A child’s pendant, the only possession I had when I arrived at the Foundling Hospital years before. A small trinket with those letters inscribed.
“It’s not worth anything, certainly not the murder of two people.”
“It seems that it is worth somethin’ to someone.”
I sensed there was more.
“I still say this is no place for ye,” he said. “Ye should return to London and let Inspector Landry and his people do their work.”
His manner had changed from our previous conversations, or should I sayhisordersthat I must return to London, along with the temper that went with them.
“Ye should go...” he repeated. “But I know by the look on yer face and the set of yer chin, that ye will not. I will make an agreement with ye.”
I was immediately suspicious. I knew Munro well enough from the past several years at Sussex Square. As Mr. Brodie once said, the only one Munro ever bargained with was the Devil.
It was obviously something from their shared past. There was no explanation at the time.
I was not surprised, as there had been vague comments about things that were done in order to survive when they’d been orphaned on the streets.
“If there is nothin’ new learned by week’s end, then ye will agree to return and leave the matter to Inspector Landry.”
I had not forgotten his earlier threat to simply pack me off back to London like so much baggage, bound and trussed up, then tossed into a trunk. I did not put it past him and grudgingly agreed.
“Were ye able to learn anything about the man who killed her from those ye know?” I inquired.
“He’s not known among those I questioned. But they will put out the word on him. He’ll not go unnoticed.”
It was disappointing, still I was forced to admit we had learned a great deal the past three days.
“The letters ye have might tell us somethin’—the ones ye wrote to her as well as the ones she sent back. There may besomethin’ in them that will tell us what she might have come across, those she spoke with, or intended to meet with.
Even though it was a daunting task, the letters were the only possible clues into the inquiries Dory made on my behalf in the weeks before I arrived back in Edinburgh.
It was very possible we would learn nothing from them other than that one name that I remembered—Jacobson.
It was all a very long time ago. Even if she was able to learn something about a woman named Jacobson, it was possible it would reveal nothing.
Memories faded, if there were any at all, names changed for all sorts of reasons, people married, moved on, they died. The truth was that searching for information about my true family might very well be like searching for a needle in a haystack, and there might be nothing discovered.
I agreed to his terms, but silently vowed that I would not give up.
It was still early evening, and I laid all of the letters on the table from the past two years after I had asked Dory to make inquiries in certain places. Then I tucked each letter in answer behind my own letter.
Next, I read each one, beginning with my original request of 4 June 1895, almost two years prior:
Dear friend,
I have an important favour to ask. I am determined to know my birth family, but I will need your help. I can pay you for your time and efforts.
My first clear memory is of a woman named Jacobson. I was no more than four or five years when I was taken from her care and left with the Sisters of Charity at the Foundling Hospital at Saint Alphonse church. I am of the hope they may have some record of my time there.
I will be deeply indebted to you for any information.
Lily
And Dory’s painfully scribbled reply that someone had written on her behalf:
Dear Lily,
