My Plain Jane (The Lady Janies #2)(53)

“What are you looking for?” Branwell at least had the presence of mind to keep his voice low.

“Anything that tells me about his relationship to my father, or why Mr. Mason is here and behaving so squirrely.”

“Squirrely, sir?”

“It’s a word, Branwell.”

“I know, but it’s not one I thought you’d use.”

“There are lots of squirrels in London. I’m familiar with how they behave. And Mason is behaving like a squirrel.”

Branwell nodded. “What about Rochester? Are you turning him into an animal as well?”

Alexander clenched his jaw. Really, he would have preferred to come in here alone, if Branwell was going to interrogate him like this.

“Maybe he’s not really a bad chap and you just don’t like him because you don’t like people,” Branwell mused as he dragged his finger over the spines of books on a shelf.

“That’s not true. I like plenty of people.” Alexander was focused on the large mahogany desk, opening drawers and flipping through papers.

“Who do you like?” Branwell asked. “Name one person.”

Alexander had to think about that. There was Wellington, a man he deeply respected, though respecting someone wasn’t the same as liking them, he supposed; he didn’t know Wellington well enough on a personal level to say he liked the man, just that he didn’t dislike the man.

And, well, there was . . .

“Ah!” In searching through the drawers, Alexander had come across a false back. He removed the pens and jars of ink from the front, then used his penknife to open the secret compartment. It was filled with old letters, the papers yellowed with age.

“What is it?” Branwell abandoned his search of the bookshelves and brought his lamp close. “Did you find something incriminating?”

Alexander riffled through the pages, skimming names and dates. He removed several of them, long enough to glance over the text. “Most of these are about Rochester’s late wife,” he said. “Her illness, treatments, something about a woman named Grace Poole. Nothing that would be remotely useful for us to know.”

But then he paused. On one of the letters in the back, a familiar name jumped out: his father’s.

“Who’s this?” Branwell asked. “Do you know him?”

“No one of consequence,” Alexander muttered. “This is nothing. There’s nothing here.”

Branwell frowned. “You seem really upset about something that’s nothing.”

“I’m sorry, Branwell. You should go back to bed.”

“So I helped you break into Rochester’s study for nothing?”

“I’m afraid so.” Alexander’s hands were shaking as he stuffed the letter into his pocket. Branwell could see it, surely, but the assistant didn’t comment. Instead, the boy just left the study with a concerned frown on his face.

Finally, Alexander was alone in the room. He swallowed, then traced a finger across the bottom of the letter where the name N. Bell had been carefully signed. That was his father’s signature. There were so few items of his father’s left after the explosion, and here was a letter in his own hand.

He swayed a little, then leaned on the side of the desk. The letter begged to be read, but if he looked at it now, there would be nothing new for Alexander to have. No more anticipation.

He closed his eyes and breathed, trying to calm himself. He’d suspected something strange about Rochester. That was why he’d sneaked into a gentleman’s study and riffled through his desk.

But memories were persistent, funny things. They lifted up at the most inconvenient times.

Alexander’s father had been part of the Society for the Relocation of Wayward Spirits, years and years ago, back during King George III’s reign. He’d worked in the treasury, not as an agent; as far as Alexander knew, his father hadn’t been able to see ghosts. But he’d believed, and he’d done his part to improve the lives of citizens of England.

The day his father died was seared into his memory. He’d replayed it in his mind for years, polishing it until he felt he could recall every detail. Wellington had warned him that some of those details might be fantasies. He’d been so young. How could anyone remember everything exactly? But Alexander knew the truth. He’d heard the argument between the killer and his father. He’d felt his father’s anger as the killer left the house in a fury. And he remembered the impacts of his footfalls as he, a young boy, went racing after the killer.

Then. The explosion.

At that moment, the man had turned. And he’d looked triumphant.

And while the killer had watched Alexander’s house explode, and his father’s life extinguish within, Alexander had gone racing back, as though he could save him.

He’d returned to the house, coughing at the smoke, ashes stinging his eyes.

It was there he’d died.

For a moment.

That was when Wellington had found him and rushed him to a doctor. He’d breathed in too much smoke, that was all, and Alexander had been (physically) fine after that. But he’d died. Briefly.

That had been the trigger. After that, he’d been able to see ghosts.

But not his father’s.

And now Alexander held this letter from his father. To Rochester. It was dated mere weeks before the explosion.