Secret Letters (4 page)

“Mr. Cartwright—” I began timidly, and stopped, for Adelaide had just savagely pinched my arm.

“Not another word, Dora, do you understand?” she hissed at me.

“It’s all right, Lady Forrester, technically she did follow my instructions. I asked her not to mention Mr. Sherlock Holmes in Mr. Porter’s presence, and she didn’t. Unfortunately, she chose to mention
everything else
. Next time I will try to be more precise in my directions.”

“There will be no next time, sir. I am sending her home tomorrow.”

“Adelaide!”

“Hush, Dora. Mr. Cartwright, I will stay in London until I hear from you. You have my address in town. Good afternoon.”

A grip of iron closed around my elbow, and I felt myself being propelled steadily toward the door. There was no point in protesting anymore; I had been wrong, and there was nothing I could say that would change her mind, in any case. But I could not leave like this; I had to say goodbye properly and squeeze at least one pleasant memory from my sorry trip to London. I did not want to be remembered as the girl who had stupidly lost her temper and been sent home in complete disgrace. There was one last thing I had to do.

So I left my purse behind.

As my cousin started down the stairs, I glanced back and saw that Cartwright was standing by the sofa and staring at my little handbag with a perplexed look upon his face. He seemed about to call to me, but then his eyes met mine and he smiled broadly. I gave an innocent little shrug, put a finger to my lips, and shut the door behind me.

A
DELAIDE HAD A LOT
to say to me when we got home. It was all true, really, and I knew it. I was honestly sorry for my outburst and ashamed that the two men had seen me at my worst. “Curious and quick-witted” was what I had hoped to be; I had never wished to earn the title of a “sixteen-year-old shrew,” as Adelaide now referred to me. I tried to apologize and show her that I regretted my behavior, but my repentance did not change a thing. I was to go back to Newheath the moment she found a chaperone to escort me there. In the meantime, I was to spend my free hours repenting my many failings.

When she finally left my room, I paced about and considered the best means of escape. I could have asked to call on a fictitious friend, or requested a shopping or a library trip, but Adelaide would certainly have insisted on accompanying me. At my “tender” age, even a brief stroll across the street was considered improper, and a visit to an unmarried gentleman’s quarters (even to retrieve a missing handbag) was quite unthinkable. Disobeying my cousin was wrong, of course, but I would be returning to the country the following morning, and I would have the remainder of a dreary lifetime to atone for my behavior. So I waited until Adelaide went out to pay a call, and several minutes later I quietly scurried out the servants’ entrance.

“Hunt’s registry office,” I told the cabbie, and moments later I was off on my own private investigation. It would likely end in nothing and I knew it, for the task was difficult enough without the added handicap of my gender. I had no freedom to explore my findings, and even if I discovered something, I would be forced to hand the details over to our male protectors. But I could begin, at least; I could begin what I could not finish. And I might see Peter Cartwright one last time and show him that angering adults was not my only talent. The servants agency was located in the heart of Marylebone with two adjoining offices functioning as the male and female branches of the organization. A solemn old gentleman presided over the men’s department, and three middle-aged ladies acted as the agent’s scribes. On the desk in front of them lay several oversized ledgers that contained the names and references of prospective servants and employers. I approached the lady in the center and stated my cousin’s name and town address.

“I was wondering if you could help me,” I began sweetly. “You see, our footman, Thomas Dyer, recently left our service rather unexpectedly, and we never had a chance to settle our accounts. He is still owed his quarter’s wages, and I was hoping that you had his information in your records. He was referred to us through your agency while we were in London, and I thought perhaps he might have put his name back on your lists. It would have been less than a fortnight ago. I hoped you might remember him. He was a very tall gentleman, freckled skin, bright red hair.”

The woman shrugged and began to leaf through her giant notebook. “Dyer,” she murmured. “We have a Drewer here, and a Dyner, but I do not see a Thomas Dyer. I’m very sorry.”

And so ended my brilliant spree as a detective.

I sighed, and began to walk away.

“One moment, miss!” cried her assistant. “Did he speak with a little lisp?”

I turned about to face her. “Why, yes, he did!”

“Oh, I remember him! He was in here just over a week ago. But I never wrote his name down because he wasn’t looking for a place at all. Don’t you remember, Annie?” Her companion shook her head wearily and shut her book. “Well, it was a bit unusual, so maybe that’s why I remember. We don’t usually have people in here searching for old friends,” the girl continued. “But that’s what he was after. He was looking for another servant who had registered with us.”

“Do you remember the servant’s name?”

“Oh, I forget—it started with an ‘F.’ Just a moment, please—” She turned the pages to the spot and read the entry out. “There, you see, I marked it. James Farringdon. Took a place as a valet at Hartfield Hall, six months ago.”

The other lady nodded. “Now
him
I remember very well. Handsome as the devil, and proud of it, too. He was a strange one, certainly.”

“Why was that?”

“James? Well, we simply could not work with him. He turned down several of our suggestions because they were not noble enough for him and then finally came in here to let us know that he had found the perfect place. And yet a week earlier, he had been offered a better spot, as first footman in a viscount’s home, and he had refused it. There’s no accounting for the whims of these ‘aristocratic’ fellows.”

Now,
this
was information I could use. Thomas had been looking for this Farringdon after he’d discovered Adelaide’s letters. This noble valet had to have been his buyer.

James Farringdon, I repeated to myself.

J.F.

I thanked the secretary and left the office smiling to myself. I had learned the identity and the address of my cousin’s blackmailer in twenty minutes. That was as much as anyone could do in London, and I could not help feeling just a little proud. It was now time to retrieve my purse from Cartwright’s study.

When I arrived at Portman Square, the maid appeared surprised to see me. “Master and young master are not in just now, miss. Would you like to leave your card?”

“Oh, I only need a minute. I accidentally left my purse here earlier. Is it all right if I go upstairs and fetch it? I can let myself out.”

She motioned me upstairs with a little shrug. “Certainly, if you like.”

I climbed the stairs and shut the door behind me. I was very sorry that Cartwright was not at home, for I had wanted to relate my findings to him personally. Now it seemed that I would have to tell him about my trip in writing and then go away without another word. I had hoped to see once more his startled smile, the flush of laughter on his face, even the flame of emerald mockery in his eyes. Somehow I did not want to leave the city without that memory. And yet, this was to be my final visit.

My purse was sitting by the sofa where I had left it. I picked it up, walked over to the desk, and began to write my note. As I scribbled my message down, a sheet of paper slid from off a pile, and a folded slip of stationery on the table fluttered open. My fingers froze around my pen. I had not meant to look at the private letter, but the signature at the bottom had jumped off the page at me.

It was impossible.

I could not understand it.

There upon the monogrammed paper, in precise and stately script, the following words were written:

May 8, 1891

Mr. Porter,

I would like to call on you this afternoon at three in order to consult you about a disturbing event which has recently occurred at my estate at Hartfield. I trust that I may rely upon your secrecy and discretion. Please confirm the appointment at the Carlton Club, if this time is agreeable to you.

Charles Frederick Dowling, 4th Earl of Hartfield

There was no earthly way that this note was a coincidence. I had just learned that my cousin’s blackmailer was serving at the earl’s country home, and now some “disturbing event” had upset this nobleman so much that he had traveled up to London to consult a detective. The two events were connected, they
had
to be connected. But what had happened at the estate? Was the earl also being blackmailed? And, more importantly, how would I find out?

As if on cue, there was a distant rumble outside the door, the shuffling thud of feet upon the stair; and then I heard the muffled sound of Mr. Porter’s voice. “I want to assure Your Lordship that I have found Mr. Cartwright’s collaboration to be invaluable, especially in cases that require the most discretion.”

His last words had barely registered before I had decided on the second bedroom as a hiding place, and hurried to it. His Lordship was not going to find me gawking at him when he entered, that was certain. I could at least spare Mr. Cartwright that uncomfortable explanation.

As the men entered, I shut the bedroom door and crouched by the keyhole to peer into the study. Mr. Porter was standing aside to usher in their client, and I could see at once why his lips were set in such an awed and guarded smile. Anyone would have recognized their visitor; Charles Frederick Dowling, the 4th Earl of Hartfield, was a true celebrity, a man famous in the political world as a prominent Conservative and member of the Privy Council, and in society for his lavish parties and his yearly regatta ball. My cousin’s blackmailer had attached himself to one of the wealthiest landowners in England.

He was a giant man, almost as wide as he was tall, with broad shoulders that spanned the doorway. Everything about the earl declared his power and his wealth, from the fur-trimmed mantle that brushed against his thick blond beard to the onyx studs that gleamed in the cuffs of his perfectly tailored suit. Mr. Porter offered the nobleman a drink as Cartwright took his cloak, and the two older men sauntered over to the sideboard.

Peter Cartwright was walking toward the sofa when I saw him freeze and stare pointedly at the writing desk. In my haste, I had left my half-finished note on his table when I fled and tossed the inky pen beside my purse. With grim determination he strode over to it, picked up the handbag, and turned slowly toward his bedroom door. He was glaring at the keyhole now, his eyes narrowed, furious, as if he meant to burn a passage through the wood and expose me to the world. I held my breath, waiting for him to call me out, dreading the moment when I would have to creep into the light and explain myself. Already I could hear my cousin’s outraged wail: “You found her
where
—?!” and the thump of my aunt collapsing to the floor in shock. I was certain it was over, and I had moved to rise when suddenly I heard him murmur, so softly that only I could hear, “Well, there goes my reputation—” A resounding thud cut off the ending as he tossed my handbag with vicious strength against the keyhole.

Then he turned sharply on his heel and walked over to the window as the nobleman and the investigator were settling into their armchairs with their drinks. It seemed that I was safe for now. Afterward I would have to make Cartwright understand that I was actually
protecting
his reputation. If I came out now, he would have to explain why there was a sixteen-year-old girl hiding in his bedroom. So, until the interview was over, I had no choice but to crouch by the keyhole and listen to the earl’s case.

I admit that it wasn’t absolutely necessary to eavesdrop. I could have stopped my ears. But Adelaide’s blackmailer was living now on the earl’s estate, and I was, so far, the only one who knew that. It was obviously my duty to listen in.

“I can hardly stress the importance of absolute secrecy in this matter, Mr. Porter,” the earl was saying. “Even my presence here is a compromise. My wife and son were of the opinion that I should wait, but I could not rest until I had some explanation. Going to the police would have, of course, led to the very scandal that we wished to avert, so after some debate, Lady Hartfield and I agreed that you should be brought in.”

Cartwright had come to stand opposite the earl’s chair, and he shook his head as he dropped into his seat.

“You are convinced, then, that your daughter is beyond saving?” he inquired.

The nobleman gave him a startled look.

“How could you—?” he began.

“When Your Lordship removed your cloak earlier, I caught a glimpse of a cabinet-sized portrait that was tucked into the inner pocket. The young lady in the photograph bears a striking resemblance to Lady Hartfield. Even the fondest father does not regularly carry a portrait of that size about with him. It would have been unnecessary to bring a picture if we were shortly to meet the young lady herself, so you must be here to consult us about her disappearance. The discovery must have been embarrassing for your family, and so you have concealed her flight from everyone.”

Mr. Porter inclined his head slightly and gave a little sniff of satisfaction. “
My protégé
, Your Lordship,
as
you can see.” I had a sudden urge to throw something at his puckered face.

The earl relaxed his posture and smiled. “Well, he certainly is a credit to you. And it is true that I’ve come to consult you about my daughter.”

“Your Lordship, perhaps you could tell us a little about your family,” Mr. Porter suggested. “And then continue on to your recent problem.”

The earl nodded and settled deeper into his chair. “I have two children, Mr. Porter,” he began. “The eldest, Alfred, or Lord Victor, is the only child from my first marriage to Lady Gwendolyn Lennox. Lord Victor’s mother died when he was quite young and he has few memories of her, and so he regards the current Lady Hartfield as his mother. Lady Rose is my daughter by my second marriage. She has lived most of her eighteen years at Hartfield, my country estate, with the exception of the Season months, which we frequently spend in the city. Several days ago I traveled alone to town to attend to a business matter, leaving my wife, son, and daughter at Hartfield Hall. It was during my absence that Lady Rose disappeared. Two nights ago, late Wednesday night, she vanished from her bedroom. Her bed had been slept in, and a large satchel, several articles of clothing, and her best jewels were missing from her bureau. There was no sign of a struggle, and nothing else in the house was missing. My wife and I believe that she fled from the house in the early hours of the morning before the servants were awake.