The Secret Life of Miss Mary Bennet, Katherine Cowley [books successful people read .TXT] 📗

In English, Mary told Corneau of the middle of the night visit and the portions of the conversation she had heard. He nodded almost continuously, barely keeping up the pretense of looking at the books on the shelves.

“That is very useful. I will inform Colonel Coates. I am sure he will be very pleased. You do not know the identity of the visitors?”

Mary shook her head.

“If you learn who they are, or if you hear more of these missing notebooks, come straight to me.”

“Do you know if Mr. Holloway could swim?”

“I do not. Why do you ask?”

“I was considering his death,” said Mary. “The knife wound was not enough to kill him. If Mr. Holloway did not know how to swim, he could have been stabbed anywhere near the water and then thrown in. After drowning, his body could have been washed farther out to sea. Yet if he did know how to swim, then he must have been stabbed on a boat out at sea.”

“Colonel Coates and Sir Pickering already searched the boats in Worthing for signs of struggle.”

Mary felt her face fall.

“But it is an insightful observation. We have documented seventy-three boats in the surrounding area, from small fishing vessels to large ones that could travel across the sea. I will make sure that none were missed. Do you have anything else to report, or other questions?”

“Did you follow up on Mr. Shaffer?”

“We did,” he said. “Mr. Shaffer has a perfect alibi for both the final day of Mr. Holloway’s life and the next day. We also went over his boat with great care.”

Mary nodded, satisfied on that count. “Who was it you spoke to, as you entered the store?”

“Colonel Radcliffe,” said Monsieur Corneau, confirming her conjecture. “He is a new acquaintance. Well, I must go. Thank you for your report.”

Mary turned back to the books, and now looked at them in earnest. She chose a nice leather-bound copy of Practical Piety by Hannah More. She always found Hannah More edifying and knew she would read the book multiple times, which made it a worthwhile purchase. Also, Lady Trafford did not own a single book by her.

Mary sat down on one of the bookseller’s sofas to wait for Lady Trafford to finish her own errands. Instead of opening her new book, she broke open her own letters, neither of which used a secure seal.

The first was a brief note from Kitty, almost terse. Kitty was disappointed that their mother still did not feel well enough for them to travel to stay with Jane or Elizabeth. Strangely, Kitty seemed irritated at Mary. Yet Mary had no influence whatsoever on their mother’s health, especially from such a distance. Mary reread Kitty’s words and detected a hint of jealously, particularly in a line in which she wistfully asked a question about Castle Durrington. Mary looked up from the letter. She was unused to any of her sisters ever desiring something she possessed that they did not.

The second was a letter from Mrs. Bennet. It rambled on without focus. It did not mention feeling unwell, but it did spend a great deal of time lecturing Mary on what she should demand from Lady Trafford. “Do not allow Lady Trafford to send you away in haste. She is a relative, and by virtue of our relations, do not let her neglect what is owed to you. She should be introducing you to new gentlemen every single week, and you must do whatever you must in order to find a match.”

Mary shook her head. Marrying her daughters was the only thing Mrs. Bennet cared about. Mary had liked it better when her mother had assumed that she was not marriageable.

She set aside her letters and examined the others given to her by the post office. There were a handful for the servants, which did not interest her, five for Mr. Withrow, and seven for Lady Trafford. Of all of Withrow’s and Lady Trafford’s letters, only one was sealed in a non-secure method. The rest were like a textbook on different approaches to sealing letters. Only one used the precise method Lady Trafford had taught her, though two were similar. Others wove paper in a complex method on the edge, were sewed shut with thread, used different types of adhesives than wax, used seals which indented all the paper layers, or used peculiar folds and shapes. Several of the letters were quite heavy, much heavier than any letter she had ever sent.

She examined the postal markings on each of the letters. A number of them came from Brighton, Dover, and London. There was also one from Durham, which was in the far north of England, and one from Bolingbroke. She had no idea where that was, but the letter had passed through London on the way here.

On one of the letters from Brighton it said M. May on the outside. As it was October, it could not be a reference to the date, so perhaps it was someone with the last name of May with a first initial of M.

None of the other letters listed a name or a return address on the outside. It was not that unusual, but it did mean that every single sender assumed that Lady Trafford would pay for the receipt of the letters even without any indication of who had sent them.

Mary did not dare open any of the letters, not here in a shop, where anyone could see her. But she did examine the letter without a complicated closure method a little more closely. The author had folded the letter in a way that left the edges open.

She checked to make sure no one in the shop was paying her any attention, and then separated the edges of the pages. She could only glimpse a few words on the inside, and the cursive was terrible. But she did manage to make out a few words: “I used the money you sent to bribe