The Mysterious Lady Law
By Robert Appleton
In a time of grand airships and steam-powered cars, the death of a penniless young maid will hardly make the front page. But part-time airship waitress and music hall dancer Julia Bairstow is shattered by her sister’s murder. When Lady Law, the most notorious private detective in Britain, offers to investigate the case pro bono, Julia jumps at the chance—even against the advice of Constable Al Grant, who takes her protection surprisingly to heart.
Lady Law puts Scotland Yard to shame. She’s apprehended Jack the Ripper and solved countless other cold-case crimes. No one knows how she does it, but it’s brought her fortune, renown and even a title. But is she really what she claims to be—a genius at deducting? Or is Al right and she is not be trusted?
Julia is determined to find out the truth, even if it means turning sleuth herself—and turning the tables on Lady Law…
Dear Reader,
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For you, Mum.
Contents
Copyright
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Epilogue
About the Author
Chapter One
“Huzzah! Huzzah!”
Horace Holly had nowhere to hide. He thumbed his lapels and bowed for the thousands of adoring spectators gathered outside Westminster Abbey. How many of the youngsters even knew who he was? Their fathers and grandfathers might recall, but years had passed since he’d last braved public scrutiny on such a scale. The queen’s New Year’s Honours ceremony was something he’d read about but never imagined he would be invited to—to receive a Knighthood, no less, for “many extraordinary discoveries in exotic lands and gallant dedication to the teaching of young scientists and future explorers.”
Holly chuckled. How squat and unsightly he must appear next to the younger sportsmen, the upstanding war veterans and the distinguished men of science preceding him through the great entrance. He’d never been much to look at—his enormous sideburns, grey concessions to middle age, probably didn’t help matters—but that hadn’t stopped him from enjoying a full, some would say amazing, life. How impressed his fellow honorees must be by all this pomp and majesty. But they had not visited the great Temple of Kor, nor had they seen firsthand the fanatical reverence of the Amahagger for their queen, the great and terrible Ayesha. They had not trekked with Quatermain into the shadows of darkest Africa, discovered tribes never before seen by white men, nor tasted that petrifying fear of being hunted for supper in a hidden jungle.
He waved at a pink-cheeked little girl hoisted high on her father’s shoulders. The butterflies roused in his stomach. Fancy that—despite all he had survived, he was a little nervous, after all. Young Josh, his assistant, had been right. He would buy the lad a beer when he saw him next.
Silence gripped the crowd. For the first time he heard the howl of the wind and, during a lull, the creak and buzz of the airships struggling to maintain their circular flight paths high above the two gothic towers. People stopped waving. Holly glanced behind him. A post chaise halted and a smartly-dressed woman got out. Her face was hidden by the wide-brimmed black-and-white satin touring hat that exaggerated her bow to the crowd. She wore brown leather boots and marched with a schoolmarm attitude. The lady was small but powerful, with a lovely figure. Not altogether popular, though. Four constables escorted her as spectators whom he’d seen clapping and shouting “Huzzah!” now shook angry fists, grimaced and generally harangued this tiny woman. Others blew her kisses and cheered her on. Who was she? What had she done?
Holly was about to protest—a few obscenities were being tossed out from the crowd—when a moustached gentleman, red-faced and in a hurry, said to him, “You’d best get a move on, old boy. That’s Harriet Law. She’s the pox on any public event.”
Ah, so this was she. The infamous private detective who had managed to upstage the police in every investigation she had been hired to solve. Not most, mind, but every single one. Even cases the most seasoned Scotland Yard detectives claimed were unsolvable. Insufficient evidence. Zero leads. Apprehending Jack the Ripper had merely been the first in a series of breathtaking breakthroughs over the past decade. Some believed she was complicit in the crimes themselves, but her alibis always stood up. Others claimed to have spotted her in several places at once, but she laughed that off as celebrity mania. Was she really what she claimed to be—a genius at seeing and deducting things others couldn’t?
Yet what did any of that matter? Harriet Law had stepped in and not only caught the villains, but recorded her entire investigations, in dazzling detail, in the most controversial book of the last decade. The title of her recent memoirs, The Miraculous Case Files of Harriet Law, was now to be amended by her publisher, as per her official title after today’s honour, to The Miraculous Case Files of Lady Law.
Holly admired the fresh-faced, brazen young woman who, knowing she was likely to be received hostilely, had marched straight through the crowd for her prize. Very admirable. Something he and his old friend Leo Vincey might have done—to hell with the fickle public!
He picked up his pace. The Queen’s Grenadier Guards at the main entrance looked ornamental in their scarlet tunics and bearskin hats. Though the ceremony was ordinarily held at Buckingham Palace, much of that was still being rebuilt following the infamous airship crash last year. This venue was no poor substitute. On either side of the single aisle, ranks of opposing pews appeared almost full, though he couldn’t find young Josh in
the section reserved for the honorees’ guests. The lad was generally about as punctual as a shooting star, but he’d practically begged Holly for this invitation. Disappointed, Holly lowered his gaze. He had no family and Josh was the closest to a comrade he’d had since he’d left poor Leo Vincey to his fate in Kor.
So much for that beer, then.
Enormous archways heaped medieval might upon the congregation. At the far end of the church, ornate stained glass windows towered to the rafters. Everyone remained still, their voices never rising above a whisper. That was…until she entered.
Holly groaned when he reached his seat in the second pew and heard the disgruntled swell following him. Queen Victoria had not yet arrived. So the hullabaloo could only be about her, the darnedest woman in London, who had already upstaged every single person in Westminster before a single honour had been bestowed. This was getting silly. Who cared if people didn’t understand her methods? Who cared if they objected to her feminist attitude, her unwholesome social life, or her flagrant disregard for public opinion? She put villains away, for Christ’s sake! The ends had to justify the means. The rest was gossip and innuendo not worthy of such a hallowed church.
He offered her a friendly smile when she reached his side. Ms. Law would have one friend, at least. Her big, intense hazel eyes struck him still, then she smiled back at him. Holly gawped at the freshest, prettiest creature he’d seen in years, not to mention the most brilliant.
A booming voice announced, “All rise for Her Royal Majesty, Queen Victoria…”
As he stood, Holly imagined the words, ‘…and the accused, Ms. Harriet Law.’
The ceremony passed pleasantly enough. Clapping, bowing, names he’d never heard before and would not remember, more clapping, more names, more clapping and even a few tears here and there. Queen Victoria handed out the medals, ribbons and quiet praise with her customary poise. She even winked at Holly as she touched his shoulder with her sword—he had regaled her more than once at the dinner table with tales of his exploits. For a reason he couldn’t quite fathom, he felt an aching sadness mixed with the pride. It was as if these were the closing chapters of his adventures, written publicly, from which he would not emerge.
“Congratulations, Sir Horace,” Harriet Law whispered in his ear as he returned to his seat.
“Thank you. Most kind. And to you, miss.”
The booming voice announced her name and she rose with that same nonchalance, a centred grace that had immunised her from the volatile crowd outside. She swept into the aisle, hiking her skirt over an obstacle someone had left on the floor. This drew gasps from those nearby, recipients of a glimpse of her shapely white legs. Holly cleared his throat and straightened his bowtie.
Now she had given them something to gossip about!
Out of the corner of his eye, Holly glimpsed a reddish flash behind Ms. Law, a few rows away. Bizarrely, someone else had left their seat to approach the steps to the throne. A well-dressed man. Broad-shouldered, with a misshapen prizefighter’s nose, he looked to be in his early twenties, around Josh’s age. But what was that…?
In his right hand, a copper steam-pistol.
An assassin!
“Watch out, miss!” Holly yelled, darting from his seat. The man saw him and bared his teeth. He bolted for Harriet Law, his copper weapon at the ready. Holly hurdled over the knees of the last two people in his row, tripped on the edge of the pew and crashed into the attacker’s legs, bowling him over. A ferocious scramble ensued. They smashed heads while fighting tooth and nail for the pistol. Holly thrust his huge right arm around the man’s neck. Try as he might, he couldn’t equal his opponent’s powerful grip on the gun. Holly had been incredibly strong once, but now the energy sank from his muscles, the weight of concrete set in its place. Just a matter of time. Another man tried to intervene but received a kick to the groin instead. Holly spat through clenched teeth, his hold lessening with each snatched breath. Not like this, you bastard…
He lost the struggle and the assassin launched an elbow into Holly’s ribs. Christ, that hurt. But the cry of agony that hurtled round Westminster Abbey was not Holly’s. He rolled, scrambled away and tried to gain a standing foot in that same motion. He overbalanced against the hard wood of a nearby pew, cracking his shoulder. Screams and the clattering of feet erupted all around the church. Through a tightening circle of red tunics he glimpsed a shiny two-foot-long blade. It had been thrust into the assassin’s chest. Its owner—Harriet Law—refused to let go. She remained bent over the man’s body, watching him die, one high-heeled leather boot pinning down his shoulder. In her left hand she clutched the hollow shaft of a parasol, from which she had unsheathed her surreptitious sword.
He heard many voices address him but he couldn’t discern the words. Minutes passed. He sat alone and gathered himself. Queen Victoria was long gone. When the chaos died down, a soft whisper in his ear brought him to. “I am in your debt, Sir Horace. I can never thank you enough.”
“Are you well, miss?”
“Fine,” she replied. “I believe you performed the heroics this time.”
This time? She was as beautiful as ever, but now he perceived the ice in her cool aspect, for after so shocking an episode, no man would be this unaffected, let alone a woman. What gave her such steel?
“I hope you will attend the conclusion of our ceremony, whenever that may be,” she added.
“I’ll…I will certainly try.”
“Well, thank you again.” She shook his hand, her intense gaze searing him.
“You’re very welcome, Miss—”
“Harriet. Please call me Harriet. I’ve had enough pomp for one day. And now—” she straightened her hat and turned to leave, “—it’s time to disappoint the mob.”
Chapter Two
Later that evening…
The dank smog dampened Julia’s already dismal mood. It was thicker than the gallery haze she’d stared up at all evening from her chorus line. At least there had been elegance in that svelte mist of pipe and cigar smoke. Wealthy eyes had coveted her and opportunity nested in the hearts of those anonymous patrons. Sooner or later one of them would be standing outside the theatre, top hat doffed, and would ask her out to dinner. It had happened to half a dozen girls in the show over the last couple of years. Where were those girls now? Certainly not working the music hall, kicking their legs up for a pittance night after night, that was for sure. Susie Gaskell had eloped with her Prince Charming within a couple of weeks of his grand backstage entrance—five bouquets and a debonair-as-deuce invitation to Cleopatra’s ballroom restaurant. Nonie Maguire’s beau had snagged her for much less with a New Year’s Eve promenade walk, but he was flat-out gorgeous. Then there was Bernice Lowe, Edie Carmichael, the big-breasted girl—Laura something…
She glanced down at the shape of her own meagre bosom and shook her head. Maybe that was the reason she had so few discerning admirers. Or perhaps men didn’t care for the odd combination of her coal-black hair and turquoise eyes, traits from her mother’s Polish ancestry.
Her best friend Mariah was a traditional English beauty—brunette locks, winsome brown eyes, full figure—and she had shocked the entire chorus line tonight by announcing her engagement to a mystery beau, a young steamship officer whom she’d apparently been seeing for over a year without letting on to anyone, Julia included. Talk about fancy footwork! It was her last night as a dancer, as Mr. Sea Legs had vowed to make Ms. Hot Legs a respectable navy wife in his Portsmouth home. Good luck there, chum.
But no luck for old Julia, left to walk home alone…yet again.
A steam-powered automobile spluttered by, its brass frame rattling down the cobblestone lane in front of The Swan’s marquee entrance. Julia glanced up the pavement. Her heart ached, then settled with that familiar, dampening malaise. Where was her man? The one she danced for every night and waited tables for on one of the grandest airships in London, with nary an afternoon to herself. The one she saw inside every lean silhouette, every
accoutred carriage and the one she heard behind the hundred velvet voices wrapping her in shallow panache. He had to exist somewhere…
What she wouldn’t do for a bouquet of pink roses right now.
She tripped on the kerb and had to steady herself on the slick red postbox. Her left boot heel had broken. Marvellous. Another part of her life falling apart. The overgrown path between the post office and the ironmonger’s back fence was pitch-black. Probably muddy as heck after the evening’s rainfall. Beyond, white steam columned up from the arterial brass pipeline joining two aeronautics compounds. Decaux’s dirigible factories. As a girl, Julia had spent hours balancing barefoot on the brass pipe. Her younger sister Georgy had made them picnics to bring in the dead of winter, when sitting on that ever-warm piping would make it feel like summer. Of course, it would also turn chilled lemonade into undrinkable warm swill and something in the sickly steam fumes would mix with the winter air to give them sore throats and make them feel dizzy. But the pipe held many happy memories.
The urge to indulge one of those old reckless impulses left her feeling giddy. After negotiating the muddy path, she took off her boots and stockings, pulled her skirt and petticoats up by their flounces and leapt onto the brass cylinder. Its three-foot height had once seemed gargantuan. The warmth fizzed up through her and she shivered with delight. So this was what nostalgia felt like…anchorless, sublime, a tightrope walk over the past with no danger of falling. Her leg-of-mutton sleeves seemed to give her extra buoyancy as she held her arms out for balance. A boot in each hand, she walked the pipe with a grin on her face so wide the warm air tickled her gums.
“Oi, what you doin’?”
The bellowing voice startled her. Was it a security guard? The foreman working late? Lights flickered on in the gunmetal iron factory to her right. She leapt down from the pipe. After weighing her escape routes—back the way she came or deeper into the woods—Julia decided to brave the river path she hadn’t traversed in years. A pang of regret at having to cut short her adventure almost dispelled the magic. She lifted her skirts again and ran. Downhill and overgrown, the path kicked her into a reckless, exhilarating sprint lit by roving factory spotlights and moonlight jittering through evergreen treetops. Was anyone following her? Her foot sank into a freezing puddle. Laughing hard, she put her boots back on and kept to the soggy grass bank between path and trickling river.
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