Free House of Corruption by Erik Tavares Page A

revealed an emotional susceptibility—the fluctuating middle zone size and baseline of her handwriting revealed she was under some emotional strain. He turned the paper over and brought it close to his face, sniffing, examining the envelope’s many stamps.
    “Delivered to my doorstep,” Reynard said. “By a foreign chap.”
    “Where did this courier obtain your home address?” Savoy fished in his pocket and removed a business card. “I may have met this courier yesterday. He came by the office just before you arrived. I assumed him an associate and did not think to—”
    “What of it?”
    “That lion watermark is the same on both his card and her envelope. You see?” Savoy gave him Edward Tukebote’s business card and Reynard acknowledged it with a cursory glance. “That is the crest of Britain’s North Borneo Company, if I am not mistaken, a financial extension of Her Majesty’s expansions. This Miss Carlovec came a long way to find you.”
    Reynard laughed. “She cannot prove anything. I will hear her accusations, laugh in her face and that will be that. If she came all this way from...where did you say?”
    “Borneo.”
    “Yes, well. I shan’t just ignore her.”
    “It is curious, the very morning after Bill’s death, this woman’s valet is at your place of business. When you proved unavailable, she had him personally deliver the letter to your doorstep. How would she know where to find you?”
    “I am not invisible,” Reynard said.
    “Bill was one of a select few who knew your lakeside address. Mister Burlington would not have divulged it. Neither would I. I doubt Lasha or your caretakers would be so careless. You have made a point to keep your estate anonymous. Utility records are private. You maintain no significant patterns in your travel. You avoid most social calls. Your post is delivered here. For all anyone knows, you live in this office. All legal dealings are kept confidential.”
    “I could have been followed.”
    “You said the letter arrived last night,” Savoy said, “and since Lasha received it, that means he arrived before you did. Do you recall anyone taking an interest? Asking too many questions?”
    “Is this why you are here?” Reynard asked. “More conspiracies?”
    “There is more,” Savoy said, with some emotion. He sat down and, methodically, told him everything—the previous night’s findings from the hospital morgue, his interview at Parish Prison and Grant’s story of the so-called Lady of Chalmette. Reynard listened with grave interest. “I have gone so far as to secure Mister Grant into my personal care, seeing he is the only eyewitness.”
    “You believe him?” Reynard asked, incredulous.
    “I do.”
    “Is he...here?”
    “In the hall.”
    Reynard’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Are you insane ?”
    “I trust him.”
    “What would you say to escape the gallows?”
    “Last month,” Savoy said. “ I received this.” He opened his bag and slid free a folded sheet of thick paper. “From Professor Ernst Stronheim. Know of him?”
    “I have heard the name. Occultist?”
    “A former professor of mine. Our careers have followed similar circles. His studies greatly influenced my own work. For years we maintained a correspondence, but I had not heard from him for over a year...until I received this. It was neither signed nor dated, but his handwriting is unmistakable.”
    “What does it say?”
    “Read it.”
     
    Haec ego non multis, sed tibi.
     
    Whited sepulchers beautiful outward, inside lie
    dead men’s bones. Then Simon Peter having a
    sword drew it ... Then said Jesus unto Peter,
    Put up thy sword into the sheath: The Cup
    which my Father hath given me ... That
    ye may put difference between unclean and
    clean...
     
    Alea iacta est.
     
    “The first,” Savoy said, “is a maxim from Epicurus: ‘I write this not to the many but to you only.’ The scripture is an altered portion of Saint Matthew, King James edition, chapter twenty