Chapter 18
Frank’s reaction to my news about Goliath’s imminent return to the hotel was the most joy I’d ever seen him display.
He even smiled. “Hopefully now the big idiot has learned his lesson and won’t go chasing treasures that ain’t his to have.
” His joy may not have lasted long, but even his condemnation held a measure of affection.
Early afternoon in the foyer brought a flurry of guests checking in, so I wasn’t surprised to see Peter busy welcoming new arrivals and attending to any immediate issues that the check-in clerk couldn’t resolve. Ordinarily Mr. Hobart would be alongside him, but he was nowhere in sight.
The guest who’d just finished checking in picked up a small valise and, key in hand, strode off toward the lift.
It was Mr. Janson, the tall, dark-haired politician who’d been liaising with Floyd about the dinner.
A woman dressed in an ankle-length fur coat joined him as he stepped into the lift, but I wasn’t sure if they were together or not.
Mr. Hobart emerged from the senior staff corridor along with Floyd, Harmony and Mr. Chapman. The four dispersed in the foyer with Harmony and my cousin heading for the lift. Both spared a nod for me but, judging by their rapid steps, they were in too much of a hurry to stop.
Mr. Hobart approached me. “Good afternoon, Miss Fox. You look very pleased. Dare I ask if you have good news about a certain member of the front-of-house staff?”
I smiled. I couldn’t help it. “I am pleased, and yes, you are correct. Goliath’s innocence has been proved. This evening’s newspapers will print it, and he’ll come to the hotel shortly to speak to everyone.” I indicated Floyd and Harmony. “They look pleased, too. As do you.”
He rocked back on his heels. “The dinner is on again.”
“That explains why Mr. Janson has returned. Well done, Mr. Hobart. This is all down to you.”
“Archibald Mathers may have helped convince them, too.”
“Perhaps, but I do think you and your connections at the other hotels should take a bow.”
He allowed himself a smug smile. “The news of Arkwright’s change of address appeared in this morning’s papers, but there is much confusion over which hotel he has checked into.” The smile vanished and he was all business again. “Terence appears to be signaling to you.”
I thanked him and headed to the post desk where Terence handed me an envelope with no stamp or address, just my name. “It’s an internal letter,” he said. “Mr. Arkwright’s nurse gave it to me in person a few minutes ago.”
I tore open the sealed envelope, not really sure why my heart hammered so hard in my chest. The handwritten letter bore Mr. Arkwright’s signature at the end. I settled into one of the armchairs to read it.
Dear Miss Fox,
I am writing to you because I wanted you to know the truth. Not because you deserve to know, or even because you may have already worked it out, but because I think you may understand. At least, I find myself hoping you will.
The truth is, I have never lied to you about Blackheart’s treasure. It does exist. However, I was deliberately vague about the form it takes. It doesn’t consist of jewels, coins, precious metals or cargo. It is not corporeal.
It is the story itself.
The treasure is the adventure the reader embarks upon, the journey they take as they read my account of a rather ordinary pirate who became extraordinary after I’d finished with him.
The real Blackheart lost more fights than he won.
He scavenged where others pillaged. He may have raised the eyebrows of other captains, but certainly not in fear or envy.
He had no reputation to speak of, until I created it.
Six decades ago, I set out to entice, excite, and inspire my readers. I was more successful than I ever anticipated. Much more. The hunt for the treasure became an unhealthy obsession for some, and that is why I planned to reveal all in my biography. It’s time to end speculation.
I’m telling you this, Miss Fox, because you strike me as someone who needs answers. Without this explanation, you would soon be asking yourself a question: Why? I want you to know the answer before you even ask it—it may help ease your mind.
On Tuesday, I informed Chester Bradbury about the truth of Blackheart’s treasure so that he’d include it in my biography, which would be published after my death.
He was furious. That’s what we argued about and that’s why he left early.
As a fan of my book on Blackheart, he felt he’d been deceived.
Unlike me—and I think you, Miss Fox—he doesn’t believe a story has any value.
He wanted only facts. His reaction confirmed that I’d made the right decision to ensure the truth came out only after my death.
I’m a coward at heart, and did not want to deal with the backlash.
With Chester’s demise, and his notebook stolen by his murderer, I’ve been grappling with the fact the truth may come out sooner than I anticipated.
I have faith that you will find the one who committed the heinous crime, Miss Fox, but I have no faith that his notebook will be kept safe from the ravenous beast that is the press.
So instead of facing the hatred of a disappointed public who wanted to believe Blackheart left behind a physical treasure, I am choosing to end my life a few months before it was due to end naturally.
This letter is my answer to the question you would have asked when you heard I’d taken my life: Why?
Farewell, Miss Fox. Good health and happiness to you.
Your friend,
Louis Arkwright.
I leapt to my feet and hurried through the foyer to the stairs. I raced up to the fourth floor and banged my fist on the door of room four-two-one. A teary-eyed Sister Meersham opened it.
I grasped her shoulders, crushing the letter and envelope. “Tell me I’m on time. Tell me you haven’t helped him to—” My throat constricted and I couldn’t finish the sentence.
She shook her head rapidly. “I haven’t.” She removed a cobalt blue bottle with a raised diamond pattern all around it from the pocket of her uniform. “I couldn’t do it.” Tears spilled down her cheeks as she waved me through.
I pushed open the bedchamber door without knocking.
Mr. Arkwright must have heard my voice because he wasn’t surprised to see me.
He looked more ashen than our previous encounters, his cheeks and eyes sunken as if he hadn’t slept in days.
Perhaps not since Mr. Bradbury’s death when the notebook containing Mr. Arkwright’s secret went missing.
“The notebook was burned,” I blurted out. “Your secret is safe, Mr. Arkwright. At least until you want it to be revealed.”
He sank further into the pillows, as if he’d been holding himself rigid until that moment. His eyelids briefly fluttered closed before opening again. He lifted a hand in dismissal. “You may lock that bottle away again, Sister Meersham. We won’t be needing it.”
The nurse bit her lower lip, bobbed her head in a nod, and exited the bedchamber.
I sat down on the chair by the bed and took Mr. Arkwright’s hand.
It was as light as paper, the knuckles protruding like burrs on a tree trunk.
“The notebook was burned by Mr. Bradbury’s murderer.
He destroyed the entire thing after reading only the page on which his own devious plan had been jotted down. He didn’t read the rest.”
Mr. Arkwright drew in a breath, but it was shallow and wheezy. “So, my exit from this mortal coil will be rather less dramatic when it happens.”
I rubbed the rough, thin skin across the back of his hand. “I, for one, am rather glad about that. It gives me time to get to know you better.”
“Are you sure you still want to get to know me? Some would say I’m a liar and a scoundrel for wasting their time.”
“Not me. I enjoy a good story. Besides, I think you have some interesting stories to tell and I hope you’ll share them with me, along with your new biographer, of course.”
“Poor Chester,” he said on a sigh. “He never was the right man to tell my story, but I didn’t have the heart to dismiss him. He needed the advance fee.”
“He did, which explains why he was so angry on Tuesday morning when he stormed out of here after you told him about the treasure. He wasn’t angry with you because he felt deceived, or didn’t see any value in a good story.
He was angry because he needed the money and needed the treasure to be real so he could get his hands on it.
He’d already boasted that he’d learned where it was located.
His greedy sweetheart only agreed to marry him because he expected to learn its location from you.
So when you told him a monetary treasure didn’t exist, he knew she’d end their engagement and his world would crumble. ”
Mr. Arkwright lowered his gaze to the bed.
“I am sorry for the part I played in his death. I’ll think of him every day that I have left.
When my biography comes out with the truth about Blackheart’s rather lackluster life, and the fact there is no treasure, I’ll be sure to add a humble apology.
I’ll write the words myself to ensure the message comes across. ”
“Are you certain you want to expose everything? While some readers have taken the extreme measure of hunting for the treasure, others simply enjoyed the story of Blackheart the pirate. Perhaps you can tell the truth about the treasure but leave the rest as it is.”
“I suppose I could.”
“I hope you do. A good tale well told can be powerful. It brings people together. I’ve seen grown men of different backgrounds find common interest as they discuss Blackheart’s adventures.”
“The truth about the treasure will take some of the shine off the story, but I suppose it has served its purpose over many years, far more than I ever dreamed. It made me rich, and not just in monetary terms.” He gave a wry smile. “Although that has helped.”