Letter #8

Image of a type-written letter, the text of which is below.

Dear Clara, Yet another development has left me questioning the value of our endeavour.

Last night I went down to the pub for a pint. Not in the mood for conversation I sat in a corner booth, alone. After a quarter of an hour my thought was interrupted by a hooded man who sat down across from me. The light was dim, and the hood so far over his head I could not make out his face beyond the borders of his large beard. His voice was gruff, and his message to me was full of curses. “Mind you stay out of bbsiness that ain’t yours,” he warned. And then, to my alarm, “This isn’t the first time I’ve given a warning to one of your family. Keep to yourself or you’ll be fed to the fish by week’s end.” With that he stood and left. However, as he did so I caught a glimpse of a tattoo upon his arm: the turtle and star.

I can think of no way uncle Derek’s fate can be explained but that he ran afoul of this ghastly gang of butchers. I still cannot explain how they came upon our uncle’s secret, but it is clear they know all.

I wonder now if this mission of ours is worth the risk.

Is there no other way we can accomplish what we need?

There is a boat leaving in a week. I may well be on it .