by Will Thomas
“So what can I do for you, Thomas?”
“I’m looking for a girl.”
“Aren’t we all?”
“I mean a girl detective. Sarah Fletcher. Do you know how to find her?”
“Of course,” he answered. “She’s finishing a case for me at the moment. She’s good. Very good.”
“So I hear. Could you send her word that I would like to use her services if she is available?”
Hewitt wiggled his eyebrows, which was wholly unnecessary. He’s of average build, with dark, wavy hair, and a bland face, and his expression was always halfway between comic and serious. He was a likeable chap and his mild manner gave him the unique ability to not be suspected as a detective.
“And you practically a married man.”
“You are a humorist, sir,” I said. “You should write for the Idler.”
“I’ll let her know that you require her services. She’s due within the hour.”
I thanked him and returned to the office. I must admit it was good to sit without the constant and infernal scrutiny of Mr. Caleb Barker. Leaning back in the single office chair, I put my foot up on the corner of the desk, and thought furiously about everything. Sometimes one must gather ideas hither and yon, and see how they fit together. An hour later I was still at it, without making much headway, when I heard a light step on the staircase. For a second, I wondered if Camille Archer had returned. I jumped from my seat and awaited my visitor.
“I say, is anyone there?” a woman’s voice called.
“Up here, Miss Fletcher!” I replied.
She climbed the stair and entered the room. She was no more than five foot three, with dark hair and a narrow waist. Small eyes and the kind of expression that society would say was due to too much thinking marred an otherwise handsome face.
“Mr. Llewelyn! How good to see you.”
“And you, Miss Fletcher. How have you been?”
“Quite well, thank you,” she replied. “As a matter of fact, I have been considering opening an agency of my own, handling strictly female clients.”
“That sounds splendid,” I replied. I gestured to the chair opposite the desk. “Let us know if you require any help. Mr. Barker will act as a reference if required.”
She came forward and settled into the visitor’s chair, still with that air of caution, as if I were a benign lion that still might spring at her if the mood suited me.
“What can I do for you, Mr. Llewelyn?”
She was very businesslike. I admired her composure. I sat down behind the desk and moved papers out of the way.
“Miss Fletcher, a young woman came into our offices yesterday morning, seeking someone to find her husband. Within a few minutes, I began to suspect her story was fabricated, although I wasn’t sure why. Afterward, I followed her to the Bradford Family Hotel, but she disappeared through the back door with her luggage. To add insult to injury, the name she signed on the registry was Camille Llewelyn.”
“Is there a Mrs. Llewelyn we don’t know about, sir?” she asked, as if it were the height of humor.
“Ask me in two weeks,” I said.
“Ah, yes. I hear congratulations are in order. Another sister reduced to meeting the needs of a man.”
“I forgot that you are a suffragette. Very well. For you, and possibly for my fiancée as well, I promise to be a more enlightened husband.”
“That would be at least one in London,” she replied. “Tell me, can you describe the young woman for me?”
I knew better than to assign some degree of beauty to the visitor. Best to just stay with the facts.
“She was of average height, about five foot three. Her hair was voluminous, and an odd shade of almost chestnut red. Her eyes were green. Her lips were full and her nose was upturned. Almost impudent.”
“Pretty?”
“She was attractive enough, I suppose, but there was something unsettling about her. I could not quite put my finger on it. She was coquettish, which was completely against type. One does not flirt while looking for one’s missing husband.”
“She flirted with you?” Miss Fletcher asked.
“Oh, rather.”
“And you did nothing to encourage her?”
“Believe it or not, miss, I am a professional, for six years now. I would never flirt with a client.”
“Some have and said they didn’t.”
“You said you were aware I am betrothed.”
She gave me a prim look, perhaps even judgmental. “You know very well that does not stop some men.”
I stifled a smile, and even a sense of indignation.
“I agree, it doesn’t. I cannot convince you otherwise without evidence, but I can give you a kind of defense, even if it were merely a feeling.”
“Very well, Mr. Llewelyn. If you have an impression I may not agree with it, but I shall hear it.”
“Thank you, Miss Fletcher. Now I forget, but what is that substance some fast women are wearing on their eyes these days? It’s not kohl.”
“It is called mascara. It’s French.”
“Exactly. Thank you. She wore mascara, very dark, but no rouge. Her face was very pale and her lashes dark.”
“Very well. And what happened after you spoke?”
“I followed her at a discreet distance to the family hotel. I spoke to the manager for a few moments, trying to convince him to let me speak to her, but meanwhile Mrs. Archer slipped out the back. By the time I reached the street she was gone.”
“That’s unfortunate,” she said.
“Worse than that, when I looked at the register, what do you think she wrote after her name?”
“I cannot imagine.”
“‘Camille Llewelyn, of Cwmbran, Gwent.’ That is my birthplace, Miss Fletcher. It means she has looked into my background. I feel her out there somewhere, perhaps watching me. She’s under my guard with a knife, trying to decide which ribs to stab between.”
“You are very forceful with your language, Mr. Llewelyn,” she replied, raising a brow. She smoothed her skirt and regarded me.
“No, Miss Fletcher, I am precise. If I say she is dangerous, I am willing to lay down money that you shall find her the same.”
She appeared to doubt me, but she stood as if willing to offer me the benefit of the doubt, if only for professional purposes.
“Very well,” she said, closing her small notebook and returning it to her reticule. “I shall go to the hotel and see if I can follow her trail from there. I will report back as soon as I know something.”
“Wait. There’s a second matter I would like you to undertake.”
“Yes?”
“My employer is currently in hospital, which leaves his friend Mrs. Ashleigh unprotected. Do you think you could both search for Mrs. Archer and watch Philippa Ashleigh at the same time? I think she would be more comfortable with a female operative and I am far too busy with our current case.”
“Very well.”
She stood and turned to leave.
“Miss Fletcher, I must implore you not to underestimate this woman.”
“Thank you for the warning, Mr. Llewelyn. I am armed.”
“I am glad to hear it.”
“Is this in relation to the explosion yesterday?” she asked, turning back toward me.
“That I cannot say,” I answered. “One followed the other but that does not necessarily prove a connection.”
“I see.”
“However, neither can I prove that they aren’t connected, so one must prepare for either eventuality.”
“I will keep that in mind.”
“I understand you are otherwise employed. If you wish, you should finish Mr. Hewitt’s case. Mine is not a priority, and I don’t consider it likely that Mrs. Archer will return.”
“Based upon what, Mr. Llewelyn? Intuition?”
She was baiting me. She hoped I would equate intuition with the fairer sex.
“You are correct, I have none. Thank you.”
She was mollif
ied for the moment. “How is Mr. Barker faring?”
“Not well. He was badly injured. I have hope, however, that he will make a full recovery.”
“Based upon?” she asked.
“The words of his physician, not the conviction that everything will work out for the best in this, the best of all possible worlds.”
“I didn’t know detectives read Leibniz,” she said.
“I am a private enquiry agent, and I attended Oxford.”
“That explains it, then.”
“That explains what, Miss Fletcher?”
“Your hiring.”
I was tempted to change my mind about engaging her services, but instead considered the list I had given to Scotland Yard. I dismissed her from my mind. A minute went by. Eventually she would understand.
“Mr. Llewelyn, pray forgive me.”
“For what?” I asked, looking up.
“For allowing my feelings to interfere with this investigation.”
I looked at her now. “It is the last thing that I expected from a woman—a detective, rather—who prides herself on her objectivity. Apparently, your reputation for professionalism is unmerited.”
“I—wait. You’re playing with me!”
I smiled, though my eyes had returned to my list.
“I am, miss, but it is no less than you deserve. What precisely have I done to draw your ire?”
“I applied for your position but was summarily dismissed. It isn’t that he won’t work with a female operative. It must have been your education. I didn’t know you were an Oxonian.”
“Miss Fletcher, my education consisted of less than a year in Magdalen, followed by Oxford Prison for eight months.”
She was mystified.
“What was the reason he hired you, then?” she demanded.
“I have heard several explanations from him, and I don’t believe any of them. I truly believe he thinks he works by the Holy Spirit. Certainly I needed the work, but I cannot give you a single reason why he chose me over you. You are obviously more qualified than I. The only thing I can say in my defense is that I have survived six years with the most contrary employer in London. Perhaps your refusal was a blessing in disguise.”
Slowly she unbent. Perhaps “thawed” was a better word.
“Miss Fletcher, I would very much like to retain your services. You came highly recommended, but if we cannot work together, I will show you to the door and solve this without your aid.”
“I understand,” she said.
“So which is it to be?”
“You’re not teasing this time, are you?” she asked.
“No, Miss Fletcher, I am not.”
Two spots slowly blossomed on her cheeks. “I apologize, Mr. Llewelyn. I was rude.”
“Thank you. Now, do you want to take on this enquiry? I would still prefer a female operative and I hear you are the best in London.”
“I would, sir.”
“Excellent. Do you require any more information?”
“No, Mr. Llewelyn.”
“Very well, then. Good day, miss.”
She nodded and took herself off. I heard her footfalls on the steps and the door closing behind her.
“My word,” I muttered.
CHAPTER NINE
I went out for a ploughman’s lunch and no sooner had I returned than I was accosted in the street. My nerves were still raw, and I did not care for being approached by a perfect stranger, but the one who summoned me had the appearance of a junior clerk somewhere in Whitehall Street.
“Mr. Llewelyn?”
“Yes, I am he.”
“Might you be able to spare a few minutes?” he asked. “Mr. Humphrey would like to speak with you.”
I was impatient, and perhaps a trifle tired. I wanted to sit in my chair, hard as it was, and not move for half an hour altogether. Such things were not to be, however.
“Pray, who is Mr. Humphrey?” I asked.
In answer, he pointed up to the large white edifice beside our offices.
“The bank manager, sir. Cox and Co.”
“Ah. Has he had you skulking about, waiting for me?”
“He has, sir. I promise it won’t take over half an hour. Mr. Humphrey is a busy man.”
“So am I,” I told him. “You said it would only be a few minutes.”
“I can’t really say how long precisely, sir, but he does have an appointment half an hour from now, so it can’t be any longer than that.”
I looked at him. The clerk was younger than I, his face blotched with acne. He had been ordered to find this enquiry agent and he’d been pacing around Craig’s Court ever since. I felt sorry for him.
“Oh, very well, take me to him, by all means.”
The clerk exhaled and his shoulders fell in relief.
“Thank you, Mr. Llewelyn. Please follow me.”
For a moment, I thought of a time six years before when I was without situation, and waiting near this very spot for an interview with Mr. Cyrus Barker, private enquiry agent. For all this fellow knew I had been born to this profession and was highly successful, successful enough to have an account at Cox and Co.
I followed him around the corner into the bank. It was impressive. So many tons of marble, quarried in far-off Italy or Portugal, and brought here by boat, by train, by cart, to be assembled at this absurdly out-of-the-way spot so that people here would be impressed enough to have this firm safeguard and make use of their money. Was a marble bank safer than a brick-and-mortar one, and if so, how?
Under normal circumstances, visiting a bank manager, any bank manager, would cause a moment of concern, but after being unceremoniously dropped into a cellar the day before, and battling away since then, I began to consider there are things more intimidating than bankers. The clerk led me along as if tied with an invisible rope, past customers, clerks, bank cages, tables, private offices, and the like, and then the two of us climbed a grand staircase into the gallery above. As it happened, the managers’ offices were such that should he have had a window in the east wall, it would have looked down over our narrow courtyard and offices.
The gangly youth who led me finally stopped in front of a secretary who guarded the manager’s offices. He sent the boy away with a hard look, and banished me to a chair harder than the marble floor. I tried not to make faces at him, but promised myself that if he ever came for our services I would make him come and sit in this very chair until I found myself willing to see him.
At last a door opened behind the secretary, and an unctuous fellow came forward and said, “Mr. Llewelyn! I’m so sorry to keep you waiting! Would you please come into my office, sir?”
“Of course,” I said, following him into the room.
“Sit here. Robert Humphrey, sir. Very pleased to make your acquaintance! Cigar?”
“No, thank you.”
I was all at sea. Normally, bank managers were like the cat who got into the heavy cream, but this fellow seemed actually nervous. Why else, for example, would he be so polite to such an insignificant fellow as I? True, I had an account there, with my own few pounds collecting interest, and Barker had his, a substantial amount, but not by comparison to Her Majesty’s Army and Navy, whose accounts make up the bulk of Cox and Co. assets. Why all this bowing and scraping?
“What can I do for you, Mr. Humphrey? I have many duties today. No doubt you are aware that our premises were damaged yesterday.”
“I was here, sir. I heard the rumble, but I know not from whence it came or in what direction.”
Humphrey was stout, choleric, and side-whiskered. His watch chain sprawled across his prosperous waistcoat, and his pince-nez spectacles attached by a ribbon to the boutonniere eyelet of his gray lapel. He did not look comfortable, and I almost felt sorry for him, as I did for his clerk. I spared no pity for the secretary.
“Why am I here, sir, if I may be so bold to ask?”
“Yes, well. Mr. Llewelyn, I was aware that Mr. Barker has an account in this bank, but th
at as his clerk—”
“Assistant,” I corrected.
“Excuse me, as his assistant you handle all his financial matters. Money is placed here at irregular intervals, and the account accrues interest.”
“Yes, that is essentially according to Mr. Barker’s wishes. Continue, please!”
“Mr. Barker does not come here, although I have met him once, as I recall. His appearance is not unknown because of the proximity between our offices. Therefore, his general appearance is well known to many here.”
“And…?” I asked, wishing he would get on with it.
“Yesterday morning, mere minutes after the explosion, a man came into our bank answering your employer’s description and claiming to be him. He made a substantial withdrawal and left the building.”
I sat for a while taking it all in, or trying to. “Withdrawal? From Barker’s account?”
“Yes, I’m afraid so.”
“How substantial?” I finally asked.
Humphrey leaned forward and consulted a sheet of paper. “Four thousand, nine hundred and eighty-seven pounds, five shillings, and six pence.”
I cleared my throat, still reeling at the thought. “That amount is both random and highly specific,” I said.
Humphrey leaned forward and laced his fingers on the desk, trying to look businesslike under difficult conditions.
“It isn’t when one understands that we have safeguards in place for a withdrawal over five thousand pounds. Your thief is aware of banking regulations.”
“Ah,” I countered, “but I have no thief. I’m sure a bank of the reputation of Cox and Co. would have replaced the missing amount from the emergency funds or what-have-you, and called Scotland Yard.”
“We have.”
I nodded. “I expected as much. Is the teller who completed the transaction in the building?”
“He is, Mr. Llewelyn.”
“I should like to speak with him and to see the spot where the transaction was made.”
“But, sir, you are not Scotland Yard. You are private agents. You have no authority in a bank.”
“Then give me that authority. I merely want to interview one man. The fellow who strolled in so casually yesterday must have had some connection to the attempted murder, or rather, murders, since I was present. Mr. Barker would be here now if he could, doing what I am doing. Any delay could mean that this thief is escaping London.”