by Issy Brooke
“She has confessed that her next plan of action was to pull up floorboards, rip down walls, and tear every scrap of furniture apart.”
“She still would not have found the jewellery,” Marianne said. “They were already at the auction house.”
“Ah. Yes, about that,” Gladstone said, and Marianne felt a little cold. He let her dangle for a few moments, and rearranged some of the paperwork on his desk while she waited.
“Sir, I...”
He laughed. “Miss Starr, the jewellery is back in the possession of Atticus, Purfoy and Atticus. They have asked me to thank you for exposing the flaw in their security system, and they will be upgrading to one of the newer devices within a month. They have also requested that once they have installed a new system, you are welcome to repeat your antics. They are curious to discover if their new system has flaws. You will be paid, of course.”
“They are going to pay me to break in?”
“Quite so. Indeed, they have paid you for the last endeavour.” Gladstone slid an envelope across to her. It contained a handful of guineas and she gasped. “A professional house-breaker, Miss Starr. It is a strange turn of career for a lady.”
“No stranger than scientist,” she said, pocketing the money before he could change his mind. “Although I do not intend to make a regular thing of it.”
“So you return to your usual investigations?”
“I do. I have had two enquiries this week. My name has been spread over town lately, and I feared it would bring nothing but shame and ignominy. However, it seems that the general public is rather more forgiving than I had expected.”
“Oh, you make a good story. You are larger than life, now, Miss Starr, and you can get away with more than the average woman on the street. That said, take care. For the public will turn in an instant and strike you down once they tire of you.”
“That is a fear of mine. Thank you for the reminder,” she said. “I shall ride the tide for as long as I am able, however.”
“You might want to write your experiences for the press,” he said. “Start cultivating a relationship with the journalists and get them on your side. That way, you can control, to some extent, how you are portrayed.” He passed a small card over to her. “Start with this one.”
To her shock, she saw that the name on the card was “Miss Adelia Digby.”
“A woman? A woman who writes for the newspapers?”
“I thought she might be the most approachable and sympathetic. Also, she plagues me nearly as much as you do, wanting information and so on. I am throwing you to her as a sop.”
“I see. I ought to be insulted.”
“But you are not. Speak to her. You will benefit one another mutually.” He got to his feet and Marianne rose. “The trial of Mrs Newman will be long and painful. In the meantime, will Tobias be safe with your friend?”
“I believe so.”
“And your other friend ... Mr Monahan? He flatly refuses to come to the station to make a statement.”
“Please do not press him. Do you need him?”
“No. Not at this moment in time. But he is another useful fellow to know, isn’t he?”
“He is, indeed,” Marianne said.
Inspector Gladstone led her to the door and passed a second envelope to her as they left the room. “And these are your wages, as you have been working for us all along, in some capacity or another.”
She started to look inside but he folded his hand over hers and prevented that. “Just take it. Travel in a first class carriage home for once.”
“I need this money for my future.”
“There is no such thing. There is only here and now. Enjoy something.” He ushered her out into the crowded foyer and no more private conversation was possible. That was all right. They had said everything, and she didn’t want to embarrass him with effusive gratitude. She was a professional, after all. She pushed both envelopes into her bag.
Constable Bolton waved to her, merrily, and nearly lost his grip on the drunken woman that he was escorting. Marianne waved back but he had already turned away to stop the woman biting another passing prisoner. Shouts erupted behind her. A policeman hailed Inspector Gladstone. She was surrounded by the daily chaos of a busy police station, and she left quickly.
The street outside was no more peaceful.
She stepped happily into the multitudes, and was swept away.
The End
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THE END
A few notes: this story might have been implausible in parts, but not the parts that you might think.
The “rat-scarer” is based on a tale of how the “Count W—-” got rid of rats from Chateau Dobroslawitz as recorded in the Bulletin du Photo Club de Paris in 1896, and reproduced in “Victorian World of Science” edited by Alan Sutton in 1986.
As for the screaming doll, they were genuinely marketed by Thomas Edison for a few brief months in 1890 and 1891, until the degradation of the wax discs – leading to the unearthly screaming – had parents demanding their money back in droves. You can hear and see these horrible toys, “Edison’s Phonograph Doll”, on YouTube.
Women have been studying at Cambridge since 1869 but could not take their degrees there; but in 1890 they could sit the external exams at the University of London, however.
For a fascinating discussion of women and their role as keeper of morality in the household, and for the basis of many of Mrs Davenport’s attitudes, I can highly recommend Judith Flanders’ “The Victorian House.”