Gibbous House 3

Remiss of me; perhaps I have been somewhat proprietorial with this room in an inn that was scarcely more than a brothel of the stews. But the room was mine. It had been at my disposal for almost three years, whenever I came up to town. Occasionally there had been the spoor of another occupant discernible, but I was shown to my lair the instant I crossed the portal. From time to time my suspicions were aroused that I had been overgenerous in my arrangements with Thackeray. No matter, the market decides the price, after all.

Coble’s will had dropped from my hand and lay like a discarded playbill on the rough planks of the floor. I picked it up, folded it carefully into a crisp square and hid it in the lining of my hat. The Penny Post-ed letters drew my eye: I recognised the hand on one. The rounded feminine curves and the idiosyncratic angles of the descenders and ascenders were indubitably those of my late wife, although I had not seen her pick up a pen in the last two years of her invalidity. I tore the letter from its cover. The handwriting was less sure, no doubt, than in her days of robust health; but the very fact of it was a facer indeed. I began to read.

‘Esteemed Mr Bloat
I write in connection with information received from a confidential source that you may be in possession of some information which could prove to be to my advantage in the fullness of time. Should it be within your power and not constitute any breach of faith, trust or confidentiality, would you apprise me of any expectations that I may have?
I regret, as I am an invalid, that I am unable to attend your chambers. Therefore I petition you most respectfully to reply at your convenience by hand or penny post.

Cordially Yours
Mrs Arabella Moffat, nee Coble.’

Laying it to one side, I picked up the other. A masculine hand, also recognisable, I had but moments ago read it’s owner’s last wishes concerning the disposition of his legacy. I drew the letter from its enveloping lozenge; if it had been read more than once, it had been so with extraordinary delicacy. The missive began abruptly: in medias res, without salutation or preamble. Which of Bloat, Scrivener or, God’s Grace, Cartwright, had actually read it was therefore unknown:

‘Be in no doubt, I hold yourselves responsible should my great-niece be so misguided as to believe I hold her in any kind of affection. Whence she knows of any legacy, I should be most gratified to be enlightened upon; as your lawyerly selves were left in no doubt by mine own instructions as to the extreme confidentiality of this matter. I urge you not to enter into any correspondence with Miss Arabella Cadwallader nee Coble, on pain of a suit on which I should have no hesitation in expending my yet not inconsiderable fortune.
Coble.’

The queasy feeling in my abdomen was no mere hunger pang. I thought only of the name Cadwallader, by which - to my knowledge - my late wife had never been known to anyone.