It was no park, but the three of us were soon sitting down in my apartment enjoying the chicken and cheese while Elizabeth Ethington explained herself.
“I’m sorry, Father. I didn’t mean to alarm anyone, but the way you talked about Miss Harkness, well, I was curious and wanted to know more about a lady who could make you smile again.”
“Oh?” I said. “And what did the good inspector say about Miss Harkness that caught your attention?”
James sat, miserable, while we two ladies discussed him as though he wasn’t there. “Perhaps he said something in confidence that had best remain unspoken? Besides you, young lady, need to explain why you aren’t in school.”
“He said you are a remarkable woman, and hoped to see you again.” Elizabeth blurted out.
“Now that you’ve ruined any remaining dignity I might have, please explain your absence from school.”
“Oh, that. I’m sorry, Father, but I haven’t been to school since the New Year.”
“What!”
“I am literate, probably more so than some of my teachers. I do well in mathematics but see no reason why I should continue to prepare myself to be a proper wife and mother, or secretary or clerk, when that is all my schooling prepares me for. I have turned to the streets to study my true calling.”
“And what true calling can you learn in the streets?” Ethington asked, bracing for the worst.
Elizabeth patted his hand. “Why, being a detective, of course. Like you.”
I slammed James’s back as he choked on his chicken, propelling it onto his plate. After he regained his breath and speech, he croaked out, “There are no lady detectives on the force.”
“I know that, Father,” she said with the air of a wise adolescent who has to explain things to their beloved but simple parent. “I want to be a consulting detective, like Sherlock Holmes.”
James looked to me, pleading, “Speak to her, Margaret, one woman to another, please!”
“Very well, James, but as this conversation will be from one woman to another, I’ll have to ask you to go to the sitting room while we talk.”
His mouth, so recently cleared of chicken, dropped open. “What! Now?”
“Be careful what you wish for, Inspector.”
He stood and bowed to the two of us before walking into the sitting room like a chastened schoolboy while Elizabeth struggled to hide her smile, at least until her father was out of sight.
Once he was gone, I turned to Elizabeth. “You understand few men will hire you. That means you’ll need to advertise your services in women’s periodicals.”
Elizabeth’s mouth dropped nearly as far as her fathers as I continued, “Now, I agree that disguising yourself as a boy is a good idea when on surveillance, but you need some practice.”
Elizabeth jutted out her chin. “How hard can it be to act like a man? They do it without thinking at all.”
“Precisely, and you must learn to do likewise. Now walk across the room and back.”
Puzzled, Elizabeth stood and did as she was bid. “Anything wrong with that?”
“Your steps are too short. You’ve grown up walking in skirts, so you take smaller steps so as not to trip or dirty the hem of your dress. Boys take long strides, boys your age especially, as they try to look older and larger than they are. Then there’s the problem with your arms.”
“What’s wrong with my arms?”
“You don’t know what to do with them. You’re used to carrying a purse, and your arms come across your body as you step. No boy does that. Their arms are free to swing to and fro like a pendulum. Think of how soldiers march, then reduce it a bit, and you’ll be about right. Remember, Elizabeth, now you have pockets, the greatest advantage men have over us. Get to know them until they are second nature, and let your arms savor their freedom.”
Elizabeth drank in every word, her questions bursting out like steam too long contained.
“Men’s shoes are too wide. What can I do about that?”
“A bit of lamb’s wool tucked inside does wonders, my dear. I have some I can give you. Now let’s see, what else? Oh, yes. Spitting.”
Elizabeth wrinkled her nose. “Some boys do a lot of that, I’ve noticed.”
“Yes, they do. If you spit, do so with authority. When men and boys spit, it is a declaration of something. Of what precisely, I’ve no idea, but if you spit, do so boldly.”
“Disgusting.”
“If you find it disgusting, which I understand, then it’s best you forgo that particular male diversion. Which bring us to scratching. Boys do a lot of that, too. Please don’t. It’s something I’ve never been able to do convincingly.”
“How do you know all this, Miss Harkness? I’ve never met a woman who knows so much about these things, let alone one willing to discuss them.”
“I’ve had occasion to pass as a man to avoid danger, or to seek it. It is a useful skill for a woman who chooses an . . . unorthodox path in life. One final thing: Your hands and face are too clean. If you want to pass yourself off as a street urchin, you must have some dirt on your hands and under your nails. Any final questions before school is adjourned?”
“Only one, but it’s for the both of you.” Then, raising her voice, she called out, “Father, it’s safe to come back now!” Once he’d returned, hat literally in hand, she asked, “Did you know there was a man spying on the two of you last night when you returned Miss Harkness home?”
17
Friday, June 11, cont.
“What! How could you possibly know that, Elizabeth?” James asked.
“I followed you, of course. You mentioned the bistro, so once you left our flat, I changed into my disguise and loitered outside the restaurant until you exited. I knew that a gentleman like you would see her home, so that way I could learn where she lived. I was about to leave after you parted, when I noticed a man pacing the distance from the entrance to Miss Harkness’s apartment building to various corners or places where he could hide. After he measured three different sites, he left. I was afraid to follow him, so I came home. You nearly caught me, too, because before you’d have gone to a pub for a drink, but this time I barely had time to jump into bed before you came and peeked in to see if I was sleeping.”
“Why didn’t you say something?”
“I wanted to, but was unsure how to tell you. I was following Margaret today. Oh . . .” She turned to me. “May I call you Margaret?”
I smiled. “Yes, I’d like that very much.”
“I was following Margaret today to see if he came back. I didn’t see him.”
“What did he look like?” James asked.
“Sorry, Father, but it was dark. He looked strong, like someone who works with his hands. But all I could really see was his outline.”
James shook his head. “I want to be angry with you, Elizabeth. But I can’t. I am, however, worried. I got a quick reply from our colleagues in Berlin that I am not going to share with you, but it makes me think Miss Harkness’s recent trip to Berlin and this mysterious man are related. Now it’s your turn to go sit on the sofa while Margaret and I discuss things.”
“You mean while the adults talk?”
“No. I mean while confidential information is shared with the only person it pertains to.”
Elizabeth strode out of the room to the exile of the sofa with her nose upturned while James turned to me.
“Herr Adler sings your praises and wishes you well. A cell of anarchists was arrested after the police followed the telephone wire to a nearby warehouse. Only one man escaped that we know of, but he could be a very dangerous one. His name is Herman Ott. His father-in-law is a gunsmith who is suspected of being an anarchist sympathizer at the very least. Ott is known as a crack shot who often demonstrated his father-in-law’s wares to clients. Elizabeth’s description of a man pacing off distances makes me fear he was choosing a sniper position.”
“He must be very loyal to his cause to want to kill me.”
“
Politics isn’t his motive, I’m afraid, at least not the only one.”
“Then what is?”
“His wife killed herself shortly after the police came to her house looking for him, leaving a small child behind. The woman’s mother blames her son-in-law for her daughter’s death. In one stroke, he lost both his wife and access to his son. He probably blames you and Professor Bell. I suspect he fled to England and, after hearing of his loss, decided to seek revenge.”
My heart seized at the news of the woman’s suicide. I recalled the Irish prostitute, Mary Kelly. I’d unwittingly led the Ripper to her door, and the description of her mutilation would haunt me for the rest of my life. It seemed that once more I’d been manipulated by others, leading to the death of an innocent woman.
I shook my head to clear it of the memory, with little success. “I’m the closest, so it makes sense. But how could he locate me so quickly?”
“You’re a well-known author. Who would have your address? Your agent?”
“I have no agent. I deal directly with . . . my publisher.” Then raising my voice I called out, “Elizabeth, please tuck your hair back under your cap. Care to join us for a little jaunt?”
It was approaching closing time when we arrived at the publisher, so I wasted no time, though I took care not to antagonize the elderly man. He was, after all, the one who made sure I got my royalties fairly and promptly.
“Excuse me, Mr. Aldrich, but has anyone approached you in the past week trying to contact me?”
He looked over his pince-nez glasses. “I apologize, Miss Harkness. I meant to send his address on to you sooner, but with the disruption of my office, I’ve had a devil of a time setting things right.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, sir. Can you describe the gentleman?”
“Certainly. A German gentleman, shy of forty. Large he was, not the typical academic one sees in our business, eh? He asked for your address and was rather put out when I refused, though I did agree to forward his request on to you.”
“And when did he come by?”
“Two days ago. You’d have his note now, if not for the mess I found in my office yesterday morning.”
Ethington stepped forward and showed his badge. “What happened yesterday, sir?”
Mr. Aldrich pursed his lips when he saw the badge. “Naught for the police to concern themselves, Inspector, lest you arrest cats for their willful nature. I keep one in the office to keep rats from eating the books, and this one . . .” He nodded at a tiger-striped tom licking himself in the far corner. “He took to running about and overturned my inkwell onto some correspondence I had from a promising young author whose address I cannot now recall. I was so upset and occupied trying to locate a previous letter from him, your message slipped my mind.”
“How do you know it was the cat?” I asked.
“Got his paw prints in ink all over the office, that’s how.”
“Anything else you might be able to tell us regarding the German visitor?” Ethington asked. “It’s rather important.”
“He had large hands, Inspector. At one time in his life, he made his living with those hands, before he went into books. Oh, and his eyes. As cool and gray as any cat I’ve ever seen. I wouldn’t want to see him angry.”
“Thank you, sir.” Then, turning to me, James asked, “Anything else before we go?”
I considered telling the man I would soon set sail for Australia, then hesitated. Given my sudden intimacy with James and Elizabeth, I preferred they not learn of my plans this way. “Not now. Thank you, Mr. Aldrich, sorry about your troubles.” I took the note left for me by this mysterious stranger and once outside, James and I peered at it together.
“A name and address only. Both probably false,” he mused. “I’ll pass it on to Herr Adler, to see what he can make of it. I find the story of the marauding cat rather too convenient to be coincidence. I suspect its involvement was staged to hide the evidence of a break-in. Too bad the cat can’t defend itself. Doubtless, this is where Herr Ott got your address. One moment.”
James studied the door lock. “Some small scratches. Inconclusive, but a professional would find this lock no challenge. Yes, I think our man was here recently.”
“What now?” I asked. “He knows where I live, and I have only a vague description of what he looks like. I doubt he’ll introduce himself before he fires.”
“I will inform my superiors, of course. Professor Bell’s report was well received, by the way. When I tell them that an anarchist sniper is about, they’ll increase surveillance of known anarchists in London. Ott can’t have arrived without someone taking him in. He may walk in shadows, but he needs a roof and sustenance.”
I sighed. “A good plan, and I wish you well, but what about me in the meantime? I can’t stay where I am unless you can offer me police protection.”
Elizabeth, who’d been silent all this time, piped up. “We can!”
James looked askance at her outburst. “What are you talking about? Where could I find a contingent of bobbies to watch her place?”
Elizabeth rolled her eyes. “Of course, you can’t! She can stay with us. She can share my room!”
“That is very kind of you, Elizabeth, but I must warn you, I’ve been told my snoring is atrocious.”
“I can hear Father from down the hall. Yours couldn’t be worse than that.”
James frowned. “What will people think?”
“And what would you think, Father, if Margaret is killed by this man, and you didn’t take her in? Are you so afraid of what strangers think that you’re willing to risk her life?”
James shook his head. “No, Elizabeth. That just wouldn’t do. But I have an alternative solution. Margaret, there is a flat one floor below ours that has recently become vacant. I’m sure the landlord would be happy to have a tenant ready to move in immediately. It moves you from your current residence and I’m near to hand if you need assistance. Will that do?”
I stood there in a rare moment of doubt. I could probably sail sooner and assume my Pennyworth guise until safely onboard. That would be the logical thing to do. The safe thing. But if I made the move dressed as Pennyworth, the assassin couldn’t track me to a new residence, and I’d have the time to properly prepare for my new life in Australia.
Also, I didn’t want this Ott fellow to scare me off. I was angry at being manipulated in a way that led to a woman’s death. And if I did flee, what would prevent the man from coming after me in Australia? If I didn’t want to be looking over my shoulder for the rest of my life, I needed to stand my ground and assist in this man’s capture. I would leave England on my terms, when I was good and ready. I looked down at Elizabeth and squeezed her hand.
“Very well. In for a penny . . .”
18
Friday, June 11, cont.
James went off to inform his superiors of a possible assassin roaming the city, while Elizabeth and I went to their apartment building to secure my temporary new home. After a brief inspection of the available flat in James’s apartment building in Soho (and assuring myself it came with sufficient furnishings for a woman who travels light), the landlord allowed me to sign a renewable, weekly agreement and provided me with a key to the flat and the building’s entrance. Then we two ladies went to gather some clothes and necessaries to sustain me until I could clear out the rest of my belongings. I was a bit dazed at how dramatically my life had changed since that morning but knew I could not stay in my current lodgings with a sniper stalking me.
It took about thirty minutes to fill one typewriter case and three satchels, two for clothing and one for books. I had been parsing my possessions for the past three months as I contemplated my emigration to Australia, so the sorting was mostly done. I would return to the flat one final time to claim or dispose of the rest, making sure it was in the hours of daylight and dressed as Pennyworth, so as not to draw the notice of my German shadow.
Elizabeth noted a faded pack of hand-colored Tarot cards on a shelf.
“Do you give readings?” she asked, picking them up and shuffling through them.
“No,” I said, carefully taking them from her hands. “They belonged to someone I met long ago. I keep the cards as a reminder of her and what she tried to teach me.”
“When was that?”
I paused. It was a story I’d never shared with anyone. I looked at Elizabeth. So earnest, so full of life and questions, almost a woman. So like me when I was that age.
“Sit down then. This will take a few moments to do right. I was about your age . . .”
My friend Samantha (daringly called “Sam” by our classmates) and I went to the market together the day we saw the old Tarot card reader. Each of us dared the other to have our fortunes told, until finally I accepted just to shock my companion.
“How much for a fortune?” I asked.
“Depends, dearie. But I don’t tell fortunes. I tell you what paths lie ahead, and what choices you’ll ’ave to make. I share the wisdom of the cards. You’ll make your own future.”
“How does it work, then?” Sam asked. “She asks a question and you draw a card. Simple as that?”
The old woman stared at Sam until my friend began to color. “I do a pattern and, depending on the question asked, seek insight into what the cards try to tell us. The same cards won’t mean the same thing to two different people, or questions.” She pulled out a worn deck of cards from a waxed leather pouch on her belt. “So, ladies,” she asked, while shuffling the cards on the small folding table before her. “Do either of you ’ave a question for Old Mary?”
Sam nudged me forward. “My friend has a question, don’t you, Maggie?”
Mary nodded. “About love? Most young ladies your age ask about love.”
“How much does a reading cost?”
“Thruppence for three cards. Sixpence for a Celtic Cross.”
“Celtic Cross?”
“Aye, Miss. My hardest but deepest reading.”
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