Page 35 of The Affair of the Mysterious Letter
“We are the stories we tell about ourselves. And I would rather be Cassilda on the shores of Lake Hali or a stranger in a pallid mask than a foreign girl with a dead mother.”
“And what of our hostess?”
Miss de Luca inclined her head very slightly in Mr. Lutrell’s direction. “What of her?”
“She seems rather fascinated by things Carcosan herself, if her reputation is to be believed.”
“Oh, darling, that was years ago. And her interest in me has been purely artistic.”
“Had it not been,” put in Domitia, “I would have killed her.”
Catching her paramour’s hand, Miss de Luca kissed it playfully. “I find your ferocity terribly attractive, dear one, but do stop threatening to murder people.”
“I tolerate this only because I enjoy your company.” The force captain did not say “company.” She made a rather more specific reference.
Mr. Lutrell coughed as politely as he was able to manage. “What actually did happen back then? With the scandal, I mean.”
“I didn’t realise,” replied Miss de Luca, somewhat coldly, “thatThe Esoteric Reviewhad diversified into gossipmongering.”
“On the contrary, in this matter I’m merely an amateur enthusiast.”
“Perhaps you should restrict your attentions to Yasmine’s poetry rather than her personal life. Have you even read her latest collection?”
I was, by now, familiar enough with Ms. Haas’s temperament to know that she did not respond well to either setbacks or criticism. Thankfully, Mr. Lutrell just looked peeved. “Unfortunately an advance copy has not yet arrived at our offices. Perhaps it was devoured by wild dogs en route.”
“Well”—Miss de Luca plucked a slim volume from a nearby table—“allow me to supply you with a copy in order that you will not embarrass yourself further.”
Mr. Lutrell accepted the proffered chapbook with ill grace. Regaining his feet, he gave a curt bow, and we left Miss de Luca and the force captain to their private discourses.
“Dash it all,” muttered my companion, once we were more or less out of earshot. “I hadn’t reckoned on her actually liking the Benamara woman. That was less informative than it could have been. Surely the entire purpose of these gatherings is to trade salacious details of the lives of one’s peers?”
Personally, I had respected Miss de Luca the better for her circumspection, but it was true that it had proven something of a hindrance to our cause. “What are we to do now?” I asked.
“The time may have come, Wyndham, for a little skulduggery. I suggest I cause a distraction here while you slip away and search the rest of the house for something useful.”
“Is that not technically theft?”
“Not if it is in the pursuit of a higher cause.”
This brought me little comfort. “I don’t believe the law works that way.”
“That is a limitation of your beliefs, not of my strategy. Now go look for incriminating letters and, for pity’s sake, don’t forget to check the letter rack.”
I wanted to continue my protestations. While I was willing to face physical and supernatural danger in pursuit of a solution to this mystery, I quite drew the line at burglarising the home of a well-regarded poetess who had so far given no indication that she had done anything more sinister than host a salon for an assortment of guests of whom my companion and I were by far the most dubious.
Fortunately, or perhaps unfortunately, my commitment to my principles in this matter was never tested, as we were interrupted by a roar of greeting from an enormous bearded gentleman, whose curling locks tumbled from beneath a tricornered hat.
“Percy bloody Lutrell. What the deuce are you doing here?” He did not say “deuce.” “Aren’t you covering the Festival of Metaphysical Theatre in El’avarah?”
Mr. Lutrell didn’t even blink. “Clearly not. I’m here.”
“You decided to skip one of the most prestigious events of the entire calendar to come to a bourgeois shindig with a shower of buffoons?”
The shower of buffoons seemed unhappy with this characterisation, but none saw fit, as yet, to challenge it.
“I wouldn’t call them that,” replied Mr. Lutrell, with a pious look.
“But youdidcall them that. Only last week. You said to me at the Sea-god’s Nipple: ‘Yasmine Benamara’s got another book of her bloody awful poems out and she’s asking me to come to one of her terrible parties with that shower of buffoons who obviously hate her and her prissy verses.’”
