The Drowned Man by David Whellams Page A

historian for his regiment. He has a graduate degree in history from Cambridge.”
    So did Guy Burgess, Peter thought.
    She continued. “Tom and I thoroughly enjoy delving into local history whenever we have a new placement. Now, this is important, Chief Inspector. Important. The Quebec Archives here in Montreal have no record at all of the letters. Yes, that could mean they are forgeries but I don’t believe it. They
are
authentic. And if the provincial archives have nothing on their document registry, we are out in the clear.”
    â€œSo, you are confident Greenwell did not steal them from the archives here, or elsewhere?”
    â€œQuite. Tom and I also checked the Maryland Historical Society collection in Baltimore. We have contacts in Washington who helped us search the National Archives. Booth’s visit to Montreal is well established but these letters are something brand new. They are British documents.”
    â€œBut the Americans must have been excited about the discoveries,” Peter said.
    Nicola paused, hinting at indignation. “We did not feel we had to disclose the precise contents to them. The Americans have no claim on the letters.”
    â€œDo the police here have a theory of what has happened to them?”
    â€œThe police are incompetent. They don’t believe there are any letters at all. That Deroche isn’t taking the investigation seriously.”
    â€œI’m meeting with the Sûreté tomorrow.”
    â€œI know. I would appreciate your pressing them on the search. Obviously, Greenwell stole them back from your unfortunate colleague.”
    â€œAnd killed Carpenter?”
    The woman betrayed no sympathy for the British citizen she had lured into a killing zone. “That’s obvious, too, isn’t it?”
    Peter glanced at the two manila folders, making sure that Nicola noticed him do so. She handed him one.
    â€œI have been doing my best to reconstruct the letters from memory,” she said. “I’ve only managed parts of the first two and tidbits of the third.”
    Peter had honed his interrogation methods on tougher characters than Nicola Hilfgott. He wasn’t about to let her seize control and he pressed her on the details. “The first letter chronologically, you mean.”
    â€œOf course. One flows to the next. The first letter was signed by John Wilkes Booth, the assassin. It’s short but I’m snookered if I can remember the first paragraph.”
    She wasn’t apologizing. Peter took one of the files and read the first page. Her reconstruction was little more than a sample of the full text. If the correspondence was so significant, why was her memory so thin? The foolscap was covered in strike-outs, arrows, and insertions. The date and salutation, however, were cleanly set out in letter number one:
    October 23, 1864
    To: Sir Fenwick Williams
    British Commander, North America
    Dear Sir:
    My sincerest Regards . . .
    At once, Peter wanted to quibble with the text. The commander of British forces in Canada undoubtedly carried initials of his honours, befitting his status and career. Had Booth not known them, or had he ignored them? Had Nicola forgotten them?
    Peter read the first letter to the end, such as it was. Booth employed melodramatic language to denounce the Union, and declaimed on the virtue of the Confederacy. Even with his minimal knowledge of the Civil War, Peter fixed on two rhetorical gems that leapt out from the butchered text. Booth, referring to the “oppressors from the North,” adopted an urgent tone: “There is yet time for Britain to honor its common ground with the Confederate States.” The actor asserted that he was authorized to represent Jefferson Davis and the Richmond government but failed to explain how lecturing Sir Fenwick should endear him to the British government. In the final paragraph, as sketched out by Nicola, he made his motives overt: “My reasons for