“You should. Mr. Thorne, you will from this point on devote yourself to my wife's quest. You still have her letter outlining her case?”
“I do have it on file, Your Grace. Are you certain that...?”
“Quite certain. I would not have spoken so if I were not, would I?” Keaton said, sharply, “I want word of her brother or the man himself brought to light. Spare no expense.”
“As you wish, Your Grace. I will dedicate myself exclusively to the task from this moment on. I still remember his name… Elias Roseton, was it not?”
“Yes,” Georgia whispered. It was almost a gasp.
Keaton could sense the aweness in her words, in the slight breathlessness. He patted her hand, fingers feeling her pulse and finding it rapid. She squeezed his fingers in response. They were learning to communicate without words and without the visual cues that facilitated non-verbal communication for sighted people. A touch, a caress, or a squeeze could say much, and Keaton felt he had a good grasp of what Georgia wished to communicate. He smiled.
“There is…anothermatter, Your Grace,” Thorne said with diffidence, “it is perhaps no longer as urgent as once it was, given that you have changed the task to which I am assigned. But, while I have your time, I think it's wise to mention it.”
“Of course, man. Get on with it.”
Georgia patted his arm gently, a rebuke for his impatience and his habit of being abrupt with people. She was seeking to smooth away his rough edges, making him more acceptable to society. He appreciated that it must be an uphill struggle at times.
“I wrote to you recently about the ring which you were found holding,” Thorne communicated.
Keaton frowned. “I received no such letter.”
Thorne paused, and Georgia spoke up, for Keaton's benefit, indirectly telling Keaton what she was seeing.
“Mr. Thorne, you seem perplexed by my husband's response. Why is that?”
“Well, Your Grace… I know it was delivered, because it was delivered by hand. Not by me, but by a runner that I use. A reliable lad that got a receipt from the cab he used to get to Westvale and a receipt from Mr. Rutherford for the letter he handed over,” Thorne replied.
Keaton's brows knitted. His mouth tightened into a straight line. He spoke quietly.
“Are you suggesting that my butler is hiding correspondence from me?”
“Not at all, Your Grace!” the investigator hastened to put in. “I have always believed Mr. Rutherford to be the very soul of respectability and reliability. I would not impute his good name. But I cannot deny the facts. The letter was certainly handed to him.”
“Could he have mislaid it?” Georgia offered.
“Rutherford is not the sort to mislay an important...” Keaton began, “Wait. He did mishandle a letter recently. It was from Thorne as well.”
“Nobody's perfect, I suppose,” Thorne shrugged.
“No, but your letter simply stated that no progress had been made,” Keaton pointed out.
“It most certainly did not. For it was not true. Progress had been made.Hasbeen made,” Thorne said in an animated voice, as though he felt his reputation questioned.
Keaton took in a deep breath, rounding on the source of Thorne's voice.
“Now look here—” he started, hotly.
Then, Georgia's voice was in his ear, whispering.
“There are many people enjoying the gardens today. It is such a bright and lovely day.”
Keaton nodded, smiling for the benefit of the people passing by.
“Let us find a quiet spot, by the river perhaps, where we can discuss the matter, shall we?” he said in a tone that suggested to anyone listening that nothing at all of import was to be discussed.
Georgia guided Keaton along the path they had been following, through the sound of other visitors. Keaton could hear the solid, steady tread of Thorne, hobnails clicking against the paved path as he strolled. He could smell tobacco from the man and soap from Georgia. Over it all was the scent of fresh-cut grass, the river, and flower beds that undoubtedly lined the path. He sensed the volume of people they shared this space with, could feel the movement of air displaced by them, as well as hearing their amorphous babble. Georgia's hand was a beacon on his arm, a guide he was coming to trust implicitly.
How is it that Uncle Edric mistook the contents of the letter? Was there more than one? Perhaps Rutherford lost the letter in question, and Edric found another one, previously misplaced. Or did Edric merely glance at the contents and not bother reading it?
