at the other man. We are damned investigators, not army personnel!

"It has a connection with it," Davenport replied. His eyes were two narrow slits, like that of a serpent. "I know in my bones that he will squander this investigation. There is more to it than meets the eye."

"Albert," Pierce set down his cigar on an ashtray, kept upon a small table in front of them. "I sense that something is going on in your mind, which you are not telling me.”

"There is."

"I want to know what it is."

"I will send a man to Nishikantopur in secret, who will monitor Colin Silverthorne's actions."

"How is that supposed to be beneficial?" Pierce raised his eyebrows. "This is absolutely incredulous, if you ask me."

"It will be. I plan to use a special someone to achieve my goals."

Pierce’s heart stilled for a moment. "Who is it, Albert?"

"Wait for him to come." Davenport smiled.

Pierce spoke no more. He retreated within the silence of his thoughts and listened to the rain pattering on the sills. The drops of water glided down from the polished railings of the balcony before making a splash on the concrete road beneath. It was a comfortable place to spend a night in if not enmeshed with talks of such gravity. The chandelier which illuminated them was designed in the shape of a water lily which swayed in the strong gale.

The floor of the balcony was made of polished marble. In the light, it shone like a gemstone. The servants kept the small potted plants around the edges, while cropped ivy grew on the columns, giving it a distinct look that separated it from the rest of the world. However, at the farthest corner, towards the northern edge, was the magnum opus of the balcony; the three and a half feet tall statue of the goddess Persephone with a split pomegranate and a sistrum in her hands.

Pierce often wondered why a man like Albert Davenport kept such a thing with him. It was just so different from his shrewd, curt personality. Because in his mind, Persephone stood for everything that Davenport opposed. She was the lady of life and death. The very embodiment of wild nature.

And men like Davenport were hellbent on transforming the said nature to their whims and fancies.

The sound of hurried footsteps broke the silence. Raising his head from a daze, Pierce found it was Davenport's butler. The French man stood at the threshold of the balcony.

"He has come, messieurs."

Davenport put away his cigar." Wonderful! He is early, I see. Bring him here."

The butler nodded and left, leaving the men alone.

"Who is this man?" Pierce asked as soon as he was out of earshot. "I see no use in hiding his identity from me any longer."

"He is a very well known man. A doctor with great experience and even more degrees. He has investigated a variety of... let's say strange occurrences around the world."

"What is his name?"

"His name is Abel Vance, Mr Pierce."

Pierce almost fell from his seat, taken aback. He somehow held himself and looked at the speaker. All he could think at that moment was that Davenport had made a mistake.

Little over four feet in height, Abel Vance had wild black hair that was raised upon his head as spikes, the tips of which were whitening. He was the owner of a square shaped face, deep-set green eyes and a long, crooked nose. Dressed in a ragged, multicoloured coat, he looked more like a jester from a mediaeval court than a researcher.

"Doctor Vance!" Davenport rose and locked the newcomer in a tight embrace. "I am glad to see that you made time for us."

Abel let out a shrill chuckle. "Of course I would. Have I ever disappointed those seeking my help?"

"Indeed, Dr Vance, indeed."

Pierce sat in quietness, wondering how these two had met. He realised the newcomer had a better idea of what was happening than him. He inched closer to see Abel's face better. But as he did that, a gasp escaped his lips.

A scar, deep as if it had come from some wild beast, graced the entire left side of face.

"... As I was saying, this is my friend Eugene Pierce." Davenport's voice made him stop gaping at Abel's face.

Abel gave a smile, revealing a set of crooked yellow teeth, of which one incisor was missing. "Pleased to meet you, Mr Pierce."

"Pleased to meet you too, Dr Vance." Pierce forced a smile. He did not feel that way. Not really.

"I was unaware that you were having friends over, Mr Davenport," Abel said. "Should we wait until he leaves?" He pointed towards Pierce.

"No, he knows it all. Let us discuss in front of him."

A call for the butler, who came with a chair underneath his arms. Setting it down, he exited as fast as he could while Abel and Davenport began an animated conversation. Pierce sat there unmoving, but hearing each word that transpired between the two. He shifted in his seat and rubbed his palms against each other. A part of him thought he ought to give at least some hints to Colin about this being happening behind his back.

The question now was how was he to do the deed, or if he should rather let Colin fend on his own.

~•~