Leaving out the pieces of the story which reflected badly on Sack was simplicity itself. I knew my employer had robbed David Lavell and his wife, Karman Kaur, but said nothing of Sahjara’s kidnap; I knew John Clements and Jack Ghosh were both dead, but implied Mr. Thornfield or Mr. Singh were to blame. The Company man’s ruddy cheeks creased in sympathy whilst his stare bored into me with all the gentility of a bullet.
“This Jack Ghosh person’s death was the final straw,” I lamented. “Oh, Mr. Sack, it was so horrid—their claims it was an accident, the blood on the floor. I redoubled my search for the trunk, and . . .” I allowed myself to blush.
“And enterprising woman that you are, you found it, and you took it in order to escape the clutches of these fiends,” he said softly.
Pretending a coquettish version of guilt, I said nothing.
“The trunk was hid amongst Mr. Sardar Singh’s things, I imagine?”
Dumbfounded, I blinked at him.
“Why do you say so, Mr. Sack?”
“Because it’s that posturing heathen who taunted me with word of it upon my arrival back in England. This was before the loss of John Clements, of course—wretched business, that, and I don’t know that this Inspector Quillfeather will ever get to the bottom of it, more’s the pity. I thought Thornfield to blame at first, and told the Director so, but now I have reached another conclusion.”
These assertions sounded nonsensical—that either man would ever stoop to poisoning anyone (as I had once done) was ludicrous, I thought, and the notion that Sardar Singh had made any communication to Augustus P. Sack whatsoever beggared belief.
“I don’t understand . . . Mr. Singh seemed so contemptuous of you,” I faltered. “You claim he was a correspondent?”
“He did hate me, the swaggering savage, and wished me to live knowing his crimes would go unpunished. See for yourself.”
Going behind his desk, 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.