Katie Watson Mysteries in Time Box Set

by Mez Blume

  “Inspector, shouldn’t we question Mr. Webb? I mean, he must have something to do with it all.”

  “He has a great deal to do with it all, Miss Watson. He is, as I say, my client, and most eager to recover his painting. We could hardly suspect the man of having nicked his own painting.”

  “No. I suppose not,” I agreed, feeling a little humiliated. “But still, he might know something about Ramona. We could ask…”

  “I understand your eagerness to follow this lead, Miss Watson. But Mr. Webb is a very private man. One of those Bohemian-hermit-artist types. He is also a man of great wealth and power. If I go questioning him about a missing person, it could muddy the waters of the case, you understand.”

  I nodded.

  “Perhaps one of my contacts in the art world will have some information.”

  “Couldn’t we ask him about her?” Imogen asked. “I mean, not as detectives. Just as… you know… Fans.”

  To my surprise, Inspector Janklow actually seemed to consider this suggestion. “If you were to find a, shall we say, ‘off-the-books’ way of questioning Mr. Webb, I could not prevent you.”

  Imogen’s eyes sparkled with excitement. “We’ll think of a way,” she said.

  “The less I know, the better,” the Inspector said. “So long as it’s within the parameters of the law…” He gave us both a warning glare, then dabbed his mouth on the tablecloth and stood. “As it happens, I have my own curiosities about Phineas Webb. I’m not at liberty to snoop, professionally, but there are a great many things I’d like to know.”

  “We’ll tell you what we find out,” Imogen said, standing and brushing off her skirt. “And don’t worry. We won’t do anything illegal.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Just one more word of advice, off the books as it were. I wouldn’t ask Mr. Webb too direct or personal a question. As I’ve said, he is a very private gentleman. If he feels he’s being pressed for information, I suspect he shall become an oyster and clam up, if you understand me.”

  The stiff, cold air hit me like a brick wall as we stepped outside. “Thank you for the coffee, Inspector.” I said through my chattering teeth.

  He nodded, his face furrowed in a concerned grimace as he tugged on his black leather gloves. “There is just one other thing, Miss Watson. Miss Humphreys. I hope you won’t take this as a slight, but I really do feel it would be best if you had someone to accompany you.”

  Imogen looked like she was about to protest, but Janklow raised a hand and continued.

  “However independent you may be, Miss Humphreys – and I am quite confident that you are – two young gentle ladies are sure to attract attention pottering about town on their own, and attention is the last thing we detectives want, you understand me?”

  We both nodded reluctantly, neither of us sure of where this talk was going.

  “What we need,” Janklow continued, “is someone to play the part of chaperone. Someone we can trust, yes. But preferably someone who knows their way about town and who isn’t afraid to throw punches when necessary.”

  An idea popped into my head, and from the look in Imogen’s eye, I was sure she was thinking the same thing.

  I glanced across the street and spotted a tall top hat braced on a pair of sticking-out ears and smiled. “Inspector, we know just the person.”

  11

  The Age of Chivalry

  Inspector Janklow and Arty Dobbs stood face to face, as opposite as two people could be: the spotless inspector, propped elegantly against his walking cane, and the ragamuffin youngster, arms crossed over his chest and one suspicious, squinting eye. We had introduced them to one another and explained the Inspector’s proposition to Dobbs, but it was far from a sealed deal yet.

  “Haven’t I seen you before, young man?” Janklow asked.

  “Dunno, gov’nor. S’pose it’s possible. I prefer to stay on the move.”

  “To steer clear of the constable, no doubt…”

  Dobbs squinted the other eye. “You sure you ain’t workin’ for the constable yourself, gov?”

  “You have my word,” Janklow said, laying his gloved hand on his heart. “I work with the constable. I do not work for him.” His eyebrow arched. “And what about yourself, Mr. Dobbs? Can I take you at your word that you are a man to be trusted?”

  Dobbs’s eyes dropped as he kicked the slushy ground with the missing toe of his shoe. He thought a moment, then looked up resolutely. “To those what know me, gov, to me friends, I’m as true as ol’ Betsy.”

  Janklow cocked his head. “Old Betsy?”

  “That’s me dog.” Dobbs whistled. At once, the bulldog left the overturned barrel of rubbish where she had been scavenging and came bounding up as in slow motion, jowls flapping like sails on a ship. This time, she didn’t stop at her master’s heels, but leapt up to greet Inspector Janklow, leaving two massive muddy paw stains on his pristine, crisp trousers.

  I held my breath as the Inspector looked down at his spoiled trousers, sure that this was the end of our proposition. But he said nothing, only took a crisp, white handkerchief from his pocket and dotted the paw stains, which made no difference whatsoever. Then he stood upright, sniffed, and, to my relief, made a noble attempt at a smile. He carried on as if the attack on his cleanliness never happened.

  “These young ladies tell me you know the city well. Is that so?”

  “Chimneys to rat ’oles, gov.” Dobbs puffed out his chest. “I know it all.”

  “Well, Mr. Dobbs. You might just prove to be the man for the job. Consider yourself and your mongrel on a probationary period. If you follow my instructions and do your job well, there’ll be profit in it for you. If you prove untrustworthy, I cannot promise that the constable won’t hear of it. That’s the arrangement. Are you prepared to shake on it?” He held out his black-leathered hand.

  Dobbs’s ears were all aglow, and a jack-o-lantern grin was spreading across his face. “I am, gov!” In a flush of excitement, he spat into his own filthy hand and thrust it into the Inspector’s, giving it a solid yank up and down.

  Imogen and I watched, half in horror, half ready to explode with laughter. The Inspector grimaced, but shook Dobbs’s hand with good grace; though, once the boy released it, I couldn’t help noticing how he carefully held it behind his back and used his other hand to reach into his coat pocket. Drawing out a card, he handed it to Dobbs.

  “Come to my office tomorrow midday, lad, and we’ll discuss your duties.”

  Dobbs looked warily at the card. “You swear as there won’t be any bobbies ‘bout the place?”

  “Not on my invitation. Between you and me,” – the Inspector cupped his clean hand to his mouth – “I find the ‘bobbies’ just about as much a nuisance to my line of work as you do to yours. We may have more in common than you think, Mr. Dobbs.”

  With that, he nodded, took his walking stick under his arm and walked purposefully away down the market arcade while the three of us watched his retreat in admiration.

  Dobbs made a low whistle. “I never thought as I’d see the day I’d be workin’ for a detective.” He thrust his thumb into his chest. “Inspector’s assistant Arty Dobbs, tha’s me!”

  “Pipe down, would you?” Imogen muttered. “Don’t you know anything about detective work? You’re supposed to be stealthy.”

  Dobbs sneered. “Madame, stealth is me middle name. So,” he rubbed his hands together. “I’m to be your chaperone. Where d’ya want to go first?”

  “Know where we can find Phineas Webb?” I asked.

  “Wot, the Phineas Webb?”

  I nodded. “Don’t suppose you know where he lives?”

  Dobbs gave another low whistle. “Dash it if I know where he lives. Don’t often sally to those parts of town.”

  Imogen sighed. “Great start,” she said sarcastically.

  “But, as it ‘appens, I do know where you can find him.”

  We looked at each other, then at Dobbs in amazement.

  He grinned smugl
y. “Right this way, if you please, me ladies.”

  Dobbs led us down from Covent Garden Market to the Strand, the bustling thoroughfare that runs from Fleet Street all the way to Trafalgar Square. We, like Betsy, stayed close on his heels as he made his usual nimble way across the steady flow of omnibuses and cabs, towards a grand, triple-arched carriageway on the other side.

  “This is Somerset House!” Imogen exclaimed as we passed beneath the arches and into a wide cobbled courtyard. “We’ve just been ice skating here.”

  Dobbs gave her a withering look. “No offence, miss, but you’re off your rocker, you are. Right this way now.”

  He followed the outside of the courtyard to the right, where a line of men and women in furs and tall, feathered hats were entering one by one through a doorway. Over the door hung a gold-lettered sign that read Exhibition Room.

  Several people made scandalised faces as Dobbs and Betsy broke through their line, and one woman in a peacock hat held her handkerchief to her nose. We followed apologetically and joined him at the wall on the other side. He stood in front of a poster. As tall as a picture window, it featured an engraving of a black-haired maiden taking a rose from a horse-mounted knight. A garland of rose vines and exotic birds bordered the couple. An advertisement was printed below:

  Imogen elbowed me. She was making eyes at the reviews in printed at the bottom of the poster. “You don’t think it’s serious?” she whispered.

  I shook my head. “Just a figure of speech, I bet,” I answered under my breath. “But either way, we’ve got to go to that presentation tomorrow night.”

  “And where are we supposed to get the money for tickets?” We both thought a moment before Imogen added, “How much is that in modern money anyway?”

  I looked to Dobbs who was leaning against the wall picking the dirt from his fingernails.

  “Hey, Dobbs–”

  He raised his head.

  “How long would it take someone to earn, say, a crown or two?”

  Dobbs whistled and shook his head. “Dash it if I know, Miss Katie. I’ve never touched a crown in me life.”

  Imogen threw her hands up with a disparaging “Oh great.”

  “But…” Dobbs rubbed his grubby fingers together. “Give me an afternoon ‘n’ I might just be able to line me pockets with a crown or two.”

  “Dobbs,” I said in my firmest tone, “if you want to be our chaperone, you can not go picking any pockets, got it?”

  He made a gentlemanly bow to show his acquiescence. “I’m at your command, me lady.” He rubbed his freckled nose. “So how d’ya suggest we get the gold, eh?”

  12

  The Ruse

  We had tried all evening to come up with a way to earn the ticket money. The next morning, when we met Dobbs in Covent Garden Market, our mission still looked impossible.

  We sat on the stone steps of a church eating one-penny baked potatoes (Dobbs had bought them with his last pennies which he swore had not been stolen but given to him for carrying a lady’s carpet bag) and trying to think of a way to earn a crown.

  “Maybe we could borrow it from Inspector Janklow,” I began, but I knew it was no good. Borrowing his money would mean involving him in our scheme. I bit my lip and tried to think of something else. “Or maybe we could sell something?”

  Imogen’s hands, still clutching her paper-wrapped potato, dropped to her lap. “Look at us, Katie. What have we got to sell? We’re living off charity from a street urchin. No offence, Dobbs,” she added.

  Dobbs was busy alternating between stuffing his own mouth with steaming potato and tossing chunks to Betsy who chomped and slobbered them up happily.

  Imogen sighed a deflated sigh. “I hate feeling poor. What’s the point of being rich if no one will take your money?”

  “They’d take our money quick enough if they knew what it was,” I said.

  I watched Dobbs stuff the final third of the piping hot potato into his mouth.

  “How do you make money, Dobbs? I mean, couldn’t we do what you do and carry people’s bags for them, or sweep streets or whatever it is you do?”

  Dobbs looked a little embarrassed. “Don’t take this personal, Miss Katie, but… well… you and Miss Imogen ain’t really cut out for the Arab life. But don’t let that discourage ya. To tell the truth, I don’t deal much in money if I can ‘elp it. I prefer the trade and barter system meself. Less counting of shillin’s and pence and wot nots.” He waved his hand as if he hadn’t the time for such trivialities.

  I perched my chin on top of my fists to think. “Well we can’t very well barter our way into an art exhibition.”

  “I wouldn’t be so sure,” Dobbs said, standing up and brushing the crumbs from his breeches. “You just need a bit of ingenuity’s all. What ‘ave you got that’s valuable to the likes of a Mr. Phineas Webb?”

  I thought for a moment, then glanced at Imogen whose face was a complete blank. “I have no idea,” she said flatly. “What could a famous artist possibly need…”

  And suddenly, I thought of Tom Tippery, and a lightbulb clicked on in my head. “They need patrons! People to pay them money for their art. That’s how they make a living.”

  “Ok.” Imogen sounded unconvinced. “But, like we’ve just discussed, we don’t have any money!”

  “But your father does,” I answered.

  “My father?” She frowned. “How exactly is that supposed to help us?”

  “Ok, look. I’ve got something… a way we wouldn’t need money. In fact, we wouldn’t actually have to go to the exhibition at all.” The idea was playing itself out in my mind, but I wasn’t quite sure Imogen would buy into it.

  “Well go on then. Spit it out,” she said testily.

  “It would require a bit of acting…” I hesitated.

  “Oh no.” She glared. “Don’t look at me like that, Katie.”

  “You only really need to be yourself, just pretending that your father is interested in buying some of Mr. Webb’s paintings. Think about it. We could ambush Mr. Webb after the exhibition and try to get a private word with him away from the crowds.”

  She still looked dubious, but I knew all she needed was a bit more persuasion.

  “Oh come on, Im,” I pleaded. “We both know you’re an amazing actress.”

  The corner of her mouth twitched, but she kept up the air of reluctance. “And what, may I ask, will you be doing in this charade?”

  “I’ll be your lady in waiting. I’ve had lots of practice playing that role with Sophia. The only problem is…” My mind went back to the lavish clothes the women at the Exhibition Room had worn. I looked down at my own rather plain blue chequered dress and then at Imogen’s violet one. “We’re going to need some nicer clothes if Phineas Webb is ever going to believe you’re an aristocrat’s daughter.”

  “Hmm,” Imogen brushed the potato crumbs off her skirt. “Somehow I doubt we’re going to find any furs or velvets in the charity cupboard at the Misses Turveys’.”

  “Need fine clothes, you say?” Dobbs had climbed up one of the church’s columns and was peering out like a sailor from a crow’s nest. He leapt down, straightened his coat and grinned a crooked, mischievous grin. “I can ‘elp you there.”

  Dobbs said he’d be back in a flash. That was just before he climbed up an iron gate in the middle of a tall, brick wall, leapt into the snowy branches of a tree on the other side and disappeared. According to the clock on the church tower, he was back in under ten minutes. His smug face told us he’d been successful in his mission, whatever it was. The only clue to my eyes was that he returned a much fatter Dobbs than when he’d left.

  “What happened to you?” Imogen eyed his bulging coat warily.

  “Best I tell you in private. C’mon. Let’s go to the Misses Turveys’ an’ I’ll show you.”

  Once inside the hostel gates, Dobbs cast a wary look over both shoulders before unfastening his coat’s two mismatched buttons. He pulled out a bundle of wadded up material which he un
rolled to reveal two dresses.

  “Hope these’ll do. Didn’t ‘ave much time to consider me options.” He held out a rich, velvety maroon dress for Imogen. “This one’s a bit longer.”

  She took it and examined it with a slight look of surprise.

  He then took the other bundle out from under his arm and unfurled a dark green silk dress with brass buttons. “For you, Miss Katie.” Dobbs looked down at his feet and shuffled about in the snow. “Thought as it’d go nice with your ginger hair.”

  I felt my cheeks go hot and quickly cleared my throat. “I’m not taking that dress until you tell me where on earth you got it.”

  He raised his face sheepishly. “Wash line. See just over that wall? Tha’s Henrietta Girls’ School. There weren’t a soul in the garden. Just lines and lines of fancy, frilly dresses and knickers.”

  “Dobbs, we can’t wear stolen clothes!” I folded up the dress and held it out to him. “Take it back.”

  Imogen snickered.

  “What’s so funny?” I demanded.

  Imogen cleared her throat and, without taking her eyes from the dress, muttered, “Just a bit rich coming from Katie Watson, the notorious horse thief.”

  I glared at her. “That was different.”

  Dobbs looked crestfallen. “Well I’m ‘fraid I’m no good at sewing gowns, so either you’ll ‘aff to wear them dresses or give up the whole plan.”

  I couldn’t argue with that point. Without the right clothing, my plan was a no-go. Reluctantly, I took the dress from him. “You’re going back there and returning them the minute our mission is complete, got it?”

  He shrugged. “If you like. Though I doubt them rich girls would so much as notice one missing dress from the thousands.”