by Jen Turano
Against the wishes of her mother and using money her aunt Almira gave her, thus the reason behind her typewriter’s name, she’d procured her attic room at the Holbrooke boardinghouse. She’d then set about making appointments to share her three finished manuscripts with numerous publishing houses, appointments that had terrified her half to death.
That terror had only increased when she’d met with the publishers. To say they were dismissive of her work was an understatement. From the moment she explained she was submitting mysteries, not romances or fiction for ladies, they’d dismissed her out of hand, not bothering to read so much as a single page of her work.
It had been quite the eye-opening experience. However, because she certainly didn’t want to suffer through hearing “I told you so” or through Thomas’s determination to marry her, she’d taken the nom de plume of Montague Moreland from a character she’d written into a story in her youth, retitled her manuscripts, then sent them by post to publishing houses both in and outside of New York.
To her delight, she was offered contracts from numerous houses and, interestingly enough, the contract she decided to accept was not from a New York publishing house but a Boston one—Hammerstone, Lander & Company. The distance between New York and her previous hometown lent her a plausible excuse for why she couldn’t meet with the publisher in person, especially after she developed some odd quirks for Montague to possess.
She’d explained to her new publishing house that she, or rather, Montague Moreland, preferred to avoid contact with people because he suffered from severe social anxiety, preferring to do all corresponding by post, and besides that, traveling on trains, which was the fastest way to get from New York City to Boston, resulted with him breaking out in rashes.
Those excuses worked like a charm until her first book, Murder, Mayhem, and Misery, released. It garnered attention right from the start, as well as rave reviews, which was why Mr. James Durnham, her editor at Hammerstone, Lander & Company, insisted on traveling to New York to meet her in person.
She’d been unable to come up with a legitimate reason to refuse his request, and poor Mr. Durnham had been shocked to discover that Montague Moreland was not a man at all. In fact, he’d been rendered speechless a mere second after she disclosed her true identity. His speechless state had not lasted long, though, but after a lot of stammering and accusing her of questionable behavior, he’d finally settled down, likely because her book was selling off the shelves.
He decided there was nothing to be done but have Daphne continue on as Montague Moreland, although he insisted she sign a nondisclosure agreement stating she would keep her true identity a secret. And while that agreement allowed her the luxury of spending her time writing instead of promoting her work, it made it impossible for her to disclose the success she’d achieved. That meant any time she mentioned her fondness for writing, she was met with skepticism about her ability to write anything of worth.
“May I take your prolonged silence as an indication you’re not comfortable speaking about your writing?”
Daphne snapped out of her thoughts. “It’s not that I’m uncomfortable about my writing or unwilling to discuss it, but most people don’t care to listen to me talk about my fondness for the written word. Besides, because you winced after I mentioned my writing, I got the distinct impression you’re hesitant to actually hear whether or not I consider myself a writer.”
The man smiled, revealing a dimple right beside the left corner of his mouth. “Forgive me if I winced, which was not well done of me, but you see, because I am a writer, and a published one at that, I frequently encounter aspiring writers who are eager to share samples of their writing with me. But more often than not, they seem to lack an above average proficiency with the English language. I’m afraid those writers then take issue with me when I suggest they spend additional time perfecting their craft.” His smile turned rueful. “Truth be told, I’ve begun making a concerted effort to avoid placing myself in situations that have a tendency to turn somewhat . . . contentious.”
Any lingering nervousness she’d been holding disappeared in a flash. “Ah, I’m beginning to understand the wince. You were obviously worried that if I admitted I’m a writer, that would then be followed by a request for you to peruse my work.”
“That might have been at the back of my mind.”
“I imagine it was, but no need to fret. I don’t make a habit of sharing my work with random strangers who show up at the Bleecker Street Inquiry Agency.”
The man’s smile dimmed. “I’ve just realized we are complete strangers because we’ve yet to be introduced.” He inclined his head. “Allow me to rectify that at once. I’m Mr. Herman Henderson.”
For the briefest of seconds, Daphne felt a distinct urge to rush back to the library and fetch the smelling salts she always kept in her bag.
Not only was Herman Henderson one of her favorite mystery writers, but, more importantly, he was her biggest competitor.
He was known for penning mysteries set in exotic locations and filled with unusual plot twists and dire situations. He was also known as a recluse, a man who rarely left the confines of his mansion located on Irving Place in Gramercy Park, except to travel around the world in pursuit of adventures—or at least that’s what the gossips in the city said.
Why he’d left Irving Place to travel to Bleecker Street, and on a night that was dismal and growing more miserable by the second, sent Daphne’s imagination humming into high gear.
Realizing that she’d gone mute again, and that Mr. Herman Henderson was obviously waiting for her to tell him her name, Daphne dipped into a curtsy, which was an unusual thing for her to do considering she was wearing trousers. “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr. Henderson. I’m Miss Daphne Beekman, an agent of the Bleecker Street Inquiry Agency, as well as a writer in my, ah, spare time. I’m also a devoted reader of your books.”
She straightened and took a step closer to him. “You said you wanted to hire us to take on a case, but is there a chance that you’re really visiting the agency at such a peculiar hour because you’ve found yourself stuck in a chapter and are in need of fresh inspiration, perhaps hoping to find that with one of our past cases?”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you as well, Miss Beekman,” Herman began, presenting her with a bow. “And no, I’m not here for inspiration, although that’s an intriguing idea and one I’ll contemplate further when I’m at my leisure. The reason I’m here is because I’m interested in hiring the Bleecker Street Inquiry Agency to investigate an unpleasant matter for me.”
“That’s too bad,” Daphne began, earning a raised brow from Herman in the process. “I could have assisted you if you’re in need of fodder for future story lines, but I’m afraid, as I mentioned already, the agency is not open for business. And before you point out that I’m here, let me tell you that I’m not the one who initially decides what cases we take on, which means speaking with me will be a certain waste of your time.”
“But it’s of the utmost importance I speak with someone tonight. I can’t wait until Monday when the agency reopens.”
“Why not?”
“I might be dead by then because someone is trying to murder me.”
Daphne’s eyes widened. “Murder you?”
“Indeed.”
Her pulse kicked up a notch.
Here she’d just been complaining to Eunice about not having access to a murder investigation, and lo and behold, an attempted murder case seemed to have landed in her lap.
She cleared her throat and tried to assume a serious air instead of allowing herself to grin in pure delight. “How do you know someone wants to murder you?”
“Because someone tried to run me over when I was heading out to attend a literary event held at Mr. Jay Storrow’s residence on Madison Avenue, and—”
“You’re acquainted with Mr. Jay Storrow?” Daphne interrupted, her pulse kicking up another notch because Mr. Storrow wrote glorious gothic nov
els that Daphne devoured, even if they did leave her cowering under her covers as she read them long into the night.
Herman raked a hand through dark brown hair that had been stylishly arranged—until he’d raked his hand through it, that was. “Jay and I are fellow mystery writers, so yes, I’m acquainted with him. But if we could return to the business of someone wanting to murder me?”
Daphne struggled to rein in thoughts that were scattering every which way. “Yes, quite right, forgive me. I fear my love of the written word is distracting me from your situation. But, speaking of the written word, and before I forget, I really enjoyed Murder at Middleton Manor and felt it was your best novel to date.”
“You’ve read one of my novels?”
“As I mentioned, I’m a devoted reader of your work, which means I’ve read all your novels,” she said. “I would love to hear how you come up with some of your plots, but since you’re clearly not here to discuss your books, allow me to return to the someone-seems-to-want-to-murder-you business.”
Herman’s eyes twinkled. “Is it odd that I suddenly find myself not as desperate to discuss that particular nastiness and would rather discuss in more detail what you enjoy most about my books?”
She certainly couldn’t blame him for wanting to continue with talk of how she enjoyed his books. She adored when anyone broached the topic of Montague Moreland books within earshot of her, even though she could hardly enjoy an honest conversation with readers of her work, given that only a select few knew her true identity.
“Perhaps we’ll have time to further discuss your books after I take down your statement,” she settled on saying.
“You’re going to make an exception and listen to the details of my case even though the agency isn’t currently open and you don’t make decisions on which cases to take?”
“I fear the lure of an honest-to-goodness murder investigation is too tempting to ignore.”
“I’m not dead yet.”
“An excellent point, and if our agency takes on your case, hopefully you’ll avoid that state altogether. If you’ll follow me, we should repair to the library.” Daphne turned and began padding down the hallway on bare feet that were becoming extremely chilled, not that she was going to mention that fact to Herman, since it was hardly appropriate to be missing her stockings when she was in the presence of a gentleman, or a potential client.
Stepping into the library, she hurried across the room, set aside the cutlass, then picked up her bag and sat on the fainting couch Winston was still underneath as Herman settled into a chair.
Opening her bag, she pulled out a knobby pair of brightly colored socks that Miss Elsy Evans, fellow agent and resident of Holbrooke boardinghouse, had made for her, and pulled them over feet that were now practically frozen. After giving her toes a wiggle, she retrieved her notepad and turned her attention to Herman. “Now then, you said someone tried to run you over. Have you considered that it was an accident caused by a distracted driver?”
“I did consider that, but after the second attempt, I began questioning the matter, and then, after the third and fourth attempts, I realized that I was experiencing something of much greater concern than distracted drivers.”
“You’ve been almost run down four times?”
“I have, and then there’s the troubling notion that I believe someone was sneaking around my house on Irving Place last night.”
“Why do you believe that?”
“I heard noises coming from one of the secret passageways located behind my bedchamber wall.”
Air suddenly became difficult to come by. “You have secret passageways in your house?”
“I do, as well as in my house on the Hudson.”
“Those must have been some interesting meetings with your architect when you were having your houses built.”
“I hope you won’t be disappointed to learn that I had nothing to do with the creation of the secret passageways,” Herman began. “My father, God rest his soul, is the one responsible for that. He always had a taste for the unusual and thought secret passageways lent our homes a mysterious air.”
“I don’t think he was wrong about that,” Daphne said, refusing the desire to question Herman further about passageways that could definitely be used in one of her stories. She tapped her pencil against her notepad. “You said you heard noises coming from a passageway. What did you discover when you went to investigate?”
“Why would you assume I went off to investigate?”
“Because you write riveting murder mysteries, rife with danger on every other page. I would think, if nothing else, your curiosity would have gotten the better of you and prompted you to track down the source of the noise.”
Herman’s brows drew together. “I’m a fiction writer, Miss Beekman. And even though I write murder mysteries, those murders, as well as the heroes who vanquish the villains in the end, are merely a figment of my imagination. I’m far too responsible to go traipsing off to investigate an unknown noise because that could have gotten me murdered in my own house, or worse, seen the members of my staff put in harm’s way.”
Daphne blinked. “You merely ignored the situation?”
“Of course not. I did what any responsible homeowner would do. I roused the entire staff. That caused a huge ruckus, which apparently sent whoever was in the passageway fleeing from the house since I didn’t hear so much as a creak through my bedchamber walls when I finally decided it might be safe to return inside.”
It took a great deal of effort to refuse a sigh because, clearly, one of her favorite authors, whom she’d assumed patterned his dangerous heroes after himself, was not remotely close to the true-life hero she’d thought for certain he’d be.
CHAPTER
Three
When Miss Daphne Beekman sent him a look filled with what could only be described as deepest disappointment, Herman felt the oddest inclination to embellish the story of how he’d handled the mysterious noise the night before.
He would definitely come across more favorably if he mentioned that he’d insisted on reentering the house first to take a look around to make certain there were no villains lurking about before he allowed the members of his staff to return to their respective rooms.
Realizing that his thoughts were traveling in a very unlikely direction, because he’d never had the urge to embellish a story in order to make himself appear more favorable, Herman struggled to rein in his peculiar thoughts as he settled his attention on the woman dressed as a pirate and wearing a pair of spectacles with the thickest lenses he’d ever seen.
The second he caught her eye, though, he felt another unusual urge to tell the woman that although he did lead what many would consider a less-than-adventurous life, he wasn’t a boring sort and was more than receptive to stepping out of the safe haven of the world he lived in if the right adventure presented itself. That particular urge left him feeling more than a little bewildered.
He’d never, or at least not since his parents had perished at sea when he’d been ten years old, felt a need to pursue an adventure-filled life. The loss of his parents, as well as the loss of his grandfather, who’d been with his parents at the time of the disaster, had convinced him that a life of adventure and danger was not the life for him.
“Perhaps it would be best for us to start with the carriage that tried to run you over,” Daphne said briskly, interrupting his musings as she flipped open a notepad that looked remarkably similar to the one he always carried with him. She withdrew a stub of a pencil from her bag. “What can you tell me about that carriage?”
Herman shook his head, trying to banish thoughts that were doing their very best to distract him. “Ah, well, I believe it was black.”
Daphne began rubbing her temple. “I’m going to need more than that because carriages are generally black. Were there any distinguishing markings on it, or better yet, do you believe the same carriage tried to run you down all four times?”
“I didn’t stick around
to notice if it was the same carriage or not. My most pressing priority was trying to escape being run over by rapidly moving carriage wheels. It would have been somewhat difficult to outrun a carriage and commit to memory any details about that carriage at the same time.”
She stopped rubbing her temple. “How were you able to outrun a rapidly moving carriage?”
“I make it a habit to enjoy vigorous physical exertion every day, which allows me to sustain many exercises, such as running, for long periods of times.”
Curiosity swirled in her green eyes. “What type of physical exertions besides running do you participate in?”
“Fencing, rowing, riding, swimming, boxing, hiking, and target practice, to name a few.”
She frowned. “Fencing, as well as boxing, are considered dangerous activities and are activities that normally ensure that a person is possessed of strength, which could have come in handy if you’d investigated the incident last night and encountered the culprit lurking in the secret passageways.”
“Unless that culprit had been in possession of a weapon. Bullets win against fists every time.” He rubbed a hand over his face. “But in the spirit of full disclosure, I should tell you that I’m not actually a man who enjoys seeking out danger. In fact, because fencing and boxing are considered quite dangerous, I’ve taken steps to ascertain that specific safety measures are always in place whenever I participate in those activities. I use protective tips on my fencing weapons, and I wear special padding, along with protective headgear, whenever I box.”
A clear dollop of disappointment flickered once again through Daphne’s eyes, until she wrinkled her nose. “I doubt padding can spare you bruises while boxing if you’re up against an opponent with a good arm.”
“I always spar with my cousin, Mr. Sheldon Clarendon. Sheldon, while fast on his feet, is smaller than I am, which means the blows he lands barely leave a mark on me.”
“And does Sheldon enjoy sparring with you, given the difference in your sizes?”
