by Leah Scheier
I felt her flinch beside me.
“He was—he was what? My goodness, Dora, how did you find out?”
“It was in the Times. I have the article here—if you want to read it.”
“Oh, you can’t be serious! I can’t believe it,” she gasped and reached out for the paper by my side. “How could this happen?”
“It doesn’t say,” I answered wearily. “The report is very vague. They say he drowned; that he was attacked by an old enemy at Reichenbach and was pushed into the waterfall.”
She nodded and ran her fingers absently through my hair. “It is a tragedy, of course, but I wasn’t speaking of Mr. Holmes. I meant, how could this happen to us? We’ve traveled up to London for no purpose. Oh, Lord, what will I do now?”
I didn’t know what to say at first. I had not yet absorbed the shock of my discovery, and what I wanted most just then was comfort and sympathy, not more dilemmas. But Adelaide had already moved on to her own concerns, and honestly I couldn’t blame her. Sherlock Holmes had been a potential solution to her problem, nothing more; and now that he was gone, she had to find another. I loved my cousin more than anyone, but at that moment she seemed so far away from me. It was not her fault; I knew that very well. I had chosen to keep my secret from her. She could not sympathize with my grief if she was not aware of it.
Still, if I had to mourn, I realized that I would have to do so on my own time. I had come to London with my cousin because she needed my support. I couldn’t withdraw it at the moment when she needed me the most. And yet—how could I help her now? Would she be interested in speaking to someone else about her problem? I wondered. Was it worth telling her about my meeting with Peter Cartwright?
And—more importantly, was all of this really worth the trouble? Adelaide had never really explained to me why these letters were so crucial to her. In fact, she had only confided in me because I had accidentally stumbled into her room just after she’d received the blackmail threat. I’d been shocked to find her weeping on the floor—my cool and confident cousin was actually sobbing out her fears to me! It was the first time in our lives that I had been the calm one, the one offering support instead of the one receiving it.
But what if Adelaide’s case wasn’t really as dark as she imagined it? She’d only mentioned that the letters were old love notes that she’d written to her young music tutor some years ago. How incriminating could they be? Perhaps in the end she could reconsider consulting a detective and return home to Newheath.
“I don’t understand why you’re so worried about these letters, Adelaide,” I told her finally. “Is it so important that you get them back?”
She paled a little and nodded grimly. “I can’t tell you what was in the letters, Dora. I’m afraid you’d never trust me again.”
I sat up and took her hand in mine. “You don’t really think that, do you? I wouldn’t love you any less, no matter what was in those letters. And surely your husband would forgive you if you were honest with him. It was so long ago, before you even met him.”
Her jaw tightened, and she shut her eyes. “You don’t understand. Richard sees me as a lovely innocent angel, pure as a child until our marriage. I believe he loves that image of me more than he loves me. He’s so proud of me, Dora. It may sound ridiculous to you, but I can’t bear to lose that.”
“But that’s absurd!” I cried. “You’re telling me that he’s proud of someone that he doesn’t truly know.”
I knew that I had gone too far even before the last word had left my mouth when I saw Adelaide’s eyes harden over with hurt.
“Dora, I’m supposed to be an example, a model of virtue, don’t you understand?” she cried. “Not just to him, but to everyone around me. Don’t you know how hard it was for me to admit this shame even to you? Do you know how many times I’ve regretted telling you?”
I smiled. “Why? Because I’m the one always getting into scrapes? Really, Adelaide, you’ve spent most of your life defending me. At least let me show you now that I haven’t forgotten that. Trust me just a little, and tell me why you’re so terrified of a couple of ancient love letters.”
“I cannot,” she said miserably. “Just believe me when I tell you—Richard will leave me if he reads them. I’m certain that he will. Oh, Dora, you know how much I love my husband. And maybe one day you’ll understand what I’m saying to you now. I hope that one day you will meet someone whom you will care for more than anyone. And you’ll want him to honor and respect you—and to see only the best side of you. When that day comes you’ll understand exactly why I’m so afraid right now.”
I did not believe what she was saying. My cousin had always been a model lady—the one whom I was meant to imitate and admire. And I had tried to follow her example, as best I could. But did I want my own life to turn out like hers, to become some desperate and elaborate charade? I was already tired of pretending sweetness and innocence in front of Adelaide and my aunt. And yet now it seemed that I would be expected to pretend forever, even in front of my future husband. Just like my cousin was doing now—and just like my mother had done until she died.
“Adelaide, you know I’ll stand by you just the same, even if I don’t understand,” I told her finally. “I only wish that you had more faith in me.”
“I do have faith in you,” she replied miserably. “If I didn’t, do you think I would have confided in you? But I should never have dragged you into this sordid business in the first place. You should be practicing your dancing lessons and thinking about dinner parties and receptions, not blackmail threats.”
“But that’s exactly what I want to think about!” I blurted out. “You must know that about me.”
I’d said the wrong thing again; I saw Adelaide’s eyes cloud over and her figure tense.
“I’m glad to hear that my troubles are entertaining for you,” she remarked coldly.
“Oh—No, that isn’t what I meant—”
“No, I understand you now,” she interrupted bitterly. “You’ve been waiting for a chance to show off your little hobby, haven’t you? All those months collecting bits of cigar ash, analyzing footprints, and tracking homeless kittens through the snow ‘for practice’? Tell me honestly, Dora, was my problem just another exercise for you?”
I would have reassured her, for I could feel that she wasn’t truly angry at me, that she was simply frightened and vulnerable. But somehow I couldn’t find the words just then; I was suddenly exhausted. I wanted the comfort of my pillow, the darkness of the sheets over my head. And I didn’t want to listen to this speech about my “hobby” anymore. I had heard it so many times before. My odd behavior, my hopes, my studies, they were all so strange, so alien to everyone I loved. And they all agreed that I ought to change: my aunt, my pastor, even my dearest cousin, everyone except—
Except—
“I met a boy outside,” I told her quietly. “He handed me this card and invited you to call. Do as you please, Adelaide. I am going back to bed.”
I opened up my purse, threw the card onto the table, and left the room, shutting the door behind me.
DORA.” I think I answered her, but my voice was muffled by my comforter, and all she heard was “Burrrrrrr?”
“Dora, I am very sorry for what I said.”
“Burr.”
“Dora, please come out. I’ve written to this Porter fellow, and he has agreed to meet us—meet me. But—you will come with me tomorrow when I go? I’m sorry if I hurt you.
I didn’t mean to talk to you like that. Please, Dora, I cannot bear to go through this alone.”
I thought of Peter Cartwright’s impish grin, his piercing eyes, and heard again the swell of his sudden laughter. He had gotten the best of me in our first meeting. But I had not really been myself that morning. Surely I deserved another chance? I could not leave him laughing at me, could I? Even in the safety of my room the memory of his mocking challenge made me flush, and my throat went tight with anticipation. Forgive me, Dora, and come back. Qu
ickly I pushed the memory of his words away and roughly shoved my pillow to the side.
“All right, Adelaide, I will come along,” I answered in an even voice. “If it means that much to you.”
We set out for the investigator’s rooms the following morning. The flat was only a few blocks from Hanover Street at the northern corner of Portman Square. A little bronze plaque with the man’s name and profession was the only detail that distinguished it from the row of identical brick houses with their whitewashed doorways and iron railings. A pretty maid ushered us into the hallway and into an empty sitting room. “Mr. Porter and Mr. Cartwright will be in shortly. They like to enter after their guests are seated,” she told us with a patient smile and then departed. Adelaide and I seated ourselves on a sofa by the window and stared at the unusual sitting room.
There is no simple way to describe Mr. Porter’s home, for it was a study of opposites rather than a simple living quarter. The left side from the large bay window to the door was decorated in a baroque and ornate style; from the cherub paintings to the vase of roses on the baby grand piano, the little London flat seemed to mimic the grandeur of a country mansion. The bookcases boasted a library of leather-bound volumes arranged alphabetically in perfect rows; the letters on the writing desk were stacked in self-conscious little piles of precisely ten envelopes per group; and every item from the folded newspapers to the iron coal tongs had been placed exactly in their correct spot in accordance with geometric harmony. But for a half-empty bottle of claret, it appeared that the area had been designed for display only and had never been soiled by human fingers. That describes the left side.
The right side appeared to have declared war against the left. I could have traced just where the division of the room began, for a pile of debris seemed to grow from this imaginary line in a majestic mountain. Torn trouser legs, bits of journals, stacks of shoes and papers lay strewn about the floor as if half a hurricane had struck the flat. A little faded armchair sat like a battered throne amid the wreckage, with a halo of tidy carpet as the only sign of order in that area.
“It’s a little like a scene from a Lewis Carroll story, isn’t it?” my cousin whispered to me. “I wonder which side belongs to whom.”
I had opened my mouth to answer her (for I was fairly certain that it was Cartwright who ruled the clutter) when the two bedroom doors swung open, and the gentlemen entered. Mr. Porter strode slowly into the tidy section and bowed gravely to my cousin. Mr. Cartwright stumbled over an overflowing rubbish bin and collapsed awkwardly into his armchair.
“Lady Forrester, Miss Joyce. A pleasure.”
“Good afternoon, Mr. Porter. I want to thank you for seeing us on such short notice.”
“All my clients come to me on such ‘short notice,’ madam. It is the nature of my work. I understand from your note that your case is a very sensitive one, and that you have come to London to resolve it without your husband’s knowledge.” There was a shade of sourness in the agent’s rumbling baritone, and I saw my cousin flinch beneath his gaze. “Pray begin by telling me what happened, Lady Forrester.”
Adelaide cleared her throat and glanced from Porter’s impassive face to his young assistant’s. Cartwright was sitting forward in his chair, elbows resting on his knees, a tense, alert expression in eyes. He smiled at her and nodded, and I saw her form relax and the fingers in her lap unclench.
She exhaled slowly and began her story. As she recounted her history with her music tutor, their romantic letters, and her recent blackmail threat, I studied the two investigators quietly. It was interesting how their surroundings complemented each of them. Mr. Neville Porter was solid, dark, and dignified, with a drooping mustache, modest whiskers, and the traditional flared nostrils of a nobleman. Everything about the man was crisp and proper, from the ironed creases of his trousers to the small Masonic tiepin beneath his collar. He seemed to be quite at home amid his little luxuries, and I found it difficult to picture him dashing to a manhunt or sniffing out a murder trail.
Peter Cartwright, on the other hand, seemed very comfortable in his cheerful squalor, as if he had planned the placement of every bit of rubbish. There was a broken sword hilt wedged between the cushions of his chair, but he seemed entirely oblivious to it, even though the edge was making a jagged indentation in his thigh. During my cousin’s speech he did not break his attention once, but kept his gaze fixed upon her as if his life depended on his concentration. Though our eyes had met briefly when he had first come in, there had been no flash of anything within their depths, no mirth or mocking, not even a flicker of recognition. I was careful not to watch him, because I was certain that he would notice; but it was soon obvious that it did not matter where I looked, as he seemed so intent on ignoring me. So throughout the interview, we pretended not to see each other.
When Adelaide had finished, Mr. Porter looked languidly at his assistant and waved his hand. “Go ahead.”
Cartwright gave a quick nod and shifted forward in his chair. “Lady Forrester, I presume you brought the blackmail letter with you.”
My cousin shook her head and dropped her eyes. “No, I’m sorry, I do not have it anymore. I was quite upset, you see, and I’m afraid I threw it in the fire.”
The two men exchanged looks, and Mr. Porter let out an irritated sigh. Cartwright threw me an exasperated frown.
“That wasn’t wise,” he muttered under his breath.
“If it helps—I remember what the writing looked like,” I ventured after an embarrassed silence. “I could describe it to you.”
But Cartwright had already turned back to Adelaide. “The blackmailer had signed his letter with the initials ‘J.F.’ Is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“No address, I presume?”
“Just a London postmark.”
“And the man to whom you wrote the letters? Your music tutor?”
“He died a few months ago. But before we parted for the last time, he promised me that he’d burn my letters. It turns out that he didn’t keep his promise. But, then, neither did I.”
“And this J.F. has both sets of letters?”
“So it seems.”
“And how are you to pay the fellow?”
“He indicated that he would contact me by the thirtieth of the month and name the place of the exchange. He suggested that I use the time to raise the money. I don’t have anywhere near the sum which he is asking. What do you think I ought to do?”
Porter shook his head and shrugged. “I’m afraid, madam, that I recommend you do just what he said. If you are absolutely certain that this man really has your letters—”
“He quoted a passage from one of them in the middle of his note. He has them, I am sure of it.”
“Then, unfortunately, the next move is his. You say that your servant, the one who stole the letters from you—what was his name?”
“Thomas Dyer.”
“That Thomas Dyer has already left your employ. We might have tried to trace the blackmailer through him, but even if we found him, we would still be no closer to your letters. Our only hope would be to discover something actionable, something criminal about this man ‘J.F.’ to use against him, for if we try to arrest him for his current crime, he will carry out his threat and mail the letters to your husband. When the time comes, we can attempt to negotiate with him and bring the price down, but short of that, there is not much that we can do now.”
Adelaide sank against the cushions and closed her eyes. “I know you’re right; that is what I expected you would say.”
“And what did you expect, Miss Joyce?” Mr. Porter asked, turning suddenly to me.
“I—had no expectations, sir,” I responded. “I came to accompany my cousin.”
“Indeed,” growled the agent. “How irregular. This is quite a sordid business for one so young.”
“Dora is not easily shocked or overwhelmed, Mr. Porter,” Adelaide countered icily. “She has been my support through this sad affair.”
&n
bsp; Porter shrugged and rose abruptly from his chair. “Cartwright, you may look into this matter as you please. There is not much for me to do here.”
I half-rose to face him, and, ignoring Adelaide’s heavy hand upon my shoulder, cried out, “But, sir, you have dismissed us without even trying! What of Hunt’s, the servants agency that recommended Thomas Dyer to my cousin? Should you not inquire at Hunt’s registry and see if he has put his name back on the lists? If the blackmailer and the servant have worked together in the past, then perhaps we can use that knowledge.”
I might have stopped there if Porter had given me the briefest nod or murmur of acknowledgment, but he had picked up a newspaper and had started thumbing through the pages without looking in my direction. “Lady Forrester, your cousin is quite an excitable little thing,” he rumbled. “It is none of my concern, of course, but I have always felt that young girls cannot be too careful about their surroundings. They are so innocent, you see, and their innocence makes them both blind and vulnerable. Perhaps she would have been better off at home.”
I had not expected that. It was true that I had not liked this so-called “detective” from the first; he was not the man I had hoped to meet. Still I had been prepared to sit quietly and judge him as favorably as he deserved. After all, it was not his fault that he was not Sherlock Holmes, and he was not responsible for my disappointment. But there was no reason to be silent now. My blood had been slowly rising to my face throughout the agent’s speech, but it was his final words that brought me to my feet. I was vaguely conscious of Adelaide’s restraining hand and the chagrined flush on Cartwright’s cheeks, and then my world went red. All of my cousin’s gentle training, all of my aunt’s good manners slipped from me like a threadbare cloak, and I let my outrage and hurt spill over.