Mr. Sack produced a folded letter. This he passed to me, and upon opening it, it was all I could do not to recoil in horror. Many a time had I watched Mr. Singh as he wrote, and many a time posted letters for him; these were his exact characters, from angular downstrokes to oddly spiked capitals. It read:
Dear Mr. Sack,
As little as I desire ever to see your face again, I can no longer live without informing you that I picture it often upon your making the discovery that you have been thoroughly bested. All subterfuge is futile at this point: we do indeed have the trunk, and should you ever attempt to recover it again, know that I will not hesitate to destroy you utterly.
Your Company has raped my entire culture in systematic fashion; what is in my possession will remain there, and any attempt by you to steal it will result in your bloody death. Highgate House is a fortress, and I its guardian. Lacking any other avenues by which to make you suffer for your arrogance, I send this letter; think upon its contents often, Mr. Sack, for the treasure you seek will never fall into your hands the way our great Empire did.
Charles knows nothing of this and would not believe your lying tongue should you attempt to tell him—it is partly for his sake that I write you, indeed, for you have brought a good man to the brink of mental ruin. Live in discomfort, Mr. Sack, knowing that once, at least, one of the pure ones snatched a bone away from an English cur.
Your enemy, and your better,
Mr. Sardar Singh
My head spun; for it sounded like him, not the usual mellow-tongued Mr. Singh but the warrior whose voice abraded my ears that day in the hall, when he stood in the snow-swept entrance hall and called the Company rapists and the Sikh royals their pimps.
Meanwhile, my entire plan was ruined; I had intended to draw any imminent fire away from Highgate House by proving that the trunk existed and offering it to him myself. The glad news which was to have distracted Sack, bought me time whilst I thought of the perfect way to kill him, was not news after all.
It was not news because apparently Mr. Singh had been lying to us.
“You see how they blame me for their woes.” Mr. Sack sighed. “I only wished to see justice done regarding the trunk’s recovery, you understand—David Lavell was a Company stalwart, and he would have wanted this fortune to be held in trust by the Company for Sahjara when she comes of age. Had Mr. Singh merely hated me as any guilty party hates the law, he may not have been angry enough to risk such a foolish correspondence; but all is tangled in his mind with Charles Thornfield’s subsequent madness, you see, and the pair are quite devoted to each other. It is easier for Singh to blame me for everything than to consider that the fault lies squarely upon their shoulders.”
“Madness?” I echoed, stricken. I quickly corrected myself. “Do you mean to say I was living under the authority of a . . . a lunatic?”
“Oh, but then you don’t know what happened to Charles Thornfield at the Battle of Sobraon,” Mr. Sack crooned. “Clements did, and so do I, you see. We were there.”
TWENTY-NINE
The answer was evasive—I should have liked something clearer; but Mrs. Fairfax either could not, or would not, give me more explicit information of the origin and nature of Mr. Rochester’s trials. She averred that they were a mystery to herself, and that what she knew was chiefly from conjecture. It was evident, indeed, that she wished me to drop the subject; which I did accordingly.
Reader, I did not drop the subject; and I confess that, greatly as the letter from Mr. Singh had disturbed me, all thought of him was crowded out at the prospect of Charles Thornfield’s bloody biography being revealed at last.
I hardly needed to feign my agitation. “Won’t you please explain? It would soothe my conscience so to know that I am right in coming to you.”
“Let there be no doubt whatsoever about that, Miss Stone!” Mr. Sack exclaimed. “David Lavell was a friend, and his treatment at the hands of these reprobates—shocking, simply shocking.”
I recalled Mr. Thornfield’s account of the same circumstances and gritted my teeth into what I hoped was an encouraging smile.
Sack wasn’t his superior, and anyway he was