“Wollstonecraft,” said Mary, smiling. And that was that.
That, as it turned out, was not entirely that. While the girls, who had increasingly begun to think of themselves as the Wollstonecraft girls, made plans and imagined the adventures that were sure to come, there was still the matter of the advertisement. And Peebs.
Mr. Franklin, Ada assured Mary, could be trusted to occupy or divert Peebs as needed. Mary wasn’t exactly sure how this was supposed to happen, but Ada was quite confident in the matter. Mr. Franklin had been in Ada’s life since she was a baby, and she trusted him like no one else.
As for the advertisement itself, deciding on what it was to say was the easy part. Mary wrote, and Ada agreed to:
WOLLSTONECRAFT DETECTIVE AGENCY
A PRIVATE & SECRET CONSTABULARY
FOR THE APPREHENSION OF
CLEVER CRIMINALS
Beneath this was a request to forward inquiries to the Times office itself, where, Mary assured Ada, there were slots for accepting whatever letters they might receive in response. The girls would somehow have to ensure that these letters were collected daily.
Getting the advertisement to the newspaper, however, would have to be, as Mary pointed out, clandestine. She opened her mouth to explain that “clandestine” was another word for “secret,” but then imagined Ada rolling her eyes and insisting that she knew already, so Mary closed her mouth again.
“Why clandestine?” asked Ada.
“Dear Ada, a girl can hardly appear at the Times on her own, on such extraordinary business.”
“You could be running an errand for someone else.”
“That would be unlikely, as no one would send a girl on such an errand. On any errand, really, except perhaps an errand between other young ladies. Which would omit the Times.”
“You come here on your own,” Ada pointed out. “Or at least you intend to.”
“Riding in a carriage without an escort is modern. But traveling out and about unescorted is unheard of.”
“Why?”
“Ada! A young lady needs to protect her reputation. I can’t imagine what it would do to my family for someone to even think that something improper was going on where I was concerned.”
“What’s improper about placing an advertisement in the newspaper?”
“Nothing, except of course when one wishes to keep such matters in confidence. But it’s the appearance of the thing. They’d throw me out on the street were I to show up on my own.”
“They wouldn’t dare!” said Ada, shocked.
“They would, Ada. They would.”
“That’s not fair!”
“No, it isn’t. But it’s the way it is. So we need a plan.”
It took a full day for Mary to figure it out, but she finally realized that she already knew someone who was very good at being clandestine.
The next morning when the carriage came by the Godwin house, Mary was prepared.
“Charles?” she said to the boy behind Ivanhoe, by Sir Walter Scott.
“I’m not supposed to be here,” said Charles.
“We’ve been through that. Yes, you’re not here. Understood. And that makes you perfectly suited for the task circumstance compels me to bestow upon you.”
“Are you,” said Charles after a moment, “a damsel in distress?”
Mary thought about that. “Not really, no.”
“There are damsels in distress in Ivanhoe,” Charles stated.
Mary persevered. “But I am a friend in need. And rather specifically, in need of your not being here. Officially, that is to say.”
“You need me to leave?”
“No, no. Well, yes, actually. What I mean to say is—you said you worked?”
“Mmm,” came the reply, Charles being clearly uninterested in the subject.
“What do you do, if you don’t mind terribly my asking?”
“I work at the boot-polish factory. I glue the labels on.”
“That must be … very …,” said Mary, “um …”
“It is,” said Charles.
“But you can get to places. Unchaperoned. Places like the Times.”
“You want me to travel in time?”
“Times. The. The newspaper. I require someone”—and for the second time that week, she leaned forward to whisper loudly for emphasis—“clandestine.”
“Then, fair maiden, I shall be your gallant,” said Charles, suddenly fully present. She assumed his answer must be something from his book.
“Brilliant!” said Mary, her enthusiasm overtaking her. “I’d be ever so grateful if you would place this advertisement in the newspaper and, of course, retrieve the replies, should there be any, in the coming days. Here’s tuppence for the ad. And here”—she handed him a slip of paper—“is what we need it to say. Only please, keep it clandestine.”
Charles had put his book away altogether. “You have my word, m’lady.” With this, he half stood, placed his hand across his heart with a half bow, opened the door, and leapt out of the carriage.
Alone, unchaperoned and un-Charlesed, Mary wondered for the first time about the consequences of her choices.
A pattern emerged. Mary began each day scrambling for the basin and clothes and breakfast amid the door-banging of her sisters, Fanny and Jane, and the wailing of baby Charles. As Mary entered the coach each morning, the not-her-baby-brother Charles would hand her a bundle of envelopes he’d picked up from the Wollstonecraft slot at the Times. Each envelope would contain a case, or a question, or in some cases just nonsense that people would send for reasons Mary could not imagine. The envelope bundle would remain, unopened, in Mary’s schoolbag throughout the morning’s tutorial session while Mary listened attentively to Peebs, and Ada read the newspaper.
At noon, the girls would retire to the balloon, where Mary would read the contents of the envelopes aloud. Ada would lean back in a small wicker chair, almost to the tipping point, and listen with eyes closed.
“No,” said Ada, at the conclusion of each reading.
Mary had stopped asking why after the first dozen, and had ceased becoming frustrated after the second. Some of Ada’s nos were obvious—some cases were too broad or too far. There were just the two of them, and they had to remain fairly close to the Marylebone house. And several cases seemed unpleasant in a way that didn’t feel all that adventurous. But others, Mary was sure, would appeal to Ada, or at least to Ada’s desire to put clever criminals in the newspaper. So far, she had been wrong.
“No,” said Ada once again, at the completion of another letter. There was only one more in today’s bundle, and Mary opened it with a resigned pull of the letter opener.
“All right, this one is from a Miss Rebecca Verdigris.…”
“Aha!” exclaimed Ada, without opening her eyes.
“What? I haven’t read it yet.”
“Name, in the newspaper. Go on.”
“All right. She says, ‘Dear Wollstonecraft Detectives,’ some pleasantries, and here we go: ‘dire need of assistance … precious object stolen … constables have apprehended my maid, who has confessed, although I am certain of her innocence.…’ ”
“Honestly?” asked Ada. “They’ve already apprehended the thief?”
“Well, they’ve apprehended someone, but Miss Verdigris here insists they’ve got the entirely wrong someone.”
“That’s interesting.”
“I’m sure it’s awful,” said Mary.
“But it would take a clever criminal to put the constables on to the wrong criminal. So that’s a yes, then.”
“Are you—”
“Yes.”
“And you’re quite—”
“Certainly.”
“What about—”
“This one.” Ada was determined.
“Right, then,” said Mary. “I’ll ask Charles to deliver a message to Miss Verdigris in the morning.”
“Today. Ask Mathilda to do it.”
“Mathilda?” asked Mary, confuse
d.
“Your friend. The one who lives downstairs.”
“Anna? Your maid?”
“That’s the one.”
“Well! Today, then. We’ll draft a note for Anna and send for a carriage.”
Ada rose suddenly, flipping open the side hatch and letting in a blast of cool air.
“She won’t need one,” said Ada, pointing north over the rooftops of Baker Street to the rising green slope of Regent’s Park and Primrose Hill. “Our case is right there.”
Things had progressed rather quickly that afternoon. Ada had dictated a note in reply to Miss Verdigris’s request for help, which Mary softened and sprinkled with appropriate courtesies. Anna had been dispatched with the message, and this mission pleased her tremendously, as it was the sort of thing done by a lady’s maid, which she wanted to be, and not a housemaid, which she was.
Anna, of course, knew nothing of the secret nature of the message, and it seemed to her perfectly ordinary for one young lady to ask another to come visit, even though this had never happened before.
The only issue that remained was what was to be done with Peebs.
He had been picking scraps of paper off the drawing room floor—Ada had developed a habit of hastily scrawling notes about things that had nothing to do with the day’s studies, then crumpling them and tossing them at him absentmindedly—when he saw the imposing figure of Mr. Franklin looming in the doorway.
It wasn’t so much that Mr. Franklin made Peebs nervous as it was that his appearance made him feel that a vast bronze statue had suddenly sprung up without explanation in odd places about the house—the bottom of the stairs or the middle of the hallway. Just something large and solid that had to be dealt with or at the very least walked around.
Mr. Franklin did not, or possibly could not, speak, but he made himself perfectly clear through a variety of subtle expressions. The one he offered Peebs (by raising his left eyebrow ever so slightly) seemed to say Come with me or I may step on you by accident and it is not likely you would enjoy the experience. So when he turned and walked downstairs, Peebs followed dutifully.
Down the stairs, through the entrance hall, down the back hall, and around the corner to the upper kitchen and an open door Peebs hadn’t seen before. It was the distillery closet. Various vats of things in the process of being pickled, bottled, fermented, or preserved were kept in this little closet, everything from onions and pickles to cleaning solutions and boot polish. Mr. Franklin raised his hand in an in-you-go fashion, and Peebs reluctantly complied. It was only when the door closed behind him, and the lock clicked into place, that Peebs noticed the distillery had no window, and that it was suddenly very dark.
“Ah,” he said to no one in particular. Clearly, achieving his aims in this house was going to be more difficult than he had imagined.
Peebs being now conveniently locked in the distillery closet, the girls were ready for Miss Verdigris’s arrival. Anna brought tea to the downstairs parlor, which rarely saw any use these days, with the baroness in the country.
And by three o’clock, the three girls sat in the tall white parlor—with its long drapes of crimson velvet, thick gold frames bearing small, dark paintings of presumably dead people, and very little clutter—taking stock of one another.
Mary thought Rebecca Verdigris was very well turned out. She was poised, and her hair was set in careful curls, and her dress was both fashionable and tasteful, and her manners were ladylike.
Ada looked at her as if she were some undiscovered species of sea creature mysteriously washed ashore.
“I don’t mean to sound anxious,” said Rebecca to the girls, “but when do I get to meet the Wollstonecraft detectives? This is a matter of some urgency.”
“Oh,” said Ada. “That’s us.”
“Us?” asked Rebecca politely.
“Wollstonecraft. Us. Me and Mary.”
“Miss Verdigris,” offered Mary, concerned at the return of Ada’s choppy sentences. “I realize this is unusual—”
“Please do forgive me for interrupting, but are you quite certain that the two of you in this room are in fact the Wollstonecraft detectives?”
“Yes, entirely certain,” reassured Mary.
“And,” continued Rebecca, “you’ll hopefully not consider me rude for inquiring whether either of you has ever done this sort of thing before?”
“Well,” answered Mary slowly, “not in so many …”
“Not really,” said Ada curtly. “But I’m terribly clever.”
“I see,” said Rebecca, who began to cry. Mary fetched her a handkerchief.
“No, honestly,” stated Ada. “I’m terribly clever. Everybody says so. What are you doing?”
“I’m crying,” said Rebecca, through tears.
“Why? Didn’t you hear the part about me being clever?”
“What Lady Ada is saying,” explained Mary, “is that we’re certain we can solve whatever problem faces you and put your worries to rest.” Mary paused for breath to offer Rebecca a moment to collect herself. “Perhaps you can begin at the beginning.”
“This concerns the events of Saturday evening,” began Rebecca.
“Your coming-out party,” said Ada.
“My party, yes,” said Rebecca. “How did you know?”
“It was in the newspaper,” said Ada. “And someone has stolen your acorn.”
“How could you possibly know that?” asked Rebecca.
“It was in the newspaper. It said you were to be presented with the Acorn of Ankara on your birthday. And now you tell us a precious object has been stolen—it could not have been clearer.”
Mary and Rebecca both blinked at Ada, a bit stunned. Mary recovered first. “Rebecca, please tell us about that night, won’t you?”
“Yes. Right. My late uncle left me a necklace in his will, to be given to me upon my sixteenth birthday. He was an adventurer before he met his fate, and he acquired a pendant in the form of an acorn, which was his gift to me.”
“And someone stole it,” said Ada.
“Indeed, as I have said. That very night. It was in our family safe, had been for years, awaiting my coming-out. And that evening the acorn was placed around my neck by my fiancé, Mr. Datchery—”
“You are to be married?” interrupted Mary.
“Yes, that’s what ‘fiancé’ means.”
“At sixteen?”
“That would be how old I am, yes,” explained Rebecca, more calmly than she felt.
Mary supposed, being fourteen, that her own coming-out would be less than two years away, at which point she would be introduced to society and expected to entertain offers of marriage. At once, all concern for the case at hand was replaced with a feeling of dread.
“Please continue,” said Ada.
“At the end of the soirée, which means ‘party’—”
“I know what it means,” groaned Ada.
“Very well. At the end of the soirée, I put it on my vanity, in my bedroom. By morning, it had disappeared.”
“Stolen,” said Ada.
“That’s correct.”
“Hmm.” Ada pondered only for a moment before declaring, “Your maid took it.”
“Well, yes, that’s what she says,” said Rebecca, nodding.
“I’m sorry?” questioned a suddenly baffled Mary. “Who says?”
“Yes. My maid, Rosie Sparrow. She says she took the acorn, but I simply don’t believe her.”
“Did she give it back?” asked Mary.
“No, that’s just it,” explained Rebecca. “She confessed to stealing it, but insists that she does not know where it is, and that she cannot return it. But she confessed quite readily.”
“So she must still have it,” said Ada.
“No, she does not. And I don’t believe she ever did.”
“Why would she lie?” asked Ada, mostly to herself. “Criminals usually lie to get out of trouble, not into it.”
“Rosie is no criminal, I’m sure of it. I have no
explanation for her false confession, just as I have no idea as to the whereabouts of the acorn.”
“Where,” asked Mary, “is Rosie now?”
“In Newgate Prison! She turned herself in to the constabulary, confessed the crime, and they’ve locked her up before her trial. But the constables searched her person and her room, and the rest of our house, and found nothing.”
“If she’s a clever criminal, they wouldn’t have found anything,” mumbled Ada.
“If she were a clever criminal, she wouldn’t have confessed,” said Mary.
“Point,” agreed Ada.
“Rosie is no criminal, clever or otherwise. I keep telling you—”
“It should be fairly simple, really,” interrupted Ada. “It wasn’t an elephant, was it?”
“I beg your pardon?” replied Rebecca, still upset and unable to make heads or tails out of Ada generally.
“Acorn. Stolen, as you said. Not by an elephant, I’m assuming,” continued Ada.
“No,” Rebecca agreed. “Not an elephant.”
“Well, then. See? Now we’re getting somewhere. So a person, then?”
“Well, yes, surely.”
“But not the maid.”
“Rosie. Yes, not her.”
“Someone in London?” asked Ada.
“Again, yes, but—”
“Ah. You see? With each answer, we come closer to a solution. That is precisely how it is to be done. There’s a method to this sort of thing. We proceed with the method and arrive at the conclusion. It’s all in the plan.”
Rebecca looked at Mary, not sure what to make of Ada’s speech, and composed herself.
Mary interjected, “What did the constabulary say?”
“They say they’ve caught the criminal—”
“Apprehended, they call it,” added Ada.
“Apprehended the criminal and obtained a confession. They say Rosie must have sold the acorn or hidden it for later. But they’re wrong. I just know it.” Rebecca began a new round of tears.
“All right,” said Ada. “Let us assume Rosie is no criminal. That means there’s another criminal who is not Rosie and is not in prison.”
“Yes,” agreed Mary. “Let’s assume that.”
The Case of the Missing Moonstone Page 4
