by Lisa Tuttle
“Oh, I’m sorry, but I really can’t discuss any cases in progress,” I said. “I’m sure you understand—when clients entrust their problems to us, it is not unlike visiting a physician. You would not expect your doctor to discuss your case for the amusement of others.”
She pointed out, reasonably, that doctors did write about interesting cases, although that was more often for purposes of education than amusement. And the newspapers were full of crimes; mysteries were all the rage; everyone wanted to hear how baffling mysteries were solved. She did not understand my reticence. Perhaps we only hoped to be detectives…or solved only uninteresting cases, apprehending boot boys who had stolen boots? If privacy was my concern, use invented names—call my client Mr. A, and the villain Mr. X, and so on.
I found it impossible to refuse and decided there could be no harm in it. I would say nothing of our current investigations, but told her instead about the curious affair of the deodand—one of the first, and strangest, mysteries we had yet solved.
Unused as I was to being the center of attention, I discovered there was something quite seductive in being listened to so attentively, with such obvious interest and respect, particularly as I was talking about an adventure in which I had played no small part.
Yet this experience was stranger by far than any ordinary conversation. I had never before spoken to someone else through an interpreter and had not known how strange it could be, to speak and then hear at my side another voice taking up my words and issuing them in different language. His voice in my ear was like a slow, corrupted echo; a soft, oddly accented monotone.
The eyes of Mrs. Chase, although rounder and wider, were the same faded blue as her husband’s. They fixed upon mine and held my gaze. She seemed to hang on my every word and yet at the same time not to hear me at all, for she waited for her husband’s voice, and so her understanding lagged behind.
The feeling of estrangement grew; it seemed I must listen to Mr. Chase before I knew what I had said, and I began to lose my way in my own story. It was oddly dreamlike. Mostly it was a pleasant dream, although at one point I became anxious that I had said the wrong thing or voiced something that should have remained unsaid. I must have spoken my fear aloud, for Mr. Chase said, and his wife chimed in her agreement, that I must not worry about anything, I had said only what was right and proper, and it had been most interesting.
—
When I left Belgrave Square an hour or two later, it was with warm feelings for both Mrs. and Mr. Chase. The unease he had inspired in me earlier was quite gone. I felt how unfair and irrational it had been of me to mistrust him in the slightest. And the idea that Mrs. Chase could have been jealous of me or any other woman was patently absurd. Clearly, he adored his wife, and she loved him; their love for each other was so strong, I almost felt a bit of it had rubbed off on me during our three-way tête-a-tête.
Chapter 17
A Nightmare
When I got back to Gower Street in the early afternoon, I found Mr. Jesperson getting ready to go out, but he paused long enough to inquire about my conversation with Mrs. Chase.
“Oh, it went very well,” I said, smiling, still buoyed up by a pleasurable feeling I could not have explained. “She is a lovely young person, highly intelligent. We had a very nice gossip.”
“Gossip?” he repeated with a disbelieving stare. “That doesn’t sound like you, Miss Lane.”
“Conversation, then. Talk. Discussion,” I said, a little flustered by this challenge. “What does it matter what word I use?”
“But what did you gossip or converse about?”
My mind was suddenly blank. “Nothing that would interest you,” I said briskly, hoping to bring an end to this pointless interrogation.
“No mystery, then.”
I frowned, puzzled, and shook my head. “No mystery at all.”
“Too bad,” he said, and it was only then that I remembered his idea, which I had taken up so enthusiastically, that Mrs. Chase had invited me to call on her because she was in need of a detective.
“Never mind,” he went on, making sure he had his pocketbook and pencil safely stowed in a pocket. “It may be that our time will be more fruitfully occupied with this case. I am on the scent. I’ve just learned that a certain Colonel Evans may have seen Monsieur Ribaud on the evening he vanished—getting into a cab. He has been installed, with his wife, for the past two months at Carters’ Hotel.”
When I looked blank, he explained: “Carters’ is practically next door to the Albemarle. I am going to speak with him now. I’ve told Mother not to expect me for tea—but I will telegraph if I’ll be very late. If there’s any word regarding Creevey, leave a message at my club.”
—
I had every intention of waiting up for him, but by ten o’clock I was yawning my head off and had no choice but to retire to my bed.
I must have fallen asleep as soon as my head hit the pillow and slipped without effort into a deep, restful slumber—from which I woke suddenly, heart pounding in terror.
Even in darkness I knew I was in my own familiar bedroom. What had frightened me? The usual faint glow of the streetlamp filtered through the curtains, but it showed me nothing amiss. I strained my ears, trying to catch a hint of what had awakened me, but no footsteps echoed on the pavement, no wheels of traffic, no voice or any other human sound gave me a clue—I guessed it was very late. What made my skin crawl with dread?
Then I saw him.
A man stood motionless at the end of my bed, watching me. With the window at his back, his face was shadowed, and I could make out nothing that might have allowed me to identify him. In fact, I could only see the outline and mass of his head and shoulders, but that was enough to reveal his large size and very great height.
I tried to scream, but it caught in my throat. For a horrible moment I was frozen, as in a nightmare, unable to make a sound or to move.
And then I broke free, thrashing about beneath the bedclothes until I managed to extricate myself, and I rolled out of the bed on the side farthest from the intruder. Leaping blindly forward, arms outthrust, I managed to reach the door; my fingers connected with the knob; I flung the door open and all but fell into the corridor.
With a sob of fear, I scrambled toward the stairs.
Upstairs was in darkness, but downstairs a single light had been left burning in the hall for Mr. Jesperson. From this I deduced—with the tiny bit of my mind that was not consumed by abject terror—that he had not returned, and so it was perhaps not as late as I had thought. But then, as I ran down the stairs so recklessly fast that only my fierce clutch of the banister rail kept me from tumbling head over heels, I saw his coat, scarf, and hat hanging on the coat hook, beads of moisture still adhering to the fabric.
Isn’t it a wonder how many thoughts can occupy the same space at the same time—and in what seems no time at all? In fear for my life, I was still able to absorb all these small details, and understand that Mr. Jesperson had just come in and must be close at hand, most likely in the front room, stirring up the fire to warm himself, or seated at his desk, pen in hand, jotting down notes that he would share with me in the morning.
So why did I not run to him for help? As soon as I told him, he would go upstairs and deal with the problem—with pistol, walking stick, or his own cleverness.
But even as one part of my mind considered this, I realized that I did not need his help. The problem was in my own mind. I had been frightened by a nightmare—startled half awake by the sound of Mr. Jesperson arriving home. There was no intruder. What would he think of me, if I rushed in babbling about a big, tall man who had scared me in my room?
I couldn’t bear to have him see me as a weak and silly woman. I enjoyed our comradeship, with its ease and feeling of equality, too much. Of course I would not run to him with such a foolish fear.
All this thinking takes far longer to describe than it did to experience. At the same time as all that went through my mind, I was flying down the
stairs, and still, despite my realization that there was no actual living person in my room, driven by one powerful imperative: to get away.
It is impossible to give a reason for the urge I felt to go outside, because reason had nothing to do with it. The force of my fear had impelled me out of the room and onward, and made me feel I would not be safe anywhere in the house. I must get outside. I was not aware of making a decision; I was driven by instinct.
Get out get out get out…
The distance from the foot of the stairs to the front door was not very great, and already, as my feet came down on the hall carpeting, my arm was thrust out, hand ready to grasp and undo the bolt that would allow me to open the door, and I should have done just that and rushed outside if I had not seen the evidence of Mr. Jesperson’s recent arrival and if I had not paused to think.
Many were silly, random thoughts, driven by vanity, but now I saw how absurd it was to worry about shocking Mr. Jesperson, the person I had come to think of as my best friend, with the sight of me in my nightgown, if I was willing to offer this same unedifying sight to any passing stranger.
It made no sense to run into the street. My safety was here, in this house.
Then I realized that, still acting without conscious intent—as if in a dream—I had attired myself in Mr. Jesperson’s coat and scarf, and my hand was on the door. But I had no shoes. I paused, confused. What was wrong with me?
Mr. Jesperson came out into the hall. “I thought I heard—” His eyes widened. “Miss Lane! What’s the matter?”
What a sight I must have made, draped in his coat, with bare feet, his scarf pulled over my untidy hair, like someone forced to flee a burning building.
I tried to explain, well aware how feeble my explanation must sound. “I’m sorry—I had a nightmare.” I began to back away.
He kept his eyes fixed on mine, as if to keep me from fleeing. “Only a nightmare?”
I shrugged uneasily. “It must have been. I thought it was real, but…now I am awake…”
“Tell me.” His tone brooked no argument.
I took a deep breath. “I woke, quite suddenly, and saw—imagined that I saw—a man standing at the foot of my bed. I was seized with terror; I could not scream; I could think of nothing but to escape.” I gestured at his garments now draped around me. “I must still have been half asleep. I’m sorry to have disturbed you. I’ll go back to bed now.”
“Wait. I had better go with you—just in case. Don’t move. I’ll be right back.” He returned in a matter of seconds armed with a lamp and his revolver.
He went up the stairs ahead of me.
There was no one in my room.
We both knew it at once. It is a question of atmosphere: An empty room feels different from one in which someone is hidden. Nevertheless, Mr. Jesperson carried out a thorough inspection, making certain there was no one hiding beneath the bed or behind the curtains. The window was latched shut, and the pattern of condensation on the panes looked undisturbed.
I yawned and sat on the edge of the bed. My fear drained away, I was overwhelmed by tiredness.
“Tell me exactly what you saw, and where,” he commanded.
“I thought I saw a man’s head and upper torso—I would say in outline, but it was more solid, somehow. He stood with his back to the window, so I could not see his face; he was like a solid shadow.” The fear came back, icy fingers prodding me. I shuddered. “He stood just there, about two feet from where you are standing, but he was much taller.”
“Much taller?”
“At least a head higher. And more massive.”
“Like Mr. Creevey?”
“It was not Arthur Creevey,” I said decidedly. “I shouldn’t have felt so terrified if it was.”
“Not even if he appeared uninvited in your bedroom? What strange power does that fellow possess? Not only the woman he married, but spinsters are equally susceptible to his charms.”
There was something in his tone I did not like—or it may have been the word spinster, warranted though it was—and it stiffened my spine. “I have told you, it was not Mr. Creevey.”
“How can you know that when you told me you could not see his face, or anything, really, but his size?”
“Because there was something sinister and terrifying about the figure, motionless though it was; a dangerous, powerful menace that I simply do not associate with Mr. Creevey.” I sighed and shook my head. “We are discussing a dream, sir—a waking nightmare. Such things have their own logic, and it is pointless…”
“I’m not so sure. Do you customarily suffer from nightmares? Have you ever had one like this before?
I sighed again, but this time the sigh turned into a yawn that brought tears to my eyes and made a reply impossible.
“I am sorry,” he said. “I shouldn’t badger you with questions—not now. You’ve had a dreadful fright and need to rest.” He made his way to the door and then paused. “Shall I leave the lamp?”
I assured him I would not need it—my eyes would not stay open for much longer. As I heard the door shut quietly behind him, I lay back on the bed, still wrapped in his coat, and fell fast asleep.
Chapter 18
The Ghastly Head
The next morning I found Mr. Jesperson in the kitchen, making coffee, and deduced from the wildness of his curls and the faint shadows on his cheeks and chin that he had not yet faced the looking glass. The kitchen was as neat as a pin except for a small area of the counter where Mr. Jesperson had spilled ground coffee and splashed water.
“Your mother has already gone out?”
“Yes, some deucedly early meeting regarding charitable works, leaving us to fend for ourselves. I thought we’d breakfast on my extra-strong coffee and buttered bread—unless you’d care to take over cooking duties?” He gave me a hopeful look, but I shook my head.
“Coffee and bread suit me admirably. Your coffee is as good as any I’ve had elsewhere—if you will make it with heated milk.”
With a martyred sigh, he reached for the milk pan.
I was glad he was treating me as always, and although I did not expect the subject of my nightmare to be ignored forever, I was relieved that he did not make it the first order of business.
Instead, when we were seated at the kitchen table with plates of bread and butter and cups of hot, strong, delicious café au lait before us, he told me about his own most recent investigations.
He had met with Colonel Evans and his lady, late of India, presently resident in Carters’ Hotel. They told him how they had been walking in the direction of Piccadilly Circus on the evening of October fifth, when a hansom cab pulled up alongside, and the passenger called out “Ree-bow!”—which proved to be the name of the gentleman walking just ahead of them.
Although the man in the cab appeared to know him, Monsieur Ribaud seemed puzzled and approached with caution. But after a brief exchange—unfortunately inaudible to Colonel and Mrs. Evans—the Frenchman had climbed inside the cab and off it went.
None of this was likely to have taken us any further, since there are approximately four thousand hansom cabs in London today (this figure courtesy of Mr. Jesperson, who added that if you included “growlers” the number would rise to seven thousand), but it so happened that Colonel Evans had recognized the cab as the one he and his wife had taken from the theatre the night before.
This sounded farfetched, but Mr. Jesperson explained that the colonel was a great connoisseur of horseflesh and took notice of the animals wherever he encountered them. The horse pulling this cab was, according to him, “an unusually handsome gray,” and he had fallen into conversation with the driver on such subjects as pedigrees and fetlocks. At any rate, he noticed the horse and exchanged a nod of recognition with the driver.
“I was able to find the cab driver based on the information I had from Colonel Evans, and—although at first he positively laughed at me for imagining he should remember anything about a casual passenger he picked up a month ago—it turn
ed out he remembered the horse-loving colonel and the coincidence of his passing by at the very moment that his ‘queer fish’ of a passenger called out to the Frenchman brought it back to him.”
The driver had picked up this first passenger at Charing Cross. The man was, he thought, a northerner, or perhaps Irish, and had only recently arrived in London. He asked to be taken to the Albemarle Hotel, but then changed his mind and asked to be driven about for a bit, to see the sights. However, he soon demanded to be taken back to the Albemarle. He said he wanted to wait for a friend.
Well, there was nothing wrong with that, as he was being paid just the same.
“Was he able to describe this passenger at all?”
“Unfortunately, he hardly saw him. It was already dark, and rather foggy, when the cab was hailed, and there was nothing outlandish about the man’s attire or manner, and nothing memorable about his face. Clean-shaven—he thought—but couldn’t be sure. And he wasn’t very friendly.”
“And Monsieur Ribaud?”
“He heard nothing of what his passenger said to him, only remembered he took them to the Café Royal. So that’s where I went next.”
One of the waiters there recognized the portrait of Monsieur Ribaud—although he could not be certain it was on the night of October fifth, it was a few weeks ago, and there were two gentlemen—two Frenchmen.
“Both of them?” I stared in dismay.
“They conversed in French. The waiter recognized the language. He said he might be able to recognize the other gentleman if I had his photograph, but as far as giving a description…” Mr. Jesperson shook his head. “Moustache but no beard, brownish hair, well-dressed but nothing special.”
“So we’re no further along, really,” I said sadly.
I got up and cleared away our breakfast things. When I began washing up, he joined me at the sink, a tea towel in hand. We worked together in silence for a few moments, and then he spoke.
