I pretended to take the coin but slid the letter into her hand instead. The crown fell to the pavement. I picked it up and firmly handed it back to her.
I debated whether to tell her the handwriting was Daniel’s and decided against it, for now, with the footman too near.
“The letter writer knows exactly what role your father plays at the Home Office,” I whispered to her. “What did they mean by a secret police?”
Miss Townsend shrugged. “I have no idea. People get notions into their heads. In any case, my father is not going to reform the Metropolitan Police because his daughter begs him to.”
I didn’t quite believe that Miss Townsend did not know what the letter referred to. She too quickly moved her gaze to rest on the railings beside us, her smile becoming fixed.
I continued. “It was written neatly, not scrawled in anger. As though they worked out what they would say first and then copied it out onto a clean sheet. There is no hesitation, only very even spaces between the words.”
Miss Townsend flicked her eyes to me again. “That is very cleverly thought, Mrs.Holloway. You ought to be an expert in handwriting for Scotland Yard.”
I nodded modestly, though I thought it was silly praise. As though Scotland Yard would listen to the likes of me.
Miss Townsend gave me another smile and continued in a louder voice. “I truly thank you for the tea. It was the best I’ve had.”
I curtsied, so anyone watching would believe I merelyaccepted the compliment. At least Miss Townsend did not try to give me the crown again.
We said our farewells, and Miss Townsend returned to the coach. The thoughtful glance she shot me as she entered the carriage had me running through our conversation once more, wondering what she was refusing to tell me.
* * *
Tess and I finished supper and sent it up along with the apples à la frangipane. The plate it had rested on contained only a smear of cream when the footmen cranked the dirty dishes back to us.
When I’d put some of the apple dish aside for Tess and me to enjoy I’d automatically begun to add a helping for Daniel, before remembering he wouldn’t be visiting, for who knew how long.
I stilled in the larder, where I’d gone to tuck away leftovers, indulging myself in a few moments of despair. If I lost Daniel, it would leave an emptiness in my life that nothing could fill.
When I returned to the kitchen I had an even greater determination to see Daniel returned home safely. It was quite important to stop people setting off bombs and hurting innocents, but I wanted the task to be accomplished without Daniel losing his life.
I held to the idea that Daniel had been given sealed envelopes to deliver, without the writer letting him see what was inside. Though knowing Daniel, he would have made a valiant attempt to find out what it was he posted.
But there was another possibility. Daniel might have addressed the envelopes during a previous job—he’d pretended to be a young and impoverished gentleman secretary before—thathad nothing to do with Lord Peyton or his household. The blackmailer could have hoarded the envelopes and then used them later, once Daniel was well away.
This might account for Lady Rankin being sent a letter—the blackmailer had waited so long that Lady Rankin had died in the meantime. Perhaps he’d simply sent out the entire batch without remembering to pull hers from it. Or he’d decided that the current lady of the house might have as many guilty secrets as the former.
This did not explain why the first batch of letters was addressed in a different hand, but I was fumbling to understand what was happening.
I made myself get on with my tasks, then I carried my basket of scraps upstairs to greet those who gathered around me.
Mr.Fielding’s two young spies were there. I gave them less than I did the others, knowing Mr.Fielding was making certain their bellies were full.
A giant of a man surged from the back of the crowd once I’d handed out my last bit of bread and leftover apples. The others faded before him, pretending not to fear the huge specimen who brushed them aside like a rolling boulder.
The man seized my hands in a massive grip. “Mrs.Holloway,” he boomed. “I’m that pleased to see you. It has been too long a time, hasn’t it?”
12
Zachariah Grimes beamed at me from his great height, his blue eyes in his rather squashed face filled with unfeigned delight.
He wrung my hands, jiggling my now-empty basket, and I gasped for breath. “I am happy to see you as well, Mr.Grimes,” I managed. “Your grip is rather tight.”
Instantly, Mr.Grimes released me. “Beg pardon, missus. I forget me own strength when I’m chuffed. You look well. Danny’s worried about you, but you’re as hearty as ever.”
In fashionable society, a lady’s beauty depended on how delicate she was, and calling a woman hearty would be seen as an insult. I often thanked the Lord I wasn’t a fashionable lady—I’d be useless if I reclined on a chaise pretending I couldn’t lift a teacup on my own.
The beggars had dispersed, and I felt able to speak freely. “I am quite well, Mr.Grimes. It is Daniel I’m worried about.”
