This is probably none of Charley’s business, either – not that he’s ever let that stop him, not when he’s convinced that there’s mischief brewing. Perhaps Miss Fairweather and her friend are just having a bit of a quarrel, the sort that happens in every relationship. But that may well be what Eliza Grimwood’s neighbors told themselves, too, when she cried out as she was being stabbed to death by William Hubbard.
Charley glances about to be certain the street is empty, then scurries up the steps and tries the door. No need to resort to his picks and rakes; it’s open. He slips inside and closes it softly behind him. Though he can hear someone bustling about in the kitchen, he ignores that and focuses on the sounds coming from upstairs. The voices are still at it, but they’re a bit more subdued now.
He’s tempted to just make a quick and quiet exit; Miss Fairweather won’t thank him for sticking his much-broken nose into her affairs – or her affair, singular. But then there’s an alarming crash and a resounding thud, as of a body hitting the floor. Charley pounds up the stairs to the room from which the noise came and bursts through the door.
As a copper, he developed early on the ability to size up a situation in a single glance; it’s saved his life more than once. The situation in the sitting room does not look good. In the middle of the floor is a coffee table with a broken leg; its marble top has been smashed to pieces. Miss Fairweather is standing next to it, white-faced and trembling. Looming over her is a tall, thin cove in an oriental-looking red dressing gown; his face is flaming red, from anger or drink or both. In one hand he grips a nearly empty glass of whiskey; the other is clamped onto her collarbone, as though he’s been shaking her, or means to strangle her.
Charley crosses the room in three strides, thrusts Miss Fairweather aside, and delivers a fierce right cross to her assailant’s jaw. The man goes down as easily as a fighter who’s been paid to take a fall. He makes no attempt to rise, just sprawls there, his face a picture of astonishment and agony – far more than is warranted by a single punch. Someone seizes Charley’s arm and he whirls about, his walking stick raised. But it’s not some confederate, as he feared; it’s only Miss Fairweather. She doesn’t look the least bit relieved or grateful; in fact, she looks furious.
‘What do you think you’re doing?’ she demands.
Baffled, Charley stammers, ‘I – I thought I was saving you.’
‘Well, you thought wrong!’ She kneels next to the faux foe and takes his hand. ‘Oh, Monty, I’m so sorry. Are you hurt?’
‘My pride certainly is,’ he murmurs.
Miss Fairweather glares at Charley. ‘Don’t just stand there like a lummox; help him up!’
Wordlessly, Charley extends a hand. The man grasps it and rises unsteadily, painfully to his feet – or to one foot, at any rate; he seems unable to put any weight on the other one. Miss Fairweather wraps an arm about his waist and, despite his protests, supports him as he lurches into the nearest armchair.
Charley finally finds his voice. ‘I apologize, sir, if I misread the situation. It certainly looked as though you were threatening Miss Fairweather.’
‘Well, he wasn’t!’ snaps the actress. ‘He – he lost his balance, and I was helping him regain it, that’s all!’
‘Julia, please,’ says the man. ‘I may not be able to walk, but I can speak for myself, at least.’ He grasps Charley’s hand again, this time in order to shake it. ‘You’re the famous Inspector Bucket, I suppose? I’m the obscure Montgomery, Lord Bainbury. But anyone who has knocked me down is entitled to call me Monty.’ He turns to Miss Fairweather. ‘Would you mind fetching me another robe, my dear? This one’s drenched in whiskey, I’m afraid.’ He shakes his head ruefully. ‘Such a waste of good Scotch.’ Judging from the way he’s slurring his words, the rest of the bottle has been put to good use. And judging from the way he’s gripping his right leg with a white-knuckled hand, the whiskey is not doing much to relieve the pain.
Charley nods toward the injured limb. ‘Was it a rifle ball? Or a kirpan?’
‘How do you know about kirpans? Were you in India?’
‘No, but a former colleague of mine fought the Sikhs, and he brought home one of their swords as a souvenir. It was so sharp, he used to shave with it; it impressed the new recruits no end.’
‘No doubt. But how did you know I was over there?’
‘Your dressing gown, for one thing; we don’t have dyes like that in England. For another, the shade of your skin; malaria, I assume? And of course—’ He gestures toward the far wall ‘—that portrait of you in uniform. 14th Light Dragoons, were you?’
‘Good god, man; you don’t miss much, do you?’
‘No. I have been known to misinterpret, however.’
Monty holds up a hand, as if in benediction. ‘A natural mistake. No harm done – or at least very little. To answer your question, it was a Minié ball. Is, I should say, since it’s still in there somewhere.’ When it comes to relating the history of their wounds and scars, soldiers are worse even than coppers. Monty would likely recount the entire battle of Chillianwala in detail except that Miss Fairweather returns just then with the robe he requested and a bottle of laudanum he didn’t request. Nevertheless, he obediently swallows the several spoonfuls she feeds him. ‘You sit there, now,’ she says, ‘while I show the inspector out.’ She picks up Monty’s cane – a beautifully-carved piece of Indian mahogany – from the floor and props it against his chair arm. ‘I’ll put that there, but don’t use it unless you absolutely have to, understand?’
Lord Bainbury nods meekly. If anyone is doing a bit of bullying here, it’s clearly not him. And yet there’s the matter of the bruise. Before he can bring it up, Miss Fairweather beats him to it. As they’re descending the stairs, she says softly, ‘I know what you’re thinking: If he doesn’t actually mistreat her – and he doesn’t, I assure you – then how did she get the bruise?’
‘Well, yes, the thought had crossed my mind.’
‘Promise me you won’t breathe a word of this to anyone.’
‘Haven’t you seen my business card? “The utmost discretion and confidentiality.” Is that an actual word, by the way?’
‘I believe so.’ They emerge onto the stone steps, where she takes a seat and motions for him to do the same. ‘Though Monty would never admit it to anyone but me – and it was difficult for him to do that – his leg is not the only part of him that bears the scars of that battle.’
‘His mind, you mean.’ Charley has encountered broken soldiers before, begging for alms – or dangling from rafters.
‘Yes. After four years, he still relives it in his dreams. He cries out and thrashes wildly, as though fending off some invisible enemy; I try to comfort and soothe him, and sometimes it works, but other times he takes me for the enemy.’ She touches the bruised cheek gingerly.
‘I understand.’ Perhaps Monty wouldn’t have told him all about the battle after all; no doubt he’d prefer to forget it.
‘Now,’ says Miss Fairweather, in a voice that would give any sword-wielding Sikh second thoughts. ‘Would you like to tell me how you managed to track me down?’
‘I’m sorry,’ says Charley, ‘I never reveal my methods. I won’t do it again, I swear. I was concerned about you, that’s all – especially after I heard raised voices and smashing glass.’
He’s expecting a heated lecture, but Miss Fairweather, as usual, proves unpredictable. She actually smiles and lays a hand on his arm. ‘That’s sweet of you, Charley, really it is. But I can handle myself; heaven knows I’ve had plenty of practice. As for the argument you overheard, it was nothing – or at least nothing new. He was complaining as usual about my “making a spectacle of myself” upon the stage, and I was protesting as usual that it’s my career, to which he of course replied that I don’t need a career, he can provide for me perfectly well, to which I of course replied that I can provide perfectly well for myself, and – well, you get the idea. The smashing glass was just that – he flung his whiskey tumbler i
nto the fireplace. But you noticed that, I’m sure.’
‘Yes, I did. And again, I apologize for jumping to conclusions. But, you know, there’s still one thing I don’t understand.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Why you didn’t want me to know where you actually live.’
She heaves a sigh, as if he’s opened a box she’d really rather not open but has known all along she’d have to, eventually. ‘What I said before, about providing perfectly well for myself – it’s one of those things that we’re always telling ourselves and other people, and that we very much wish were true. Unfortunately, it’s not. I tried to prove otherwise by forming my own acting company, but all it took was a couple of paragraphs from Mr Dickens’ pen to remind me how dependent we are on the generosity of men. Well, not just their generosity; their approval.
‘I feel sometimes as though I’m still that little girl performing songs and dances for my daddy – on those rare occasions when I actually saw him. It was the only way I knew of to make him actually notice me. It was no good just being myself; that was far too ordinary.’
‘For what it’s worth,’ says Charley, ‘I think you’re quite extraordinary.’
Miss Fairweather inclines her head until it’s resting lightly on his shoulder. ‘I know. But you’re wrong, you see, because it’s all just another song and dance.’ She sighs again and gets to her feet. ‘He’ll be wondering where I am. Really, Charley, don’t waste your time worrying about me. I’m better off than I have any right to be. He treats me well; I have a roof over my head – a very elegant one; I dress and dine in style; and every so often I get to show off on the stage. What more could a woman want?’
It’s a rhetorical question, of course, but even if it weren’t, Charley has no idea what the answer might be. That’s a mystery he gave up trying to solve long ago.
He can’t bring himself to spend the night at the Holywell Street house. Not that there’s much chance of him encountering either Jane or the mother; it’s long past their bedtime, and in the morning he could easily get away before they arise. It just seems somehow unfair for him to go there after having spent the evening with another woman, even though he’s done nothing to be ashamed of – unless you count flattening a wounded war hero. In some odd way, it seems unfair to Miss Fairweather, too; it suggests that he can change women as carelessly as clothing, with as little thought as he might give to leaving one public house and repairing to another down the street.
Charley does, in fact, repair to the tavern down the street, but only for a single pint; then he makes his way to his office in Ebury Square. As usual, the post contains several appeals from prospective clients, but there’s also a note from, of all people, Miss Treville, the attractive young woman who held his left hand so tightly at Professor Sledge’s séance. She’d like to meet with him at his earliest convenience. Well, the earlier the better, by Charley’s lights. His smile fades as he examines the last piece of mail. The envelope is familiar-looking and the handwriting is even more familiar. The message it contains is as terse as a telegram: Mother dying. Please come at once.
Charley isn’t unduly alarmed. Jane does have a penchant for exaggeration and a flair for the melodramatic, so he takes the message with a grain of salt. ‘Dying’ no doubt means that the mother is complaining more than usual. And he takes ‘at once’ to mean ‘sometime today,’ so he doesn’t bother with a cab.
The trouble with chronic exaggeration, of course, is that when the situation truly is dire, you have no way of conveying that fact. By the time Charley arrives at his wife’s house, it’s well past midnight, and her mother is already gone. He can’t pretend to be devastated by her death, but he realizes that Jane must be, and he’s had enough experience dealing with the families of suicides and murder victims to at least put on a convincing show of sympathy.
Though it’s little enough in the way of comfort, it seems to be all that Jane needs. She doesn’t chastise him for taking his sweet time in getting there, nor does she remind him of how unkind he was to her mother, and how it’s too late to beg her forgiveness. She just wraps her arms around him and buries her head in his chest. Awkwardly, he pats her shoulder and murmurs, ‘There, there.’ He can’t recall the last time they embraced. Though she’s not a strong woman, he feels almost the way he felt in the clutches of the Chinese Colossus – as though all the breath is being squeezed out of him.
The next few days are even more awkward and suffocating, but he does his best. Aside from the occasional pipe-smoking break or trip to the slap-bang for coffee – theirs has improved noticeably, too – he can’t possibly desert his post until after the funeral, and even then it’s not easy. ‘I’m sorry, my dear,’ he says, the morning after they put her mother in the ground, ‘but I have cases that demand my attention; some of them are quite urgent.’
‘More urgent than being with your family at a time of mourning?’
‘Well, you know, if your mother had been murdered, I’d do everything in my power to find her killer. But she died of natural causes, Jane; there’s nothing I can do for her. There are people out there, however, who do need my help.’
‘And what about me? What if I need your help, to get through this?’
‘You have your friends,’ he says – quite reasonably, it seems to him. ‘I’m sure they can offer you much more than I can.’
Jane fixes him with a glare so accusatory that he, who has faced down a hundred hardened criminals, is forced to look away. ‘Yes,’ she says, coldly. ‘Perhaps they can. Perhaps they won’t have more important things to do.’
Charley doesn’t reveal, of course, that one of his urgent tasks is to meet with the charming Miss Treville. He’s already replied to her note, suggesting a time – this very morning, in fact – and a place. It’s a tricky business, arranging a tête-à-tête with a young lady. He could hardly have her here, even under the best of circumstances; Jane would never let him hear the last of it. There’s always his office, but it wouldn’t be quite proper without a chaperone, and she didn’t mention that possibility. For a respectable woman, a coffeehouse or an ordinary is out of the question. The forecourt of the British Museum is a popular meeting-place, but not very convenient for Miss Treville, who lives in the southern suburbs. Finally, he settled on the Crystal Palace, which has recently reopened at its new site in Sydenham.
Or at least he thought it had. The Palace has indeed been relocated but, though construction seems to be complete, for some reason it’s not yet open to the public and won’t be until June, according to a sign stuck in the newly laid sod. It’s hardly a catastrophe, but it certainly is unfortunate, particularly since it’s begun to drizzle. ‘The devil take me,’ mutters Charley. Spotting Miss Treville huddled near the un-enter-able entrance, he adds, ‘And he can take the bloody Crystal Palace, too.’ Well, at least she had the foresight to bring an umbrella.
She waves cheerily to him, then points to a wooden shed that stands nearby – a temporary haven for the construction crew and their tools, no doubt. They both scurry toward the shelter. Miss Treville gets there first, to her obvious delight. ‘I win!’ she cries, jumping up and down like a child who’s crossed the finish line first in a sack race.
‘You had a head start,’ growls Charley good-naturedly, as he shakes the water from his frock coat. ‘I don’t understand why we can’t get in. The grand opening was to have been on May Day.’
Miss Treville stares at him, wide-eyed. ‘Oh, haven’t you heard?’
‘Heard what?’
‘The reason for the delay!’ She puts a hand to her mouth to stifle a giggle. ‘It’s because of the statues.’
‘The statues?’
‘Well, not all of them. Just the male ones. Well, not all the male ones, either. Only the unclothed male ones. Someone – no one seems to know exactly who – declared them indecent. Apparently they plan to chisel off the offending parts.’
‘Good lord,’ says Charley, wincing in empathy. ‘Wouldn’t fig leaves do the tric
k?’
‘Perhaps reason will prevail – though I doubt it.’ In lieu of a chair, she boosts herself up onto a workbench. ‘But we didn’t come here to discuss fig leaves, Inspector.’
‘I’m glad to hear that. What are we here for, Miss Treville? Your note gave me no clue.’
‘We’re here,’ she says, confidentially, ‘because I have some interesting information to share.’
‘Information? About what?’
‘About Professor Sledge and his spiritual telegraph. It appears the device is a fake.’
TWENTY-TWO
‘Before we get into that,’ says Miss Treville, ‘I should explain that I’m not what I appear to be: A spoiled young socialite with nothing better to do than attend garden parties and spirit manifestations.’
‘I never imagined you were.’
‘Of course you did. But the fact is—’ She leans into him, as if to divulge some dire secret. ‘I am a newspaper reporter.’
‘Are you? If you’ll pardon my ignorance, I didn’t know there was such a thing as a female reporter.’
‘There isn’t; not officially, anyway. But I convinced my editor that some stories may be covered more successfully by a woman. Say, for example, he wants someone to write up a series of pieces about spiritualism and whether or not there’s any truth to it. No offense, Inspector, but men are by and large not very good at deception. If he sends in one of his worldly wise male reporters, the medium will likely spot him as a ringer right away. But who would suspect an innocent ingénue of being after anything more than a harmless bit of titillation? Naturally, I’ll have to write my stories under a nom de plume, as the Brontës did; we don’t want to send our readers into a state of shock. I thought I might call myself Cesario. What do you think? Too obvious?’
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