the house, out of view of the street.
“And the window was found open?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Were any windows or doors downstairs opened?”
“No, ma’am. The downstairs doors were locked and barred, and the windows snibbed.”
“But these windows were not snibbed?”
“No, ma’am.” The maid sounded as if she pitied my ignorance. “To improve their health, all members of the baronet’s family sleep with the window slightly raised, ma’am, winter or summer, ma’am.”
Unsurprising; I myself had been raised the same way. Ventilation strengthened the moral resolve of one’s digestion and so forth against disease, and guarded one’s personage against laxness. Therefore, even during the coldest weather, fit to frost one’s nightcap, a window had to be left open an inch or so.
“So the window sash could have been raised by someone on the ladder outside.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And it was left that way, wide open, with the ladder at the sill?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
I backtracked into Lady Cecily’s boudoir, a sizable room lavished with mirrors, chairs, settees, a needlepoint fire-screen (Lady Cecily’s accomplishment, no doubt), potted ferns in the bay window, and near that source of light, Lady Cecily’s easel and art stand.
And – I thought, at the time, more important – a roll-top desk.
I opened the desk first. “Some letters were found in here, I understand?”
“Yes, ma’am. The police took them, ma’am.”
“Did they search this desk for other documents?”
“No, ma’am!” The maid sounded shocked. “Lady Theodora discovered the letters and took them downstairs to the officers.”
In other words, no detective had been allowed to set foot in these rooms.
“Quite so,” I said approvingly as I seated myself at the desk to have a look.
Fervidly I wished I could have seen the letters themselves, not only for content but also for any indications Scotland Yard might have overlooked. “Were the postage-stamps positioned oddly, or reversed ?” If so, it would suggest a code.
“The letters did not come through the post , ma’am!” I had shocked the maid again. Probably the formidable butler oversaw all postal correspondence.
“How so, then?” By hand, obviously, but by whose hand?
“We, ah, we do not know. Ma’am.”
With the complicity of one of the servants, in other words. Perhaps this very maid, Lily by name. And that line of inquiry had already been exhausted.
The surface of the desk was occupied by an exquisite writing set, ink-bottle and fountain pens, pen-holder and letter-opener all of jade. In the drawers, along with the usual blotting-paper, pen-wipers and such, I found the lady’s monogrammed stationery and several sticks of sealing-wax in different colours: red for business correspondence, blue for constancy in love, grey for friendship, yellow for jealousy, green for encouragement of a shy lover, violet for condolences. But only the grey stick of wax looked much used.
Also in the drawers I found Lady Cecily’s address-book, well kept in the petite, curlicue handwriting of an aristocratic miss. I found sundry other papers: shopping lists, reminders of social obligations, moral exhortations themed around the letters of the alphabet, that sort of thing.
Much more important, I found a stack of journals.
“Lady Cecily kept diaries?” The silk-covered volumes were equipped with tiny padlocks.
“Yes, ma’am.”
But the padlocks had been broken open. “Did the police look at these?”
“No, ma’am!”
“Lady Theodora, then?”
“Yes, ma’am. In the mirror, ma’am.”
“I beg your pardon?” But as I spoke, I took one of the books, opened it, and gawked at the handwriting therein. Large, childishly plain, and all slanted leftward – utterly unlike the handwriting of the address book and other papers – it made no sense to me until I realised it was written from right to left, its words running from right to left with even their letters
“And the window was found open?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Were any windows or doors downstairs opened?”
“No, ma’am. The downstairs doors were locked and barred, and the windows snibbed.”
“But these windows were not snibbed?”
“No, ma’am.” The maid sounded as if she pitied my ignorance. “To improve their health, all members of the baronet’s family sleep with the window slightly raised, ma’am, winter or summer, ma’am.”
Unsurprising; I myself had been raised the same way. Ventilation strengthened the moral resolve of one’s digestion and so forth against disease, and guarded one’s personage against laxness. Therefore, even during the coldest weather, fit to frost one’s nightcap, a window had to be left open an inch or so.
“So the window sash could have been raised by someone on the ladder outside.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And it was left that way, wide open, with the ladder at the sill?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
I backtracked into Lady Cecily’s boudoir, a sizable room lavished with mirrors, chairs, settees, a needlepoint fire-screen (Lady Cecily’s accomplishment, no doubt), potted ferns in the bay window, and near that source of light, Lady Cecily’s easel and art stand.
And – I thought, at the time, more important – a roll-top desk.
I opened the desk first. “Some letters were found in here, I understand?”
“Yes, ma’am. The police took them, ma’am.”
“Did they search this desk for other documents?”
“No, ma’am!” The maid sounded shocked. “Lady Theodora discovered the letters and took them downstairs to the officers.”
In other words, no detective had been allowed to set foot in these rooms.
“Quite so,” I said approvingly as I seated myself at the desk to have a look.
Fervidly I wished I could have seen the letters themselves, not only for content but also for any indications Scotland Yard might have overlooked. “Were the postage-stamps positioned oddly, or reversed ?” If so, it would suggest a code.
“The letters did not come through the post , ma’am!” I had shocked the maid again. Probably the formidable butler oversaw all postal correspondence.
“How so, then?” By hand, obviously, but by whose hand?
“We, ah, we do not know. Ma’am.”
With the complicity of one of the servants, in other words. Perhaps this very maid, Lily by name. And that line of inquiry had already been exhausted.
The surface of the desk was occupied by an exquisite writing set, ink-bottle and fountain pens, pen-holder and letter-opener all of jade. In the drawers, along with the usual blotting-paper, pen-wipers and such, I found the lady’s monogrammed stationery and several sticks of sealing-wax in different colours: red for business correspondence, blue for constancy in love, grey for friendship, yellow for jealousy, green for encouragement of a shy lover, violet for condolences. But only the grey stick of wax looked much used.
Also in the drawers I found Lady Cecily’s address-book, well kept in the petite, curlicue handwriting of an aristocratic miss. I found sundry other papers: shopping lists, reminders of social obligations, moral exhortations themed around the letters of the alphabet, that sort of thing.
Much more important, I found a stack of journals.
“Lady Cecily kept diaries?” The silk-covered volumes were equipped with tiny padlocks.
“Yes, ma’am.”
But the padlocks had been broken open. “Did the police look at these?”
“No, ma’am!”
“Lady Theodora, then?”
“Yes, ma’am. In the mirror, ma’am.”
“I beg your pardon?” But as I spoke, I took one of the books, opened it, and gawked at the handwriting therein. Large, childishly plain, and all slanted leftward – utterly unlike the handwriting of the address book and other papers – it made no sense to me until I realised it was written from right to left, its words running from right to left with even their letters
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