can’t be anything obvious, or you would have already noticed it. No one should have to see the actual letters.”
“Just the decoding of a code?” she asked.
“If we’re lucky enough to find one.”
We were not so lucky. Mr. Dillman’s letters revealed him to have a kind heart, an occasional ear for poetry, and a touching affection for his fiancée, but nothing suggested he had embedded mysterious messages in them. One of them I read repeatedly, as its postscript implored his fiancée to keep it always, but I could pull nothing useful from it. I asked Cordelia if anything about it stood out to her, but she only sighed and shook her head. The other item left in the box was a slim guide to objects in the British Museum.
“Did you go there together?” I asked, holding up the volume. The museum was one of my favorite places on earth. As a little girl, wandering through the galleries with my father, I used to wish I could run away and live there. As an adult, I’d become a patron of the institution and spent countless hours studying objects in its collections.
“Innumerable times,” she said. “When the weather was not good enough to sit in the park, we’d go there instead. Michael preferred it, in fact. We used to play a game, a scavenger hunt of sorts. He’d give me two clues. One was the beginning of an artifact’s museum number, and the other revealed something about it, like what it was made of, or a quote that was pertinent in some way. I’d comb through the galleries until I found the answer.”
“That must have been difficult.”
“Not always,” she said. “Many of the catalog numbers start with the initials of the department. And once I was in the right gallery, I could generally home in on what he’d selected, but that wasn’t the end of it. Once I’d found the proper artifact, I’d have to figure out how it was connected to a book in my father’s library. So when we’d come home, I’d search until I found the book, and either in it or behind it, there would be a little treat.”
“Is there any chance, Cordelia, that Mr. Dillman left a last set of clues for you?” I asked. “Perhaps in a manner more oblique than usual?”
“I honestly don’t think he did,” she said. “I would have recognized clues at once, no matter how oblique he tried to be.”
“Do you think it’s possible he might have hidden something in the books without leaving a clue? Would he have thought you’d know to look if something happened to him?”
“He might have done,” she said. “I hadn’t thought of that.”
We went downstairs and spoke to her father. Mr. Dalton immediately ordered his staff to pull down the books from his library shelves.
“We can’t risk missing something,” he said, joining the servants in their work, as did Cordelia and I. We removed every volume and leafed through each in case something was inside. Once they were empty, we inspected the shelves for anything that might have been hidden on them.
But we turned up nothing. Defeated, I started for home, taking a detour to Mr. Dillman’s house in St. James near Green Park. I knocked on the door and was greeted by a tall butler dressed in impeccable mourning livery.
“Madam?” he asked.
“I’m Lady Emily Hargreaves, a friend of Miss Dalton’s,” I said. “And, as you can imagine, I am deeply concerned about all that’s happened. I wonder if you can help me? Miss Dalton is in danger—from the same people who killed Mr. Dillman. They believe, erroneously, that she’s in possession of some information he had. If you could assist me in finding it, we could give it to Scotland Yard and Miss Dalton would be safe to grieve in peace.”
“What sort of information?”
He seemed an honest, forthright man, and met my eyes with an even stare. “I’ve not the slightest idea,” I said. “But I’d like to think, between the two of us, we’d recognize the sort of thing that could inspire a man to murder.”
He nodded.
“Just the decoding of a code?” she asked.
“If we’re lucky enough to find one.”
We were not so lucky. Mr. Dillman’s letters revealed him to have a kind heart, an occasional ear for poetry, and a touching affection for his fiancée, but nothing suggested he had embedded mysterious messages in them. One of them I read repeatedly, as its postscript implored his fiancée to keep it always, but I could pull nothing useful from it. I asked Cordelia if anything about it stood out to her, but she only sighed and shook her head. The other item left in the box was a slim guide to objects in the British Museum.
“Did you go there together?” I asked, holding up the volume. The museum was one of my favorite places on earth. As a little girl, wandering through the galleries with my father, I used to wish I could run away and live there. As an adult, I’d become a patron of the institution and spent countless hours studying objects in its collections.
“Innumerable times,” she said. “When the weather was not good enough to sit in the park, we’d go there instead. Michael preferred it, in fact. We used to play a game, a scavenger hunt of sorts. He’d give me two clues. One was the beginning of an artifact’s museum number, and the other revealed something about it, like what it was made of, or a quote that was pertinent in some way. I’d comb through the galleries until I found the answer.”
“That must have been difficult.”
“Not always,” she said. “Many of the catalog numbers start with the initials of the department. And once I was in the right gallery, I could generally home in on what he’d selected, but that wasn’t the end of it. Once I’d found the proper artifact, I’d have to figure out how it was connected to a book in my father’s library. So when we’d come home, I’d search until I found the book, and either in it or behind it, there would be a little treat.”
“Is there any chance, Cordelia, that Mr. Dillman left a last set of clues for you?” I asked. “Perhaps in a manner more oblique than usual?”
“I honestly don’t think he did,” she said. “I would have recognized clues at once, no matter how oblique he tried to be.”
“Do you think it’s possible he might have hidden something in the books without leaving a clue? Would he have thought you’d know to look if something happened to him?”
“He might have done,” she said. “I hadn’t thought of that.”
We went downstairs and spoke to her father. Mr. Dalton immediately ordered his staff to pull down the books from his library shelves.
“We can’t risk missing something,” he said, joining the servants in their work, as did Cordelia and I. We removed every volume and leafed through each in case something was inside. Once they were empty, we inspected the shelves for anything that might have been hidden on them.
But we turned up nothing. Defeated, I started for home, taking a detour to Mr. Dillman’s house in St. James near Green Park. I knocked on the door and was greeted by a tall butler dressed in impeccable mourning livery.
“Madam?” he asked.
“I’m Lady Emily Hargreaves, a friend of Miss Dalton’s,” I said. “And, as you can imagine, I am deeply concerned about all that’s happened. I wonder if you can help me? Miss Dalton is in danger—from the same people who killed Mr. Dillman. They believe, erroneously, that she’s in possession of some information he had. If you could assist me in finding it, we could give it to Scotland Yard and Miss Dalton would be safe to grieve in peace.”
“What sort of information?”
He seemed an honest, forthright man, and met my eyes with an even stare. “I’ve not the slightest idea,” I said. “But I’d like to think, between the two of us, we’d recognize the sort of thing that could inspire a man to murder.”
He nodded.
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