by Lisa Tuttle
We were standing in front of a shoe shop, and the people going past buffeted us like waves, pressuring us to move on, but I held my ground, determined to have it out with him, rather than let him sweep me along once more. “How can you say that? When you don’t even know that he has a problem?”
“Of course he does! Who doesn’t have problems?” The provoking man stared at me as if I were the one being absurd.
As levelly as I could I said, “Not problems that require hiring investigators.”
He shrugged. “That is the gamble. Perhaps Mr. Sims—unmarried prosperous bachelor that he is—has no troubles in his life, perhaps it runs entirely smoothly in its well-worn channel. But if there is something preying on his mind—well, then, the purpose of our visit will be to remind him of it and convince him that we can help.”
“And if we cannot?”
He sighed impatiently. “My dear Miss Lane, do you not realize that your negativity will ensure the very failure that you fear? You must have a positive outlook! In my experience, people make their own luck. Especially when dealing with others—confidence is all. If our man is worried about something, we must seize the moment and convince him we will solve it for him. And we can do that only if we believe in ourselves.”
All at once I lost my appetite for argument. He had confidence in himself, and so did others. His confidence was justified. But what did I have to offer? I felt myself drooping, and I looked down at my feet as I said, “Perhaps it would be better if you went to meet Mr. Sims on your own.”
“No! Why?” Before I could reply, he had seized my hand and given it a shake, making me look up at him. “Miss Lane. We are partners. I trust your judgment. If you think this is wrong—”
“No, of course not wrong,” I said quickly. “Only…unusual. I have never heard of any detective, in fact or fiction, touting for custom in this way. What next? Go from door to door to advertise our services? Why should our landlord have a mystery for us, any more than our coal man, or the shopkeeper next door?”
“He has more property than either of those individuals.”
“It is…” I had meant to say “absurd,” but stopped, not wishing to be insulting, and said, instead, “It is a gamble.”
“Yes, but we have nothing to lose and will lose nothing by this absurd venture.” His eyes flashed as he spoke the word, and, not for the first time, I wondered if he could read my thoughts.
Then, lightly, he shrugged and said, “Our visit will not be wasted. If he has no reason to consult a detective, perhaps this happy, untroubled man may take pity and agree to give us more time to pay. Or he may find some other sort of work for me to do—even, as my mother suggested, be his night watchman. I would turn my hand to almost anything, to put off the evil day when I’m a slave in an office.”
With that, our conflict was dissolved, and we continued along the busy street to our destination.
Mr. Sims’s office was above a stationer’s shop. Climbing the stairs, we could hear a man’s voice, one half of a conversation:
“Please, dearest, try not to worry. I’ll call tomorrow and we can…No, no, it might be better if Arthur was not at home.” A pause. “No, of course I don’t mean you to keep secrets from your…” Another pause. “Don’t apologize, there’s no need, you know you can always…I’ll see you tomorrow. About four? Good day, my dear.”
Mr. Jesperson rapped firmly upon the office door.
“Come!” called the same voice.
We looked in on a tidy office furnished with a few chairs, two substantial wooden filing cabinets, and a large desk, on the surface of which I noticed little more than a pen set and blotter, a silver-framed photograph of a couple—possibly a wedding portrait—and an unfamiliar, complicated object made of dark wood, black metal, and wire, the purpose of which I could not divine.
Behind the desk sat a dapper, dark-haired gentleman in his mid-thirties. He looked surprised to see us, but his surprise was nothing to mine upon realizing that he was alone in the room. Had we overheard him talking to an imaginary visitor, perhaps rehearsing an expected encounter?
“Jasper Jesperson, at your service,” said my friend, removing his hat as he bowed.
“Ah, Mr. Jesperson.” The puzzlement cleared away. “I beg your pardon; I was not expecting…I did not recognize you.” He rose. “Please, come in and take a seat.”
Mr. Jesperson stepped aside so I could enter. “Allow me to introduce my partner, Miss Lane.”
The man gave a start of surprise, but came around his desk to greet me more formally, then pulled out a chair. “Please sit down, Miss Lane.” He looked over my head. “ ‘Partner’?”
“I thought my mother had made you aware of my new line of business. We have formed an agency to conduct private investigations under the name of Jesperson and Lane.”
“Oh! Ah! Yes, I see—or, rather, to be perfectly honest, I don’t. That is, Mrs. Jesperson quite naturally discussed your new line of work with me—it sounds most intriguing—but I don’t think, no, I am quite certain she never mentioned that your partner was, er, a lady detective. Surely that is most, ah, unusual? Not that I have any objections, of course, why should I? But a woman investigator…well…” He shrugged and gave up the struggle to define his problem as he rounded the desk to resume his usual seat.
“I suppose you have come to pay…I usually do business with your mother.”
“I hope we may do business together,” said Mr. Jesperson firmly. “You expressed your astonishment at the idea of a lady detective, yet surely you can imagine situations in which the fairer sex excel, and some in which a man would struggle against obstacles that a woman’s presence would banish. A lady, for example, might find it easier to confide her most private concerns to another lady. Miss Lane would probably get a clearer picture of your sister’s worries and how to solve them than even you might manage.”
Mr. Sims’s eyebrows shot up. “What the devil—I beg your pardon, Miss Lane. But, see here, Jesperson, what do you know of my sister’s concerns? How can you know?”
Mr. Jesperson waved an airy hand. “I only guessed. Am I right in thinking that your brother-in-law’s behavior is causing her some…disquiet?”
“See here, you can’t possibly have guessed! Was it the maid? If she’s been gossiping…” His hands on the desktop clenched into fists.
“Calm yourself, Sims. There is no gossip. I have never met your sister or her maid. It was purely a matter of deduction. After all, I am a detective.”
“But…” Mr. Sims shook his head, bewildered. “How, what evidence could possibly have led you to the conclusion that my sister is worried about her husband?”
Sitting back in his chair, Mr. Jesperson wove a tale. “My mother is an intuitive soul, as you may have noticed. She told me that she had the impression that you were struggling with a problem not your own, but on behalf of someone else, perhaps your sister.”
“I never said anything about my sister to your mother.”
“You said nothing; she merely mentioned to me her intuition, and just now, as we came up the stairs, we inadvertently overheard your side of a telephonic conversation.”
At this phrase, the strange object on the desk revealed its nature. I had, of course, seen telephones before—I had even used one once, telephoning from a central exchange—but never one so compact and elegant as the contraption on Mr. Sims’s desk.
“This person you addressed as ‘dearest’ and advised not to worry. I know you to be unmarried. You suggested meeting when her husband was not present, but there was no hint of anything improper. Do you remember, the first time we met in this office, I asked you about the people in this photograph? You said it had been taken on the occasion of your sister’s marriage, little more than a year previous.”
“It will be two years in December,” said Mr. Sims. He looked more friendly now. “Well, what a memory you have! You make it sound so simple, but I am sure most people would not make anything from those few overheard words.”
“Most people are not detectives. You are trying to solve your sister’s problem yourself, Mr. Sims, and you cannot. There is no shame in that; if there is a mystery to it—and I think there is—it will take a good detective to unravel.”
“Or possibly two,” said Mr. Sims with a look at me.
“Two for the price of one!” Mr. Jesperson cheerily replied.
From the faint cloud that appeared on the landlord’s face I feared my friend had rushed the jump. “Your services are very expensive, I suppose?”
“That depends on the case, and how long it takes us to solve. And since we already owe you a month’s rent…”
Understanding cleared away the cloud, and after a few more words, it was agreed: We were no longer considered to be in arrears, and we would have a roof safely over our heads for another month, at least.
Of course the agreement of his sister, Mrs. Arthur Creevey, must be obtained first, so Mr. Sims telephoned to her while we waited, and a meeting was arranged for half past four that very day.
Chapter 3
A Cat and a Snake
Satisfaction put an extra spring in his step as we left Mr. Sims’s office and took the stairs back down to the street, but Mr. Jesperson was not one to say “I told you so.” I stifled my impulse to apologize for not having trusted him, for the successful outcome did not take away from the absurdity of seeking work in such a manner.
And was this the sort of job we wanted? Until we spoke to Mrs. Creevey we could not guess what worried her about her husband, but if she set us to spy upon him and we discovered something she would rather not have known—a second family, a problem with drink, or some worse vice—I could too easily imagine the outcome. How often the messenger is punished for the bad news he brings! What if Mr. Sims, embarrassed by what we had discovered about his brother-in-law, decided to evict us?
Preoccupied by such worrying thoughts, I followed my partner’s lead through several turnings away from the bustle of Holborn and into a maze of quieter streets without taking heed of where we were going, and it was only when he suddenly stopped that I realized we were in a neighborhood unfamiliar to me.
“Where are we going?” I asked.
He stared with narrowed eyes at a row of shops across the road, then shook his head. “Not here,” he said, and moved on.
“This isn’t the way home.”
“Ah, you are beginning to learn your way around London at last!”
It was true that despite having lived here, off and on, for some few years, I still found the great city baffling and was easily led astray or lost in its warrenlike streets, so I made no reply. When he stopped a second time, I noticed that once again he had chosen a position with a good view of a row of shops. It was the same thing the third time, and now I recognized that he was making some sort of assessment of the butcher shops. I could not imagine why. Even if he had a few coins on him I doubted they would be enough to purchase a single chop in the cheapest place, and no shopkeeper would extend a line of credit to a total stranger.
As we watched in silence, a small, scruffy mongrel went into the butcher shop. A few moments later, it came trotting out again, clutching a marrowbone in its jaws.
“That’s our man,” murmured Mr. Jesperson. He pulled a cloth bag from his coat pocket, took off his hat, stuffed it into the bag, and handed it to me. “Your shopping, I think…sister.”
I stared at him, uncomprehending, as he ran both hands through his hair until his curls stood out in a bright, untidy mass. He blinked at me, a shy, tremulous smile widening his mouth, and in a flash I saw a stranger, a hulking, half-witted boy, before he turned to cross the road.
Suddenly, horrified, I understood what he meant to do, and I seized his arm. “No! You mustn’t!”
He turned back. The stranger was gone as his familiar eyes met mine. He said softly, “A kind man who gives bones to stray dogs would take pleasure in giving a few scraps to a penniless, starving lad when I show him the hole in my pocket. He’ll feel the warm glow that comes with being charitable, and we’ll be well fed for once.”
“You’re not a lad,” I said sharply. “You’re a grown man, pleased to think you’re cleverer than the average butcher. Would he feel that warm glow you speak of if he knew he’d been tricked? Honest people don’t beg—at least not from strangers. Not here in England. And we’re not in such desperate circumstances yet. If we are…Do you really think tricking a kindly butcher out of a bit of meat is preferable to going cap in hand to your uncle?”
By the time I ran out of breath, Mr. Jesperson was as still and blank-faced as a statue, and I felt a bleak despair overwhelm me. It was over. I had done it again. For the second time in half a year, I had alienated the only friend I had in the world. But at least this time I had not run away. I had spoken my mind. I might wish I could take them back, but I knew my words were true.
And so did he. After a moment, the life came back to his face as he drew a breath.
“Thank you,” he said quietly, “Miss Lane. To my mother I may always be a boy, but you don’t see me that way, thank heaven. I fear sometimes I let the pleasures of plotting—of an idea—carry me away. This is London, not Benares. I am not here who I was there.”
He put out his hand to me, and for a moment I stared, wondering what he meant by it (were we to shake hands in agreement?) before remembering I had his hat.
I gave it back to him, and he put it on and then offered me his arm, and we walked on. Again, I was so preoccupied that I scarcely noticed in what direction.
“My mother cooks vegetables wonderfully well, yet still I want meat,” he said. “I know it is only a fleshly desire—for flesh! If I were more evolved spiritually, I should be a vegetarian. I spent a year once, in Benares, when the flesh of no animal, fish, or fowl passed my lips. It was a requirement of the spiritual instruction I had decided to undergo. I was nineteen then, and believed I had attained my full growth, but the following year when I resumed my life as a meat-eater—lapsed into sin, I suppose my teacher would have said—I grew another inch. So even if meat is bad for the soul, it must be good for the body. Unless, of course, there is something bad about being as tall as I am.”
I couldn’t help laughing. He bent his head down to give me an inquiring look. “Friends again?”
“Of course!” I felt myself blush. “Please forgive my scolding.”
“Sometimes I deserve a scolding. I am grateful I have you to keep me right.”
—
We left the poorer streets for more prosperous-looking ones, where the houses stood proudly three and four stories high. I had found it to be true of London that almost every street was another world, each with its own distinctive atmosphere. This one, with its noble ranks of houses built of brick and stone, came with the sound of weeping and a buzz of conversation where a crowd had gathered.
As we drew nearer, it was obvious that the crying came from a well-dressed little girl who could not be consoled by the white-whiskered gentleman in a shiny top hat who was crouched beside her.
Perhaps a dozen people stood around, craning their necks, looking up toward the rooftops.
“Send for the fire department,” said a man.
“Naw, they’ll never,” said another.
“Leave it alone, it will come down by itself,” said a young woman in a smart dark blue coat and hat. “Trust me, if it got up there by itself, it can get back down. Cats are wonderful like that.”
I looked up, following the gaze of others, and at last made out the small black form of a cat, perched on a narrow pediment above the top-story window. The pediment—if that was the right name for it—was a sort of inverted triangle jutting out from the wall and must have been purely decorative. In some other position it might have provided a surface on which to display a potted plant, or to hold a lamp, but in that place, unattached to anything else and so far out of reach, it had no obvious purpose. It was difficult to imagine how the animal had reached it, unless it had jumped down from th
e roof. But it would surely be unable to jump up so far, and I could see no way for it to get down. Just looking at the tiny living creature on that isolated spot so high above the ground made my stomach clench in sympathetic fear.
By asking a few questions Mr. Jesperson quickly established the facts: The cat belonged to the little girl, and it had run away from her while she was visiting her grandfather (the prosperous-looking, white-whiskered gentleman) who lived at the far end of the street. No one knew how it had managed to achieve its present lofty position, but there it was, and there it seemed it would stay, unless—as a short man in a brown suit repeated—the fire department should be alerted, and would agree to bring one of their especially long ladders with which to rescue it.
“It might be reached from the window below,” Mr. Jesperson said. “Have you tried speaking to someone in the house? They’d only need to open the window, let someone out onto the ledge…
“There’s no one home,” said the lady in blue. “They’ve gone away, and the house is shut up until Christmas.”
“Someone must have the keys. Perhaps next door.” Mr. Jesperson looked up, his eyes measuring the distance between the windows on the two adjoining houses. “If I could get onto the roof, from either side, then perhaps…” He began to walk closer, staring hard at the building as he went, and I trailed after him.
I heard the lady say, “We might tempt it with a bit of fish?”
Tempt it where, I wondered. A leap from that ledge would be disastrous. Nor could I imagine how Mr. Jesperson could possibly reach the cat from the roof, not even with his long arms. The man insisting on the need for the fire department seemed to me to have the best idea, and when I heard him instructing one of the little boys who’d been attracted by the excitement to run and fetch them, I thought we might leave them to it.
But I suddenly saw that Mr. Jesperson had taken off his shoes and socks, and before I could ask what he meant to do, he was in motion, trotting away from me. When he reached the house, he immediately pulled himself up onto the lower window ledge, and then began to climb the brick wall.
