Chapter 35
Thirty-Five
The early light peeked through the edge of the curtains.
Harry sat at Agnes’s letter desk, listening to her soft breaths as she slept.
It had been the best morning of his life to wake next to Agnes, but he couldn’t lie in bed all day, not when there was a puzzle unsolved.
He examined the pages of the Skelton will in the dim glow of sunrise.
He was elated that Agnes had accepted his proposal of marriage, and that regardless of what happened, she would still have a place to continue her work.
But it wasn’t enough. It was his responsibility to ensure the inheritance was distributed according to Richard’s wishes. There had to be more that he could do.
Not wanting to disturb his beautiful betrothed in her slumber by turning up the gas lights, he brought the will to read by the light of the window.
He had reviewed it dozens, perhaps hundreds, of times.
But still, there was an answer here left unseen.
Had Richard changed it under duress? Was the entire thing a forgery?
The signatures looked legitimate, including Oscar’s.
The steward had attested that himself when they had visited.
Page by page, he held the document up to the window. The paper glowed in the rays of the waking sun, slightly translucent, reminding him of his studies of the female muslin moth’s white wings. He examined each page, rereading every word, knowing they would say exactly what he knew them to say.
But as he held the fourth page up to the light, he froze. It was more opaque than the others, appearing darker in front of the window than the rest of them.
He knew this page. It was the page that laid out Agnes’s inheritance, providing her with the dower house, the steward’s cottage, and the smallest of Richard’s accounts. The final portion reiterated that all other property belonged to the Skelton heir.
He set it to the side and continued holding up the remaining pages to the window. They were all as translucent as the first three pages. Something about the fourth page was different. It had looked identical when stacked against the others or laid upon his desk, but the light revealed its secret.
Harry knew just the man who would be able to confirm his suspicions. Samuel was a private investigator and a genius with varied and unsurpassed knowledge, and fortunately, he resided in York. Harry gave Agnes a kiss on the forehead before finding his clothes on the floor.
He walked through narrow streets of the Shambles, inhaling the iron-tinged scent of meat, although many of the butcher shops that gave the area its name had been replaced with other businesses.
He ducked into a snickelway and through a door that led him upstairs to Samuel’s office on the second floor of the slanted medieval building.
Harry knocked on the door. It swung open on its loose hinges and he stumbled through.
Inside in the shadowed office, he saw his old friend.
Samuel’s tight curls were worn short with a side part, and his clothes were meticulously styled with the same attention to detail. He wasn’t a flashy man, but he expected order and tidiness in his environment—a stark contrast to his erratic but impressive thoughts.
Any police department across England would be fortunate to have him within their ranks. Many had tried to tempt him into working for them once his talent for solving mysteries had been discovered. But Samuel preferred to work alone, only taking the cases that interested him.
The man looked up at the sounds of Harry regaining his balance.
“Harold.” Samuel, a formal man by nature, was the only friend to call him Harold.
Harry had never felt the need to correct him.
It’s not as if he would dare to call him Sam.
His friend’s smile spread wide across his face. “What a pleasure. It’s been too long.”
“Yes. Quite some time, Samuel.”
“Agreed. Eighteen months and seven days is quite some time.”
“Did you pull that number out of your arse?”
“What do you think?”
Harry didn’t doubt him. Samuel had a knack for numbers. “I think you probably have it calculated down to the minute. Not sure why, but it’s always a wonder to see how your brain works. I’m here because I need your help.”
“Sit down and explain.”
Harry took the will from his case and explained his suspicions to Samuel. He showed Samuel the one page that seemed out of place. The office was dim, but even in the dull light from the lamp on Samuel’s desk, the difference in translucency was obvious, now that he knew what he was looking for.
Samuel’s eyes lit up at the opportunity to impart knowledge.
“You’re pretty clever yourself, Harold. This is not easy for anyone to notice.
The will is written on rag paper.” Samuel took the pages from Harry.
“Notice how white they are. They’re not brittle, either, like newspapers.
But there are two types of rag paper, cotton and linen.
This single page is made from cotton rag paper.
You noticed that it’s more opaque, but you can tell from the fibers as well.
The rest of the pages are linen rag. Linen rag is made with longer fibers than cotton.
You’ll see what I mean. If you’ll allow me? ”
Harry nodded. Samuel tore a small corner from the page in question and another from the last page of the will.
He held the two corners up in the light and handed Harry a magnifying glass.
The difference in the length of the fibers on the torn pieces was easy enough to see, even to someone ignorant about paper like him.
“It would be a strange occurrence for only one page in the middle of a document to be of a different paper type, yet it is not incriminating,” Samuel remarked. “What is incriminating is that the writing on the offending page is forged.”
“It is?” Harry had looked over the will multiple times. Nothing had seemed out of place before this morning. But he was no expert in handwriting.
“It’s good enough to fool an ordinary observer, but novice detectives would be able to tell.
These strokes which should be smooth are particularly shaky.
And these strokes which should show variation are all too consistent.
Clearly, the person was not writing in their own hand, but mimicking someone else’s style. ”
A wave of triumph rolled over Harry. He could feel it in his shoulders, his legs, his heels. He was confident in Samuel’s analysis. He would be a fool not to be. This was enough evidence to confront Skelton. And if that didn’t work, it was enough to threaten the involvement of the police.
“And have you found the copy that was made?” Samuel asked.
Harry’s gaze jerked to Samuel’s face, attempting to read it for clues about what he meant. He couldn’t form words right now, having lost control of both his thoughts and his jaw. He must have grunted something because Samuel continued.
“This clear substance on the pages, I suspect it’s gelatin residue leftover from being used as a master copy.” Samuel went on to explain something about a hectograph, but Harry couldn’t absorb all of the details right now. He had to go tell Agnes.
“Thank you, Samuel. I’ll see you soon.” Samuel grabbed Harry’s shoulder in farewell.
“Let me know if you need me.” It wasn’t something Samuel just said, he meant it.
“I will.”
It was too cold to be sitting outside in the gardens, but Agnes pulled her pelisse around her shoulders and let the mug of tea warm her hands. She sat back in her chair and inhaled the scent of rosemary and thyme from her winter plants.
It had surprised her to find Harry not in her bed when she woke. She had been even more surprised to find out he had not been in her home, at all. But she knew he had not left for good. She was no longer running, and she didn’t believe he would start either.
Eventually, Ward opened the back door. “She’s here.” No announcements, just a mumble from the old man and the echo of the door closing behind him. Harry, with documents in hand, sprang over to her in a few large steps.
“Agnes. I’ve found something.” It took a moment for the words to make sense when his exuberance was so charming to witness.
“Well, go on.”
He laid the documents on the tea table, and held up one page into the sunlight. She looked at the title page. It was Richard’s will.
“Look at this. What do you notice?” He stared at the page with a wide smile.
“It’s a paper . . .” She really wasn’t fond of these sorts of guessing games, but his excitement made her play along. Anything for him. But she didn’t know what she was meant to be looking for.
He put that paper down and lifted the next one, holding it the same way.
“Still a paper. Harry, what am I supposed to say?”
He held up another page. She shrugged, and then he picked up the fourth. Agnes first noticed it was missing its corner, unusual for how carefully Harry kept his papers. Then he held it up in the same manner as the others. She stood from her chair, knocking into the table. “It can’t be . . .”
“I know. It is. This morning, I went to my friend. He’s a private investigator, and quite frankly, a genius with these kinds of things. He told me that this page, the one detailing your inheritance, is not made from the same paper as the others. It’s been replaced.”
“But can we prove that? Couldn’t Charles just argue that Richard mixed up his papers before they wrote the will?”
Harry spread the papers on the tea table. “There’s more. I still wouldn’t be able to explain the details as well as he did, but my friend assured me that the handwriting on the fourth page is forged. He’s willing to attest the same to Scotland Yard. They know him.”
Agnes kissed him, gripping the side of his cheeks, feeling the tautness of his smile under her lips.
“Harry. You’re so clever.” But then her own smile faded.
“But still, if we don’t have the original will, won’t Charles just inherit it anyway as the heir?
We can prove the page was forged, but we can’t prove that he did it. ”
“That I do not know. It’s risky to expose him. He deserves whatever comes to him. But we can’t guarantee that it will ensure your security.”
“And we can’t do anything that will put Oscar in danger.” Her chin quivered, but she took a deep breath, staring into the blue of Harry’s eyes. He breathed with her. In and out.
“I have something else to tell you. Samuel thinks there’s a copy somewhere. A copy of the original document.”
“Then let’s find it.”