The Perfect Crimes of Marian Hayes (London Highwaymen, #2)(3)
Your obedient servant,
X
P.S. Aloysius Crowley, The Three Tuns, Soho
*
Dear Sir,
You have put a guard on Madame Thierry? Am I to understand that you believe I wish to harm her? What a vulgar assumption, and quite unwarranted by any of our correspondence. I hardly think myself less a sinner than any of my neighbors, but I’ve never committed a violent act in my life and have no wish to start now, either with my own hands or by proxy. When we find Madame Thierry, I only wish to confirm that she is who she says she is, and then—perhaps—purchase her silence. It seems unfair for you to be the only one who profits from this sad state of affairs.
As for the rest of your letter, I fear that I do not have words to convey the extent to which I am unimpressed by this show of condescension. You are pleased to know that I am not alone in my predicament, are you? Has it somehow slipped your mind that you placed me in this predicament? Has that escaped your attention? You do not strike me as an especially stupid person, but we both know what kind of judge of character I am.
Your enemy,
Marian, Duchess of Clare (for lack of anything better to call myself)
*
Dear Madam, Let’s not mince words. It was the duke who placed you in this predicament. I simply let you know about it. Naturally, you’re cross with me, and probably think even less of me for seeking to profit off your troubles. But don’t mistake me for the agent of your misfortune.
I realize that I expressed myself poorly. I often do, if it comes to that. What I meant to convey was that when one is in trouble, it is good to have friends to rely on, or at least to confide in. Due entirely to my own idiocy, I find myself rather alone, and I wouldn’t wish that on you or on anyone else.
The guard remains on Madame Thierry, not because I mistrust you, but because one can never predict what unfortunate actions will seem inevitable in the heat of the moment. This, I’m afraid, I know from experience.
Your obedient servant,
X
P.S. Francine Delaney, The Red Lion near Covent Garden
*
Dear Sir,
May I humbly suggest being less of an idiot and doing whatever it takes to make amends with your friends? Or perhaps find some new ones? You are clearly terrible at being alone (I am excellent at it; I will give you lessons for the reasonable fee of five hundred pounds).
I see that you’re adopting a woman’s name this time. Does this mean you will collect your post in women’s clothing? How intriguing.
MH
*
Dear Madam,
I avail myself of all manner of disguise. I have been a beggar, a priest, and a sailor, and that’s just in the past week.
You, of course, already know this because you’ve had a man following me about. I did wonder why you were so willing to write to me. I’m not particularly experienced in blackmail but I don’t believe a sustained correspondence to be customary. Imagine my dismay when I realized that someone has lain in wait for me to collect my letters at the designated taverns and alehouses and then attempted to follow me.
Naturally, my first thought was that you meant to do away with me. This, I’m given to understand, is customary in blackmail proceedings. But for various reasons that I won’t bore you with, I can’t be too bothered by murder attempts. Much to my surprise, though, nobody has laid a finger on me, which leads me to believe that you only wish to discover my identity. I welcome your efforts as they enlighten what would otherwise be a tedious business; it will, however, take more than the bumbling attempts of an amateur to discover me.
Your obedient servant,
X
Elspeth Buchanan, The King’s Arms, Piccadilly
*
Dear Sir,
Goodness. Well, that certainly puts me in my place. And here I thought I was being rather clever with my letter writing ruse. Blundering amateur, indeed. I can’t remember the last time I received such a set down. Or is it a compliment, given the implication that I’m not a terribly accomplished criminal?
MH
*
Dear Madam,
I hope this missive finds you in good health and the best of spirits. Your present circumstances are of a sort that must be uniquely trying, even without the added hardship of blackmail. Given the nature of our previous correspondence, it is unlikely that you’ll put much faith in what I say, dear lady, but please believe me when I say that I would much prefer never to have come into the knowledge that has formed the basis of our communications.
If I am to be frank—and, really, to whom can one be frank if not the person whose fortune and reputation one holds ransom—I would much prefer you give me the five hundred pounds and let me disappear into the night. I assure you it will be my life’s work to keep your secrets. Surely, you will protest that I ought to keep your secret out of the goodness of my heart; the trouble is that my heart isn’t in the least good. I am, to the core, a mercenary creature.
Please consider this letter a statement of my good faith promise to uphold my end of our bargain; while I am a rotten sort of fellow, I am not a dishonest one. I anxiously await your reply by the usual means.
Your obedient servant,
X
P.S. Andrew Marvell, The Swan, Ludgate Hill
*
Dear Sir,
The two glasses of wine I had with dinner must be my excuse for what I’m about to write, but . . . are you well? The tenor of your last letter makes me doubt it. Furthermore, to go from writing me nearly every second day to leaving a week between letters strikes me as very odd indeed. I assure you that I care not one whit about your well-being, so do not mistake my query for solicitude; I’m merely disconcerted by the sudden absence of a man who holds my fate in the palm of his hand. If you’ll permit some (un)friendly advice, I suggest that you avail yourself of your friends at the earliest opportunity.