One #4
“Denmark,” she said with a small degree of defiance. She was not lying, and she did not want to look like she was.
“Denmark,” he said, snapping his fingers. “That’s right.”
He tipped his hat and cast out his next words slowly, dangerously, like a fisherman with a hook, hoping to catch on something. “It’s unusual for a daughter not to miss her father, Miss Hunt. Begging your pardon.”
She did not like the way the man said her name. It sounded like she was his to wonder about, that he would now put more thought into her. She thought she ought to respond, to say something, but before she could, he was backing away. “Not to worry,” he called to her. “I will find out what happened.”
She did not move until his rounded hat disappeared behind the wrought iron gate and the Ayrshire roses that spilled over it.
The train roared in its approach, and Harriet exhaled.
The ground shook, and as the railcars passed, one by one, she clenched and unclenched her fists.
She could curse herself. In her anxiety over keeping the garden in check—though an essential job, indeed—she had completely failed to appear composed.
She’d probably looked mad, in fact. And Stokes likely believed she had been telling him falsehoods about her father too.
But she had no reason to lie. She knew that in a few weeks’ time, Stokes would find her father holed up in a houseboat along the Copenhagen waterfront and she would be forgotten.
Her father, who had never had the decency to pretend to care for her, had taken every ounce of her freedom.
Then he had gone with no word, no explanation, and Harriet was left exposed and vulnerable in his wake.
Now, she was under the scrutiny of a police inspector and her freedom was in question again, suddenly, all because Clement Hunt hadn’t bothered to leave a note.
She could not shake the impact of Stokes’s parting words. I will find out what happened. It was a threat more than a promise.
Still unsteady, Harriet leaned her weight against the side of the house.
Soon, the vines entwined themselves with her hair and around her back, embracing her, strengthening her.
But she did not open her eyes to look. She only felt the now-tender garden rise up to provide her with whatever comfort it could offer.
She let her legs give way, and as she did, something jabbed at her waist. It was the letter in her dress pocket. Unconsciously, she slid her finger into the corner and prized it open, welcoming the distraction.
Dear Miss Hunt,
There is something important you should know about your family, and I hope you will find that it is a great deal of help.
Let us meet at the time and place of your choosing.
I will explain everything then. Please excuse the mysteriousness of this letter.
I cannot offer any details until I see you in person. I await your response.
Humbly yours,
Nigel Davies
10 Kensington Square
London
Harriet read over the letter two more times.
It was not what she had been expecting. She’d thought it would be another question about the payments her father owed, but it clearly was not.
Her father’s debtors never couched their intentions in secrecy.
They wanted their money, and they were as explicit as they could be, down to each heavily dotted i.
For a fleeting moment, she was curious what kind of help this Mr. Davies could offer her, but she quickly recovered.
She would not meet with this man. She could not.
If his something important had anything to do with her father’s financial dealings, she did not want to get involved.
She must stay as far away as possible from his business.
Instead, she thought as she leaned back and released her frustration against the soft ivy, perhaps she should try to locate her father, to keep Stokes from coming around again.
If she had proof, a letter maybe, to show that her father was safely in Denmark, the inspector would leave Harriet in peace.
She did not like the way he had looked at her, with that dark accusation glinting in his eyes.
She didn’t know what the accusation was of exactly, but she went cold when she thought of the possibilities.
He had said she was strange.
Harriet knew what strange really meant. Women who were strange ended up in the asylum, whether they chose to or not.
It had been her father’s most haunting promise, spat at her with his hands vise-clamped around her arms. Inspector Stokes couldn’t commit her to an institution, could he?
But if he kept coming back and asking questions, she would have to keep her garden calm, and that required the exact behaviors that would have her in a straitjacket.
Balling up the letter from Mr. Davies, she tossed it and watched it skitter across moss and stone. She did not need more mysterious men probing into her life. What she needed was a warm bath and a plan to clear everything up before Stokes decided to come back.