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As Tippy and I made our slow way back to the bus stop, I mulled over the state of affairs. Without thinking about it, I found myself talking out loud, as if the dog might suddenly come up with a bright idea to toss my way.
“What do you think?” I asked. “Should I go ahead and open the letter? I think I’ve done my due diligence. The recipient is dead, and his only living relative doesn’t want anything to do with him or the letter. I could give it to Mr. Morley.”
Tippy growled.
“No, you’re right. I felt the same.”
A woman passing with a stroller gave me a funny look. I simply smiled politely and continued on.
The sky had turned overcast and a chill wind had picked up, flipping the hems of my skirt and coat and chilling my legs. The thought of Mrs. Snow’s tearoom and brightly burning fire was attractive, but when we reached the building, the door was locked, the windows dark, and there was no sign it would be open again any time soon.
“Too bad. I would have loved another scone.”
Tippy agreed wholeheartedly.
The bus bench was under a large oak tree, now bare of its leaves. Someone had wrapped a string of lights around the trunk. They weren’t on as it was still light out, but I was betting it was really pretty come nightfall.
Overhead, the sky opened up and rain pelted down. Tippy crawled under my legs while I opened up my folding umbrella, glad I’d brought it. We huddled there in a vain attempt to keep dry until the bus finally lumbered into view.
We clambered aboard, equally relieved to get out of the cold and rain. By the time we arrived at the train station in St. Cyres, it was nearly dark, and full dark had fallen by the time we reached home. I’d never been so glad to start a fire in the grate and curl up with a cup of hot tea and a plate of biscuits.
“Now,” I said, “I think it’s time we discover what’s in this envelope.”
Tippy was in agreement, so I gently pried opened the flap. Inside was a single sheet of paper covered in Aunt Euphegenia’s spidery hand. There was also a faded photograph which I set aside for the moment.
I read the letter aloud.
“’Dearest Freddy.’ Huh. That’s awfully familiar. She must have known him pretty well. ‘I shouldn’t have put off writing this letter for so long, but that’s how these things go. You think you have all the time in the world, and then one day you don’t, and you realize it’s been too long and there’s too much water under the bridge. So, you see, I thought that this Christmas would be a good time to tell you I forgive you and to remind you that it’s never too late to do something good in the world. Love, Genie.’ A nice sentiment, except it is too late for poor Mr. Croswell.”
Tippy and I exchanged glances. I don’t know what I’d expected, but this wasn’t it. Why on Earth had Aunt Euphegenia sent me to deliver such a letter? What had Frederick Croswell done that needed forgiving? And why did my aunt feel the need to remind him, on her death bed, that it wasn’t too late? Was she referring to his miserly ways, or something else?
I picked up the photograph. The old black and white was a little fuzzy, but it had clearly been shot in Upper Snow Falls outside the building that now held the offices of Croswell and Morley. In front of the building stood a man and a woman side by side. Behind them and a little to the left was a second man, his hat partially shading his face. The one clear thing you could see was his class ring which stood out gaudily on his pinky. All three looked to be in their twenties and, from the looks of the clothes, it was probably around 1890, give or take a couple years.
Flipping the photo over, I checked the back. “1888. Me and the boys.” That was it. The faded handwriting looked a little like my aunt’s, though not as spidery as it was in later years.
I flipped it back over and studied the faces carefully. The woman looked very much like my mother in the pictures I’d seen of her as a young woman, which meant that this woman had to be Aunt Euphegenia. I was betting one of the men was Mr. Croswell. Why else would she send it to him? But who was the other? And why was this image so important she’d sent me out two weeks before Christmas to deliver it?
I nibbled on a gingernut biscuit, enjoying the spicy ginger taste as it crumbled on my tongue. The photo had to be important, I just didn’t know why, and for some strange reason, I felt compelled to find out.
What I needed to do was learn more about Mr. Frederick Croswell. I set aside the photograph and took up my notebook, quickly listing what I knew so far.
First, Mr. Croswell somehow knew my great-great aunt. Question was, how?
Second, Mr. Croswell hadn’t been liked by his only family. What had happened?
Third, Mr. Croswell was, apparently, a miser and greedy to boot. The worst combination, if you ask me. Did that have anything to do with what my aunt had written in her letter?
And finally, Mr. Croswell was dead. Had been for a week. Had he really died of a bad heart as his partner, Morley, claimed? And why had Croswell promised his nephew he’d change his will and then not actually done so?
Tippy glowered at me, and I fed him a biscuit.
“There’s no use getting bent out of shape,” I told him. “You know I can’t help myself. It’s probably nothing, but I need to know more.”
Tippy sniffed and went to lay down. Clearly, he didn’t consider Mr. Croswell or the letter any business of his. Unfortunately, I couldn’t set it aside quite so easily. I would have to return to Upper Snow Falls.