“Would I do that to you?”
“Why ever not?”
“Would I do that to Holmes?”
That gave him pause, because it was obvious that I, a person whom Sherlock Holmes had called his partner, would not voluntarily put my partner’s relationship with the police into jeopardy without very good cause.
“Please,” I asked, “please, just let me see the list, and then I’ll tell you all I can.”
He did not notice that I had not said “all I know,” but I thought he was going to refuse, anyway. However, in the end he went to his filing cabinet and withdrew, not a single sheet, but the entire file.
“God knows why I’m doing this,” he grumbled, throwing it onto the desk in front of me. I knew why: It was because of Holmes. I said nothing, however, and opened it gratefully. He went off and I vaguely heard the rattle of kettle and cups while I rapidly scanned the pale carbon copies and committed to memory the details of Iris Fitzwarren’s movements and possessions that last night of her life.
There was very little in it that was new, as Mycroft had given the information to Holmes, and Holmes to me. It was not politic to let Lestrade know this, however, and it was just possible something had slipped by Mycroft’s source. I read, and at the end of the pages, I sat back and reached automatically for the cup beside me, which startled me by being cool. Lestrade was in his chair, his heels up on his desk, reading another file and making notes in a notepad. He looked up.
“Find what you were looking for?”
“I wasn’t looking for anything in particular, Inspector.”
“You were skimming through that pretty fast.”
“I was reading. I have a couple of questions.”
“Just for a change,” he said sarcastically. He closed his file and put his feet on the floor.
“Er, yes. Did the beat constable make a regular round, or did he vary it?”
“It was regular. It is no longer.”
“I see. Also, is this list of the articles in her handbag in any order? Or just a list?”
“Let me see that.” He took it, glanced through it, handed it back. “It will be in the order he took the things from the handbag. The man who wrote the report is very particular that way.”
“I see,” I said again. The precise list had not been included in the oral information transmitted. I thought for a moment before I realised that he had spoken. “Sorry?”
“I asked you why it mattered, and if you do a Sherlock Holmes on me and tell me it’s perfectly elementary, I swear, you’ll never get so much as the time of day from me in the future.”
“Oh, no, I haven’t picked up that particular bad habit. I was just trying to come up with a reasonable explanation that would cover the facts. The constable wouldn’t have gone through her handbag, searching for identification, would he?”
He spoke through his teeth, which I noticed were small and pointed.
“Miss Russell, the only person who opened her handbag was the man who wrote that list.”
“Because, you see,” I hastened to mollify him, “she had a head cold.”
“Who?”
“Iris Fitzwarren. A bad cold. A terribly runny nose.” I wasn’t getting through to him. In a minute, he would hurl me out the door. I sighed to myself. “Inspector, why should a woman with a bad cold bury her handkerchiefs at the bottom of her handbag? There were none in the pockets of her coat, but two were underneath the compact and lipstick, and even underneath the paper with the name and address of the club. It’s possible she had her handbag open and rummaged around for something—that might explain why the heavier items were on top—but she would never have put her only handkerchiefs away at the bottom. It was a very bad cold, and on a miserable wet night like that, she would have been blowing her nose continuously. Plus, there’s the address, right on top. She didn’t need it after she got to the club at eleven-thirty, but when she was killed, it was found on top of everything else. Unlikely if she’d put it in, but just where it would be if her murderer had emptied her bag of anything incriminating, shovelled the stuff back in, and then slipped in a note for the police to find, a note which would either explain her death in a satisfactory way or incriminate Tommy Buchanan, or both.”
I watched his face covertly as I talked, seeing that although the significance of the handkerchiefs had escaped him, that of the note’s placement had not. My estimation of the official investigators rose slightly. I continued.
“Obviously, if the note had been deliberately put there, it becomes extremely unlikely that Tommy Buchanan had anything to do with it, or his thugs. However, it would have to be someone who knew about Buchanan and also knew . . .” I fell silent for a moment, then resumed slowly. “Someone who also knew about the style of the murders linked with him. I assume that various people know about that, newspaper people, for example, even if they were stopped from printing the details?”
“Undoubtedly.”
“Does the Clarion have any women reporters?”
“Two, I believe.” He was looking cross again, building up to another, no doubt final explosion, which I hastened to defuse.
“May I tell you a story, Inspector? It is not a long story, nor a pleasant one, and the amount of guesswork that has gone into it would horrify Holmes, but elements of it, I know to be the truth.” He eased back into his chair with an “at last!” expression on his face.
“It begins with the war and the perfectly appalling numbers of young men who were killed and crippled during those four years. At the beginning of the War, there were around six million men in this country of a marrying age, between twenty and forty. By the end of 1918, nearly a million of them lay dead. Another two million were wounded, half of them so badly damaged, mentally or physically, that they may never recover. Where does this leave some two to three million healthy young women who would ordinarily have married healthy young men and spent the rest of their lives caring for babies and husbands? The papers refer to them—us!—as ‘surplus women,’ as if our poor planning left us here while the men were removed. The women who ran this country, and ran it well, from 1915 to 1919, have now been pushed from their jobs to make way for the returning soldiers. Strong, capable women are now made to feel redundant in both the workplace and the home, and no, Inspector, this is not just suffragette ranting; this is the basis of our case. . . .
“Have you met Margery Childe?”
“I have. A woman who was staying in her church went home to visit her husband, and got herself murdered.”
“What was your impression of her?”
“A nice woman, but strange.”
“Strange how?”
“It was . . . She didn’t seem to be listening to us. She answered our questions. She was polite, friendly even, but it was as if what we were asking weren’t important. As if we had interrupted something and she had her mind still on it while she was talking with us—but, you know, I didn’t get the idea that she was in any hurry to get back to anything specific. She was just . . . well, distracted, I suppose.”
“Yes. And yet when one of her women comes to her with a problem, she listens with her entire being concentrated on that woman, because that is where her interest lies, because, quite simply, she has little time for the concerns of men.
“What happens, then, when this extravagantly charismatic, articulate, single-minded individual comes into contact with a segment of the population that is feeling unwanted, unimportant, and useless? What happens when some of those people are also very wealthy (remember all those young men whose deaths passed large parts of fortunes onto their sisters), when they are educated and come from powerful families and are so elated at being given a purpose, something of value in their lives, that they would give everything to the person who has given them back their dignity? Yes, exactly.
“You know that Iris Fitzwarren left money to Margery Childe. She left it to the New Temple in God, but it amounts to the same thing. Not all her money by any means, but quite a lot. Are you
also aware that another young woman died last October, in an automobile accident, and left the Temple a small fortune? And a third drowned in her bath in August, leaving a larger one?”
Lestrade’s eyes narrowed unpleasantly.
“I personally was not aware of that,” he said carefully. “I will find out if Inspector Tomlinson knows.”
“Perhaps at the same time you could mention that another wealthy Temple member was injured two days ago when she fell onto the tracks of the Underground, just as a train was coming into the station.”
The big building was not silent, I thought in the minutes that followed, just sturdily built, like the opera house it had originally been designed as. Lestrade reached for the telephone, and in a minute he was speaking to a man who, his intonation implied, was marginally his superior, and something of a rival.
“Tomlinson? Lestrade here. I have someone in my office with information on the Fitzwarren case. . . . Because I was here, and she knew me slightly from a previous case. . . . Yes, I do think it’s worth your coming in. I don’t think I ought to give you her name or her information over the telephone. . . . Well, it’s up to you, but if I were you, I’d give dinner a miss. . . . All right, twenty minutes.” He laid the receiver into its cradle but left his hand on it. “If this other woman is in danger . . .”
“Her name is Veronica Beaconsfield—yes, of that family—and she’s at the moment in Guys under the eye of Dr Watson or another of Holmes’ minions, who would probably be happy to be relieved by an official guard. Miss Beaconsfield is, just to complicate matters, Miles Fitzwarren’s fiancée. He has agreed to take her away from London after the doctors say she can leave, probably Monday or Tuesday, and keep her safe until we settle this. Holmes thinks Lieutenant Fitzwarren may be willing to tell you about his connexions with the drug world.”
“Perhaps I should give one of our drugs men a ring, have him listen to you, as well.”
“Not tonight. I must be on my way. No, truly, Inspector, I am more than happy to work with all and sundry on this, but tonight I have to be at the Temple for the evening service. I shall miss the first part of it as it is, but I need to be there when she finishes, because there isn’t another meeting until Monday, and time is of the essence.”
The police in 1921 were more restricted in their auxiliary use of civilians than they had been thirty years earlier when Holmes was at his peak; nonetheless, their concerns were primarily with the embarrassment of having incompetents endangering themselves or making a muddle of an investigation. With my background, and having received the spurious impression that Holmes was to be more or less constantly at my side, I knew Lestrade could be persuaded into supporting (however reluctantly) my proposed actions. On the principle that asking for a thing invites refusal, I simply told him my plans.
“So,” I concluded, “there’s nothing yet to justify a full, open investigation on your part, and there’s a good chance it’d scare them off. I am already in a position to watch for anything odd, to take advantage of it. I can take care of myself. All I need is a way to set up an alarm for your instant response if I need it. If you put a watch on the Temple, or try to infiltrate, it would be duplicating what I already have, and it could easily put the investigation, and me, in danger.” (I was saying, in effect, I’ve put myself into your hands; don’t take my information and betray me with it. He heard me, though he did not care for it in the least.)
“At least stay until Tomlinson comes, let him hear what you have to say.”
“I’ve given you everything of any importance, Inspector Lestrade. It’s more important for me to be at that gathering of the Circle than waiting for your colleague.”
“He may decide to arrest Margery Childe straightaway.”
“If he does, then he’s a damned fool and ought to be back pounding a beat, and you can tell him that Sherlock Holmes himself said that. Arrange a meeting tomorrow if you like. Or midnight tonight, for that matter.” I gave him the number of the telephone that, along with the flat’s other furnishings, was temporarily for my use.
He waited until I was at the door before he asked me the vital question.
“Do you think she killed those women?”
I was taken unawares by a sudden jolt of revulsion for my persona, my shoes, and the decision that had brought me here.
“Frankly, no,” I said tiredly. “But I think you need to take a very close look at her. She is the common link between three dead women and a fourth who got lucky. She knows everything about her inner circle of followers. She knows that Veronica Beaconsfield and the others willed money to benefit the Temple. She has a friend on the staff of the Clarion, and this person would have known about the mutilations of the other victims. Margery has private rooms in the Temple complex, is often in retreat and unavailable, with a sharp-toothed maidservant to guard her doors, and very probably has some sort of private entrance. She is also embarking on a very expensive bid for public attention which will lead, she hopes, to a certain degree of political power. Clinics, literacy programs, and shelters can hardly be supported by the contributions taken in at the services. If you want me to tell you what your job is, I might suggest that a closer look at the church’s finances would be in order, and a close scrutiny of the automobile and drowning accident reports. Inspector Tomlinson will undoubtedly have his own ideas. Now, I am away. Good evening, Inspector Lestrade. Thank you for the drinks.”
I passed Inspector Tomlinson at the door, a tall and elegantly dressed figure perhaps a bit too aware of his own masculinity; not a characteristic, I reflected, that would help him on this particular case.
15
SATURDAY, 15 JANUARY—FRIDAY, 21 JANUARY
Woman must not depend upon the protection of
man, but must be taught to protect herself.
—SUSAN B. ANTHONY (1820–1906)
BEGINNING THAT SATURDAY night, I immersed myself in the Temple. Walking in just as the service was ending, I joined the Inner Circle as it made its way to the common room, oblivious of the raised eyebrows and shared glances, and announced to Margery my willingness to assume whatever of Veronica’s duties I might be capable of, until she returned.
That was my entrée into Temple business. I could not, of course, fill Veronica’s shoes administratively, but teach I could, and teach I did. I also ran errands, typed letters, answered telephones, fetched supplies, poked my nose into any available nooks and crannies, and in general offered myself up as anyone’s dogsbody. With no particular discussion on the matter, from that first night I contrived to assume the position of fledgling member of the Circle, and in that rôle I contributed (in a deprecating manner) one or two ideas to a proposed political demonstration, helped print the tracts, took them around to the other Circle members, and on Tuesday stood on the pavement outside Parliament to distribute them. We were not arrested, fortunately; answering the police questions might have proven awkward, but the mere participation in the act bound me to their hearts more tightly than any amount of hard labour.
As the days passed, with the bustle of the Temple affairs and the continued friendly, open enthusiasm of Margery, I began to wonder if I had not imagined the strange episode of the night of the sixth. The Temple was about action, about helping and strengthening and changing the world one step at a time, and the thought of some miraculous healing going on behind its sedate brick walls seemed somewhat farcical, even tasteless. However, as Thursday approached, I was aware of a sense of anticipation.
In the end, the day went as any other Thursday, Margery disappearing into her study at five o’clock for a prolonged meditation, then, after her “love” talk, again retreating upstairs, alone but for Marie.
I spent a large part of all daylight hours in the Temple, and at night I worked late at my inadequate but ornate desk in the glass and steel flat. I did go up to Oxford on the Wednesday to consult with an increasingly agitated Duncan (who greeted me at his door waving a telegram from the Americans, who had blithely informed him that six Euro
pean colleagues were to join us, as well), and I met Holmes twice in a clandestine manner, once on Monday and again on Thursday, after he returned from Scotland (where he had escorted Veronica and Miles to their lodge) and before his intended return to Sussex on Friday. The Monday meeting was with Lestrade and Tomlinson, and it ended with them disgruntled and me in possession of a telephone number—to which I promised I should report regularly and which they guaranteed would upon request produce an instant and surreptitious support force.
Life was schizophrenic, but not distressingly so, for I found myself enjoying my work in the Temple, discovered myself surrounded not by brittle aristocrats born with silver on their tongues and Debrette’s in their veins, but by intelligent, hardworking women whose reserve hid shyness more often than it did condescension. It was a pleasure to work with quick minds, and one afternoon I joined in with glee when a speech-writing committee asked me for ideas. Several of my suggestions made their way into speeches given by Margery and others, particularly phrases from my childhood heroine, Abigail Adams: “All men would be tyrants if they could” met with great approval, as did “Arbitrary power [over wives], like all hard things, is easily broken.” To accompany a speech on the idea that power corrupts, I suggested: “By taking our place in the thrones of power, we save the nation from the touch of corruption, men as well as women.” For a speech to ecclesiastical wives, I suggested: “Drunk on power, and the grace of sobriety.” And one Margery adopted for a Saturday night talk was: “Power without love is death; love without power is sterility.” I had a grand time, found myself showered with dinner invitations, and wondered if I had found for myself a new profession in the world of speech writing, or perhaps advertising.
Friday afternoon found me in a stuffy, centrally-heated room with five beginning readers, their heads bent over the newly printed primers, fingers prising meaning from the marks on the paper, eyes squinting, lips sounding out each hieroglyphic before speaking it. Three grey heads, a brown, and a white blonde, bent down, laboriously giving birth first to one word, then the next, so slowly that any possible meaning was lost long before the sentence had reached an end. We had been trudging on for nearly an hour, my students and I, and I was craving the stimulus of tea or coffee or even fresh air when abruptly the brown head raised itself and I was looking straight into two startled eyes.
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