Miss Townsend spied me lingering beside the railings and turned her steps to me, to the consternation of the footman.
“Mrs.Holloway, how fortunate I’ve caught you.” Miss Townsend slid her hand into the pocket of her light spring jacket and handed me an envelope, her eyes alight with excitement. “The next letter came,” she said, sotto voce. “Look that over and tell me what you think. I’ll be upstairs having a sedate tea with Cynthia and her aunt. We’ll confer when I am ready to depart.”
I had no time to answer before Miss Townsend sailed back toward the house’s front door. “Not to worry, dear boy. Here I am.” She let the footman, who doubtless hoped for another gratuity, lead her under the square portico and through the open door into the house.
I kept the letter crumpled in my hand as I hastened down the stairs to the kitchen. Once inside I shoved aside the bowlof sliced apples—in cold water so they wouldn’t brown—and unfolded what Miss Townsend had given me.
The letter was in its envelope, addressed to Miss Townsend of Upper Brook Street in a clear hand. I stared down at the envelope, my hand drifting to my parted lips as a coldness stole through me.
“Mrs.H.?” Tess asked in concern. “What is it? Not more bad news?”
It was no news at all. But I recognized the handwriting that blared up at me. I’d seen it in notes addressed to me, passed to me by James, and also from careful entries he’d made about our inquiries into my own notebook.
I knew without any sort of doubt that Daniel McAdam had written the direction on this missive.
11
I remained still for so long that Tess put a hand onto my shoulder, startling me.
“Is it one of them nasty letters?” she asked. “That’s not your name though.”
I made myself look up from the envelope, but I was all amazed. How on earth had Daniel come to be involved in this blackmailing scheme? It had not been his hand on the previous letters, so why had he writtenthisparticular envelope?
“No.” My mouth was so dry I could scarcely form the word. “It came to Miss Townsend.”
“Are you going to open it? Be easier to read, then, wouldn’t it?”
Tess obviously did not recognize Daniel’s writing, but she had no reason to. She had a point, however, so I parted the envelope where Miss Townsend had slit it and withdrew the single page.
Daniel had not penned the letter itself. I didn’t realize I hadbeen holding my breath as I unfolded it, until my exhale rattled the paper.
The message inside had been written in the same slanting hand as the first and began with a few vitriolic words about Miss Townsend’s character. Once the invective was over, the person stated:
I have decided to be kind and not demand the cash you were fearing. Much easier for you to do me a favor instead.
Speak to your father about the formation of the secret police. He will know what I mean. They would do well to dissolve it before someone is hurt.
It is disgusting that a free land has resorted to men spying on other free men, taking notes on what they do. Tell him to have it stopped.
He will listen to you, no matter what sickening tricks you get up to in your bedroom. Urge him to end it or your high jinks will be touted to all and sundry, in exquisite detail. Perhaps photographs will be involved.
The letter wandered off into more vituperation, which I had no desire to peruse.
I reread the demands, becoming more puzzled each time. What did they mean by a secret police? I’d never heard of such a thing, though I suppose the termsecretwould cover that contingency.
Miss Townsend’s father was something in the Home Office, which oversaw the Metropolitan Police and other domestic measures in Britain. If anyone would know what the police were up to, it would be Mr.Townsend and his colleagues.
The larger question was, why hadDanieladdressed theenvelope of a letter threatening Miss Townsend and mentioning a secret police service?
I folded the paper and slid it back into the envelope. Like the first letters, this had come through the post, with a proper stamp, which had been cancelled with today’s date, which meant it had been posted this morning.
Daniel at the moment was inside a house in Belgrave Square—if it hadn’t been his body pulled from the river, I reminded myself with a wrench—watching over a viscount who might or might not be a miscreant.
Were the letters—at least this one—originating from the Belgrave Square house, where Daniel was busily purporting to be a secretary?
I could not imagine Daniel letting such a nasty thing, with mention of the police, which he was very much a part of, slip through his fingers. He’d have found some way to purloin the letter, especially as he was acquainted with its recipient. I could, however, picture the writer sealing up the envelope and passing it to Daniel, telling him to address and post it as part of his duties.
Would Daniel risk sending Miss Townsend, a person he knew, a surreptitious message using this correspondence? I removed the letter again and scoured the envelope for writing or a hidden slip of paper or some such, but found nothing. Likewise, the letter contained nothing but the malicious threats, no extra sentence from Daniel or other cryptic marks.
