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“The next piece of evidence comprises a set of four letters.” Sir Gordon pulled out a few more pages. “These letters were allegedly written by Mr. DeWitt to Lady Bolderwood, expressing, ah, affection and, ah, longing.”
Affection. Longing. Cassandra had never received a letter like that. Like the love letters Sir Gordon was sliding across the table toward them. The letters were short. Efficient, her husband.
And angry again, but this time his face was hard and cold, his lip curled in disgust.
“Most of the pages are copies,” Sir Gordon explained. “The one on top is said to be an original, to verify your handwriting.”
She did not want to look, but the uppermost page called to her like a siren. She did not know Joshua’s handwriting—Mr. Newell penned all their communications—but she could believe it was his. The writing was nearly illegible, as if he wrote too fast and energetically for his quill to keep up, so that words were smudged and the page was splattered with ink.
Yet she made out the opening salutation: “My dearest one.”
She averted her eyes, ignored the sick chill shivering through her chest. Longing. Affection. None of her business.
Clearly Joshua thought so too, for he did not spare her a glance as he gathered up all the pages.
“I wrote those letters,” he said in a tone like steel. “But not to Lady Bolderwood. Someone stole them from my personal belongings. Last I heard, that’s a crime.”
Sir Gordon regarded him over his spectacles. “The privilege of peerage—”
“Sod their bloody privilege!” Joshua slammed a fist on the table. “They will return the original letters in full or so help me I will shoot them both where they stand. Next.”
Nobody said a word.
“Next!” Joshua repeated.
He shoved back his chair and paced around the room. Cassandra turned back to Sir Gordon, pleading with him silently.
Sir Gordon lifted the next page from his file. “Third, and finally, these are the dates and times that Mr. DeWitt was reportedly, ah, having a tryst with Lady Bolderwood. It would help if Mr. DeWitt can account for his whereabouts at these times.”
Mr. Das took the page and opened his own dossier. “I can check this against Mr. DeWitt’s work schedule,” he explained. “I keep a record of all his business meetings and movements.”
They waited in awkward silence as Mr. Das worked. Cassandra traced the whorls of the woodgrain with her finger. She glanced up to see Joshua watching her. Then he pivoted away and went to the window. Cassandra returned to her tracing.
When Mr. Das shuffled the papers together, he looked uncomfortable. “These are all periods that are unaccounted for in your official schedule. Sir.”
Joshua stared out the window. “Isn’t it interesting,” he said with dangerous calm, “that every so-called tryst fits with a gap, and they have letters taken from my rooms. Now, who would have that access? Who is highly familiar with my work schedule?”
He turned like a clockwork doll and looked right at Mr. Das, who looked right back at him. The air in the room prickled and hissed.
“No.” Cassandra looked from one to the other. “There must be a perfectly reasonable explanation that has nothing to do with…anyone in this room.”
“Perhaps that’s another matter Mr. Isaac can look into,” Mr. Das said coolly.
“Perhaps that would be for the best,” Joshua said. “Is he here?”
Without another word, Mr. Das left the room.
“No,” Cassandra said again. “Joshua, you cannot possibly believe that.” She shot an apologetic look at Sir Gordon and went to Joshua’s side. “There must be another explanation. Mr. Das would not let you down like this.”
“How do I know if I can trust him? He was married for years and never said a word.”
“Whose fault was that?” She turned his face to look at her, ignoring the apparent irrelevance of his statement. “Did you ever ask him? Did you ever take an interest in his personal life?”
“No. He has no personal life. He doesn’t exist outside work.”
“Then how can you…Never mind. Think. Who else could it be?” She held his face in both hands, ignoring Sir Gordon, who was making a point of arranging his papers. “Someone else who could come and go freely in your house. Who might find your private letters and know what they were. Who also had access to your schedule.”
He looked troubled, and she wanted to smooth away that trouble, and hated herself for her weakness.
