"What do you have there, George?" Higgins asked from where he sat at his desk.
"Ah, this is the most recent letter from my pen pal. It's a little venture I've taken up lately, something to add a little spark to the old social life and engage the mind. I dare say my new friend and I have grown close already." George held up the page he'd been reading, tapping the corner lightly.
"Okay, so who is it, then?"
"Well, to be honest, I don't rightly know. Yet." George admitted.
"How do you not know who sent you a letter? You do realize George, most people put their name at the bottom. Maybe you should try looking," Higgins scoffed.
"My, how very astute," George said dryly. "It's not as simple as all that, Higgins. It's a new challenge I've taken up. You're meant to guess the identity of the other person based on the details they give you. I was always good at figuring out the mummers when they came to the door, so I feel I rather have the advantage here as well. I happen to know a goodly amount of things about my pen pal already. He's very fond of games, particularly word games and other puzzles of the sort that challenge the intellect. Presumably that's the reason why he took up this venture."
"Why did you take it up, George?" Higgins asked, but his tone betrayed his lack of interest.
"Well, for my love of writing, of course. Besides, I think this kind of thing could really take off. Why limit yourself to just your neighbours and coworkers, when you can connect with people from all over? Just think, you could get to know anyone, from anywhere. In the future, this could be the way everyone communicates, sending letters all over the world, becoming best friends with people who could otherwise never have the chance to know one another."
"If you say so." Higgins didn't look up from doodling in his notebook.
"Who do you think it could be, Higgins?"
"How am I supposed to know? This whole thing is stupid if you ask me."
"Ah, Sir, you're rather clever at puzzles. See what you make of this one. I have here a letter, and I'm trying to figure out who sent it." George called out to Detective Murdoch as he entered the station house.
"You got a letter from someone you don't know? Couldn't you simply check the postage, or a return address?" Murdoch asked.
"It's from my pen pal, my letter writing friend. We haven't been formally introduced, you might say. I'm actually thinking of what to write him in my reply."
The detective looked even more confused. "You in turn are writing letters to a complete stranger, one who hasn't divulged his identity? Where are you even sending your own, if you don't know the recipient?"
"It's not a like that per se," George tried to explain. "There's a trick to it. You don't send the letters direct to your pen pal, you send them to the organizers, and they match you up with someone. It's a bit of a contest, to try to guess the identity of the writer."
"How could you possibly expect to guess the identity of someone you've never had occasion to meet?"
George shrugged. "Well, I suppose there's that, Sir. But the letters are from Toronto, which does reduce the number of people, somewhat, and there's a master list naming all the people taking part, so if you get a notion you can ask to have it checked."
"And have you guessed who this 'pal' might be?"
"Well, no, not as of yet," George said, "But I'm certain I can manage it. In fact, I have a little bet going on that I can guess his name before he can guess mine."
"In that case, best of luck to you." Murdoch retreated into his office.
George shook his head at his friends' dismissal, and decided the best thing to do about their attitude was to smile. Instead of worrying about them, he'd study the contents of the letter once again.
It's certainly been an exciting week at the Auto Club. I dare say there is the tiniest bit of friendly competition over the quality of one's automobile. Some fellows of mine like to indulge in that sort of sport now and again. Would you believe they very nearly came to blows over who has the finest model. Naturally, the answer to that is myself, hah! The two are such dear, dear, dear companions I knew no real harm would come of it. One only needs to wait it out, and sure enough they calmed down in due course. Before you would know it we were all sharing a bottle of port like old times.
He thought that section a good way to tie into his own letter, and he added a few lines to his draft.
I happen to have something of an interest in automobiles myself, an investment that is to say. If you're ever in need of a tune-up, I personally recommend the services of Bloom and Crabtree. There's reliable service to be had there, I know of no better shop.
There was no shame in drumming up business, and that's not to say it didn't count as a hint besides. He lay the paper down to think. Would it be going too far to mention a certain fellow involved with the business, himself as it happened? On the other hand, it might be better to change the subject.
"Are you still lollygagging about? I thought you were on patrol by now."
"Inspector! I was just on my way out." George fibbed, but as soon as the inspector had his back turned, George spoke aloud as if addressing his pen pal directly. "Not to worry, dear chap. I'll shall return, and when I do I'll have plenty more to tell you besides."
He was nearly out the door before he realized he'd forgotten his helmet. He went back and scooped it up off his desk, but as he did he couldn't help noticing the papers shuffled about across the surface. "Higgins, you didn't happen to notice anyone come by my desk a moment ago?"
Henry sprang up suddenly. "Uh, no. Excuse me George, I was about to go get the kettle."
"I didn't hear the Inspector call for tea."
"You just missed him." Henry was walking away even as he spoke.
George took the edge of his letter and rotated it back to face toward where he sat. Strange that it should have gotten turned about, as if someone had dropped it hastily. He didn't remember putting it down in a hurry. Now that he had it back in his hand, perhaps it was better that he send it as is, after all. At times even his closest friends gave him the impression he went on a bit more than necessary. It wouldn't do to over-share and give the game up too quickly.
XXXXXXXXXX
"You're not still carrying around that letter, are you George? It's been days." Higgins smirked at him as he watched George study the page. "I've known people who re-read special notes from their beau fewer times."
"There's no need to wait for clues to be delivered. I'm sure I've got a good start right here." George ignored Henry's tone. "Very few people own automobiles, so that narrows it down considerably. There must be some form of registrar for people who drive these sort of vehicles. I could look it up, find his name on a list."
"Who would bother to keep a list like that? It'd be deadly dull trying to read."
"Even if you don't see the use in my writing letters, at least you could admit that sort of thing would come in handy for police work."
"So your letter friend is a criminal now?" Henry teased.
"I would hardly think one would include that sort of thing in their writing. Though I suppose anything is possible." George thought about it for a moment. "There might be something in station house records. In the mean time, I've gotten a start on a follow-up letter of my own. I'm hoping to be able to write his name down in this one. I'm off to see what I can find." George stood up, dropping a folded page into his desk drawer before he left.
It took longer than he'd expected to return with the files he wanted. A cross-reference of automobile related crimes was a bit thicker stack than he would have guessed. While he thumbed through the cases, he chose a quiet moment to take a glance at the letter he'd begun. He hadn't mentioned it to anyone, only scrawling the odd line here at his desk. He found it still shut away in his drawer.
The relief he felt at thinking his writing had gone unmolested lasted only as long as it took him to unfold the page. The loose thread he'd tucked into the crease had vanished. He slapped the page down in annoyance. If anything, knowing for sure now that someone was reading his letter was worse, what with not knowing who it was. He didn't imagine Higgins had noticed anything this time around either, and he'd since vanished besides. George supposed dusting it for fingermarks would be taking things too far. He could hardly send a dusty letter. He'd start in on a fresh page all the same, for if he decided to examine the old one after all.
Roger Newsome.
George pondered on that name a while before writing on.
If there was ever a man I could say I well and truly hate, it's him.
There was a case involving an automobile that stuck with him rather badly. He could still see Newsome running off on him, while he was fighting for his life, no less. Perhaps reading those files hadn't been such a smart idea after all, not when it brought back such awful memories.
He crumpled up the paper and tossed it into the waste basket. His pen pal had such an affable personality, George could hardly stand to bog him down with miserable complaints.
XXXXXXXXXX
So he didn't manage to guess his pen pal's name quite yet, but he wasn't entirely regretful. After all, suppose the letters stopped if George won too readily. The most recent one he'd received was rather flattering, as it happened.
To my Dearest Friend
Writing to you is the only thing to brighten this dreary day. There has been naught to keep a man disposed of late. I should weep from sheer tedium if were not for your indulgence. In the least my writing hand shall get some exercise, if not the rest of me in this benighted time. Truly, one would not have guessed the difficulty in finding a sport suited for a man of distinguished and adventurous tastes.
Hardball squash still holds its charms, though I fear my elbow isn't what it was, and my interest in golf has waned almost entirely, now that some of my chums have, shall we say, since moved on. That's not to mean the fine art of sportmanship has lost its hold of me. I shall not be bested by boredom, doomed to spend my days in a chair, occasionally pushed out into the daylight only to be witnessed by those still enjoying their lives. If there are no clubs, create your own, I say.
Though I would never stoop to trick dear companion such as yourself into revealing such guarded personal secrets as would end our little contest, you simply must tell me if you indulge in any sport, so that I might try it for myself. If not for your kindness, I might spend forever flitting from one to the next, in search of a home for my athleticism. Until then, I continue to dabble in the hope that one of them will ignite the spark of passion. Let it not be a vain hope, dear muse!
"It is a rather fine stationary. A man of society, I think. He certainly is a member of a great many clubs, plays all manner of sports." George thought out loud as he jotted down a few ideas for a reply.
The lads and I engage in some yearly contests. it gets quite competitive, with prizes and all. I'm sorry to say that some of the opposition has been known to take up underhanded tactics now and again, but it's only taught us to keep a closer eye on them.
What would best interest a man of class? Baseball undoubtedly had the most rules of all the station house games, though perhaps not altogether appealing to someone with a bad elbow. With all the exercise a man like his mystery friend undoubtedly got, perhaps he would do well at contests of strength, like the rope pull.
"It's rather difficult decision, trying to come up with a recommendation for such a well-rounded person. It's hard to imagine how one finds time for all these pursuits." George put his pen down again. He suspected it might be better to not mention the greased pig toss.
"It's probably all lies anyway. Who would want a complete stranger to know everything about them?" Henry said.
George couldn't help notice that for all his claimed disinterest, Higgins still listened closely whenever the letters were mentioned. "Someone who engages in this sort of past-time can hardly be suspicious of their privacy."
"Does that apply to you as well, George?" Henry asked.
George shrugged. "Well, I have nothing to hide."
"Then how come you haven't once mentioned being a constable? You're not exactly doing anything to help whoever's on the other side of this game narrow things down."
"So you're the one who's been reading my letters!" George exclaimed.
"Not the ones you get." Henry protested. "Just the ones you send. In case there's anything about me."
"Higgins! Why would I..." George broke off with a groan. "You let me think all this time that someone was spying on me. You've been driving me paranoid, man."
"Why would anyone need to spy on your letters? If they know enough to figure out whose desk to search, then they already know you're the one sending them."
"I suppose," George admitted. "But if had really wanted to know what I put in my letters, you could have just asked."
"You might not have told me."
Henry looked so wounded by the thought George couldn't help but to give up the fight.
"Going through a man's belongings is hardly the way to win his confidence, is it? Now, since you've decided to involve yourself, you can help me with what to write. I'll even make you a deal: you think up a decent sport, the kind you would recommend to a gentleman, and I'll give you an honourable mention. Just this once, now. Don't be thinking you can get your name into every letter. And no more reading what isn't yours, I mean that, Higgins."
XXXXXXXXXX
At last he could attend to the letter kept waiting on his boarding house mantel. He had hardly wanted to open it with Higgins about, even if it had meant losing out on most of the day to puzzle things out. It turned out that the words fairly jumped out at him.
I have made a discovery that is sure to ruffle a few feathers in the bird watching world. To think it would be me of all people to be so graced with such a fine showing, with what was, I dare say, a spiritual moment as I laid eyes on that earthly beauty. It was as if God had put me there to be the sole witness to his divine creation.
Now, don't think I am snubbing you, my finest of companions, nay, the one person who is closest to my heart, by not revealing to you the nature of what I witnessed. To state in plain words would be write my very name upon this page, so rare a sighting it has been, so surely it will come to renown, and what would our exchanges be without the cloak of mystery? In place of detail, I hope it will content you to know I partook in an experience of such exquisite delight I couldn't bring myself to withhold it from you, whatever the risk of letting you win our delightful little contest.
Crafting a reply to this one was hardly a challenge.
What a small world it is. A rather important court case I happen to know quite well was solved all thanks to the efforts of a certain bird watcher. Perhaps you even knew him.
He went on to describe how the "discovery" of an Inca Tern led to the conviction of a murderer, one who very nearly got away with his dastardly deeds. The letter went unanswered.
"It hardly seems likely of a sporting man. I would expect someone of that temperment to be more forthright. If he lost interest, or became indisposed, then why not simply say so." George found himself repeating some version of these words more than once as time wore on.
"If it bothers you that much, why don't you just go down to the letter club and ask who it was? Maybe they could set you up with someone else." If Higgins did sound a little impatient, George supposed he had born the brunt of the complaints.
"No, I don't suppose I will." George muttered. "I believe I may be done with the writing puzzles. I mean, who's to say the next one won't end the same way? It's all a bit disheartening, now that I think on it."
"Cheer up, George. I'm sure there will be other letters."
XXXXXXXXXX
The next thing he received in the mail was far from anything he would have expected, done up with embossed paper and fine calligraphy.
"Why would Ruth Newsome send me a hand-lettered invitation to dine at her place? I didn't take her to fancy me." George turned the card over in his hand, half-thinking it some sort of mistake.
"It's hardly good manners to turn down a lady, George."
"It doesn't bother you at all? I thought you and she..."
"She and I are not." Henry said too quickly. "Besides, I'll be there too. She's having a few friends over, as a matter of fact."
"And you know all this because..." George indicated for him to go on.
"She happened to deliver her invitation in person. I'm sure she would have done the same for you, if she'd had the opportunity. Besides, I thought you liked getting letters."
George regarded the bit of paper in his hand, wondering at the intentions it carried. "I shall hang on to it." He decided, putting it in his front pocket. It was a nice gesture, even if he didn't understand what brought it on.
XXXXXXXXXX
There was quite the turn-out at Newsome estate. It was something larger than George had expected for a few friends, all sipping wine and gossiping as an enormous portrait of Roger smiled ingratiatingly down at them.
"Constable Crabtree." Miss Newsome received him, allowing him to clasp her hand briefly, though she favoured Henry with her gaze.
"Good evening, and thank you for your most kind invitation. It's an honour to be here." George greeted her, despite feeling out of place. Even his best clothes were less-than-best compared to those around him. "Certainly a fine collection of gentlemen. You draw quite the crowd, Miss Newsome."
"Oh, no. They're all friends of Roger's. We're having a celebration for him. Of course we couldn't leave out his two favourite constables, not when they were the last ones to see him alive." Ruth gave a little laugh.
"Yes," George said awkwardly. "My condolences once again."
"The servants are giving tours of how Roger typically spent his days. Make sure to stop by the library. We have a re-creation of the puzzles he used to solve, to commemorate the time he was almost arrested for murder."
"You don't think it strange us being here? We were hardly chums with the man, and our time with him didn't exactly work out for the best." George asked under his breath as they were led through the house. They wandered past a table with tea and a newspaper laid out as if waiting for the man of the house to seat himself for breakfast.
Henry seemed to struggle with himself for a moment, before admitting "If you must know, I'm the one who came up with the idea, and asked Ruth to invite you over. You've been so miserable of late, I thought a letter would cheer you."
"And you thought Ruth Newsome..." George trailed off, unable to make sense of it.
"I tried asking the Detective first, but he thought it would be better to leave you alone. Besides, he said he was too busy."
"It's quite all right, Higgins. I'm sure you meant well."
They trailed into the reading room, and George couldn't help noticing stacks of folded pages neatly arranged in a tray on a writing desk. There was something strange about seeing them there. He had a sense of having looked at them before, though the feeling hardly seemed to have any reason. He tilted the stack toward him, following the way the letters curved as he read out the address. The feel of familiarity gave way to disbelief, and he grabbed up the papers and flipped through them, hardly needing to read more than a few words to know the entire contents. He was looking at his own handwriting.
XXXXXXXXXX
"You're charming friend said you wanted to speak to me." Ruth joined him, giving a vague smile.
George held up the letters he'd sent his pen pal. "How did you get this?"
"That's some of Roger's old things. I couldn't bear to part with anything of his," Ruth told him.
"But these are my letters. I sent them to my friend, my mysterious friend who vanished off the face of the Earth. How did Roger Newsome of all people get hold of them?" George demanded.
"Oh, pfft." Ruth waved a hand dismissively. "Roger was part of this little letter writing club, something where you write to a stranger and have to guess who they are. You know how he liked his silly little games. He kept it up right until he died. Poor dear." She shrugged and walked away.
"Roger Newsome was my pen pal?" George uttered aloud, but the writing desk revealed no further secrets.
XXXXXXXXXX
George sat at his desk, a pile of old letters spread out before him. He picked up one and studied it for a moment, before setting it back down and grabbing another.
"Something the matter, George?" Murdoch asked.
"Sir, what did you think of Roger Newsome?"
"I hardly knew him."
"I did know him, and yet I've come to find I was entirely wrong about what kind of person he was. I was so blinded by my own hatred I failed to see what was spelled out before my very eyes, in artisan ink, no less." George waved a page for emphasis. "The letter I received was possibly one of the last things he ever wrote in his life, and instead of realizing that, I spent his final day scolding him over hair cuts. Roger Newsome was a dreadful excuse of a person, and yet I have such fond memories of my pen pal. It broke my heart when the letters stopped, it truly did. So, did I like him all that time, or did I hate him?
"Perhaps we will simply have to accept that there was more to Mr. Newsome than we will ever truly know." Murdoch said.
