by Bettie Jane
Meredith stepped on to the dais and positioned herself behind the podium to call the meeting to order, just in time to save Julia from anymore of her own destructive thoughts.
“Ladies and Gentleman, welcome to the Piccadilly Ladies Club. We have a treat in store for you lovely journalists of the fairer sex. Gentleman, don’t be fooled, there’s nothing fair about being a woman in this industry. A reality we’d like to change and with the help of our very own rising star, Julia Barlow, you ladies will discover ingenious ways to hold your own in this profession. Without further ado, I give you Miss Julia Barlow.”
2
Monday Late Evening
February 11, 1921
Jacob Gibbs Residence
London
“How’d your speech go, Julia?”
Jacob crossed his sitting room and put a drink in her hand. She gladly accepted.
“It went well. I got a job offer out of it, so I suppose it wasn’t a complete waste of time.”
“A job offer? I thought you were worried you’d lose your job after speaking so plainly.”
She took a sip. “Oh, this is quite delicious. What’s in it besides gin?”
“Some lavender and basil plus freshly squeezed lemon juice. Do you like it, then?”
“I do. Maybe too much,” she laughed as she swallowed the rest of the drink. “That goes down very easy.” She set the glass aside. “I was as harsh as I intended to be about the plight of women in the field, but I think my job is safe at the moment because Mr. Quincy saw Mr. Thompson from The Daily Telegraph speaking with me both before and after the speech. I tried to be discreet, to no avail. Perhaps it won’t be the worst thing for my current situation if I’m a hot commodity. Or at least if Mr. Quincy thinks I’m a hot commodity. It’s just like a man to have a renewed desire for something he thinks he can’t have.”
She raised her eyebrow at Jacob, wondering if she needed to apply that principle in her personal life. He looked to be oblivious to the extra meaning in her words.
“Come and sit. Tell me about the job offer.”
He sat down in an overstuffed chair by the fire and she joined him, claiming the chair next to him.
“I do love your parlor, Jacob. It’s so charming.”
“I’m glad you approve.”
He reached for her hand and held it between his while she spoke.
“Mr. Thompson wants me to move to his paper. As a crime reporter, specifically.”
“That’s quite the status upgrade from investigative journalist. The Daily Telegraph has more of circulation that The Daily News, yes?”
She shrugged. “I’m not certain how much of an upgrade in terms of position, but The Daily Telegraph is a more illustrious paper. I would have my own recurring article each week and reach a wider audience. I’d be working alongside Harry Jones. I’m sure you’ve come across him before in your work. He’s been writing about his search for the Dock Murderer.”
Jacob nodded and sipped his whisky. “He seems like a good fellow. Not overly sensational, always concerned with the facts. I think you’ll like him. You haven’t met him before?”
“No,” she said, and rubbed his hand seductively. Her powers of seduction were not well-refined, but she might as well give it a try. Heaven knew if she didn’t make a move, poor Jacob never would. “Mr. Quincy constantly holds him up as an example of who I ought to model myself after. Perhaps I’ll enjoy working with him after all. You approve of his work at least.”
“I’ve only heard positive feedback from anyone at the Yard who has interacted with him.”
“I have a few days to make a decision.” She suspected she already had, however. She leaned forward. “Let’s not talk about work anymore tonight. My friends were telling me I needed to remember how to have fun again. Say, I have an idea, Jacob,” she said, and left her chair and climbed on to his seated lap. She nuzzled against his neck, kissing him below his ear, and stroked his hair.
“You smell so good, Inspector.”
He held her there on his lap briefly, then kissed her cheek and stood, lifting her with him and setting her down in a standing position next to the fire.
He cleared his throat and made the most subtle gesture to adjust his pants. “You smell good also, darling.”
He stood next to her and rested a hand on her lower back, rubbing gently in circles. All of her patience, or rather lack of patience, boiled over all at once, blazing hotter than the flames that licked the burning logs. She stepped away, out of reach of his warm, gentle, tormenting hands. Her arms crossed in front of her, she railed at him.
“Jacob Gibbs. I’ve had quite enough of your rejection. Either you want me or you don’t, and I’ll have your answer immediately. I’ll not make a fool of myself over you a moment longer! Shall I get my coat or will you kiss me? It’s a simple choice, Inspector.”
She took a shaky breath and tried to gather her composure, tapping her foot impatiently while she waited for his response.
He scrubbed his hands through his hair and paced from the fireplace past the sofa to the window and back again. She watched him for what must have been five full minutes before she planted herself in front of him, her hands on her hips.
“Jacob Gibbs. That’s enough pacing. You are driving me mad. If you have to think this hard about whether or not you want me, then it appears I already have my answer.”
She walked gracefully to gather her coat and purse. She could hear him following her, still silent, and she thought she might murder him with her bare hands. Nothing? He had nothing to say? They’d been in each other’s company for three months and he had nothing to say? Well, that was fine with her.
She slipped into her coat and made for the front door.
“Julia, wait.”
She stopped but didn’t turn around. She could feel him behind her, close enough that his breath warmed the back of her neck.
Damn him.
“What?” Still she didn’t turn around to face him. He could speak to her back for all she cared.
“You are important to me, Julia. I value your friendship, but our relationship is complicated. We’ve become good friends, and I don’t want to complicate it unnecessarily.”
“Complicate it.” Her voice was flat. “Yes, of course, you’re right. I’d hate to complicate your life. Good evening, sir.”
His telephone rang, and she made up her mind.
She walked through the front door and slammed it behind her. She stormed down the front steps and toward her auto, her insides roiling like an angry sea. She was very conscious of the fact that he hadn’t followed her outside. She wanted to think it was because he was distracted by the phone call, but deep down she knew it was because he didn’t feel for her as she did for him. She clenched her fists, fought back the tears, and got into the driver’s side. The auto squealed away from his house, and she hoped he could hear the engine scream at him in protest to his careless manner.
Her mind raced as she drove obviously through the dark streets of London back toward Mayfair. Men, honestly, why did she bother? Clearly she wasn’t going to anymore. She’d focus on work.
She tried to ignore the gnawing thought that she was going to have a tough time as a crime reporter without her close ties to an Inspector at Scotland Yard.
“I’ll make due,” she said to herself as she raced through the streets. “He’s not the only officer in the city.”
Perhaps Harry, her soon-to-be new colleague, had a connection he could share with her. She made up her mind in that moment that not only would she make due, she’d also develop an extraordinary relationship with another officer and then flaunt her lack of need for Jacob. She could make him jealous every time she arrived at Headquarters.
She instantly regretted her bitter response, not truly wishing ill on Jacob but too blinded by the pain of his rejection to think clearly. She needed Opal. Her friend always had a good perspective, especially about men.
When Julia arrived at the Goodall, and her own, r
esidence, she raced up the steps, calling for Opal. Her friend came out of her room just as Julia reached the bedroom door.
“What is it, Julia?”
“Jacob. He—he—Oh, Opal,” she cried, collapsing into her friend’s arms. “He doesn’t want me. I thought he loved me…I thought I loved him…but he doesn’t want me.”
She sobbed into her friend’s shoulder, accepting Opal’s soothing remarks and warm embrace. “There, there. It’s going to be all right. Come, let me pour you a drink and you can tell me everything.”
Once situated in the parlor with a drink in her hand, Julia explained what happened at Jacob’s house. She wiped her eyes once she’d relayed the basics and chugged the drink that Opal had given her. The ice clinked together as the glass shook in her hands.
“Mostly, I’m angry with myself for letting myself get attached. I should have known. I should have realized the signs, but I stuck my head in the sand and refused to see the meaning. He’s not interested and never has been. He didn’t say anything, Opal. Not a thing. After all these months together, he couldn’t even offer an explanation. Only silence. I hate him, I think, for leading me on.”
Opal refilled Julia’s drink and sat on the sofa next to her.
“I’m so sorry, Julia. If you’d have asked me before this whether he was smitten with you, I would have said yes. Maybe there is something else going on in his life. He always looks at you like…well, like he loves you. You poor thing, you must be simply devastated.”
Julia took a few deep breaths and then stood up, squaring her shoulders.
“It’s his loss, now isn’t it? I thought we had something but apparently I was wrong. I didn’t need him before I knew him, and I certainly don’t need him now.”
Her sniffling gave away her false bravado. She downed the entirety of the second drink Opal had given to her.
“Thank you, my dear friend. You are a loyal companion. Tonight I will sleep and tomorrow will be a new day, and I’ll simply put Jacob Gibbs behind me. Let’s not speak of him again, shall we?”
“Whatever you need, dearest. Come, I’ll tuck you into bed.”
They were part way up the stairs when the bell rang, announcing a visitor at the front door.
“Mr. Harrison will get it.”
They continued their way up the grand, winding staircase until Julia heard Jacob’s voice and froze.
“Pardon me for the late hour,” Jacob said from the unseen location downstairs. “It is quite urgent that I speak with Miss Barlow.”
“Yes, of course,” the butler answered. “Please have a seat in the parlor, and I’ll inform her that you are here.”
Julia’s heart raced. He’d come for her. She could feel her eyes bulging as big as saucers, still wet from fresh tears, so she wiped her face and looked at Opal, panicked.
“Go freshen up, Julia. He can wait. I’ll keep him company.” Opal kissed her on the cheek. “It seems your young man came after you. How wonderful.”
Opal skipped down the stairs, and Julia climbed the remaining ones and ran down the hall to her room to clean up her face. Luckily, she looked much better than she felt. With luck, he wouldn’t know she’d been crying.
She made her way downstairs, her heart suspended in her throat, and imagined their makeup kiss with each step she took.
When she rounded the corner into the parlor, he was standing, wringing his hands. The expression on his face and the posture with which he held himself made her instantly nervous. This didn’t look at all like Romeo showing up to profess his love for Juliet.
“Julia. I’m—I’m sorry to disturb you. I know you are having a difficult night, but there’s been a murder. Harry Jones, the crime reporter. I know you would want to come along to the crime scene since you’ll have a vested interest in his murder.”
Her heart sunk. This was not the news she’d hoped he’d come with. That thought was quickly followed by shock that Harry Jones had been murdered.
She forced a professional smile on her face. “Thank you, Inspector. I appreciate the professional courtesy. Yes, of course, I’ll come along. I’ll follow you in my own auto. Opal, I’ll be late coming home. Don’t wait up, darling.”
She got her bag and followed Jacob outside. They both seemed to intuit that it was best not to bring up the personal drama between them, at least for now. They were used to functioning in a professional capacity and keeping their personal life, such as it was, compartmentalized. She knew she could do it again. Besides, if she was honest with herself, she was grateful for the opportunity to be around him. Even if it did feel a bit pathetic to admit that. She would deal with her feelings tomorrow. Tonight, she’d work.
“Harry was definitely murdered, Inspector?”
He nodded as they approached her vehicle. “Yes. By gunshot, I’m told. Same considerations apply, regarding confidentiality and not reporting anything off the record. Is that amenable to you?”
The stark coolness in his voice was heartbreaking for her, with not even a hint of underlying flirtation or humor as there usually was.
“Yes, of course. I’ll operate as I usually do. What else do you know?”
“Not much. His editor, your future boss, I suppose, will meet us there. I’ll be asking him questions about the work he was doing to see if I can establish any leads.”
“He was heavily involved in the Dock Murder investigation. I would wager he was more knowledgeable, based on his articles, than any other journalist on that case.”
“Yes, he was. He was also sharing information with us. I hate to say it, but his work to uncover what happened to those women may have got him killed.”
She wondered if he was thinking about her safety. She appreciated that he’d likely not lecture her about safety. Her head might just pop off her body if he were to try. Hopefully the inspector was smarter than that. Though, she missed his casual ways with her.
“And where was Harry—where was the body found?”
She never quite got used to the reality of this work. She managed to keep her composure with murder investigations so far and knew that was part of what made her capable of doing this work, but she wondered if crime reporting were all she did, would that be too much? Would her spirit grow dark and tainted from exposure to such horrific crimes?
“Just behind a wine bar in Fleet Street.”
“Let me guess—Bower and Co.?” It was one of the pubs known to attract journalists as patrons.
“Yes.”
“I mentioned that very pub in my speech tonight as an example of the inequitable circumstances for men and women journalists work in. Men can belly up to the bar and wait for a story to find them. Women are allowed in but only in the back room where there is table service. I couldn’t walk up to the bar and order a glass of wine for myself. Can you imagine? It’s as if they think we are still in the 1800’s. As a result, we have to work extra hard to get our stories, not to mention being taken seriously by the public.”
She was acutely aware that she was rambling, afraid to have silence stretch between them and more afraid to think about what that silence meant.
“Well, let’s get going then. It’s rather chilly and the night isn’t getting any younger. I’ll follow you, Inspector.”
3
Late Night Monday
February 11, 1921
Bower and Co., Fleet Street
London
Julia parked outside Bower and Co., the exclusive-to-male-journalists, grateful that she’d made the decision to drive herself. Being in close quarters like an auto with Jacob would be too much for her to take right now. Everything was still much too fresh. Since he’d refused to speak to her and explain himself, she had no idea how he was feeling or what he was thinking and so all she could do was assume that he felt nothing for her romantically. Professional was the only option she had left.
She approached where Jacob was already standing, waiting for her. He was hard to make out in the fog, but she’d recognize his silhouette anywhere. Wh
en she reached him, he briefed her on what he’d learned so far, not bothering with any niceties. Good, she thought, maybe this was at least a little hard for him, too.
He spoke to her and a well-dressed, if young, gentleman who appeared to be an assistant or another officer in plain clothing based on the way Jacob addressed to him. He hadn’t mentioned hiring an assistant. Apparently the Inspector was keeping quite the number of secrets.
For all I know, Jacob killed Harry. You think you know someone.
Luckily he couldn’t read her ridiculous thoughts. He might be lousy with women and words, but murder was nowhere on his list of capabilities. She wasn’t that bad a judge of character. She hoped.
“The victim,” Jacob said, “Harry Jones, appears to have been shot from behind. The bartender inside Bower and Co. said he spoke with Mr. Jones before he was killed. Officers are searching for the gun used to kill him, but there’s no sign of it as yet. We’ll be able to interview the bartender in a moment. In the meantime, Mr. Abernathy, I’ll need you to ask any bystanders if they saw or heard anything. Miss Barlow, would you like to accompany me inside the pub?”
“Yes, Inspector. Thank you.” She forced herself to look at the crumpled body of Harry Jones as they passed by, even though she wanted to close her eyes not to see. She could definitely see that he was shot from behind and had collapsed face down on the cobblestone street. She noticed Harry’s notebook on the ground next to him. It looked to be soaked in a pool of blood.
The eerie glow of the streetlight surrounded by fog made her shiver. She imagined this alleyway when Harry walked here. He would have been alone and with the fog, wouldn’t have had much visibility. Fog had a way of masking noise, so he likely wouldn’t have heard approaching footsteps. Whoever had shot him would have been able to sneak up quite close.