Page 34 of A Silence in Belgrave Square
Mr.Thanos, ever a stickler for courtesy, hauled himself from the hansom and steadied my ascent into it. Lewis, like most London cabbies, started the horse again in a hurry, and Mr.Thanos nearly got left behind.
Mr.Thanos landed breathlessly next to me, squashing me between the two.
“We are abducting you,” Cynthia informed me. “Until you tell us all we wish to know.”
“Not exactly,” Mr.Thanos said quickly and apologetically. “Lewis has instruction to let you off in Cheapside.”
“What am I to tell you?” I asked them both in curiosity.
“Why you didn’t let on that McAdam wrote the direction on some of the letters Judith has collected for us,” Cynthia stated. “Thanos recognized it straightaway, didn’t you, Thanos? So tell us why you kept us in the dark, Mrs.H.”
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“I haven’t had the chance,” I replied truthfully. Cynthia hadn’t been down to the kitchen, and I’d been plenty busy with my day-to-day duties since Miss Townsend had showed me her letter. ““You say there are more with Daniel’s handwriting?”
“Indeed,” Cynthia said. “Judes got her friends to cough them up. She has six of the awful things in hand now, all sent to women married to or related to people high up in government. Threatening them with dire fates if they don’t do what they’re told. Probably why I haven’t been blessed with such missives. Papa barely knows where the House of Lords meets, let alone what they do there.”
“So I had concluded myself,” I said. “It is interesting that they have changed from demands for money to demands for influence.”
“If McAdam is writing out these envelopes, he’ll know who is sending them, won’t he?” Cynthia asked.
“Not necessarily,” Mr.Thanos broke in. “It could be part of one of these covert tasks McAdam has been thrown into for the police. He might be in on a plot to smoke out the blackmailer.” Mr.Thanos peered at me hopefully from nearsighted eyes.
I hadn’t let on to Cynthia or Miss Townsend about Daniel’s current assignment, so I only nodded. “Something like that. I am sorry I cannot tell you more.”
Mr.Thanos looked disappointed but understanding. “Please assure him that I will render any assistance I can.”
“You’ve already rendered a great deal.” Cynthia leaned around me to speak to Mr.Thanos. “Tell her about your chemical experiments.”
Mr.Thanos beamed. “I happen to be friends with one of the foremost professors of chemistry at the Normal School of Science in South Kensington. Frederick Russell. As in Russell Square and Great Russell Street. Those Russells. He’s an unassuming chap, in spite of his pedigree, and quite brilliant.” He smiled broadly, wishing me to join with his pride in his friend.
“Go on,” Cynthia prodded. “Tell her what he said.”
“Oh, yes. Of course. Well, Russell tested the paper and envelope of the letters Miss Townsend received. He announced that they were very ordinary, full of wood pulp and not much linen. Cheaply obtained at any stationers on any street in London, sold for a ha’penny a packet.”
“That does not help us much,” I said, trying not to sound too despondent. “I had already concluded that the envelope was cheap, though I wasn’t certain about the paper.”
“Of a very similar nature. It is amazing how Russell can add droplets of colored chemicals to a scrap of paper and tell me exactly what it’s made of by observing the colors or patterns that are formed. I am a theoretical scientist myself—allequations and diagrams—but I sometimes wish I could roll up my sleeves and swish chemicals about in beakers.”
“It’s rather a mercy you don’t,” Cynthia said in alarm. “You’d spill something incredibly dangerous and be an invalid the rest of your life.”
“Exactly why I stick to books and papers.” Mr.Thanos chuckled. “But it’s fascinating to watch.”
“You’ve left out the best part,” Cynthia said.
“That is true. Forgive me, Mrs.Holloway. I’m apt to become interested in a thing, you know, and run off on a tangent. Russell said there was nothing remarkable about the paper. But theink—now, that is a different story.”
“Yes?” I asked, my hopes rising again. “What about the ink?”
“It turns out it is a combination of iron-gall inks mixed with indigo. This particular recipe, which Russell deduced from separating it into its parts, is manufactured in France, by a company that makes high-quality artist inks and also those for writing,” Mr.Thanos finished, pleased.
“He means the ink can only be obtained either by a shop that imports it to London, or by traveling to Paris oneself and purchasing it,” Cynthia elucidated. “In other words, expensive. Not something one would pop into the nearest stationers and buy for a few pennies.”
“The bottles themselves are works of art,” Mr.Thanos said admiringly. “Lovely glass stoppers. Russell showed me one—he of course can afford such things.”
As could a man who lived in a luxurious house in Belgrave Square, who was visited by equally wealthy friends.
“We were thinking.” Cynthia cut through my thoughts. “It wouldn’t be difficult to find out who purchased the ink. Only a few shops in London carry it. Then we will know who wrote the letters.”
