Secret Letters Read online

  I gave him a reassuring nod. “You needn’t worry. I don’t tell tales, sir. And I’d never say anything that might bother your little girl.” He seemed satisfied and moved back toward the door. I gave a little farewell curtsy and, in doing so, allowed the cloth to fall off my basket. I let him stare hungrily at the uncovered cakes for a moment and then held one out for him. “I’ve already eaten two,” I whispered confidentially. He hesitated, and I laid down my basket and picked up a muffin for myself. “I got some extra, sir, so it’s no trouble.”

  He took the proffered muffin, and I bit into mine. The next moment I was choking and spitting and holding my hand desperately to my throat. Old Ellison sprang to my side and gave a little exclamation of concern. The man seemed genuinely alarmed, not by my crisis, I think, but at the prospect of my collapsing on his doorstep and attracting attention to his suspicious situation. He beat on my back with all the enthusiasm of a concerned parent, and I rewarded his efforts by gasping louder and falling to my knees. As he leaned down to help me, my hand found its way into his coat pocket, and I removed his watch and tucked it in my dress before finally sinking down onto the ground. Ellison looked about wildly for a moment and seemed ready to escape back into the house, but I pulled on his jacket tail and whispered, “Water, please—” and pointed to the cottage door. He looked helplessly toward the doorway, and I used the opportunity to fling his watch into some shrubbery beneath the terrace. My coughing had at this point eased a little, but I was still breathing noisily, and my eyes were watering profusely. The man gave me a last look of exasperation and finally extended his arm to assist me into the house.

  Once inside the cottage, I found it more difficult to ignore his agitation than to play my part. His hands were shaking as he lowered me down onto a wooden rocking chair, and he glanced repeatedly toward one of the closed doors at the end of the room. Had I been totally ignorant of his purpose in that house, his behavior alone would have convinced me that there was a guilty secret in the place. I breathed deeply again and repeated my request for water. He nodded distractedly and hurried off to the kitchen.

  When he had gone, I darted across the room and quickly unfastened the clasp on one of the windows and the hook between its shutters. I placed my handkerchief upon the sill before closing the unlocked shutters once again. By the time Ellison returned with the water I was again reclining on the chair and breathing noisily. I took several sips, smiled gratefully at him, and after a few minutes declared that I was much improved. He saw me out, and, as I bid him farewell, I inquired innocently about the time. He reached his hand into his pocket, discovered that the watch was missing, and gave a loud exclamation of dismay.

  “It’s my father’s watch!” he moaned. “It must have dropped from my pocket when I was helping you out there.”

  He hurried from the house, pushing me out in front of him, then dove beneath the bushes in his desperate search. I had to toss the piece in four separate hiding places, but the hunt kept Ellison occupied for a quarter of an hour. I had no idea if Cartwright had broken into the place, and still less if he had found the missing girl. It was absolutely still inside; there was no sign of movement or whisper of voices from within. As I edged closer to the house, Ellison finally climbed out from behind the wheelbarrow, clutching his lost timepiece. I looked desperately toward the door, praying for some signal from my friend, and realized too late that I had not planned for complications.

  What if there had been a second man in that house, and Cartwright had walked into a trap? Or was it possible that Ellison was actually caring for a relative as he had claimed? I had just encouraged my friend to break into a house while carrying a weapon, and he would be arrested and imprisoned if he were caught. Even now Ellison was getting closer to the door; his foot was on the step and he was glaring at me from beneath his brows. I had to say something, anything, to make him halt—

  “Stop! Don’t move. Hands above your head!” I heard the words, but I had not shouted them.

  In front of me I saw Ellison drop heavily to his knees, his face pinched and livid, his arms extended. Peter Cartwright was standing in the doorway, gun in hand, a length of rope wrapped around one shoulder. Holding the pistol barrel to our prisoner’s head, he tossed the twine to me, and I pulled Ellison’s hands behind him and knotted the cord around his wrists. He did not resist when Cartwright grasped him by the arm and pulled him to his feet, just glowered dumbly at me as we led him into the house.

  “Well, sir, what have you to say?” Cartwright demanded.

  Ellison dropped sullenly into a nearby chair and glared at us. “I don’t got nothing to say, laddie,” he growled, and spat into the corner.

  “As I’m sure you understand, you’ll be arrested for the kidnapping of Lady Rose.”

  “What of it, then?” The man spit once more, this time straight in front of him.

  The wad of tobacco that had landed on his shoe did not amuse my friend. “Tie him to the chair,” he ordered gruffly. “You’ll be comfortable there until the police arrive. And I will stay with Lady Rose until her doctor comes to tend to her.”

  As he spoke, he walked over to the corner door and pushed it open. The room inside was windowless and bare, and on a gray and threadbare blanket a young girl was lying, her eyes closed and chin tucked down. She was dressed in a nightgown and a wrinkled travel cloak; her uncombed hair was gathered back in a damp and matted braid. One arm lay outstretched across the floor, and I could see the raw and blistered wheal across her wrist where her arms had been bound together. She opened her eyes briefly and gazed vacantly at us, her dotlike pupils roving lazily about in drugged confusion. With a little murmur of surprise she lifted her hands into the air, as if she was amazed to find them free, then let them drop again as she drifted off to sleep.

  Cartwright knelt by the girl and placed his finger on her wrist. “Go fetch a doctor right away,” he told me. “Then run for the police.”

  I nodded and put my hand out toward the door, my eyes still fixed on the miserable figure of Lady Rose. From the corner of my eye I saw old Ellison start and jerk back in blank surprise, saw Cartwright spin about and freeze, one arm raised in mute alarm. A moment later I felt a cold draft from the open door behind me and the sting of freezing metal on my temple. Someone wrenched me backward, pinning me to him, the crush of a heavy arm tightening across my chest. I could not move or breathe; even as I struggled the muzzle of a revolver bore deeper into my neck and choked me.

  “One move and I will kill her.”

  I recognized the voice, but I could not speak, for the barrel was pressed firmly now beneath my chin. Peter Cartwright had risen slowly off the ground, both palms extended in a gesture of surrender and appeal. “Let her go,” he pleaded, his voice high, uncertain. “Let Dora go, James. You have nothing to gain by hurting her.”

  I felt the arm around me slacken, but the revolver still hovered menacingly about my throat.

  “The weapon in your pocket,” James directed. “Take it out and kick it over to me. Slowly, now.” My heart sank as Cartwright pulled his pistol from his coat and pushed it roughly across the floor. My last hope had now passed into a criminal’s hands. Behind me I felt James relax as he tucked his revolver into his belt and plucked the other off the ground. For a fleeting moment I thought of trying to escape while his weapon was down, but I caught Cartwright’s eye and paused. He shook his head slightly and I understood that I was to trust him and stay still.

  “What have you done to Lady Rose?” James demanded.

  What had we done? I wanted to shout but the sight of his finger on the trigger kept me silent.

  “I am now unarmed,” Cartwright replied, ignoring James’s question. “Let Dora go and we can talk. I will not say a word while you are holding her.”

  “I do not need to hear your story. I’m here for Lady Rose.”

  “Put down the gun.”

  James wavered for a moment and dropped his hand, but wrapped his other arm about my waist and pinned me t
o him. “Now talk.”

  “Let her go, James.”

  “Not until you tell me who you are.”

  “Drop your weapon or I will shoot!”

  The shout had echoed from behind me, and as James spun around to face the challenge, he let me go, and I toppled to the ground. I looked up to see Mr. Porter standing in the doorway, gun extended, and James on his knees before him, hands crossed behind his head. Peter Cartwright ran over to me and pulled me to my feet, then seized James by the elbows, disarmed him, and shoved him roughly to the ground. Mr. Porter advanced slowly into the room but stopped suddenly as I turned to face him. He let out a noise like a strangled grunt; his mouth dropped open and his brows came down.

  “What in Heaven’s name are you doing here, Miss—”

  “Mr. Porter!” exclaimed Cartwright, stepping up to him and grasping him by the arm. “Thank God you’re here! I did just as you directed, sir. But I never expected James to turn up when he did! I am so glad that you thought to follow him. Was it very difficult?”

  I stared at him. My friend sounded like a student gasping questions at a teacher’s elbow. This was not the boy I knew. It was obvious that Porter had not given any of the orders; Cartwright had engineered the search (with a little help from me) and had stationed his colleague at the house to trail James. And yet he was so humble now, hovering at his master’s side like an eager lackey waiting for approval. Porter cleared his throat twice, gave me a final puzzled look and nodded slowly. “It appears that I arrived here just in time, or this young—lady might have suffered for your carelessness. What exactly is she doing here?”

  “Oh, she’s all right. She will keep following me, though,” Cartwright declared. “But, sir, I believe another young girl requires your attention.” He stepped aside and pointed to the prostrate form of Lady Rose. Mr. Porter gasped and rushed over to her.

  James had sat up and was watching us, studying the sullen Ellison, the unconscious lady, and my face, each in turn. Finally he turned to Cartwright and protested in a plaintive whine, “I am innocent of this.”

  “Indeed?”

  James jabbed his finger in Ellison’s direction. “I’ve never seen that fellow before in all my life. I found out where Lady Rose was being kept, and I came to rescue her.”

  Cartwright shrugged his shoulders. “I doubt that the police will believe your story. They’ll want to know why you threatened an unarmed girl, I think. You certainly do not appear innocent, and I daresay your record is not as clean as you would have us think. However, I believe when I explain our case, you will be more than willing to help us capture the person whom we have all been seeking. If you cooperate with us, perhaps Mr. Porter can convince the authorities to overlook a few things about your past. Or we can step aside and allow the police to arrest you for kidnapping and attempted murder.”

  James thrust out a defiant lip. “What things in my past are we talking about exactly?”

  “Well, for starters, there is the matter of the letters.”

  A shade of fear passed over the valet’s face. “Which letters are you meaning?”

  “The ones that Thomas Dyer stole from his mistress and sold to you. Those must, of course, be returned to us.”

  James seemed surprised by this demand but did not seem inclined to argue. “I’ll look into it.” There was a hint of sly relief behind his answer. “Anything else, sir?”

  “One moment.” Cartwright stepped over to his master and, kneeling down beside him, whispered something in his ear. Porter nodded briefly, and his assistant rose and strode over to the door.

  “I have to return to the estate now, James,” Cartwright told the valet. “You will come with me.”

  James snorted loudly and clambered to his feet. “Just as you say, sir.”

  I moved to follow them, but Cartwright turned to me abruptly and raised his eyebrows. “I’m sorry, Dora.”

  “But—”

  “I need you to stay with Lady Rose until her doctor comes. When she wakes up you can attend to her. We have yet to hear her story—”

  “But Mr. Porter can—”

  “No! I need you to be here.”

  I slumped against the wall. At this crucial moment he was leaving me behind, and I would miss it all, the capture, the arrest, the final flourish. I would hear about it later, if he remembered to explain it to me, or I might read about it in the papers.

  He saw my sour expression and, leaning down, he took my hand in his. “Dora, don’t be angry, please. I’m asking you to stay because I need you here. You know that your help has been invaluable to me. And that last trick you used to break into this house—honestly, I’m still trying to work out how you knew that Ellison had been sick on Christmas.”

  I felt the blood rush to my cheeks. “Oh—that. Well, his fingernails, you see—there was a ridge across his nail-plate. When a man is severely ill, the nail stops growing briefly. The distance of that line from the cuticle allowed me to estimate the date of illness.”

  “Ah, of course! I did not see that.”

  “But you were not close enough to him—”

  “I was—but I simply did not notice. Well done, Dora.”

  I forgot my disappointment for a moment. Also my throbbing arm, the case…

  “Thank you.”

  He nodded quietly and pulled the sleeve back from my wounded arm. “When the doctor has tended to Lady Rose, I want him to examine your burn. It’s looking worse with every passing hour.”

  He turned away before I could respond and grabbed James by the shoulder. The valet glowered at him but made no protest, and together they left the house.

  When they were gone, Ellison smirked at me and shook his head. “You needn’t look so cheeky, girl. He just ‘got around’ you, or didn’t you see that?”

  “The police will soon be here for you,” I told him scornfully and left the room. But Ellison was right, and of course I knew it. I had truly begun to hate our prisoner.

  Mr. Porter was kneeling beside Lady Rose when I joined them. He had succeeded in reviving her with some water and a swig of brandy, and he was asking her if she remembered what had happened to her.

  “A rag with a strong sharp smell is all I can remember,” she told him. “Then I woke up here. My hands were tied, and a man whom I had never seen before was standing over me.”

  From the next room I heard a clatter, a thud, and the sound of Ellison cursing. “I need some help in here! The blasted chair has fallen over and my face is bleeding. Hello in there!”

  Porter gave me a weary look and left to tend to our troublesome prisoner. Lady Rose stared at me for a moment and then pushed herself up against the wall.

  “Who are you?” she inquired in a weak voice.

  It suddenly occurred to me that I did not know who I was. Was it still necessary to keep up my role as Hartfield scullery maid, or could I tell her that I was working with the detective who had rescued her? I decided to be cautious and reveal nothing about myself until I was certain it was safe.

  “My name is Dora Banister, Your Ladyship,” I told her. “I’m the new maid at Hartfield Hall.”

  She half-rose from the blanket as I spoke and looked about the room with growing interest. I held out a bit of muffin and she took it eagerly, and, manners quite forgotten, began to stuff it whole into her mouth. I pulled out another one and offered it to her, but she caught my wrist and turned it over. “What happened to your hand?” she asked me between mouthfuls.

  I pulled my arm back and tucked it beneath my apron. “I scalded it on the stove,” I responded. “It’s nothing really.”

  In truth, my burn had swelled now, and the wound looked uglier than before. The scarlet streak had darkened to a dusky purple, and though my fingers were still numb, the aching heat across my palm now seemed to radiate through my body. The room was cold and drafty, but a flush of fever warmed my cheeks and a sheen of perspiration glistened on my brow.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked after she had finished he
r second muffin. “And where is that brutish farmer who was starving me?”

  “He’s tied to a chair out there. We’re waiting for the doctor to come and then we’ll take you home. Until he arrives, I’m here to take care of you.”

  Lady Rose glared at me and shook her head. “I don’t believe you,” she declared finally. “They tried starvation to get me to confess and then drugged me with opium when I refused. They forced me to write a farewell letter to my parents. Perhaps this is another trick. I have never seen you before in all my life. Tell me why I should trust you.”

  Of course she did not believe me. A maid in my position would not have dared to address her mistress in such an easy way; she would have answered shortly, with great embarrassment and averted eyes. But I had to know what she was hiding, had to understand what her kidnappers had wanted from her.

  “You can trust me, Lady Rose,” I assured her. “Because I’m working with the man who rescued you, who apprehended James just moments ago in this cottage.”

  She frowned and reached out for another pastry.

  “James, my brother’s valet? He found me here? How very poetic. Now we’ve both unearthed a secret.” She smiled to herself and bit deep into the crust.

  “You unearthed a secret, Lady Rose?”

  She looked startled for a moment, as if realizing for the first time that she had spoken her thoughts out loud. Then she slumped back against the wall and turned her face away from me. “Perhaps I have—or perhaps not. What is it to you?”

  “I’m trying to help you,” I answered her. “It’s obvious that you’ve been cruelly wronged. These criminals have kidnapped you, mistreated you—starved you, even. Surely you wish them to be brought to justice?”

  She turned to me and I saw that she was smiling now, a tired, ironic smile, as if she pitied me for my sad mistake. “Cruelly wronged, you said?” she echoed. “Are you talking about this?” She waved her hand over the squalid room. “This lasted a few days, and I was asleep through most of it. And while I wouldn’t want to return here again, I wouldn’t say that this is how they’ve wronged me.”