After another one of those politely charged dinners at Cumberland Place, Shafeen, Nel and I collected in the library – something that had become a habit.
That booklined room, with the eternal fire, was the nearest thing to cosy that the grand house could provide. We could, of course, have retired to one of our bedrooms to conspire, but that would have felt too obvious. Besides, as I was beginning to understand, there were certain rules in this world. The privileged elites of the Order of the Stag might be cavalier about the sanctity of human life (so long as you were poor, common or a person of colour), but they would freak out if a young man was in a bedroom with two unmarried girls. In the library we knew we would be alone and could say what we pleased, with the early-warning system of the double library doors to protect our privacy. We could be safe and secret unless someone came through those doors. And that night, someone did.
It was Bates. He looked as he’d looked that first day, not smooth and composed, but grey and sweaty. He kept looking over his shoulder, as if he was more worried about being overheard than we were. He spotted us with something like relief, and then crossed the room to where we were. High in his hand he held a silver tray, like he was a cocktail waiter. There appeared to be nothing on it, certainly no glasses or coffee cups or anything like that, but when he lowered it we could see that there was something there, something so flat that it did not even protrude above the lip of the tray. Bates bowed his head slightly and addressed Shafeen.
‘I’m glad I caught you, sir. A letter just arrived for you.’
Shafeen took the letter from the proffered tray. ‘Thank you, Bates.’ He had authority, did Shafeen, but he didn’t quite have the haughty entitlement that allowed the Medievals to totally wipe the phrase thank you from their vocabulary. Shafeen looked at the writing on the front of the letter and raised one dark eyebrow. ‘Just arrived? A bit late for the post, isn’t it?’
‘This was hand-delivered to the house, sir.’
‘By whom?’
I was impressed that even under duress Shafeen didn’t forget his grammar.
Bates looked shifty under Shafeen’s glance – in fact, he looked positively ill. ‘That I can’t tell you, sir.’
‘Can’t?’ queried Shafeen somewhat sharply.
Bates looked a bit panicky. ‘Merely a figure of speech, I assure you, sir. I meant only that I am unable to satisfy your curiosity, because unhappily I did not see the messenger.’
‘Very good, Bates. Thank you.’
‘Thank you, sir. Goodnight.’
As soon as Bates had pissed off, us girls crowded round the letter in Shafeen’s hand. ‘Who’s it from?’
‘Dunno,’ said Shafeen, much less formally. ‘I don’t recognise the writing. And who even knows I’m here?’
‘Enough speculation,’ said Nel. ‘Just open it.’
He turned it over and instead of a normal envelope flap, there was a fold secured by a seal.
I went cold. It reminded me strongly of The Invitation, the missive that had set all of these events in train.
‘Wait,’ I said, just as he was about to crack the seal with his long fingers. ‘Look at the device first.’
It was hard to see what was stamped into the wax in this low light, so we took the letter to the fire and crouched on the hearthrug. The wax was not the blood red of the seal I remembered from The Invitation, the red of the STAGS stockings and the Longcross dog rose. It was a more orangey, rusty red. And the imprint on the wax was not a pair of antlers but a face.
A pointy animal face.
Nel was the first to say it. ‘It’s a fox.’
‘May I?’ said Shafeen elaborately, and we both nodded vigorously. He broke the seal. ‘What the …?’
We craned over his shoulder. There, printed in neat calligraphy, were the following words.
My Lord, out of the love I bear to some of your friends, I have a care of your preservation. Therefore I would advise you, as you tender your life, to devise some excuse to shift your attendance at Longcross; for God and man hath concurred to punish the wickedness of this time. And think not slightly of this advertisement, but retire yourself into your country where you may expect the event in safety. For though there be no appearance of any stir, yet I say they shall receive a terrible blow this Boxing Day; and yet they shall not see who hurts them. This counsel is not to be condemned because it may do you good and can do you no harm; for the danger is passed as soon as you have burnt the letter. And I hope God will give you the grace to make good use of it, to whose holy protection I commend you.
We all looked at each other, the firelight kindling our faces.
‘It’s the Monteagle Letter,’ whispered Shafeen. ‘Someone sent us a Monteagle Letter.’
‘Sent it to you, you mean.’ I had a revelation. ‘Do you think it’s from your dad?’
‘Don’t be a dumb bunny,’ he said fondly. ‘How could it be, possibly, when I only talked to him about Longcross this afternoon?’
‘Then who could be trying to warn you?’ asked Nel. ‘Who else do you know here?’
‘It says for the love they bear my friends,’ he said. ‘Monteagle passed on his warning to King James. Maybe I’m just the messenger. Perhaps whoever it is is really trying to save you two.’
‘Probably Greer,’ said Nel, without malice. ‘No one’s really noticed I’m here. Who would try to save you, G?’
Henry, I thought, but I said nothing and just shrugged.
‘OK, let’s leave aside who gave us the warning for a moment,’ said Shafeen. ‘Next question: are we going to listen? And act on it?’
‘Of course not,’ I said at once. ‘If we are being warned off, that gives us even more reason to go. There’s something happening that has to be stopped. We can’t leave Ty to her fate.’ Especially not now we had met her mother and little DeAngelo.
Shafeen folded the paper decisively, and Nel said, ‘And are you going to burn it like they asked?’
He looked at the fire and the flames burned in his eyes. ‘I think I’d better.’
‘Really? To protect us?’
‘No,’ he said seriously. ‘To protect whoever sent it.’
He tossed the thing on the fire and we waited until the letter glowed, flamed and fell into ash before we felt it was safe to go to bed.