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THE OPPORTUNITY TO question Marianne presented itself sooner than I expected. She decided to help me search her husband’s bedchamber for the missing letters, and as I was silently opening one cupboard after another and finding nothing, she, nattering on all the while, suddenly asked, “Do you think I will marry again, Juliette?”
The girl’s question took me by surprise. “Of course, you will marry again, sweeting. You are still a very young girl. You will meet another gentleman whom you will love as much or even more than you loved Mr. Chalmers. Perhaps a young man who is closer in age to you,” I suggested. Then thinking back to my conversation with Miss Goodman, in which she mentioned her nephew Edwin was keen on Marianne, I asked, “Might you, perhaps, have already met such a fellow?”
“No, of course not. Where would I make the acquaintance of a gentleman? I go nowhere. I see no one. Who would I meet whom I might come to love?”
I am uncertain why I felt compelled to press the issue regarding the age difference between Marianne and her late husband, it was just that following Cathleen’s recent disclosure regarding the Chalmers’ marriage, I hoped that by putting further questions to Marianne might yield further knowledge. Plus it gnawed at me why Mr. Chalmers, being a good decade older than Marianne, would consent to marry such a very young girl, given his strong feelings for Cathleen? In light of those facts and also the other, which I surmised to now be true of Cathleen, but which she had not corroborated, a love match between Alistair Chalmers and Marianne seemed more unlikely now than ever. Why would Mr. Chalmers consent to marry a girl barely out of the schoolroom? Most especially one he did not love?
“Alistair was a good deal older than I,” Marianne began thoughtfully. “He actually seemed more like an elder brother to me, or an uncle, perhaps, than a husband.” She had ceased looking into cupboards and had instead thrown herself across the bed on her stomach, her long skirt drawn up, both legs bent at the knees as she swung her legs back and forth. Turning onto her side, her chin cupped in a hand, she said, “My husband never kissed me, you know.”
At the moment, my head was half-in, half-out of the lower section of a tallboy. “He never kissed you?” I straightened, my eyes a question as I gazed full at her. “Not even on the day you wed?”
“No.” She shook her head. “Not even then. We returned from the chapel and Alistair returned to work in his study. I came up to my bedchamber. At least, I think that is where I went, sometimes when I am especially weary, I lie down on the sofa in the drawing room. At any rate, I laid down somewhere and fell fast asleep.”
“Where was your father all this while?” I crossed the room to perch on a chair nearer the bed while I intently listened to her tale. “I mean when your new husband was in his study working and you were . . . lying somewhere asleep?”
She shrugged. “I cannot say for certain. Perhaps he was in his library reading.” She flopped onto her back and raised both arms straight up in the air, her fingers outstretched as if she were attempting to touch the ceiling. “Father read a great deal, you know.”
“I see.” Although, I did not. I could not imagine the sort of wedding day she was describing. No kiss at the altar, no wedding breakfast, the groom returning to work, his bride lying alone on her bed asleep. “What sort of books did your father read?” I changed the topic.
Another shrug. “I don’t know. I never asked him what he was reading and he never said. I do not really care to pass the time reading, do you, Juliette?” Rolling onto her side again, she gazed up at me. “It seems like such a waste. One cannot talk to a person in a book. I like to talk to real people.” She smiled sweetly. “I have missed having a real person to talk to. That is why I am so very glad you have come, Juliette. I am so happy you are here.”
I returned her smile. “I am happy to be here.” And, I was. Were I not here, I had no notion where I might be. But, at the moment, I was not ready to abandon our topic of conversation. “You once said you and Alistair spoke of traveling. Where did the two of you plan to travel?”
She thought a moment, then said, “I cannot say for certain where we were going. Mostly I overheard Alistair and Father speak about traveling somewhere . . . somewhere quite far off. India, or Africa, I think. I am not certain. I forget. But, I was to go along with them, I am certain of that.”
I took in all her answers, odd though they seemed. It now appeared that things between this young girl and her much older husband were far different than I had first been led to believe.
When I arrived here the young widow appeared to be in the depths of despair, moaning about how she would miss her dead husband dreadfully and wondering how she would get on now that he was gone and she’d been left all alone in the world. Now, it appears they barely spoke to one another and as a married couple, never once shared a bed. Which meant other intimacies that might exist between a husband and wife were, no doubt, also missing from their union. No murmurings to one another of their deepest feelings for the other, or whispering together of dreams regarding their shared life together. For all intents and purposes, it appeared Marianne and Alistair Chalmers shared nothing at all beyond living together in the same pretty white house in Mayfair.
Wanting to be certain I was not once again being misled, I asked, “Were there occasions in your marriage that you and Alistair spent time alone together? You once said he took you to Hyde Park when he was courting you.”
Having removed her shoes, she was now sitting up, picking at a loose thread on the toe of her stocking, her intent gaze upon her tiny foot. “Father always went along with us. They spoke to one another about where we were going when we all left England together. I scarcely bothered to listen since they were not speaking to me. They neither one ever really spoke directly to me. It was like I wasn’t there.” She shrugged. “But I did not really mind. Alistair and Father were both quite dull actually.”
“Were you and Alistair ever alone together?” I probed. “Was your father present when Alistair asked you to become his wife?” I did recall Marianne saying at the outset that her father did not wish her to marry Mr. Chalmers. Now, I was hearing an altogether different account of things.
Giving a huff, Marianne slid off the bed. “Oh, I cannot recall everything that was said, Juliette. I was a child when Father began insisting I marry a high-ranking gentleman, one of Quality, he used to say. Then, soon after Alistair began to come here for my French lessons, suddenly Father changed face and insisted I should marry Mr. Chalmers. I did like him . . . a bit.” She raised an innocent gaze to me. “My husband was a very handsome man, you know. I was actually quite proud to become his wife . . . except for . . . except that . . .”
“Except for . . . what, Marianne? Was there something wrong between you and Mr. Chalmers, or were there things about your marriage you did not like?” Beyond the fact that you shared nothing, I thought, but did not voice the sentiment aloud. Instead, I rose and reached to take both her hands in mine. Looking down at her, I noted she had begun to nibble on her lower lip. It was plain to see there was something bothering the child and given the opportunity, which I hoped I was now providing; she might feel free to confide in me regarding the trouble.
“Well, as I said before,” she began, “I soon realized he would have far rather been married to her!” Suddenly, her blue eyes flashed fire and she flung away my hands. “I wish she had died and not Alistair! If it were not for her, he would have loved me! I know he would have! I loved him! I did! Truly, I did!”
“I am certain you did, Marianne.” I attempted to calm the overset girl. “It is just that he was a much older man. There are things a girl your age simply cannot understand.”
“You do not understand!” she cried. Turning about, she fled from the room.
I stood there feeling confused and helpless. Apparently nothing in this house was as I first thought. Sir Prescott wanted his daughter to marry well, and yet he willingly agreed to a union between her and a gentleman whose station was far beneath his own. Yet, on the other hand, if Marianne had correctly overheard, or had correctly relayed to me what the men had spoken of, Sir Prescott had also warned his future son-in-law that if anything happened to his daughter, he, Chalmers, would not get a shilling. And now, both Sir Prescott and Mr. Chalmers were dead and Marianne had inherited her father’s fortune and no one had the slightest clue who had killed her husband, or why? Even her father’s death seemed shrouded in mystery. It was all very baffling and growing more so by the day.
* * *
LATER THAT NIGHT, AFTER everyone was in bed and the soft glow of firelight was casting long shadows across our room, Marianne, lying beside me, asked, “Has a gentleman ever kissed you, Juliette?”
Startled by the unexpected question, I rolled onto my side to face her in the darkness. “Indeed, Marianne, a gentleman has kissed me. And, I confess it felt . . . quite pleasant.” Thoughts of Mr. Talbot and Moreland Manor rushed to mind. At odd moments when I let those memories rise to the fore, I very nearly choked on the emotion that rose along with the sweet recollections. I missed Philip Talbot terribly. I would give anything to see him once more, but the bald truth was, I could never return to Morland Manor. Caroline Featherstone, who was now married to Edward Morland, had written to tell me when she and Edward married and to also invite me to return there for a visit whenever I wished, but . . . I knew I could not. My time at Morland Manor had been intriguing, but the pleasant part of the interlude, the part that involved him, was truly over and done with and well I knew it.
“Did you love him? Did he love you? Must you love a gentleman before you allow him to kiss you?”
I smiled into the darkness. “So many questions. I can promise you, my sweet Marianne, that you will meet a young man one day and when you do fall in love with him, and he with you, your chest will hurt to have him hold you close. You will . . . ache to kiss him.” I paused, remembering how desperately hungry for Mr. Talbot’s kisses I was whenever I was near him. “And when his arms are at last around you and he draws you close, your lips will find his and when they touch, the prickles of delight you feel will cause your insides to melt with joy.”
I heard her soulful intake of breath, then slowly she exhaled it. “That sounds heavenly, Juliette. I can scarcely wait for it to happen to me.”
I smiled. I could scarcely wait for it to happen to me, too, again. But, only if the gentleman kissing me were Mr. Talbot. “Go to sleep now, Marianne. And, may all your dreams come true.”
I turned onto my side. I had not realized until this very moment that if Cathleen Haworth truly loved her Mr. Chalmers, she must have felt precisely the same way when he took her into his arms and kissed her lips. However, the two of them had not stopped with just a kiss. How terribly, terribly sad she must now feel that her beloved was truly gone from her forever, leaving her in the unfortunate, shameful, condition she was now in. If Cathleen loved Mr. Chalmers even half as much as I cared for Mr. Talbot, she could not have killed him. No matter how angry she might have been with Mr. Chalmers, she could not have killed him. Then and there I decided with some certainty that Cathleen Haworth was not the killer I sought.
And yet, I reasoned, her letters to him must hold some secret that might help point the way to the real killer, or at the very least, reveal the reason why her beloved was slain. She, too, had spoken of their shared plans to travel. Where on this earth was Mr. Chalmers so very intent upon going, and why?
* * *
SATURDAY, 10 FEBRUARY 1821
The following morning after Mrs. Gant brought up our breakfast tray and I, sitting up in bed, began to eat; Marianne, as usual, remained snuggled beneath the warm coverlets beside me. Leaving her abed, I soon arose, hurriedly dressed, and departed our bedchamber in order to renew my search for the missing letters in Mr. Chalmers’ private bedchamber, located down the corridor opposite Sir Prescott’s suite of rooms.
An hour later, after having once again turned up nothing, I was headed toward the stairwell when I heard the loud clap of the doorknocker. Upon approaching our bedchamber door, Marianne stuck out her head, the expression upon her pretty face one of delight. “We have a caller, Juliette! Shall we go down together?”
Her unbridled enthusiasm amused me. “Indeed, we shall, my dear. Come along.” I reached for her hand.
“Are we expecting someone?” The bright-eyed young miss fell into step beside me. Today she had on a pretty lavender round gown, which last evening, I had conceded could be considered appropriate for one in half-mourning, which she insisted she now was, despite the fact that her husband had not yet been gone a sen’night.
“Who is to know, or care, what I am wearing when I see no one?” she had insisted. “Besides when my new pelisse arrives, it will cover whatever gown I am wearing beneath it.” I was too tired to argue, so said nothing more. Marianne was a spoiled, willful child and would do as she pleased no matter what was considered proper or seemly.
“We are not expecting anyone that I know of,” I replied now. “Although, I suppose it could be . . .”
“Who? Who could it be?”
“I was about to say it could be the Bow Street inspector bringing news of the investigation, but . . . at this juncture, I rather think that a fanciful notion. I daresay Bow Street has given up on their search for your husband’s killer. If the guilty party is not caught in the act, it is my understanding, at least here in London, that very little more is done in the way of searching out the culprit unless, of course, the victim, or his family, is prepared to pay for further investigation to be conducted. By the by, I have been meaning to ask if you would be agreeable to placing an advertisement in the news pages offering a reward to anyone with information regarding your husband’s death?”
“Oh, I do not care about that anymore.” She skipped on ahead of me down the stairs. “I hear voices!”
Upon gaining the ground floor, Mr. Gant sketched a slight bow when he spotted us, which came as a surprise to me. I had never before seen Mr. G do more than nod his balding head. It did indeed appear that our Mr. G was warming to his newfound duties as a butler. “There’s a lady to see you in the drawing room, Mrs. Chalmers.”
“Oh! Who might it be?”
“Marianne, do let us enter the drawing room together, shall we? And please make an effort to contain your excitement, my dear.”
“Shall we send for a fresh pot of tea?” she whispered, her blue eyes a question.
Before I had a chance to reply, the girl had whirled about and caught up to doddering Mr. G who was about to begin a slow descent to the kitchen. I could hear her excitedly relay instructions to him regarding the tea. By the time she returned, I had already slid open the pocket doors and entered the drawing room. Of late, we kept that chamber closed off so as to contain whatever warm air might have collected in the room from the ever-present drafty air eddying about the house.
Before the mantelpiece stood a tall, regal-looking woman with whom, of course, I was unacquainted. She turned toward me as I entered the room.
“Why, you cannot be . . .?”
“Good day, madame. I am Miss Juliette Abbott,” I said as I approached her.
Her chin shot up. “And I am the Countess, Lady Bergeron; Sir Oliver Prescott’s sister, come from France. I was expecting to find my niece Marianne; surely you are not she? As I recall, the child had hair as black as my own.” A gloved hand reached to brush an imaginary wisp of coal black hair from her temple.
At that instant, Marianne burst into the room. “I have ordered up a pot of tea!” she exclaimed. “Oh.” Both her dainty feet and her tongue skidded to a halt.
“Marianne, this is your aunt, Lady Bergeron, come from France.”
I turned to the older woman, who was indeed quite handsome. Beneath her fine woolen cloak, she was wearing a flowing gown of deep purple sarcenet, the neck, sleeves and hem decorated with lacy flounces. The woman’s slight accent should have alerted me that she had spent a good deal of time not in England. “Do sit down, my Lady, unless you prefer to remain standing near the fire. I do own it is a trifle chilly in here.”
The elegant woman paid me no mind. “My dearest Marianne, I would know you anywhere. Why, you are the image of myself at your age. Come. You poor, sweet child.” The older woman stretched forth her arms into which she gathered her niece, then just as quickly drew away as if, having dispensed with the loving gesture, she was now ready to reveal her reason for being here.
Taking Marianne’s hand, the elegant woman led her to the blue damask sofa and the pair sat down side-by-side upon it as I lowered myself into a nearby wing chair, both pieces of furniture placed at strategic angles before the fire.
“A notice in The London Times alerted me that your father had passed on, my dear. Since you’ve no family left to shelter you, I have come to take you home with me. Would you like to live with me in Pair-ee? My husband, the Earl, and I have a lovely home there, and also a beautiful chateau on the outskirts of the city. Even the servants living at the chateau have quarters far finer than this . . .” She cast a disdainful glance about. “Cramped little hovel.”
“You are a Countess?” Marianne exclaimed with delight. “Father never told me.”
“Your father and I have not corresponded a great deal since we both left home and married. I did receive a letter from your mother following your birth. I also recall you had a brother, did you not? I hope he is well.”
I remained silent as Marianne and her aunt commenced to share reminiscences of the Prescott family, which did not take long since there were so few of them, family members or reminiscences. Apparently Lady Bergeron had spent little to no time at all with her relations in this country and possessed even less knowledge of her late brother’s married life. I gathered she had never met Marianne’s mother, Lady Prescott, and would have not paid the Death Notice regarding her brother’s demise the least bit of notice except the printed obituary also contained her name.
When Timothy at last wheeled in the tea trolley, I rose to do the honors, but still said nothing beyond the murmured “Here you are,” to the Countess and “Do be careful,” to Marianne.
“I am leaving for the continent this very afternoon,” the Countess was saying. “My entourage is even now on the ship.”
“You have an entourage, Aunt Bergeron?”
The woman’s lips thinned. “You are to address me as Lady Bergeron, child.” Her eyes rolled skyward. “ ‘Aunt’ is so very gauche. It is clearly evident your education has been sadly neglected. But, of course, I shall remedy the matter straightaway. Hurry now, and gather your belongings, such as they are.” She again sniffed with disdain. “My carriage awaits.”
“But you only just arrived, Aunt, I mean Lady Bergeron. And, besides, I do not wish to leave London. I cannot leave my home!”
The elegant woman’s brows drew together. “Of course you can leave this . . .” she cast another haughty gaze about, “. . . this . . . I refuse to leave you alone in such squalid conditions. It is not to be borne!”
“But, I am not alone,” declared Marianne. “Juliette is here with me. And, we get on very well together, do we not, Juliette?”
I was about to reply, but was cut off by the woman’s scornful reply. “Who is this . . . Juliette?”
I rushed to say, “I am Juliette, Madame. Miss Juliette Abbott, your niece’s companion and confidante,” I added, although I cannot think why.
The Countess frowned. “But, who are you?”
Marianne bolted to her feet. “She is my friend and I shall not leave her! I would like you to leave now! I do not like you!”
“Marianne!” I scolded. “Lady Bergeron is your aunt and she has come a great distance to see you. You must treat her in a respectful manner.”
The Countess also rose to her feet. “Well! It is clear to see my brother raised an obstinate, unruly child. I recall warning him against overindulging his children. I can see now that he did not heed my warning. Get your things at once, child. You are coming with me and I shall brook no objection!”
“No! I am not coming with you! I do not like you!”
The woman whirled about and with a gloved hand landed a swift slap to Marianne’s cheek.
The startled girl raised a hand to her cheek. “I hate you!” she cried, then bolted from the room, and in a manner, the likes of which I would have expected from an overset Cathleen, she slid the pocket doors to the drawing room together with such force all four walls of the room shuddered in the wake of it. The Countess and I both heard Marianne’s footfalls as she ran up the stairs.
“Well, I never!” Lady Bergeron aimed a glare at me. “Do your duty, girl, and go fetch her! I shall not leave here without my niece.”
I rose to my feet, my chin elevated. “I am not a maid in this house, Madame. I take orders from no one. If Marianne does not wish to leave with you, there is nothing I can say that will change her mind. I take it you are unaware that your niece was, until quite recently, a married woman.”
Her jaw dropped. “That cannot be! Nothing was said of it in the news-pages announcing her father’s death. It cannot be!”
I lifted my chin another notch. As the Countess was quite tall and I am not quite tall, for me to hold my own against a woman of her stature took a good bit of doing. Still I thought it worth the effort to attempt a show of force. “It is indeed true, your ladyship. Marianne and Mr. Alistair Chalmers were wed some four months past. Unfortunately, the gentleman only just recently . . . passed on. Marianne is mourning both her father and the loss of her husband.” I made a move as if to lead the way to the foyer. “Perhaps in the Summer, or Autumn, Mrs. Chalmers might feel up to traveling. For now . . .” I shrugged as if to indicate there was nothing could be done for it.
The elegant woman’s lips thinned. “Well, it appears I have, indeed, wasted my time in coming here. To return to Paris with me is an opportunity few young ladies would pass up. The dimpled darling may be a beauty, but it is clearly evident her head is not over-burdened with good sense. Good day, Miss Abbott.”
She sailed past me into the foyer and the next sound I heard was the slam of that door and soon thereafter, the clip-clop of horses hooves on the cobbles as Lady Bergeron’s high-sprung carriage departed Brook Street, presumably on its way to the quay that ran alongside the, also presumably, icy waters of the River Thames.
And that, thought I, was quite possibly the last we would hear from her. I hurried up to our bedchamber to console Marianne. I found my little friend lying prone upon the bed, her small shoulders shuddering with sobs.
“There, there. Your aunt has departed and I daresay you shall never see her again.”
The child crawled into my arms and rested her head on my shoulder. “I am so glad you are here, Juliette. I do not know what I would do if you left me all alone. Please say you will never leave me, please.”
I rocked her back and forth as if she were a babe. And although I suspected that what I was about to say was not the whole truth, I said it anyway. “I will never leave you, Marianne. I shall always be right here with you.”
“I love you, Juliette,” she sobbed into my shoulder. At length, she sat up and swiped at the moisture glistening upon her lashes. “I should like to go to Regent Street now. Please, might we visit the shops? I wish to have something new to wear! Please, say you will come with me.”
I smiled indulgently. “Of course, I will come with you. Perhaps we might call at the modiste and see if our new pelisses are ready, would you like that?”
“Yes! And I want a new bonnet to wear with my beautiful new, blue velvet pelisse, and new gloves and smart new half-boots!” She slid off the bed and hurried to the clothespress, which was now crammed into a corner next to her father’s mammoth wardrobe which was so large it rather dwarfed all the other furniture in our now seemingly small bedchamber. “The toes of my old boots are scuffed and ugly.” She withdrew the shoes and held them up for me to see that she did, indeed, require a new pair. Or, at the very least, her old ones needed polishing.
After eating a light luncheon, we set out once more for the exclusive shops on Regent Street. A part of me felt as if I were wasting precious time that could be better spent attempting to solve the mystery surrounding her late husband’s murder. But, Marianne Chalmers was very persuasive. To say ‘no’ to her often seemed to not be an option.
We returned home in the late afternoon both wearing our stunning new velvet pelisses, mine a lovely shade of forest green, hers deep blue, both trimmed in the softest, thickest ermine fur I had ever buried my fingers in. Our matching ermine muffs were stylishly large and equally as plush. I could not help admiring my own image in every shop window we passed for I had never before owned anything half so fine. The lovely garment made me look every bit the lady I had always hoped to be. I found myself wishing we might meet up with Miss Cathleen Haworth just so she could see me in my new finery. Upon arriving home, Marianne immediately went in search of a pocket pistol to secret inside her muff while I squeamishly refused the girl’s generous offer to also provide me with one.
Artist’s rendering of Juliette’s green velvet, ermine-trimmed pelisse.
Copyright 2010 by Marilyn Jean Clay
THAT NIGHT OVER A LATE supper, in which our fine footman Timothy silently served us, I told Marianne I thought we really must turn our attention now to clearing the clutter from beneath the rafters.
“I expect there are a great many priceless artifacts stored there that would fetch a goodly sum of money.”
“But, I thought we already had a goodly sum of money,” my young companion replied, her attention fixed on the succulent meat pie and steamed vegetables on her plate.
“It is also possible we might find a clue that will help us uncover why your husband lost his life.”
“But, why must we bother with that? It is all so very distasteful. Alistair is gone and you are here and I like you far better than I liked him.”
Which was not the response I expected. “Nonetheless, a crime was committed in this house, Marianne, and since it appears Bow Street is not lifting a finger to solve the mystery, therefore we must.”
She did not bother looking up from her plate. “If they do not care to solve the mystery, then I do not see why I should. To catch the killer will not bring Alistair back. Besides, I do not want him back.”
I admit to being a trifle shocked by her glib reply. “Marianne, you really mustn’t say such things.”
“Why ever not?” Her innocent gaze met and held mine. “I am speaking the truth. My husband did not love me and I have decided I did not love him. So . . . I do not care why he was killed, or who killed him.” She shrugged and having finished with her dinner, pushed away her plate. “If you wish to rummage through the attic, then you may do so. Tim will help you, won’t you, Tim?” Not waiting for a proper reply from our footman, she rushed on. “I far prefer to spend my afternoons browsing in the shops on Regent Street. I like wearing my pretty new pelisse and my new bonnet. I love my new bonnet! May I be excused now?”
I forced a smile. “Of course, you may. I shall be up in a bit.”
“Very well. I am going to look at the pictures in my new magazine, The Fashionable London Lady.”
I finished my meal seated alone at the dining table and also now alone in this room as Tim had also vacated it. Of late, a fresh ‘something’ had begun to gnaw at me but, for the nonce, I could not quite place a finger on what it was. Just ‘something’ that did not seem quite right.
For one, I had never learned whether or not Marianne met up with anyone on her solitary ride in Hyde Park the day I took tea with our neighbor Miss Goodman. Did the girl have an admirer or did she not, and if she did, who could it be and why had she said nothing to me about the mystery man as we lay side-by-side in bed only last night speaking of how it felt to kiss a man? Did her innocence on the subject mean she truly had not yet experienced anything of courtship, or of love?
Why also did she now suddenly not seem the least bit interested in learning the identity of whomever had killed her husband? She seemed to have not a care that he was so violently struck down, or why. As yet, I also did not have the least notion why the man was killed, and at this juncture, did not know where to turn for clues. However, a niggling something kept telling me the secret to Mr. Chalmers’ death lay hidden somewhere in this house, and perhaps it could be amongst the curiosities piled helter-skelter beneath the rafters.
Before I adjourned to our bedchamber, where I found Marianne fast asleep in our bed, her new magazine lying forgotten across her lap, I decided that on the morrow, with or without her by my side, I would climb the stairs to the attic and begin the gargantuan task of sorting through the collection of artifacts now gathering dust there. As yet, I had still not found Miss Haworth’s letters penned to her lover, or read the contents therein. Perhaps, if I could locate the letters, I would find more useful information than Cathleen, herself, had revealed to me. But first, of course, I had to find the letters.