It was my intention to keep the note and that message private for now. That required having him examine the envelope it had been left in, which was stained with blood.
He nodded. “Of course.” And directed me toward his office.
He closed the door for privacy as I took the envelope out of my bag. I laid the envelope on his desk.
“I’m hoping you might be able to tell me something about this.”
I didn’t mention that the paper was quite different from any I had used in the past, my great aunt’s formal stationary with the family crest, nor other paper I was familiar with—found in the dailies, or the paper in my books.
He picked up the envelope to inspect it, and I caught the change in his expression when he saw the stain across the front of it.
He gently stroked the unmarred flap, then held the envelope up to the overhead light.
“Just as I thought.” He very carefully laid it back on the desk. “The paper the envelope was made from is handmade, a very old, time-consuming process, and quite expensive. I havenot had a request for it in some time. It is called rag paper, quite different from paper used for newspapers and books, or quality white paper for correspondence, or the usual notepaper requested for writing letters.”
“Who might use this?” I inquired.
“As I said, it is quite expensive. Those who could afford it, of course, the upper classes, perhaps the Queen,” he suggested, then had a thoughtful expression. “I might have a sample of this in one of my folders. If you have the time…?”
“Yes, of course.”
He went to the cabinet behind his desk and pulled down a thick leather-bound folder. He opened it atop the desk.
“I keep all samples of paper that I’ve used over the years, and a file for customers that lists the paper they’ve used in the past for their print orders, as you well know.”
There were several samples. He found the one he was looking for and held it up.
“This is a sample of rag paper before it’s printed with anything.” He handed the sample to me. It was thick and I could feel raised areas that had been woven into the paper.
“Those are cotton fibers, very similar to the material in the envelope. It requires a very careful printing process. It is also very durable, where other types of paper might yellow or become quite brittle and crumble over time.”
“Are there those who specialize in using rag paper, who might be able to tell me who placed an order for this envelope?”
“The older gentleman, Hiram Bridgeforth, whom I apprenticed with, kept a stock of it, but that was quite a long time ago. Most printers use thick wood pulp paper for stationery, announcements, and calling cards, with notepaper such as the ones I bind for diaries, journals, notebooks and your novels.
“I apologize that I cannot tell you more, Lady Forsythe?” He handed the envelope back to me.
I nodded and thanked him for his time and information. Before leaving, I purchased two of his notebooks.
“I look forward to your next novel. Mr. Warren has said that it will be forthcoming for print.”
My latest Emma novel was regarding a case that had taken Brodie and I to France and then Budapest. I had finished it a few months earlier and delivered it to my publisher, who was now my sister’s husband.
It was still early in the day as I left the stationer’s shop, that envelope and note tucked into my current notebook. I had learned something potentially important in my visit with Mr. Marsden, but I had no idea what it might mean—expensive, somewhat rare stationery that few people used any more. Except perhaps for someone of the upper class?
It was some time yet until I was to meet Brodie back at the townhouse in Mayfair, and I directed the driver to Sussex Square.
Lily, quite a young woman now, had been in somewhat of a somber mood at the birthday celebration for my great aunt.
“The usual sort of thing,” my sister had commented at the time. “You must remember it from our own time before leaving for France where we wouldn’t see most of our friends here in London except on holiday.”
It was a reminder of my part in bringing Lily to London as my ward, and I decided to take the opportunity to call on them.
Four
BRODIE
The Jampot coffeehouse,as it was referred to, so-called because it was founded when Jamaican coffee was first brought to London, was just off Cornhill at the edge of the financial district. It was an unlikely place to encounter any of the lads from the MET or Chief Inspector Abberline.
