A rainy day, after noon, and it was London. A wide avenue, a sea of swiftly-moving people, pulling their trench coats tight, disregarding all that lies outside the imaginary sphere fixed by human nature around each individual; and in the background, St Paul’s, in which – as umbrellas without – praises are daily extended to High Heaven; with great difficulty lowered.
A grand old house in the vicinity of Kensington – or thereabouts on the social ladder, we may safely say – to which a cab pulled up, gingerly depositing a middle-aged man on the footpath: black-clad and palefaced, he stepped out: a telegram in hand. The cab departing behind him, he rang at the house. The door was answered instantly by an elderly woman: rosycheeked, bearing an apron.
‘Can I be of aid, sir?’
‘I believe so. A Margaret Smith called for me. Your mistress?’
‘Indeed, sir.’ The woman’s words were prompt.
‘Then I shall come in.’
‘Certainly, sir,’ she said, slightly more slowly. ‘Your name, sir?’
‘Milano. Emilio Milano. The detective.’ He held up the text of the telegram for the woman to see.
‘Ah.’ The woman nodded. ‘Of course.’
The man showed himself into a comfortable parlour, where a young woman sat at a writing-table beside a window.
‘Mr Milano for you, Madam.’
Miss Smith rose. ‘Do take a seat, Mr Milano.’
The detective complied.
She then addressed the maid. ‘Bring in the tea, would you, Lorraine?’
‘Certainly, Madam.’ The elder woman departed.
The younger joined the detective by an open hearth.
‘I thank you for coming at such short notice, Mr Milano.’
‘I assure you, I am aware there is something to be gained from this.’
The old maid returned with a tray of tea, departing finally. Miss Smith sipped her tea for a minute or two. Mr Milano laying his cup and saucer aside, his beverage untouched, spoke:
‘Miss Smith, I believe it is safe for me to say that I have not been summoned here for refreshments.’
‘Ah,’ Miss Smith said cautiously. ‘Indeed.’
‘You have a case for me, I perceive?’
‘You are well-known for your pursuit of intriguing affairs. You accept, then?’
‘I have not come to your abode for the pleasure of drinking tea,’ Milano replied, holding out his hands. ‘I may do that in the comfort of my own apartment,’ he murmured, casting a glance around with some distaste.
The young woman bowed her head. ‘Of course.’
‘For that reason,’ the detective continued, ‘would you please present me with the facts?’
The young woman produced three slips of paper, handing them to the detective.
‘These I’ve been receiving for just under a week. They are death threats. At first, I thought they were merely a trifle, but by the last,’ she gestured to one of them, ‘I had begun to worry.’
‘Do you still have the envelopes they came in?’ the man inquired.
Miss Smith shook her head slowly. Milano looked slightly crestfallen.
‘I presume you have not informed the police,’ he went on.
‘Mr Milano,’ Miss Smith said softly, ‘I should like to keep the matter in private hands. As much as is possible.’
Milano nodded. ‘For the present, I believe that is a wise decision. I should like the freedom of conducting my own investigations without a sea of Scotland Yard’s finest running about. But if worse comes to worst, we shall have company.’ He paused slightly, casting a hesitant glance at his beverage, then turning once more to face the young woman.
‘The only advantage of involving the police would be the fingerprints they would uncover. But, at the present time, I see no use for them.’
‘At any rate, I suppose you would only find mine.’
Milano looked thoughtful for a moment. ‘Indeed, a careful individual would do his best to conceal his identity. Very well, fingerprints will not be necessary.’
He paused, and the young woman nodded.
‘Do you have any enemies, Miss Smith?’ he said abruptly.
‘Enemies, Mr Milano?’ She shook her head. ‘Why, I don’t believe I have enough friends for that,’ she added lightly.
‘Indeed you can think of nobody?’
‘No, Mr Milano. I’m sure I’ve never come across anybody who wanted me dead.’
‘Ah, yes. Any kind of antagonist you can provide knowledge of might do so much as point this investigation in the right direction. But it is no matter ­– there will be answers.’
He made to rise, but the young woman deterred him.
‘Mr Milano, I wonder if I might ask a small favour of you.’
The detective resumed his seat. ‘Yes?’
‘I am to go to a dinner party tomorrow night, and I do not believe it is a small thing that these letters should come at this moment.’
‘You go to many dinner parties, do you not?’ Milano asked.
‘Of course, but I think it is natural that I should feel uneasy at the present time, and I believe I should feel somewhat more comfortable in the presence of a man who knows his way around, so to speak.’
The Italian smiled slightly. ‘Very well. If it is not a scandal to appear uninvited at this party, I shall make myself present. I will drop by your house tomorrow evening.’
Miss Smith nodded her head. ‘It is settled. I shall make arrangements for you to attend.’
Milano rose, and then spoke suddenly, ‘Miss Smith, I take it you have a will?’
‘No, Mr Milano. I have not yet taken the time.’
‘Ah. Indeed, there is nobody who would benefit from your death?’
‘Nobody.’ She paused for a moment. ‘Mr Milano, you will be well paid for this, I assure you.’
‘I should expect nothing less.’ The detective picked up the slips of paper. ‘I shall be keeping these,’ he added, placing them in his breast pocket. ‘Good day to you, Miss Smith.’
He put on his coat and was shown out by the maid, who had promptly reappeared.
 
II
Having hailed and entered a cab, the detective pulled out each of the death notes in succession, taking care to handle only the corners.
‘Each note written in the same neat hand each time,’ he observed slowly.
He glanced at the printed text of the telegram, which ran thus:
“Sorry to trouble you. Urgent. Please call as soon as possible. Margaret Smith.” The house’s address was enclosed.
Curious, Milano mused. A curious affair.