Page 68 of The Curse of Penryth Hall
Iwoke the next morning on the carpeted floor of Edward’s room, struggling to piece together snippets from the night before. Songbirds aggressively chirped out the window, and the sun—drat it—had risen far too early for my tastes, considering the aching in my head. The last thing I recalled was sorting through the dresser and then everything faded to black. I had no recollection. None at all, which in all my many years of overindulgence had rarely happened. And certainly not with this intensity. I struggled to my feet, smoothing my wrinkled clothes, and glanced in the mirror. Over my shoulder I spotted Tamsyn, fast asleep on the narrow bed. She looked younger, the years fading away leaving only possibility with a dash of regret. I turned away and finished putting myself in order.
I raked my hand through my hair, combing the messy curls with my fingers, and glanced around Edward’s room, eager to resume my search through his belongings. There was no sense being quiet about it. Tamsyn had always been a heavy sleeper, able to sleep through a bombing raid if she was tired enough, but there was a strange stillness to her slumber.
I needed to find something. Anything at all to guide us toward the killer. I went on for half an hour rummaging through the papers in a wooden cigar box. Receipts, lists. Nothing particularly useful. Until I finally lit upon a small scrap of paper sandwiched between a pawn broker’s ticket and a jeweler’s receipt.
My blood froze in my veins as I read the words there, scarcely believing my good fortune.
My silence comes with a price and you are testing my patience. If you renege upon our agreement I will consider my silence no longer necessary. And you know what that will cost you. Thursday. No more games, Chenowyth.
Well, that couldn’t have been clearer if it’d been spelled out in newsprint. Not that I knew what Edward’s secret was, nor what his blackmailer wanted, nor even who wrote the dratted thing, or when it had been sent. But I at least had something, which was a far sight more than I had when I woke up with a splitting head. I squinted at the script. It looked masculine, if script could look so. And the letters were well formed. Whoever the writer was, he or she was educated.
I held the paper to my nose and sniffed it. Nothing. It smelled like clean linens and the vaguely stale insides of a drawer. Not that I particularly expected anything grand to jump out at me. The paper wasn’t particularly expensive or thick. Nothing special there.
I blew out a breath and heard a rustling behind me.
Tamsyn had stirred. She sat up in the bed, her hair a tangle around her shoulders, and stifled a yawn in her fist. “Dear God, I don’t know how you endure waking up this way.” She blinked, rubbing her temples and squeezing her eyes shut.
I snorted. “I take it you’re worse for drink too.”
She nodded and hugged her knees to her chest. “You found something?”
I had, rather. I sucked at my teeth and climbed up beside her on the mattress and showed her the note.
She gasped, tugging her long hair off her neck, and glanced up at me uncertainly. “Well, that certainlyissomething.”
“Do you have any clue who wrote it?”
She shook her head. “And before you ask, I have no idea what his secrets were either. I mean, beyond Jori not being his, but I cannot imagine he’d care enough to pay to hide that. Why would he? He could have divorced me, set me aside, and disowned the child. No one would blame him a bit, then he could remarry and have a legitimate heir. In many ways, he might have even preferred it.”
“Yet Jori would still be his heir by law, wouldn’t he?”
She pressed her lips together in thought. “I believe so, but I’m not certain. I never really thought much of it since Edward was always keen on having a son. I suppose we’d have to consult a solicitor to determine how the inheritance travels in cases of divorce and illegitimacy.” Her shoulders slumped. “Oh, gracious. I hadn’t even thought of the title.” Her expression became hopeless. “You must think me simpleminded.”
“Darling, this isn’t precisely the normal course of things. One doesn’t plan for this sort of thing at their come-out.” I stared at the letter again before getting another idea. “Do you happen to have your condolence letters?”
She blinked at me, eyes wide, unable to follow along. Then again, sometimes I had trouble keeping up with my own wayward thoughts.
“The letters that you’ve been getting. About Edward.”
“Of course, they’re downstairs in the study. I haven’t had the heart to read them yet.”
“Go back to sleep. I’ll be back if I find anything.” I grinned at her, bolting off the bed and racing down the stairs.
I pressed the study door open to find Mrs. Penrose inside, straightening the desk, Fiachna at her heels. “What is he doing here?”
Mrs. Penrose looked from the cat to me and sighed. “That Scottish fellow who came with the doctor. Owen, I think he said his name was.”
“He’s here? Mr. Owen?”
She shook her head. “No, he and the doctor are with Ruan this morning. I offered to watch the little fellow as you seemed to have your hands full.”
Quite the understatement. I glanced down at the cat who was now rubbing himself against the hem of her skirt. The traitor. I supposed I’d worry about my faithless cat at another time. I had more important matters at hand.
“The letters. Where are they?”
She dusted her hands on her white apron and tilted her head to one side. “Which letters do you mean, maid?”
“The condolence letters. Tamsyn said they were in here.”
