Ian lifted the second letter, turned it over, and held the back of it to Bertie. He traced his large fingertip over the indentations of the written letters. In silence, he turned the paper to its front side and traced indentations of additional letters, ones that weren’t inked. He then lifted the first paper, set it over the second, and moved his finger along those lines again. Bertie made a sound of delight.
“I see.” She took the pages from Ian’s hand, holding them up to the light. “He had a stack of paper and wrote each message on the top page, which left indents on the paper below.” Bertie piled the first three letters together and mimed writing. “The indentations of the first letter fades as it goes farther down the stack, and then the second, and so on. But how do you know they were written at the same time?” she asked Ian.
Ian took the pages from her and laid them out again, still in silence. He didn’t answer, Sinclair understood, not because he didn’t know, but because he didn’t have the words to explain. They jumbled up on him sometimes, Beth had said, and wouldn’t come out as he wanted them to. So he remained silent.
“The ink,” Sinclair said. “It’s faded on each letter by exactly the same amount. The ones I received later aren’t any sharper than the earlier ones.”
“Except the last one you got,” Bertie said. “That one’s new.”
Fellows gave Sinclair a severe look as Ian continued to lightly touch the pages. “Last one? I don’t remember you mentioning this.”
“Probably because it was about me,” Bertie said before Sinclair could answer. “Nasty thing. It came not long before we left London. But it couldn’t have been written at the same time as the others, because I didn’t happen along until a few weeks ago.”
“Was it delivered to your house?” Fellows asked Sinclair.
“To my chambers,” Sinclair said. “Henry brought it to me when I was staying home with Andrew. Yes, it was foul, and mentioned Bertie—if not by name, then by inference. The letter said, I know who she is and what she is, though he shied away from specifics.”
“Hmm.” Fellows looked unhappy. “That means this person is watching you or having you watched. He knows you’ve taken in a young governess, and he possibly does know where she came from. He prepared the first letters to send out to you little by little, to slowly torment you, but he’s taking advantage of opportunity now.”
“And I want him found,” Sinclair said, his anger rising. “I want my children and Bertie safe.”
“I’ll find him.” Fellows spoke with conviction. “Ian, what about the missing letters you talked about? Do you mean they haven’t been sent yet?”
Ian shook his head. He ran his fingers in the space between letters four and five, then seven and eight, then a few more down the table.
Bertie followed him. “I see—you mean the indentations don’t match any of the ones here. That’s how you know they’re gone.”“I have them at home,” Sinclair broke in impatiently. “Same writing, same paper.”
“I believe you told me you burned one,” Fellows said mildly.
Sinclair let out a breath of exasperation. “I kept them in case it turned out they’d help. But I didn’t want you to read them, Fellows. I’m sorry.”
“Because they’re about his wife,” Bertie said. “I don’t blame him for not wanting anyone to see. Even if what they say ain’t—isn’t—true.”
Sinclair felt his maddening rage again. “Bertie.”
Bertie looked at him in all innocence. “I know I shouldn’t have read them. It was an accident. But it’s no use waiting for you to tell me things. I want to help, but you hold everything back.”
“I know the feeling,” Fellows said dryly.
“Forgive me,” Sinclair said, voice hard. “You have enough to go on here. You don’t need them.”
Fellows nodded once. “Probably not. I’d like the last letter you received though, the one about Miss Frasier, to see how they differ.”
“Calls me a viper and a whore,” Bertie said readily. “Don’t matter to me. I’ve been called worse. You have to have a thick skin to grow up in the East End.” She lost her cheeky smile. “I don’t like how it says I’ll be the death of them, though. I almost was.”
“I’ve told you,” Sinclair said sternly. “That was not your fault, but entirely Jeffrey’s.”
“Did the letter come before or after Jeffrey’s attack?” Fellows interrupted.
Sinclair considered. “I’m not sure. Henry didn’t bring it to me until a few days after, but I’ll have to ask him when it arrived.” He met Bertie’s gaze again. “Still not your fault.”
“I’d say not,” Fellows said. “If this man has been watching you and has the resources, I wouldn’t be surprised if he directed Jeffrey to your house, telling him that’s where Miss Frasier had gone, and possibly even supplied the gun. That gives me another place to dig—Jeffrey’s haunts and his cronies. This man, whoever he is, has much patience and likely a lot of money. I have to wonder what the devil you did to him.”
Sinclair shrugged, the movement masking the turbulence inside him. “I’ve been a barrister for years. Either he or someone he cares for—brother, wife, son, lover—was sent down because of my arguments. That’s the problem with crime and its punishment—it touches many lives, not only the victims but the victims’ families and those of the criminals as well. If I grew maudlin about it, I wouldn’t be able to do my job. Murderers should go down, and their victims should have justice.” He let out a breath. “But it’s not always that simple.”