September 19, 1898

My dear Robert,

I hope this letter finds you well, and that the house suits you. I apologise for the mess, and I am sure that, by now, you have found the thing in the bathtub, behind the boarded door, it being of your nature to look into such concerns. Do not touch it. I cannot stress enough the importance of this. My heartiest apologies for its presence, as I know well enough that such putrescence is scarcely any man's chosen lodger, and the stench may well, by now, have become unbearable. Still, I implore you not to touch it, and to mind where you walk – the spell is loose enough as it stands, and the state parlous at best. Any movement within that room may break that tenuous hold. Fear not; by the time the year is out, it will have taken in its entirity, and nothing should be left but the smell, which may be best remedied by salts or suchlike. And I implore you, as you are my friend, do not mention the room to any man but myself and Capt. Walton. There are those who would seek such as that chamber contains.

With that business aside, let us speak of more sociable matters. It seems an age since last we spoke, though I know, of course, that I only left London two days ago. Forgive me, Robert, if I begin to babble on at length on subjects of little importance; the weather is not dull so much as black, and the instant I step outside, the rain is bound to drench me to the very core. The longer I spend labouring over this letter, the longer I can put off the moment when Edwin drags me out into it… though, of course, it is no great hardship to write, for I have much to say, and I am always glad for a sympathetic ear.

I write this from the free house I spoke of, on the fringes of Bristol. It is my intention to remain in the city to-morrow, and perhaps a few days thereafter. You may write to me at the Coach House, on Westland Rd., if you so wish; on Friday next, I shall board the train to Cardiff, and leave a forwarding address with Mrs. Ward, the estimable landlady of this place. More than that, it is scarcely safe to say, with such a dogged tail as that which still seeks me after the Calibraxis incident. You warned me against involvement, and indeed, I fear you may have been right to do so. After all, I was scarcely strong enough to change events, yet – well, I believe to this day that you understand, and if you do not, I beg you not to break my state of happy ignorance.

God! but this will hang over me for a long time yet, Robert.

I know that you have expressed concerns for my decision not to return to Liverpool, but I am certain that you understand my reasoning. Do not think me martyred (or, at least, unnecessarily so!) when I tell you that I am ill-inclined to lead my troubles to Christopher and his wife; all higher feelings aside, you know fine well that he would butcher me were ill to befall Elizabeth. Besides, there is a certain call to pastures new, as I know you are aware.

I enclose a postcard of the city, although that is, of course, purely for my own amusement. I know well enough how long you lived not far from here, after all, but I do not doubt that, since then, it has much changed. Let me assure you that it remains, however, as much a pit of deprivation in places as do all cities in our great Empire. That, at least, I doubt will ever change. It is almost a comfort that some things remain constant.

Edwin continues in his apparent belief that I cannot live without more air and exercise. I have told him a thousand times, if I have told him once; if he insists on serving as my valet, he is quite welcome to do so (and, honestly, Robert, did you have to get it into his head that he owes me even that much?) but it hardly gives him any call on my time. I have yet to understand why he chose to follow me out of London in the first place. If you will forgive me my bluntness, Robert (and I do not doubt you will, given how much more you have seen than I of the world), I am rather of the opinion that our Edwin Mathers is "sweet on me," although I would hasten to add that this is conjuncture only, and I would appreciate it if you avoided spreading it around. After all, boorish though he may be on occasion, he is undoubtedly a well-meaning young man, and it would be cruel to besmear his reputation so. It may indeed be that he feels so indebted to me as to follow me like this, with purely innocent intentions – but do think on it. I confess, it is a thought which amuses me a little, for he is so earnest in all that he does. He reminds me of a puppy, more than anything, in his earnest adoration – but my god! it can be wearing.

And I must ask another favour of you, Robert, much as I owe you already. There are books which I was forced to leave in the house; dangerous volumes I had no wish to carry here and there throughout the bloody country. They are locked away, as well they should be, but still, they are there. In the cabinet behind the door in my study, there is a key, small and wrought-iron, which I neglected to bring with me. Put it in some safer place, preferably on your person, and do not allow it to be taken from you. Lady Johanna's book is locked away with the rest of them, and I need hardly tell you the implications should Carter get his hands on the damn thing. It is vital that those books be left untouched until I return for them, which I shall, when I have another place for them in whatever house I should happen to find in Cardiff.

You may also be interested in the books in my library. These, at least, are freely at your disposal. I neglected to tell you this before – not least because I rarely bother with them, as you know – but I have, among them, Lady Johanna's account of a meeting with the Wandering Jew (which – ha! – I do not doubt is relevant to your interests) and the diary, or a reputable fascimile thereof, kept by my ancestor, Jack. Of course, Jack was not one of the more erudite Constantines, and so the entire thing is lamentably brief and rife with errors. Still, you might be interested, and, of course, they are yours now. Do let me know if you find anything of interest.

Here, I fear, I must leave you. The skies are clearing to sunlight and the rain has gone to mere showers. I have much to be about before I move on to Cardiff, and Edwin is hammering on my door again. I swear before God, Robert, the man lives to stop me resting even a moment.

I hope to hear from you soon, especially regarding your correspondance with Carter. And remember, do not touch the thing in the bathtub.

I wish you every fortune in settling what, I am well aware, is a house that holds the scars of some of my longer experiences, and remain;

Your affectionate friend,
JACOB CONSTANTINE

PS – Robert, I mean it. Sealing the door again may be the best idea.