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Chief
Superintendent, before I see the letter, perhaps we can discuss my terms. The
financial terms, that is.”
    “Not exactly music to the ears of a Scot, you know.”
The edges of MacFarlane’s mouth twitched into a grin.
    “That’s why I didn’t want to leave it any longer,
Chief Superintendent.”
     
     
    *  *  *
     
     
    “INSPECTOR DARBY, what do you think about the
downstroke of the pencil, here, where the letter-writer makes his demands? It
seems so thick, almost labored.” Without touching the paper, Maisie used her
forefinger to indicate her observation.
    “Yes, I noticed that myself. Very deliberate, isn’t
it?”
    “Like a child’s hand—not in presentation, but in the
execution, as if the person writing the letter were moving his hand slowly, so
as not to lose control.” She closed her eyes, her hand moving back and forth on
the wooden desk to describe holding a pen. The three men looked at one another.
    MacFarlane made an effort to control his voice,
keeping it low while Maisie was thinking. “Stratton, I know you’re not a
tea-boy, but poke your head around that door and tell them that this isn’t the
desert and throats are parched in here.” He turned back to Maisie, who opened
her eyes and spoke again.
    “I think he or she has trouble with dexterity and
concentration. Don’t you think so?” She turned to Darby.
    Colm Darby nodded agreement. “I do—but what do you
make of this?” He handed her a magnifying glass, then pointed to two places on
the vellum. Stratton entered the room again and sat at the table alongside
Maisie.
    “It’s been moistened—by saliva, I would say.” She
looked up, then down at the paper again. “Yes, that’s saliva. The person who
wrote this letter was so intent on the words that his mouth was open and
spittle drooled onto the paper.”
    “So what does that tell us? That we have a dribbling
person out there with perfect spelling?” MacFarlane was growing impatient.
    The door opened again and a younger man in civilian
clothes entered with four cups of tea on a wooden tray. He set the tray down on
the table and left the room.
    “It tells us that the person has trouble with muscular
control, and that concentration is difficult. It tells us that the person is
compromised in some way.”
    “That’s if you’re right.”
    “Yes, that’s if Inspector Darby and I are right.”
    There was silence in the room. Stratton reached for
two cups of tea, placing one in front of Maisie, who was beginning to feel the
stirrings of a headache. She thanked Stratton and touched the bump on the back
of her head.
    “All right?”
    “Yes, it’s just reminding me, that’s all.”
    MacFarlane reached for a cup of tea, as did Darby.
“Well, that’s bloody marvelous,” said the Scotsman. “Thousands of—what did you
say?—compromised people in London and we’ve got to find one of them. Needle in
a bloody haystack.” He scraped back his chair and began to pace the room.
    “Do we have an identification on the dead man yet?”
asked Maisie.
    Stratton shook his head. “Proving very difficult, as
you can imagine.”
    Maisie looked at each man in turn, then up at the
clock above the door. MacFarlane followed her gaze. “Yes, it’s time we got on
with it. Miss Dobbs, a motor car will collect you from your office this
afternoon at four, and we’ll reconvene here to discuss progress—or, heaven
forbid, lack thereof. In the meantime, I’ll allow you to work in the way that
you’ve said is best—alone. But be ready at four, otherwise you’ll have someone
from the Branch at your heels from dawn until dusk until we’ve closed this
case. The forty-eight hours grace our letter-writer has allowed us will be up
by six o’clock tomorrow morning or thereabouts. If we haven’t got him, we’ll
soon find out if we have a practical joker on our hands. And with a bit of
luck, by then we’ll have an identification on the other nutcase in Charlotte
Street.” He held out his