Chapter 34 Sebastian
I had a dream, which was not all a dream.
The bright sun was extinguish’d, and the stars
Did wander darkling in the eternal space,
Rayless, and pathless, and the icy earth
Swung blind and blackening in the moonless air;
Morn came and went—and came, and brought no day,
And men forgot their passions in the dread
Of this their desolation.
LORD BYRON, “DARKNESS”
Three weeks after our cottage had been rifled through, an unbearable heat hung thick over Calcutta like a shroud, the sort that clung to a man’s damp skin.
Even the shade beneath the punkah in the Company office did nothing to ease my discomfort.
I had unbuttoned my collar hours ago, rolled up my sleeves, and still, sweat dripped down my back in slow, deliberate trails.
The ledgers lay open before me—row after row of tidy columns inked with the Company’s signature precision. I’d read through them twice already, cross-checked entries, re-counted inventories. And now, as I sat back and rubbed at my eyes, the pattern stared up at me like a serpent waiting to strike.
More crates recorded than ever reached port. More weight shipped than ever sold. And the discrepancies tied to a single location: Warehouse 14, registered to a private ledger under Julien’s jurisdiction but bearing the Sinclair crest in the margins. The warehouse on Clive Street.
I’d long suspected mismanagement. But this—this stank of something worse.
I stood slowly and closed the ledger with a deliberate thud before crossing the floor to the secretary’s desk, where I pulled out parchment and ink.
How strange to think that the wastrel son who’d neglected his studies was forced to examine book after book.
Ledger after ledger. My eyes burned with fatigue.
My handwriting, usually so fluid, scrawled with angry lines. But I didn’t stop to correct it. I scratched out a message, my breathing labored.
Grandfather,
I have uncovered irregularities in the shipping manifests linked to Warehouse 14. The records do not match the outgoing shipments, and several returns are either falsified or missing altogether. The problem may be a simple matter of clerical error—but I feel dutybound to investigate further.
I request your immediate attention to this matter and suggest an internal review. It may be prudent to speak with Julien before any public inquiries arise.
Sebastian
I let the ink dry as I watched the sunlight shift across the floorboards. When it was finished, I sealed it with the Sinclair crest and handed it to a trusted servant with instructions to deliver it directly to my grandfather’s residence.
He would take care of Julien. He always had. Was Julien the culprit? I fretted over the answer.
Still, a knot coiled tight in my gut—an instinct I could not shake. Not fear, exactly. But foreboding. I stared at the shelves around me, case after case of archived manifests, and wondered just how long this rot had festered. No wonder my younger brother had not wanted my return.
Then I reached for my coat and the key to the warehouse.
If the ledgers couldn’t tell me the truth, the building itself would.
Finding Hugh’s prone form, blood seeping from a wound in his head, flooded my mind. He died fighting my creditors, and I—a coward, who could never forgive himself—had fled the country while Lord Sinclair told everyone I had embarked on a grand tour.
My vices came with a terrible cost. I had never set foot in that warehouse after that night.
William Carey reminded me that I was forgiven, but part of me doubted anyone could truly love someone such as myself.
Even Kitty.
And I wanted to earn her love and respect, just as I desired my grandfather’s.
For too long I had disappointed nearly everyone around me.
Could I truly make things right?