Peril by Post

by Sheri Cobb South

  “You’ll have a chance to redeem yourself after tomorrow night,” he said. “In the meantime, surely some lapses can be forgiven a woman on her honeymoon.” Having reached the end of the correspondence, he tossed the letter back onto the table and leaned back in his chair, giving himself up to his wife’s ministrations. Suddenly he sat bolt upright, grabbed the letter again, and fumbled through the papers littering the desk until he located the one he’d found on Ned Hawkins’s body. He held them up side by side so Julia could see. Behind the two letters, the flame from the candle glowed through the paper, turning the foolscap to burnished gold.

  “Do you see it?” he asked over his shoulder.

  Julia rested her hands on his shoulders and leaned forward, studying the letters intently. “The handwriting,” she said. “It’s the same.”

  “Exactly. Why would Mrs. Hetherington be writing a letter recounting the achievements of children she doesn’t have, and signing herself as ‘E.G.B.?”

  “Perhaps she was doing it as a kindness for someone else,” Julia suggested. “Remember me with my arm in a sling? Perhaps E.G.B., for whatever reason, could not write, and so spoke his letter aloud while she took down his words. It is rather conversational in tone, is it not? As if someone were speaking the words instead of just writing them.”

  “In that case, I should think his wife or daughter—Penelope, was it?—would be the most likely person to act as secretary.”

  “I daresay they were unavailable—at the dressmaker’s, perhaps, or attending other details of Miss—oh, but we don’t know her last name, do we?—of Penelope’s presentation.”

  “I can’t say I like it, but I suppose it’s just within the realm of possibility,” Pickett conceded, albeit grudgingly. “Which brings us to the next question: What would Ned Hawkins be doing with one of Mrs. Hetherington’s letters in his pocket?”

  Julia shrugged. “Carrying it down to the bag, I suppose.”

  “But that makes no sense. For one thing, the path down to the pier—and, presumably, the cave—lies in the opposite direction from the inn than where Ned Hawkins was standing when he was pushed off the cliff.”

  “Perhaps he had called on Mrs. Hetherington to collect it.”

  “Why should he, when she could just give it to her husband?”

  “Perhaps it was something she didn’t want him to see,” Julia suggested.

  Pickett arched a knowing eyebrow at her. “Keeping clandestine correspondence from her husband? My lady, you shock me to the core!” Seeing her reproachful look, he quickly returned to the subject at hand. “But as far as we can tell, it’s just a recounting of family news. What could he find objectionable in that?”

  “Very well, you’ve convinced me,” Julia said decisively. “It must be in code. No other explanation makes sense.”

  Pickett sighed. “In that case, we’re back where we started, for I’ve tried every code I know—which I’ll admit aren’t many—and I can’t find any hidden messages. Then, too, there’s the note tied around the rock. I can’t see Mrs. Hetherington sneaking out of the house in the middle of the night to go throwing rocks through windows.”

  Julia shook her head. “It was no woman—and certainly not Mrs. Hetherington!—who pushed Ned Hawkins off the cliff. It must be nothing more than a coincidence, certain similarities in handwriting, perhaps as a result of having learned penmanship under the same schoolmaster—”

  “Mrs. Hetherington grew up in Ireland, remember? No, there’s something important here that I’m missing, something I can’t quite—quite—”

  He broke off, staring at the letter in his hand. As the paper grew warm from the candle behind it, lines—faint lines, perhaps, but unmistakable nonetheless—began to appear beneath certain letters:

  My dear James,

  I trust this Letter finds You and your Family Well. I have been Much Troubled of late by an Attack of Catarrh, which has left me with a Sorely Abused Nose and a Lingering Cough, but I trust my Sufferings will soon be a Thing of the Past, the Good Lord be Willing. Thankfully, none of the Children have contracted their Father’s Illness, and I am confident their Good Health will continue long enough for them to Enjoy their Sire’s 55thBirthday Festivities on Thursday Next. I am only Sorry that George, my Eldest, may not Join us, as his new Position requires that he Remain in Edinburgh, at least for the Nonce. It is difficult to Believe he will soon be celebrating his own 34th Natal Day. My poor first Wife, Elizabeth (God rest her soul) would certainly be Proud of the Man he has Become.

  As for the Rest of the Family, Penelope is to have her Come-Out next Spring, if she does not drive us all to Distraction long before then. Nor is my Good Lady much Better, as she can only Expound upon the Need for hiring a Suitable House in Mayfair, to say nothing of the Mantua-Makers, Florists, and various Others whose Talents must be Enlisted, doubtless at Exorbitant Cost, in order to see our Girl suitably Launched. I have always fancied myself a Warm Fellow, but I may be Bankrupt by the time the thing is Finally Done. I only hope she may attach an Eligible Parti in her First Season; I fear I have neither the Finances nor the Patience to give her a Second.

  My good Wife informs me that you cannot yet know of the Blessed Event that took place on the Sixth of June. Lest she accuse me of being an Unnatural Father, I must tell you forthwith that my elder Daughter Lavinia was safely brought to Bed of a Son, to be named Evelyn after his Mother’s proud Papa. My Wife predicts that I shall become so Puffed Up in my own Conceit that there will be No Living with me. As I should Hate to disappoint her Faith in me by Neglecting to carry out my Role, however Humble, in her newly discovered Talent for Prophecy, I shall do my Poor Best not to Fail her in this Regard.

  And now, having Bored you to Distraction with my Familial Boasting, I have a Confession to Make. It concerns (as you might Expect, having previously made his Acquaintance) my Youngest Son, Edward. Edward is presently at Eton, but it may, I fear, be Wrong to Assume that he is receiving an Education there. Although I am presently paying 50 pounds per Annum, never mind an additional 22 for Incidentals, it would be an Exaggeration to call the hapless Ned a Scholar. I suspect he spends more time on juvenile Pranks than on Greek or Latin. But then I am reminded of the Larks you and I once Kicked Up, and I cannot be too Hard on him. He is a Good Lad at heart, and I Suspect there is nothing Wrong with him that Time will not Mend. Until then, I have Only to Resist his determined Efforts to send his Longsuffering Papa to an Early Grave. In the meantime, I Remain, as Ever,

  Yr very Obedient Servant,

  E. G. B.

  “Julia?” Pickett didn’t dare to look away, didn’t dare to move lest the lines fade away and vanish as quickly as they had come. “Bring me a quill and paper, will you?”

  She didn’t waste time in asking questions, but hurried to obey, and Pickett silently blessed her for her perspicacity. He took the writing materials she had fetched from her portable desk and began to transcribe the underlined letters and words. He had not yet trimmed any of the new quills she’d bought him, so he was obliged to use one of her own writing instruments—the end result being that the curve of the quill prevented him from seeing what he wrote until he reached the end of the letter, laid aside the quill, and examined his handiwork:

  CARLISLECASTLEUNDEFENDED55THFTREGINWESTINDIES34THFTBOUNDFORPENINSULATUESNEXTMAINGATEINSWALLBATTERYIMMRTINSIDEGATEFACINGWESTELEVENCANNONBUTSIXONLOWERLEVELMAYBEINOPERABLEARMOURYONFIRSTFLOOROFKEEPGUARDEDBYFEWERTHAN50MEN22FRENCHPRISONERSONGROUNDFLOORGODSPEEDANDEGB

  Determining the divisions between words would take some doing, as would deciphering some of the more obscure abbreviations, and Pickett had no doubt that much of the task would fall to minds more trained to the work than his. Even to a novice, however, one thing was abundantly clear.

  “This is it, Julia,” he said unsteadily, looking up over his shoulder at her. “This is treason.”

  16

  In Which the Final Piece Falls into Place

  “CARLISLE CASTLE UNDEFENDED,’ ” Julia read over his
shoulder. “That much is obvious, and something about the West Indies, but what does the rest of it mean?”

  “Let’s find out, shall we?”

  The room boasted only one chair, so Julia settled herself on Pickett’s knee (his right, so as not to obstruct his left-handed writing), and offered suggestions as he copied the message again, leaving spaces between any readily identifiable words. Eventually the message read:

  CARLISLE CASTLE UNDEFENDED 55TH FT REG IN WEST INDIES 34TH FT BOUND FOR PENINSULA TUES NEXT MAIN GATE INSWALL BATTERY IMMRT INSIDE GATE FACING WEST ELEVEN CANNON BUT SIX ON LOWER LEVEL MAY BE INOPERABLE ARMOURY ON FIRST FLOOR OF KEEP GUARDED BY FEWER THAN 50 MEN 22 FRENCH PRISONERS ON GROUND FLOOR GODSPEED AND EGB

  “There you are, then,” Pickett said. “The castle is undefended, or soon will be, because the 55th foot regiment is in the West Indies and the 34th will be headed for the Peninsula next Tuesday.”

  “What does ‘inswall’ mean?” Julia asked, frowning thoughtfully at the paper. “ ‘Inside wall’? No, that can’t be right. ‘Main gate inside wall’ makes no sense.”

  “ ‘In south wall,’ perhaps?” Pickett suggested. “I don’t suppose you’ve ever visited Carlisle Castle, have you?”

  She shook her head. “No, for it isn’t like Belvoir Castle, you know—it was never a home. I believe it was built during the Middle Ages to defend the northern border against marauding Scots—although that seems rather hard to believe today, doesn’t it?”

  Pickett grinned at her. “I don’t know about that. I should think a few thousand Mr. Colquhouns pouring over the wall would be rather terrifying. One can be scary enough, if he’s in the right mood—or the wrong one, depending on your point of view.” He raked his fingers through his brown curls and added, suddenly sobering, “And what he’s going to say when I tell him the wife of his old friend is involved in a treasonous plot—”

  “It was a man who pushed Ned Hawkins off the cliff,” Julia insisted. “And even if it was a woman dressed in a man’s clothing, it could never have been Mrs. Hetherington. She’s far too frail.”

  “I agree with you there. But she has servants, you know, servants who could be bribed, or threatened, or who might even share her Irish sympathies. She picked up a French cook in Dublin, remember? It wouldn’t be the first time the Irish and the French have joined forces against the English. Or what of that fellow who cut up her meat at dinner? I should think that degree of dependency might well lead to a bond of affection well beyond what would usually exist between mistress and servant.”

  “But are you quite certain it’s treason?” Julia’s voice rose on a note of desperation. Pickett could sympathize: he liked the woman, too. “Perhaps she only meant to express concern at being left unprotected in case of invasion by the French. The people along the southern coast live in a state of constant anxiety over that very thing—not that fear prevents them from availing themselves of the contraband tobacco and brandy that manages to cross the Channel, but still—”

  “And so,” Pickett said skeptically, “being worried about a French invasion, she writes a letter in code, describing in detail the layout of the castle’s defenses, right down to the number and position of its cannon?”

  Julia peered more closely at the paper he’d transcribed. “Where does it say that?”

  “There.” He pointed with the feathered end of the quill. “ ‘Battery immediate right inside gate, facing west.’ Followed by the number of cannon, the location of the armory, and an estimate of the remaining troops. I don’t like it any more than you do, sweetheart, but any way you look at it, this is treason.”

  “So what happens now?”

  Pickett gestured toward the original missive with its faint brown underscoring. “This will have to be turned over to the magistrate—not Mr. Colquhoun, but whoever holds the position locally—along with the rock and the note that was tied to it. And then”—he slumped in his chair with a sigh—“I have to tell Mr. Hetherington that his wife will be hanged as a traitor.”

  She put her arm around his shoulders and gave them a squeeze of silent sympathy. “You’ve done this before, haven’t you? Had to arrest someone’s wife, I mean.”

  “I’ve had to arrest my own! Julia, have you never wondered how I happened to turn up on your doorstep at just the right moment that day? I had an arrest warrant in my hand. I’d come to your house prepared to execute it.”

  “But you knew I was innocent!” she protested, taken aback by this revelation.

  “Oh, I knew, all right,” he recalled bitterly, “but I had no proof. And although the evidence against you was purely circumstantial, I had no answer for it.”

  She picked up the letter and traced the incriminating brown lines with the tip of her finger. “Might this not be circumstantial, too? Some sort of flaw in the paper that causes spotting, perhaps—”

  “Spotting that just happen to spell out the details of a military installation? I’m sorry, sweetheart, but no. Nothing is that circumstantial. Still, I’m not so callous that I can stroll in and arrest a lady after sitting at her dinner table. I’ll put this to Mr. Hetherington tomorrow and see what he has to say about it.”

  “Tomorrow?”

  “He’s gone to Penrith today with the bag of letters,” Pickett reminded her. “I won’t let him come back home to discover that his wife has been taken up for treason. I spent three days in Kent investigating your first husband’s murder, you know.”

  “Kent?” She blinked at the sudden non sequitur. “What were you doing there?”

  He gave a humorless little laugh at the memory. “Grasping at straws. And although Mr. Colquhoun assured me he wouldn’t send anyone to arrest you in my absence, I couldn’t quite believe him. He knew that I—I admired you—and he didn’t approve. I couldn’t quite shake the feeling that I would return to London only to find you’d been clapped into Newgate, and me powerless to stop it. I won’t put another man through that, Julia, no matter what his wife may have done.”

  Her gaze softened as she looked down at him. “I hadn’t thought—I had always assumed you were merely being thorough and not jumping to conclusions in Frederick’s murder. I never realized you had taken it so personally.”

  He gave her a rather rueful smile. “Why should you? I mean, look at you, and look at me.”

  “I’d rather look at us,” she said, stroking his disheveled curls with loving fingers.

  “There wasn’t any ‘us’ at the time. I had no reason to think there ever would be.” He looked down at the papers littering the table and sighed. “There won’t be any happy ending here, though. That much is certain.”

  She slid off his knee with some reluctance. “I suppose I’d better let you get dressed, then. If you plan to see Mr. Hetherington tomorrow, I daresay you’ll want to find the magistrate this afternoon and have him issue an arrest warrant.”

  “Not just yet,” Pickett said thoughtfully. “I want to hear what Mr. Hetherington has to say first.”

  “But won’t that give him time to, I don’t know, spirit her away before you come back to arrest her? Take her to Ireland, perhaps, or even to France?”

  “Perhaps.”

  Her eyes narrowed in sudden suspicion. “In fact, you hope he will.”

  He neither confirmed nor denied this charge, and she bethought herself of a similar conversation that had taken place only a few days earlier, in the guest chamber that had originally been assigned to them.

  “I asked you what you would have done if you’d discovered I had killed Frederick after all,” she said slowly. “You said you thought the case would never have been solved. That’s what you’re doing for Mr. Hetherington, isn’t it? But won’t that make you an accessory after the fact?”

  “Very likely. But at least I’ll be able to live with my conscience.” His lips twisted in a travesty of a smile. “I never knew my morals were so elastic. It looks like I’m my father’s son, after all.”

  THERE WAS LITTLE ELSE that could be done that day except f
or behaving like the honeymooning couple they were supposed to be, although Julia suspected her husband’s mind was elsewhere. They wandered arm in arm through the village, peering into store windows and stopping once to purchase an utterly useless china plate bearing in its center a painted representation of the lake and the surrounding fells.

  “What do you intend to do with it?” Pickett asked upon being informed that he was to have the honor of carrying his wife’s newest acquisition.

  Julia shrugged. “I suppose I shall present it to Lizzie as a wedding gift. I shouldn’t think Mr. Hartsong would much care for a reminder of his visit to Banfell, do you? Unless, of course, you were to offer it to him as an olive branch of sorts.”

  “That would only work if I was sorry—which I’m not,” said Pickett, hardening his heart. “But I’m not so sure about Lizzie. Why would she need a painted plate, when she can see the real thing just by looking out her window?”

  “Oh dear, I suppose you’re right. I only thought we should behave like tourists while we have the chance.” She gave him a sidelong glance. “I daresay we will be headed back to London very soon.”

  He nodded. “The day after tomorrow, I expect.”

  After their return to the inn, they procured another basket from Mrs. Hawkins, this time taking the path to the lake for their picnic rather than stopping at the place where Julia had seen Ned Hawkins pushed to his death. But in spite of the change of scenery, Pickett remained distant and withdrawn, his thoughts clearly on the confrontation that lay ahead of him. Julia wished for some way to relieve him of his burden, at least for a while, but although he was unfailingly polite—attentive, even—she could not seem to reach him. It was not until much later that night, long after they had retired to their room, that the opportunity presented itself.