Settling in her chair, the fire happily warming her toes, Willow put the pile of papers she’d retrieved on the table beside her and began to review them, wondering if she could have missed anything.
Most were routine.
A list of neighbours and comments about them, written in French. Probably quite wise, chuckled Willow as she read the sometimes-pithy observations. Madame had missed nothing from her spot on the wharf.
Mr Hardesty was, according to her, courting Mistress Donegan. And the lady was interested enough to allow him an overnight visit or two.
Well, well. Willow smiled in amusement. Since neither would see sixty again, it probably wouldn’t cause too much of a scandal.
Other notes marked the comings and goings of shipping. Madame had indeed enjoyed the sight of ships of all sizes sailing past her window, and she had encouraged Willow to join her in inventing cargoes and home ports, making a delightful game of it. They’d passed more than a few afternoons that way.
Most of the rest of the papers were accounts, bills paid, services received and also paid. John the Woodsman had made a recent delivery, which accounted for the healthy pile of logs by the back door. And he had been paid too.
Madame had been efficient, and financially responsible. Probably why she had been held in esteem by the villagers. Anyone who honoured their bills on time and in full…well, nobody cared where she was from. She was a good neighbour and customer. That was enough.
There was one small, folded card, and to Willow’s delight, it contained a dried flower and a few scrawled words.
“Je t’aime pour toujours,” she read aloud. “I love you forever.”
What a tale must lie within that sentiment. Willow sighed, sad that she’d never know the story behind them, but pleased that someone had loved Madame at some point in her life.
The last envelope lay on the table, and as she reached for it a soft snore sounded from the bedroom. Satisfied that her charge was sleeping, she unfolded the paper and began to read the contents.
Puzzled, she held it up closer to the light.
“The 4th, 75 and more. Over 100 times four.”
And another line…
“Browns, one white, over 50 times four.”
Several more lines like these had Willow frowning, as did more notes that were just letters and numbers in a confusion of nonsense.
And the bottom line “C will lk 4 VDV. Approve.”
Was it a puzzle, perhaps? Had Madame idly scribbled a shopping list in terms known only to herself? Browns could be eggs, as could whites. But by no means of the imagination could Willow see anyone buying up two hundred eggs.
She put the paper carefully back in its little folder, then rested her head against the chair and stared into the fire, letting her mind roam freely over the strange words. Nothing fit, nothing matched anything she could put her finger on.
Restless now, she rose and began to put out the candles, knowing she had to get some sleep in case Harry woke and found himself worse. Of course, she prayed this would not happen, but one could never be certain when it came the human body.
Her gaze caught the painting he’d admired, and she neared it, appreciating the fine brushstrokes that gave movement and life to the sailing ship cresting the waves.
Perhaps Mr VanDerVries had been on a wharf like this one…
She stilled. VanDerVries.
VDV.
Rushing back to the note, she unfolded it and read it again. “C will lk 4 VDV. Approve.”
VDV. Could it be? It would be a very strong coincidence…and the C…
Good God. C for Chalmers.
Harry had come here and found that painting. He wasn’t here by accident—he was here on purpose.
But why?
