by Lisa Tuttle
I held my breath. Of course, the wall was brick, rather than stucco or smoothly plastered, but the spaces between the bricks were not deep enough to offer purchase. Yet somewhere, somehow, he must have found hand- and footholds, for he continued, steadily, to pull himself up a sheer wall. It would have been no challenge to a lizard, perhaps, but for anything larger, it should have been impossible; I wondered if even a monkey could have done it.
The other people around me began to gasp and call out in surprise as they noticed this redheaded stranger in a black suit steadily inching up the wall. Reaching the first-story window ledge, he scarcely paused, but used that ledge as a launch-pad to the window above, and then the next, like a swimmer on a sea of brick. And then he was standing on the ledge of the top window and—the stretch might have been too great for a shorter man, but, looking up, with his bare feet flat on the window ledge, his eyes were almost level with the cat’s.
Time dragged in silence, then Mr. Jesperson said something I did not understand. Perhaps a nonsense syllable, a name, or only the sort of gentle noise people make to attract a pet, but whatever it was, the cat responded with a slightly surprised-sounding mew.
When Mr. Jesperson raised his hand, the little creature (it was no more than a kitten) stepped confidently into it, and allowed itself to be lowered to his chest and placed inside his shirt.
How it was for my friend, I cannot say, but for me, watching him, the descent took far longer and was more tense and nerve-wracking than the climb upward. Perhaps it was simply that I had been too surprised by his unexpected ascent to realize how dangerous it was, whereas on the way down, every fractional split-second pause as his fingers and toes sought out holds was a moment when he might fall to his doom—and we all knew and feared it.
Finally, though, he pushed himself away from the house and landed, surprisingly lightly, on the ground.
There was a moment of awed silence from the watchers as he walked the short distance to the pavement where the white-whiskered gentleman and the little girl were waiting. Then, as he scooped the kitten out of his shirt and put it into the eager, trembling hands of its mistress, a round of cheering, applause, and whistles rose from the crowd.
I had to close my eyes for a moment. When I opened them, there he was, standing before me, a bemused smile on his face. “Are you all right?”
“I should ask you!” I exclaimed. “What you did…it looked impossible!”
“You should have looked more closely at the house. The original occupants must have dreamed of a flower-bedecked cottage. See those iron hooks above each window? And there by the door? They’re for hanging plants. The remains of the old trellis are harder to make out, but when I saw how high and wide it was, I knew it would enable me to make the ascent. Unless it was so ancient and rotten that it would fall apart at my touch—but that seemed unlikely.”
I bent down to rescue his hat, which he had left on the ground beside me, on top of his boots and socks.
He was still being cheered when I handed him his hat. He put it on, then took it off to the crowd first on one side, and then the other, then bowed to them. After that, he did something I’d seen street performers do at the end of their act: He bowed again and rolled his hat down his arm once, twice, three times. The final, flourishing bow left the bowl of the hat presented to the audience, and this crowd, like any that might gather on a streetcorner to hear a song or see a magic trick performed, showed their appreciation in the traditional way.
Coins—silver and copper both—clinked merrily against one another as they landed in the hat. Mr. Jesperson looked startled, then pleased, then abashed, and turned his head quickly to see what I thought of it.
But he had not begged; he’d risked his life with no thought of reward and he deserved it. I smiled at him and held up my hands, lightly clapping them together to show my approval.
It had started to rain, although only lightly, which dispersed the casual crowd. The show was over. Mr. Jesperson, hat at his feet, hastily resumed his socks and boots. Only the little girl and her grandfather remained. She was too pleased with the return of her kitten—kissing and petting it extravagantly—to pay attention to the man who had rescued it, but the elderly gentleman with white whiskers and a distinctly military bearing approached and introduced himself as Colonel Robert Mallett.
“I won’t insult you by offering you money, sir, but I should like to thank you. You have my deepest gratitude for what you have done today, restoring the smile to my granddaughter’s face. And you have piqued my curiosity. Rarely have I seen anyone climb like that—and never in this city! Am I right in thinking you were born on St. Kilda?”
“No, sir,” replied Mr. Jesperson with a puzzled smile. “I am a native of London.”
“Then your father, or your mother, perhaps?”
Again he shook his head. “I am not familiar with St. Kilda.”
“It is a remote Scottish island. The people—quite inbred, of course—have developed peculiarly prehensile toes as the result of climbing the rocky cliffs to supplement their meager diets with eggs from the nesting fulmars.”
Mr. Jesperson smiled. “I do have Scottish relations, but not from the islands. My toes are quite flexible, but I do not think extraordinarily so. As a boy, I was often compared to a monkey, and I have perhaps spent more time honing my climbing skills abroad than most people would consider normal.”
“Hmmph! Well, whatever your reason, I am glad of it. Perhaps, on some later occasion, you will permit me to invite you to dine?”
“You are most kind.”
“Let me give you my card,” said the colonel, reaching into an inside pocket. His words reminded me of the cards we’d had printed—a necessary investment, Mr. Jesperson had insisted, although we had scarcely made a dent in the box of two hundred. As my friend made no answering gesture toward his own pockets, I guessed that he had forgotten to carry a supply.
Fortunately, I had a few with me, and I quickly retrieved one from my purse—worn chatelaine-style from my belt; my sister had made me a present of it on my last birthday, assuring me it was à la mode in Paris, and it did add a touch of style to my sadly worn, workaday dress—and slipped it into the colonel’s still-outstretched hand.
“Jesperson and Lane,” he read aloud, and then his eyes moved to my face. “You are…Miss Lane?”
“Yes, sir.”
“A lady detective! Well, well.”
“If you ever have need of our services,” I quickly began.
“I hope I shan’t! But I shall remember,” he said, closing his fist gently around the card. “If I should hear of anyone who requires the aid of a detective agency, I shall send him to you.”
“We should appreciate it,” said Mr. Jesperson. “It is rather more difficult to make one’s name in London than I had anticipated.”
“You have lived abroad a long time?”
At Mr. Jesperson’s nod of assent the old gentleman said, “We shall have stories to trade when we dine. Au revoir.”
After they had gone, Mr. Jesperson picked up his hat and inspected the treasure within. “Would you mind putting this in your purse? I’m afraid I really do have a hole in my pocket.”
The coins clinked richly and weighed the little purse down most satisfyingly. I decided it looked and felt much better plumply filled than it had when hanging limply flat. By now it had started to rain in earnest, and I regretted that lack of forethought that had sent us out of the house without an umbrella.
Mr. Jesperson recalled there was tea shop not far away: “We might spend a little of our cash and reward ourselves for a successful morning’s work. It will be quicker, I think, if we go this way.” He steered me down a narrow passage out of the wide street. Scarcely had we entered it when I felt something tug at my waist; a moment later I felt my purse pulled away, and I whirled around with a cry, trying to seize it and failing.
A rough-looking young man stood there, blocking the exit, holding my purse clutched fast in one fist and a wi
cked-looking knife in the other.
“Mine, now,” he said in a low, threatening voice. “And anything else you’ve got, you hand over. Don’t think of trying to fight—my knife is sharp, and thirsty for blood. Don’t move.”
My blood ran cold. I could not have moved for anything.
“You’re quite right,” Mr. Jesperson said in a relaxed and conversational tone. “It is very sharp, your knife, and you should not try to fight. You would not want to cut yourself, would you? But your knife is thirsty. Better not move. It’s very slippery, in this rain. Your hand might slip; your hand might easily slip. Your hand is wet, the knife is wet, you might slip and cut yourself.”
The young man frowned and shook his head. He took a step toward us, and then stumbled, slipping on the wet ground, and although he did not fall, he jerked his arm to save himself. The blade flashed; he sucked in a sharp breath, and a thin bright line of red bloomed on the back of his other hand—the one in which he held my purse.
“Oh, dear,” said Mr. Jesperson. “You’ve cut yourself. I thought that might happen. How unfortunate. But I have a clean handkerchief, with which to bind your wound. May I?” He stepped forward and spoke again, his voice cracking out like a whip. “Put that down or you will do yourself a worse injury. Drop it now.”
Astonishingly, the young villain dropped the knife. After a moment of confusion, he looked at Mr. Jesperson, approaching with a white cotton square, and meekly held out his wounded hand for dressing.
“Now, now, how can I work when you’re holding something? Give me that, and I will make it better.”
My purse was released into Mr. Jesperson’s grasp without a murmur; without looking around, he handed it back to me. I clutched it close as I clenched my teeth and wondered if I should run away. But I was afraid in case any movement would break the spell, so I stayed stock-still and watched as Mr. Jesperson wrapped his handkerchief around the man’s hand and tied it, saying emphatically, “Now you are better, and you have my handkerchief. It’s a good one; fair exchange, you agree?”
The robber nodded mechanically, staring at his bound hand. Mr. Jesperson clapped him firmly on the shoulder twice. “Now go home. Go home. You’ll be well after you’ve rested. Go home and go to sleep and forget all about it.”
Sheeplike in his obedience, the rough young man turned and ambled away.
In a flash, Mr. Jesperson was at my side. He took my arm in his firm grasp and propelled me along, down the alley and out into a more populous thoroughfare. I felt as if I had woken out of a horrid dream. He slowed to a more decorous pace and asked me if I wanted to rest for a while in a tea shop.
Feeling a bit dazed, I shook my head. “I’d rather go home.” The shower of rain had passed; we were wet, but would get no wetter.
“Are you sure? I hope I haven’t hypnotized you, as well.”
I stopped short and stared up into his face. “Is that what you did? You hypnotized him?”
“Something like that. I made suggestions—and he turned out to be a very suggestible fellow. Which is fortunate for us. It wouldn’t have worked on everyone. We were lucky.”
“Luck! Luck has nothing to do with it—you did something—and I don’t understand how.”
“Oh, I don’t really know how it works, myself.” He had started walking again as he spoke, and I hurried to keep up with him.
“But how did you learn it?”
“In the first place, by watching snake charmers in India. I watched them very closely. I observed, and I practiced.”
This made no sense to me. “Snake charming? But that’s…”
His eyes narrowed as he smiled down at me. “Quite. Of course, I had to adapt the traditional methods, put them into words, for the better understanding of snakes of the two-legged variety.”
Chapter 4
Back in Gower Street
By the time I had changed into dry clothes and gone back downstairs, Mrs. Jesperson had returned. The first thing I saw was that she had her shopping basket and it was full. The second thing I noticed was that she was not wearing her Egyptian earrings.
We chatted for a few moments in the hall, and then I followed her into the kitchen, where Jasper had put the kettle on.
“Oh, well done, Mother!” he exclaimed at the sight of the basket filled with a loaf of bread, apples, cheese, butter, and potatoes. Then he frowned. “But where on earth did you get the money? You haven’t been to see—”
“Your uncle? No, of course not, Jasper dear. I agreed you should have it your way, and I’m very pleased to hear from Miss Lane that you were lucky with Mr. Sims.” Gently but firmly she took over the business of making tea.
“So now you have ensured that we needn’t worry about the rent for at least another month. I am relieved. But there are still our meals to get—”
“Did Miss Lane tell you I also managed to earn almost nine shillings by the dramatic rescue of a kitten?”
“That’s very nice, dear—will you slice the bread?—it will make a dent in the money I owe the butcher. But how was I to know? Since I was not allowed to approach your uncle, I decided to pay a call on mine.”
Jasper frowned. “Great-Uncle August?”
“Don’t be silly. I could hardly get to Edinburgh and back this morning.”
“I didn’t know you had any other uncles.”
She turned from him to set out cups and saucers as she said, “I don’t, really. It’s only a matter of speaking.”
I knew exactly what she meant, but, judging by his face, Jasper was not familiar with the common phrase “getting money from uncle.” Or perhaps he was, but did not want his mother to know he knew she’d pawned her earrings.
“Well, whoever he is, he must be jolly generous—or jolly fond of you, Mother dear, and that’s easy to understand, because I know I am.” He grabbed her about the waist and gave her a smacking kiss.
“And so say all of us,” I offered, hoping it didn’t sound too stiff or mechanical a tribute, because I was, truly, very grateful to have been allowed to become a part of their household.
—
While we sipped our tea in front of the fire—built up with coal we were no longer obliged to hoard quite so parsimoniously—Mr. Jesperson quizzed his mother on what she knew about the sister of Mr. Sims.
“She is his only near relative, I believe, and he seems to have had the duty of care for her after the death of their parents some years ago.”
“But she is married,” I pointed out.
“Yes, she is now. I recall that Mr. Sims originally did not approve—he considered Mr. Creevey was not…” She hesitated, frowning a little as she searched for the most accurate phrase. “Not quite right.”
Mr. Jesperson looked up alertly. “He’s a criminal?”
“Good heavens, Jasper! Certainly not. His background was poor but honest—at least, Mr. Sims never said anything to hint otherwise.”
“So she married a poor man,” I said, wondering how they came to have a telephone.
“No.” Mrs. Jesperson gave a very genteel little sniff. “Poor once, but now a successful tradesman. By the time he met Miss Sims he was still under forty, and well established, with his own business and enough money to think of marriage. Mr. Sims should have been grateful, considering his sister’s age—I’m sure she’s quite thirty…and not what anyone would describe as a beauty. She was lucky to get a husband at all…not that thirty is so terribly old, and it was a good match for them both, by all accounts.”
I was agonizingly conscious that Mrs. Jesperson had remembered that she was speaking to another spinster who might have been described in the same way—I had no illusions about my appearance, and I would not see twenty-seven again. Mrs. Jesperson was embarrassed now, uncomfortable because she had meant no offense and an apology would only compound it.
Mr. Jesperson stretched his long legs out toward the hearth and asked his mother about Mr. Creevey’s business.
“He offers a removals service. Mr. Sims told me his brother
-in-law has more than one van now, and several men who work for him, and could take an easier role in the business, but apparently Mr. Creevey prefers lifting and carrying to directing other men to do so whilst he lounges at his ease.” She stood up. “Speaking of lounging, I must get busy, or you won’t get a proper meal today.”
I offered her my help in the kitchen, but she gestured for me to keep my seat. “I’m sure you have your own business to be getting on with, thank you all the same.”
—
My business, I decided, must be to write letters I had put off for too long. Our little job for Mr. Sims and his sister had secured the rent for the next month, but it was as urgent as ever to find more work.
Ever since I had left the investigation in Scotland, I’d had nothing more to do with the Society for Psychical Research. Mr. Jesperson took a keen interest in psychical research—as in so many other, diverse matters—and subscribed to various journals to keep abreast of the latest developments; therefore, I knew that the investigation had continued in my absence, and that a full report was expected to be published in due course. There had been no scandal, neither had there been any great revelations, and “Miss X”—otherwise known as Gabrielle Fox—remained in charge.
I knew she had powerful friends and supporters in the Society, and I had seen how convincingly she could play the innocent. If I tried to tarnish her reputation, I had no doubt she would retaliate,and utterly blacken mine. For that reason, and because of my past close association with her, I had decided to say nothing.
Gradually, as I came to feel settled in Gower Street, I had written to a few friends to let them know where I was, but a fearful caution had kept me from contacting anyone too closely involved with the SPR; I had not written a single word to Gabrielle, or to any of her particular friends, in or out of the Society. I did not know how she had explained my abrupt defection to others, whether she had hinted at “nerves”—or something worse—whether she had claimed she’d dismissed me for fabricating evidence of ghostly phenomena. Or even if she had kindly explained my disappearance with some invention involving illness or aged relations.