Page 17 of A Silence in Belgrave Square (Below Stairs #8)

I remained still for so long that Tess put a hand onto my shoulder, startling me.

“Is it one of them nasty letters?” she asked. “That’s not your name though.”

I made myself look up from the envelope, but I was all amazed. How on earth had Daniel come to be involved in this blackmailing scheme? It had not been his hand on the previous letters, so why had he written this particular envelope?

“No.” My mouth was so dry I could scarcely form the word. “It came to Miss Townsend.”

“Are you going to open it? Be easier to read, then, wouldn’t it?”

Tess obviously did not recognize Daniel’s writing, but she had no reason to. She had a point, however, so I parted the envelope where Miss Townsend had slit it and withdrew the single page.

Daniel had not penned the letter itself. I didn’t realize I had been holding my breath as I unfolded it, until my exhale rattled the paper.

The message inside had been written in the same slanting hand as the first and began with a few vitriolic words about Miss Townsend’s character. Once the invective was over, the person stated:

I have decided to be kind and not demand the cash you were fearing. Much easier for you to do me a favor instead.

Speak to your father about the formation of the secret police. He will know what I mean. They would do well to dissolve it before someone is hurt.

It is disgusting that a free land has resorted to men spying on other free men, taking notes on what they do. Tell him to have it stopped.

He will listen to you, no matter what sickening tricks you get up to in your bedroom. Urge him to end it or your high jinks will be touted to all and sundry, in exquisite detail. Perhaps photographs will be involved.

The letter wandered off into more vituperation, which I had no desire to peruse.

I reread the demands, becoming more puzzled each time. What did they mean by a secret police? I’d never heard of such a thing, though I suppose the term secret would cover that contingency.

Miss Townsend’s father was something in the Home Office, which oversaw the Metropolitan Police and other domestic measures in Britain. If anyone would know what the police were up to, it would be Mr.Townsend and his colleagues.

The larger question was, why had Daniel addressed the envelope of a letter threatening Miss Townsend and mentioning a secret police service?

I folded the paper and slid it back into the envelope. Like the first letters, this had come through the post, with a proper stamp, which had been cancelled with today’s date, which meant it had been posted this morning.

Daniel at the moment was inside a house in Belgrave Square—if it hadn’t been his body pulled from the river, I reminded myself with a wrench—watching over a viscount who might or might not be a miscreant.

Were the letters—at least this one—originating from the Belgrave Square house, where Daniel was busily purporting to be a secretary?

I could not imagine Daniel letting such a nasty thing, with mention of the police, which he was very much a part of, slip through his fingers.

He’d have found some way to purloin the letter, especially as he was acquainted with its recipient.

I could, however, picture the writer sealing up the envelope and passing it to Daniel, telling him to address and post it as part of his duties.

Would Daniel risk sending Miss Townsend, a person he knew, a surreptitious message using this correspondence?

I removed the letter again and scoured the envelope for writing or a hidden slip of paper or some such, but found nothing.

Likewise, the letter contained nothing but the malicious threats, no extra sentence from Daniel or other cryptic marks.

Most frustrating of all was that I could not stand in front of Daniel and demand to know what this strange business was all about.

I could only hope that Hannah would find a way to communicate with me again soon. A greater hope was that Daniel would find evidence on whatever culprits he needed to and go home, ending his obligation to Mr.Monaghan.

I tucked the letter into my apron pocket so I could return it to Miss Townsend, and made myself concentrate on finishing up the apple dish.

We laid our apple slices into the baking pan and dotted them with butter. Next came a spread of apricot jam, then the custard cream, then another layer of apples. We continued to pile the apples, jam, and cream into the dish until it reached the top.

So intently did we focus on our task that we spoke about nothing but the dessert until I carried the whole thing carefully to the oven and slid it inside.

“Everything all right?” Tess asked me as we turned to preparing scones for afternoon tea for the upstairs. “You were pale as a ghost reading over that letter. Am I right it was another of the foul ones?”

“Indeed.” The letter felt heavy in my pocket. “Miss Townsend passed it to me on her way inside.”

“Awful what people spew at a lady just because she’s rich and pretty,” Tess said as she cut chunks of butter into a bowl of flour. “Of course, the poor get the same sort of venom. You should hear what some have said about my brother.”

Her words pulled me from my own troubles. “Oh, Tess, I am sorry. They have no call to hurt you two like that.”

Tess squared her shoulders. “We’re used to it. Besides, since I’m not a proper lady, I can give them a punch in the nose.”

I hid my surge of pride in her. “Indeed, having to smile and nod at the world when they are taunting you is a drawback of being a well-bred lady. It’s no wonder Lady Cynthia puts on trousers and smokes cheroots. Her armor against the world, I suppose.”

“Suppose,” Tess said dubiously. She finished with the butter and stirred in the cream. “I don’t need to don my brother’s clothes to defend him though. I’ve taught plenty to be scared of me fists.”

“Good for you, Tess. Now, do not mix currants into all of the scone batter. Miss Townsend prefers them without, so we’ll make a plain batch for her.”

Once Tess had finished mixing up the dough, I gently rolled it out, and then we used a round cutter to form the scones. These went into the oven to bake beside the apple-cream dish.

I always kept a selection of small pastries on hand, or ordered them from the nearest confectionery, for when Mrs.Bywater took it into her head to host an afternoon tea, the sort made popular by the Duchess of Bedford, lady-in-waiting to the queen some forty years ago.

That kind of tea is quite different from what is known as high tea, which is a cooked meal taken in the early evening, usually by working-class men and women. The dainty delicacies that wouldn’t keep a fly satisfied were for the gentry.

We prepared trays of little sandwiches, the scones, and the tiny pastries along with bowls of lemon curd and Devonshire cream. These went up the dumbwaiter for Mr.Davis to set out for the ladies. The apple dish would be served later, at supper.

I never enjoyed fixing the tea that Mrs.Bywater used to impress her friends, because it cut into time I needed for the evening meal. Mrs.Bywater always expected me to serve a substantial supper by eight, even after she’d stuffed herself with scones at four o’clock.

As Tess and I threw ourselves into our tasks, the letter and Daniel’s involvement in it continued to push itself to the front of my mind.

What had the letter writer meant by men spying on other free men, taking notes on what they do ?

Daniel often disguised himself to spy on people, but always to make certain they didn’t hurt others.

I did not consider that to be the same thing as simply making notes on someone at random.

I myself had been busy sending out lads to tell me about people I’d never met, but this was to make certain Daniel was not endangered by them.

However, I could well imagine Mr.Monaghan heading up a secret body of policemen and intruding on the rest of us without compunction. I could also believe him coercing Daniel into this body of spies and forcing him to do his deplorable work.

I most definitely would have to speak to Mr.Monaghan.

At about five o’clock, Maggie, one of the downstairs maids, came to tell me Miss Townsend wished to speak to me. “To heap praise on ya, Mrs.H.,” Maggie said with a mocking smile. “She said to meet you outside the front door.”

“Thank you, Maggie.” I would not return her jeering with unkindness, so I added, “There are extra scones in the servants’ hall for us all. Jam too.”

Maggie’s sneer turned to eagerness, and she hastened into the servants’ room, where I’d laid out sandwiches and currant scones.

I made certain the letter was secure in my apron pocket and departed through the scullery to climb the outside stairs to the street. Miss Townsend made a show of adjusting her gloves while our footman rather impatiently held her coach door for her.

“Mrs.Holloway,” Miss Townsend said brightly, as though happy to chance upon me once again. “Thank you for the lovely scones.” She lifted her hand toward me, a crown coin between her fingertips.

“No need for that,” I said hastily. “They were naught but butter and flour, held together with a bit of cream.”

“And ingenuity,” Miss Townsend assured me.

I pretended to take the coin but slid the letter into her hand instead. The crown fell to the pavement. I picked it up and firmly handed it back to her.

I debated whether to tell her the handwriting was Daniel’s and decided against it, for now, with the footman too near.

“The letter writer knows exactly what role your father plays at the Home Office,” I whispered to her. “What did they mean by a secret police?”

Miss Townsend shrugged. “I have no idea. People get notions into their heads. In any case, my father is not going to reform the Metropolitan Police because his daughter begs him to.”

I didn’t quite believe that Miss Townsend did not know what the letter referred to. She too quickly moved her gaze to rest on the railings beside us, her smile becoming fixed.

I continued. “It was written neatly, not scrawled in anger. As though they worked out what they would say first and then copied it out onto a clean sheet. There is no hesitation, only very even spaces between the words.”

Miss Townsend flicked her eyes to me again. “That is very cleverly thought, Mrs.Holloway. You ought to be an expert in handwriting for Scotland Yard.”

I nodded modestly, though I thought it was silly praise. As though Scotland Yard would listen to the likes of me.

Miss Townsend gave me another smile and continued in a louder voice. “I truly thank you for the tea. It was the best I’ve had.”

I curtsied, so anyone watching would believe I merely accepted the compliment. At least Miss Townsend did not try to give me the crown again.

We said our farewells, and Miss Townsend returned to the coach. The thoughtful glance she shot me as she entered the carriage had me running through our conversation once more, wondering what she was refusing to tell me.

* * *

Tess and I finished supper and sent it up along with the apples à la frangipane. The plate it had rested on contained only a smear of cream when the footmen cranked the dirty dishes back to us.

When I’d put some of the apple dish aside for Tess and me to enjoy I’d automatically begun to add a helping for Daniel, before remembering he wouldn’t be visiting, for who knew how long.

I stilled in the larder, where I’d gone to tuck away leftovers, indulging myself in a few moments of despair. If I lost Daniel, it would leave an emptiness in my life that nothing could fill.

When I returned to the kitchen I had an even greater determination to see Daniel returned home safely. It was quite important to stop people setting off bombs and hurting innocents, but I wanted the task to be accomplished without Daniel losing his life.

I held to the idea that Daniel had been given sealed envelopes to deliver, without the writer letting him see what was inside. Though knowing Daniel, he would have made a valiant attempt to find out what it was he posted.

But there was another possibility. Daniel might have addressed the envelopes during a previous job—he’d pretended to be a young and impoverished gentleman secretary before—that had nothing to do with Lord Peyton or his household.

The blackmailer could have hoarded the envelopes and then used them later, once Daniel was well away.

This might account for Lady Rankin being sent a letter—the blackmailer had waited so long that Lady Rankin had died in the meantime.

Perhaps he’d simply sent out the entire batch without remembering to pull hers from it.

Or he’d decided that the current lady of the house might have as many guilty secrets as the former.

This did not explain why the first batch of letters was addressed in a different hand, but I was fumbling to understand what was happening.

I made myself get on with my tasks, then I carried my basket of scraps upstairs to greet those who gathered around me.

Mr.Fielding’s two young spies were there. I gave them less than I did the others, knowing Mr.Fielding was making certain their bellies were full.

A giant of a man surged from the back of the crowd once I’d handed out my last bit of bread and leftover apples. The others faded before him, pretending not to fear the huge specimen who brushed them aside like a rolling boulder.

The man seized my hands in a massive grip. “Mrs.Holloway,” he boomed. “I’m that pleased to see you. It has been too long a time, hasn’t it?”