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small bundle from his inside jacket. ‘These letters – he wrote them to me throughout the year or so before his death, but I only found them recently, while I was sorting through my father’s affairs after he died. The first one was opened, but the rest remained sealed.’
    ‘Your father kept them from you?’ Despite the cold, sweat sprung on my hands. Letters from Harrington – words from beyond his watery grave … Harrington was becoming my own Banquo. ‘Why?’
    ‘My relationship with my father was difficult: he lacked imagination, where I was wild and creative, with a passion for adventure which he wanted to stifle. If he hadn’t become a railroad man, he would have been a ship-builder. He was a man of metal – iron through and through, in spirit and in heart. My trip around Europe was my mother’s idea,and he agreed to it only out of fear that I was destroying my reputation – and therefore his – with my unseemly, “rebellious” behaviour.’ He shrugged, slightly embarrassed. ‘I was an angry young man, you might say, and I had a taste for wine and women. But on my return we managed slowly to build a working relationship, and we put my impetuous youthful behaviour firmly behind us. I imagine he did not wish me to maintain friendships with those I met whilst travelling. I had always remembered James fondly, though, and when I found these I knew I had to visit him, to check on his well-being.’ He paused, and then admitted, ‘The letters, you see – well, they are disturbing. I had expected to find him well, perhaps a little embarrassed at their content – I had hoped that was the reason he ceased writing, but when I found out about his awful death I began to wonder whether there might be some cause for it within them. Maybe you’ll be able to find it. But I must warn you, they make for pretty uncomfortable reading. He was obviously suffering some kind of feverish illness, and in his confused state – well, when you read them you will see that he suffered bouts of memory loss at times, so perhaps he was confusing his own imagined misdeeds with the real events that you and Dr Hebbert were helping the police with.’ He paused. ‘I hope they were imagined, for if not, then my gentle English friend became something of a monster, and that I can’t believe.’
    The word
monster
made me shiver, but I held Edward Kane’s gaze. He was looking at me with trust and respect.
If only he knew the madness I myself succumbed to during that time
, I thought.
If only he knew what I found in James Harrington’s possession that drove me to slash his throat
.
    I pulled myself together and said gravely, ‘I am sure theyare nothing but the fantasies of a sick mind. James suffered frequently with bouts of illness after his travels.’
    ‘And therein lies my own guilt, for it was I who persuaded him to travel to Poland and see more interesting sights than those to be found in the great cities of Europe. I feel partly responsible for his illness.’
    He held the letters out and I had no choice but to take them, though I was glad of the leather gloves between my skin and the paper. The bundle felt heavier in my hands than possible.
    ‘If you could find time to read them,’ he said, ‘I would be grateful for your opinion on their contents. Perhaps there is something there that could help catch whoever killed him – although I know that is unlikely, especially after so long. And you knew James then – you will know if the deeds he describes are ones he was even able to carry out. I have business in Southampton for a few days, and then I will be back in London. I know you are a busy man, Dr Bond, but your opinion – and your discretion – would help me greatly in finding some peace.’
    ‘Of course,’ I said, and I smiled as I tucked the small package into my overcoat pocket. ‘I shall give them my attention and report back to you.’
    ‘And you won’t tell Juliana?’
    ‘Of course not.’ His concern for