Page 33 of The Pursuit of Mrs. Pennyworth
Upon arrival at the Foreign Office, he found Drovers in his office, his head bent over some papers, a magnifying glass in his hand, as he perused the document in front of him. The man’s hair stood on end, as if he’d run his fingers through it several times. So great was his concentration, he didn’t hear Elliot enter the room.
“Hard at work, as usual, I see.” Elliot moved farther into the room and took a seat in front of the worn, wooden desk.
The man looked up, not at all startled. “Good evening, Baker. Come with samples for me?”
Elliot withdrew the paper with Von Braun’s scrawl. He laid it on the desk on top of the paper Drovers had been studying. “What can you tell me about this specimen?”
Not one to rush through anything, which, of course, in his line of work was imperative, Drovers studied the sample with his magnifying glass. After a few minutes, he pushed the paper back to Elliot. “This man thinks a great deal of himself.” He leaned over and pointed to a sentence. “See how he forms these letters? That shows rigidity, a man not able to bend to anyone else’s opinions.”
“Is this man capable of leaving a number of frightening items on a woman’s doorstep meant to disrupt her life?”
Drover grinned, one of the few times Elliot had ever seen such. “Given the right circumstances, I believe most people can do things out of the ordinary.” He leaned forward and folded his hands together. “However, based on your letter to me outlining the problem, to do it over and over, takes an individual who has something wrong up here.” He tapped his temple. “But to answer your question, yes, this man is capable of doing so. But, that doesn’t mean he did.”
“Well, that clears that up.” Elliot chuckled in frustration.
“When dealing with human nature, and what man can justify to himself, nothing is clear-cut. You, of all people, should know this, Baker.”
Elliot stiffened, assuming Drover was referring to his slip-up with Annabelle. Until the man waved his hand and continued, “I’m not referring to your matter, but to the general population that you have dealt with in your line of work. I, myself, have been surprised many times by the cruelty and downright degradation one can foist on another human being. And find justification for it, as well.”
He snorted. “People rarely change. If they are evil, they will always be evil.”
Drovertsked. “Such a rigid stance for a young man.”
“Lesson learned.” Elliot placed the sample of the vicar on the desk. “This one?”
Again, the man studied the sample carefully. “Ah, an interesting one. Your friend here is erratic, critical, and methodical. He could be a bit unstable, or merely had a poor tutor when he was learning his letters.”
“Well, that certainly doesn’t help.”
“In any event, I don’t think you will find your perpetrator by analyzing handwriting. It is much too hard to predict what someone is capable of doing by studying how they write.” The man sat back and adjusted his spectacles.
“Perhaps not, but I must pursue every avenue.” At last Elliot pulled out the paper from the man who had left the flowers. “What I’d like to know about this one is if it matches either of the other two.”
Drovers studied the sample, then laid the other two alongside it. He looked back and forth, and finally looked up at him. “This is an interesting one.”
Elliot sat forward. “Yes, go on.”
“Whoever wrote this one is trying to disguise his handwriting.” He moved his magnifying glass over the sample. “It doesn’t match either of the other two, but my educated guess is the scriber is left-handed, and tried to write this note with his right hand.”
Drover removed his spectacles and rubbed them with a cloth. “Languages are different in more ways than one. Those that are written left-to-right, like English, are harder to write with the left hand. You see, a right-handed person writes away from his body and pulls the writing instrument, while a left-handed individual must write toward his body and, therefore, push the instrument.” He tapped the paper. “This person is left-handed and is writing with his right hand.”
Feeling encouraged by that information, Elliot stood and tucked the paper in his pocket. “Thank you for your insight. I do appreciate your expertise.”
Before Elliot had crossed the room and closed the door, Drovers had once again returned to perusing the document on his desk with his magnifying glass.
A light rain had begun to fall when he exited the building. Elliot opened his umbrella and decided to catch an omnibus instead of walking. What he was looking forward to now was an evening in his rooms with a brandy, a warm fireplace, and thoughts of Charlotte.
Now there was a true conundrum. Truth be told, he would enjoy an evening in his rooms with a brandy, a warm fireplace, and Charlotte sitting on his lap. Curled up with her head resting on his shoulder, her plump breasts pressed against his chest. He would slowly unbutton the back of her dress and ease it off her silky-smooth shoulders.
His lips would cast feathered kisses over her neck, his teeth nipping her earlobe. Then, he would—.
The devil take it, he was hard as a rock and sweating, just thinking about her. This nonsense had to stop. She was his client, nothing more. The kisses they’d shared were an aberration. They should not have happened and would not happen again. Yes, she was a lovely woman, but she was hiding something. He sensed it, and his past experience with Annabelle made him more attuned to deception.
He hailed the omnibus and climbed aboard. The light drizzle had turned to a steady rain. Darkness had descended earlier due to the weather, and he shivered, anxious to be home in dry clothes. The horses plodded along, stopping to allow riders to alight and board the vehicle.
Eventually, the conveyance came to a stop a block from his rooms. He stepped onto the pavement and opened his umbrella. He raised the collar on his jacket, and head down against the rain, he hurried toward home. Before he even identified the sound as footsteps behind him, he was thrown to the ground, a large body landing on top of him with a grunt.
All the air in Elliot’s lungs whooshed out of his body, and the side of his face smacked the pavement. The cold steel of a gun nudged against his temple as very bad breath wafted over him, followed by whispered words. “Leave off yer a’en’ions ’o the lady. She ain’ yers.” He pressed the gun harder against his head. “I’m bringin’ ye ’his message as a cour’esy. Nex’ ’ime I won’ be so gen’le.”
The lumbering ox fisted Elliot’s hair and slammed his face into the ground once more, bringing stars to his eyes. The footpad climbed off him, leaving Elliot still gasping for breath. After a few minutes, he climbed to his knees and emptied the contents of his stomach. The side of his face throbbed and he shook his head to clear it. Warm liquid ran from his nose over his lip to drip on the stones under his knees. He swiped his face. Blood.
There was no need to attempt to follow the man, since he had disappeared into the mist. Elliot made it to his feet and with the help of the handrail, dragged himself up the stairs to his front door, fumbling until he could insert the key and enter the building. He viewed the stairs he needed to climb to reach his rooms, and with a deep breath and shaky legs, slowly made his way up the steps.
He collapsed face down on the bed, not caring that he smeared blood all over the pillow. After he gave himself a few minutes to rest his throbbing head, he would tend to his injuries. His thoughts swirled around in his mind at the attack. It was apparent Charlotte’s situation had gone from frightening to dangerous. Somehow, he did not think the man who had attacked him was the same one leaving the packages. This man had been hired to put the fear of God into him. Which, of course, would not work since he did not scare easily. And now that he knew how serious her “admirer” was, he would take every precaution to protect himself.
And Charlotte.
