Secret Letters Read Online Free PDF Page B

the agent’s rumbling baritone, and I saw my cousin flinch beneath his gaze. “Pray begin by telling me what happened, Lady Forrester.”
    Adelaide cleared her throat and glanced from Porter’s impassive face to his young assistant’s. Cartwright was sitting forward in his chair, elbows resting on his knees, a tense, alert expression in eyes. He smiled at her and nodded, and I saw her form relax and the fingers in her lap unclench.
    She exhaled slowly and began her story. As she recounted her history with her music tutor, their romantic letters, and her recent blackmail threat, I studied the two investigators quietly. It was interesting how their surroundings complemented each of them. Mr. Neville Porter was solid, dark, and dignified, with a drooping mustache, modest whiskers, and the traditional flared nostrils of a nobleman. Everything about the man was crisp and proper, from the ironed creases of his trousers to the small Masonic tiepin beneath his collar. He seemed to be quite at home amid his little luxuries, and I found it difficult to picture him dashing to a manhunt or sniffing out a murder trail.
    Peter Cartwright, on the other hand, seemed very comfortable in his cheerful squalor, as if he had planned the placement of every bit of rubbish. There was a broken sword hilt wedged between the cushions of his chair, but he seemed entirely oblivious to it, even though the edge was making a jagged indentation in his thigh. During my cousin’s speech he did not break his attention once, but kept his gaze fixed upon her as if his life depended on his concentration. Though our eyes had met briefly when he had first come in, there had been no flash of anything within their depths, no mirth or mocking, not even a flicker of recognition. I was careful not to watch him, because I was certain that he would notice; but it was soon obvious that it did not matter where I looked, as he seemed so intent on ignoring me. So throughout the interview, we pretended not to see each other.
    When Adelaide had finished, Mr. Porter looked languidly at his assistant and waved his hand. “Go ahead.”
    Cartwright gave a quick nod and shifted forward in his chair. “Lady Forrester, I presume you brought the blackmail letter with you.”
    My cousin shook her head and dropped her eyes. “No, I’m sorry, I do not have it anymore. I was quite upset, you see, and I’m afraid I threw it in the fire.”
    The two men exchanged looks, and Mr. Porter let out an irritated sigh. Cartwright threw me an exasperated frown.
    “That wasn’t wise,” he muttered under his breath.
    “If it helps—I remember what the writing looked like,” I ventured after an embarrassed silence. “I could describe it to you.”
    But Cartwright had already turned back to Adelaide. “The blackmailer had signed his letter with the initials ‘J.F.’ Is that correct?”
    “Yes.”
    “No address, I presume?”
    “Just a London postmark.”
    “And the man to whom you wrote the letters? Your music tutor?”
    “He died a few months ago. But before we parted for the last time, he promised me that he’d burn my letters. It turns out that he didn’t keep his promise. But, then, neither did I.”
    “And this J.F. has both sets of letters?”
    “So it seems.”
    “And how are you to pay the fellow?”
    “He indicated that he would contact me by the thirtieth of the month and name the place of the exchange. He suggested that I use the time to raise the money. I don’t have anywhere near the sum which he is asking. What do you think I ought to do?”
    Porter shook his head and shrugged. “I’m afraid, madam, that I recommend you do just what he said. If you are absolutely certain that this man really has your letters—”
    “He quoted a passage from one of them in the middle of his note. He has them, I am sure of it.”
    “Then, unfortunately, the next move is his. You say that your servant, the one who stole the letters from you—what was his name?”
    “Thomas