by Michael Sims
The conservatives were right to be worried. As you will see in this book, bicycling was both a new adventure and an eagerly embraced symbol for the New Woman. Instead of chatting about fashion in the parlor while their men smoked after-dinner cigars, these women are out in the London fog, shadowing suspects, crawling through secret passages, and even fingerprinting corpses.
Like Arthur Conan Doyle and G. K. Chesterton, the creators of the pioneer female detectives don’t hesitate to stack the deck for their protagonist, but you didn’t have to be Sherlock Holmes to observe a lot about the people on the street. In this period there really were many clues visible about a stranger’s profession and place in the world. Remember that this was before a millionaire might wear jeans or a college student dress like a lumberjack. A man’s detachable collar spoke volumes about his status. No clubbable dandy would have been caught dead in the kind of low St. Leger collar worn by grooms, any more than a county gentlemen would have traded his tweed and gaiters for tenant homespun or the corduroy that replaced it. Yet even fashion, especially women’s, was evolving. Neither the wasp waist nor the leg-of-mutton sleeve proved immortal. Everything was changing. These are the kinds of details not lost upon our intrepid heroines—Loveday Brooke and Madelyn Mack, Judith Lee and Mrs. Paschal and their colleagues—those invisible women whose livelihood and excitement in life depended upon the accuracy of their intimate watching.
MICHAEL SIMS
Suggestions for Further Reading
This bibliography includes all sources cited in, or useful in the writing of, this book’s introductory essay or its individual story introductions. It also includes certain biographies, general introductions to the topics of detective fiction or female detectives, and other commentaries on particular authors and themes. It excludes works by those authors whose stories or excerpts appear in this anthology and thus receive attention in the biographical note that introduces their contribution. Web sites appear separately at the end.
Bargainnier, Earl F., ed. 10 Women of Mystery. Bowling Green, Ohio: Bowling Green State University Popular Press, 1981.
Beckson, Karl. London in the 1890s: A Cultural History. New York: Norton, 1992.
Bentley, Nicolas. The Victorian Scene: 1837-1901. London: Weidenfeld and Nicolson, 1968.
Chesterton, G. K. A Century of Detective Stories. London: Hutchinson, 1935.
Clodd, Edward. Grant Allen: A Memoir. London: Grant Richards, 1900.
Corey, Melinda, and George Ochoa. The Encyclopedia of the Victorian World. New York: Henry Holt, 1996.
Cornillon, John. “A Case for Violet Strange,” in Images of Women in Fiction: Feminist Perspectives. Bowling Green, Ohio: Bowling Green University Popular Press, 1972.
Craig, Patricia, and Mary Cadogan. The Lady Investigates: Women Detectives and Spies in Fiction. New York: St. Martin’s, 1981.
Cunningham, Gail. The New Woman and the Victorian Novel. New York: Barnes & Noble, 1979.
Dictionary of Literary Biography, various volumes, and the numerous sources listed therein.
Ensor, Sir Robert. England 1870-1914. London: Oxford University Press, 1936.
Flanders, Judith. The Victorian House: Domestic Life from Childbirth to Deathbed. London: HarperCollins, 2003.
Garforth, John. A Day in the Life of a Victorian Policeman. London: Allen Unwin, 1974.
Hadfield, John. Victorian Delights. London: Herbert Press, 1987.
Haycraft, Howard. Murder for Pleasure: The Life and Times of the Detective Story. 1941, rev. 1951. Reprint, New York: Carroll & Graf, 1984.
Kestner, Joseph A. The Edwardian Detective, 1901-1915. Aldershot: Ashgate, 2000.
———. Sherlock’s Sisters: The British Female Detective, 1864-1913. Aldershot: Ashgate, 2003.
Klein, Kathleen Gregory. The Woman Detective: Gender and Genre. Urbana and Chicago: University of Illinois Press, 2nd ed., 1995. See especially chapter 3, “Britain’s Turn-of-the-Century ‘Lady Detective’: 1891-1910,” and chapter 4, “The Lady Detective’s Yankee Cousin: 1906-15.”
Knight, Stephen. Crime Fiction, 1800-2000. London: Palgrave Macmillan, 2003.
La Cour, Tage, and Harald Mogensen. The Murder Book: An Illustrated History of the Detective Story. New York: Herder & Herder, 1971.
Lock, Joan. The British Policewoman: Her Story. London: Robert Hale, 1979.
Maida, Patricia D. Mother of Detective Fiction: The Life and Works of Anna Katharine Green. Bowling Green, Ohio: Bowling Green State University Popular Press, 1989.
Marcus, Laura, with Chris Willis. 12 Women Detective Stories. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1997. See Marcus’s introduction.
Miller, Elizabeth Carolyn. Framed: The New Woman Criminal in British Culture at the Fin de Siècle. Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 2008.
———. “Trouble with She-Dicks: Private Eyes and Public Women in The Adventures of Loveday Brooke, Lady Detective.” Victorian Literature and Culture 33 (2005): 47-65.
Murch, Alma E. The Development of the Detective Novel. Westport, Conn.: Greenwood, 1981.
Nickerson, Catherine Ross. The Web of Iniquity: Early Detective Fiction by American Women. Chapel Hill: Duke University Press, 1998.
Panek, LeRoy Lad. The Origins of the American Detective Story. Jefferson, NC: McFarland & Co., 2006.
Sims, Michael. Introduction to The Leavenworth Case, by Anna Katharine Green. New York: Penguin Classics, 2010.
———. Introduction to The Penguin Book of Gaslight Crime: Con Artists, Burglars, Rogues, and Scoundrels from the Time of Sherlock Holmes. New York: Penguin Classics, 2009.
Slung, Michele B. Introduction to Crime on Her Mind: Fifteen Stories of Female Sleuths from the Victorian Era to the Forties. New York: Pantheon, 1975.
Steinbrunner, Chris, and Otto Penzler. Encyclopedia of Mystery and Detection. New York: McGraw-Hill, 1976.
Summerscale, Kate. The Suspicions of Mr. Whicher: A Shocking Murder and the Undoing of a Great Victorian Detective. New York: Walker, 2008.
Watson, Colin. Snobbery with Violence: English Crime Stories and Their Audience. Rev. ed., London: Macmillan, 1979.
Winn, Dilys. Murder Ink: The Mystery Reader’s Companion. New York: Workman, 1977.
———. Murderess Ink: The Better Half of the Mystery. New York: Workman, 1979.
Young, Arlene. “‘Petticoated Police’: Propriety and the Lady Detective in Victorian Fiction.” Clues: A Journal of Detection 26 (Spring 2008): 3.
WEB SITES
www.classiccrimefiction.com/history-articles.htm
http://gadetection.pbwiki.com
http://motherofmystery.com/articles/plots
www.mysterylist.com
www.philsp.com/homeville/CrFiwww.wilkiecollins.com
W. S. HAYWARD
(DATES UNKNOWN)
Little is known about William Stephens Hayward, who published Revelations of a Lady Detective anonymously. Even the initial publication date is uncertain, with some sources arguing for 1864 and others insisting that the 1864 edition was a reprint of an otherwise unknown 1861 edition. Yet either date establishes the book as the first to feature a female professional detective. This historic development in the field came along only two decades after Edgar Allan Poe launched the genre with his story “The Murders in the Rue Morgue.” During the next twenty years, Stephens would also publish several other books, including Hunted to Death and The Stolen Will, but he is remembered only for this collection, especially for the first story, “The Mysterious Countess.” In a vivid but eccentric style, replete with lyrical asides about train journeys and quotations from Sir Walter Scott, Hayward narrates a tale of disguised countesses and secret underground passages.
The adventures are narrated by Mrs. Paschal, a fortyish woman who turns to detective work despite being “well born and well educated.” (She admits casually that her brain is “vigorous and subtle.”) Her boss is Colonel Warner, “head of the Detective Department of the Metropolitan Police.” However pacifying Mrs. Paschal’s attitude toward him may b
e, however much she tries to behave appropriately in his presence, from the first she subverts one aspect of the usual male/female relationships in fiction at the time. She is not one to cower before male authority: “I met the glance of Colonel Warner and returned it unflinchingly; he liked people to stare back again at him, because it betokened confidence in themselves, and evidenced that they would not shrink in the hour of peril.” The unwavering gaze inspired by confidence is a unifying trait among lady detectives. Warner expects Mrs. Paschal to rely upon her own wits; “he was a man who always made you find your own tools, and do your work with as little assistance as possible from him.” Determined and resourceful, she compares herself to Nemesis.
Mrs. Paschal, like so many other female detectives of the era, winds up in this socially unsavory profession because of trouble that prevents her from leading a “normal” feminine existence. “It is hardly necessary to refer,” she says, “to the circumstances which led me to embark in a career at once strange, exciting, and mysterious, but I may say that my husband died suddenly, leaving me badly off.” Despite this misfortune, she certainly lands on her feet.
THE MYSTERIOUS COUNTESS
I
The Chief of the Detective Police
I turned a familiar corner, and was soon threading the well-known avenues of Whitehall. It was in a small street, the houses in which cover the site of the once splendid palace of the Stuarts, where one king was born and another lost his head, that the headquarters of the London Detective Police were situated. I stopped at a door of modest pretensions, and knocked three times. I was instantly admitted. The porter bowed when he saw who I was, and at once conducted me into a room of limited dimensions. I had not to wait long. Coming from an inner room, a man of spare build, but with keen searching eyes, like those of a ferret, shook me, in a cold, businesslike way, by the hand, and desired me to be seated. His forehead bulged out a little, indicating the talent of which he was the undoubted possessor. All who knew him personally, or by reputation, admired him; he performed the difficult duties of an arduous position with untiring industry and the most praiseworthy skill and perseverance. He left nothing to others, except, of course, the bare execution. This man with the stern demeanour and the penetrating glance was Colonel Warner—at the time of which I am writing, head of the Detective Department of the Metropolitan Police. It was through his instigation that women were first of all employed as detectives. It must be confessed that the idea was not original, but it showed him to be a clever adapter, and not above imitating those whose talent led them to take the initiative in works of progress. Fouché, the great Frenchman, was constantly in the habit of employing women to assist him in discovering the various political intrigues which disturbed the peace of the first empire. His petticoated police were as successful as the most sanguine innovator could wish; and Colonel Warner, having this fact before his eyes, determined to imitate the example of a man who united the courage of a lion with the cunning of a fox, culminating his acquisitions with the sagacity of a dog.
“Sit down, Mrs. Paschal,” exclaimed the colonel, handing me a chair.
I did so immediately, with that prompt and passive obedience which always pleased him. I was particularly desirous at all times of conciliating Colonel Warner, because I had not long been employed as a female detective, and now having given up my time and attention to what I may call a new profession, I was anxious to acquit myself as well and favourably as I could, and gain the goodwill and approbation of my superior. It is hardly necessary to refer to the circumstances which led me to embark in a career at once strange, exciting, and mysterious, but I may say that my husband died suddenly, leaving me badly off. An offer was made me through a peculiar channel. I accepted it without hesitation, and became one of the much-dreaded, but little-known people called Female Detectives, at the time I was verging upon forty. My brain was vigorous and subtle, and I concentrated all my energies upon the proper fulfilment and execution of those duties which devolved upon me. I met the glance of Colonel Warner and returned it unflinchingly; he liked people to stare back again at him, because it betokened confidence in themselves, and evidenced that they would not shrink in the hour of peril, when danger encompassed them and lurked in front and rear. I was well born and well educated, so that, like an accomplished actress, I could play my part in any drama in which I was instructed to take a part. My dramas, however, were dramas of real life, not the mimetic representations which obtain on the stage. For the parts I had to play, it was necessary to have nerve and strength, cunning and confidence, resources unlimited, confidence and numerous other qualities of which actors are totally ignorant. They strut, and talk, and give expression to the thoughts of others, but it is such as I who really create the incidents upon which their dialogue is based and grounded.
“I have sent for you,” exclaimed the colonel, “to entrust a serious case to your care and judgement. I do not know a woman more fitted for the task than yourself. Your services, if successful, will be handsomely rewarded, and you shall have no reason to complain of my parsimony in the matter of your daily expenses. Let me caution you about hasting—take time—elaborate and mature your plans; for although the hare is swift, the slow and sure tortoise more often wins the race than its fleet opponent. I need hardly talk to you in this way, but advice is never prejudicial to anyone’s interests.”
“I am very glad, I am sure,” I replied, “to hear any suggestions you are good enough to throw out for my guidance.”
“Quite so,” he said; “I am aware that you possess an unusual amount of common sense, and consequently are not at all likely to take umbrage at what is kindly meant.”
“Of what nature is the business?” I asked.
“Of a very delicate one,” answered Colonel Warner; “you have heard of the Countess of Vervaine?”
“Frequently; you mean the lady who is dazzling all London at the present moment by the splendour of her equipage and her diamonds, and the magnificent way in which she spends what must be a colossal fortune.”
“That’s her,” said the colonel. “But I have taken great pains to ascertain what her fortune actually consists of. Now, I have been unable to identify any property as belonging to her, nor can I discern that she has a large balance in the hands of any banker. From what source, then, is her income derived?”
I acknowledged that I was at a loss to conjecture.
“Very well,” cried Colonel Warner, “the task I propose for you is to discover where, and in what way, Lady Vervaine obtains the funds which enable her to carry on a career, the splendour and the profuseness of which exceed that of a prince of the blood royal during the Augustan age of France, when Louis XIV set an example of extravagance which was pursued to ruination by the dissolute nobility, who surrounded the avenues of his palaces, and thronged the drawing-rooms of his country seats. Will it be an occupation to your mind, do you think? If not, pray decline it at once. It is always bad to undertake a commission when it involves a duty which is repugnant to you.”
“Not at all,” I replied; “I should like above all things to unravel the secrets of the mysterious countess, and I not only undertake to do so, but promise to bring you the tidings and information you wish for within six weeks.”
“Take your own time,” said the colonel; “anyone will tell you her ladyship’s residence; let me see or hear from you occasionally, for I shall be anxious to know how you are getting on. Once more, do not be precipitate. Take this cheque for your expenses. If you should require more, send to me. And now, good morning, Mrs. Paschal. I hope sincerely that your endeavours may be crowned with the success they are sure to merit.”
I took the draft, wished Colonel Warner goodbye, and returned to my own lodgings to ruminate over the task which had just been confided to me.
II
The Black Mask
I imagined that the best and surest way of penetrating the veil of secrecy which surrounded the Countess of Vervaine would be to obtain a footing in her household,
either as a domestic servant, or in some capacity such as would enable me to play the spy upon her actions, and watch all her movements with the greatest care and closeness. I felt confident that Colonel Warner had some excellent motive for having the countess unmasked; but he was a man who always made you find your own tools, and do your work with as little assistance as possible from him. He told you what he wanted done, and nothing remained but for you to go and do it. The Countess of Vervaine was the young and lovely widow of the old earl of that name. She was on the stage when the notorious and imbecile nobleman made her his wife. His extravagance and unsuccessful speculations in railway shares, in the days when Hudson was king, ruined him, and it was well known that, when he died broken-hearted, his income was very much reduced—so much so, that when his relict began to lead the gay and luxurious life she did, more than one head was gravely shaken, and people wondered how she did it. She thought nothing of giving a thousand pounds for a pair of carriage horses, and all enterprising trades-men were only too rejoiced when anything rare came in their way, for the Countess of Vervaine was sure to buy it. A rare picture, or a precious stone of great and peculiar value, were things that she would buy without a murmur, and pay the price demanded for them without endeavouring to abate the proprietor’s price the value of a penny piece. Personally, she was a rare combination of loveliness and accomplishments. Even the women admitted that she was beautiful, and the men raved about her. She went into the best society, and those of the highest rank and the most exalted social position in London were very glad to be asked to her magnificent and exclusive parties. Fanny, Countess of Vervaine, knew very well that if you wish to become celebrated in the gay and giddy world of fashion, you must be very careful who you admit into your house. It may be convenient, and even necessary, to ask your attorney to dine with you occasionally; but forbear to ask a ducal friend on the same day, because his grace would never forgive you for making so great a blunder. The attorney would go about amongst his friends and tell them all in what company he had been. Your house would acquire the reputation of being an “easy” one, and your acquaintances who were really worth knowing would not any more visit at a house where “anybody” was received with the same cordiality that they had themselves met with. The Countess of Vervaine lived in a large mansion in one of the new, but aristocratic squares in Belgravia. A huge towering erection it was to look at—a corner house with many windows and balconies and verandahs and conservatories. It had belonged to the earl, and he bequeathed it to her with all its wealth of furniture, rare pictures, and valuable books. It was pretty well all he had to leave her, for his lands were all sold, and the amount of ready money standing to his credit at his banker’s was lamentably small—so small, indeed, as to be almost insignificant. The earl had been dead a year and a half now. She had mourned six months for him, and at the expiration of that time she cast off her widow’s weeds—disdaining the example of royalty to wear them for an indefinite period—and launched into all the gaiety and dissipation that the Babylon of the moderns could supply her with. Very clever and versatile was her ladyship, as well able to talk upon abstruse subjects with a member of a scientific society as to converse with one of her patrician friends upon the merits of the latest fashions which the Parisians had with their usual taste designed.
