Page 31 of The Curious Story of the Missing Lady
“Papa,” she commanded.
All at once, he wilted, reached into his breast pocket, and produced the note.
She took it from him with a trembling hand and slowly unfolded it.
She read it over twice.
“It looks to be in her hand,” she said.
“Yes, it does.”
“No doubt as to its authenticity, then?”
“No.”
She sat in silence, and then read over the note once more.
Something was not right. Yes, it was Madeline’s hand. But it was not Madeline. She had her sister’s letters locked away in a box beneath her bed, written from when Madeline summered in France when she was fifteen. They spoke like Madeline. When she read them, it was the spirit of Madeline there before her, reading them to her. This, on the other hand, seemed like someone doing a studied yet still poor mimicry of the girl.
But how? She couldn’t tell.
“Papa,” she said. “May I hold on to this?”
He tilted his head at her. “Whatever for?”
She shrugged her shoulders. “I don’t know. I guess perhaps because it is a link to Madeline. The only one I have at the moment.”
Her father stared at the fire, and then nodded slowly. “Keep it safe to yourself I implore you. I don’t want your mother to know about it.”
“Did you not tell her?”
“I told her there was a note from the ones who took her. I did not describe the contents or tell her it was in Madeline’s hand. She is distraught with sorrow. I cannot allow her any more of it.”
“Understood, Papa.” She nibbled her lip for a moment. “Papa, I’m worried about Lord Oliver.”
He stared ruefully at the fire. “I am as well, child.”
“He’s an awfully nice man, so undeserving of this.”
“I am going to ask him to aid the constable. I don’t like this business of him taking up a search of his own.”
“Either way,” said Emily, “I should like him to call on us more often. I do so worry.”
“Do not worry any more than necessary, Emily.”
“Well then, I’m to bed.” She leaned over and kissed his cheek. “Goodnight, Papa. Dream well.”
“I shall if you do the same.”
She smiled and patted his arm.
When she was in her room again, she stared at the note. She felt only a little guilty about disguising her motive for keeping it from her father. But there was something in this note that itched her like old wool, and he was troubled enough without having to entertain his daughter’s silly theories on the matter.
In a moment, she’d retrieve her sister’s letters. But for now, it was enough to know that whoever wrote in her sister’s hand was as much a stranger to the family as any.
But how?
She reread the note once more. She got to the last line, paused at it, read it again:
