by Mez Blume
“Uh, no, sir,” we both answered, unsure of what exactly we were being put up to.
“And so,” he continued, “I shall consider your proposal over Christmas supper.”
I blinked. An invitation to Christmas supper was not what I had expected, but I felt an enormous weight lift off my shoulders.
Meanwhile, at the word ‘supper’, Imogen’s stomach made an enormously loud grumble.
“Good grief!” She said, hugging her middle, “I completely forgot it’s still Christmas!”
Inspector Janklow handed me back the sketch, straightened his desk, then got up and walked around to a coat rack. He took his cape, slung it around his shoulders, then offered us our shawls. “I’m sure Mrs. Janklow would be glad of some female company if your aunt can spare you and if you would care to join us?”
Imogen and I looked at each other, unable to hide the smiles spreading across our faces. Now my stomach joined in with the hungry chorus.
“We dine modestly, mind you. Perhaps not up to the standards to which you’re accustomed, Miss Humphreys.”
“Don’t worry,” Imogen said, slinging her shawl over her shoulders. “This Humphreys eats just about anything.”
9
Christmas with the Janklows
“Bless my soul! And nowhere to go for Christmas dinner?” Mrs. Janklow exclaimed for at least the twelfth time. Again she shook her head, clasped her hands over her heart and added, “Oh, I thank the heavens Sherry found you when he did. It isn’t worth thinking what might have happened.” Then, after wiping her eye with the corner of her apron, “More potatoes, my dears?”
Inspector Janklow’s home was only a short walk north from his office. It was a snug little brick house sandwiched between identical snug brick houses on Bedford Row. There was a homemade Christmas wreath on the cherry red door and the smell of a wonderful, hot roast to greet us on the other side.
Mrs. Janklow had fluctuated between tears of ecstasy and tears of concern from the moment she laid eyes on us and Inspector Janklow explained how he had discovered us all alone in King’s Cross. She had taken us in like a mother hen gathering chicks, and hadn’t stopped feeding and fussing over us the whole evening.
“What courageous little souls you are,” she said, helping us both to another slice of roast goose. “To go out looking for that missing woman all on your own. Why, it reminds me of that Miss Gladden, the young lady detective from the gazette.”
“Actually,” I said, swallowing a bite of hot chestnut stuffing, “We’re in training to be detectives. We were hoping to learn a few things from your husband. That is, if he decides to let us help him on the case.” I cast a quick glance at the Inspector who was gnawing on his pipe by the fire. He seemed far away in his own thoughts.
Mrs. Janklow gave her husband a shrewd look. “Oh yes, Sherry, what an excellent idea,” she said, though he hardly seemed to hear her. “Why there’s no one better to learn from. Sherry is as cunning as a dockyard fox!” Her smooth, rosy cheeks glowed with pride.
Mrs. Janklow had just served the Christmas pudding when there came a knock at the door. Inspector Janklow went into the hallway to answer it and quickly returned. “Constable Smart requires my assistance identifying a suspect. I won’t be any longer than is necessary, my dear. These young ladies will keep you company, I am sure.” He threw on his overcoat, picked up his bowler hat and walking stick from the corner, kissed his wife and was gone.
Mrs. Janklow smiled cheerfully as she poured brandy butter over our Christmas pudding, but she let a sigh escape as she sat down to eat her own.
“Does the Inspector ever get a day off?” I asked.
She smiled sweetly but sadly. “Matters of justice never can wait … not even on Christmas.” She sighed again. “Being a detective is a noble calling, but it does have its sacrifices. Family life, for one. I always wanted children.” Though she never stopped smiling, her eyes misted over. “I had a little boy once, but he died an infant. Thought it would break my poor husband’s heart. He’s not been the same ever since. Pours himself, heart and soul, into his work now. I suppose he reckons if he can’t have a child of his own, at least he can make this old world safer for other people’s children.”
Mrs. Janklow wiped her now fast-falling tears on her apron. She looked younger than her husband with soft skin and rich black curls, and seemed perfectly cut out for motherhood. I tried to imagine the Inspector, so somber and tidy and correct, with a drooling baby on his knee. I wondered if he would look younger and happier, and wear less black if his son had lived.
Mrs. Janklow blew her nose, then swiftly brushed away the cloud hanging over her and smiled brightly. “Ah, but isn’t the good Lord kind, sending us two such lovely young ladies to brighten up this old house on Christmas? You’re just like Spring sunshine, you are.”
Despite her protests, we did our best to help Mrs. Janklow wash up the dinner things. Then, we all sat by the hearth in the Janklows’ clean, cosy parlour. She let Imogen and me roast a basket of chestnuts over the fire while she perched on a nearby workbench, picked up a basket of cross-stitching and started to work on a handkerchief.
I admired how nimbly she stitched the intricate pattern of an ivy vine. “I was learning to cross-stitch a while ago,” I said, remembering fondly how Sophia had tried to teach me at Otterly Manor. “But I was never much good at it.”
“Ah, well, all it takes is a bit of practice, and I’m sure you’d be as quick with a needle as any.” She patted the seat of her work bench. “Come, I’ve got some extra screens. Why not give it another try now?”
Timidly, I accepted the fabric, needle and thread and took a seat beside her.
“It’s like this. That’s it. It’ll become second nature in no time.” She continued to praise and encourage my efforts while I watched and copied her movements. As I got better at stitching, Mrs. Janklow asked me about my family, and before I knew it, we were chatting away like old friends. I told her about my parents and Charlie, and how he always played detective games with me when he lived at home.
“I guess that’s what first got me thinking about becoming a real detective,” I told her.
“And what is it about being a real detective that excites you?”
No one had ever asked me that before. I thought a moment before answering. “I like helping people out of their troubles. Same as your husband, I guess.”
She stopped stitching and gave me a long, approving look.
Just then, the door opened and Inspector Janklow stood in the parlour doorway, brushing snow off his shoulder. I could hardly believe he was back already. The evening had passed so pleasantly and quickly in Mrs. Janklow’s company.
“I’ve called a cab for you as it’s late,” he said. “Waiting outside when you’re ready.”
“Oh, must they go, Sherry?” Mrs. Janklow protested. “I could fix up Jonathan’s… I mean, the spare room for them.”
He kissed her bowed head and patted her hand. “My dear, these girls are not pets. They have homes of their own.”
We thanked a teary Mrs. Janklow over and over as we bundled up, then left the house with little sacks full of hot chestnuts for the journey. I was grateful for such kind hospitality, but I couldn’t help feeling let down. Inspector Janklow was clearly eager to see us on our way. I was sure he had decided he did not need a couple of girls getting in the way of his important work. We were on our own.
But when we reached the cab door, instead of opening it, he turned to face us. “I never make an important decision without consulting the Missus. Without meaning to boast, she is a keen one and an impeccable judge of character, understand?”
I nodded, not sure what all this meant.
He held the cab door open and, as we were about to climb in, said, “Meet me tomorrow outside Jamaica Coffee House in Covent Garden Market, nine a.m., to discuss the stipulations of our partnership.”
I stared blankly, hardly believing my ears. We both shook hands with him and wished him a Mer
ry Christmas. The carriage had left Bedford Row behind before it hit me what had happened. We were going to partner with a real, London detective! The tiny flicker of hope that we might actually find Ramona in this monstrous maze of a city swelled into a glowing flame.
10
On the Case
Next morning, we found Dobbs and Betsy approaching the iron gate of the Misses Turveys’ Hostel for Girls of Good Character.
“Mornin’ me ‘arties,” he said cheerfully, falling in beside us as we joined the bustling traffic in the street.
“What happened after we left?” I asked him as we turned down Long Acre street towards Covent Garden Market.
Dobbs shrugged. “I ‘elped Nemo back into the barge, got ‘im a cup o’ tea. Then he moored up and Betsy ‘n’ me went on our way.”
Imogen’s eyes widened. “You mean he just let you go? Just like that?”
Dobbs gave a look that said, well obviously. “Didn’t ‘ave any beef with me, did he? It was you ‘n’ that sketchbook o’ yours ‘e was after. Makes a fella wonder…” He stopped in his tracks, turned to face us and leaned against the wall as if to say he wasn’t going a step further until we coughed up some information. “Come out with it, then. What’s so special ‘bout them sketches. Who’s this Ramona bird you’re on the hunt for?”
Imogen and I looked at each other with uncertainty, but neither of us said a word.
“Ah, come on. You can tell us,” Dobbs said, straightening his tattered collar with an air of respectability. “I did truly ‘elp you out of a fix yesterday. Ain’t we even yet?”
Imogen huffed. I bit my lip.
“I coulda tied you up like Nemo said, an’ been paid a pretty sum for it, but I risked me own neck instead…” He looked desperate. “I’d just like to know what it’s all about, ‘s all. Maybe I can ‘elp. If you’re lookin’ for somebody as is missing, why there’s none better ‘n me to ‘elp you. I know every crook ‘n’ nanny o’ this ol’ city, I do. You can count on me. I never chirp on me friends.”
Friends, he’d said. Were we friends with Arty Dobbs, the petty criminal and prince of the street Arabs? I looked into his enormous, hungry green eyes and felt that this time, he was telling the truth. Maybe those had been his true colours he’d shown when he risked his own neck to help us escape yesterday, like the time he’d rescued Betsy. Maybe there really was a good heart in that dirty wrapping somewhere that just wanted a chance to shine. And, I thought, it was Dobbs who led us to the Bella Ramona. Who knows? He might just prove himself valuable again.
“All right,” I said at last. “We’ll let you in on our mission, but right now we’re late for a meeting.”
“Right-o.” Dobbs blew into his fingerless gloves and rubbed his hands together. “Where to and who are we meeting?”
“Inspector Janklow at the Jamaica Coffee House.”
Dobbs stopped again in his tracks with a groan. “Wot, a policeman? You’re ‘aving me on!”
“No, we’re not,” I assured him. “He’s working on the case of the missing painting at St. Paul’s, and we’re going to help him. We think it might be connected to the woman we’re looking for. To Ramona.”
Dobbs shook his head. “I’ll take you to the place, then wait outside for you. I might be reformin’ my ways a little, but I ain’t ready to frat’nise with the enemy as yet.”
Imogen rolled her eyes. “A detective isn’t technically a policeman, you know. But suit yourself. It’s not as if you were invited anyway.”
Dobbs led us past the busy arcades of Covent Garden Market to the coffee house, then, slick as a squirrel, dodged carts and cabs to cross the road where he’d spotted a fellow street Arab (a tall, lean boy who appeared to be wearing more dirt than clothes).
The windows of the Jamaica Coffee House were too steamed up to see through. A bell over the door jingled as we pushed it open. The shop was hot and cramped with tables, but the customers looked much more elegant and friendly than those at Ye Olde Cheddar Cheese. No one stared as we wound our way through the tables, finally spotting a black-clad figure alone in the back corner, his face concealed by an open newspaper.
The Inspector rose to greet us, poured us each some coffee and offered a plate of cream buns before diving into the business of our meeting.
“I understand from what you’ve said that you ladies have some little practice in solving puzzles?”
“Yes, sir. Well, we’ve helped solve a mystery or two. And I’ve read lots of detective novels,” I added a little shyly.
He took a long breath through his nostrils and lightly touched his fingertips together, just as he had in his office the day before. “Yes. I see. Solving a real crime, Miss Watson, is rather different to what you might have read in sensationalist detective novels or the penny dreadful. If we are to … cooperate in this operation, I must ask you to comply with my methods.” He raised his eyebrows meaningfully.
I felt he was waiting for me to ask for an explanation. “Of course,” I said. “Could you perhaps review your methods … just to be sure we’re clear on them?”
He nodded. “In a phrase? The scientific method of deduction.”
Imogen lowered her coffee cup. “You mean like observing facts, writing them down and then drawing the conclusions that fit best? Oh, Katie’s brilliant at that. She’s always writing little details down in her detective notebook she carries with her everywhere.”
“I believe you have the general idea, Miss Humphreys. It’s like I always say.” He tapped his finger against his temple. “A mystery is only as thick as the man’s head who’s trying to solve it. Anything can be explained by cold, hard Reason.”
How about magic? I wanted to ask. But instead, I said, “But Inspector Janklow, just supposing there was something really mysterious going on. Shouldn’t we at least keep our minds open to the possibility?”
He said nothing, but drew a gold pocketwatch from his waistcoat pocket and rested it in his open palm for us to see. “Every case is like this pocketwatch, Miss Watson. All the cogs and wheels must be fitted together, and it all starts ticking, like clockwork. When Reason unveils the thing, it will prove to be no more mysterious than the movement of this clock’s hands, mark my words.” This time he thumped the side of his nose. “I’ll winkle it out if Reason can do it, and Reason never fails to do it.” He returned the watch to his pocket. “Now, I must have your faith in my methods if a partnership is to be established. Do I have your confidence and cooperation?”
In my own mind, I hesitated. It was only a second, but I felt the Inspector’s sharp eyes watching, so I nodded. But something like guilt was nibbling away at my stomach. There was simply no getting around the fact that this was a mysterious case, that Reason alone would never solve it. But what could I do? Janklow spoke of Reason like it was a father figure. If I told him the things we’d seen and done that defied Reason, he would never believe them. And we needed him on our side.
It’s not being dishonest, I reassured myself. It’s just agreeing to let him do things his way and not interfere. He was still looking at me keenly, so I cleared my throat and said earnestly, “We’ll do our best, sir.”
“Much obliged,” he said with a business-like smile. “Now that’s in order, how will our agreement play out? Here’s my thinking.” He outlined a plan in which we would conduct our investigations separately, then meet and compare notes. “We can cover more ground that way, and it will be easier to move about unnoticed if we are not always travelling in caravan.”
We agreed with him.
“Though I would like you to join me at the scene of the crime. I’ve arranged to meet an art dealer contact of mine and some of the clergy of St. Paul’s in two days’ time. Meanwhile, I shall dig around to see what I can discover about this Captain Nemo, and I suggest the two of you spend some time with this.” He reached into a leather case at his feet and pulled out a large paper envelope with the stamped words Metropolitan Police, Case File. “Guard it safely, and only remove its contents in
private.”
I took it from him carefully, but inside felt a thrill of curiosity. “Is this evidence?” I asked, trying to sound business-like and not giddy with excitement. I thought perhaps taking a nonchalant sip of my coffee would help.
“Records,” he answered. “Newspaper articles, photographs and critiques all surrounding the life and career of Mr. Webb.”
A half-second earlier, and the sip of coffee would have spewed out of my mouth. I choked on it, but managed to swallow. “Did you say Mr. Webb?”
Inspector Janklow’s sharp eyes travelled between my surprised face to Imogen’s.
“That’s right. Mr. Phineas Warwick Webb, my client.” He tilted his head inquisitively. “You did know the stolen painting, The Wedding Feast, the most celebrated work of art of the last century, was painted by Mr. Webb… did you not?”
“Nn…no. We didn’t.” My heart was pumping so hard, I hardly managed to get the words out.
His eyebrows raised in surprise. “I do apologise. My mistake for assuming you were familiar with the details of the crime known to the general public.”
“It’s our fault,” I said hastily. “We should read the newspaper more.”
Imogen, still puzzled, asked, “Phineas Webb, wasn’t he…?”
“Yes, Miss Humphreys?”
I answered for her. “Captain Nemo told us that if we wanted to know what had happened to Ramona, we should ask Phineas Webb.”
At that, Inspector Janklow’s deep frown lines appeared and his eyes got that far-off-in-thought look again. “Hmmm. Another point of connection,” he muttered to himself. “The missing painting, the missing woman… this Captain Nemo.” He screwed up his face tighter, as if willing the answer to come to him. Then, “Nothing.” His face relaxed. “But time, information and Reason must do their dance.”