The Problem of the Missing Miss

by Roberta Rogow

  “When are the punters coming?” Gertie asked, glancing at the clock over the mantlepiece.

  “You must not use vulgar terms,” Miss Harmon corrected her.

  “But my sister says the gentlemen like a bit of fun,” Gertie objected. “She says they like it when a girl talks flash. Makes ’em feel devilish.”

  “Perhaps, if you want to remain in Church Street for the rest of your life,” Miss Harmon said severely. “But if you want to get on, you must learn to speak as the gentlemen speak. Rude talk and coarse behavior will not get you to London.”

  “London?” Gertie breathed. London was the crowning achievement of Miss Harmon’s girls. To be chosen for the London house was to be assured of wealth beyond the dreams of the streetwalkers on Church Street. Only the very best girls, the most popular with the gentlemen, would go to London when the Brighton season was over. So said Miss Harmon, and she had not deceived any of her girls yet.

  Miss Harmon looked over her charges, the six most promising young women she could cull from the byways of Brighton. Victoria, called Vicky, at fourteen, was a dark beauty. Gertie, plump and blond, was the favorite of the gentlemen, who liked what they called “meat on the bones.” Susanne, who looked delicate, with pale brown hair that was midway between Gertie’s gold and Helen’s auburn, was probably the most intelligent of the lot; Miss Harmon would have to watch her, or she’d be up to nasty tricks like blackmail in a year or two. Lizzie and Deb were the youngest; their parents were ready to swear they were twelve, but Miss Harmon suspected otherwise. No matter; for a few pounds, the two girls were signed over to her, and they would be within the legal limit soon enough. Helen, the rowdy redhead, was most likely to be at the bottom of any mischief the girls might be brewing. It was Helen who had noticed the man being drawn out of the water that morning.

  Miss Harmon had turned them away, lest they recognize Old Keeble. She was fairly certain that no one had seen him bring Alicia Marbury into the house the day before; the girls were supposed to be in their rooms, resting at that hour. She did not know whether anyone but Kitty knew there was one more little girl in the house, but it never hurt to be cautious.

  Miss Harmon settled her brood around her in the parlor, on small chairs and ottomans, arranged to make the girls look even younger than they were. Mrs. J. had been careful to skirt the law; if twelve was the legal age of consent, then none of the girls was to be any younger—but that did not mean they could not look younger. Genteel suggestions had been made in certain hotels, and responses had been received. No one would be admitted to the house on King Street who was not known or, at least, could acknowledge that he had been sent by one of her own people.

  The doorbell rang. The girls sat up, alert, ready for business. Mrs. Gurney, massive in her best black silk gown and white cap, answered the call.

  “Mr. Carstairs,” Madam announced. The eminent town councilor beamed on the company.

  “I just dropped by a little early tonight,” he explained. “The Reverend Mr. Barclay has requested that I join him at a meeting to plan the protestation rally on Monday, so I may be delayed in my usual round. However, I did want to see you were all well. How are we all today? And especially my little Vicky?” He winked broadly at his favorite, who dropped her eyes modestly in response.

  “Protestation rally?” Miss Harmon asked sharply.

  “To move Parliament to vote on Lord Richard Marbury’s Bill. Our good Rector is quite wrought up about it. I shall, of course, have to attend the meeting, but I shall come by later, for my usual, er, chat.”

  “Of course, Mr. Carstairs,” Miss Harmon said, with a smile that never reached her eyes. “It was good of you to let us know that your visit would be delayed. We might have worried, otherwise.”

  Mr. Carstairs stepped back into the hall. Miss Harmon followed him. “This protestation meeting—I heard something about it, but I had no idea the plans were already set,” she said breathlessly.

  “I believe the notices are being printed even as we speak, and some persons have been hired to hand them out tomorrow. Members of the clergy have all promised to preach on the subject at their respective services. What a to-do about nothing at all! It’s these articles in the Pall Mall Gazette, getting people worked up. Of course, Mr. Stead and his ilk are not referring to an establishment like this one, quiet and respectable. I shall return later, when I have finished my discussions with Mr. Barclay and his committee.”

  The councilor took his hat from the Madam, who opened the door and handed him down the three stairs to the street, where his carriage was waiting.

  Three doors down, Inspectors Wright and MacRae watched as the good citizen drove away. “And that’s Carstairs,” Wright informed MacRae bitterly.

  “Likes ’em young, does he?” MacRae observed.

  “So they say. I have also heard it said that he encouraged this arrangement so that he could indulge in his habit without having to go to Church Street,” Wright said. “It wouldn’t do for a town councilor to be seen there, would it?”

  “So he gets word to someone else to set up shop.” MacRae sounded disgusted. “And what odds he’s going to be right up there on the platform on Monday, looking like butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth.”

  Wright nodded. “No takers. Well, MacRae? Can you bring it off?”

  MacRae settled his spectacles firmly on his nose. “I can mention a name or two. That might get me inside.”

  “What then? You won’t …”

  “Finish with one of the little darlings? Certainly not! But I will take a look around.”

  “I’ve got a warrant from Justice Rayburn, on the strength of young Corrigan’s locket,” Wright said, patting his breast pocket. “But I don’t want to give our game away just yet. See what you can learn first, MacRae.”

  The London man squared his shoulders and marched up the three steps to the door. The Madam opened it, her vast bustle effectively blocking entrance.

  “Yes?” Madam’s voice was as forbidding as her frown.

  “Good evening. I was told by a friend in London that I could find—ah—entertainment of a particular sort at this address,” MacRae ventured.

  “And what friend might that be?” Madam asked.

  “I cannot recall, but you might ask Miss Harmon if a friend of Mrs. J. would be welcome,” MacRae said meaningfully, with a heavy Glasgow burr.

  “I’ll see if you’re known.” Madam left MacRae outside while she disappeared into the house.

  Inspector Wright edged closer. The door opened once again.

  “You’re not expected, but …” Mrs. Gurney reluctantly stepped aside and let MacRae inside.

  MacRae found himself in a small, unexpectedly cozy environment. He was shown into a parlor that might be a model for any bourgeois household: the lady of the house, Miss Harmon, surrounded by her daughters, all clad in the finest of white drawers and camisoles under sheer negligées, sitting on a chintz-covered chair beside the fireplace (even in Brighton, a small fire was necessary).

  Miss Harmon looked up from her book as he entered. “How do you do,” she said, a smile lurking in her eyes. “I do not believe we have met before, Inspector MacRae.”

  “I beg your pardon?” MacRae blinked behind his spectacles.

  “It is Inspector MacRae, is it not? Of Scotland Yard?”

  “I admit that is my name, but …”

  “You don’t know how I know?” She laughed merrily. “Oh, Inspector, you are a notable person, and all notable persons are noted.” She shrugged. “Now, can I offer you any … refreshment?” She nodded at the girls, who giggled back.

  MacRae’s face reddened. “I believe I have …”

  “Made a mistake? You certainly have!” Miss Harmon rose. There was no merriment in her eyes now. “Whatever you came for, you had better leave, unless you have a warrant.”

  “I do not, but Inspector Wright of the Brighton Constabulary does.” MacRae said. There was no need for subterfuge now. “He has reason to believe that a c
hild is being held here against her will.”

  “Indeed?” Miss Harmon’s voice rose with her eyebrows. “Do summon your minions, Inspector. You may search this place from top to bottom, if you like. I assure you, all the young ladies here are present and accounted for, and are here at their own request. Is that not so?”

  She turned to the girls, who nodded gravely.

  MacRae’s thin lips formed a line of distaste.

  Mrs. Gurney leered at him. “You may not remember me, Inspector MacRae, but I remember you. Scotland Yard’s come down in the world if they’ve sent you all this way chasing runaway girls!” She poked her head out into the street and yelled out, “You can come in, coppers! Yer man’s been rumbled!”

  Inspector Wright marched into the parlor and glared at Inspector MacRae. The London man could only shrug in annoyance.

  Miss Harmon examined the legal document handed to her carefully. “You may search my premises, Inspector, but as I told your friend here, I have nothing to hide. Although,” she added, as she led the two policemen up the front stairs to the bedrooms, “I do not understand why you have chosen to honor me with this visit.”

  “Acting on information received,” Inspector Wright stated.

  “Received? From whom?” Miss Harmon asked sharply.

  “One of our constables found an article of jewelry that belongs to a young lady who has been reported as missing,” Inspector Wright admitted.

  “And you thought it might have come from my house? How very odd,” Miss Harmon said. Her eyes were chips of green ice in the gaslight.

  The two men marched up and down the hall, peering into the dainty bedrooms. They stood at the end of the hall, stared at the painted cupids on the wall panel, and shrugged.

  Inspector Wright took one more look at the hallway. There was something indefinably wrong about that hall, but he could not make it out just then. He stroked his mustache. It would come to him. It always did.

  For the time being, he could only march back down to the parlor and bow to the head of the household.

  “Miss Harmon, I must apologize for the disturbance. We will have to pursue our search elsewhere. Inspector MacRae, will you come with me?”

  The London man had no choice. He bowed briefly to the ladies and followed Wright out the door. The street echoed to the boom as the door swung shut behind them.

  Once outside, MacRae turned on Wright. “What did you think you were doing?” MacRae hissed. “Telling her we had the locket?”

  “I hoped to jar her into admitting something,” Wright said.

  “If that child is in that house, she’s well hid,” MacRae grumbled. “And we’ve no chance of finding her now.”

  “Once they know we’re on their trail, they’ll try to move her,” Wright said. “And then we’ll nab ’em.”

  “And in the meanwhile?”

  “I’ve got a constable down the street, watching the place. Whoever goes in or out, we’ll know. Meanwhile, you and I can repair to the tavern at the end of the street—”

  “Not while on duty!” MacRae snapped out.

  “—where we can have some tea and wait out the evening,” Wright went on smoothly. “The barman’ll serve us cider, if you like. It’ll be easier waiting there than lurking about here.”

  MacRae shook his head. “By what I’ve seen, we may have a very long wait.”

  CHAPTER 20

  Madge Gurney and Julia Harmon watched from behind the peephole in the front door as the policemen walked across the road and down King Street. The Madam said nothing until they had turned around the corner and were out of sight. Then she turned to Miss Harmon, her face growing purple with wrath.

  “Kitty,” she breathed. “She must ’ave talked to that young copper on the beat. That little bitch!”

  “You mean our missy upstairs?” Miss Harmon nodded. “Kitty would never have thought of doing such a thing on her own. I told you not to let them be alone together. That girl has her father’s silver tongue and her mother’s blarney.”

  “Wot about the Lunnon man? I knew ’im as soon as I saw ’im, but ’ow did did yer know?”

  “I was warned. The Guv’nor got to me in time.” Miss Harmon smiled, then looked down the hall toward the kitchen door. “But we can’t have our kitchen help going to the local coppers. Bring her upstairs.”

  “ ’Ere?” Madam looked around the parlor.

  “No. Up to the other room. The one where we put the naughty girls.” Miss Harmon’s eyes had narrowed to green slits.

  From her place in the parlor, Victoria heard the words and felt a tremor of fear. She knew better than to arouse Miss Harmon’s wrath. She herself had never been so foolish as to draw down that anger, but there were those who had, and they were not so pretty when Miss Harmon was finished with them.

  Miss Harmon still stood in the hall, at the foot of the stairs. Victoria swallowed hard and quavered out, “We done nothing—that is, we didn’t do anything …”

  “I know you didn’t,” Miss Harmon said. She struggled visibly to maintain her icy composure. “This is something quite different. Kitty did wrong. She must be punished.”

  “What did she do, Miss Harmon?” piped up Gertie.

  “She peached to the coppers,” Helen hissed.

  “What have I told you about using vulgar cant?” Force of habit took over. Miss Harmon smoothed her hair with one shaking hand. “Victoria, if any gentlemen come, give them tea and make them comfortable. I will be occupied for a few minutes.”

  Victoria sat up very straight, conscious of the honor that was being accorded her. As the head girl, she would be responsible for the smooth running of the establishment until the return of its mistress. Unconsciously imitating Miss Harmon, she took her place on the sacred armchair, while the rest of the girls shivered inwardly. None of them would have approached a policeman on their own, and none of them would do so now.

  The Madam descended to the kitchen, where Kitty was dutifully scouring the last of the cooking pans and preparing the kettle for morning’s ablutions.

  One look at Madam’s furious face told Kitty that her plot had succeeded, perhaps beyond her imagining. Before she could dart out of the kitchen and through the areaway, Madam’s huge hands were on her, hauling her out and dragging her up the stairs to where Miss Harmon sat in her office, like the magistrate, handing down judgment.

  “So, Kitty,” Miss Harmon said, finally, as Kitty writhed in Madam’s hands. “You were disobedient. You talked to our new guest this afternoon.”

  “I didn’t say nuffin’,” Kitty quavered.

  “I dare say you didn’t. She did the talking.” Miss Harmon’s breath came in gasps. “She told you lies, Kitty. She told you she would be your friend if you would help her. Didn’t she?” Miss Harmon caught Kitty by the chin and stared into her eyes. “Didn’t she?”

  “She … she said as ’ow she was some Nob’s little girl,” Kitty said.

  “And you believed her? I suppose she told you she would take you to London if you helped her? And make you a lady?”

  “No, Miss Harmon, I mean, she said Lunnon, but not the lady part.”

  “And she gave you something to show to the constable?” Miss Harmon went on.

  “A chain, wiv a locket,” Kitty sniveled.

  “Well, the police have been and gone. They did not find her. And they will not find her, because she is going away, far away to France, and she will never be seen again. She is not going to help you, you foolish child. No one will ever help you. You have been very naughty, and naughty children are whipped!” Miss Harmon’s face twisted in a spasm of hatred.

  “No! No, Miss Harmon! I won’t do it again!”

  “I’m sure you won’t. We have given you a good place here, Kitty. Many little girls from The Lanes would be glad to have a warm fire to sleep by, and good food to eat, but you have been ungrateful. You have betrayed our trust, and that is a dreadful fault. You have done badly, and bad girls are punished. Madam?”

  The Ma
dam took up the oil lamp and opened a cubbyhole in the panels over Miss Harmon’s ornate desk, from which she withdrew a limber riding crop and a length of twine. Then she led the way as Miss Harmon pulled Kitty up the stairs. The girls downstairs shuddered as Kitty’s shrieks were heard throughout the house. She was dragged up the stairs, through the secret door, into the attic where Alicia waited, shivering in her drawers and camisole.

  This time Madam Gurney was taking no chances. She rattled the door first, then flung it open before Alicia could spring. Alicia ran right into Miss Harmon’s waiting arms. Miss Harmon held the girl tightly while the Madam set down the lamp, took the cord, and bound Kitty’s hands hard to one of the ominous hooks set into the wall.

  Miss Harmon grabbed Alicia’s curls and pinioned her head so that she could not turn away. “Watch!” Miss Harmon hissed, holding Alicia’s head steady. “This is what happens to naughty children! I can’t hurt you, can’t mark your pretty white skin, little Miss Marbury, because the French gentlemen don’t like it, but I can mark up this friend of yours, and you will watch!”

  “No, I won’t!” Alicia screamed. She struggled in Miss Harmon’s arms, her red hair flying about her. The older woman was jerked back and forth as she tried to hold her down. Madam Gurney wasted no time watching the catfight. Instead she produced the riding crop from her capacious skirts and gave it a few practice whisks.

  “Close the door,” Miss Harmon ordered. “Too much noise there!”

  The padding around the doorjamb muffled the sounds of battle. Alicia thrashed helplessly in Miss Harmon’s iron grip. Kitty wailed piteously as Madam laid on the strokes against her shoulders, leaving angry red welts. Only when Kitty’s screams had become muffled sobs and Alicia stopped kicking did Miss Harmon and Mrs. Gurney cease their efforts. Alicia was flung to the floor, and Kitty hung by her wrists. Both girls were sobbing, one in fury, the other in pain.

  “Bring ’er down?” Madam asked.

  Miss Harmon shook her head and gathered up her auburn hair, which had come undone in her struggle. “Too late. The gentlemen are coming in. Leave them be. They aren’t going anywhere … not tonight.”