And every where Erynnis raignes …
An Ode
Sir Richard Fanshawe (1608–1666)
IT WAS A SLOW NEWS DAY, but even so Martin Penfield’s stomach was acting up. He opened the drawer of his desk, his fingers searching for his antacid tablets. Christmas and New Year were murder on his digestive system. Every year he made a promise to pace himself at the dinner table, and every year his resolve vanished in the face of tortellini, cappelletti di Romagna, polastro in tecia, and slabs of tiramisu. His mother-in-law was Italian and cooked like there was no tomorrow. He was going to pay the price for days to come.
He belched just as the door to his office opened and looked up irritably, but it was only the mail boy with the day’s post.
Before even opening it, Penfield knew what it was he held in his hands. There was no mistaking the handwriting on the envelope; the strong yet delicate penmanship, that deliciously extravagant loop to the P of Penfield. Another missive from his mysterious lady. Although it could be a man, he supposed. He looked closely at the handwriting once more. No, it was a woman, no doubt about it.
For a moment he sat quietly, tugging at his upper lip. There was something very odd going on here. And though he had never considered himself squeamish, there was a relentlessness to the systematic dismantling of Justin Temple’s business that was quite disturbing. Impressive, but disturbing. He wondered what the poor bastard had done to her.
Still, he was not going to look a gift horse in the mouth and so far the information they had received from their anonymous source had been spot-on. He turned the letter around and speared the flap of the envelope with the hideous chrome letter opener he had received as a Christmas gift from his secretary.
The letter was much longer than the previous letters she had sent him, and it took a while before the full implication of what he was reading sank in. For a moment he sat perfectly still. Then, with a sudden movement, he picked up the receiver and spoke to his secretary.
‘Gail, find Daphne for me and call John Page in legal. Tell him I need him in my office right away.’
Penfield slammed the receiver back in its cradle. He almost felt like rubbing his hands. It was going to be a hectic day after all.