the author misspelled the town, then corrected it, on both letters.” He gave them back to Gerard, who spent a good few minutes looking.
“Notice the stroke of the pen from the ‘t’ to the ‘y,’ ” said the postmaster. “The ‘e’ has been written over it, not as part of the original stroke.”
“It’s very cramped writing.” Gerard bent over the letters. “How can you see such a thing?”
Mr. Watson rummaged in his desk and produced a magnifying lens. “Does this help?” As Gerard turned the lens on the letter, the postmaster added, a touch grandly, “I once served in the Dead Letter Office, sir. We’re trained to spot any such clue that might identify a letter.”
“How fortunate I am to have encountered you, then,” Gerard replied. “I think you’re correct. The writer originally wrote ‘Styning,’ and then added the ‘e’ later. It’s clear on this one—he wasn’t very artful, and his pen strayed across the ‘y’—but on this one I should never have believed it without the lens. Well spotted, Mr. Watson.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Of course, what good did that information do him? Did the same error mean the letters had been written at the same time, or just that the sender repeated his mistakes? Gerard mustered a smile and turned to the clerk, still perched attentively on his chair. “If the man who sent these should return, I would be very glad to have a word with him. Here is my card.” He scribbled the Queen Square house number on the back.
“Very good, sir.” Mr. Watson took the card and cleared his throat. “Of course I can only notify him of your interest, unless you are alleging some illegal activity has taken place in connection with these letters . . . ?”
It bloody well should be illegal to blackmail a duke, but Gerard was aware he had little to stand on. He was not the Duke of Durham, and he wasn’t about to make any more scandal over this blasted Durham Dilemma. He’d brought the letters to the post office sealed, and not opened them. Mr. Watson and his clerk didn’t need to know what message was inside them. All together, that meant he really couldn’t cry foul too loudly.
He made himself flick one hand in response to Mr. Watson’s muted question. “No, no. I doubt he is any danger to anyone. The letters were obviously unsigned, but I have a great interest in speaking to the author on my brother’s behalf. If the fellow should come in again, I would be very glad to know of it. Give him my card and express my eagerness to see him. I would be”—he paused delicately—“most grateful for any assistance.”
The clerk bobbed his head. Mr. Watson smiled and got to his feet, hand extended. “Of course, sir. Brynfield here will keep an eye out, you may depend on it.”
Gerard shook the postmaster’s hand. “Excellent. A good day to you both.”
He left the post office and resumed walking the streets, although this time without purpose or direction. He thought more clearly when he was active, and this was a moment for thinking. The two letters from Bath were sent six months apart; why would they have been written at the same time? Or perhaps that was wrong, and the sender had a persistent inability to spell and always had to correct his work. And yet, why bother to correct a misspelling on a blackmail letter? If Gerard intended to blackmail someone, he would use the worst spelling and handwriting possible. In fact, he would probably hire someone to write the notes, another person to address them, and a third to send them, so no one could trace them back to him.
His steps slowed. Perhaps that was an idea. If the letters were all written at one time, as Mr. Watson suggested, it might have been done to hand them off to a third party who would post them. If the actual blackmailer didn’t know when they would be sent, that could explain why no one ever inquired after the ransom that was demanded. Perhaps he didn’t know the letter had been sent.
Then he shook his head. What sort of idiot would blackmail the Duke of Durham for five thousand pounds and not even keep track of the letters, let alone the ransom demand? Where was the point in that? This villain had already proven himself crafty enough to avoid Durham’s investigators and escape detection. His evil letters hadn’t gained him anything yet, but