The Sultan's Tigers Read Online Free Page B

how Uncle Harvey cheated money out of rich men, playing on their vanity. He’d sold a Picasso to Otto Gonzalez in Peru for a hundred thousand dollars, an amazing price for a painting that should have been worth six or seven million, and Otto had been delighted with his purchase until he discovered it was actually a worthless fake. Like father, like son. Maybe Grandpa had done the same thing. Maybe he’d written these letters himself, faking the ink and the paper to make them look old. But why would he do that? Who would he have been trying to cheat? Historians? Collectors? Why should they want these letters? Why should they care about Horatio Trelawney’s love life?
    Questions, questions, questions, but no answers yet.
    Patience
, I told myself. There were a lot more letters to read. A whole box packed with them. Maybe the secret was hidden further down the stack.
    I put the first letter face-down on the bed, picked up the next one, and opened the crinkly paper on my knees.
    Â 
19 June 1795, Southampton, Hants.
My dear Miss Pickering,
Thank you for your letter of Friday last. Of course your mother and both your sisters would be more than welcome to join us. I should not like to visit the theatre unchaperoned! Lord knows what the good people of Southampton might think. I shall call for you at your house at six o’clock on Tuesday next. Thank you for the gift of Clarissa, which looks like a very fine book, although I have not yet had a chance to read beyond the first page. Our battalion has been excessive busy with parades.
With fondest wishes,
Your newest friend,
Horatio Trelawney
    Â 
    Maybe Marko had been telling the truth. Maybe he wasn’t lying to me or trying to cheat me. He hadn’t fought with Grandpa or killed him. These letters might really be nothing more than historical documents, describing the dreary life of one of my ancestors.
    Then why would Marko want them? Why would he break into a house and tie me up, just for a bunch of crinkly old love letters?
    I unfolded the next letter.
    Â 
18 August 1795, near Dublin, Ireland.
My dearest Miss Pickering,
We have been in this bog-ridden, rain-sodden country for a fortnight now. The food is foul-tasting. The natives are foul-tempered. I would give my right arm to be back in Southampton. No, I would not give my right arm, nor my left neither, for I would need both of them to hold my sweet Susan. I enclose a small token of my affections. Please write to me at the barracks here in Dublin. The address is on this envelope. I hope to see you within two months at the very most.
With all affection,
Your devoted admirer,
Horatio Trelawney
    Â 
    A voice shouted up the stairs. “Tom!”
    It was Mom. She’d probably seen the broken window and wanted to blame it on me.
    I shouted back: “Yes!”
    â€œWhere are you?”
    â€œIn Grandpa’s room.”
    â€œWhat are you doing up there?”
    â€œNothing.”
    â€œCan you come down here, please?”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œJust come down here, please!”
    I snuck the letters under the duvet and headed out, trying to think of an excuse to explain the smashed window and the broken glass on the floor.
    She and Dad were standing at the bottom of the stairs. He was struggling with a vacuum cleaner and she had her arms folded.
    â€œThe rest of us are cleaning up the house,” said Mom. “Would you like to help?”
    Ah, that was good. They must have thought the window had been broken before. Grandpa must have done it himself, they’d decided, or a bird or a fox had bashed it out while the house was empty. Well, I couldn’t see any reason why I should help them clean up the house. Not after the way they’d treated me. So I shook my head. “No.”
    â€œTom—”
    â€œI said no.”
    â€œTom—”
    â€œYou wouldn’t take me to Grandpa’s funeral lunch.”
    â€œYes, but—”
    â€œSo I don’t see why I