Miss Fairweather raises her now-perfect eyebrows. ‘Adultery, sir? My, my. I’m blushing.’ She isn’t, of course, but Charley can sense his own face going red. She seems not to notice; she’s busy packing all her paraphernalia into the reticule. ‘Tell me, Inspector; at what point did you “make” me? That’s the term you coppers use, isn’t it?’
‘Yes.’ Of course, the term – as she no doubt knows – also has a sexual connotation. Charley feels his blush grow deeper. ‘Though it injures my pride,’ he says, ‘I have to admit that you had me fooled right up until the moment I took hold of your hands … that is …’
She’s clearly enjoying his discomfiture. ‘When you manhandled me, you mean.’
‘Yes. I’m sorry if I hurt you.’
‘Well, I’m sorry I hit and kicked you.’
He shrugs. ‘If I had a penny for each time a perpetrator hit me, I’d—’
‘Be rich?’
‘Well, no, but I’d have an extra pound or two.’
She rubs her wrists, where his grip chafed them. ‘A perpetrator. Is that what I am, Inspector Bucket?’
‘You know me?’
‘Not exactly. I eavesdropped outside your compartment on the train. So, what now? Is it your duty,’ she says, archly, quoting from Bleak House, ‘to take me and keep me under remand?’ Somehow she makes the process sound not like an arrest so much as an assignation.
‘I’m not an officer of the law any longer, Miss Fairweather. My only duty was to Mr Dickens, and I failed in that.’
‘So I’m free to go?’
‘Of course,’ says Charley. She starts to rise, smiling rather smugly – until one of his hands captures one of hers, like a battle-scarred cat pouncing on a sleek brown mouse. ‘Just as soon as you’ve made up for the money you cost me.’
‘I beg your pardon?’ The mouse struggles, but the cat tightens its grip.
‘Mr Dickens promised me a bonus if I prevented you disrupting his performance.’
Her lovely brown eyes fix him with an unlovely glare. ‘It’s not my fault you couldn’t handle the job.’
‘But I am handling it, Miss Fairweather. Or manhandling it, at any rate.’ Only when she plunks herself down in the box again does he release her hand – a bit reluctantly, to be sure.
‘How much?’ she says with a growl and a scowl. It’s astonishing what a range of tones and expressions the woman commands, and how effortlessly she glides from one to another. Most well-bred ladies would consider it shameful to display so much untoward emotion. But of course no one would accuse an actress of being well-bred; on the ladder of respectability, women of the theatre are considered only one rung above women of the street, and for the most part they make little effort to dispel that image.
‘A pound should do it,’ says Charley.
‘I’m not a countess, Mr Field, I’m an actress.’
‘And a very good one. You might almost convince me that you haven’t a shilling to your name.’
‘Almost?’
‘If I hadn’t spotted you after a performance of The Willow Copse, climbing into quite an impressive carriage.’
‘It certainly wasn’t mine.’
‘I didn’t imagine it was. But you clearly have a wealthy admirer.’
‘More than one, as a matter of fact,’ she says haughtily, then does one of her quick changes and turns coy on him. ‘You know, Mr Field, a real gentleman would never ask a lady for money.’
‘It’s lucky, then, that I’m no gentleman, isn’t it?’
‘You may as well say it: And I’m no lady.’
‘I wasn’t even thinking it. However, you do make a very convincing basket woman.’
‘Thank you. Speaking of which, I invested several shillings in that basket and its contents. I assume you’ll deduct that from the amount I must pay to gain my freedom.’
‘Fair enough.’
She digs in her reticule again and comes up with a sovereign purse; retrieving several coins from it, she flips them onto the table. ‘Satisfied?’
Charley nods. ‘Only …’
‘What?’
‘Well, I hope I’ve left you enough for your return fare.’
She rises and, slipping out of his greatcoat, drapes it over his head as if he’s a coat rack. ‘Oh, don’t worry about me,’ she says airily, but with a touch of sarcasm. ‘If I need help, I’ll just ask one of my wealthy admirers.’
As she heads for the door, the eyes of every man in the coffeehouse follow her – including Charley’s. She takes her time about it, clearly relishing her ability to turn heads even in the attire of a basket woman. When she opens the door, the wind tosses her black curls about, making her look like Catherine Earnshaw upon the wild moor; she assumes an appropriately tragic mien, as if she’s going to meet her fate and not merely a train. The woman knows how to make an exit; Charley is tempted to applaud.
He probably should start for the station soon, as well. But first he needs to question Mrs Crumpet about her coffee. Her secret, it turns out, is that she roasts and grinds it herself, rather than relying on a commercial roaster as most coffeehouses do these days. ‘You know, you could do the same, sir. All that’s required is a roasting pan and a small grinder.’
Charley laughs at the suggestion. ‘I’m afraid that’s beyond my capabilities. I can barely brew tea properly. Or so my wife keeps telling me.’
‘You never know what you’re capable of, sir, until you try.’
There’s one thing he knows he’s incapable of, because he’s tried, and that is getting Miss Fairweather out of his head. Not that she’s displaced Rosa, by any means. His red-haired friend is likely to haunt him for a long while yet; unfortunately, instead of picturing her lively and laughing, as she was in life, he keeps seeing her stretched out on that table, pale and silent and still.
For some reason, the actress seems determined to haunt him, too. On the train to London, Charley once again finds an unoccupied compartment, and once again ends up sharing it – not with Mr Sledge this time, but with Miss Fairweather herself. What’s more, she takes a seat not across from him but right next to him. ‘I hope you don’t mind, Inspector. You see, when I travel alone, I seem to attract men. Being admired is one thing; being approached is another.’
‘You might try putting on your disguise again. I’ll wager that would keep them at bay.’
She smiles wryly. ‘Probably so. But after an hour or so, it begins to itch.’
‘Well, I don’t mind people thinking I’m your traveling companion, if you don’t.’ He fishes his new cherrywood pipe from his pocket. ‘Since we’re being so civil, I suppose I should ask how you feel about pipe smoking.’
‘I don’t much care for it,’ she says. Charley is about to put the pipe away, when she adds mischievously, ‘I prefer cigarettes. But you’re welcome to light up.’
‘Thank you. I’ve been a bit deprived of late; my wife won’t allow smoking of any sort in her house.’
‘In her house? That’s an odd way of putting it. Isn’t it your house, too?’
‘Not really.’
‘Oh. Well, thank goodness I have a place of my own. I don’t like others telling me what I can and can’t do.’
If she were a man, Charley would already have deduced the fact that she lived alone, plus half a dozen other things about her. But he’s always found women harder to read than men. Is it because they’re more complicated? More deceitful? More careful about their appearance? Or maybe it’s due to some defect in him; maybe he tends to look at them more as a man than as a detective.
Certainly when he looks at Julia Fairweather, it’s difficult to stay detached and objective. Objective, defective, detective. It has the makings of a good music hall song – perhaps to the tune of ‘You Gentlemen of England.’ Mentally, he creates a new set of lyrics: You coppers and detectives, heed what I have to say/You need stay objective if you want to earn your pay/Just you follow this directive and you’ll always be effective … Chuckling, he abandons the effor
t but continues softly humming – though apparently not as softly as he thought, for now Miss Fairweather takes up the tune. At first she only hums, too, but then supplies the rightful words in a sweet alto voice:
You gentlemen of England who lives at home at ease,
Oh, how little do you dream of all the dangers of the seas.
So give ear to us sailors, sir, and we will plainly show
All our fears and all our cares when stormy winds do blow.
Charley joins in, and between the two of them they recall all the verses. In spots, he even provides a little harmony. They finish up with a grand flourish – ‘All the day we drink awaaaay … though stor-hormy winds do blow!’ – and a good laugh.
‘You surprise me, Miss Fairweather. How does such a serious actress come to know such a frivolous song?’
‘Oh, I’m full of surprises, Inspector.’
‘I believe it.’
For a time, she sits staring out the window, as if at something in the distance. Finally she says, ‘My father taught me that one, actually. Each time he came home, he had a new ditty, which I learned and performed for him.’
‘Was he in the theatre himself, then?’
Miss Fairweather turns her dark eyes on him. ‘Are you trying to interrogate me, Inspector?’ She even manages to make the word interrogate sound suggestive.
Though he finds her cool gaze unsettling, he doesn’t let it show. In his profession, one has to develop a certain amount of acting skill as well. ‘Not at all. Just making conversation. It’s what traveling companions do, you know.’
‘I know. The trouble with conversation is, to do it properly you have to be yourself. I’m much better at being someone else.’
‘Well, as Mrs Crumpet says, you never know what you’re capable of until you try.’
The actress lets out a lilting laugh. ‘Mrs Crumpet of the coffee shop?’
‘The same. She says that, if I want a good cup of coffee, I should roast and grind the beans myself. I think I may give it a go.’
‘With your wife’s approval, of course.’
‘Oh, she’d never stand for it, and it would send her mother’s refined senses into some sort of shock. I’ll have to do the deed in my office.’
‘Once you’ve mastered the process, you must invite me over for a cup.’
‘Hmm. I don’t know if that’s a good idea.’
‘Why? I won’t report you to your wife, I promise.’
‘It’s just that ordinarily when people have coffee together, there’s also conversation involved.’
‘Oh. Well, if you can try making coffee, I suppose I could try to make conversation.’
‘You’re doing pretty well just now.’
‘Thank you. Normally, my companions don’t much want me to talk; I’m just expected to look good, and to laugh at their ravishing wit.’
‘You’re doing pretty well with that, too – looking good, I mean.’
‘And you,’ she says, ‘are doing a fair job of blushing.’
She seems to lose all interest in conversing, then; after trading seats with him, she spends most of the remaining miles gazing out at the snow-swaddled landscape. Charley, meanwhile, amuses himself by composing more lyrics for the Defective Detective song; perhaps the boys in B Division can use it in their next pantomime. At one point, Miss Fairweather stirs from her reverie enough to say, ‘Do you suppose Mr Dickens will forgive me for ruining his show?’
‘I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I hardly think it was ruined. I’m sure he recovered admirably; he always does. The question is, will you forgive him for ruining yours?’
‘Probably not. But the theatre is a small world; one can’t afford to make too many enemies.’
Charley wonders whether that small world includes other types of performers – mediums, for instance. He pulls Sledge’s card from pocket and hands it to Miss Fairweather. ‘Do you know this fellow, by any chance?’
‘Only by reputation. Several of the other girls have been to see him. I don’t think they enjoyed the experience very much. They thought it was going to be a lark – something like a magic show with spirits – and found it quite different; I think it threw a scare into them, actually. Are you planning to consult him?’
‘Not exactly. He’s asked me to attend one of his séances, to see what I make of it.’
‘And will you?’
‘Well, as I told Professor Sledge, I am fond of spirits.’ He glances at her expectantly. ‘That’s my attempt at ravishing wit.’
Miss Fairweather obliges him with a charming laugh. Whether it’s genuine or the result of much practice, Charley can’t quite tell.
TWELVE
The streets outside Euston Station are ankle-deep in slush. ‘Where do you live?’ asks Charley. ‘I’m not interrogating, just wondering how far you have to go.’
‘Covent Garden.’
‘You’ll want a cab, then. Don’t worry, I’ll pay the fare. In fact, I’ll ride along, if it’s all the same to you. We don’t have to converse.’
But she’s changed moods yet again; in the close confines of the cab she becomes almost chatty. ‘And where is “your wife’s house”, as you insist on calling it?’
‘Millbank. I think I’ll spend the night in my office, though.’
‘Oh? Does this mean you’ve been a bad boy, and she’s banished you? Or is it some clever ploy, designed to make me feel sorry for you and offer you a place to stay?’
This tantalizing prospect gets Charley blushing again; luckily, the lamp at the front of the cab doesn’t cast enough light to betray him. ‘Neither. I have other cases to investigate, that’s all. I want to get an early start.’
‘Oooh, other cases! Something mysterious and exciting, I hope? I’m sorry I wasn’t able to provide more in the way of mystery and excitement.’
In truth, she provides quite enough of both, but it doesn’t seem proper to say so. ‘I’ve had plenty of those in my policing career. Now I’m content with tracking down missing dogs and wayward husbands.’ And murderers, he might add, but he doesn’t care to open that box. Bad enough to have the papers trumpeting all the details of Rosa’s demise, for the public to gasp and shiver over. The dead deserve a little dignity.
When they reach the Theatre Royal, Miss Fairweather raps on the roof and the cab comes to a halt. ‘I’ll just get out here.’
‘Are you appearing at the theatre?’ asks Charley. ‘Again, not interrogating, just asking.’
He detects a trace of bitterness in her laugh. ‘I wish I were. No, my lodgings are nearby, but I make it a habit never to reveal exactly where. I can’t have all those admirers flocking to my door, you know.’
‘No. Of course not.’ Charley climbs from the cab and helps her down. He nods at the building across the street – two adjoining stucco houses with an officer in an oilskin cape out front, standing smartly in the glow of the gas lamp like a costumed actor posing in the limelight. All the other station houses boast blue lamps, but not this one; the Queen, who frequently attends the theatre, found it somehow offensive and ordered it replaced. ‘That’s where I got started on my policing career. Bow Street Station.’
‘You weren’t a Runner, surely?’
Charley gives an embarrassed grin. ‘I was, in fact.’ It hurts to admit it, for it was so long ago – nearly thirty years, now – that it makes him seem ancient.
‘You must have lied to them about your age.’
‘Well, I had to; they don’t normally take ten-year-olds, you know.’
This time her laugh is clearly genuine, though a little shaky from the cold. She wraps her shawl about her more tightly. ‘I should go.’
‘Would you like my coat?’
‘No, thank you. I’ll be fine. Good luck with your cases, Inspector.’
She moves off, but he stays put, watching to see which direction she’ll take. She catches him at it and angrily waves him off. With an apologetic shrug, he reenters the cab and signals the driver to go on. When he glanc
es back, she’s standing in the same spot, waiting for him to pull out of sight.
While it may be true that she doesn’t want her admirers to know where she lives, Charley senses there’s more to it than that. Despite the fact that it boasts the city’s most prestigious playhouse, Covent Garden is hardly a high-class neighborhood. To be sure, the Lowther Arcade, with its elegant shops, is close by. But Her Majesty’s Theatre – also known as the Royal Italian Opera – is flanked on one side by the sprawling, chaotic produce market, which threatens to overwhelm it, and on the other side by the gin palaces and teeming tenements of Drury Lane and Great Wild Street.
If Miss Fairweather’s lodgings are in one of those blighted byways, it’s easy to understand why she would want to discourage visitors. And if Mr Dickens was responsible, even in part, for putting her in such straitened circumstances, it’s no wonder she holds a grudge against him. No wonder, too, that she was so reluctant to pay Charley that extra pound; he wishes now that he could return it.
When he enters his chilly office, he finds no flood of letters requesting his services, only a second appeal from the swell who lost his wallet; this time, it’s his watch that’s missing. With a sigh, Charley sets about building a fire in the grate. He wishes he’d had the cab stop at a coffee stall. But perhaps it’s just as well; chances are, the stuff wouldn’t have been worth drinking, anyway. If only Jane had bought him a coffee mill and a roasting pan for Christmas, instead of that pathetic smoking jacket.
It’s probably just as well, too, that he has no new cases; this way, he’s free to pursue the only investigation he really cares about at this point. In the morning, Charley makes his way back to Sweeney Smoot’s so-called surgery. He carries, bundled under one arm, the coat and trousers that Neck left behind when he fled the Seminary. Charley is fairly certain that the villain will neither return Dr Smoot’s clothing nor pay him for his services. It’s only fair, then, to give him Neck’s coat and trousers, which are of good quality – certainly far better than anything the doctor could afford. Perhaps when Neck claimed that he was involved in a lucrative scheme, it wasn’t just an idle boast.
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