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Havelock laughed. “Not to worry, Sebastian. It can’t sting you. It looks as if some petals have been added to the mulch later in the process, as well.”

“What about the letter?”

“Also handmade, but using far stronger fibres. I think it’s a mixture of dandelion leaves and blades of grass.”

I replaced the letter in the toast stand. “I have known people with stranger hobbies.”

“Yes, quite. Perhaps the Duchess enjoys making paper in her spare time. But then—why not use a more formal kind of paper for such an important correspondence? Paper is cheap—surely if she can afford my fee, then she can afford to buy some? And why use such poor materials, like nettles and dandelions? I appreciate the aesthetic, certainly, but you can feel how fragile that paper is. It’s a wonder that her pen didn’t cut right through it. Why not use tree fibre, or make parchment with some animal hide? Farleigh Forest spans many acres, and is renowned for its good hunting. No.” Havelock placed his knife and fork down upon his empty plate, with a certain amount of finality. “My instincts are telling me that this paper is a peculiarity—and I should very much like to find out why it was used.”

“And what about the murder of the Duke?”

“Oh,” said Havelock, waving his hand dismissively. “I’m sure we can look into that while we’re there.”

In Windermere, we found a carriage that would take us to Grasmere, but no farther. We were told that the road through to Farleigh was not maintained, and that no driver, excepting the Grasmere postmaster, dared take it. Thankfully, the postmaster was an agreeable fellow, and allowed us to sit in the back of his coach while he navigated the day’s delivery. The road was indeed ill-kept, and without the comfort of a cushioned seat, we were thrown about every which way. There was only a small window at the rear of the coach, through which a little daylight trickled, barely illuminating the day’s cargo of mail, and we two, who were jumbled up amongst it. Havelock was in high spirits, and laughed as we rocked about. “Invigorating!” he cried, over the rattling.

“It’s like being in a storm at sea!” I called back. “And what is in these sacks? I fear that we will both be bruised purple by the time we arrive.”

Havelock laughed. “Coal, and plenty of it!”

After a particularly rough section of track, we both ended up at the back of the coach. I took Havelock in my arms, and shielded him from the worst of it. At first, I felt nervous holding him that way—as if he were a fragile thing that I might break. But I could smell his hair, and it reminded me of an early case, when we had both secreted ourselves in the back of a boat heading down the Nile. It was the first time we had been so close together, and even now, so many years later, it thrilled me to remember it. To be so young and in love!

For the first time in weeks, I felt a fluttering in my heart. Perhaps Havelock and I would be able to regain our easy regard with one another, given time.

At long last, the coach came to a halt, and the postmaster unlocked the door to let us out. We stumbled into the light, covered in coal dust. Havelock patted away the worst of it from his overcoat, while I tried to get my bearings.

We were certainly not yet in Farleigh, but we were somewhere deep in Farleigh Forest. The trees crowded close around us. The track—which was no more than a rutted, meandering path among those trees—came to an abrupt stop at a particularly dense patch of foliage.

“Where are we?” I asked the postmaster, who was pulling sacks from his coach.

“As close as we can get to Farleigh by coach,” he replied. “You’ll have to go on foot from here, but there will be some locals along shortly who can show you the way.”

I wandered over and helped him unload the rest of his cargo. “Where is the road?” I asked.

The postmaster shrugged. “Overgrown, decades back. And those that live in Farleigh have no desire to clear it. They care a great deal for their forest.”

Havelock was studying the trees. “Remarkable,” he said. “Oak, and birch. Larch, and chestnut. An eclectic selection. This must be an ancient woodland, for such a variety to thrive in such proximity.”

“So it is,” said the postmaster. “Older than the Empire, so it’s said.”

“Which one?”

The postmaster winked. “You’re as sharp as they say, Master Harper.”

I heaved the last sack from the coach, and we waited there a while, sharing the postmaster’s lunch of cheese and apples. Eventually, a ragged-looking group emerged from the trees. They wore coarse clothes, and conducted themselves politely—thanking the postmaster for his delivery, and loading some sacks into his coach in turn.

“Peaches,” muttered Havelock.

“Pardon?”

“Those sacks they’re loading up. They’re full of peaches.”

“Peaches for coal?”

Havelock nodded, and wandered over, striking up conversation with a young woman. “Good day to you,” he said, doffing his straw hat. “I’m Havelock Harper, and this is Major Sebastian Wright. We’ve been invited to Farleigh by the Duchess. The postmaster tells us that you might be able to help us find our way.”

“Pleasure to meet you. I’m Elsebeth,” she replied, and I noticed that even though her clothes were frayed, and her buckles tarnished, they were all very clean. “I’d be pleased to take you. Where are you staying?”

“Might you be able to recommend us a hotel?”