A letter from Lady Elspeth Graham to Mrs Moira Krikorian, dated Christmas 1957.
My dearest Moira,
Christmas 1926 may feel like a lifetime ago, but it is time for me to write a true account, so you will understand what led to the events of that fateful evening. If you are reading this, there is no longer any need for silence.
Your grandmother, God rest her soul, was a woman of strength and opinions – my goodness, she had plenty of both! But beneath that formidable exterior lay a nervousness I never truly understood until that Christmas.
You’ll remember that your dear Samvel was researching the castle’s history that Christmas. He was in his element as he rummaged through records, artefacts and letters, some untouched for centuries. As fate would have it, he mentioned one of those letters at the Christmas dinner table.
He had come across some postcards your Grandmama had written to her mother from Paris. I will never forget her response: ‘I was a mere child when I left, just six years old. I have yearned to go back, but have never returned.’
But I already knew of Samvel’s exceptional attention to detail – he would not have made such a mistake. Mama was lying… but why?
The postcards Samvel showed me after dinner proved it. Sure enough, they were in your grandmother’s distinctive hand, dated December 1877, when she was in her twenties.
Your grandmother never lied – that, more than anything, alarmed me. A thousand thoughts flooded my mind, and I was consumed with the urge to know more.
While the rest of the party lingered over their drinks, I excused myself and went to my mother’s room, searching for clues. Secreted away in a private drawer, I found a newspaper snippet from 1877 about a catastrophic fire that destroyed a beautiful French theatre, tragically killing 26 souls trapped inside. Next to it was an old matchbox from the very same theatre.
My heart stopped as I slid the box open to reveal a scrap of paper bearing a threatening note your grandmother had decoded:
Dowager, send me the money, and your secret stays safe.
I knew this handwriting in an instant. I had seen it on RSVPs to stay at the castle, on letters to your father, on scribbled notes… it was Henri’s hand.
I slumped back onto the bed in shock as the pieces fell into place. When I had gathered myself, I found Mama and quietly asked her to return with me to her room. I locked the door and confronted her with what I had found. After years of deception, the truth came tumbling out.
She had spent several months in Paris in her youth with a dear friend, where they became close to the performers from the Théâtre des Étoiles. Mama found in them a warmth and freedom she had never known, and soon became captivated by their artistic, bohemian world.
But the theatre manager was a cruel man. He delighted in publicly humiliating the performers, withholding their wages, and ruining their reputations. Mama was young and idealistic, and his brutishness infuriated her.
She only meant to frighten him, setting a small fire in his office when she believed only he would be in the theatre. But unbeknownst to her, the wretched man had called an unscheduled rehearsal. The fire spread beyond her control, engulfing the theatre… and the twenty-six people trapped inside.
I could scarcely comprehend what I had heard. Your grandmother, my Mama, had been responsible for the death of 26 innocent people. She had kept this horrific secret for all these years, and somehow, by some bitter stroke of bad luck, Henri had stumbled on the truth – and he intended to use it against her for his own gain.
I had to make a decision, and quickly. I was horrified at Mama’s actions. Yet she was my flesh and blood, and she must be protected at all costs. Would Henri’s greed ever be quenched, or would he simply keep demanding more? If Mother refused him, her secret would surely be exposed. She would be tried, judged, and perhaps face the worst penalty of all. The disgrace would destroy our family, defeating even the unshakable walls of Hamilton Castle. And what then? What future would remain for you?
Henri must be stopped. I had no choice.
And so, I asked for your help. I never told you what was to happen, but you always sensed when something wasn’t quite right. I remember your encoded note that evening – you weren’t willing. I should never have drawn you into it, but I knew you would be loyal enough to help your mother in her hour of need.
Henri and I were never close, but I knew he had a soft spot for you, and that if asked, he would follow you through the castle at that ungodly hour. Once you’d brought him to the Tower Room, I told you to leave. With the persuasive force of your father’s revolver, I forced him up the staircase to the very top of the tower, out onto the battlements, and… well, you know the rest.
You know, my dear child, that our ancestor, Laird Douglas, carried a shield of arrows with the motto One in Defence. As our forefathers defended their castles with arrows and swords, so our foremothers defended their families with loyalty to one another.
While the men bore their shields for all to see, the Triquetra became the women’s own private symbol of defence. For generations, the women of our family have protected themselves and each other with the Triquetra pendant – using it to share hidden messages in times of great desperation. Poor, greedy Henri was merely the latest of many lowlifes who underestimated our unbreakable bond.
Guard the Triquetra as those before us did, and never forget that its strength endures only while our actions remain in the shadows.
Mama believed the fire was the greatest mistake of her life, born from youthful arrogance. She never knew that, in trying to save her from it, I made the greatest mistake of my own.
But, my child, the truth is that some storms cannot be weathered. Some must simply be brought to an end.
Your ever-loving
Mama
