The door swung from its partly open position with such force that it near slammed back against the wall. A young woman darted out. Her face was deeply flushed and tears were gathering in her eyes.
She had taken two strides beyond the railing, her eyes straight ahead with no glance at Hester, and she already had a hand at the outer door when it opened so abruptly that she stumbled forward straight against the young man who had been about to enter.
Giving an exclamation that was half a hiccup, she twisted by him, the drumming of her boots sounding from the hall. The man glanced at the desk behind the railing, frowned slightly, and went toward the door of the inner office. Perhaps she had somehow become invisible, Hester thought. She was sure that neither of them had seen her. The man was already into the inner office. He had closed the door behind him. Again it did not latch but swung open far enough for Hester once more to hear.
"Well, Aunt Agatha, and what have you done now? Here is Maud Dale apparently racing from some major danger. Who put the fox into the henhouse this morning?"
He spoke lightly in a voice that Hester recognized—for it was much like her father's accent. She had only caught a glimpse of him as he passed but what she frankly observed had not particularly impressed her. This was just another young "gentleman" who did not have to depend on work to keep bread and butter on the tea table nor an unleaking roof over his head. Doubtless such mundane needs never occurred to him at all.
He was clean shaven, which was not quite the norm in a city where elaborate hirsute adornments—or disguises— were the general rule. He wore no dashing guardsman's mustache, no fluff of sideburns, nor beard. His hair was dark, so much she had seen when he tugged off an all-weather tweed hat before he entered the inner office.
For the rest, he was slender, his caped mackintosh did not hide that, and the hand with which he held his hat was well kempt. Surely he was a stray from a more lofty world and so not in her experience at all. He would have to be about forty years older, with a scholar's slightly bemused look, for her to place him properly. Young men had played no part in Miss Lane's past.
"The stupid gel." The voice that could only be Miss Scrimshaw's boomed clearly. "Working is not all silk, pearls, and what is to be offered at the buffet supper. I want that story and she only wants to dabble. But a story like this—"
"What story?"
"The one about the Salvation Army—or whatever they call themselves. I can get a gel into one of their meetings, let her write it up. By God, Albert, most of the daily papers are writing pure libel about them. If we can get them a truthful story—that Sir John of yours—get him to ask a question or two, bring things out into the open. D'you know, Albert, that it's said the police have their orders to stand by and let roughs beat up these people? Is this England—or some nasty little state in the East where no one has any freedom? I want a story, a truthful, eyewitness story—"
"Which you aren't going to get, Agatha," the man answered her coldly. "No lady has any business anywhere near one of those rebellious, unlawful meetings. It dangerously abuts on treason, you know."
There came a sound that could only have been a snort. "Don't you start talking such folderol to me, Albert. In fact, my boy, aren't you going to do a little investigating yourself? And one of the latest bits of gossip flying around is that Sir John Dermond is interested in how the other three quarters of London live. Interested enough so that he has sent you an order to skulk about to see—"
"I shall do—"
"Exactly what you are told, m'boy. Just the proper gentleman as always. Come here to the window with you!"
That order was followed by a creaking as if some bit of furniture were sturdily resisting any move. "Look down, Albert—not just at that disgusting mud which laps about the ankles of anyone who does not have a penny or so for a ride. There are those who are walking. What about that woman over there who has taken off her shawl to cover what's in her basket? Proper old hag you'd call her, now wouldn't you? That's Bessie Fuller. And she doesn't count as many years as you, Albert. She's got an infant to support, and a drunken horror of a husband who has battered teeth out of her jaws, given her that permanent lump over one eye—she can't see very well with that anymore. Look her up and down, Albert.
"Bessie's a decent woman, she sells her matches along this street and has for some years now. If she gets enough some days for a hot tater or a broken pastie she feels she has luck . . . She's the kind the Army looks for. In fact, she has already asked their help—so she will not even go on the poor rates, which take a penny or two out of your pocket. And there are hundreds like her."
"There are charities to which she can apply—"
Again came that disparaging snort. "Do not prate to me of charities, or workhouses, or all the other inhuman devices you and yours are so smug about. If you are going to do a bit of looking around for Sir John Dermond, do it right. Don't wade about the edge of that sea of nastiness out there. Plunge right in—if you can take it. Personally, I wonder about you, Albert—you need a good shaking up to lose your ingrained blindness, and really see the world that lies about you."
"If someone, Aunt Agatha, must go looking in this evil pit of yours it had better be a man. As I think you will agree, you can't be wholly lost to all that is right and proper."
"How I get my results is none of your pompous business. You would do better, much better, Albert, to do a little straight thinking on your own and not accept the rubbish heard at dinner parties after ladies have withdrawn and you gentlemen pass a goodly aged bottle among you."
"Aunt Agatha!" There was real outrage in his voice now. But Hester lost Miss Scrimshaw's answer because a side door to the right, which she had not previously noticed, was hurriedly opened, and another woman entered on the far side of the railing.
Apparently it was customary for females invading the business world to retain the formality of street attire, for this pinch-faced lady wore a bonnet and white gloves on about her wrists, the fingers enrolled across the backs to afford more foom and freer movement for the digits enclosed within. That she was employed here was evident in her glance, which betokened a cold recognition of Hester as a stranger. This guardian of the world beyond the rail made a dramatically better appearance, in a much smarter walking suit, than Hester when she rose. A gloved hand caught up a pince-nez dangling on a black ribbon around her neck and settled it firmly on her nose.
"Well, and what can I do for you?" Her inquiry had a rude note, as if she were facing Bessie Fuller on the road below.
"I have an appointment with Miss Scrimshaw. My name is Hester Lane."
"Lane?" There was a moment of hesitation. Then the guardian went to the door. Noting it was ajar she frowned, then gripped the knob firmly with one hand as she knocked with the other. At an indistinct murmur from within, she pushed the door forward, partially opening it as she spoke. "Miss Hester Lane, Miss Scrimshaw, by appointment."
"Good—come in, gel."
The gloved guardian nodded at Hester, opening the door wider to permit her passage. The young man who had been standing before the desk stepped back and to one side as she entered, but it was Miss Scrimshaw who commanded Hester's attention at the moment.
The woman enshrined behind the large desk, whose top was entirely covered with a thick drift of papers, might be an earl's granddaughter, but she also might well be as much of a sight as the match seller on the street below. The vast curves of her body stretched a purplish serge gown almost dangerously, and she too wore a bonnet, which bore a curl of purple feathers constantly aquiver. Her complexion was a pallid, yellowish white, while the wide expanse of flesh held features that seemed too small for the rest of her.
Her button eyes might be smallish when compared to the two broad chins and the side dewlaps she attempted to control with a dog collar of reddish-purple stones, matching a large cross resting on her shelflike bosom, but for all their lack of size they were very keen. Hester felt she was being examined, weighed, and measured with no little
skill.
Though she was looking straight at Hester, Miss Scrimshaw's hands were scrabbling in the drift of paper on her desk. They retrieved a rather battered document Hester recognized as the letter she had written to ask for this interview. Miss Scrimshaw's right hand went searching again, while with the left she held Hester's letter almost to the full length of her massive arm. Then she produced a lorgnette out of the flood and held it up, bringing the letter back into focus.
"What makes you think, gel, that you would be of service to B.L. here?" was her opening.
Hester hoped her face remained passive and gave away nothing of the nervousness she really felt.
"Come, come, gel! Whose servants might be made to talk secrets with you?" She was no longer staring at Hester in that measuring fashion but looking over the girl's shoulder, presumedly at the young man. "That's what's expected of us, you know. Our readers want neat little paragraphs of stories about milady's parties, the coming out of highborn misses, and all the rest of such stuff. Ladies do not fret their minds about other things—they have no brains in their heads, or so is the general opinion, ain't it, Albert?"
"Aunt Agatha!" The protest came loudly from the corner.
"Albert, you may do as you wish under your own roof— this happens to be my domain. Come out of hiding there and meet Miss—Miss Lane. She's from the colonies—Canada. Miss Lane, this is my cousin Albert Prothore."
Hester had half turned so that she could acknowledge this strange introduction. The young man's face was flushed, and she noted that his hand was gripping his hat brim with force enough to rend that article of clothing in two were he to follow the dictates of temper.
"Albert, Miss Lane, is parliamentary secretary to Sir John Dermond, and a very good one too, I have heard. He'd be even better if he shook some of the cobwebs off him.
"Now." Once more her attention fastened on Hester. The girl had murmured something in reply to that introduction, but the awkwardness of the situation embarrassed her. She had turned her head away quickly but she had heard no acknowledgment from him.
"—if you are willing—"
Hester blinked and hoped she had not colored. She had been thinking how pompous this Albeit Prothore was in spite of his youth and in so doing had missed something undoubtedly important.
"You can't!" That was Prothore. "You know how unfitting, how even dangerous such action can be!"
Miss Scrimshaw's small mouth showed how far it could enlarge when necessary. And surely that expansion was meant to be a grin.
"Now, Albert, do not make decisions for others." She nodded and the tuft of feathers on her bonnet bobbed back and forth as if in a stiff breeze. "You may decide, gel. I'll give it to you on simple terms. This can be a story that will make your name famous—"
"Infamous!" challenged Prothore.
"Albert!" The smile became that of a frog about to close on a fly. "This is a matter of business—but then you don't even know what that word means." Once more she turned back to Hester, waving a mittenlike hand, which displayed a pair of gold rings mounted with reddish-purple stones similar to those on her collar and cross. "We have a London out there unknown to readers of the B.L.—a London that others are trying to change for the better. If what I have heard is true, they are beginning to make some headway. Have you heard of the Salvation Army, gel?"
"No."
As Hester replied she was again conscious of Mr. Prothore's anger. For years she had been attuned to this—rage sensed in silence. How many times had she been the butt of that particular treatment when dealing with her father?
"Well," Miss Scrimshaw was continuing, "there is an organization working with and for the poor. They have persisted in the face of persecution and all kinds of opposition. The time has come, it is even a little past, to tell of what the Salvation Army has done for those we do not want to notice. Their work should be explained simply and earnestly to people such as our readers who have no connection at all with the depths of depravity, do not even know what exists.
"You are new to London, my gel. Therefore you would see much that would not be clouded by prejudice. I think"—she planted one broad elbow on the desk with her hand supporting her layered chin—"that we need a fresh outlook, a very fresh one. So what do you say, Miss Lane? I shall wish perhaps a series of articles—from what I have heard there is plenty to write about. You would be put on staff rates, and I think that this, if done well, could be for you a good opening into the field."
"No!" The instant protest came from Prothore. "Listen to me, Miss Lane. You certainly do not want to become the target of gossip, to follow a course which, were it uncovered, would be unwelcome in any assembly of your sex— “
"You"—Miss Scrimshaw's pudgy forefinger pointed to the still partly open door between Hester and her cousin—"go, Albert. I would lay a wager with you—if you were in the least open-minded—that this gel shall learn more than you will ever uncover for that sensation-seeking employer of yours. Meanwhile, this is a place of business and you are disrupting my business— “
Ignoring his aunt's heated words, Prothore turned to Hester. "It is all madness, do not let yourself be drawn into her experiment." He did not name his kinswoman, only nodded slightly in Miss Scrimshaw's direction. "It is rank and utter folly, and she knows it too!"
Miss Scrimshaw ignored him. "What about it, gel? Do you think you are writer enough to give the B.L. a picture of what happens on the side streets, of this town, while ladies ride snug in their barouches on the avenues?"
Hester drew a deep breath. She knew as well as this prig Prothore that her decision might be the greatest folly. Still— as Miss Scrimshaw had pointed out—it might also give her firm standing in the world she had so long desired to enter. For so many years she had yearned to escape that musty and silent web of scholarship that held nothing for her. What other post was there for a proper female?
"Yes." Though saying that made her suddenly breathless.
Mr. Prothore scowled more heavily. "All right." He spoke directly to Miss Scrimshaw. "I will get your story for you!"
"Miss Lane has accepted." Agatha Scrimshaw gave a vigorous nod of her head, so that the crest of feathers was flung about as it might be under a breeze. "Go your own way, Albert. But I hardly think you are one to dig deep enough— even to please Sir John."
Prothore moved toward Hester, as if he were about to shove her back through the door.
"Don't do it!" It was not said imploringly—she did not believe that this stiff young man had ever experienced the need to plead for anything—but rather as an order.
Hester moved a little to one side away from him. Thankfully she discovered she was able to meet his gaze levelly as she answered.
"I have already given my word!" Then she dared to add a dismissal.
"Good day, sir."
Miss Scrimshaw laughed. Prothore's lips were set tightly together as he passed Hester, slamming the door behind him. The girl felt a little qualm then. This was indeed taking charge of her own life and she hoped she wouldn't regret it.
Chapter 4
If it were not for the grime on the windowpane and the fog beyond it, Inspector Newcomen could almost see the lion-guarded grandeur of Trafalgar Square. But even such a sight was hardly compensation for his present surroundings. The lack of central heating or even the presence of a fireplace literally sent a chill down his spine during a good eight months out of every year; warmer weather afforded little relief, for want of adequate ventilation. At this moment the dimly lit cubbyhole that served in lieu of an office, shared with two others of equal rank, was musty and dank.
Wedged behind his battered rolltop desk in the corner, Newcomen gazed glumly on his surroundings. Even though his fellow officers were absent from their own desks at the moment, he still felt a sense of vague oppression when confined here. And confinement it truly was; there were felons in Newgate Prison incarcerated more comfortably than he was here in Scotland Yard.
There was no yard area on the short an
d narrow thoroughfare beyond nor any hint of Scotland; long centuries ago a palace had been reared on this site to provide accommodations during the royal visits of Scottish kings. But there was nothing palatial about the present structure. Metropolitan Police Commissioner Sir Edmund Henderson promised a new Yard in a new location within a few years; meanwhile, his officers must serve their sentences in this creaking, crumbling gaol.
The flickering gaslight cast Newcomen's shadow on the wall and did nothing to disperse the shadow of melancholy overcasting his spirits.
Ever since his meeting with Utterson earlier in the day he'd been troubled by persistent unease, and now with the coming of twilight his mood intensified. From past experience Newcomen realized there was only one way to dispel such a difficulty. He must meet the problem head-on and overcome it.
A hard case. Or, as his father had been wont to say, a tough nut to crack. A question formed its kernel; was Utter-son lying or not?
If the solicitor had been telling the truth, it was only in part. Too much was still unaccounted for, particularly concerning Dr. Jekyll's friendship with the shadowy Mr. Hyde.
Shadowy. Again Inspector Newcomen glanced at his silhouette wavering on the wall. Additional light would dispel that, but it would take a different sort of illumination to erase the shadow of Edward Hyde. Shade, perhaps, for Hyde was dead.
At least there was no uncertainty about that fact, or the coroner's verdict of suicide. But a new doubt had arisen to trouble the inspector since he had seen Dr. Jekyll's will.
He kept thinking about that altered clause. Dr. Jekyll's original intent had been to leave his entire estate to Edward Hyde. Was Hyde aware of this fact? Given the man's history, his knowledge of the clause might well have prompted him to murder his benefactor. Instead he killed himself, and it was Jekyll who remained alive. Or was he? If so, why hadn't he come forward? It was still possible that Hyde disposed of his longtime friend before doing away with himself. But should this be true, how and where had the deed been done and what had become of the corpus delicti?
Norton, Andre - Novel 39 Page 4