Read Online Acquainted With the Night (9781101546000) by Piper Maitland - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Piper Maitland
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you.
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Sincerely,
Nigel Clifford
P.S. Iâve added Caroâs telephone number, along with her photographânot for matchmaking purposes but clarification: Her flatmate is blond, too, but rather short and hobbit-like. They have been known to pose as each other to chase off undesirable guests. I wouldnât want you to bring the wrong girl to tea.
Hobbit-like? Caro smiled and traced a finger over his signature: the square N , curlicue C , and upswept d at the end of Clifford .
Not for matchmaking purposes. What an odd statement; yet it was probably true. Her uncle wouldnât have known if Jude was young, old, married, or warty, much less if he was her type. Sheâd never told anyone, not even Phoebe, about her secret weakness for tall, big-shouldered men with dimples, blue eyes, and dark hair.
So what had been the purpose of this meeting in Oxford? Jude had written an article, one so inflammatory that heâd gone into hiding, and it had caught her uncleâs attention. She rubbed her eyes. If only Phoebe were here. They could sort these letters and decide what to do with Jude.
Caro swept biscuit crumbs off the bed, grabbed the phone, and punched in the numbers to the Bow Street flat. She smiled. By now Phoebe had doubtlessly found the carb stash that Caro kept in the medicine cabinet. The phone rang and rang. Caro glanced at her watch. It was eight P.M. in Kardzhali; London was two hours behind. Phoebe should have been home, pulling her wardrobe together for the next day.
As Caro hung up, she remembered a line from one of the letters. I have many questions about your article. Had Uncle Nigel been looking into experimental treatments for heart patients? Maybe the answers were in her uncleâs backpack.
She pushed the phone aside, grabbed the pack, and dumped the contents onto the bed: ink pens, pill bottles, tiny flashlight, rabbitâs-foot keychain, wallet, and passport. The objects were flecked with red. A tear slid down her cheek, fell off her chin, and hit the flashlight. The dried blood there reconstituted and ran down the metal barrel. She turned on the penlight and aimed the beam over medicine bottles and keys. Ordinary items from an extraordinary life.
Then she saw Uncle Nigelâs passport. Blood droplets were scattered across the burgundy cover. She dropped the penlight and reached for the booklet. Dark whorls obliterated the PEAN and UN in European Union along with the U in United Kingdom .
She swallowed around the knot in her throat and flipped pages, following the bloody trail to page fourteen. Uncle Nigelâs boxy handwriting filled the red-and-white grids, forming a tidy column.
Caro traced a shaking finger over the ink. When had Uncle Nigel written these phrases? Years ago? Or were they quick notes heâd made at the Perperikon dig site? Heâd been a list maker with a fondness for word play, subtext, and puzzles. From the time sheâd come to live with him, sheâd spent Christmas mornings solving intricate anagrams and simple ciphers, and the clues had led to her presents. When she was older, Uncle Nigel had always included a small coded message in his notes to her.
She read the phrases again but felt even more confused. They looked like anagrams, but her uncle would never throw in a garbled word like vumv . He would have taken pains to create three actual phrases, like Naval Cum Novelle or Cave Man Oven Lull .
So what were these odd scribblings? An inventory of some sort? Her hair swung forward as she leaned closer to study her uncleâs handwriting. It was firm and unwavering until the last two phrases. Below them, a comma of blood covered the bottom of the page.
A shiver ran up Caroâs backbone. She took a slow, deliberate breath and released it. A Gee Creme Mock. Heâd written these phrases after the attack. She hoped they werenât complicated ciphers. Despite Uncle Nigelâs best efforts, sheâd never been able to crack
Â
Sincerely,
Nigel Clifford
P.S. Iâve added Caroâs telephone number, along with her photographânot for matchmaking purposes but clarification: Her flatmate is blond, too, but rather short and hobbit-like. They have been known to pose as each other to chase off undesirable guests. I wouldnât want you to bring the wrong girl to tea.
Hobbit-like? Caro smiled and traced a finger over his signature: the square N , curlicue C , and upswept d at the end of Clifford .
Not for matchmaking purposes. What an odd statement; yet it was probably true. Her uncle wouldnât have known if Jude was young, old, married, or warty, much less if he was her type. Sheâd never told anyone, not even Phoebe, about her secret weakness for tall, big-shouldered men with dimples, blue eyes, and dark hair.
So what had been the purpose of this meeting in Oxford? Jude had written an article, one so inflammatory that heâd gone into hiding, and it had caught her uncleâs attention. She rubbed her eyes. If only Phoebe were here. They could sort these letters and decide what to do with Jude.
Caro swept biscuit crumbs off the bed, grabbed the phone, and punched in the numbers to the Bow Street flat. She smiled. By now Phoebe had doubtlessly found the carb stash that Caro kept in the medicine cabinet. The phone rang and rang. Caro glanced at her watch. It was eight P.M. in Kardzhali; London was two hours behind. Phoebe should have been home, pulling her wardrobe together for the next day.
As Caro hung up, she remembered a line from one of the letters. I have many questions about your article. Had Uncle Nigel been looking into experimental treatments for heart patients? Maybe the answers were in her uncleâs backpack.
She pushed the phone aside, grabbed the pack, and dumped the contents onto the bed: ink pens, pill bottles, tiny flashlight, rabbitâs-foot keychain, wallet, and passport. The objects were flecked with red. A tear slid down her cheek, fell off her chin, and hit the flashlight. The dried blood there reconstituted and ran down the metal barrel. She turned on the penlight and aimed the beam over medicine bottles and keys. Ordinary items from an extraordinary life.
Then she saw Uncle Nigelâs passport. Blood droplets were scattered across the burgundy cover. She dropped the penlight and reached for the booklet. Dark whorls obliterated the PEAN and UN in European Union along with the U in United Kingdom .
She swallowed around the knot in her throat and flipped pages, following the bloody trail to page fourteen. Uncle Nigelâs boxy handwriting filled the red-and-white grids, forming a tidy column.
Caro traced a shaking finger over the ink. When had Uncle Nigel written these phrases? Years ago? Or were they quick notes heâd made at the Perperikon dig site? Heâd been a list maker with a fondness for word play, subtext, and puzzles. From the time sheâd come to live with him, sheâd spent Christmas mornings solving intricate anagrams and simple ciphers, and the clues had led to her presents. When she was older, Uncle Nigel had always included a small coded message in his notes to her.
She read the phrases again but felt even more confused. They looked like anagrams, but her uncle would never throw in a garbled word like vumv . He would have taken pains to create three actual phrases, like Naval Cum Novelle or Cave Man Oven Lull .
So what were these odd scribblings? An inventory of some sort? Her hair swung forward as she leaned closer to study her uncleâs handwriting. It was firm and unwavering until the last two phrases. Below them, a comma of blood covered the bottom of the page.
A shiver ran up Caroâs backbone. She took a slow, deliberate breath and released it. A Gee Creme Mock. Heâd written these phrases after the attack. She hoped they werenât complicated ciphers. Despite Uncle Nigelâs best efforts, sheâd never been able to crack
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