“But it is the mail I rely upon, and it is the mail that has gone to Hell! I cannot append my signature or set my stamp to a telegram! I assure you, this matter concerns the whole locale. Just because it has not troubled London—”
“Pray do not mistake me, sir! It is a deeply troubling matter to London, and to me personally. The mail in all its parts is our concern, and I thank you for bringing this to my attention. I do feel, given the urgency I sense, that my time would be better spent attending directly to the situation. Meaning no discourtesy, I beg your leave to forego my tea and get on to my meeting with the postmaster, post haste.”
“Well,” Lord Pellapon muttered, “it would be greatly appreciated. Tilly, where are the detective’s biscuits?”
Deakins gave the postal inspector a nod and settled down to business: slurping his Lapsang souchong while the maid scurried off for the missing digestives. Hewell made his own way back along the passage to the foyer. Seeing no servants, he was about to open the front door himself when it flew inward, nearly crushing his nose.
He found himself facing a tall young man in the act of delivering the afternoon mail. Before he quite registered that Hewell was a stranger, the lad had relinquished two handfuls of letters. It was rather a lot of mail for one house, Hewell thought, weighing them in either hand.
“That will be all, boy,” Hewell said to the youth’s bewilderment. The dazed lad nodded, bowed, and returned to his waiting nag, looking back at Hewell several times. Hewell shut the door and inspected the letters in what illumination passed through the high foyer fanlight.
Lord Pellapon’s mail was ordinary enough: the usual admixture of cancellations and the standard Penny Black stamp, self-adhesive pride of the Royal Mail. He could never see one without admiring it: Queen Victoria’s blessed profile, beautifully engraved against a background of engine turnings. The common red cancellation mark was a bit difficult to make out, which had led to talk of printing in new colors, a notion Hewell despised as undignified. The black ink framing Her white visage was elegant, unequalled. He had seen them being printed, had touched the etched plates, had welcomed what they meant for the efficient handling of mail in a reformed and modern postal system. Everything about them pleased him.
The Penny Blacks decorated a number of thin, rustling envelopes, as well as a rather larger bundle bearing the inscription of a solicitor in London. But in his left hand were four or five packets of a more irregular sort: cheap, thick paper, each bearing a stamp he did not at first recognize. Foreign? Or some local variant?
A troubling variety of unauthorized regional postage stamps had sprung up in the shadow of the Penny Black. It was not entirely accurate to call them counterfeit; they were more along the lines of homages, although of course highly unlawful. These were an affliction of remote counties but a manageable one, rarely worth the time it took to suppress them unless they traveled beyond their home districts.
The letters in Hewell’s left hand all bore the same peculiar stamp: it was engraved with care and craft, but printed in violet ink on a press whose plates were minutely out of register, such that the profile was ever so slightly blurred. This figure of royalty wore a fanciful three-tipped crown and was definitely not Victoria Regina. The profile’s most remarkable feature was a sharp dot of carmine red marking out the iris of the eye. As a work of art and amateur production, it was intriguing. However, it also bore the legend “One Penny,” which rendered it a competitor to the Royal Mail, a blatant forgery, and therefore intolerable.
“It is our job to deliver the mail,” said a piping, musical voice.
“We’ll carry those to Papa!”
The packets were snatched from his hands.
“Thank you, Mr. Hewell!”
Even as he turned to look after them, the twins were gone, ascamper down the corridor. They veered to the right and headed up a flight of stairs. Perhaps knowing that their father would not want to be interrupted in the sitting room, they left most of the letters stacked precariously on the newel post. But the left-hand delivery appeared not to be among them. Hewell considered this for a moment, then decided to continue with his own business.
The coachman was still waiting, but the young courier had already passed into the distant spray of hornbeams that lined the drive. Hewell was quite certain he would be seeing him again soon enough.
The last leg of the journey into Binderwood was uneventful. After the sullen demeanor of Pellapon Hall, he found the mien of the village cheerful. Hewell took little pleasure from the merely scenic. He preferred the presence of people, and those in quantity, with all the attendant reassuring noises and behaviors of his kind. He had dark suspicions of the sorts of associations and activities that might arise among naturally social and gregarious creatures such as man when they found themselves spread too thin.
The village gave the impression of coherence. A tinsmith; a chandler; grocer and butcher cheek-by-jowl; an inn. At this last, the coachman helped him out and tendered his slightly scuffed luggage, plucking off a wedge of moss. From the door of the inn, Hewell looked along the central lane and identified the post office, just across the way. Everything was close and convenient. With a satisfied nod, he went inside.
A small, tidy upper room overlooked the street, and the innkeeper’s wife was solicitous. He was far from Mrs. Floss’s first London visitor and Mrs. Floss was far from impressed. He immediately took a meal in the overheated common room, sitting as close to the door and as far from the unnecessarily roaring hearth as he could manage, while the landlady complained about a cold that wouldn’t leave her bones, giving every indication that she would be happy to complain about those who complained about the heat. As he swirled the last of his stout and washed down the last bit of bread, a lanky silhouette came in from the street and nearly stumbled over Hewell’s outstretched legs. The boy removed his hat and shifted it from hand to hand before realizing that he should offer one in greeting.
“You are the postal inspector, sir, is that correct?”
“I am, lad. We met at Lord Pellapon’s door. Sit down if you wish.”
“I’m Toby, sir.”
“Of course you are.”
“My master, the postmaster, Mr. Merricott, sir, sent me to extend every courtesy and let you know he awaits you at your conveniently… earliness…”
“Very well, Toby. Tell him I will be along—well, no. I’m finished here. I shall accompany you back this very moment.”
“Sir, it would be my pleasure, sir.”
“Mr. Hewell is sufficient.”
Hewell pushed aside the empty tankard. They brewed a fine stout here in Binderwood—a very fine stout indeed. But for the sake of his duties he must keep a clear head.
Young Toby led him the short distance down the street and then across. Hewell saw the courier’s nag slouched in a muddy paddock, all spattered herself. By contrast, the office was orderly, neat, and well maintained, with no obvious signs of systemic disruption that might explain a mail system gone awry. Postmaster Merricott was of demeanor consistent with his office. A thin, prim, fastidious man of slightly more years than Hewell, he rubbed his palms together continually, as if trying to congeal and remove a stubborn patch of gum arabic. He dispatched Toby to the back room to fetch a district map. Hewell already possessed a regulation map, but he was keen to inspect the village copy for any discrepancies. Local terrain was often at odds with London’s representation.
Merricott managed to make himself present for any question Hewell might pose while at the same time blending discreetly into the background of the small office. Toby’s presence was harder to ignore. The lad rustled ledgers, sorted letters loudly, and was constantly banging in and out through the rear door to attend to the horse and various other responsibilities of a rural postal clerk.