She gave a tense, polite smile. ‘There must have been a mistake, I’m afraid. I haven’t left a box of books anywhere.’
‘Oh. I’m sorry to trouble you, then.’ Augusta reached into her bag. ‘I assumed you’d donated the books because I found this letter.’ She handed it to her.
Mrs Bradshaw gasped as she looked at the envelope. ‘Goodness! Where did you find this?’
‘It was in one of the books in the box. That was why I’d assumed the books had belonged to you.’
‘Which book was it in?’
‘The Invisible Man by H. G. Wells.’
Mrs Bradshaw stared into the middle distance as she thought. ‘Yes, that would be about right… I remember reading that book. I lent it to a friend. Some years ago now.’
‘So it could have been your friend who donated the books?’
‘Yes, it could have been.’ Her eyes returned to the letter in her hand. ‘And this was in the book! It’s from John, my brother. I suppose it must have been in the book for all that time! I must have put it in there for safekeeping.’
‘I hope you don’t mind, but I read the letter.’
‘Why should I mind?’
‘Because it was a private letter written to you.’
‘It was ten years ago. John used to send me a lot of letters. He enjoyed writing them. I kept them all so it’s lovely to have this returned to me. Thank you, Mrs Peel.’
‘Does he no longer send you letters?’ asked Augusta.
She gave a sad smile. ‘No. He died.’
‘Oh, I’m so sorry to hear it.’
‘It was ten years ago.’ She looked at the postmark on the envelope. ‘About five months after this letter was written, actually.’
‘You must miss him a lot.’
‘I do. He died in an accident. He fell beneath a train at Baker Street Station. It was very busy on the platform at the time and he somehow lost his footing.’
‘How awful!’
Mrs Bradshaw pulled the letter out of the envelope.
‘Your brother’s letter is quite intriguing,’ said Augusta. ‘He describes the disappearance of a friend. Alexander Miller.’
‘Oh, I remember now! That was very strange.’
Augusta wanted to ask her more but sat quietly as Mrs Bradshaw read the letter. ‘I’d forgotten how untidy his handwriting was!’ she said as her eyes scanned over the words.
When she had finished reading, Mrs Bradshaw pressed a fingertip into the corner of each eye. ‘This has reminded me how much I miss him,’ she said. ‘How can ten years have passed already? It really doesn’t seem that long ago.’
‘Do you know what became of Alexander Miller?’ asked Augusta.
‘No. I know he wasn’t found before John died. Perhaps he’s been found since, I wouldn’t know. But it was sad John died without ever knowing what had happened to him. They’d been good friends.’
‘Did you ever meet Mr Miller?’
‘No, I didn’t. He was just someone who John mentioned in his letters. He was quite chatty, as you can probably tell! He wrote to me once or twice a month, even though he didn’t live very far away.’
‘Did he discuss his missing friend with you?’
‘Oh yes. He was very worried about Alexander. And confused too. He couldn’t understand how someone could completely vanish like that. He’d been to the police about it, but they hadn’t been much help.’
‘They didn’t do anything?’
‘I believe they looked for him but couldn’t find him anywhere. And in a large, busy city like London, it’s not surprising, is it? I can only imagine they did what they could.’
‘And when your brother talked to you about Alexander Miller, did he have any clue about why he had disappeared?’
‘No. None at all. It completely puzzled him. I can only hope Alexander Miller was alright in the end and is alive and well somewhere today. It was ten years ago, so who knows what happened?’
Chapter 6
From Notting Hill, Augusta travelled by tube to Baker Street. As she left the train, she thought about Mrs Bradshaw’s brother, John, and the tragic accident which had claimed his life here. Baker Street station was a busy place served by four tube lines. It wasn’t difficult to imagine the platforms getting so crowded that someone could slip off onto the railway tracks.
Augusta made her way to the closest police station. She reasoned it was the one which John would have visited to discuss Alexander Miller’s disappearance with the police. With a bit of luck, the station still had a record of his visit.
Crawford Place police station was a Victorian red brick building with tall windows. It occupied the corner of Crawford Place and Molyneux Street. After a discussion with the desk sergeant, Augusta was introduced to Inspector Whitman, a lean-faced officer with a thick grey moustache. He leant against the counter and drummed his fingers on its well-polished surface.
‘I’m trying to find out more about the disappearance of Alexander Miller,’ said Augusta. ‘He vanished in early July 1911.’
