“Well?” she prompted as he stared open-mouthed. “Is there mention of a name or a time and place?”
Was she about to learn the identity of her persecutor?
“No.” Mr Chance showed Daventry the note before handing it to her. “There is no message. The paper is blank.”
Chapter Nine
“Might he have used a process to conceal the message?” Miss Darrow said, her brows drawn together in consternation.
“Lemon juice on paper leaves a brown mark when held to the heat of a flame.” Theo knew because Lady Lucille had once sent him a similar message to evade her father’s detection.
Miss Darrow sniffed the paper and wrinkled her nose. “Surely I would be able to smell lemons.”
Theo couldn’t help but smile. Miss Darrow’s hidden innocence heightened her appeal, as did her enthusiasm for solving mysteries. “I doubt it. The note has been in your box for over two weeks.”
Daventry lit a candle. He took the paper from Miss Darrow and wafted it back and forth over the flame. When that proved pointless, he held it up to the light streaming through the study window.
“I’ll need a chemist to confirm my suspicion,” Daventry began, “but I’m confident there’s nothing written on this note.”
Miss Darrow shook her head in confusion. “How can that be? I’ve risked my life to deliver those messages.”
Keen to determine the facts, Theo said, “So, the villain is the only person who asked you to deliver the notes personally? The barrow boy never dealt with Pickering?”
“No. I hid the notes beneath the bookplates and delivered them myself. Mr Pickering took receipt of them and I went on my way.”
“Then let’s see what the man has to say.” Daventry gestured to the door and they followed him outside to Pickering’s library.
The wooden wagon resembled a spectacle from the Bartholomew Fair. Intricate gold and red scrollwork adorned its sides, and its bow roof was painted a deep forest green. It looked more like a mobile palace than a library on wheels.
Pickering had propped wooden steps against the back porch and opened the wagon’s doors. Rows of oak bookcases lined the interior walls.
“Pickering.” Daventry stood at the entrance, keen to get the stout fellow’s attention.
The wagon rocked as Pickering swiftly turned within. “Mr Daventry. Good afternoon. There’s no need to leave your office. I would have brought your order inside.” Pickering chuckled as he retrieved a book and looked at the gold-embossed title. “You don’t strike me as a man who would read Memoirs of an Heiress. Though those brutes plotting to control Cecilia’s wealth provide a lesson in criminal machinations.”
Daventry smiled. “The book is for my wife, but I confess to having a selfish motive for ordering the first volume.”
Pickering’s hearty laugh shook the vehicle again. “There’s no need to be bashful, sir. I delivered all three volumes of Evelina to Lord Marshall only last week. Though between us, I’m told he is giving his new maid private reading lessons.”
Theo’s attention sharpened. Lord Marshall owed Fortune’s Den eight hundred pounds. Using a secret scandal as leverage, they could force the lord to pay.
“You misunderstand. I summoned you here because you’ve been named as a witness in a criminal case.” Daventry gestured to Miss Darrow. “Someone blackmailed and coerced the lady into delivering secret notes to you on three occasions, notes hidden inside books. We need to know the recipient’s identity and why you agreed to play the middleman.”
Shocked and utterly confused by the allegations, Pickering gripped the doorframe. “A criminal case? Sir, I live to bring pleasure to the masses. I deliver books and know nothing about these strange notes.”
“Do you not recognise me?” Miss Darrow stepped forward. “I returned a book by Voltaire, though the title eludes me. I handed it to you personally. You thanked me and told me to hurry home because we were expecting rain.”
“Voltaire?” Pickering brushed his greying locks over his bald pate and gave a curious hum. “When was this?”
“Six weeks ago.”
The man pulled a ledger off the shelf and rifled through the crisp pages. He found what he was looking for and pointed to an entry. “I remember now. You borrowed the first volume of Candide. I have one copy, and it was already on my library shelf. The volume you returned did not belong to me.”
“But you took receipt of the book.”
“Yes, you’d left before I realised it wasn’t mine.”
“Do you still have the book?” Theo asked. If Pickering was innocent, the note would still be hidden behind the plate.
Pickering blinked and stuttered, “W-well, yes. I kept it in the hope the lady would realise her error.”
“Find it,” Theo snapped. “The book is evidence in a case of assault, blackmail, theft and housebreaking.”
The ledger shook in Pickering’s large hands. “Good grief. You can’t think I was involved in these nefarious deeds.”
“Find the book, Pickering.” Theo was quickly losing his patience.
“Just a moment.” The fellow returned to the shelves in his wagon and spent an age scanning the spines. “It’s here somewhere.”
Theo resisted the urge to climb inside and see to the task himself. “What about the other two books Miss Darrow gave you?”
Pickering continued his search. “Other books?”
“Polidori’s The Vampyre,” Miss Darrow said. “I recall the name because it sounded quite terrifying. The other was the first volume of Radcliffe’s The Italian.”
The latter was a story of happy endings, marriage and the death of the villains. Had she ever read the entire novel? Did she hope for a similar outcome to her tale? Indeed, it bore similarities to the Chance family’s saga.
