by Lisa Tuttle
He laughed. “Well—do you know—it is. Those are the words—in my own rough translation, of course—of the oriental master who taught me how to fight in the way of the unarmed warrior.”
“Not to be confused with snake-charming?”
“Oh, not at all. I speak of a method of self-defense practiced in China. Come now, have you forgotten? You saw me use it when we were under attack, during the curious affair of the deodand, and perhaps another time as well—and you must have seen me practicing the basic movements.”
“Yes, of course,” I said. “I had not forgotten, only…” Only the method he had chosen to use against the man who snatched my purse had been sufficiently dramatic to make me forget that he could as easily have kicked the knife out of that thug’s hand and sent him sprawling with a few fluid motions. Mr. Jesperson had told me, after the first time I saw him fight in this way, that it had been designed to work to the advantage of anyone confronted by a larger, more physically imposing attacker.
I suddenly found myself on my feet again, remembering he had told me that even women, children, and the elderly could protect themselves very well if schooled in this discipline. “Could I learn it?”
“I have no doubt that you could, if you wished.”
“Will you teach me?”
We stared at each other in silence across the room for a moment before he said apologetically, “I am not a master. I have never taught anyone. You should find a proper teacher.”
“No doubt. But until I find a wise oriental master and the money to pay him, will you not share your knowledge? At least show me enough so that I can defend myself.”
His look became defensive. “Why should you need to? Have I ever let you down?”
“Of course not. But what if I were alone?” I sensed we might be circling back to an earlier argument, and before he could vow that he would never let me go anywhere by myself, I quickly added, “It might be unavoidable. Or consider this: What if we were set upon by a gang, five against one, say? No one would see me as a threat—they might send one to grab me, and if I had skill enough to elude him, that would be better, surely, than if you were forced to give in. I might even be able to help you.”
Common sense won out over manly pride, and he agreed that it would be a distinct advantage for a female investigator to be able to defend herself and allowed that he might be able to start me on the right path.
I jumped up. “Shall we begin?”
“Now?” Putting aside his paper, he gazed about the large, cluttered room, judging its fitness as a training ground. “We’ll need to clear a bit of space.”
I helped to push smaller pieces of furniture into the corners, out of the way. He looked me up and down, then glanced at his mother. “Could you make her a pair of trousers?”
“Mine will probably serve.”
Trousers? I stared at the conservatively dressed older woman in surprise. “They’re nothing improper,” she said quickly. “Loose, like pajamas. Really, they’re more modest, and certainly more useful, than standard female clothing.”
Seeing that I was not completely convinced, she explained: “Jasper must have someone to practice with, otherwise I should not have thought of it. Once I became his sparring partner, I had to learn quickly or risk coming to harm.” She smiled. “I think you are wise to want to learn to defend yourself, Miss Lane. Of course, one hopes never to be obliged to use it, but there have been occasions when I was very glad to have that ability. Not all men are particularly clever nor especially powerful, and yet nearly all of them expect that any woman will be an easy victim to any man.”
Mr. Jesperson cleared his throat, and his mother stepped aside, leaving me to face him in the empty center of the room.
“I propose we begin with yielding.”
I looked at him uncertainly. He smiled. “What I said before, about inaction?”
“I am to do nothing?”
“Not exactly. The tree that bends before the wind does not break. Let us pretend you are walking along a quiet road. Suddenly, a man appears, running toward you, intent on knocking you down and seizing your—”
His mother handed me the first volume of a triple-decker from her lending library.
“I am a mad bibliomaniac; the sight of the book in your possession has incited me to steal it, encouraged by your size and stature to believe I can take it by simple force,” he said swiftly. “Ready?”
“No.” I had not expected a game of make-believe. “What should I do?”
“Don’t ask me, I’m the thief. Ask yourself. How will you stop the brute who intends to steal your precious volume? Don’t be afraid of hurting me; strike, if you must, as hard as you can—”
“I don’t—I’ve never—”
“Miss Lane. Are you serious about learning to defend yourself?”
“Yes.” In truth, I hated the very idea of fighting and had no wish to perpetrate violence in any form, yet I had even less desire to become a victim.
“Then you must take it seriously. Respond as to a genuine threat. Begin.”
I thought I was prepared—I planned to hold fast to the book—but it happened so quickly, and I was so shocked by the force with which he bumped against me, that I was lucky to keep my feet. I found my hands were empty.
From the other side of the room, Mr. Jesperson waved the purloined volume in the air.
“Can we try again?”
The second time was not much different, nor the third. Even expecting what was about to happen, I was unable to stop it.
“Shall I show you another way?”
I set my jaw and nodded.
“Let Mother demonstrate. Observe.”
Moving aside, I gave Mrs. Jesperson her book. She looked even less of a threat than I, and I could not imagine her putting up any effective defense.
He came galloping toward her, head lowered, hands ready to grab. The sight made me tense, but not Mrs. J. She neither froze, like me, nor tried to fend him off. She merely turned her body slightly and took a step back. There was no collision, and with nothing to halt his forward motion, her would-be attacker kept going. At the last minute she lightly pushed his shoulder, and he stumbled slightly before he recovered, turned, and made another attempt.
Again she deflected him, so subtly I could not see how, but her son lay sprawling on the floor.
He jumped up, smiling, and looked at me. I frowned. “Very theatrical, but I am not convinced. You colluded in your own defeat. It’s no good, sir. I have seen you fight.”
“You are a harsh critic, Miss Lane.” He sighed. “I admit, I could beat this little woman if I chose. But the object was not to show off my skills, but to demonstrate how a small, seemingly defenseless woman might deflect a forceful physical attack. A common criminal, wishing to seize something from an unprotected woman, is unlikely to try anything more sophisticated than to grab and run. When she eludes his grasp, he thinks it was by chance, or that he did not strike hard enough, so he uses more force the second time. He expects resistance—feeble against his own greater strength. What he will not expect is to have his own size, speed, and weight turned against him. I did not pretend to stumble; what you observed was the natural and inevitable consequence of using brute force against someone who has learned to deflect that force and turn it against the attacker.”
“Perhaps you should try to take my book, Miss Lane,” said Mrs. Jesperson. “Experience teaches better than words.”
I agreed, and rushed at her, and past her, much as her son had done; I scarcely felt her tap on my shoulder. Coming around, I ran at her again, and was shocked to find myself immediately caught, held captive by one arm, which she had twisted up behind me. I knew, from childhood battles, than any attempt to break free would be unbearably painful, so I kept still and cried, “Pax!”
She laughed and let me go. “You weren’t taking it seriously the first time,” she chided. “Try again, and mean it this time. Try to knock me flat.”
I tried again, and then agai
n, but my efforts did not satisfy her.
“You’re running past me—you’re expecting my evasion; you’re anticipating.”
Well, of course. She didn’t really want me to knock her down.
She insisted that she wanted me to try. “If you won’t use force against me, how am I to turn it against you? Don’t worry about hurting me. Don’t think of this as a game. Or, if you must, then let it be a game that matters. Get the book—or no supper for you tonight!”
I smiled, but she looked back at me sternly. I squared my shoulders and took a deep breath.
“Ready?”
This time, when I ran at her, I meant it. She sidestepped me easily.
“Better, much better,” she said, as I stumbled and nearly fell.
The lesson continued for nearly an hour. I never did get the book, but when we changed places, I had a better understanding of what she had done and was able to evade her and keep possession at least once out of four or five tries. I was exhausted when at last she called an end.
“Come up to my room and we’ll see if my costume would do for you.”
I had nearly forgotten her offer of trousers, but after a session in which I’d found myself sprawling on the floor at least twice, I thought I might move more nimbly and feel less inhibited in different attire.
Mrs. Jesperson’s trousers were of dark blue cotton flannel, the wide legs so generously cut that they looked like an ankle-length skirt. There was a drawstring waist, which I tightened to my satisfaction.
“Are you comfortable? I think they’ll do without any adjustments. You’re a bit slimmer than me, smaller in the chest, but otherwise we’re not so very different in size.”
“Thank you, it’s very kind; I’m sure I’ll find them useful.”
“There is another thing…” She hesitated. “I hope you won’t consider this an imposition, or take offense. Naturally, you will have your own idea about what to wear to Lord Bennington’s this evening, and I would not dream of taking the liberty…”
Her diffidence was worrying. I hoped I wasn’t to find myself in the awkward situation of refusing some antique piece of hideous outdated fashion requiring a crinoline cage.
“My clothes may not be in the latest mode, but I hope I shall be entirely respectable, and look well enough in my usual attire,” I said brightly. “After all, no one will be looking at me.”
While I was speaking, she had gone to her big oak wardrobe, and now emerged carrying a shimmering, flowing gown of golden silk, sleek and simple, with nothing dated about it.
“From Shanghai,” she explained. “I was thinner then, but even so I recall it was a tight fit. I’m sure I could not manage to squeeze into it now. Would you like to try it?”
As in a fairy tale, I allowed her to help me into the dress. It was like nothing I had ever worn or imagined wearing. It was beautifully light, and the caress of the fabric against my skin had an effect like a glass of champagne. I remembered how my sister had once said acting was so much easier in the perfect costume. Inhabiting this dress, I could imagine myself another woman, beautiful, rich, mysterious, and confident in her powers.
“Look in the glass.”
But, afraid of having my dream shattered, I turned away from the looking glass and plucked at the folds of silk hanging loosely at my hips, sagging slightly across the bodice. “It is a beautiful dress, but too large for me.”
“A few stitches, and it will fit perfectly. I can take it in now and have it ready for you to wear tonight.”
“You are too kind. But—it’s your dress. I can’t ask you to alter it for me.”
“I’ve told you, I can’t wear it, and it’s not doing anyone any good at the back of my wardrobe. Unless you dislike it…”
“I love it.”
I spoke without emphasis, but she heard my emotion. Taking hold of my shoulders, she turned me around and steered me toward the looking glass. “And it loves you. Look! That color never did me any favors, but with your complexion, it’s a wonder.”
I hardly recognized the woman in the shimmering golden gown. Where was plain, mousy Miss Lane? My unassertive brown hair looked richer and more lustrous, my skin glowed, and there were roses in my cheeks. Beside me, the owner of the dress smiled warmly, sharing my pleasure, and I felt a rush of gratitude.
It was a moment when I should have turned and hugged her, or kissed her, but although I could imagine someone else, someone who was not me, doing just that in a spontaneous expression of happiness, I could not. The costume might change my outward appearance, but that was all.
“Thank you,” I said, hating how flat and unemotional my voice and words both were, and I turned away from the reflection. “It is a beautiful dress. You are too kind.”
I heard her sniff. “Kind? Call it practical. I can’t wear it, and as you’re to be at Jasper’s side this evening, he will appreciate it.”
She stopped me before I could take it off. “Let me mark where I must take it in.”
I stood stock-still and let her measure and make adjustments. Before the silence could grow too cold, I said, “I don’t think your son takes much notice of what I wear.”
“For someone who advertises as a detective, you can be remarkably unobservant.”
I could feel the heat rising in my neck and face.
“Jasper notices everything. You should endeavor to do the same. There. That will do for now.” Careful of the pins, she helped me out of the dress, and I made haste to put my own clothes back on.
“I’ll make the adjustments and bring it to your room when I’m done, so you can try it on again,” she said. “In the meantime, get some rest.”
Retreating to the blessed calm of my own room, I stretched out on the bed. I thought I would just close my eyes for a few minutes—I did not think I could sleep—until I was startled awake by a gentle tapping at the door.
The room was in darkness. The better part of two hours had passed, and Mrs. Jesperson had come to tell me she had run me a bath. She had also brought me a most welcome cup of tea.
I felt humbled by her kindness. I did not deserve it. How could I reciprocate? My words of thanks were common coin, debased by overuse. I brooded on this in the comfortable solitude of the bath.
Afterward, I found her waiting in my room, warm and cheerful by lamplight and the fire crackling in the hearth. She helped me dress. This time, the gown fit perfectly, but as I looked down my front, I felt uneasy. There was a high collar, but it was open at the neck, and that opening plunged quite deeply, too deeply for my liking.
“I wonder if another stitch or two…?”
“Oh, no,” she said firmly. “A brooch would be much better. Perhaps you have something?”
“Just a silver—”
“Wait.” Off she went in her brisk, purposeful way and soon returned. “It’s only a trinket, but it will add a clever touch to your ensemble as well as providing a practical solution to the problem of your décolletage.”
The brooch was a little piece of bone or ivory carved into the likeness of a cat’s winking face. One eye was shut, the other a bit of green glass that glittered when it caught the light. It made me think of Gabrielle, and it made me smile.
“Oh, good, you like it! Allow me?”
I let her pin it to the dress, drawing together the bottom quarter inch of the V.
“Problem solved,” I said. “Mrs. J, you’re a wonder and a marvel. If you’re on my side, I know I have nothing to worry about.”
“I am on your side, I hope you know that, Miss Lane.”
This time, I did not shy from the jump. “Won’t you call me Di?”
“Die?”
“Di. It’s my nickname.”
“I see. I’ve never been one for nicknames—and Diana is such a lovely name—”
I stopped her. “It’s not short for Diana. I wish it were!” I took a deep breath. “My father was a classicist. He unfortunately named me Aphrodite. It’s too much.”
She did not laugh. “I agr
ee—four syllables is rather a difficult mouthful for anyone who’s neither queen nor goddess.”
I laughed, relieved to have my hateful secret out in the open, stripped of its power. “What a diplomat you are, Edith!”
Chapter 12
A Strange Meeting in Belgrave Square
Lord Bennington was one of the most prominent and generous supporters of the Society for Psychical Research, a large, hearty Englishman who cut an unmistakeable figure, but as our previous meetings had been most often in darkened rooms, and when I was in the company of my more flamboyant friend, I did not expect he would remember me.
So it was unexpectedly gratifying that as soon as the footman announced our names, ushering Mr. Jesperson and me into one of the spacious reception rooms on the ground floor of the house in Belgrave Square, our host broke away from the cluster of guests with whom he had been engaged to stride toward us, hand outstretched and ruddy face beaming.
“Miss Lane! Marvelous to see you again! How good of you to come! And this must be Mr. Jesperson. A pleasure, sir, a very great pleasure to meet you!”
If Mr. Jesperson was startled by such an enthusiastic reception, he did not let on as he returned the hearty handshake. “The pleasure is all mine, Lord Bennington. I’m honored to have been included in Miss Lane’s invitation.”
“Included? But of course! I must say, I was surprised, Miss Lane, to hear of your new occupation, but I have no doubt you will make a most excellent sleuthess. You have, of course, attended many a séance. How about you, Mr. Jesperson?”
“One or two.”
“Ever uncovered any frauds?”
My friend shook his head, smiling a little. “That is not my occupation.”
“But do you reckon you could spot a fake? Tell us how a fellow might make a table fly across a room, or strum a tune on a banjo that’s hanging in the air five feet away?”
He shrugged. “I dare say both of us have a good idea when we are being tricked. But we’re not here to spoil your party, Lord Bennington.”
Our host’s shaggy eyebrows rose. “But I insist! If you spot any trickery, you’re to say so at once—bring the proceedings to a halt, sir! If you can prove it, you must.”