The letter arrived on a Tuesday in March, sealed with wax the color of dried blood. It bore no return address, only my name written in a hand I recognized from my grandfather's estate papers: Lady Eleanor Voss, c/o Hertford House, Mayfair.
I had not expected correspondence from the dead. But my grandfather had been dead three years, and the solicitor had already distributed the jewels and the silver, so what else remained? He had been a solitary man in his later years—no wife, no children, no friends who visited. Only books, a collection of mathematical treatises, and a locked cabinet in his study that he carried with him...
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