The Friday Society

by Adrienne Kress

  Officer Murphy took the opportunity to signal Cora and Nellie, and they followed him into the larger back room. They passed several desks manned by surprised-looking police officers until they arrived at Murphy’s. Of course, as there were two girls and only that number of chairs, Officer Murphy had to take a turn about the room before he could find one for himself, managing, in the process, to knock all the items on a fellow officer’s desk onto the floor.

  Soon he had returned and was sitting, his face expressing mild panic, little beads of sweat appearing along his brow, just below his yellow hair. Hair that had probably had a bit too much pomade added to it and was sticking up in a few odd directions, likely caused by his running his hand through it in frustration without realizing the aesthetic results.

  So cute, thought Nellie.

  “So,” he managed to squeeze out. “You again. Funny, that.”

  “Isn’t it,” said Cora, not sounding particularly amused.

  “Right. Of course. So . . . murder, was it?”

  Cora opened her eyes wide at him, then turned to look at Nellie. Nellie just smiled back.

  “Yes. Murder. A rather serious subject, don’t you think?” said Cora slowly.

  “Oh yes. Of course. Please, tell me.”

  Cora sighed. “Last night, near Charing Cross, we came across a flower girl by the name of Alice Foster. She was dying. I think she was stabbed in the stomach. She passed on after a few minutes. . . .”

  A back-and-forth followed. Officer Murphy asking reasonable questions and Cora providing as many answers as she could. Finally, there was a lull in the interview, a moment when it seemed they’d been through all the facts and the conversation was coming to an end. Officer Murphy looked over his notes. Then he looked up and glanced around the room. He jerked his chair close to the two of them and leaned in. Nellie and Cora followed his example.

  “I must be honest with you girls. There’s only one reason the sergeant called me over, and that was because they’re not going to investigate this.”

  “I don’t understand,” said Nellie. It was the first time she’d piped up, and when Officer Murphy looked at her, she noticed his ears turn pink.

  “Uh, well, uh . . . it’s just . . . I’m pretty new. And they wouldn’t give me a murder case if they actually wanted to solve it.”

  “What about Dr. Welland?” asked Cora.

  “They sent me to interview a couple of girls. That’s maybe one step up from paperwork.”

  “Thanks,” said Cora.

  “Look, I just want to be honest with you both. And that doctor business is part of the problem. Everyone’s on the case. Then there’s the British Museum . . .” He stopped.

  “Go on.”

  Officer Murphy didn’t look like he wanted to.

  Nellie leaned in and placed a comforting hand on his leg. “You can tell us. We won’t tell anyone.” Officer Murphy stared at the white hand against the dark blue of his trouser intently.

  “The museum was robbed last night, an artifact, a scroll from the traveling Lost Treasures of Alexandria exhibit,” he explained to the hand in barely a whisper.

  “Amazing,” said Nellie. No false enthusiasm required in this moment. It was impressive that anyone could rob such a building with its formidable wrought-iron fence and gates.

  “If they’re working on the doctor’s murder case, why haven’t you asked us for an official statement?” said Cora.

  Officer Murphy looked up almost reluctantly. “What’s that?”

  “We were the ones who found him. Michiko fought the man who is probably your most likely suspect.”

  “Well, I interviewed you. You said what you had to say, and there wasn’t much more to it. . . .”

  “For that matter,” continued Cora, standing up and starting to look annoyed, “why were none of us mentioned in any of the articles about the investigation?”

  Nellie could feel Officer Murphy’s leg tense and she realized she hadn’t yet removed her hand. She pulled it back quickly, and he seemed to take that as an admonishment and looked at her with great concern.

  “It’s not that . . . it’s just . . . I don’t know. I’m not in charge. I imagine it’s a matter of you being civilians . . .”

  “What leads have you been pursuing? I imagine his work with cavorite?”

  “With . . . what?”

  “He had a very valuable piece of cavorite with him. Anyone from the party could have told you that.”

  “People talked of a glowing, flying, mechanical bird. But not this cavorite you’re talking about. And nothing was found at the scene.”

  “Of course not, the man in the fog probably took it.”

  “You think he was murdered for this cavorite?”

  “It’s a very reasonable possibility.”

  “I wonder if this British Museum business might have to do with any of it, then?” asked Nellie, fascinated by the conversation, which had set her mind spinning.

  Officer Murphy and Cora both looked at her. Cora nodded and pointed at her. “I wonder . . .”

  “Now, let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” said Officer Murphy, finally rising. “There’s a lot of crime in this city . . .”

  “But what do the flower girls have to do with anything?” Cora asked, mostly to herself. She sat back down, with Officer Murphy following suit immediately, and Nellie felt a bit like she was watching a French farce.

  “Nothing,” said Officer Murphy. “Look, someone’s murdered almost every night in this city. And that’s just the reported crime. It’s bad business, but it’s the sorry state we live in. And people get robbed. I imagine this cavorite is valuable, right?”

  Cora nodded. “Yes.”

  “Well, then, there you go. Money. Usually the motivation for most crimes.”

  “How old are you?” Cora leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms over her chest.

  “What . . . I . . . twenty-one. Just. Why, what does it matter?”

  “You talk as if you’ve been on the job a long time, but I know the rules, and you can’t have been an officer more for than a couple months.”

  “What’s your point?”

  “I don’t trust your experience, is all. Quite frankly I don’t think you know what you’re doing.”

  Officer Murphy sputtered at her candor. He ran his fingers through his hair, mussing it up further and seemed to be having a private conversation with himself, nodding his head about and sighing a few times. Finally: “Miss, you’re young. Younger than I am, and not an officer and . . . well, I’d call you a bit of a troublemaker, quite frankly. I’ve taken your statement about the girl, and I think it’s time for the two of you to leave.” He rose. This time it was clear that he wouldn’t be sitting down again. It was also clear that they should be standing up. So Nellie stood.

  Cora didn’t.

  “Alice.”

  “What was that?” said Officer Murphy.

  “The ‘girl’ has a name. And it’s Alice Foster.” She stood finally and slowly began to put her gloves back on. “Thank you, Officer Murphy. And I apologize for my comment. You clearly, in your short time in this job, have come to exemplify all that we expect from the police.”

  There was another sputter, and Cora turned and left. Nellie took it to be her cue as well, but she felt so bad for Officer Murphy, and she couldn’t just leave him like that. He hadn’t been mean on purpose. He was just doing his job.

  “Thank you for speakin’ with us,” she said with an apologetic smile.

  Officer Murphy nodded.

  She turned to leave and heard him blurt out, “Name!”

  She looked back at him. “I’m sorry?”

  He had a dejected expression on his face, his shoulders drooped, and his hair even seemed to have lost its frustrated enthusiasm. “Your name. I . . . forgot to get your names the other night, and now this time and . . . I just wanted your name.”

  Nellie smiled. “That was Miss Cora Bell. And I’m Nellie. Harrison.”

 
“Nellie,” repeated Officer Murphy. “I’m . . . Jeff. Jeffery. Jeff.”

  Nellie felt a little flutter in her heart at the name and quickly turned to follow Cora before she felt anything stronger. Not that there was anything wrong with a flutter. But it probably wasn’t the time or place.

  Cora was pacing impatiently outside the station.

  “I’m sorry that he couldn’t help,” said Nellie softly.

  “It doesn’t matter. I’ve been taking care of myself for seventeen years, and I can take care of this.”

  “Oh . . . good . . .”

  There wasn’t much more Nellie felt she could say.

  They parted ways. It was already past supper time, and the sun had fallen low behind the rooftops, cloaking the city in shadow and giving it its premature evening look as it did every night. Still blue in the sky, but dark in the streets.

  As Nellie wound her way home and reappeared in her square, she remembered her meeting with Mr. Staunch and Mr. Proper and thought back to what Cora had said about Mr. Carter. Also about what she’d said about taking things into her own hands. . . .

  There were no two ways about it: she’d have to take her investigation to a whole new level.

  25

  A Gap Between Two Buildings

  MICHIKO STARED BETWEEN her feet at the ground so far below her. Her heart was still racing, even though she’d stopped herself just in time. She couldn’t get over the idea that she’d almost plunged to her death. It didn’t feel at all like she’d prevented the inevitable. Rather her imagination was so vivid that a version of herself in her mind’s eye was falling fast toward the pavement, picking up speed, and then . . . then . . .

  “Silver Heart!” Hayao called out to her across the chasm. He’d so effortlessly leaped across the space between the two roofs that it had seemed perfectly possible for her to do it, too. But as the moment had approached, as the ledge had gotten closer and the space looked wider, Michiko doubted herself. Gripped with a sudden fear, she’d pulled to a frantic standstill, fighting her own forward momentum and thrashing to a pretty impressive stop just in time. Fortunately, she had years of balance training to help her.

  It was the same problem. The same every time. She could never really embrace death, face it head-on. She could never commit herself as much as was demanded of her. It wasn’t for a lack of desire. But in the moment she failed herself. Every time.

  “I . . . can’t . . .” said Michiko, truly embarrassed to admit defeat to her student. This had been a bad idea. A master was not meant to seem weak, to seem fearful. She was doing this all wrong.

  “Yes, you can. You are doing very well. Just try it again, and remember to focus on your goal. The ledge, the left hand down, kick out the legs before you, let energy pull your body down. Like we’ve been doing.”

  This running thing of Hayao’s had proven to be far more complex than just taking off and following one’s feet. He had a whole philosophy that went with it, one that was very similar to the samurai’s and that Michiko assumed had been partially influenced by his old samurai master at the stall in the market. A great deal of it was about mental conditioning. Focusing on self-discipline, being able to take action despite how one felt physically and, especially, emotionally. That same stillness in the center, that same focus on the task. Goals weren’t an end; they were what propelled you toward the next challenge.

  Hayao saw the world around him in a different way than everyone else, saw paths where others could not, examined corners and noticed the overturned apple crate, the exposed rough brick wall. He created steps out of discarded elements and structural supports. He had explained that when he walked, he didn’t pay attention to the people, but to the spaces between them.

  Michiko could relate to all this. It made sense to her. And as they’d run along the deserted streets together, at times stopping and examining potentially better ways to launch oneself, only to turn around and try again, she’d thought she was picking the whole thing up quite quickly. She had started to feel confident. So much so that Hayao had taken them up onto the rooftops of the city.

  The London skyline was like a forest—no, a jungle. Chimney pots, some decorative, some purely practical, could appear suddenly and unpredictably underfoot. Gothic spires made way for neo-Classical domes, which then made way for a straight clear runway. Round then sharp. Flat then beveled. Hayao saw all these sudden changes as something helpful, not as impediments. And, as he worked out a particular path for them to follow and practiced it a few times before teaching it to her, Michiko could see how much easier it was to run fast with the help of her body weight and different heights than along a flat surface.

  Hayao must have been impressed with her, but he was also a boy of fourteen and easily excitable. That must have been the reason he’d thought she was ready, her first night out, to jump between two buildings. Not a small gap, mind you, but a wide alley.

  “It’s simple because this roof is higher. So you let yourself fall. Push forward and fall down. Much easier than jumping up.”

  He had yet to teach her that.

  Michiko was feeling good. Her heart was pumping, energy was flowing, and she felt this new skill would help her defeat the man she had started to call the Fog. It wouldn’t help her in fighting him—for that she would rely on her much more finely honed samurai technique. But the running would help her scour the city until she finally found him.

  So she’d agreed to the jump. Hayao had talked her through it, explained the angles, where she should put her hand in order to launch herself. It was all moves she’d been doing for the last couple of hours.

  Hayao had gone first, completing the jump perfectly. It had looked easy. He’d grinned at her from across and below where she was standing, and Michiko rolled her eyes at his pride. She’d have to work on that with him.

  She walked to the far end of the building and allowed her mind to empty, to focus on nothing but the task before her. It was the same way she’d focused on those three foolish men the night before. This was familiar to her. This was natural.

  Running. Running with focus and intention. Not anticipating, but knowing what was to come. In the moment. Run. Run. Fast. The edge is approaching, the path is clear. Run. Run. Fast.

  I can’t.

  That’s when she’d come to a flailing halt.

  “Yes,” said Hayao. “You can.”

  He had such faith in her. This boy who barely knew her. He was in awe of her. You could see it even in the way he taught her, which was always done with reverence. The same way one would teach an elder about a new scientific discovery. She wanted to share his faith in her.

  “How?” she called out. “How can I do it?” Teach me. Help me.

  “Because I know you can. Trust me. I wouldn’t ask you to do something I didn’t think you were ready for.”

  Looking at the boy, his hair sticking up at odd angles, his eyes a little too wide apart, and a grin full of crooked teeth, she saw the least likely person she’d ever have trust in. But then again, those who had once seemed worthy of her respect had proven themselves to be the least trustworthy. Her parents. Her sensei, Kyoshi Adachi. Callum.

  Okay, little monkey. I’ll trust you.

  Giving herself over to the idea, she returned to the far end of the building. Focus, focus as you know how to focus. Trust. A deep breath.

  She was running again. She gathered strength and confidence as her legs carried her past and over obstacles. She was running fast. So fast. The ledge approached. She felt that familiar fear. Fear of her own mortality. No, she couldn’t do it.

  Then she saw Hayao, his face screwed up in concentration, watching her every move and nodding at her progress.

  Trust.

  Run.

  Run.

  Fast.

  Run.

  She was in the air, nothing beneath her feet, just her body suspended. Flying. She was flying. And she didn’t feel scared. For the first time she could recall, she felt sure and so happy. She felt no
fear.

  She landed next to Hayao and performed an aikido roll as the momentum from her flight kept her body weight moving forward. The roll took her back to her feet and to stillness.

  Michiko turned to Hayao, who was smiling even more broadly at her, if that were possible.

  “How did you feel?” he asked, running over to her.

  Michiko returned the smile. “Free. I felt . . . free.”

  26

  Break and Enter

  KENSINGTON GARDENS WAS heavenly first thing in the morning. The picturesque paths were free of nannies and prams, the Round Pond and its surrounds empty except for three sleeping swans, with the only sound the faint wind in the trees. And the morning light danced over everything in a relaxed manner that suggested it was in no rush to proceed with the day.

  Nellie made her way contentedly along the Broad Walk to the high street, and eventually turned back up Kensington Palace Gardens Road—a private street nicknamed “Millionaires’ Row,” gated to vehicles but open to foot traffic. It was a gorgeous street, lined with trees that soared above and canopied overhead. The neo-Classical homes, all unique in their own magnificent extravagance, were protected behind tall wrought-iron fences and white stone pillars, but their height and size still left them susceptible to preying eyes.

  Nellie’s were rather probing this morning as she wandered down the street, careful not to draw any particular attention. When she reached number eighteen, she stopped and stared at the building behind its carefully crafted number plate. It was, like the palace the street was named after, made of red brick accented with white. It towered, four tall stories, the bottom three displaying tall white windows, and the top, a sloping roof through which smaller windows peeked out and on which five chimneys proudly stood sentinel. There was no sign of life in the house, though Nellie imagined the servants were moving about, preparing for breakfast and airing out the living spaces. She saw a few drapes twitch as she gazed, which confirmed her suspicions.

  She knew she was too early. But she’d arrived now on purpose. Her plan was simple, and it relied on her patience. Wait until Mr. Carter vacated the property, then slip inside.