Now that winter had passed, poor folk living in the streets were less in need of my help. And since my brother Sherlock knew of my work as the Sister of Charity, I had been obliged to discard my black habit with deep pockets. While I still managed to slip pennies to the unfortunate, I had found another guise in which to roam London in the dark hours: I went as a midden-picker, that is, one who scavenges garbage heaps for bits of rag (for the paper-mills), bone (for garden-meal), metal (for the smelters), or food (definitely not for me). I wore a shabby skirt and shawl, walked with a rickety, shambling gait, and carried a battered lantern in one hand and a burlap sack upon my bent back.
Some innate unrest drives me to roam the night in any event, but in settling upon this particular guise, I gave myself a purpose: I wanted to learn my way around all of London, not just the East End. As a midden-picker, I could go anywhere without interference, for I exemplified thriftiness. Although propriety dictated that such an unsightly scavenger must steal in and out again by night, still, only the most mean and stingy of households would drive such a hardworking representative of the “deserving poor” from their premises.
Whether Mrs. Tupper was asleep yet or not, there was no fear that the dear deaf soul would hear me go out. Latching the door behind me, I made my way into the crowded street—in the warm months, the narrow lanes of the slums thronged even at midnight. Arm in arm, a clot of men staggered past, singing a drunken song. On one corner by the light of a street-lamp, haggard women sewed sacks for flour and such, piecework to bring in a few farthings, until their hands and eyes could labour no more. On another corner loitered other women, showing a great deal of bosom and ankle, also at work but not sewing. Everywhere children meandered aimlessly. It sometimes seemed to me that half the population of London was children, and half the children were orphans—it was very much the usual thing for a girl of the slums to have a baby by the time she was fifteen, then die in her twenties—whilst the other half were “Hansels and Gretels,” turned out by parents who could not feed them.
This was East London. Ten minutes on the Underground took me to West London, which might as well have been a different world.
Especially the neighbourhood where I went that night. Here, square old houses slept, blanketed in ivy, surrounded by square fenced yards. Here, streets ran wide and empty into yet more squares—cobbled squares. This area was like a great square-patch brick-and-stone quilt I had not yet comprehended to my satisfaction; what sort of people lived here? In a square-towered Italianate villa, nouveau riche or impoverished royalty? In a mansard-roofed French Second Empire edifice, maiden aunts or dilettantes? In a much-gabled Queen Anne, a doctor? A dandy?
Gas lighted some of the houses; others stood dark. Ambling along, I saw no one except a pair of night-soil men making their rounds—while there might be water-closets within the houses, there were still back-garden privies that needed to be emptied, and this distasteful process had to be done by darkness. Hence the men with the great metal container on a cart. After the rumble of its wheels had faded away (although its fetor, alas, had not), I saw and heard no other persons—except, coming towards me, the measured pacing of a constable on his beat.
“Gud evenin’, ducks,” I piped as he approached me.
“And many gud evenin’s to yerself, dearie.” He was Irish and cheery, twirling his baton, nodding approval of my burlap sack. “Me nose was tellin’ me, afore them stinkers passed, that it’s mock turtle soup they’re afther havin’ at number forty-four.”
“Thank ye kindly.” Off I scuttled, lighting my sorry little lantern, and sure enough, in back of number forty-four I found the skull of the calf’s head they had boiled.
One can hypothesise about people by their midden-heaps. For instance: perhaps members of this household had aspirations that exceeded their means, as turtle soup, the genuine item, was all the rage among the rich.
Once behind the houses, with the calf’s skull in my bag and the constable’s friendliness bolstering my nerve, I zigzagged from backyard to backyard, entering mostly through carriage-drives; from each carriage-house a dog would bark in a perfunctory manner, to be shushed by the boy or groom sleeping in the loft overhead after he had taken a peep at me through his window. Thus admitted to the nether-world of the neighbourhood, I started to sort out the inhabitants in my mind. Sometimes there were vegetable gardens tucked behind the carriage-houses where they could easily be enriched by manure and straw: solid and sensible folk, these. Some houses seemed empty, perhaps waiting for an owner to return from abroad, but quite a few were occupied by families with children, as evidenced by hoops, brightly striped balls, clapping-monkey pull-toys, et cetera, left lying about. And someone had a seamstress living in, sewing the entire family new springtime outfits, for in the midden-heap I found threads and scraps of everything from serge to taffeta—all of which I bagged by the light of my lantern.
But at the next house, I saw as I shuffled towards its back fence, I needed no lantern. For some reason these people kept gas-jets flaring out-of-doors, like a modern sort of flambeau. How wasteful, and how odd.
The gate to the carriage-drive was padlocked. But through the iron rails of the fence, and by the light of all those outdoor gas-jets, I could see quite a pile of bones just past the corner of the carriage-house.
Once one begins collecting something, for whatever reason, the act becomes a sort of mania in itself. Even though, at the night’s end, I would give away my finds to the first beggar I encountered, nevertheless, when I saw those bones, I had to have them. Forgetting that I was supposed to be a bent and rickety woman of the slums, I swarmed up and over the fence within a moment; I love to climb, and seldom get the chance, as this is not a pastime much pursued by proper females. Lighthearted as well as light-footed, I jumped down inside the fence and turned towards my objective.
But I’d not gone three steps when a roar worthy of a Bengal tiger paralysed me. A huge animal charged me, bearing down on me like a galloping horse.
Ye gods! I had not seen the doghouse tucked behind the carriage-house, and now the proper owner of the bones—a massive mastiff—wished to tear my throat out.
With no time to retreat over the fence, I was in a panic, fumbling for my dagger, when, quite unexpectedly, the beast halted, although it continued to roar and snarl at me in the most resounding and frightful manner.
What ever in the world? Why was I not being mauled?
Then I saw.
Oh, my goodness.
The mastiff had halted on the far side of another, inner fence. But not the usual sort of fence. Unless I was much mistaken—
“What do you have there, Lucifer?” drawled an insolent voice, and a massive man, rather resembling his mastiff, appeared from between beech trees and walked up on the far side of the inner fence.
The sunk fence, so called. Also known as a ha-ha.
A deep ditch lined with stone. Such modern moats were not uncommon around country estates, hidden in the contours of the land so as to preserve the integrity of the vista whilst keeping out cattle and intruders—but here in the city? What ever for?
“A midden-picker,” the burly man was saying with disgust, eyeing me as if I were a cockroach to be crushed. “How did you get in?”
Making myself as small as possible—not difficult, under the circumstances—I did not answer, only staring at the sunk fence with my mouth ajar.
“You don’t know what it is, do you, bones-for-brains?” I could hear the man’s sneer in his voice. “It’s a ha-ha. And do you know why it’s called that, dust-scholar? It’s called that because, when you fall in, we come and look at you and we laugh, ha-ha, ha-ha—”
Something in the tone of his voice frightened me even more than the mastiff’s barking did. I began to back away.
“—ha-ha, ha-ha—”
I dodged into the shadows behind the carriage-house, out of his view, and applied myself earnestly to climbing over the wrought-iron fence.
“—ha-ha, and then we go a
way,” he shouted after me, “and leave you there until you rot!”
I was never in any danger, really. Yet, until I had got home again and lay safe in my bed, I could not stop trembling.
CHAPTER THE FOURTH
THE NEXT MORNING, REPORTING TO THE STEEP-gabled and fancifully ornamented Gothic house where “Dr. Ragostin” maintained his office, I carried quite a load of “society papers” in my arms.
“Good morning, Miss Meshle!” cried my irrepressible page-boy, holding the door open for me.
“If you say so, Joddy.” Going indoors felt grim despite the May sunshine streaming through the chintz curtains. I felt still shadowed by last night’s odd encounter. But it scarcely mattered, compared to the problem of the peculiar pink fan. Just as my reading material burdened my arms, the mystery surrounding Lady Cecily burdened my mind. Why had she so cleverly slipped to me her paper “toy,” of which I could make nothing?
Sighing, I sent Joddy for newspapers, rang for tea, then settled at my desk with the Grub Street periodicals to enrich my knowledge of society some more. Lord Globe-trotter will address the Ladies of Inanity on the topic of his recent voyage down the Nile…The Honourable Miss Disapproval breaks her engagement to The Honourable Mr. Disappointment…To soften and beautify the hair, beat up the whites of four eggs into a froth, rub it into the roots, and leave it there…New for spring, the bias-cut invisible-seamed wrap morning-dress…I truly shall go mad…Colour-themed entertaining the latest rage; the yellow luncheon, the pink—
Wait a moment.
The Pink Tea, just now so fashionable, is an expensive way of entertaining; yet one might as well be dead as out of fashion! So here is how a true Pink Tea should be done: The table linen should be pink, the dishes also of a delicate pink shade, which you may borrow for the occasion. Arrange white cakes on high cake-stands lined with fancy pink paper, and pink frosted cakes on low cake-stands lined with fancy white paper. The table should be illuminated with a chandelier of pink candles; flowers for decoration must also be of pink, and your maids should wear pink caps and pink aprons. Serve the creams and ices in novel designs made of pink paper, such as baskets, band-boxes, seashells, or wheelbarrows. These along with party favours in many more beautiful designs may be procured at any fashionable caterer’s…
Paper party favours.
Pink.
Including, perhaps, cheap pink fans?
A connection, a thread, a very thin thread indeed, but better than nothing.
Sitting up quite straight, I rang the bell, and when, in Joddy’s absence, the kitchen-maid appeared, I asked her to convey to Mrs. Bailey and Mrs. Fitzsimmons my request that they might kindly favour me with their presence for a moment.
I should explain that in “Dr. Ragostin’s” Gothic establishment there was not merely an office to be looked after, but a house full of boarders (to stabilise my finances), for all of which Mrs. Fitzsimmons served as housekeeper, Mrs. Bailey as cook.
Those two doughty white-capped women appeared before me with the same doubtful expression on each dumpling-cheeked face. After months in “Dr. Ragostin’s” employ without ever having seen the man, surely they suspected that I was something more than a mere secretary.
After greeting them pleasantly enough—although I did not invite them to sit down—I asked, “Where might one find such a thing as a caterer?”
Mrs. Bailey puffed up like a ruffled hedgehog. “What would yer want a caterer fer? I can do anythin’—”
But before the offended cook could further defend her territorial right to her kitchen, I silenced her. “I simply asked, where are caterers to be found?”
In what area of London, I meant. Just as birds of a feather flock together, so did businesses in that city: bankers on Threadneedle Street, tailors on Savile Row, sixpenny magazines on Grub Street, physicians on Harley, dead fish principally at Billingsgate Market.
After an interval of discussion, Mrs. Fitzsimmons and Mrs. Bailey agreed that most of the caterers were to be found near Gillyglade Court, an offshoot of the fashionable shopping district around Regent Street.
An hour or so later, a cab pulled up at a corner of that commercial mecca and quite a well-bred young lady descended: yours truly. In order to transform myself, I had made use of my secret dressing-room, where I had removed rouge, cheek and nostril inserts, false eyelashes, hair additions, et cetera, but then crowned my own narrow, sallow, aristocratic face with the most gloriously coiffed wig, to which I attached a hat consisting mostly of a pouf of feathers and lace. Next, touches of perfume and powder, then a perfectly divine promenade dress of celadon-green dotted swiss with the very latest in puffed sleeves, also dove-grey kid-leather boots and gloves, a white organza parasol, and voila! Impeccably upper-class, with my dagger as always sheathed in the bust of my corset, but now concealed by a handsome opal brooch.
Regent Street and its environs can be summed up in three words: glass, gas, and brass. That is to say, oft-cleaned bow windows replete with finery illuminated by numerous lamps in the most resplendent of all possible surroundings. On this fine day, polished door-knobs and the like appeared even more shining than usual, because less sooty. With silk petticoats rustling beneath my trailing skirt I perambulated in and out of the glittering shops, twirling my parasol and smiling amiably and condescendingly upon clerks bobbing behind the counters. After a brief while, my seemingly aimless peregrinations carried me into Gillyglade Court.
At each door I entered, my posh clothing plus my aristocratic accent drew instant servility from clerks. I quickly located several caterers and learned more than I wanted to know about their services. I could have rented burnished silver Persian coffee-urns, pressed-glass plates, potted ferns, showy epergnes—sublimely useless—for the centre of each table, or golden birdcages complete with nightingales to hang from the ceiling; I was offered seven-course menus, wine-lists, a selection of “refections” including but certainly not limited to bonbons with humourous mottoes folded into them upon slips of paper.
Indeed, these caterers could do almost anything with paper.
“I have heard that a pink-themed tea is quite the thing for spring,” I said at each of five establishments, gazing vaguely around me through my lorgnette.
And at each the response was much the same. “Oh! Yes, yes indeed,” and I would be shown a plethora of pink gimcracks: pink doilies, pink daisies, pink paper sailboat candy-holders, pink paper rose-petal bowls, pink paper squirrels, top-hats, mushrooms, camels, pyramids…
All of which I would regard with slight but evident revulsion as I said doubtfully, “I don’t know…something a bit more elegant…have you any fans?”
No. No, alas, they did not.
But at the sixth caterer’s shop, they did.
“Oh! Oh, yes, we made them up special for the Viscountess of Inglethorpe, and they were a great success, so we made some more to keep on hand; just a moment and I will fetch one to show you.”
And out came the pink paper fan.
Seemingly identical in every detail to the one the girl in the bell skirt had slipped to me.
“Let me see that,” I demanded, retaining my imperial manner but quite forgetting my pose of indifference as I grabbed the pink paper fan and held it up to the light, peering at it, nay, glaring at it through my lorgnette, for something was wrong. Different. “Is this the same paper you used for, ah—”
“For the Viscountess of Inglethorpe? Yes, exactly the same.”
Good-quality heavy pink paper, but plain. No watermark of any kind.
I stood there a moment, and I am sure the hapless clerk must have wondered why I scowled so.
“May I take this with me?” I daresay I sounded angry, although my exasperation was all for myself.
“Of course.”
“Thank you.” Ungraciously I stormed out, muttering to myself as I strode towards the nearest cab-stand, “Blind. I have been blind.”
How could I have overlooked a device so simple and obvious?
Humph. I h
ad been dense. Obtuse. Stupid. But knowing what I did now, with my finger upon the right clue at last, I felt sure that I would soon learn the nature of Lady Cecily’s difficulty.
CHAPTER THE FIFTH
MISS MESHLE RETURNED TO HER LODGING MUCH earlier than usual that day, attempting and failing to give a smiling greeting to the startled Mrs. Tupper and her equally startled girl-of-all-work.
Blessedly, the deafness of the former and the humble status of the latter rendered any explanation unnecessary. I simply nodded, waved, and strode upstairs. The moment I had closed and locked the door of my room behind me, I pounced upon the peculiar pink fan Lady Cecily had slipped to me. Holding it up to the window, I studied once more the faint markings upon the pink paper.
Markings I had taken for a sort of checkered decorative motif, a watermark.
And I confess that I said something quite naughty, for I should have guessed the first moment I saw them.
But vexation would get me nowhere. Mentally setting emotion aside, I struck a match, with which I lit a sconce of candles. Then, taking my pink mystery in hand once more, I opened it until it formed a nearly flat half-circle, and began gently to warm it at the flames, careful not to scorch the paper.
Gingerly moving it about to heat all portions of it equally and slowly, I watched brown lines beginning to emerge from the background of pink.
Yes.
Invisible writing.
I noted with approval that Lady Cecily, with the instinct of a true artist, must have used a tiny brush rather than a pen, to leave no impressions upon the paper itself after her “invisible ink”—most likely lemon juice—had dried.
My heartbeat hastened, for the secret message written on the fan was almost ready to be read.
The Case of the Peculiar Pink Fan Page 3
