Page 4

There was a young man at the door, his cap sodden with rain. “Urgent letter for Mister Harper, sir,” he said, and I took the sad little envelope from him. We had a plate of shillings beside the door, and I gave him a handful for his good work, which seemed to brighten him considerably. He went on his way, and I turned the envelope over in my hands. It was a fragile thing, and the paper had a peculiar texture to it. Our address was written in a curling, archaic script.

Havelock was fastening his cuffs as he came downstairs. “For me?”

“When is it ever for me?”

Taking the envelope, he turned it over in kind. “Oh!” he exclaimed. “How peculiar.”

“What is it?” I went to start the fire in the parlour, and he joined me; fetching the letter opener from the cabinet drawer and settling in to his usual spot.

“The envelope has been handmade,” he told me. Slitting it open, he removed the contents. “And so has the letter.”

The wood started to catch, and I added some coals. Soon, there would be a merry blaze. I took my customary place beside the fire, as if we were receiving a caller. It felt easy to be around each other in this way—our habitual positions in the parlour. “Will you read it to me?” I asked.

“Of course.” Havelock cleared his throat. “‘Dear Mister Havelock Harper,’” he began. “‘I have followed your exploits in The Times for many years, and believe you to be a man who can be trusted. It is with this in mind that I write to you now, on a matter that requires the utmost discretion. The Duke of Farleigh has been murdered.’”

“Farleigh? That rings a bell.”

“A remote village in the north lakes, if I’m remembering correctly.”

“Please, continue.”

“‘Five nights ago, in the dead of night, I was awoken by a terrible sound. There was a groan loud enough to shake the walls of the house, followed by a tremendous crash. I rushed downstairs, and found that the Duke had been struck with an axe, and had fallen through the conservatory roof. There was shattered glass everywhere, but no sign of any suspect.’”

“A violent murder,” I remarked.

“Quite so,” said Havelock. “She writes, ‘The local authorities are not to be trusted. There is little love for Farleigh in Windermere. As such, I have instructed my solicitor to pay your fee. It is of vital importance to me and all of Farleigh that the Duke’s murderer is identified.’”

I raised both my brows. Havelock’s consulting fee was notoriously outrageous. It discouraged all but the most desperate from attempting to engage his services, giving him the freedom to investigate the cases that caught his fancy. Most of the time, he worked for free.

“She concludes,” continued Havelock, “‘There are elements of this crime that must remain out of the public eye. I know that you investigate many more cases than appear in The Times, and I trust that my payment of your fee will ensure that this one will remain unpublished. All will become clear on your arrival.’”

“Mysterious.”

“Very.”

“Is there anything else?”

Havelock turned the letter over, but there was nothing on the reverse. “‘Yours in good faith, the Duchess of Farleigh.’”

I stoked the fire, letting Havelock mull it over.

“What do you think?” I asked eventually.

“I think that we leave for Farleigh in the morning,” said Havelock, and there was an uncommon glint in his eye—it looked as if the letter had stoked the fires of his mind. “Can you secure us transport?”

“We can get the express as far as Windermere,” I told him, “and perhaps a cab or carriage from there, depending on how far out the village is. But why not leave today?”

“I have enquiries to make!” called Havelock, pulling on his jacket and overcoat before vanishing out of the door. I was glad to see him so inspired.

As we were the only occupants of the train’s dining car, the chef was especially excitable. He was a portly gentleman, and his whites were impeccable despite the complicated dishes he presented us with. There were fragrant eggs, and crisp little pieces of toast, and slivers of fish, and he took delight in explaining the provenance of each ingredient. Havelock humoured the man gracefully, and complimented him on his work.

“Thank you, sir,” said the chef. “Thank you very much indeed. I must say, sir. My wife and I read all about your exploits in the papers, and it’s a real pleasure to cook for you.” Then, with a certain amount of inevitability, he turned to me. “And you must be the Major, sir. And what a way with words you have. You paint such a picture, sir.”

The chef shook both of our hands vigorously before returning to his kitchen.

Havelock turned an egg over with his fork. “This,” he said, “is not a duck egg.”

“Oh?”