He said, “Now even though I’m supposed to be the detective here, I don’t know quite what to make of what I’m going to show you, or how it might help or hurt you. I was very surprised by it, to say the least. But I know you’re leaving town soon, and I thought you might want to factor this into any feelings or thoughts you have about what happens next in your life.”

He handed me the envelope. “It hasn’t been checked for fingerprints. Read it for yourself and you’ll understand why, receiving such a letter, Russ would have wanted to both keep it, and keep it private.”

He handed it to me. It seemed to be the last page of a letter written on standard stationery. There was a large violet ink stain in the top left-hand corner of the page that I thought for a second was blood but on closer inspection clearly wasn’t.

I knew from the handwriting who had written the letter long before I read its signature.

. . . and then we can put this dreadful time behind us. Sometimes the desk clerk here at the Berkeley Club will buzz me on the intercom and tell me I have a phone call. I fly to the phone, and before I reach it, I’ve convinced myself it’s you, that you’ve managed to get away if only for one blessed morning or night and I need only rush to the Hotel Oakland or the Fairmont across the bay and you will be there in the lobby, waiting to lift me up into your arms. I am younger than you but does that mean I am stronger? I have no idea. This is such an immense charade I am living, for your sake, for mine, because it is what I must do today to make sure we have a tomorrow that will be like our yesterdays. Soon we will be together and all will be as it was. Do reassure me this is true, if only in another note. I am doing terrible and ridiculous things in the name of our future. I lie in my bed here and in Chancery Lane praying that love can travel through walls and reach you, and that you can feel my embrace. I live for when I can be honest again and we can be together again. We must both be strong and do what we must do to make this happen.

You don’t work long, focused hours over someone’s musical composition, reading their indications of fortissimo and pianissimo, each requested sforzando and suggested delicato without learning their writing hand. And so I had absolutely no need to look to the signature to see who had written this fervent letter to Russ Hewett. I looked all the same, if only to see how she worded the closing.

Love now, ever and always,

Gail

Chapter 41

41

The Castle