To Write a Wrong

by Jen Turano

  “We’ve never discussed the matter, but I assume he enjoys getting into the ring with me or he would have discontinued our weekly bouts years ago.”

  “Hmm . . .” was all Daphne said to that as she scribbled something down in her notepad. “Returning to the carriage situation, are you certain you don’t remember anything else about the carriages, because noting they were black isn’t exactly helpful.”

  “I’m afraid that’s all I recall about them.”

  Daphne abandoned her notepad. “I don’t believe you’re putting enough effort into what you remember. In your book The Curious Case of Mr. Stanley, Detective Morris gave a detailed description of the scene where he was attacked by Mr. Stanley in a dark alley.”

  “You’ve read The Curious Case of Mr. Stanley?”

  She waved that aside. “I already told you I’ve read all your books. But because your description of Detective Morris’s attack was so vivid, I imagine you’re a gentleman in possession of at least a semblance of observational skills.”

  “I’m sure some would consider me observant, but what you’re apparently not grasping is the idea that I write fiction. I write that fiction in the comfort and safety of my home. There was nothing comfortable or safe about finding myself the target of some lunatic bent on running me down. That means any observational abilities I may possess weren’t in play because I thought I was soon to meet a grisly end.”

  She gave another wave of her hand. “The best writers draw from real-life observations all the time to make their stories believable. And because you are one of the best writers of the day—and no need to turn all modest about that because there’s no disputing your abilities—I believe you observed more than you realize when you were almost run over. We just need to pull that information out of you.” She leaned forward. “What can you tell me about the driver of this carriage?”

  The odd thought flashed to mind that being grilled by a slip of a woman dressed as a pirate was a very unusual experience, and frankly, not one he was enjoying, even with her throwing unexpected compliments his way.

  “I always find that closing my eyes helps me recall details,” she said, sending him a pointed look.

  His first impulse was to ignore the look, until he remembered he’d sought her out, not the other way around, and she’d agreed to listen to his story even though the Bleecker Street Inquiry Agency was technically closed.

  Sitting back in the chair, he closed his eyes and tried to recall anything Daphne might find worthy of writing in her notepad.

  “Try to picture the scene unfolding in your mind,” he heard her say. “What street were you on, how crowded was that street, and what was the driver wearing?”

  To his surprise, a mere thirty seconds later, an image of the driver flashed to mind, which had him opening his eyes. “He was dressed in black and wore a black top hat, and he was concealing the lower half of his face with a kerchief. As for the streets, I was on Madison Avenue, heading to Jay Storrow’s literary salon, when the first attempt occurred. Next was on Fifth Avenue after I left Hearn’s Department Store. After that was Broadway, where I’d gone to see an opera at the Metropolitan Opera House. The carriage incident took place as I was crossing the street after the performance. The most recent incident happened on Forsyth Street this afternoon, which is why I’m here so late at night. I’ve decided I need professional assistance before someone succeeds in murdering me.”

  Daphne’s gaze sharpened on him. “What were you doing on Forsyth Street, or better yet, what were you doing in the Lower East Side?”

  “Research.”

  “But you’ve been giving me the distinct impression you’re not a gentleman who seeks out danger.”

  “Riding through the Lower East Side in my carriage isn’t what I’d consider a dangerous activity.”

  “It is when you depart from your carriage in one of the seediest parts of the city, something you obviously did at some point since someone tried to run you down.”

  Herman frowned. “A fair point, but I was armed and it was the middle of the afternoon, so it wasn’t as if I was courting danger by stepping out of my carriage—not until that carriage tried to run me over, that is.” He nodded to her notepad. “It might be best not to write down where I was this afternoon, though, since my grandmother would find that information troubling.”

  “I hardly believe I’ll ever be in the position to share my notes with your grandmother.”

  “Which is probably true, but if the Bleecker Street Inquiry Agency does take on my case, I imagine someone from the agency will want to converse with my grandmother and could, unintentionally of course, mention something to her about my trip to the Lower East Side. My grandmother, Mrs. William Henderson, or Mildred, as she’s known to her friends, suffers from a nervous condition. That condition requires her to keep smelling salts at hand, which is why I strive to withhold anything that’s not imperative for her to know so that she doesn’t suffer an unnecessary fit of the vapors.”

  “As a woman who suffers from nerves as well, I’ve found that my nervous condition only intensifies when people purposefully withhold information from me.”

  “I doubt you suffer nerves to the extent my grandmother does. As I just mentioned, she’s never without her smelling salts, which she uses often.”

  Daphne reached for her bag, fished through it, then withdrew what was clearly a vial of smelling salts. “She sounds like a woman after my own heart.”

  Herman blinked. “But you’re an inquiry agent. I would think every woman who works at your agency needs nerves of steel to successfully fulfill the requirements of the job.”

  “And the women who work in the field, most notably Gabriella Quinn, do have nerves of steel. I, on the other hand, have a limited role out in the field and am only required in the most desperate of circumstances.”

  “What constitutes a desperate circumstance?”

  “I was once pressed into service because I was the only one who fit into a Cleopatra costume.”

  Herman’s brows drew together, but Daphne waved him off before he could ask another question.

  “That incident took place before we were officially an agency. I’m pleased to report that even though I swooned numerous times while dressed as Cleopatra, I’m becoming less swoony these days. Granted, when I encountered the Knickerbocker Bandit, I did faint, but in my defense, one of the Knickerbocker Bandit’s men charged at me with a knife, and who wouldn’t faint when facing certain death?”

  Herman considered her for a long moment before he rose to his feet. “Forgive me, Miss Beekman, but I’m afraid the Bleecker Street Inquiry Agency may not have the, er, qualifications needed to do justice to an attempted murder investigation. I’ll now beg your pardon for taking up your time and take my leave because it may be for the best if I were to seek out the services of the Pinkerton Agency.”

  Daphne’s nose wrinkled. “I would have thought, given the seriousness of your case, you’d already sought out the Pinkerton Agency. Frankly, I believed you were here because they declined to take on your case, given the sketchy details you’re able to recall.”

  “Would the Pinkertons really turn down my case because of sketchy details?”

  “I have no idea. I’m not a Pinkerton, although we do have a Pinkerton by the name of Agent Cooper Clifton who works with us. He’s been given permission to instruct us on basic investigative techniques, and he also gives us thrice weekly physical exertion classes, sometimes held on the weekends, depending on Cooper’s schedule.” She shuddered. “I’ve come to think of those lessons as cruel and unusual torture sessions, and I don’t really understand why I even need to attend them since I don’t venture out into the field all that often.”

  Herman retook his seat, curiosity making it all but impossible for him to leave. “Why would the Pinkerton Agency assist your agency? Aren’t you in competition with them?”

  “Hardly. They’re the Pinkertons. We’re merely a small agency that caters to people who can’
t convince the more established agencies their problems are worth investigating.” She leaned forward. “As to why they’re assisting us, I believe they’re doing so because they’ve realized that including more women agents could be beneficial to solving some of their cases. By lending us the expertise of Agent Clifton, I believe the powers that be at the Pinkerton Agency hope we’ll decide to close our doors and join their ranks. There’s little chance any of our agents would abandon the Bleecker Street Inquiry Agency to become lady Pinkertons, though.” She smiled. “None of us care to be at the beck and call of men.”

  Having no idea how to respond because any response from him, a man, might come off the wrong way, Herman elected to change the subject. “Tell me this, Miss Beekman, is it true that your agency was responsible for solving not only the Knickerbocker Bandit case but the Linwood jewel heist, as well?”

  “We were.”

  Herman settled back into the seat. “Perhaps I was too hasty in dismissing the qualifications of your agency.”

  “And perhaps you weren’t, because we haven’t investigated a murder attempt yet, so it might be in your best interest to hire the Pinkertons instead.”

  “You suggested that the Pinkertons may not want to take on my case. Besides, I originally decided not to contact the Pinkertons first because I’m worried that if I involve that agency then my grandmother will take note of any Pinkerton agents assigned to my case and will worry needlessly.”

  “Someone apparently wants to murder you. Her worrying wouldn’t be needless.” Daphne glanced at her notes again. “However, since you’re here now, we might as well continue. At the very least, I may be able to provide you with a few theories you could take to the Pinkertons, which could see them agreeing to take up your case. With that said, allow us to return to this coachman. You mentioned he was wearing a handkerchief. That suggests he’s either a paid member of the criminal persuasion hired to kill you, or he’s someone known to you and took care to conceal his identity in the event he was unsuccessful with doing you in.”

  “I can’t think of a single person who’d want me dead.”

  “Have you ever stolen the affections of a lady from one of your friends?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “How about stolen another author’s idea for a plot line?”

  “You can’t be serious.”

  “Surely you’ve considered that you’ve annoyed someone, haven’t you?”

  “I make it a point to avoid annoying people in general, so no, I haven’t considered that an acquaintance might want me dead.”

  “You’ve annoyed me numerous times and we’ve only just met.”

  Before he could think of a response to that, Daphne flipped to a fresh page in her notepad. “Tell me about your family.”

  “No one in my family wants me dead.”

  “So you think, but you’ve already admitted that you share boxing time with Mr. Sheldon Clarendon, your cousin. It could be that Sheldon doesn’t enjoy your boxing sessions and has decided to end those sessions in a very definitive manner.”

  “Sheldon would be without the income he earns from me if I were to stop breathing. He chooses to work for me since his mother is very opinionated about how he spends the allowance he gets from the Clarendon family. He won’t be free of his mother until he gets full access to his trust fund, something he won’t get for three more years when he reaches the age of twenty-eight.”

  “What type of work does Sheldon do for you?”

  “He does research, transcribes my notes, and then takes those notes to a typist before sending them off to my publishing house.”

  “Does he enjoy that type of work?”

  “He’s never lodged any complaints. However, he doesn’t merely work for me to earn additional income. He’s also hoping to learn more about the writing craft because he longs to become a published author.”

  “Does he have an above average proficiency with the English language?”

  “Hard to say. He has yet to muster up the courage to let me read anything he’s written.”

  “He could definitely be a suspect.” Daphne wrote Sheldon’s name at the top of the blank page.

  “Sheldon doesn’t want me dead.”

  “Perhaps not, but he can’t be counted out as a suspect until he’s investigated.” She flipped to another blank page. “Now then, tell me about this grandmother of yours.”

  “My grandmother’s mission in life, after my parents and my grandfather’s ship went down when they were off on one of their adventures, has been to keep me alive. She would be the last person we’d need to add to a list of suspects.”

  “What about your siblings?”

  “I’m an only child.”

  “What about your aunts, uncles, and other cousins?”

  “I can’t think of any aunt, uncle, or cousin who’d want me dead.”

  Daphne set aside her notepad. “From the cases we’ve investigated, more often than not, the source of the conflict usually revolves around money and usually involves people known to one another. There’s a good chance that the attempts on your life could be at the hand of a relative interested in inheriting whatever fortune you’d leave behind.”

  “While it’s true I’m in possession of a respectable fortune that I inherited from my parents when they died, as well as the fortune I’ve begun to amass from the sales of my books, I don’t believe any of my relatives would go to the extreme length of killing me off to secure a piece of it. Frankly, I’m beginning to find your questions disconcerting.”

  Daphne took off her tricorn hat, laid it beside her, then ran a hand over brown hair that was pulled into a knot at the nape of her neck. “And I’m beginning to find your objections to my questions rather curious. You decided to seek out the services of an inquiry agency, and the word inquiry means an act of asking for information, which I thought you, being a wordsmith, would know.”

  Herman frowned. “I know the definition of inquiry.”

  “Why, then, are you balking at answering my questions?”

  “Because no one in my family wants me dead.”

  She arched a brow. “No one in your family suffers from a gambling problem or living beyond their means?”

  “I don’t believe so.”

  “But you don’t know for certain, do you?”

  “I suppose I don’t.”

  “Which is why the Bleecker Street Inquiry Agency may be the perfect agency to help you after all. We’re incredibly efficient when it comes to delving into backgrounds. I assure you, if any of your relatives have financial troubles, we’ll uncover exactly what those troubles are and to what extent.”

  “My grandmother will not appreciate anyone looking into personal family business.”

  “Perhaps not, but I doubt she’d appreciate you ending up dead either. With that said, let us move on from talk of your family, which I’ve found less than helpful, to talk of your friends. Tell me about them, or better yet, tell me what you enjoy doing with them.”

  Herman leaned back in his chair. “Most of my friends are fellow writers, but I don’t think any of them have a reason to murder me. Writers in general aren’t known to be particularly bloodthirsty, even if a good many of us compose stories that might leave readers believing otherwise.”

  “I bet if we dig a little deeper into your friendships, you’ll be surprised at how many of your writer friends have motives for wanting you dead, or at least maimed.”

  “And I bet you’re wrong about that.”

  Daphne gave an airy wave of her hand. “Allow us to respectfully disagree about that. But, moving on, tell me a bit about what you talk about with your writerly friends when you get together. I’m sure you must discuss plotlines and ways to kill off the victims in your stories, but what other topics are broached?”

  “We rarely discuss plotlines or murder methods. Our discussions normally revolve around sentence structure or the overuse of common phrases.”

  “No talk of poison or unique ways to
set up the perfect murder?”

  Herman tilted his head. “I don’t recall ever discussing those types of subjects with my writerly friends.”

  “That’s too bad because it could have lent some insight into how your friends think, or better yet, lent clues as to which of your friends may want to murder you, especially if, for example, someone recently talked about poison and how best to administer it.”

  “I’m suddenly thankful there’s been no talk of poison on the chance one of my writerly friends does wish me a speedy demise.”

  “I’m sure you are.” Daphne began writing in her notepad. “Tell me, though, why do you and your friends prefer talk of sentence structure over poison? Poison would be far more interesting.”

  “True, but writers should never ignore the nuances of sentence structure or anything related to the writing process.”

  “Well, quite, but I imagine the literary salons you’re visiting are attended by writers who already understand sentence structure. Talk of poison, on the other hand, might be more beneficial because it would undoubtedly spark some creative thinking.”

  “Which is a very interesting theory,” Herman said before he frowned. “You seem unusually well versed with matters concerning writing, but you have yet to tell me what you write.”

  Daphne removed her spectacles and began cleaning the lenses with her sleeve. “Surely I mentioned it, didn’t I?”

  “No, you didn’t.”

  She seemed to take an inordinately long time to return her spectacles to her face. “I hope you’ll avoid wincing again after I disclose to you that I write . . . poetry.”

  In all honesty, Daphne’s disclosure didn’t surprise him in the least. There were many women of his acquaintance who dabbled in poetry. However, what did surprise him was the distinct trace of amusement in her eyes, although he didn’t have the foggiest notion why disclosing she wrote poetry would amuse her.

  He crossed his arms over his chest. “What are you currently working on?”

  “I would think that’s obvious. A poem, of course.”

  “What type of poem?”