by Robin Paige
Hence, as only the most thrilling story seemed to satisfy the public taste, Kate determined that hers would be shocking, hair-raising, breathtaking adventures, each one set in an exotic setting and peopled with satisfyingly sinister villains. If her success were to be measured by her readers’ responses, she had indeed achieved her goal. But the effort, she acknowledged ruefully as she faced her third such thriller, was beginning to wear. She was getting rather tired of writing sensational shockers.
If, however, Beryl Bardwell’s effort was the price of Kate Ardleigh’s freedom and independence in a world where such commodities were not commonly available to women, Kate was more than willing to pay the price. She read as many penny-dreadfuls as she could, and she had taken to studying the mysteries of Wilkie Collins and Conan Doyle, although she did not agree with Mr. Holmes’s disparaging assessment of women, and Dr. Watson seemed unfortunately sycophantic. But Sherlock was no more. Conan Doyle had recently sent his detective off a cliff, no doubt because he was weary of concocting plots that were sufficiently labyrinthian to trap the reader while providing a way out for the detective. Kate was left with such thrilling American detectives as Cap Collier, whose violent adventures had been popular for over a decade in Mr. George Munro’s action-packed dime novels.
In truth, Kate was not happy with these models. Her natural inclination was more to the violence of the heart betrayed than to violent action. But Mr. Coxford reported that Mr. Leslie wished for yet more suspenseful action in her stories, and for more dramatic detail. To that end, she was in the habit of mining every fragment of her rather limited experience for plot, setting, and character. That was why she had felt so much delight to discover that she was the object of attention of Rodney P. Kellerman, of Pinkerton’s.
So while the storm wore itself out against her window, Kate sat by the oil lamp, dipped her pen, and began to record in a rapid copperplate hand every detail of the evening, down to the odor of cigars and garlic that had enveloped Mr. Kellerman’s stout and tweedy self like a savory shroud.
3
“What astonishing news you have brought me! A long-lost relative, a sea-voyage, a manor abroad! It is so extraordinary a narrative that I can hardly credit it!”
“Ah, yes. But the tale is not such a simple one, my dear. There is yet a great deal more to be learned.”
—ANONYMOUS “A Mother’s Plot,” 1887
Rodney P. Kellerman glanced at his gold-plated pocket watch and pulled a sheaf of papers from a drawer of the desk that Pinkerton’s provided him. Five minutes later there was a knock at the office door and a boy in a yellow-and-green plaid waistcoat opened it wide enough to admit his shoulders and a head of unruly hair.
“Young lady t’ see you, sir,” he said.
“Show her in, please,” Mr. Kellerman said, resolving that this interview should be conducted with far greater dignity on his part than the last.
The young woman who entered and took the chair on the other side of the desk was, according to the information he had gathered, an orphan raised by her mother’s family, at present unemployed, and a spinster. What’s more, she was likely to remain so, in Mr. Kellerman’s opinion, because she was already nearing the end of her twenty-fifth year.
And also because she was not the sort who gave herself graces. He glanced at her face as she settled herself and took off her gray knitted gloves. It was a strong face with a too-resolute mouth, heavy brows, and a decisive chin. The eyes were of an intense hazel-green that seemed to see a great deal, the nose was amply dappled with gingery freckles, and the cheeks bore no trace of the paint that some young women, even of the better class, affected. The thick auburn hair, richly highlighted with russet, had escaped from the combs meant to subjugate it, and disheveled locks straggled untidily over her white collar. The costume, a sturdy brown wool suit with plain brown buttons, lacked feminine decoration, except for a bit of cream lace at the wrists and throat.
An unprepossessing person, Mr. Kellerman concluded, and altogether unfeminine, although if he had been truthful, he might have conceded that his judgment was somewhat colored by his chagrin at having allowed her to catch him out so handily on Tuesday night last. That he had been discovered at his work by this observant young woman still greatly nettled him, although, to his credit, he had followed her unseen and done his detecting undetected for the better part of the preceding week. He had watched her, for instance, when she went to seek employment with the publisher, Frank Leslie, whose offices she had visited on Tuesday, and he thought to use that bit of knowledge to his advantage.
“You said you would tell me why you were following me,” Miss Ardleigh began with asperity. Her voice, as he had noted in their earlier meeting, was deep and rich, a husky contralto. “I am curious to learn who made it worth your while to go to such effort.”
As she folded her hands in her lap, Mr. Kellerman observed that the forefinger of the right hand was ink-stained. One would have thought, he remarked critically to himself, that she would have scrubbed away this telltale badge of her previous secretarial engagement. It reinforced his belief that such a person was likely to remain an old maid. A woman who cared about improving her marriage prospects would surely eradicate this tattletale mark of her spinsterhood.
Mr. Kellerman withdrew his attention from Miss Ardleigh’s unfortunate hands. “I shall inform you,” he replied. He spread out the sheaf of papers and arranged them precisely. “I am in receipt of a letter from your aunt, Miss Sabrina Ardleigh, of—”
“My aunt?” Miss Ardleigh’s hazel eyes, which now appeared to be flecked with a deeper green, fastened on his. “Mr. Kellerman,” she said firmly, “I have no such relation.”
“My dear Miss Ardleigh,” Mr. Kellerman said with exaggerated patience, “we will never get to the bottom of this if you persist in interrupting me.” He moved the top paper a quarter of an inch. “May I resume, please?”
The young woman’s mouth tightened. She nodded imperceptibly.
“Miss Sabrina Ardleigh, of Bishop’s Keep, Essex, England,” he continued, “contacted me several weeks ago through her British solicitors, the firm of Edgecombe, Harcourt, and Harcourt. Miss Ardleigh identified herself as an aunt of yourself, the sister of one Thomas Ardleigh, whom public record shows to have been your father. She wished me to discover whether at the present time you might be a suitable secretary and companion to her. Having made the necessary inquiries, I have conveyed to Mr. Winston Edgecombe, the firm’s senior partner and her personal representative, my judgment that, upon a trial basis, you would indeed be suitable for such employment.”
“Employment!” Miss Ardleigh exclaimed in a tone of restrained surprise. “In England?”
Mr. Kellerman ignored the interruption. “Mrs. Schreiber, your most recent employer, left ample testimony to your intelligence and integrity and to your competence as an amanuensis. She was apparently much impressed by the fact that you acquired German in order to assist her with her letters and to read to her, and by your skill in manipulating a typewriter. That, at least, is her attorney’s recollection. Upon my inquiry, your previous employer, Mrs. Isabella Dawson, certified to me that you were able and industrious in your care of her children”—he cleared his throat—“although not, in Mrs. Dawson’s words, ‘a natural-born lover of babes.’ ”
He paused. Miss Ardleigh’s head was bowed, her eyes fixed on her laced fingers. “Do you have any question to this point?”
Miss Ardleigh looked up. “Mrs. Schreiber’s attorney and Mrs. Dawson—these are the sum of your inquiries?”
Feeling somewhat surprised by the question, Mr. Kellerman countered with a prudent one of his own. “Are there positions I have overlooked—other than your efforts to find secretarial employment with the publishing firm of Frank Leslie?”
The answer, which was tempered with a smile, came with sufficient readiness to satisfy whatever suspicions he might have begun to entertain. “No, sir,” Miss Ardleigh said, “there are no other positions. I have been employed for
regular wages by no persons other than the two in your report.”
He nodded. “Very well, then, I shall proceed. Having received and conveyed these satisfactory reports of your abilities, and the fact that you are presently unengaged and at leisure, I received yesterday a response from Miss Ardleigh, relayed by cable through Mr. Edgecombe. It directs me to make the following offer.” He picked up a yellow Western Union cable and read. “ ‘In return for a generous annual salary, board, and room at Bishop’s Keep, Dedham, as well as the cost of transportation from America to said location, Miss Sabrina Ardleigh proposes to engage Miss Kathryn Ardleigh as her secretary and personal companion for a trial period of twelve months. If the arrangement is satisfactory to both parties, it may be continued indefinitely; if at any time it becomes unsatisfactory to either party, Miss Kathryn Ardleigh will receive wages earned to date and return fare to America.’ ” He put down the paper. “You are asked to respond by cable as soon as possible.”
Miss Ardleigh unclasped her fingers and clasped them again, although without nervousness. Calm as a custard, she was, Mr. Kellerman thought, and her air of thoughtful self-possession disconcerted him. Most of the women of his acquaintance would have been flung into an absolute tizzy by the revelation of a hitherto unknown aunt who proposed employment, not to mention the opportunity of an exotic sea voyage and a visit to the romantic-sounding Bishop’s Keep. But Miss Ardleigh, it seemed, was concerned with practical, not romantic or exotic, matters.
“This aunt of mine, of what age is she?” she asked. “What is her health? Is she a traveler or does she prefer to stay at home? What duties are expected of me?”
Mr. Kellerman spoke regretfully. “I am afraid I cannot answer your questions, Miss Ardleigh, for I have not met the lady. Neither she nor Mr. Edgecombe offered further details of the post. I infer,” he added, “based on the expense which she incurred to confirm your suitability, that your aunt is quite well off.” He coughed delicately.
Miss Ardleigh persisted. “Bishop’s Keep. What kind of place is it? What about Dedham? And what does Miss Ardleigh consider a ‘generous salary’?”
“Dedham, I understand, is a small village some sixty miles to the north and east of London, ten miles from the town of Colchester. Its chief claim to fame, I recall, is that it lies near the home of John Constable, the famous painter. As to Bishop’s Keep, I cannot speak, nor to the amount of the salary, nor to Miss Ardleigh’s definition of ‘generous.’ ”
Miss Ardleigh lifted her chin. “I am to know nothing of my employer nor of the position,” she said tartly, “and yet I am asked to commit myself to a full year’s employment in a foreign land, across the ocean from my own.” She paused. “It would appear that I am being asked to buy a pig in a poke.”
“So it would appear, madam,” Mr. Kellerman said, “although I might note that such a position offers more in the way of ... say, adventure, than a place at a publishing house. If, indeed, adventure is to your liking,” he added hastily. He paused. “Perhaps you wish some time to reflect or to consult those elders who might guide you. Your uncle O’Malley, for instance, or your priest. It is, after all, a matter of some significance.”
“It is indeed,” Miss Ardleigh said. She looked down at her hands and then up again, her steady eyes clear and direct—quite her best feature, Mr. Kellerman decided, excepting perhaps that deep voice, that reminded him somehow of brown velvet. “However, since there is little information of real substance upon which to reflect, and since no more will be forthcoming, reflection is likely to prove unprofitable. While I respect my uncle O’Malley, his opinion can only be less well informed than my own.” Her smile was dry. “And as to a priest, Mr. Kellerman, any Pinkerton’s man worth his salt would have ascertained that I am not a practicing Catholic. I am, in fact, a freethinker.”
Mr. Kellerman winced. Miss Ardleigh had reinforced his perception that hers was a too-willful nature. But she was regrettably correct. He had not thought to report her failure to attend church services, and he should have; it might have made a difference to her prospective employer. However, it was too late now. He had tendered the offer and the young woman was pulling on her gloves.
She picked up her reticule and stood up. “Mr. Kellerman,” she said, “please reply to Miss Ardleigh’s cable with the simple word, ‘Yes.’ ”
Mr. Kellerman stood up as well, surprised by the precipitous response but glad for the end of the interview. Miss Ardleigh was a young woman much too definite in her inclinations, decidedly unfeminine in her appearance, and entirely too forthright. What would be the outcome of this unusual enterprise? How would her new employer respond to this rather too-assertive person?
These questions Mr. Kellerman quickly dismissed as beyond his responsibility. After all, it was Miss Sabrina Ardleigh who was buying a pig in a poke.
4
“With the recent appearance of emulsion papers and the further development of the single-lens reflex camera, photography has become portable, making it an outstandingly useful tool. A single photograph is superior to a half-dozen sketches, for the camera reveals what the eye beholds. With the camera, we may safely say it is no longer possible to harbour illusions.”
“Photography as a Tool in Natural Science” British Journal of Photography 1894
The student was pale and panting. “Pardon me, sir,” he blurted “there appears to be a dead body in my dig.”
Sir Archibald Fairfax put down his magnifying glass. He had overseen the Colchester excavation for several months now, and finds—small, to be sure, but quite promising—were occurring daily. Just yesterday, for instance, the team at the Lion Street site had uncovered a patch of excellent Roman mosaic floor, in first-rate condition. As he had written to his colleague Howell, he expected momentarily to make a more stimulating discovery. He had not, however, expected to turn up a skeleton.
“Good show, old chap!” Sir Archibald exclaimed, rising. “There are artifacts?”
The discovery of skeletal remains in the Colchester excavations were surprisingly infrequent, given that the town, the first Roman colony in Britain, was destroyed by Queen Boadicea in A.D. 60 and again by the Danes in the ninth century, and was the site of the Roundheads’ famous siege of the Royalists in 1648. Sir Archibald would be pleased to surrender any bones to those of his colleagues who were versed in physical anthropology. Of far greater interest to him were the artifacts found with the skeleton.
“Well, actually—” The student wrung his hands. “That is to say—”
“Come, come, man,” Sir Archibald commanded, “get hold of yourself. A good archaeologist must manage his work with dignity, never permitting himself to be swayed by the emotions of discovery.” He gave the student a more kindly look. “In what stratum are you working, my boy? Of what period is this skeleton of yours?”
The young man swallowed, his prominent Adam’s apple bobbing above his collar. “But you see, sir, it’s not a skeleton, at least not yet. The body appears to be recently deceased. And to make a bad lot worse, somebody tumbled dirt in on it. Mucked up my dig a good bit, sir.” His voice became anguished. “And I was getting down to the Danes.”
Sir Archibald forgot about skeletons and artifacts. He snatched up the pith helmet he affected on site, even in England, where it was hardly required to shade his head from the sun. In fact, even now the sun was well hidden behind a bank of clouds and the late-summer morning was dull and cheerless.
“Right,” he said testily. “We’ll just go and see, shall we? Can’t have people tumbling dirt and mucking up the digs.”
The student’s excavation was located in the southeast corner of the larger dig. When Sir Archibald reached the site, he found that several people had preceded him and were clustered disturbingly close to the excavation, no doubt tumbling even more dirt. The first, he noted with approval, was a tall, strikingly lean man with a closely trimmed brown beard, a shapeless brown felt hat, and a camera on a wooden tripod. Charles Sheridan and his ubiquitous camera had prov
ided an invaluable service at the dig. Sir Charles was also an amateur paleontologist who understood how to behave on an archaeological site. The second man on the scene, to whom Fairfax took immediate objection, was a uniformed police sergeant, buttons gleaming. The unspeakable third was a seedy young police constable in a uniform shiny in the seat, his scuffed boots run over at the heels.
“I’m sorry, sir,” the student panted, reading Sir Archibald’s censorious scowl. “The constable happened to be walking by when I made the discovery. He heard my, er, exclamation of amazement. He summoned a superior.”
“See here now,” Sir Archibald said crossly to the two policemen, “we can’t have this. Unauthorized persons at the site. Next thing you know, there’ll be tourists.” Tourists! As irresponsible as water buffalo. As undisciplined as sacred cows. He glanced at the gentleman with the camera. “Not meaning you, old chap,” he added. “Carry on as you will.”
Charles Sheridan gave Sir Archibald a restrained smile, took a photographic plate holder out of the large bellows camera, put it carefully into a shoulder bag, and inserted another one.
The sergeant, unperturbed by Sir Archibald’s outburst, stepped back from the brink. “I wonder, sir, if you ‘ud mind askin’ yer chaps t’ remove th’ dirt, or if you ’ud prefer my man t’ do it.”
Sir Archibald was incredulous. “Your man, sir? In my excavation? Absurd! He has no qualifications. Just imagine what would happen should a valuable artifact reside beneath that lot of dirt! Can’t have amateurs mucking about with ancient skeletons and irreplaceable antiquities. Simply not done.”
“P’raps, sir,” said the student, tugging at his sleeve, “you had better have a look first.”