Page 4 of Copper Script
Aaron stared at him.Wildsmith gave a tiny shrug.“That’s my opinion.”
“Based on his handwriting.What, precisely, about the angle of his letters or the way he joins them tells you he dug his wife a rose bed?”
Wildsmith exhaled.“I’m trying to say, this is the hand of someone who does sensible, practical things, for good or ill.I’d imagine he’d propose with a ‘What about it, old girl?’rather than sweeping her off her feet, but he would also be there in sickness and in health, like you’re supposed to.This is the hand of a reliable man.”
Aaron made himself nod slowly.“I see.How can you be sure?”
“I can’t besure.I’m not offering guarantees, I’m telling you my impressions.”
“Extraordinarily detailed impressions.”
Wildsmith shrugged again.Aaron took the letter back, mind racing.
There were tricks of the trade: flattering statements that sounded plausible to anyone, leading questions to help the faker draw truths from an unsuspecting client, and of course private investigation to get information another way.He found that last very hard to believe, given he’d supplied a false name and only made the appointment yesterday, and his brother-in-law Roger, whose letter this was, lived in Sheffield.
Not investigation, then.But it was, surely, possible that there was enough in handwriting for Wildsmith to judge that a writer was steady but unimaginative—not to mention forming a judgement on the content, a detailed and lengthy list of furniture to be sold from Aaron’s father’ cottage—and that he had elaborated the rest of it out of the air from those two points.
As it happened, Roger had proposed with the words, ‘What do you say, old thing?’, and had only ever bought Sarah flowers on her direct orders, but had indeed recently dug their cottage a rose bed.But that was sheer coincidence.Or, perhaps, an indication that Roger was a ‘type’.People were often predictable and behaved with remarkable similarity: much of policework came down to knowing patterns.Graphology—which was to say, quackery—was doubtless the same and it didn’t do to start reading anything more into what were, admittedly, some extremely well-targeted guesses.
“Interesting,” he said.“What about this?”
He handed over the second paper, which he’d written himself.He’d copied out the opening ofBleak House, inspired by last night’s weather.Good luck to Wildsmith wrenching anything personal from that.
The graphologist once again went into a brown study, eyes intent.Aaron sat back, considering him.
Wildsmith was dressed adequately but not well: clean, but without any great effort at smartness.He wouldn’t consider himself poor, but he clearly counted the pennies.That was hardly surprising.It was difficult enough for able-bodied men to find work these days, and maimed ones were common enough that nobody would give him special treatment.If he couldn’t do manual labour and he couldn’t write, he would be in something of a bind.No wonder he’d turned to graphology.
Still, he was personable enough and there were jobs as salesmen.He didn’t have to descend to this rather shabby pretence, and particularly not since it did real harm.
Wildsmith’s assessment of Roger’s letter had been superficially very convincing indeed.A more credulous person would have taken that a string of inferences and lucky guesses as evidence of mystic knowledge or astonishing powers or what-have-you.If Wildsmith had been equally lucky or cunning when he was pronouncing a verdict on Paul’s letter, his fiancée—doubtless an idiot, given she’d agreed to marry him in the first place—might well have taken every word as gospel truth.
In fairness to Wildsmith, an engagement that could be broken on the unsupported word of a third party had probably not been destined to succeed.But that didn’t entitle this man to throw out praise or condemnations based on how people crossed their ts.
His thoughts were broken by Wildsmith’s long exhalation as he looked up.
“Well?”Aaron said, and was annoyed to realise he felt a touch of anticipation.
Wildsmith paused.Then he said, “I would like to know the context.Are you asking about a job, a friend, a man marrying your sister?”
“Just give me your impressions.”
Wildsmith gave a small hmph of annoyance.“Fine.Well, this man—this hand—good Lord, it’s like he’s wearing a corset.”
“Excuse me?”
“Metaphorically.Tight-laced.He is so held in, so tense—I’m surprised he can breathe.”He clenched a fist illustratively at his chest.Aaron felt his own lungs tighten.“It’s like he’s got his teeth gritted, all the time.”
“Repressed.Is that what you mean?”
“That’s one of those psychoanalysis words, isn’t it?All sorts of things bubbling away and you want to marry your mother?”
“Something of the sort.”
“I couldn’t say about that.He’s certainly struggling with something, and there’s a whole lot of tension because of it.So much tension.He’s keeping hold of himself till the muscles seize up.It makes my neck hurt.”
Aaron stared at him.Wildsmith made a face.“There’s a lot more here too, don’t get me wrong.It’s an intelligent hand, and there’s a lot of force of character.And it reeks of honesty.Not quite as plain and straightforward as your other chap necessarily, but I think you could rely on him in a hard spot, and trust him to do the right thing, even if it was difficult.This is not someone who fiddles his taxes.An upright man with a lot to him, but I don’t think the world is working terribly well for him.”
“Does it for anyone?”
