The Nearly Notorious Nun

by Rie Sheridan Rose

“Until he reveals himself, which he must do to receive his payment.”

  “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it,” I replied. “Now, the second matter is also…disturbing. I was accosted on the street yesterday by two hoodlums. They told me that Alistair must not testify in Blessant’s case. I sent him a telegram last evening warning him to get out of his hotel and move to a place of safety. Later, I received a reply that Alistair had already checked out of the hotel three days ago. This morning, I sent a second telegram to learn more particulars, and I received this reply.”

  I showed him the message with the description of “Professor Conn.”

  “This doesn’t sound like the man I met,” he said with a frown.

  “It isn’t. Someone pretended to be Alistair and checked out of the hotel to mask the fact that he has disappeared. I am not sure what to do next to find him. He could be in serious trouble. What do we do about it?”

  “Blackmail and a disappearance? This just gets worse and worse. This is definitely a case for the professionals. I'll contact my colleagues in Ohio—”

  “I have had some occasion to see the competency of your colleagues in Ohio,” I replied, shaking my head. “Hopefully, Alistair will be able to take care of himself. After all, he is a fairly competent adult. The blackmail is happening right here. That’s what we must focus on.”

  “You must be careful, Josephine. This is nothing to play at.”

  “I assure you,” I said, rising to my feet, “I am not playing at anything. I must say, I expected a little more help from you. After all, isn’t the police station where one is supposed to go when one is in trouble?”

  “Josephine…”

  I sniffed. “That’s Miss Mann to you, Inspector. I did what I was supposed to do, and you were no help at all. Good day.” I bent and picked up my typing machine.

  He stood and came around the desk, placing his hands on my shoulders.

  “Don’t be that way, Jo—Miss Mann. I just don’t want to see you hurt.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Please. I am a rational, modern woman and fully capable of taking care of myself.”

  “I should take this matter to my supervisor. You are dealing with two sets of nefarious people here—at least, I’m assuming that Professor Conn’s disappearance has nothing to do with the blackmail. If you are determined to face this blackmailer or these street thugs on your own, at least make sure that you do so in a public, well-lit place. It would definitely be better if you let my men confront these criminals. Lay people have no business taking the law into their own hands.”

  “I will be careful, Inspector. I promise.”

  He sighed and dropped his hands, moving back around the desk and opening the top drawer.

  “I want you to take this.” He held out a small pepper-pot pistol. “Don’t use it unless you have to.”

  I put the typewriter down on his desk again and took the gun, examining it carefully.

  “That’s more like it,” I said, nodding in approval.

  “Just don’t shoot yourself.”

  “I won’t. I’m not an idiot.” I stuck the pistol into my bag and held out my hand. “Bullets?”

  “The pistol is loaded. How many bullets do you expect to need?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve never had to shoot anyone before.”

  A good night’s sleep had Amy full of ideas when she awoke the next morning. She made a neat list of the items she knew and leads to pursue in the calfskin notebook her mother had given her for social engagements—Mama would have a conniption if she knew the use it was being put to.

  When she finished the list, she had a clear idea what she wanted to do next. It was a bit early for a social call, but, then again, the man she needed to speak to next was not really a social acquaintance.

  She considered donning a disguise, and pretending to be someone else when she called, but that seemed unnecessarily obfuscating. After all, she rather thought her quarry fancied her, and that might play to her advantage…

  -- Garrett Goldthwaite

  Analytical Amy and the Case of the Covetous Cad

  Chapter 7

  I felt much stronger with Reilly’s gun in my bag. It was smaller and lighter than Fred’s pistol had been, and that was the only other firearm of my acquaintance. Although I had read that the pepper-pot was notoriously inaccurate, I expected to be very close to my target if I had to actually use the thing.

  It was still quite early in the morning, so I took the typewriter upstairs to my room, and spent some time exploring the machine and practicing pecking out words on the keys. I compared the results to the letters from the blackmailer, but all I could tell was that my machine had better ink.

  With a sigh, I set the machine atop the wardrobe and decided to put some time in on a secret project I had thought of the night before. After all, why should Alistair and the others have all the fun? Besides, it would take my mind off of his disappearance.

  Now that I had decided to invent something of my own, I was excited to get to it. Alistair had said not to tinker with his things, but surely he wouldn’t begrudge me a few gears and screws to create something new—especially if it was to help make Ma’s life easier. The other materials I needed were quickly gathered around the house. I snuck them down to the laboratory without being caught.

  I had noticed that Ma—and Aunt Emily’s maid, Vanessa, for that matter—spent a great deal of their time engaged in chores that could have been more efficient with the aid of some mechanical devices. It was all well and good to go inventing airships and automatons, but in the end, there were opportunities for more practical applications of science. I decided to turn my hand to some of them.

  One of the most time consuming household chores is ironing, so I determined to start there. It had come to me the previous evening that it would be much more efficient to use some sort of steam mechanism to speed things along. So, I was planning on experimenting with ways to connect a steam reservoir to a flatiron.

  Several hours later, I had mostly made things wet.

  I couldn’t figure out how to contain the liquid until it turned to steam and then channel it into the iron. I was sure such a process would make it easier to remove the wrinkles from clothing, but the practical mechanics were eluding me.

  I supposed I could ask Alistair his thoughts—if I could find him—but I really wanted to work this out on my own, to show I was capable of inventing something by myself.

  Perhaps I could ask Alistair’s mechanical man, Phaeton, for advice. He seemed to have a great deal of practical knowledge inside that beautiful brass brain of his. I wouldn’t mind his help…

  Phaeton!

  If Alistair had disappeared, where was Phaeton? Had he been at the hotel with Alistair? If so, how had anyone managed to get Alistair from the premises? If not, where in Heaven’s name might he be?

  The thought took away all interest I had in tinkering, for the moment. Besides, I was getting nothing productive done, so I might as well stop procrastinating with regard to my obligation to Bridget and get down to business. I would have to trust Kevin Reilly and his contacts in Ohio to take care of Alistair.

  I bent my steps toward the convent; it was a lovely day, and I decided to walk. The distance was several miles, but we were not so far into the middle of the afternoon that I needed to pay for another cab. Especially after buying the typing machine.

  As I traveled the streets, I contemplated and rejected several plans. There had to be a way to draw the blackmailer out of the shadows—shadows I kept checking all the way to the convent, half-expecting another visit from the bully boys. The exercise in contemplation—and the anxiety heightened by looking over my shoulder continually—combined to make the trip go very quickly, and sooner than I expected, I was ascending the steps to the heavy door.

  I knocked, and a nun I didn’t recognize, wearing a frazzled expression I knew all too well, opened it.

  “Yes? May I help you?”

  “I’ve come to see Mother Supe
rior,” I replied. “My name is Josephine Mann.”

  “Come inside. I will see if she is available.” She stepped back and hurried off down the hall without even closing the door.

  I did as she asked, and then followed her down the corridor. She moved so quickly, I was almost running by the time we turned into the hall with Bridget’s office.

  The sound of raised voices echoed along the corridor. One of them was an adult’s—I thought I recognized Bridget. The other was a child. Screaming at the top of her lungs, it sounded like.

  “Why can’t I?” the child yelled. “I am old enough to take care of myself!”

  “You are in my care, Ella. This is not open for negotiation.”

  “I hate you! I don’t know why I have to live in this nasty old place anyway.”

  “Where else do you propose to go?”

  “Anywhere!” the little hellion shrieked.

  The argument rang through the halls of the stone building. Someone would have to take care of this. Apparently, Bridget was not the one to do so. Of course, it wasn’t my place to interfere in the way Bridget dealt with her charges—but it was giving me a headache.

  I paused in the doorway to the office.

  “Stop that this instant!” I scolded, stamping my foot.

  The two people in the room turned toward me. One was Bridget, her cheeks flushed a becoming rose. The other was a girl of about ten who looked enough like her…to be her daughter.

  Had she been lying to me? If so, she would have to have been more daring and promiscuous than I had realized—and to have hidden it from me when we were both at the orphanage. Was this the illegitimate child the letter writer spoke of? Was she indeed Bridget’s?

  I had more questions than answers at the moment, and other things on my mind. I really didn’t have time for this.

  “Jo!” Bridget gulped. “I wasn’t expecting you back so soon.”

  “I can see that.” I stepped into the office. “Who is this?”

  “It’s a long story.” She sighed. “Ella, go to your room.”

  “With pleasure!” The child spun on her heel and stormed out.

  Bridget fell into her chair.

  “I’m sorry you had to see that.”

  I moved to the desk and took the visitor’s seat.

  “I think you have some explaining to do, Miss Doyle.”

  “I can guess what you are thinking…”

  “Can you now?”

  “She really isn’t mine, Jo. She’s my niece. Do you remember my sister Nettie?”

  I thought for a moment.

  “Yes, of course I do.”

  And I did. Bridget’s sister Henrietta had been a tall, quiet girl two or three years older than the rest of us. She read even more than Sophie and I did. While Bridget was the wild one, Nettie was sweet and gentle. She had been a mother to the batch of us, soothing hurts and drying tears.

  “What became of her?” I asked.

  “She fell in love with a soldier during the War. They were to have a formal wedding when the hostilities ended, but he was killed in battle. Nettie claims that there was a secret ceremony, but she has no proof. Unfortunately, she was with child when he fell. Ella is the outcome.

  “I volunteered to take her into the orphanage where she could be raised without the stigma—real or perceived—of being out of wedlock. Nettie does come to visit several times a year, but, apparently, that isn’t enough, as you have seen.”

  “There is a striking family resemblance,” I murmured. “So, that’s the full story? You swear to me?”

  “I promise. That’s the entirety of it. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you before…I know it was foolish, but I was hoping to keep Nettie’s secret, even from you. She has a new fiancé now—a scion of society. They are to be married in a few days. Having this come to light could ruin that for her. That’s why I haven’t tried to dissuade the blackmailer of his misconception.”

  “That and the fact that you don’t know who he is.”

  Bridget laughed weakly. “Well, there is that.”

  “We really need to get him to reveal his identity. There’s no way to confront him if we don’t know his name.”

  “Well, we might have a way to find out who he is,” she breathed, her face sobering. “I received this in the morning post.” She slid a piece of paper across the desk.

  It was another letter:

  Jezebel—

  You have continued to ignore my communications. This must stop. If you do not wish your infamy to become the fodder for the news mill, you will meet me in Longacre Square with the deed to the property in question tomorrow at noon.

  “Hmmm…still no name—I don’t know how you could answer his communications without one. He’s not the brightest blackmailer, is he?”

  Bridget smiled weakly. “It does seem a bit unwise of him, doesn’t it? Perhaps he has learned his skills from reading books and not practical application.” Her fingers worked restlessly at her rosary.

  “Well, the only way we will find out the truth is to keep that appointment,” I continued.

  She bit her lip. “If you think it’s best, Jo.”

  I had a sudden idea and sat up straight, cocking my head and eyeing her speculatively.

  “I do…but you won’t be doing it.” I stood up and circled her chair. “We have always been of a height. Do you have an extra habit?”

  “Oh…oh, no you don’t, Josephine Mann! I know just what you’re thinking, and you’re not going to take my place.”

  “Why not? We’ve traded places often enough in the past. I’m much more used to dealing with villainy than you are. You’re a woman of the veil, for Heaven’s sake! Besides…” I reached into my bag and pulled out the pepper-pot, “I have this.”

  Amy looked down her nose at the creature before her. It took every ounce of composure she possessed not to reach across the table and slap him. Instead, she took a steadying sip of her tea.

  “Thank you for agreeing to see me, Mr. Forrest.”

  “Phineas, please—we are old friends, are we not?”

  She shuddered inwardly. “Phineas, it is, then. I wanted to get your expert opinion on something.” She feigned hesitation, biting her lip.

  “I am completely at your disposal, my dear,” he purred, laying his hand on hers.

  -- Garrett Goldthwaite

  Analytical Amy and the Case of the Covetous Cad

  Chapter 8

  “Josephine Mann! What on earth…?”

  “It’s a pistol.”

  “I know it’s a pistol. What are you doing with it?”

  “Inspector Reilly gave it to me so that I could protect myself.”

  “Do you even know how to use it?”

  “It’s quite simple,” I said, raising the gun. “Any child could operate it.”

  There was a loud bang and a puff of smoke, and a neat hole appeared in the wall directly above Bridget’s head. I winced and dropped the weapon onto the desk.

  “Sorry about that.”

  Bridget sighed. “You’re as bad as the children.” She picked up the pistol and popped open the chamber, shaking the bullets out into her hand. “I think it’s best to keep these separate,” she said wryly. “Don’t you?”

  “Whatever you say. Still, it will be handy to have in a fight.”

  I held out my hand for the bullets. Reluctantly, she gave them to me.

  “Just…promise you’ll keep the gun unloaded.”

  I crossed my fingers in the folds of my skirt.

  “I promise.”

  “Your fingers are crossed, aren’t they?”

  I undid them hastily.

  “No.”

  “I taught you that, remember? You really need to keep the gun unloaded. Or learn how to use it.”

  “I have used a gun before.” Of course, I hadn’t hit anything…

  “What am I going to do with you?” she asked fondly, and the love in her voice was a welcome balm. It spoke of childhood and home—the only one I had
known as a girl.

  “It is a good plan, Bridget. I won’t really be in any danger. As long as the villain wants something from you, he won’t hurt me—you. And it will be easier for me to learn what he wants if I’m there to hear it from his own lips instead of secondhand through you.”

  She shook her head with a sigh.

  “All right, Jo. I know better than to try and talk you out of one of your schemes.”

  It seemed she remembered our childhood as well. We had both been good at getting into scrapes, and neither had been too quick at avoiding them.

  “Besides, it’ll keep my mind off other things.”

  “Other things?”

  It was now my turn to sigh.

  “Alistair is missing. He disappeared from his hotel in Ohio, and I have no idea how or why, and what became of Phaeton.”

  “Who is Phaeton?”

  “Didn’t I tell you about him? Alistair’s mechanical man? He’s wonderful—a nine-foot-tall self-aware automaton. But he wouldn’t allow Alistair to be kidnapped if he were in the same room at the hotel, so I don’t know where he could be.”

  “I’m sure God will reveal all in time,” Bridget said piously.

  I knew she was a nun, but I found the statement insufferable.

  She stood up then and gestured toward the door.

  “If you’re determined to do this thing, let’s get it over with.”

  Her spare habit was a little worn about the edges, but it would do. It was also slightly too long, but my boots had enough heel to keep it off the ground. I wished I could sash it in at the waist, but that wasn’t how it was worn. I had to settle for slightly frumpy.

  Still, once I had fastened the wimple on my head, I checked my appearance in my hand mirror, and saw we could almost have been taken for twins once more.

  Bridget studied me critically.

  “This just might work.”

  She made me remove and replace the ensemble several times to make sure I could get dressed on my own the next day for the meeting, then found a burlap sack for me to carry the clothing home.