The Solitary House by Lynn Shepherd Page B

perhaps it’s something in Charles’s tone, but Maddox is suddenly alert.
    “What’s that? Speak up, boy, I can’t hear what you’re saying through all that mumble.”
    “I have a new case, Uncle. A problematic one. I wanted to ask your help.”
    “Go on, then, get on with it. I dare say you’ve got all the facts in the wrong order, just like you used to in the old days. Always went at a problem like a bull at a gate. All over the place. Hopeless.”
    It might strike you that this runs rather counter to Maddox’s last expressed views on the selfsame subject, and it may not be a coincidence that the old man’s tone is rather shrill. Charles edges forward in his seat, trying not to mind.
    “The client has been receiving letters—”
    “Letters? What sort of letters?”
    “—offensive letters. Anonymous letters. My task is to find out who sent them. That alone will be difficult enough, given how little I have to go on, but I’m convinced there’s more to it than what I’ve been—”
    Maddox doesn’t appear to be listening. “Is that them there?”
    Charles hands them over. The old man’s hands are trembling slightly, but his mind suddenly seems completely steady. He picks up his eye-glass and looks first at one letter, and then another, turning them over carefully several times. But then, to Charles’s horror, he takes one and flattens it against his face, breathing heavily. Charles tries to seize it, but Maddox will not let it go and the two of them struggle, the flimsy sheet crumpling between their fists.
    “Uncle—please—”
    “What do you think you’re doing? Let go of me, you fool!”
    “But—”
    Billy has heard the fracas from the adjoining room and appears at the door, his bright round face frowning and concerned. “Everything all right, Mr Charles? Only—”
    “Everything’s fine, Billy,” says Charles quickly, embarrassed to be found in this ridiculous position, playing tug-of-war with an elderly man over a piece of wretched paper. “There’s no need to worry yourself. Go down to the kitchen, would you, and ask Molly for some tea.”
    “Right you are, Mr Charles. I’ll be back in a jiffy.”
    When he turns back to Maddox, the old man’s face is very red and his chest is heaving.
    “I’ll thank you, Charles, to show me an appropriate degree of respect. My age, if nothing else, surely commands that much.”
    It is as if a switch has been flicked—an analogy which is at least thirty years away, incidentally, though the snap of a magic lantern will do almost as well. Maddox is looking at Charles now with as clear a gaze as the younger man can ever remember.
    “I’m sorry,” he stumbles, “I did not intend—”
    Maddox’s eyes narrow. “No, I dare say you did not. Now, to business. These letters of yours. You have, I presume, drawn the first and most obvious conclusion?”
    It’s Charles’s turn to redden now. “Yes—that is, no—”
    Maddox smiles, his eyes twinkling. “Well, that is no more than I expected. Have you forgotten all I taught you already? Logic and observation, my boy, logic and observation.”
    He smoothes the paper against his leg and hands it to Charles. There is no trace of a tremor now.
    “Examine this—carefully, mind—and tell me what you find.”
    Charles takes the paper and stares at it.
    “Well,” he says slowly, after a few minutes. “The writing is not educated—”
    “Indeed.”
    “—and is in a man’s hand.”
    “Indubitably.”
    “He has some cause for grievance against Sir Julius, which he clearly feels very deeply, but does not specify. Is that significant?”
    “Perhaps. Perhaps not. Go on.”
    Charles looks up. “That’s all. I can infer nothing more.”
    Maddox smiles broadly. “Come, come, my lad. Surely you can deduce a little more than that? Do you not remember what I used to tell you when you were a boy? A letter is far more than a sequence of words written on a page—it is a physical object , and in that