by Lisa Tuttle
His miming of these actions made me smile, and I agreed, wondering if, perhaps, he had another motive for this excursion. For so long as he kept me busy, I should be unable to take up Mrs. Chase’s invitation to visit her in Belgrave Square.
—
The telephone exchange was immediately obvious from some distance away, due to the imposing network of wires that crowned its roof like some vast, geometrical spider web. For all his rush, Mr. Jesperson’s fascination with modern technology brought him to an awed halt, and he put his head back to gaze in wonder for a few moments before we entered the building.
It was a good thing he’d had the foresight to get a letter from Arthur Creevey stating that Mr. Jesperson and Miss Lane were acting under his orders, and requesting cooperation, because without it, I am quite certain we would not have been allowed past the front door.
Even with the letter from a United Telephone Company subscriber, after it had been frowningly read and reread by the manager, a pale and fretful man called Mr. Bliss, we seemed unlikely to get very far.
Removing his pince-nez, he handed the document back to Mr. Jesperson with a pained look.
“I will not have my young ladies disturbed or interrogated,” he said. “Members of the public—you are not a subscriber yourself?—often have the most peculiar ideas about telephony and the activities of telephonists. All my good young ladies do is to connect and—when the time is right—disconnect the call. They never, ever listen in—”
“Heaven forbid,” murmured Mr. Jesperson. “I assure you, Mr. Bliss, I would not dream of quizzing your telephonists about the content of any conversation. We only wish to know—that is, Mr. Creevey is most anxious to learn—from which telephone the call was made.”
Our eyes went as if magnetically drawn to the face of the large, railway-style clock on the back wall of Mr. Bliss’s office. The two hands had just met in prayer over the twelve—one hour had passed since the call.
“I realize your telephonists are very busy, far too busy to retain the memory of just one connection out of many, but as it was only an hour ago, and because it is so important, for reasons I am not at liberty to share, I beg you to give me the chance to ask them if they can help.”
Sighing, Mr. Bliss gave a short, grudging nod. “Under other circumstances I could not allow such a disruption; but, as it happens, the morning shift has just ended. All the operators on duty will shortly be coming out to go for their dinner. I will question them in the first instance. If anyone remembers this peculiarly important call, then, if she is agreeable to giving up some part of her dinner break to speak with you—you may ask her what you like.”
He was still speaking when a set of double doors swung open and a crowd of young women emerged in twos and threes, skirts flouncing, amid laughter and a buzz of voices. All noise and movement ceased as they caught sight of their manager with two strangers lying in wait.
“Ladies,” he said, voice squeaking slightly as he raised it. “Ladies, there is no cause for alarm, and I shall endeavor not to delay you unduly, but I must have a word with each one of you before you go. One at a time, please; the rest wait quietly.”
They didn’t look too pleased—I imagined it would be a rush to get a bite to eat before hurrying back to work even without this unexpected delay—but no one objected. They shot us curious glances—some bold, others shy.
While Mr. Jesperson gazed in an interested way at the crowd of young females—some of whom looked back with equal interest—I kept my eyes on Mr. Bliss. But his voice remained too low to carry, and, alas, Mr. Jesperson had not yet managed to teach me even the rudiments of lipreading. But it was easy enough to understand as each one in turn shook her head—one with a positively Gallic shrug. That is, until the fifth young lady. She alone did not shake her head, but turned it to look at me with intelligent, interested eyes.
“The rest of you may go,” said Mr. Bliss, raising his voice again, and causing a gentle, giggling stampede.
“This is Miss Fowler,” he said to us. “I should call her one of our best telephonists if there were no danger of you presuming that any of our employees are any less than the best. Miss Fowler, this is Mr. Jesperson and er…As they are acting on behalf of one of our subscribers, please answer their questions to the best of your ability.”
“Miss Lane,” said I, and shook her gloved hand.
Her manager gave a slight, huffing cough. “Please remember Miss Fowler is on her break. Our young ladies work hard and need to keep up their strength with regular meals. If you are not back at work on time, Miss Fowler, your pay will be docked.”
Then he retreated into his office, closing the door and leaving us standing in the chilly, high-ceilinged entrance hall.
Mr. Jesperson got straight down to business. “You remember putting a call through to Creevey’s Careful Removals this morning, about an hour ago?”
“Yes.”
“And do you remember the caller?”
She was clearly about to agree when she checked herself, replying primly, “You must not think that telephonists ever listen in to calls.”
“No, of course not. I only thought you might remember which one of your subscribers was telephoning to another—unless, as I suppose, the call came from a public call office…It would be too much to expect you to remember which.”
She could not repress a small, satisfied smile. “Oh, it was not from a public telephone. Creevey’s is a small concern, and while it may be very successful, for all I know, they don’t get many ’phone calls—their customers usually aren’t subscribers. So for one of our subscribers, and I may say one of our most distinguished subscribers—to enter into negotiations with the firm must be a great boost. And quite naturally, I was struck by how unusual this was.” She stopped and frowned. “But I do not understand. Why should Mr. Creevey need to ask? I put the call through—he answered—”
“The connection was broken. Not your fault,” Mr. Jesperson improvised swiftly. “The office boy…but never mind all that. Suffice to say, Mr. Creevey is naturally most anxious to learn who telephoned to him this morning at eleven o’clock, so that he might return the call. If you would be so kind as to tell me the name of this distinguished subscriber…?”
She gazed at him doubtfully. “Usually, if a subscriber has a complaint or a question they speak to one of us here at the exchange, directly.” Her eyes moved to the letter of authorization Mr. Jesperson still clutched, and evidently she found it reassuring, for she decided to trust us with the information.
“The call was placed from Lord Bennington’s house in Belgrave Square.”
Chapter 21
Tracking the Spider
“Chase is behind it all; he is the spider at the center of this web.”
I hurried to keep up with my friend’s long strides after leaving the exchange. We were of one mind on this; it was unthinkable to imagine Lord Bennington, his children, or any member of his household staff as the master hypnotist controlling Arthur Creevey, and that left only one possible suspect. But I felt I must ask Mr. Jesperson what he meant by “all.”
“Your hauntings; Creevey’s somnambulism; the missing mediums—also, perhaps, the stolen jewels—but leave that until we know more. It was Chase in the cab that picked up Ribaud. And remember the De Beauvoir sisters were introduced to Chase the same evening they met Ribaud. It was Chase who subsequently seduced or abducted them.”
“And Miss Jessop?”
Noticing I was having a struggle to keep up with him, Mr. Jesperson slowed his steps and offered me his arm. “You remember her vision of being carried off by an angel?”
“I remember.”
“She saw herself in the arms of a tall, strong, handsome man; being too sensible to imagine she was soon to encounter a passionate human lover, she thought her beautiful, sweet-spirited abductor could only be an angel, bearing her off to heaven.”
“Whereas in reality it was Arthur Creevey, under the control of C. C. Chase?”
�
�Exactly.”
“But why?”
“It would appear that Chase is making a collection of psychic mediums.”
The word collection recalled my introduction, as a child, to the delights of butterfly collecting. I had enjoyed the chasing, the capturing with nets, the sight, and even the handling of the tiny, fluttering creatures, but when I had learned what happened to them—their little lives snuffed out in the killing jar so that their beauty could be preserved, pinned in rows on a tray, placed behind glass to be admired by other collectors—I lost all pleasure in it. Since then, to me, the very notion of “collecting” bore a deadly aspect, and from his grim expression I guessed Mr. Jesperson had some similar thought.
But he said only, “We must hope that Mr. Creevey will lead us to the answer tonight.”
“We,” he had said, and “us.” So simply, without need for discussion or argument, it was agreed: I would be by Mr. Jesperson’s side, an equal partner, as we followed the somnambulist and—with a bit of luck—foiled not only this latest planned kidnapping, but the whole dastardly plot.
—
Back in Gower Street, while Mrs. Jesperson was busy elsewhere, Mr. Jesperson paced up and down, and I sat feeding bits of wood and coal to the smoky, fretful fire, trying to coax it into giving off more heat, as we tried to work out a plan of action.
Ultimately we were forced to admit that we knew too little to make planning feasible. We had no idea of the identity of the possible victim or Creevey’s destination. Mr. Jesperson thought it likely that the somnambulist would go again to Belgrave Square, where Mr. Chase would be waiting to give him further instructions, their previous meeting having been foxed by the patrolling policeman.
Ideally we should like to observe everything, allowing the planned kidnap to take place in order to discover where the abducted mediums were being held. If, that is, they were all still alive. But we did not dwell upon the grim possibility of murder, preferring to take heart from Signora Gallo’s reading of the cards, with their message that Miss Jessop still lived, a prisoner in a room, we knew not where.
The thought of Miss Jessop thus imprisoned reminded me of something. Now that we knew Chase was the villain, Lady Florence’s bit of gossip about his having rented a house to accommodate his retinue of servants seemed potentially significant.
Mr. Jesperson stared at me, wide-eyed. “Why did you never tell me this before?”
“Because it was obviously untrue. Mrs. Chase laughed off the ridiculous notion of a horde of servants. She has a maid, of course, and there’s the Cossack, but no others.”
“You believe Chase’s wife is more to be trusted than your old friend Lady Florence?”
I felt my cheeks heating. It was unfair; I had done my best to investigate this unlikely claim. Surely he did not expect me to share every scrap of gossip that came my way? I told him, rather stiffly, “Lady Florence loves to gossip, and she is happy to pass on any unlikely story, with embellishments, rather than keep silent. You must admit, it is most unlikely—why, if they had servants and also the funds to rent a house in London, would a married couple choose to stay as guests in another household?”
“Of course. But I wonder…You know her; does the Lady Florence tend to invent, or only pass on bits of gossip she’s heard? If her maid told her a story she had from the under-butler, who had it from Cook, who had been told by her brother…What I mean is—where did this idea of the other house originate?”
I took his point. “I don’t think she does make things up—not like that. She might come up with an explanation—the retinue of servants that need accommodation—to explain an oddity—if someone told her that Mr. Chase had rented a house…”
Inspired, I put down the poker and moved away from the fire, toward the desk. “I will write to her at once and ask where she had this story from.”
But he stopped me. “Not now. It may be unnecessary, after tonight. If not, well, writing it down leaves a trail of evidence that could rebound on us. Better if you speak privately with Lady Florence. We certainly don’t want Chase to know we are interested.”
We discussed a few more details, but soon agreed we could only try to be prepared and be ready to improvise on the spot.
“That’s life, isn’t it?” said he. “A constant improvisation. Still, we will take precautions. I’ll have my revolver and my stick. You should wear garments that won’t impede you—I have some old clothes that may fit. Not only will you find it easier to run, you’ll be less noticeable—no one looks twice at a boy out at night.”
—
From the boxes stored beneath the stairs Edith found me a pair of trousers that were a reasonable fit; also, a well-mended shirt that must have been her son’s in his boyhood, and even a pair of boots. They were sturdy brown lace-ups with thick soles that looked as if they’d scarcely been worn—a fact she confirmed.
“He must have had another growth spurt the day I bought these. Two weeks later, he could hardly squeeze into them. I’m not sure why I kept them all these years—feet never do grow smaller—but I’m glad you’ll get some use out of them.”
Worn over two pairs of socks, the boots were comfortable. A baggy gray fisherman’s sweater, an ancient tweed jacket several sizes too large for me, and a soft cap capacious enough to hide my piled-up hair completed my outfit. It was simply impossible to be ladylike in these clothes, and I enjoyed the feeling of freedom. Laughing at the ragamuffin figure in the mirror, I had to agree that no one would look twice at such a creature.
“Although a policeman might wonder what mischief I was up to.” I inspected myself more critically. “My skin is much too clean.” A visit to the ash pail, and after a few moments, as Edith watched in dismay (Mr. Jesperson smiling), I was as grubby an urchin as any who won his dirt the hard way.
—
It was a cold, damp night, and although there was no fog to be seen outside the Creeveys’ house, I sensed its lurking presence in the still and clammy air. We had a long, boring wait and heard the bells at midnight before our somnambulist at last emerged, walking out of his front door and down the path as smoothly as though his eyes were open.
Excitement coursed through my blood, warming me. I exchanged a glance with my partner, he gave a nod, and we were off.
Our sleepwalker never once looked back—just as Mr. Jesperson had said, he gave no sign of worrying about being followed. For the most part the streets we walked through were quiet and empty, clear of traffic, the buildings shut and dark. Once a cab came by, and slowed, but as Mr. Creevey did not pause or show any sign of interest, the driver flicked the reins and the cab jolted forward as the horse resumed a faster pace.
We had suspected Mr. Creevey’s destination from the start, and after crossing Sloane Street knew it for a certainty. When he reached the far corner of Belgrave Square (farthest, that is, from Lord Bennington’s mansion), Mr. Jesperson and I came to a halt. We must keep out of sight; we could not risk being noticed by Mr. Chase, if he came out.
We watched as Mr. Creevey approached Lord Bennington’s house. He mounted the steps to the front door and then he vanished. It was impossible to tell from our position whether the door had been opened to him by someone, or if he had opened it himself.
Although we were prepared for a long wait, he was not inside for long. Barely five minutes had passed before we saw him coming out again, burdened with something in his arms. When he passed beneath a streetlamp we saw the sleepwalker was carrying a man who looked no more than a child in his arms. With his head lolling back, eyes closed and the utter relaxation of his limbs—still attired in nightclothes—he was evidently a sleeper snatched from his bed. There was a cloth over his nose and mouth, but although it half obscured his face, I recognized Mr. Chase.
Far from being the evil genius who controlled the somnambulist, Mr. Chase, limply unconscious in the big man’s powerful grasp, appeared to be his latest victim.
I expected the alarm to be raised momentarily. Surely his wife would scream or hi
s manservant come running after—but house and square alike remained silent and still, while Mr. Creevey walked past us, Mr. Chase like a baby in his arms.
We fell in together behind the somnambulist, feeling no reason to hang back. If we encountered a policeman—I half dreaded, half wished for such a meeting—would he be able to help us?
Whether luck was with or against us I could not say, but we did not encounter another soul as we walked on. The elegant streets and squares of Belgravia might have been in a city of the dead. As we moved southward, the fog appeared, in snaky fronds and clumps, rising from the ground and slithering around corners, clinging to the outer edges at first, but then growing bolder and snatching with long, stinking yellow fingers at our clothes.
Somewhere past Sloane Square we heard a man singing, then catcalls and laughter from others made him break off, but we could not see them, and it was impossible to tell how near or far away they were. The fog confused me; I lost my bearings as it thickened. But then I recognized we were passing Chelsea Barracks. On the other side of the road, shrouded in heavy, smoky curtains, would be the Royal Hospital and Ranelagh Gardens. We were headed for the river.
Dread clutched my heart. Until that moment I had been carried along by excitement and curiosity, eager to know the end of this story, but like the reader of a novel, never truly alarmed by the events. But this was no story. This was real.
Mr. Creevey was carrying Mr. Chase to the river. Unless a boat waited, he could have but one intention. Bodies were fished out of the Thames nearly every day, some never identified. Who could say for certain how they came there? Accident, suicide—or murder?
As the fog became darker, thicker, more insinuating, and more determined to come between us, my fear grew.
