The Murder of Eve by Moray Dalton

Author:Moray Dalton
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Dean Street Press
Published: 2023-02-08T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER XII

THE STOLEN LETTER

The sun had set in a blaze of glory behind Monte Mario, to the usual jangling of church bells, and Lily Oram, who had been teaching all day, hurrying from one house to the next, correcting exercises, giving dictation, trying to concentrate thoughts that were inclined to wander, was looking forward to sitting on the loggia of Nefert’s flat in the cool of the evening, with her shoes off to rest her tired feet, soothed by the splash of water in the fountain and the ceaseless flow of Nefert’s conversation. But the palmist’s broad swarthy face was too expressive to be ignored. She seized Lily’s hand and drew her in.

“Cara mia, cara mia—”

“What is it?”

“They entered my flat. This morning, while I was out marketing. I bought salad and anchovies and cheese for a salad, and half a yard of silk to match that flowered material I was showing you, and then, as I was near Sant Agostino, I went in to say a prayer to the Madonna. She has always been good to me, but she wasn’t this time. They must have been here then. Not another candle does she get from me. I came back and found the door ajar. The lock had been forced. I have had a man to mend it since. And your room—well, see for yourself—”

Lily said nothing. She had turned very pale. She went into her room. The drawers had been pulled out and their contents thrown on to the floor, the cupboard door was open, the bed had been stripped. Her books were on the floor too. She stooped to pick them up, one by one. After a moment she looked up at Nefert who was standing in the doorway watching her.

“It has gone,” she said.

“Money?”

“No. The letter. I was to take it or send it to the English consulate if I did not hear from him at the end of the week. I must have been followed here. I should not have come. It was not fair to you.”

“You think it has something to do with that lift accident?”

“Yes. He had some plan. He hoped to bring it home to them. He would not tell me how. I suppose we have been seen together. They know I have tried to help him. I put the letter he gave me between the pages of this book—Browning’s Men and Women. It’s gone. And they have taken all the papers and letters I kept in my writing-case.”

“Were they important?”

“Only to me. Letters from my father and mother, who died when I was a child, letters from parents of pupils recommending me. Odds and ends that I have kept to remind me of old times. I will find a room somewhere else to-morrow, Nefert. Forgive me—”

“Nonsense,” said the palmist vigorously. “You will stay here. They have got what they wanted, so we shall not be troubled again. Via! I will help you put the room to rights and then we will have our supper.

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