‘With candle wax, it looks like. Melted and rubbed smooth all the way around.’
‘So, would that have been easy to do? Something he would do every day, or did he only take the letter out to read once in a while?’
‘Who can say? I think it was a thorough job, probably quite time consuming. I don’t think he would have opened and resealed it every day.’ Ryan shrugged.
‘So it was special, this letter?’
‘I would say so, yes. Read it out, so I can hear it again,’ he suggested.
The Rectory,
Cold Ash Holt
Dear sir,
I scarcely know how to begin this letter, since I have sent so many, and received so little answer to any of them prior to now. So little, I say – when I should say none at all. I can’t imagine the situation in which you now find yourself, and can only assume that, when I had thought such would be impossible, it is indeed worse than the situation you left behind. The thought of your constant peril is most dreadful – you and your comrades. Please do try to keep yourself safe, if safe is a word that has any meaning on the battlefield. I discovered your departure to the front only recently, and only by chance – the casual mentioning by an acquaintance of the deployment of men such as yourself. I know that you and I parted on strange terms, and our time together was not the easiest; but even though you did not reply to any of my letters when you were relatively close by, I still feel worse knowing that you are no longer on English soil.
So, what can I write? What can I write that I have not written already? I do not understand. I live in fear. I am wretched and ignorant and you are my only hope of coming out of this fog. But you cannot or will not help me, nor break your silence. What can I do? I am but a woman. Such a feeble statement but, alone, I have neither the strength nor the courage to effect a change of any kind. I am quite trapped. How pathetic I must sound, to you who have been through so much since we parted, and who has had to endure things I can’t imagine.
My son thrives. This, then, is some good news I can impart. He thrives. He will soon be three years old – where has the time gone? Close to four dark years have passed, and Thomas the only ray of light in all of it. He runs around the house and garden like a little dervish. He is not tall for his age, I am told, but his legs and body are sturdy, and his constitution good. He has yet to suffer seriously from any infection or childhood affliction. He has brown hair that curls a little, and brown eyes. Light brown eyes. I let his hair grow too long because I love brushing it so! My sister says he is too old for the style, and people will take him for a little girl, but I intend to leave it a while yet. He has started counting, and can memorise songs and rhymes in an instant – his mind is quick, quicker than mine, I dare say. I hope it gladdens you, to hear about Thomas.
I can’t think what else to write. Everything has been so strange and dark since that summer. I wish I could make better sense of it, but then I think I would be too afraid to do anything if my suspicions were confirmed to be true. Too afraid to stay in my home another second, and where would that leave me? My sister might have me for a while, I know. But she could not have me for ever – she and her husband have four children now, and there simply isn’t the room for Thomas and I. Will you please write to me? Tell me what you know about what happened that summer – I beg of you! Even if you think your answers will not bring me ease, I must know. To live in fear and suspicion is intolerable, though I have borne it these four years. I have written to you before of what I found, in the library that morning. The things I found. I am sure I wrote of them to you, although my mind was badly shaken at the time. It was all like the worst kind of dream. I would wake, in the days afterwards, and be happy for two heartbeats, but then I would remember it all, and it seemed as though the very sun grew dimmer. Does hiding what I found make me complicit in the crime? I fear it does, but I’m sure there are few who would have done differently. Perhaps this is not true. Perhaps I am weak and fearful and lacking in moral courage. What then of you, and your silence? Write to me, I beg you. Do not leave me here with only guesses and secrets, dogging my very steps each day.
With warm regards,
H. Canning
They were sitting in a restaurant in the village of Watou, a fair drive from Poperinge where Leah was staying, and Ryan was based. It’s worth the trip, he’d said, to her questioning glance as they drove out of town. He was right. The food was delicious, the ambience quiet but with a low buzz of chatter from a steady stream of locals turning up for their evening meal. Outside, rain pounded the deserted road, fizzing in the flooded gutters, scattering the street light across the window pane.