the truth, and was trying to leave us a note. One more letter and we might have got it sooner.”
Bainbridge shrugged. “Well, it wouldn’t have helped poor old Carruthers. We were already too late for him.” He glanced at his pocket watch. “We should make haste. It’ll soon be Christmas. I’ll take you home in my carriage.”
Newbury eyed his old friend. “Do you have plans for Christmas dinner, Charles? Mrs Bradshaw makes a passable plum pudding, and I’ve no doubt the goose is big enough for the three of us.”
Bainbridge smiled. “Well, now you come to mention it...”
“Come on then, old man. Let’s retire to Chelsea for a brandy. We can put this whole affair out of mind and attempt to enjoy what’s left of the season’s festivities. Douglas MacKinnon—or rather Harry Carruthers—can wait until Boxing Day.”
Bainbridge nodded, getting to his feet. “Thank you, Newbury. If you hadn’t put your finger on it so quickly I’d be spending my Christmas here, interviewing the staff.”
“Think nothing of it, old man. Think nothing of it. But I do ask one thing of you.”
“What’s that?”
“Keep an eye on what happens to that marvellous bird. If you find it needs a home...”
“It’s yours, Newbury.” He clapped a hand on Newbury’s shoulder, laughing out loud. “Merry Christmas.”
“Merry Christmas, Charles.”
The two men collected their coats from the stand in the hallway and set out into the fog-laden night, in search of brandy, cigars and Mrs Bradshaw’s excellent plum pudding.
WHAT LIES BENEATH
Dear Alice
Soon! Soon we will be together again. It seems like centuries have passed since I was last able to drink in your sweet scent, to caress your pale cheek, to gaze upon your pretty face. I miss watching you dance in the gardens in that delicate floral gown; miss seeing your tousled hair tumble loosely over your shoulder; miss your beaming smile. How much it pains me to be apart from you! Yet we must take care not to arouse suspicion. Our secret must remain safe. We share it, a burden, together. I will come to you soon, and we can be together again, if only for the shortest of times.
How I long for the day when we do not have to consider the thoughts of others. I live for it. My heart thumps in my chest even now as I think of that day, so loud that I wonder Felicity cannot hear it in the next room!
Poor Felicity. How little she knows. Often I sit here, at my desk, and wonder whether it would be kinder to tell her the truth. It amazes me that she does not yet know. Under her own roof! She glides through her days in blissful ignorance, unaware of the love that has blossomed between her husband and another. She is no sort of wife to me, but I pity her still. I console myself with the knowledge that she will know soon enough. When the time is right, she will know.
Now, my dearest Alice, I must go. An old friend is coming to visit us. Sir Charles Bainbridge, a policeman from Scotland Yard. Think what he would say if he knew! But do not fear, my love. Soon I will hold you again. Soon,
Isambard
Dear Alice
I fear our liaison must be once more delayed. Much to my surprise, Sir Charles has arrived with another visitor in tow—Sir Maurice Newbury—an anthropologist from the British Museum.
The man is neither wanted, nor welcome. I know you shall think harshly of me for such words, Alice, but I admit I find Sir Maurice unpalatable. He has a certain manner about him; overbearing, direct; arrogant, even. Still, it gives me a feeling of secret glee to know that neither he nor Sir Charles are aware of our secret. Nor shall they be, for I shall take great care not to let it slip, even though I feel a burning desire to shout it from the highest rooftops.
Sir Maurice is unwell. I do not know the cause of his illness, but he starts and shivers and has dark rings beneath his eyes. He barely ate at dinner last night, but guzzled brandy readily enough, until he was clearly inebriated. Sir
Bainbridge shrugged. “Well, it wouldn’t have helped poor old Carruthers. We were already too late for him.” He glanced at his pocket watch. “We should make haste. It’ll soon be Christmas. I’ll take you home in my carriage.”
Newbury eyed his old friend. “Do you have plans for Christmas dinner, Charles? Mrs Bradshaw makes a passable plum pudding, and I’ve no doubt the goose is big enough for the three of us.”
Bainbridge smiled. “Well, now you come to mention it...”
“Come on then, old man. Let’s retire to Chelsea for a brandy. We can put this whole affair out of mind and attempt to enjoy what’s left of the season’s festivities. Douglas MacKinnon—or rather Harry Carruthers—can wait until Boxing Day.”
Bainbridge nodded, getting to his feet. “Thank you, Newbury. If you hadn’t put your finger on it so quickly I’d be spending my Christmas here, interviewing the staff.”
“Think nothing of it, old man. Think nothing of it. But I do ask one thing of you.”
“What’s that?”
“Keep an eye on what happens to that marvellous bird. If you find it needs a home...”
“It’s yours, Newbury.” He clapped a hand on Newbury’s shoulder, laughing out loud. “Merry Christmas.”
“Merry Christmas, Charles.”
The two men collected their coats from the stand in the hallway and set out into the fog-laden night, in search of brandy, cigars and Mrs Bradshaw’s excellent plum pudding.
WHAT LIES BENEATH
Dear Alice
Soon! Soon we will be together again. It seems like centuries have passed since I was last able to drink in your sweet scent, to caress your pale cheek, to gaze upon your pretty face. I miss watching you dance in the gardens in that delicate floral gown; miss seeing your tousled hair tumble loosely over your shoulder; miss your beaming smile. How much it pains me to be apart from you! Yet we must take care not to arouse suspicion. Our secret must remain safe. We share it, a burden, together. I will come to you soon, and we can be together again, if only for the shortest of times.
How I long for the day when we do not have to consider the thoughts of others. I live for it. My heart thumps in my chest even now as I think of that day, so loud that I wonder Felicity cannot hear it in the next room!
Poor Felicity. How little she knows. Often I sit here, at my desk, and wonder whether it would be kinder to tell her the truth. It amazes me that she does not yet know. Under her own roof! She glides through her days in blissful ignorance, unaware of the love that has blossomed between her husband and another. She is no sort of wife to me, but I pity her still. I console myself with the knowledge that she will know soon enough. When the time is right, she will know.
Now, my dearest Alice, I must go. An old friend is coming to visit us. Sir Charles Bainbridge, a policeman from Scotland Yard. Think what he would say if he knew! But do not fear, my love. Soon I will hold you again. Soon,
Isambard
Dear Alice
I fear our liaison must be once more delayed. Much to my surprise, Sir Charles has arrived with another visitor in tow—Sir Maurice Newbury—an anthropologist from the British Museum.
The man is neither wanted, nor welcome. I know you shall think harshly of me for such words, Alice, but I admit I find Sir Maurice unpalatable. He has a certain manner about him; overbearing, direct; arrogant, even. Still, it gives me a feeling of secret glee to know that neither he nor Sir Charles are aware of our secret. Nor shall they be, for I shall take great care not to let it slip, even though I feel a burning desire to shout it from the highest rooftops.
Sir Maurice is unwell. I do not know the cause of his illness, but he starts and shivers and has dark rings beneath his eyes. He barely ate at dinner last night, but guzzled brandy readily enough, until he was clearly inebriated. Sir
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