Secret Letters Page 14

  Except for two jaundiced hags at a back table, I was the only female customer in the place, and that realization made me quite uncomfortable. In entering the pub, I had left my respectability at the door and was now regarded by all present as a lady of dubious virtue. It was difficult to ignore the workmen by the bar, who leered at me over their drinks and made audible comments about my figure.

  After some vain attempts to drain the liquid in my glass, I began a careful study of every character in that place, concerned that perhaps I had overlooked some shadowy figure and missed Cartwright in disguise. It was soon evident that he was late and that the little urchin by the window was in fact young Perkins, with a scarf over his face. He sat quietly, his head down, and pretended not to watch me. The child had obviously been sent to keep an eye on me until his friend arrived.

  It was more than just embarrassing; it was insulting to be guarded by a little boy. I was tired of being treated as an innocent, vulnerable child who required constant supervision. And yet, I was just that, I thought with a sting of shame, a country girl from southern England who knew nothing of the world. I glanced again at the fiddler in the corner and the knot of dancers who had gathered near him. A sweaty farmer, on his way to the drunken reel, tripped past my table and upset my chair, knocking me to the ground.

  As he extended his hand to me and helped me to my feet, a great shout arose from the group before the bar. I looked up, surprised, and saw that the farmer was bowing to me, as if asking me to dance. My aunt’s face flashed across my mind. Drinking in a tavern is bad enough, but dancing? I heard her whinny.

  But the farmer had grasped my hand now and had twirled me about, ignoring my cry of protest. And now his hands were behind his back and he was capering about in front of me. The fat little musician plucked his strings and began an Irish jig. I shook my head emphatically and scrambled toward my seat. A cry of disappointment erupted from the drunken crowd.

  “Come on, lass, give us a dance!”

  What was I to do? What would Cartwright think? I was not to be conspicuous, not to draw attention to myself; he had told me that more than once. But what was more conspicuous—a girl who sat stubbornly glaring at a party, or one who went along with the entertainment? What would my character do in such a situation? The crowd was clapping now, circling my chair, whistling with the music. How long could I sit there dumbly watching them? Where was Peter Cartwright when I needed him?

  And the music, the melody, was growing louder and more insistent; two more fiddlers had emerged from among the shadows, and the beat of dancing feet drummed steadily through me. I sat staring at the dancers, my fingers gripping the fabric of my skirt, my chair bouncing to the rhythm of the pounding boots. I might have sat that way forever if another of the farmers had not stopped his prancing for a moment and, before I could object, grabbed me by the hands and pulled me up. He wouldn’t let go this time but held on to my fingers with a drunken persistence.

  I glanced at Perkins again and shrugged helplessly at him. He was no longer pretending not to watch me. The scarf had fallen from his face, and his mouth was hanging open in disbelief. He knew what I was thinking.

  I nodded at the farmer and curtsied sweetly, then, smiling my surrender, put my arms behind my back and slowly began to dance. This was no stately ballroom waltz or promenade, but a lively hornpipe jig, which soon led into a frenetic reel. A few years back I had learned the steps from our former gardener (before my aunt dismissed him), and now as the music swelled I found that I still remembered what he’d taught me. The throb of melody was coursing through me, and I danced now as I had never danced before, as no well-bred lady could. The musicians increased the tempo. Accuracy and rhythm were sacrificed to speed as the crowd shouted for more. My embarrassment had melted with the first steps, and now I would not have stopped the song for anyone.

  I cannot remember exactly how I ended up singing and dancing on the table. It certainly was not my intention to do any such thing. The crowd in the back had started craning their necks and pushing aside their friends, so a fellow dancer grabbed me by the waist and hoisted me up there to pacify them. I should have gotten down immediately, of course, but the fire of the moment was intoxicating, and I could not stop. And the fiddler had begun “The Jolly Beggar” now, so I joined in at the chorus line. I had already lost my respectability, after all. It could not hurt to sing a little.

  I am truly sorry that Cartwright chose to make his entrance in the middle of the song, while I was belting out the naughtiest rhyme.

  He was not difficult to recognize, even under his workman’s disguise. As he came in through the door, I quickly glanced away and concentrated on the verse that I was singing.

  He took her in his arms and to the bed he ran

  Kind sir, she says, be easy now, you’ll waken our good man.

  From the corner of my eye, I saw Perkins scurry out of the tavern. Cartwright crossed his arms and advanced toward me, making his way deliberately through the crowd. I would not look directly at him. At that moment the rickety bench on which I was balanced presented a sufficient challenge without the added distraction of those horrified green eyes. With every little move, the table groaned and swayed and threatened to give way.

  It was the loose back leg of my “stage” that proved to be my undoing. I could have ignored my friend’s black looks indefinitely had it not been for that sorry piece of furniture. An unlucky back step, a crack, a splinter, and a shout, and I fell from glory. I regret to report that I hit Cartwright on the way down.

  The farmers shouted for more as I scrambled to my feet, but I shook my head and curtsied, and the crowd melted away, grumbling. Peter Cartwright gave me a tired look and jerked his thumb in the direction of a vacant corner. As I settled there, one of the workmen made a lewd comment about my figure. Cartwright glanced up sharply, fists clenched. A moment later he had remembered himself and settled back, though his pale cheeks stayed dark for quite some time.

  I was not sure how to begin. Some explanation of my behavior seemed in order, but the excitement of the dance still lingered in my imagination. A meek apology would have sounded insincere, especially when contrasted with my tousled curls and the flush upon my cheeks.

  So I said what I was thinking.

  “I’m sorry that I landed on you.”

  His eyes were expressionless, narrow and quiet. He would not look at me.

  “I—they were dancing, and—I could not draw attention to myself—” I paused, embarrassed by his silence. He still had not looked up. The last whispers of my confidence began to fade away, and I cast about for a new approach.

  “I’ve discovered some new evidence!” I concluded desperately.

  He plucked a telegram from his jacket pocket. “I suppose you wish to enlighten me about this message, which just arrived this morning. Mr. Porter has been crowing about it since it came. ‘Have received a communication from our daughter. Please come to estate tomorrow evening to discuss. Lord Hartfield.’”

  I pulled Lady Rose’s letter from my pocket. “I have her ‘communication’ here, actually.”

  He started and finally met my eyes. “You stole it?” he hissed at me. “How could you—they will notice that it’s gone!”

  “The earl tried to burn it,” I retorted angrily. “If I hadn’t rescued it from the fire, you wouldn’t have this clue at all.”

  He snatched the envelope from my hand, turned it over, and stared for a moment at the blackened edges. I thought he would begin with a commentary about the postmark or an examination of the script, but instead he dropped the paper on the table and crossed his arms. “Show me your other hand, Dora,” he demanded.

  I had passed the letter to him with my right hand; the left arm I had kept hidden beneath my apron. Reluctantly I extended my injured palm across the table and looked away. Even in the dim light my wound was terrible to see, a discolored swelling above my wrist, crusted scabs by the blistered edge, and a scarlet streak that radiated to my elbow.

&nb
sp; He inhaled sharply and caught my hand, and slowly turned it toward the light. “For heaven’s sake,” he gasped. “What have you done?”

  “What else could I do?” I protested. “I had to rescue the letter. At any rate—I’m fine, it doesn’t really hurt,” I added, even though my fingers had gone numb, and I could feel my pulse shooting raw heat through my palm.

  “It doesn’t hurt?” he responded with a doubtful frown. “Dora, please, stop being brave, I’m begging you. This really is a serious injury.”

  “I’m not being brave, I barely feel it,” I insisted doggedly. “And you needn’t fuss at me like a mother hen.”

  “I’m not—” he began heatedly and then paused. There was no longer any frustration in his expression; his look was still severe, but he appeared bewildered now, and his eyes had widened in real concern. He would not release my hand.

  “Listen, Dora. I appreciate what you’re doing, I truly do,” he continued in a gentler tone. “But you needn’t torture yourself like this. I’ll find another way to approach this case. I’d rather do that than have you injured or falling ill—”

  But I wasn’t going to listen to the rest. He was trying to send me home, I realized, to take me off the case before it was finished. I knew that he was truly anxious for me, and it pleased me a little to see the honest worry in his eyes. But there was no way that I would step down now. “No, don’t say that, please!” I pleaded, pulling my arm back and tucking it beneath my apron. “Peter, you have to listen to me. My hand is well enough for now, and I promise that I’ll tell you if I’m feeling ill. I’ll walk away myself if I have to. But you need to trust me just a little. I won’t endanger the case, I won’t damage your career. Please, Peter.”

  “I don’t care about my career!” he shot back. “And I don’t want you sacrificing yourself for me. I don’t want anyone sacrificing themself for me!”

  “That’s very well, then! Because I’m not doing this for you. I’m here for Adelaide and Lady Rose, remember? And the longer we argue about this—the longer I’m away from Hartfield, the more suspicious everyone becomes. So, please, stop fighting me now and just read that note from Lady Rose. I need to know what you think of it.”

  He shook his head and slowly eased the letter from its envelope. While he studied the paper, I shifted impatiently in my seat and waited to hear his verdict.

  “Someone dictated this,” he remarked after a few minutes.

  I gave him a little smile of triumph. “That is what I thought. But look closer there—Lady Rose had tried to spell out her own message—”

  “Yes, the word ‘HELP.’ I noticed that before I read the letter.”

  “Oh.” My smile faded. “Right. Well, fine, then. I was just making sure you saw that. Very smart of you.”

  He threw his hands up. “Well?”

  “Well, Mr. Cartwright, naturally I wanted to know who dictated the letter—who addressed the envelope. So I obtained this sample of James’s writing for comparison.”

  I thrust the slip of paper across the table. He stared at it for a moment and then shoved it in his pocket. “Well done—but the writing on the envelope doesn’t match.”

  “I know that. Perhaps an accomplice posted it for him.”

  “That doesn’t help us much now, does it? And why did you ask me to bring a Bible?”

  “Because James is also sending coded messages to Lord Victor, and I believe I’ve found the key to them.”

  I placed my last clue beside the book and described the scene with Lord Victor and the ash stains. As I spoke he turned to page 243 (indicated by the first three Roman numerals in the message), and I began to count, “53/11.”

  “SHAVE,” he read out.

  This was not what I had expected. Still, I would not give up hope so soon. “57/4,” I continued.

  “BLOODY,” he said, a faint grin playing on his lips.

  I felt my throat constrict. “57/23.”

  “TURTLE-DOVES.” He was snickering now. “Go on.”

  “No, thank you,” I responded, dropping my head onto my arms. “I think ‘Shave bloody turtle-doves’ is humiliating enough.”

  “Ah, well, never mind,” he replied in a kinder tone, and closed the book. “This code was clearly meant to be deciphered only by people with identical editions. And this is simply not the version that we need.”

  I sighed and raised my head. “I should have anticipated that. Agatha told me that she saw James thumbing through a set of Dickens once and he had a letter written in code resting next to him. Perhaps he, too, had been trying to decipher the code as we are.”

  “And he tried every book in the library until he found the right one.”

  “And yet I am certain that he wrote the markings on the mantelpiece,” I protested. “James is involved in something guilty, I am sure of it. Agatha told me that she saw him steal away last night and that he returned with dirty trousers and a concealed gun. If we find out where he went last night, I believe it will lead us to the solution.”

  “With that, at least, I must agree,” he responded. “And I suppose that’s the reason you requested that I bring a dog?”

  I nodded, and a little pride came back into my voice. “James’s shoes smell like licorice. I coated them with anise oil yesterday.”

  I saw that I had finally impressed him. He smiled and rose quickly from the bench. “Then the trail should still be warm for us. I have the dog tied up outside.”

  I grabbed the Bible and followed him out the door. Lying sprawled out by the bottom step was the animal in question, a speckled, long-haired mutt who was snoring and sighing like an old man after a meal. The dog opened one eye, yawned lazily, and rolled over on his side. “He’s rather an ancient fellow, isn’t he?” I remarked, patting him behind the ear. “Shall I hold his leash?”

  “No, I’ll hold him. I have two good arms, and Toby can pull quite hard when he is on the trail.”

  “Oh, this is Toby?” I exclaimed. “I’d pictured a larger animal.” I had read about Toby in “The Sign of the Four.” It was somewhat ironic that I had traveled all this way to meet the great detective but had only succeeded in becoming acquainted with his favorite dog. “Shall we go then, Peter?”

  But his mood changed again, his expression shifting to one of dawning realization. He had pulled James’s note out from his pocket and was now regarding me with narrowed eyes. I could tell that he was about to say something rather unpleasant, and I had a suspicion about what it was going to be.

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake, what are you worried about now?” I asked him after an uncomfortable pause.

  “Well, I can’t help wondering about this note from James,” he muttered finally, holding out the letter. “Why exactly did he request a meeting with you?”

  I sighed irritably and snatched the paper from his hand. “I never compromised myself. You needn’t glare at me like that.”

  “I beg your pardon, my dear Miss Joyce, but I think you’ll have to forgive my doubts about your behavior. You see, I’m still a little sore after your last display. This is the first time that I’ve worked with a barroom dancer, after all.”

  I suppose that he was bound to mention that eventually. In fact I was surprised he hadn’t reproached me sooner and instead had allowed himself to be distracted by my wounded arm. But I was too tired to argue with him now, especially since, deep down, I knew that he was right to criticize me for what I’d done.

  “The dancing was rather much, I know,” I admitted finally, when I realized that he would not speak again. “But it is possible for a girl to use her charms without risking anything.”

  “Oh, really?” he retorted. “And is that how you obtained this note, then? By being charming? And flirting with a suspected criminal ?”

  “Oh, Peter, what do you want from me?” I shot back. “You encourage me to lie to Adelaide, dress me in a servant’s costume, and send me as a spy to investigate a kidnapping. And yet I am supposed to be discreet, demure, an innocent little shadow
beneath the stairs? And you? You can behave in any way you like, and no one says a word! You have no reputation to preserve, and yet for some reason you seem obsessed with guarding mine.”

  “But we are not the same, Miss Joyce! Why can’t you see that?”

  “Because I am just as capable as you are, sir. So I wish that you’d stop treating me like a helpless child!”

  He frowned and turned away; I saw his hands ball into fists. Then, without warning, without a sound, he swung about and seized me by the shoulders, pushing me roughly up against the tavern wall. My right wrist was pinned against my back; my left shoulder trapped against the hard, cold brick. I fought furiously, trying to pull my arm free from his grasp, kicking savagely at his shins. He could not mean to harm me; I knew that even as I wrestled with him. But he was not allowed to touch me, not like this! I was supposed to be insulted, shaking, horrified. I should have screamed my outrage at him.

  But I did not.

  The struggle lasted but a moment for his grip relaxed at once and he leaned his face down close to mine. He was still holding me firmly to the wall, but I could feel a gentleness now beneath the iron strength. The fingers about my uninjured wrist were lax, forgiving; he had not touched my wounded arm, even when I had tried to strike him with it. He brought his lips down to my ear; his cheek was so near mine that I could feel its warmth against my own.

  “Dora?”

  I could not speak. My throat had gone quite dry, and my mouth was now so close to him that I did not dare to move.

  “Dora, you know that I would never hurt you?”

  I nodded mutely, and leaned back against the wall.

  “But if I’d meant to hurt you here, could you have stopped it?”

  “Let me go.”

  “Please answer me.”

  “I’m going to scream!”

  “Just answer me!”

  I stamped my foot and tried to kick him one more time, not to try to free myself, for I knew that to be useless, but to distract him from my blushing. After a couple of false attempts, my boot finally connected with his knee.