Secret Letters

by Leah Scheier

  Already it was two o’clock, my appointment with Cartwright was drawing near, and still she had not moved. I watched her flip, flip, flip those pages, counted clock strokes, and gnawed the lace around my sleeve. She wasn’t planning to go anywhere; that was obvious. This was my last chance to see Peter, and there was nothing I could do.

  I did not hear Cook enter, I was too busy being furious. She shuffled for a bit and cleared her throat. Adelaide looked up at her, and Cook glanced slyly at me before she spoke. “Lady Forrester, I was wondering if you wanted soup this evening. Or will you be going out?”

  “No, I had no plans today.” My cousin shrugged. “You may put the soup up, if you like.”

  I suddenly hated soup. Poetry, too, and downy armchairs, and fires, and London. I glared my feelings at our servant. She winked quietly at me and then turned back to Adelaide. “I’ve just heard of a new milliner’s shop in Knightsbridge. Supposed to be the latest styles from Paris, better than Fineman’s here on Oxford Street. Today is opening day, ma’am.”

  “That sounds rather interesting,” Adelaide responded, thumbing through her volume. “Perhaps I’ll take a look. Knightsbridge is not so very far. Dora, what do you say?”

  “Well, you ought to go, surely. Your riding hat is just a fright. But I have a little headache, so I think I’ll stay in today.”

  My cousin shrugged and slid lazily off the chair. “I will be back for supper, then. Why don’t you try Dr. Brown’s elixir? It is just the thing for headaches. You will find it on my dresser.”

  “Certainly, Adelaide,” I breathed and scurried off to fetch it.

  My cousin took an age to dress, and it was nearly half past two when she was ready to leave the house. In the meantime, I had thrown a little jacket over my walking dress and had styled my own coiffure (a snaky bun with fifteen little pins to keep the curls down); but it did not matter that it sagged a bit, for when the door shut behind her, I knew that I was finally free.

  As I flew through the servants’ entrance, Cook grinned at me and waved me on my way. “Thank you,” I called to her. “I won’t forget this!” That woman could sell the entire kitchen for all I cared; I would never breathe a word.

  I was at Cartwright’s flat in little less than a quarter of an hour. A cab was hardly necessary: it was only several blocks away, and I ran the distance. I wish now that I had been less eager in my entry, for I practically barreled through his door. He was lounging on the sofa when I entered, his long legs stretched out before the fire, a tent of newspapers covering his eyes. As I came in, the sheets slid off; he pushed himself forward on his elbows and regarded my breathless, glowing face with some amusement.

  “All right, Miss Joyce, I missed you too,” he smiled. “Won’t you sit down?”

  I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror on the mantelpiece and sank into the chair in mute embarrassment. My cheeks were shining from a thin film of perspiration that extended to my collar, and my hair had blown into a cloud of charcoal dust beneath my hat. There was a streak of something inky across my brow. I looked like I had rolled across the city.

  “It was hard to get away. You needn’t laugh,” I gasped out angrily.

  “Well, well, I’m sorry. A drink of water, maybe? You look a little—gray.”

  “No, thank you, I don’t know how long I’ve got.” I paused for a moment and took a ragged breath. “And this is certainly my final trip. Please just tell me what you found at Hartfield.”

  “Your final trip? You do not mean that, surely?” His tone was light and playful, but there was a glimmering of something else behind the sea-green depths—a silent question. “Why, then we must speak of pleasant things, Miss Joyce. Music, maybe, your favorite books, the weather? Let’s not spoil this moment with talk about kidnapped daughters and other scandals.”

  “Then—you believe that she was kidnapped? Truly? Oh, you must tell me, please!”

  He heaved a dramatic sigh and leaned back against the cushion. “I suppose you’ll want to hear all the details, what everyone was wearing, the color of the curtains, the size of the salon—oh, stop frowning, and I will tell you everything from the beginning.”

  I folded my hands patiently and watched him with suspicious eyes. There was still something goading and deceptive in his look, like that of a child extending sweets which he intends to snatch away.

  He shook his head at my expression, gave another sigh and began his statement. “We arrived at Hartfield Hall yesterday evening and were instructed to wait for Her Ladyship in the drawing room. Porter and I were both disguised as workmen, come to consult on alterations to Lady Rose’s bedroom. I was dressed in a very fetching number, brown plaid with patches at the elbow, and my colleague was all in gray, with a red scarf for accent. The room was simply stunning, Miss Joyce, for it was decorated in the Oriental fashion, but with a curious assortment of English antiques.” His voice had risen to a comic pitch during this description; his mocking falsetto tone resembled a chirping schoolgirl’s. “Oh, and next to the piano there was a charming little Ming vase which I was simply mad over—All right, where are you going?”

  I had risen to my feet and grabbed my purse. “I am going home. You clearly do not need me here, and I am tired of being treated like a funny pet. Good day, sir.”

  He leaned forward, grabbed my wrist, and pulled me down into my chair again. “I’ll stop, I promise. Please don’t go.”

  “Then tell me only what you would tell a male colleague. In your regular voice, please.”

  He cleared his throat and began again, hesitantly this time, but in his natural low, soft murmur. “A portrait of the missing Lady Rose smiled at us from over the fireplace—a duplicate of the one that the earl had given us. I was studying it when the door opened to admit the lady of the house and her stepson, Lord Victor.

  “Lady Hartfield was quite handsome, petite and blond, with the same clear eyes as the ones that gazed upon us from her daughter’s portrait. Her face was pale and composed, but there was a tightness to her lips and a tense alertness in her posture that expressed her cautious pride. She smiled as she glanced over our workmen’s attire and thanked us both for coming in disguise and for the effort we had made to preserve their privacy—”

  “One moment,” I interrupted. “Would you mind telling me exactly what everyone said? It’s more accurate than a summary.”

  He raised his eyebrows and laughed quietly. “Just as you wish, sergeant,” he murmured. “Let’s see, I believe Lord Victor spoke next, and he echoed his stepmother.‘I admit that I was opposed to calling in a detective at this sensitive time,’ he said, ‘but my father has assured us that you have pledged to locate my sister quietly and without causing any scandal.’

  “Lady Hartfield smiled and nodded approvingly. ‘My son expresses our concerns exactly. I would be devastated if any harm were to come to my daughter, but I recognize that she has brought this on herself. As a mother, I must also consider her brother’s future and recognize how his sister’s shame will affect his happiness.’

  “The son murmured his agreement. They were an interesting contrast, sitting there next to each other, nodding almost in unison. She was fair and small; he had a swarthy complexion, a thick mane of black curls, and deep-set dark eyes.

  “‘I assume you wish to question me about the meeting I observed between my sister and the gentleman in the garden,’ remarked Lord Victor after a short silence.

  “‘I would like to hear your account, of course,’ Mr. Porter replied.

  “‘I wish I could give you a more detailed description of the man, but I only saw them from my bedroom window, and that is some distance from the garden. I realize now that I should have paid more attention, but at the time I thought she was simply speaking to some visitor of my mother’s, and I did not think to question it. The interview was a long one, though, for when I looked out again nearly half an hour later, they were still there.’

  “‘You did not mention the incident to anyone?’


  “‘Not until she went missing, no. I hadn’t attached any significance to the meeting. My sister was such a quiet sort that it never occurred to me that she might have a lover.’

  “‘I assume that you have not received any message from her since she left?’

  “Lady Hartfield shook her head with a wounded air. ‘I wonder that she has not written to us, to at least ease our minds. We have had our differences, it is true, but I would not have imagined that she would have been so unkind.’

  “‘Has an inquiry been made with your daughter’s friends?’ “‘I myself have paid social calls to the families of the young women she was close to. In each home I learned that no one has heard from her in several weeks. I also discreetly questioned her servants, to learn if they had observed any unusual activity around her disappearance. Her lady’s maid was quite surprised that a sudden trip took place without her knowledge and attendance, but, thankfully, she is not over bright and did not question the situation too closely. She did not mention anything out of the ordinary.’

  “‘May we examine your daughter’s room?’

  “‘Of course. I will be happy to show you upstairs.’

  “Lady Rose’s bedroom was situated to the left of the winding staircase on the second story of the great house,” Cartwright continued. “Behind me, I caught a glimpse of a lavishly furnished dining room, about which several housemaids and footmen were milling, setting the long table with crystal glasses and gleaming silver.

  “As we were ascending, one of the servants called his master’s name, and Lord Victor left us with a promise to return if he was needed.”

  Cartwright stretched himself and reached out for a glass of water on the table. “Well, that is enough free information for the moment. You shan’t get off that easy—not today, Miss Joyce. I’d like to hear what you would have looked for in Lady Rose’s bedroom. Where would you have started?”

  “The bed, certainly.”

  He winked slyly at me. “Ah, but the bed was turned by the parlor maid before we got there.”

  “I would still look underneath it, sir. And pat the mattress down. Girls frequently hide things inside their mattresses, you know.”

  “Very true. Well, there was a feather underneath the bed. Now, what?”

  A single feather? I thought. Had the mattress been cut open?

  “You examined the seams, I hope? Were there any holes?”

  He smiled and nodded his approval. “I looked for holes in the covers, of course, and in the seams. I found a single thread, of a dark blue color, adhering to the mattress. The seam was absolutely intact and was sewn together with the same blue thread.”

  “Oh, but—that is impossible. If the bed was turned and pounded, as you said, then the thread would have floated off. Unless—unless someone cut the mattress and searched through it before you got there. After Lady Rose was gone, and after the maid had cleaned the quarters.”

  “Exactly. Very good. You have a curious talent for this sort of thing, I see.” He looked away from me for a moment, and I saw his lips tense briefly. “One of your relatives used to be an officer, by chance? An investigator, possibly?”

  “No, of course not,” I retorted stiffly.

  “Ah, well. I thought perhaps—deductive skills are frequently hereditary, you know. Well, never mind. So what do you suppose I looked at next?”

  I sighed and silently scanned the imagined room. How I wished that I had been there! Would I have seen something that he had missed? Did I dare hope that I might one day be the eyes of the investigation, instead of a passive listener, like a child begging for a bedtime story? “Well, Mr. Cartwright, I would have opened all the dressers and the wardrobe first.”

  “Indeed. The latter was filled with clothing and trinkets, but the bottommost drawer of the dresser was empty. I asked Lady Hartfield what the drawer had contained.

  “‘My daughter kept all her correspondence, as well as her diaries there,’ she told me. ‘She must have emptied it and taken them with her.’

  “I did not say anything at the time, Miss Joyce, but it seemed strange to me: that bottom panel sagged very markedly in the middle, as if it had held the weight of many pounds of paper. Why would a girl take all her correspondence with her when she fled?”

  I shook my head. “And how could she scale a tree with so much weighing her down? Perhaps she hid her diaries somewhere before she went, or someone else took them after she had gone. But what did Mr. Porter think of all of this? What was he doing while you were crawling about the floor?”

  Cartwright took another sip of water and stuffed a bit of cinnamon pastry into his mouth. “Talking to Lady Hartfield, mostly. Lady Rose had a strange collection of clocks displayed on one of the bookcases, and they were discussing those, I think.”

  “Was there something special about the clocks?”

  “They were set to different time zones, actually, corresponding to the cities of their origin. Most were very beautiful and made of porcelain or silver. There was one old broken wooden one in the back that did not match the others, but there was nothing particularly interesting about them, no. Mr. Porter likes that sort of thing. I believe they would have talked about ceramics all that evening—if I had not fallen out the window.”

  “You fell?!”

  “All right, I jumped. Lady Hartfield and Mr. Porter got very excited.”

  “Oh, I see. You were trying to re-create Lady Rose’s supposed flight.”

  He rolled his eyes and slumped back against the sofa cushion. “You could at least attempt to be mystified, Miss Joyce. Just once in a while. It would really help my ego.”

  “You appear to mystify the rest of the world, Mr. Cartwright. I think that should be enough for you. But what I want to know is: Did you take a suitcase with you when you leapt courageously out the window? You should have done.”

  “Yes, of course. I stuffed it with the appropriate weight of clothing and tried to descend the tree outside her window. The branches were slick with rain and it was near impossible. I slipped, in fact, and might have broken my neck if Porter hadn’t caught me by the collar.”

  “Ah, so he is good for something, then. But you haven’t told me about the ground below. Were there any marks upon the soil?”

  “A pair of footprints, yes.”

  “No imprint of a suitcase?”

  “None.”

  “Then she could not have lowered her suitcase from the window with a rope, nor tossed it to the ground.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Did the footprints match a pair of Lady Rose’s slippers?”

  “Not unless the lady chose to wear men’s boots that night. And the only shoes that have gone missing are Lady Rose’s ballroom pumps. Not the best choice for a stealthy flight by dark.”

  “Oh! But I do not understand—how did she escape her room without help, and without leaving any marks beneath her window? And if she was kidnapped—how could her abductor carry her down a tree against her will? Or through the house, for that matter? How could he be sure that none of the servants would see him?”

  “That was what I asked myself before I even arrived at Hartfield. Unfortunately, after I had combed the room and the soil outside, I was no closer to answering that question. So I am afraid that I am at a dead end—for now.”

  “But the servants? Surely you could speak to someone—as a workman, stir up some gossip, whisper in a few ears. You are so very good at winking at strange girls, after all.”

  He looked offended. “I only winked at you because you seemed to appreciate it. All right, don’t pout, I’ll take it back. The truth is, I was only able to speak with the housekeeper for a little while, and I’m afraid I did not get any useful information. She was a gossipy sort and was more than happy to relate all of the sins and troubles relating to her house staff, however. I found out that one of the scullery maids has come into a bit of money from an old uncle and so has left their service. Two of the upper housemaids have gone off to better themselves in Au
stralia, and one unfortunate laundry maid was obliged to leave abruptly due to an affair with an irresponsible gardener. The housekeeper even informed me that she suspects another maid of being in the same ‘situation’ (a valet is responsible this time), but there are no grounds yet to warrant her dismissal.”

  “But you learned nothing at all about James! And why do the love affairs of scullery maids matter to us?”

  “Oh, they don’t matter to me. But I did note that the recent romances beneath the stairs have brought about a staff shortage at Hartfield. A severe staff shortage.”

  I laughed and rose slowly to my feet. “Perhaps you should put on a servant’s cap and apron and apply for the position, then. You’d make a very pretty maid.”

  He did not smile at my little joke, and I thought for a moment that I had offended him again. For a few minutes he sat quietly, chewing thoughtfully on a thumbnail and staring past me out the window. I was wondering if he had heard me or noticed my movement toward the door when he cleared his throat and murmured wistfully, “But—Miss Joyce, they already know my face at Hartfield.”

  His words fell like lead into my lap. I gasped beneath their weight and dropped heavily into my chair. There was a throbbing silence, the blood was beating slowly in my ears, and I felt my hands go cold and numb. I must have misunderstood, I reasoned quickly. He was certainly joking, mocking my enthusiasm, daring me to answer him. And yet, there was no laughter in his eyes. His shoulders were bowed and tense, his fingers clasped, his lips drawn tight. He would not look at me.

  “What do you mean—?” I exclaimed desperately. “Mr. Cartwright, you cannot think—please, you must tell me what you meant.” I was choking on the words; my voice was harsh and dry as gravel.

  He rose slowly from the sofa and moved to sit across from me, pulling up the opposite chair so that his feet almost touched my skirt. Leaning toward me, with his elbows resting lightly on his knees and his fingers clasped together, he looked at me, not at my ashen face or shaking hands, but deep into my eyes as if he would read me, fixing me with a gaze that stopped my breath.