The entryway table and stack of outgoing post gave him pause. He could run the mail to the village himself—be seen, as Gryff had suggested. Smile. Greet the neighbors. Remind people he was a good chap, all things considered. Stop in to see Gryff, who would know how to help him put into action this nebulous plan forming in his mind. He hoped. Then, once home, a jaunt to the cliffs to check on the cigarette-butt situation.
The out-of-doors embraced him with warm air, assuring him he needed no overcoat atop his jacket. He put on the hat he’d grabbed on his way out and flipped through the letters in his hand as he started down the steps. Had he put in the one he’d finished yesterday to Conan Doyle?
Ah, yes. There it was. He’d finished it just before he left his study to dress for dinner but then had inspiration for one more line in his manuscript, so it would have been no great surprise to find he’d forgotten to carry the letter out with him.
He flipped through the rest of the stack, halting when he spotted Miss Gresham’s increasingly familiar hand. The letter was addressed to Miss Cressida Parker.
Parker? She hadn’t mentioned the younger children being half siblings. But they must be, if her sister had a different surname.
Shuffling all the letters back into a neat stack, he tucked them into the inner pocket of his jacket and set out down the drive with a long stride.
“Mr. Holstein!”
He halted at Kenver’s voice, turned to see the groom jogging from the stable. “If you’re headed to the village, sir, you’ll want a horse. The road is a ruin.”
Peter sighed. He didn’t want a horse. He didn’t want to wait for one to be saddled, and he wanted the chance to stretch his legs. Still, he knew wisdom when he heard it and relented with a nod. He would ride to the village and back. Save the walk for the woods.
Within a few minutes, Kenver had delivered his favorite mare along with a nod and smile, and Peter mounted with a stuttered thanks. It didn’t take him long to be glad he’d taken the advice—the rain had turned the road to sludge, pocked with puddles. Sheep bleated their greetings to him from the roadside fields, no doubt laughing at the mud that splattered him with every step of his horse.
He tried to set his mind on his story. But every time he conjured up the image of Locryn and Rosita, he saw instead Miss Gresham. Shoulders hunched in angry pain. The fury of injustice in her eyes. Worry whitening her knuckles. And so he prayed his way into the village, scarcely noting when others passed on the narrow roads, but to nod.
Until he dismounted and turned to the post office. Something caught his eye then—the glint of meager sunshine on metal.
His gaze followed the shine of its own will. And then his blood went cold. He knew the man leaning against the exterior of the hotel a few doors down, though he couldn’t have said what his name was. He knew him because he’d seen him all too often in London. Dogging his steps. Following him. And then appearing at the side of Mr. Jasper.
Blast it all. Whoever he was, Jasper’s lackey stood now, grey hair peeking from a bowler that matched the crisp lines of his suit. A mean little smile curved his lips as he flipped a florin into the air, caught it, flipped it again. Watching him. Just watching him.
Well, Peter would give him nothing to see but a man going about his normal business. He delivered the stack of outgoing mail to the post office, keeping a smile in place even as the postmaster barely acknowledged him. Mr. Dell, who had always been a friend of Father’s, didn’t even return Peter’s smile, much less his short greeting. Were his tongue as witty as his pen, he could perhaps have said something to cajole a smile or laugh from the aging man. As it was, he could only bring himself to say, “G-Good day,” and beat a retreat.
Jasper’s man still stood there. Watching.
“Mr. Holstein!”
Peter spun upon hearing his name called out in a wavering voice and pronounced in the German way rather than the Cornish. He paused on the sidewalk and offered a warm smile to his grandfather’s friend. “M-Mr. Arnold. How . . . how are you?”
His neighbor tottered his way down the walk, cane in one hand and little dog trotting along behind him, as always. His face was lined and smiling. “Well, quite well. Though worried for you—I heard there was an incident at Kensey the other day.” His wispy brows drew down. “Are you quite all right?”
Peter nodded. “Honestly, I . . . I was a b-bit concerned for . . . for you.” Though the incident looked a little different now, with the man from London flipping coins on the street corners. Maybe it hadn’t been a local at all. Maybe it had been him. Which would, at least, mean that Peter was his sole target, and no other people of German or Austrian descent would be targeted. The aged Mr. Arnold would then be safe. Still, he had to be sure. “Has any . . . anyone . . . ?”
“Threatened me?” Mr. Arnold waved that off. “Nein, nein. Everyone knows I came here in protest when Austria and Germany finally struck an alliance, ja? I daresay no one is more vocal against Germany than I.”
He said it on a chuckle, and Peter smiled in reply. His family may well have come here out of protest as well—but it didn’t seem to have bought them any favors. But then, his family had never shouted their reasons for leaving Germany for all to hear.
Or for any to hear. Including him.
But obviously Opa’s opinions were not so dissimilar from the Austrian Mr. Arnold’s or they wouldn’t have been such friends. And at the very least, if this relocation plan went forward in the event of war, Mr. Arnold should be safe from it, not forced from his home. Not if they stuck to the age restriction the king had mentioned.
“Well, I am . . . I am glad n-no one has . . . has troubled you. I was w-worried.”
Mr. Arnold patted his arm. “No need, my boy. Now, tell me you’ve taken my advice. That you’re distancing yourself from all those ties to Germany.”
“I . . . I’m looking into it.” Though he doubted it would even matter—how could it, unless he then shouted it from the rooftops? And even then, documents could provide facts, but facts could so easily be ignored or altered. Actually being a loyal British subject with all ties to Germany severed wouldn’t prove him such in public opinion.
“Gut.” Another pat on his arm, and then Mr. Arnold stepped aside. “You have a good day, Mr. Holstein. And come and have tea with me soon, hmm?”
Peter agreed with a nod and moved to give Mr. Arnold and his cane more room. Then angled himself toward Gryff’s office. A minute later, he was sitting with a frustrated whoosh upon a chair in front of his friend’s desk, thankful no other client was there.
Gryff glanced up from whatever he was writing but murmured something that loosely resembled “one moment” and kept at his task.
Peter spun his hat around in his hands, letting the texture of the felted fabric calm him. Never mind the opinions of the townspeople. Never mind Jasper and his lackeys or proving his citizenship. There were other things he could do just now that didn’t require digging through his attic or library. Things to do good, not just try to stop an ill from befalling him. Not exactly brandishing a machete and slicing his way through a jungle, but something active.
“There we are.” Gryff tossed down his pen and looked up with a grin. “And what can I do for you today, old boy? Have we somebody to sue? Perhaps a plagiarist?”
Peter’s lips turned up. “No. No one to . . . to sue. Just . . . just someone to find.”
Gryff lifted his silver brows and leaned back in his chair. “Well, I’ve been thinking of expanding into detective work—I’d be a regular Holmes, don’t you think?”
Peter snorted his opinion of that.
Gryff chuckled. “All right, perhaps not. Who are we finding?”
“Miss Gresham’s . . . her sister. Olivia, the youngest. She was . . . she was injured yesterday.” He told the tale as well as he knew it, watching as Gryff’s face went smooth and tense with anger at the news that it was a wealthy man who had caused it all.
“So we want to find this chap and see he meets justice.
” Gryff sat forward again, tapping a finger against a blank page. “It’ll be near to impossible. There are no shortage of selfish, cruel men in London.”
“No. I know. I mean . . .” Peter sighed and set his hat on the corner of Gryff’s desk. “I would like to, but . . . but I know better.”
“So then? If that’s not your goal, who is it we’re going to find?”
“Olivia.” He darted a glance toward the door. Not that Miss Gresham would be anywhere nearby to overhear. Even so, he pitched his voice low. “The . . . the bills. They’re sure to be . . . to be too much. I’d like to help.”
Gryff frowned, though surely not at the desire. “Why does that require a detective? Just ask Miss Gresham where to send some aid.”
Peter shook his head. “Anonymously.”
Gryff sighed. Grumbled. And then reached for his pen. “You must always complicate things, mustn’t you? So I’ll have someone ask at all the hospitals for an Olivia Gresham.”
“Or Parker.” If it was the twelve-year-old’s surname, it was likely the six-year-old’s as well. He scooted closer and motioned for the pen. “I’ve her . . . her direction.” Really, that should make it entirely easy. Virtually no detective work at all. Gryff could simply get in touch with one of his cohorts in London, have someone drop by the Gresham-Parker home, assure them an anonymous benefactor would be seeing to Olivia’s recuperation, and then let Peter know what all they needed. Depending on the severity of the broken bones and—may God forbid it—any infection or complications that set in, it could be quite a bit.
“It’s good of you, Pete. But then, you know that. Hence why you won’t do it openly. Although . . .” Gryff flashed him that smile that said, I know it’s hopeless, but I’ll say it anyway. “If you did let it be known, it might win you some favor with the populace.”
His answer was to stand and reach for his hat. “There’s . . . there’s a man in the village. From London. One of . . . of Mr. Jasper’s men.”
Gryff muttered a blast and ran a hand through his hair. “And you didn’t tell me this first? We’ll alert the constable. To be harassed in your own hometown by that jealous reprobate . . .”
Not that the constable would be able to do anything. Peter put his hat on his head. “Come by for . . . for tea on Saturday. Bring the girls.”
Gryff blew out a breath, rubbed the frustration from his face, and nodded. “I was going to suggest the same—Jenny wants to steal Miss Gresham away for an hour or two to go shopping, and I told her you and I could manage Elowyn while they were out, since the nursemaid has the afternoon off.”
A good plan. If anyone could distract Miss Gresham from her worries, it was Jenny. And on Sunday perhaps he’d see if she wanted to go and see St. Michael’s Mount.
Or . . . or perhaps it would be better for her if he asked her to join him at church instead. Mr. Trenholm probably wouldn’t be expecting Peter this week—it usually took him a couple weeks after returning from London to work up the will to sit in such a crowd for an hour—but it could do her good. Trenholm’s sermons were always well reasoned and founded on the Word.
If she would go. He would invite her. If she accepted, good. If not, he would suggest the day trip instead.
“See you tomorrow, then.”
Tomorrow was Saturday already? Peter paused, examined the days in his mind. Good grief, he really needed to stop these late-night writing sessions. He didn’t even know what day it was afterward, apparently. “Tomorrow.”
He went back outside and looked about. Jasper’s lackey had vanished. Perhaps into the hotel, perhaps into the pub. Perhaps he was off sniffing up any whiff of scandal to be found concerning the Holsteins.
Well, he would find nothing. Nothing but evidence that his parents were well loved.
And that he was not.
Peter strode to his horse—and then stopped. A silver coin glinted from his saddle.
Not a florin after all. Fighting back a growl, he picked it up. It boasted the same geometric shape that Jasper’s ring had. The inverted triangle, the lines of light, the concentric circles.
He fought the urge to toss it to the ground and instead pivoted and strode back into Gryff’s office.
His friend didn’t even look up when he entered—not until Peter flipped the coin directly onto the sheet of paper Gryff held. Then he did, with a frown. “Afraid I charge more than a florin for my services these days, old boy.”
“It’s n-not a f-florin.”
Gryff frowned. More, Peter suspected, over the stuttering than over the coin. But he picked it up, squinted at it. “Right then, I’ll play along. What is it?”
“It . . . I d-don’t know. Exactly. The . . . the s-symbol is . . .” Peter had to pause and take a breath to calm himself. “Jasper. He had a . . . a ring with that symbol. He belongs to . . . to some secret society.”
“Hmm.” Gryff flipped it over, then back over again. “I’ve never heard of this one. Are they one of the insurance groups?”
Though he couldn’t quite say why, the question made Peter relax. Brought a hint of a smile to his lips. “I don’t know.”
“It seems they all are. Or are branches of the Masons. Or one of those odd magical groups. This is no doubt one or the other. Do you want me to look into it?”
Somehow it was better, just having a friend to help. “Depends. How much more . . . than a florin will it cost me?”
Gryff chuckled and put the coin—or token or whatever it was rightly called—on the corner of his desk. “You check with your sources, I’ll check with mine. Between the two of us, we’ll figure out who these chaps are.”
Peter nodded in thanks. Left again. And knew that he’d never be able to enter the village again without looking for a silver head with a bowler atop it.
Eleven
Rosemary stared at the gibberish, but it made no more sense than it had the first time she’d glimpsed it ten days ago. It was just letters and numbers, all a jumble. Leaning back in her chair before the library table, she squeezed shut her eyes and then opened them again, hoping to note something new. She saw a hint of German in it, she thought. A hint of English. It bore no resemblance to the style espoused in the book on shorthand she’d found yesterday.
Nothing but those random letters and numbers. On this sheet, all of it was in Mr. Holstein’s hand, but on the one beneath . . . not his. Given that she had found that other sheet of paper stuffed in a book, it could have been his father’s. Or his grandfather’s.
Or from some unknown correspondent.
But this one on top, the one in Mr. Holstein’s script, she’d found on the attic stairs when she’d been poking about trying to locate that room. Kerensa had come singing her way up to the servants’ quarters before she’d dared explore—she’d instead made a run for the opposite staircase—but she’d already grabbed up this page of . . .
Secrets. Whatever it was, it must be that. Something he wanted no one else to be able to read. Something with a hint of German in it.
Something likely tied to whatever he typed all day, given that she’d seen him writing in this coded language that first day while in his study.
Her eyes moved to the closed door separating their spaces. He wasn’t typing today, though he was in there. He was always in there, it seemed, during daylight hours. She had to get in, snoop her way through the room. But it would require coming over in the dark and praying he didn’t decide to take another midnight trip down here as Mrs. Teague had been grumbling about him doing last week.
Footsteps sounded in the hall—quite a few of them, punctuated by the bright voice of Elowyn. Rosemary’s gaze flew to the mantel clock. She hadn’t even known the Penroses were coming today, though it was the same time they’d arrived last Saturday. Perhaps it was a weekly event. Regardless, she knew Jenny would seek her out.
Quickly, she folded all the pages of gibberish together, stuffed them inside a massive tome on the history of the Hapsburgs, and shut the pages over them.
“I’ve
come to liberate you.”
That was too close—she certainly didn’t need to be found looking at Peter Holstein’s private papers by his closest friend’s wife. Rosemary pasted a cheerful smile into place and looked up as Jenny swept into the library with a bang of the doors she’d tossed open. She looked much as she had the week before when she’d done the exact same thing—all casual elegance and happy expressions, with an added light in her eyes at the prospect of an afternoon out of the house.
Rosemary had never felt so frazzled. She stood and swiped a hand over her wrinkled linen skirt. “I didn’t know you were coming or I would have put all this away by now. And gone to tidy up.”
“Oh, you look fresh as a daisy as it is.” Jenny planted her hands on her hips and surveyed the room. “You’ve made a lot of progress. It looks far better than it did last week.”
She had Mr. Holstein to thank for that—on Monday, Mr. Teague had come in and informed her that some blokes called Cadan and Treeve had built shelves to install in a room upstairs, and any books she wanted moved there she could just carry into the hall. Monday and Tuesday had been spent transferring all books on mathematics and science to the newly dubbed “upstairs library.”
They had lined what was formerly a bedchamber with shelves—every single space on the wall aside from the windows. And they had filled those shelves. With books on mathematics. And science.
The result had been not only floor space in this main library, but shelf space too, allowing her to move more floor stacks onto shelves. What it hadn’t accomplished, though both she and Mr. Holstein had hoped it would, was uncovering the missing journals. Still. Rosemary smoothed her skirt and looked around with Jenny. Compared to what it had been when she’d arrived ten days ago, it was rather impressive.
“Thank you. I’m earning my pay with this job, I can assure you.”
Jenny’s laugh was a lovely thing. More robust than pretty. Rosemary had decided last Saturday that it must have been Jenny’s laugh, even more than her bright eyes and comely face, that had inspired Gryffyn Penrose to fall in love with her.
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