Jane Steele(90)

“Not at all.”

“It’s just . . . the night I killed that scoundrel, Mr. Thornfield told me about your sister and Sahjara’s abduction and the trunk, and it’s horrible you were dragged into such a nightmare, and I know you both to be honourable, but he says he’s a murderer and he won’t say how or when, and he won’t say he doesn’t want me, he won’t say anything at all of consequence, nor touch me, nor trust me, and I cannot bear it any longer.”

“Ah,” he said. “Then your sorrow is partly my doing, and I have been gravely at fault.”

“Regarding?”

“Charles’s refusal to touch living people.”

My mouth must have gaped overlong for, passing his fingertips over his beard, he continued after a brief reflection.

“Charles emulates me, always has done. Even when I have tried to prevent him. But the specific point I am making, Miss Stone,” Mr. Singh said, measuring his words, “is that I am both devout and monastic, and I think Charles may well have confused the two. I have never been married. I have no interest in marriage or its accompanying joys.”

I stared, yes, but he did not seem ruffled. “You have never loved, then?”

“That is not remotely what I meant,” he corrected mildly.

“Oh. You are . . .”

I trailed off, helpless; after he had registered shock, he shook his head.

“No,” he answered firmly. “Ah, I see why you—I beg your pardon. Yes, of course I love Charles, but no.”

I thought a little longer. “You are like a priest? Devoted to God and to study?”

“There we have it,” he approved before the shadow returned to his face. “But you must understand, it is very easy for someone who is not tempted by flesh to be celibate, and I have always been so—content to watch the moon rise, to try a new spice, to practise the chakkar but never use it to harm. When I was small, I dreamt of sitting under a tree, waiting for God to possess me with divine knowledge which would incinerate my very soul. If God told me to give up strong coffee, I would feel that loss keenly, and God would thus honour my sacrifice. But I do not actually long for the thing I abstain from—which is not abstinence at all. So I am simply wondering whether, in my own infinite ignorance, I contributed to this great error Charles has made.”

“Nothing you’ve said implies you were gravely at fault in any way.”

“Then I have not helped so much as I ought to have done.”

“Why should you help me?”

“Why should I not? Help Charles is what I meant, however.” He sighed. “His life, his body—I have told you already such sacrifices occur in the Guru, but this is a needlessly raised shield after the battle has already left one bloody.”

“You’ve plenty to fear yet, it seems,” I reminded him, feeling Jack Ghosh’s fingers crushing my soft throat.

“That is a new battle,” he corrected, frowning. “I never dreamt of the old battle haunting us here save in ways you have already mentioned—our own. It’s most peculiar, if you ask me. This trunk business must have an end put to it, for Sahjara’s sake if not ours.”

And I shall help in any way I can, I vowed to myself.

Mr. Singh’s face took on the quality of a death mask. “Did Charles tell you whom he murdered, if neither how nor when?”

I shook my head.

“Do not believe him, then, when he claims to be a murderer,” he said hoarsely. “Unless he has been killing other people than the one I am thinking of, he is not to be trusted on the subject.”

“I don’t know how many subjects he is to be trusted upon—he said he should never miss exile from the Punjab, for instance.”

“He and I are agreed.” His voice scraped now, a blade being sharpened upon a stone. “I loved Lahore, but to watch an empire sabotage itself so? We were all meant to be lions, but some of us proved unshorn dogs. Why do you suppose we are warriors, Miss Stone? It is because our Gurus have been sat upon red-hot iron plates and covered with scorching sand, sewn into raw hides which shrank and broke their bones, had pegs thrust in their heads and their brains removed when yet alive. My people have been slaughtered like animals, our cities sacked, children’s bellies slit, our sacred pool filled with our hacked-apart bodies, and for what? So we might throw away the richest land in all of Asia?” His hands spasmed into fists. “I was not exaggerating when I said my sister should have been maharani—instead, the Company butchered us like cattle. There is too much blood in the sands of the Punjab, Miss Stone.”

I did not know what to say. We watched the inching progression of a sweet-faced crone on the arm of her grandson, listened as the church’s bell sang salutations to the heavens, marked the stares slitting towards us in charcoal shadows of doubt and disgust.

“Mr. Thornfield implied that as long as you and Sahjara are here, he has all the home he requires.”

A smile barely brushed the corners of his lips. “He does us honour, then.”

Nodding bleakly, I checked the inn’s entrance. The carriage had clattered into the manure-strewn yard and I rose, indicating it to Mr. Singh with my eyes; he stood, looking appalled.

“But—now? Where is your trunk, where your farewell to the household, why—”

“I can’t.” I forced back the tears which newly threatened. “Please tell Sahjara I love her, and ask her forgiveness. If—when I see her again, I’ll be glad of it. Mr. Thornfield gave me a hundred pounds. I’ll be fine. I still have my knife to protect me from badmashes.”