Secret Letters (12 page)

B
UT
I
WAS NOT
destined to exit quite so easily that evening. My feet had barely touched the floor when the knob creaked ominously again, and I sprang quickly back into the gap. And so once more I found myself crouching on the cold stone ledge—but this time I could not see a thing inside the room. Whoever had entered had not turned the lamp back on, and there was no way to guess what they were doing. Had James returned to Lord Victor’s bedroom? I wondered. How long was he intending to stay?

I couldn’t possibly let him see me now; he’d know that I had overheard his conversation with Agatha, and would guess that I’d been spying on them—even though I couldn’t possibly know what any of it had meant.

What had all of that been about? I asked myself. What schemes had he been speaking of? Could he have been hinting at one of his blackmail plots? Was he thinking about Adelaide’s letters and the “deal” that he was about to strike with her? But then—what injustice was he referring to? Why had he seemed angry with the earl?

Somehow I felt instinctively that he had told Agatha at least a portion of the truth. He had admitted that there were certain things he could not explain to her and had begged her to be patient. If he had been trying to deceive her, he could have simply invented a convenient lie. No, I felt sure that he had actually been honest with her then. And if he really had been truthful, why had he said that he had no idea where Lady Rose had gone? And if he didn’t know, who did?

And more importantly, how on earth was I going to get back into the house? The minutes ticked by and nothing changed. There was a sighing sound from inside the room and the groan and shuffle of someone sinking into an armchair. This did not bode well for me. There were only two possibilities remaining to me now. I would have to risk a descent down the flimsy tree branches or resign myself to a lonely night upon the narrow ledge and many uncomfortable questions in the morning.

The gravity of my situation dawned on me as I tried to grasp the branches in my hand and felt them give way beneath me. There was a thick bough looming in the darkness some ten feet below, but the limbs closest to me were too flimsy to support my weight.

I untied my shawl from my neck and, bending forward, wrapped it around the thickest branch that I could reach. Then I tugged twice at the cloth, testing its strength, and with a quick jerk, pushed myself off the ledge and dropped down onto the bough below. It was slick with moss, and I grabbed onto the trunk as my feet slid off the branch. After I had steadied myself, I flung the shawl over a nearby branch and prepared to lower myself onto a lower bough.

I do not know whether it was the stem that snapped or the cloth that tore, but I had no sooner leaned over than a terrible crack and a ripping sound splintered the still night air, and I felt myself falling through the darkness. The branch beneath me broke my fall and cut short the scream which had burst from my lips. I lay there for a moment, conscious only of a nauseated, swimming feeling, until a loud shouting somewhere above me brought me unsteadily to my feet. Lord Victor was glaring at me from his open window and gesturing with his hands. He vanished into the darkness of his room, and I leaned heavily against the tree trunk, wondering if he planned to inform the household of the new maid’s lunacy. Presently I could discern a faint glow of lamplight and a white flutter at his window. He had fashioned a rope of bedsheets and was lowering it down to me. I grasped the end and was slowly pulled back into the room.

We stood opposite each other for a moment, breathing heavily and shivering from the night air. Some explanation was due, of course, and I pointed to my shawl, which still fluttered on the tree outside. “I had come in to see if the fire was ready for Your Lordship, and I opened the window for some air. The wind blew my shawl out onto the branch and when I leaned out—”

I stopped and looked down at my feet. He was clearly not listening to my explanation. He had barely glanced at me while I was speaking, and now I saw that he was gazing past me and that his face had hardened into an expression of blank surprise. He was staring at the fireplace, but it was not the sooty pile upon the floor that fascinated him. His mouth was hanging open, and his eyes were fixed in widened terror upon the ivory mantelpiece. Slowly he stepped over to the wall and turned up the gas. There upon the mantel were several clear streaks of coal dust. At first glance they appeared to be careless smudges, marks that had been made by dirty fingers against the paint. But after a second look, I saw that they formed letters, a string of
V
’s,
X
’s, and
I
’s that seemed to have no meaning. Yet somehow these symbols had paralyzed him; the brash confidence had gone and he actually trembled before me. Finally he gasped out, “It’s not possible!” in a horrified whisper and grabbed a nearby chair to steady himself.

Then he turned on me. “Did you see who did this?” he demanded, his voice rising. I shook my head dumbly and wondered why he hadn’t thought to blame me, as I had been the last one in the room. And yet his look was not accusing, just panicked and wild, like that of a hunted man desperate for shelter.

“Sir,” I faltered, “I can ask the other girls if they heard or saw anyone—”

“No!” he shot out. “It—it doesn’t matter, really. I just—I just don’t like to have my things disarranged or dirty, that is all.” But his voice cracked as he said it, and he reached a shaking arm out for a book on the table. He clutched it to his chest for a moment in distracted agitation and then started madly turning the pages. “I don’t understand,” he muttered to himself, and as he moved toward the light I saw that he was holding a leather-bound copy of the Bible in his hands.

I looked at the fireplace and considered the gray marks. The first were three vertical lines followed by a
V
and three more vertical lines. I glanced over at the Bible and saw that he was gazing intently at the chapter of Leviticus that discussed leprosy and the burning of contaminated clothing. This was what he was reading in a time of crisis? Either the lord had become suddenly deranged or—

The solution came to me in a triumphant flash, and I understood what I was witnessing. I smiled in spite of myself and then quickly composed my face into a picture of dumb confusion. When he had finished his study, I was kneeling by the fireplace and beating the sooty rug with a broom as if it were the source of all our troubles. He looked up finally, and I saw that he had composed himself; his breathing was regular now, though a thin layer of perspiration still shone on his upper lip.

He opened his mouth, probably intending to order me out of the room, but a sharp knock on the door distracted him. James entered, glanced at the open Bible on the desk, then at his pale master, and then at me. He frowned, advanced into the room, and his eyes darted quickly to the marks upon the mantelpiece. I knew, of course, that James had made those marks, less than half an hour earlier. But would he suspect that I had been hiding in the room then? Enough time had passed between James’s exit and his return. I might have entered the room immediately after he’d gone. I felt his eyes on me, and I moved quickly in the direction of the fireplace.

“Mrs. Bentney told me to come in here and sweep up the mess, sir,” I muttered and bent over the pile of ashes by the hearth.

But the valet had other things on his mind. If he suspected me, he certainly wouldn’t show it now. He turned casually to his master as if suddenly recalling a message. “Your father has asked that you meet him in his study, sir, before you dress for the dinner party. He said that it is urgent.”

Lord Victor nodded slowly and closed the Bible. “I am tired, James, honest to God I am,” he murmured.

“Make sure the fire is lit before you go,” James said to me before he closed the door behind them. “Master may wish to retire early tonight.”

Lord Victor had not meant that he wished to go to bed; his tone had spoken of a deeper weariness that would not be cured by sleep. James had understood exactly what he meant.

The question was, Why was the valet persecuting this family? Did Lord Victor suspect that his sister had been hurt and now feared the same fate for himself? And if so, why did he not ask for help?

It was possible that the Bible on the table had the answer to my question. I glanced up at the markings again and hesitated. No, I decided, it would be best to write them down now and come back to the book later. The conversation in the library was possibly more important, and I could not risk missing it.

II. IV.III : V.III / XI V.VII/ IV V.VII/II.III.
I tore a sheet from a notebook on the desk and quickly copied the symbols, then shoved the paper in my pocket and headed to the study.

I passed James on my way down. He had a preoccupied, distant look in his eyes, and he hurried past me without speaking. He had not stayed for the family meeting, and I was now more anxious to hear what was being said behind the closed library door. When the valet was out of sight, I dropped to my knees and put my ear close to the keyhole. The opening was not big enough to see through, but I could hear the conversation as clearly as if I were in the room.

“I cannot believe it,” Lady Hartfield was saying. “How could she behave in this way? I never read such a letter in all my life. I always said that we allowed her too many liberties, did I not?”

There was a murmur of agreement.

“I suppose we must call Mr. Porter and let him know,” the earl responded. All the confidence had gone from his tone, and he sounded as weary as his son. “I am also in shock. Still, at least she is safe. I thank heaven for that.”

There was a contemptuous sniff from the lady, and the rustling sound of cloth. I scrambled to my feet and ducked behind the staircase. Presently the library door swung open, and Lady Hartfield swept past me, followed shortly afterward by the earl and then his son. This was my chance. The family would be occupied with dressing for dinner, and I was unlikely to be disturbed. As their footsteps died away, I crept into the room and closed the door behind me.

I did not know what new evidence had just arrived, but it was obvious that I had to examine it myself. Although I was relieved to hear that Lady Rose was well, somehow I could not believe that the case was really over. There was still so much that was unexplained. Why had Lord Victor been afraid? What role did James play in all of this? And finally, how was he linked to my cousin’s case?

The surface of the desk was empty, and I prayed that he had left the letter in a drawer. The top one was locked, and my heart sunk with disappointment, but my spirits rose as the bottom drawer slipped open easily. I rummaged through it, searching desperately for the elusive note, but the drawer was stuffed with stacks of bills. I groaned and rose slowly to my feet. I would have to wait for Cartwright to tell me about the earl’s news, while I had to be content with reporting smudges on a mantelpiece.

It was then that I saw the fire. A yellow envelope was shivering at the edge of the coals, its edges curled and black, burning before my eyes. I had wasted precious moments hunting through the desk while my last clue was disappearing.

There was no time to think about it. I rushed forward, plunged my hand into the fire, and drew out the singed letter, ignoring the shock of pain that shot through my fingers and up my arm. With a flick of my wrist, I dropped the charred paper to the ground and stomped out the flames, cursing the foolish nobleman and his thoughtlessness. Already my hand was beginning to throb, and I could feel an angry blister forming on my palm.

When the crackling stopped and the snaking fire ring had died, I picked up the brittle envelope and slipped it gingerly into my apron. With a hasty motion I swept the remaining ashes into the hearth and left the study, holding a protective hand over the new treasure in my pocket.

My dear parents,

By now you have no doubt discovered my absence and are wondering what prompted me to leave my home as I did, without an explanation or warning. The truth is, I have tried without success to find my place among you and I am weary of my life. That, at least, cannot come as a surprise. Anyone who knew me also knew of my unhappiness.

What may come as a shock is that I have found love at last, despite everyone’s predictions. I know you
would never approve of my choice as he is below my station, but I cannot care. He loves me and accepts me for who I am. By the time you get this letter, we will be married and on our way to America.

I beg that you will not search for me, as I know that my new life will only make you miserable. Please burn this letter and forget me; it is all that I ask.

Your loving

Rose

I stared at this impossible note in blank amazement. It was as much of a puzzle after the tenth reading as it was on the first. It had to be authentic, I could not doubt that, for the girl’s parents would surely know their daughter’s handwriting. And yet the script was sloppy and weak; an educated noblewoman would never have written such a note. There were splotches of ink across the page and one section was blurred and unclear. I simply could not believe that her last message to her parents would be so thoughtless; an earl’s daughter would have taken more care with a dress order. And why would she ask them to burn the letter? Her elopement would not remain a secret for long. What purpose would be served by destroying this final memory? Something was very wrong, I was sure of it. Lady Rose had been described as awkward by some, high-strung by others; but no one had ever called her cruel. And this was a letter calculated to inflict pain, to embarrass and wound those who had loved her. I had not known the girl, but I still could not accept it.

I studied the note again with a more critical eye. The ink stains had surprised me most of all. Maids wrote messy letters; their mistresses used blotting paper. I brought my candle closer to the page. The first mark had been made with a thumbnail dipped in ink; I could see the whorls of a partial thumbprint. It might have been an accident, of course, it might have been—

But then I saw the second stain, and I knew that there had been no accident and the letter was a lie. One fingerprint could have been an oversight, but three identical prints across the page?

But what was the significance of the markings? What could I learn from this discovery? I held the page at arm’s length in front of me and frowned. The prints had been clearly placed beneath the words
He
,
life
, and
Please
. But this sentence did not make sense in any order. If there was a message in this, it would have been a hasty one, thought of quickly and executed in a moment. It could not be complicated.

That’s when I saw it.

The first stain was the largest and the most deliberate, underlining the entire word. The next two were smaller and placed at the beginning of the words:

HELP.

One pleading word behind a mask of lies. It was the only message of the letter.

And it would be her final farewell, for the man who had forced her to write those words intended that she disappear.
I beg that you will not search for me.
No one would look for her, and her kidnapper would make certain she was never found.

But who had taken her, and why?

And why had the earl burned the letter as she had asked him to do? Was that a natural response to his daughter’s last message? Shouldn’t he have saved it as a final memory of her—or at least preserved it so Mr. Porter and Cartwright could look at it?

I glanced again at the address on the envelope. The handwriting here was masculine, cramped and awkward, clearly a disguised hand. I knew that only a skilled forger could successfully mask his script. If I could obtain a sample of the criminal’s writing, my case would be complete.

Complete.
I shivered at the thought. I could hand two slips of paper to Cartwright and say the words, “Our case is now complete.”

And he would smile at me and say—

I shook myself and pushed the scene out of my mind. It did not matter what he said, I told myself. I was not doing this for him.

I was doing this to save Adelaide and Lady Rose, and perhaps also to save myself, to prove to myself that I was worth more than a sweet face on the marriage market. But I was certainly not doing this for Cartwright.

No, I did not care what Peter Cartwright thought of me. I could not allow myself to care.