(in cipher)
My dear Thomas,
Congratulations on retrieving your wayward offspring. Having heard Kate’s account of the matter, I congratulate her even more heartily on not having had to retrieve any of mine, as well. I am, in fact, quite astonished that neither Arthur nor Eleanor attempted to join Edward’s adventure, and I can only put it down to your wife’s good influence, as I know better than to think you have had much to do with the nursery crowd.
You will be pleased to hear that the enchantments on your letters are working to your usual high standards, which is to say that your notes are quite impossible for anyone to read if they do not have the proper key. Indeed, your vile scrawl was barely readable even once the key was applied. It is a pity that magic cannot do anything about that.
I suspect its illegibility is the reason your missive was some hours later in appearing in the hall than the rest of the post; whoever has been intercepting our correspondence is still trying, despite our precautions. The only other letter to be so delayed, thus far, was one of Cecelia’s missives from her father, due, I assume, to his execrable handwriting. I cannot think that our meddler would have much interest in his queries about the local antiquities—Viking campsites, Saxon ruins, and prehistoric standing stones—which Cecelia tells me made up the bulk of his letter.
I harp on the question of legibility for a particular reason. Though I have been over your letter several times, I am still unsure whether it was a Mr. Medway or a Mr. Medbury who made the arrangements for the house in Stroud where you found Edward. If it is indeed the former, I must tell you that a Mr. Harold Medway, of Stockton-on-Tees, is the man of business with whom Webb has been so involved of late.
Before you come charging up to the north counties, let me point out that Mr. Harold Medway cannot have been the multifaced person you so eloquently described. Tall, short, fat, thin, bald, red-haired—no matter the disguise or enchantment, this Mr. Medway has been here in Stockton since well before the beginning of this infernal house party and therefore cannot have been recently in Stroud. Yes, I have made inquiries, under pretext of looking for someone to work with regarding the supposed property I am pretending to wish to purchase. And since our arrival at Haliwar, Mr. Harold Medway has been out to consult with Webb every day. Not even magic could get him to Stroud and back, with time to arrange for a house rental, in between his visits here.
Nonetheless, if your vanishing renter is indeed a Mr. Medway, I find the coincidence of names disturbing. It may, of course, be simple coincidence, but I distrust coincidences of that sort. I think it more likely that someone borrowed the name, since it would be foolish indeed for anyone bent on threats and kidnapping to make rental arrangements in his own person. Or it may be a black sheep somewhere in the Medway flock. I will see what else I can discover in that regard; in the meantime, the northern connection may give you an additional angle for your own investigations. If, of course, it is Medway and not Medbury.
There is still no sign of our missing German. Peculiarities, there are in plenty. It has taken me nearly three weeks to collect even as little information as I have done. In part, this seems due to the understandable desire of the instigators of the Stockton and Darlington Railway to keep their difficulties quiet, so as to avoid panicking their investors.
One thing we have established with certainty: There is an extremely strong ley line running directly across the rail line, one end of which passes under Haliwar Tower. I believe, on the strength of Cecelia’s observations, that the steam engine is interfering with the ley line (or vice versa, depending on how you look at it). Cecelia said the engine actually pulled the ley line sideways for a moment, like the string of a bow being drawn back. The extra load might well explain the unexpectedly high number of breakdowns. Unfortunately, the Webbs have made it impossible to investigate the railway line itself. So, for the present, we are at a stand.
Waltham has, as you may already know, seen fit to depart from Haliwar for parts unknown. The only surprising thing about this is that he did not do so weeks ago. His valet speaks of giving up waiting for his master’s return and departing for Waltham Castle, on the theory that when His Grace reappears, he will either do so at his main seat or else send a message there. The Webbs are far more disturbed by this than Cecelia or I, but then, they cannot know His Grace so well. Despite his worries, Ramsey Webb continues his attempts to persuade me to give over looking at property and invest in his railway project instead.
I assume that by this time you have returned your superfluous child to her annoyed or worried parents—that is, assuming that she, like Edward, was lured away accidentally. If she belongs to your mysterious Medway or Medbury, you may have her on your hands some time.
Yours,
James