Kenward’s eyes narrow, and his mouth opens, forming a circular shape around the words of his next questions. But before those words meet air, the study door opens with a thud. A young policeman scurries to the officer’s side, whispering in his ear.
The constable leaps to his feet with a surprising spryness. “Excuse me for a moment, Colonel. There’s been a development.”
Archie’s stomach flips. What in the name of God have they found so soon? He follows the policeman out into the foyer. “What is it? What’s happened?”
Kenward calls back to him over his shoulder. “I’ll let you know as soon as I’ve had a chance to investigate personally. In the meantime, please remain here.”
Archie allows his step to slow, and in the absence of movement, panic sets in. He turns around, intending to return to the sanctuary of his study to regain control of himself, but before he reaches it, he encounters Charlotte in the hallway. The dark-haired governess and secretary, her hair cut in a fashionable but unflattering bob, is carrying a tea tray with scraps of an uneaten breakfast undoubtedly belonging to his daughter. “Miss Rosalind has been asking after you, sir,” she mentions in an apologetic tone.
“Does she know anything about the situation?”
“No, sir. Although even a child can see that something’s wrong, what with the police crawling about the house.”
“Let’s keep it that way for now, Charlotte. I’ll visit her in the nursery presently.”
Charlotte’s voice, usually brisk and efficient, catches. “Did—did you see the letter, sir?”
“What letter?” Archie feigns an air of innocence, all the while praying he misunderstood the servant. That she meant a different letter than the one from his wife.
“The one from the mistress on the foyer table. I saw it there yesterday evening when I returned from London but left it for you.”
“Oh yes, that one,” he says, as if he’s just remembered. Feigning casualness, he asks, “You didn’t mention that letter to the police, did you? It didn’t have anything to do with”—he gestures around the house—“all this.”
“N-no,” she answers.
Without thinking, he reaches for her arm, squeezing it a little tighter than planned. “Good.” Charlotte gives a quiet yelp, and he releases her arm. “I’m sorry. I’m just so worried,” he says.
“Of course you are, sir.” She absolves him, rubbing her arm a bit. “Honestly, now that I think about it, I can’t quite remember if I mentioned it or not. The morning’s been quite the blur, what with the police to contend with and Miss Rosalind missing her mum today. Should I be keeping the letter private?”
While he does not want to leave Charlotte with a wrong impression, one she might inadvertently convey to others, he cannot risk her disclosure. He could only guess at what the police would glean from a letter left by a missing wife for her husband and then subsequently burned by that husband. Only one conclusion seems likely.
But how best to broach this topic with Charlotte to get the desired result? If he insists on her silence, would she take that demand to the police? He could only imagine the repercussions of that. Perhaps the demand could be framed as a request? A choice?
“I don’t want to tell you what to do on this score, Charlotte, but I do think it would be best to allow the constable to focus on the more important matter of locating the mistress, don’t you?”
Charlotte glances down at the tea tray she’s still carrying and concurs without enthusiasm. “As you like, sir.”
He could almost weep with relief but instead keeps his face placid. “Good girl. Anyway, the letter concerns a private matter between my wife and myself that predates the events of yesterday. As such, it can shed no light on her whereabouts.”
Chapter Seven
The Manuscript
November 19, 1912
Ashfield, Torquay, England
“You can run off into the garden now, Jack,” Madge announced as we finished tea. I found it hard to believe that Madge’s son, James, who everyone referred to as Jack, was no longer a little boy but a growing lad of nine. As soon as Jack received his release from the prison of Ashfield’s tea table, he leapt up and ran for the outdoors, undoubtedly hoping to get the last hour of daylight before he was incarcerated within the house’s walls again.
“Am I to be excused as well?” Madge’s good-natured husband Jimmy asked.
“You know me all too well, darling,” Madge said with a smile. “How did you know that we girls would like to have a feminine chat?”
“I do know you a bit after all these years, my dear. Plus, I do have a sister, who’s usually in league with you and Agatha in these little talks,” Jimmy answered with a reference to his sister, Nan Watts, as he trailed out of the room. He nibbled on a final scone in hand, getting crumbs in his reddish mustache. “Don’t forget we’ve got to head out in an hour,” he called over his shoulder when he reached the hallway.
I glanced over at my self-assured sister, her chestnut hair curled expertly around her ear, a triple strand of pearls draped around her neck and bosom, a crimson cashmere cardigan draped over her shoulders and her floral silk dress. Her face was not classically pretty, but the manner in which she carried herself drew people to her almost magnetically. I tried to meet her gaze—to assess why she wanted to have this private chat—but she was staring at Mummy, who nodded in response. What were they planning, and was this “chat” the reason for their unexpected visit to Ashfield? I suddenly felt quite caged.
“Mummy tells me you have a new beau,” Madge said as she pulled a cigarette from her silver monogrammed case. I thought she looked the picture of sophistication as she tapped it on the table, lit a match, and then took a long drag, but I knew Mummy disapproved. She found this new smoking fad to be extremely unladylike. “Even though you’re still engaged to Reggie Lucy.”
Our family had known the Lucys for ages, and Reggie and I were kindred spirits, having been raised in the same lovely, lazy Devon lifestyle. He hadn’t much money either, but he had solid enough prospects as a major in the Gunners. Before he left for a two-year stint in Hong Kong, the beautifully shy young man, with lovely dark eyes and hair, quietly proposed, not a formal engagement, mind, but a loose sort of understanding between our families. But the evening of his departure, he told me to see other people—other boys—at dances and parties before we settled down. I had taken Reggie at his word and went about my normal social activities, including formal balls where dancing was de rigueur. I hadn’t felt a lick of guilt until Archie appeared and everything seemed to shift.
My cheeks burned hot. I admired Madge and sought her approval, so I found it especially loathsome when she treated me like a child. Or worse, when beloved Mummy sided with her against me. In such moments, I felt the eleven-year age difference between Madge and me like a chasm. Thank God Monty was such an absentee sibling, or it might have been three against one.