“Perhaps. I cannae say, but if there is nae a connection betwixt them, I would find it tae be a strange thing indeed.”
“Well, I do not see how this strange collection of letters could have anything to do with King Arthur. Why would Father hide them if it was about naught but an old story?”
“I dinnae ken, but it is clearly important, or he would nae have gone tae the trouble.” Arthur could tell that she was becoming more and more perturbed by her circumstances, but there was naught that he could do for her but to be there, offering his aid in whatever capacity she would allow him to give.
“I mean, look at this,” she gestured to the paper.“Emil sher pones eg theta et hot angil frye,”she attempted to phonetically read the paper. “It is naught but gibberish.
“Is there anything at all within it that ye think ye might be able tae decipher. A word or two perhaps?”
“The most that I can see is that ‘pones’ means ‘put’ in Spanish, ‘theta is the eighth letter in the Greek alphabet, ‘et’ is ‘and’ in French, and ‘hot’ is English, while ‘eg’ could be an abbreviation for the Latinexempli gratiameaning ‘for the sake of example.’ Perhaps ‘angil frye’ or ‘emil sher’ are names of people my father knew, or even place names, but it is not capitalized here, and I am not familiar with anything or anyone bearing either.”
“Ye have a gift for languages, Miss Wallace,” Arthur remarked impressed.
“My father was a linguistics professor. We used to learn languages as a pastime to see who could become more fluent first.” The memory brought a fresh spring of tears to her eyes and Arthur immediately regretted being the cause of them.
“I tae have a gift for languages. If ye will make me a copy o’ the missive, then with your permission, I will see what I can decipher.”
“Yes, of course. I thank you for your aid.” She took up a paper and quill, quickly wrote down the jumbled mixture of letters and handed it to him. Arthur folded it and placed it in his jacket pocket once the ink had dried enough to do so.
“I will take my leave o’ ye now but will call for ye upon the morrow so that ye might view yer faither’s office one last time.”
“I thank you, My Lord, for your consideration and assistance.”
“Always,” Arthur promised, as he bowed over her hand, pressed a gentle kiss upon its back, then left the room.
“A private audience with Miss Wallace,” Dustshore’s voice greeted him as he crossed the drawing room floor toward the front door. “You must have been closer to the family than I originally thought.”
“Nay, simply offering’ my respects,” Arthur answered, quelling the urge to punch the knowing look out of Dustshore’s eyes.
“As you say, Irondale. Leaving so soon?”
“Aye, I have duties elsewhere that I must attend tae.”
“I will be certain to take good care of Miss Wallace in your absence.”
“I am certain that ye will.” Arthur walked away, determined to fight off the spurt of jealousy that he had no right to feel. He barely knew Cleo Wallace and yet he had felt an instant connection with her from the first moment that he had laid eyes on her. It had increased when he had witnessed her fighting strength at the graveside, and more still as they had stood together alone in the adjoining room. It did not rest easy with him that Dustshore could rouse such negative feelings within himself.
It is nae right tae be thinking such thoughts, nae with Henry barely cold in his grave.Arthur shook his head to clear it. The paper that she had given him pressed against his chest reminding him of his task. Turning toward Jacob’s house, Arthur walked mulling over the scattered groupings of letters. He was so very impressed with Cleo Wallace’s grasp of languages. It pleased him that they had such a thing in common, but as good as they were, he feared that it was going to take everything they had to decipher it.
Rest assured, Henry, we will find the meaning behind yer last message to yer daughter, and through it, perhaps even yer killer.
Chapter 6
“The minister may have refused tae do his duty by yer faither, but that does nae mean that we cannae read over his body ourselves,” Mrs. McGrath stood in the center of the kitchen, her hands on her hips, frowning in disapproval. Cleo had just told her about what had happened at the graveside and the cook was piping hot mad about it. “It is a sin, I am certain, tae beat a minister with a rolling pin, but I am willing tae spend a wee time longer in purgatory for it.”
Cleo could not help but smile at the cook’s words. All of the guests had finally left and Cleo had come to aid in the cleanup. “It may be wrong, but I must admit that I would very much like to see that, along with a particular gravedigger.”
“Aye, the wee bampots. I’ll show them how tae treat their betters.”
Cleo moved forward and embraced the cook. “I love you, Mrs. McGrath. Thank you for always being here for my Father and I.”
“Always, lass.” Mrs. McGrath patted her on the back. They separated and continued to wash and dry the dishes that had been used during the memorial tea.
Mrs. McGrath’s choice of words turned Cleo’s thoughts back to the Earl of Irondale’s parting promise. ‘Always,’he had said. The mere idea of such a man being in her life caused a feeling that she did not quite understand to course through her body, passing over her skin in a shivery wave. It was the same feeling that she had felt staring up into his eyes as he had said it.
“What are ye thinking about, lass? The expression on yer face is nae one that I have seen on ye afore.”
“I was thinking of something that the Earl of Irondale said before he departed.”
