by Issy Brooke
His face flickered for a moment and she was offended. “I can, you know,” she said. “I can be charming.”
“Good luck,” he remarked. “Would you like some eel pie?”
SHE HAD EATEN FAR TOO much, and wasted rather too much time at Simeon’s workshop. It was after midday when she continued on her journey. She decided that she would walk back to the station, and get home, and begin to write letters of enquiry. She walked slowly, as it was hard to breathe and digest at the same time in her narrow clothes. She didn’t tight-lace her corset – only a few, madly fashionable women ever did – but she had dressed herself when she had been empty of food, and now her belly was rebelling. Acid burned the back of her throat.
She paused by a bench, and debated whether to sit for a moment. As she did so, a man stopped alongside her.
The cologne in her nostrils told her who it was.
“You, again,” she said.
“Of course,” replied Jack Monahan with a grin. He swept off his hat and bowed low. “Didn’t I tell you that we should be friends? I shall watch you and I shall follow you until I convince you.”
“Sir, you cannot do such things!”
“It seems that I can.”
“There ought to be a law against it.”
“Perhaps there is. Shall we go to a police station and ask?”
She frowned at him. “I am going nowhere with you.” She felt powerless under his onslaught.
“Then let us sit here, and discuss ... business.”
“No.” But curiosity finally burst out of her, “Well, sir, what business?”
“Aha! At last. Excellent. I always get my way, in the end.” He grinned and she felt a little ill. He would not take no for an answer, and she began to wonder about men like that. How dangerous would he become if she kept refusing him? Had she become a point of pride and principle – someone that he had to break?
He put his hand up as if to stroke her cheek, and she stepped back with a hiss. He let his hand drop but he continued speaking as cockily as his gesture had suggested that he was. “I knew that you were a woman of sense. And that is exactly why we will go into a kind of partnership together. I speak only of business, Miss Starr. I know better, now, than to appeal to your womanly nature. This business arrangement will be a temporary one, but it will serve us both well.”
“Doing what?” she asked, in spite of herself, and slightly miffed at the insinuation that she had no womanly nature worth appealing to. She remained standing though he had taken a seat on the bench now, and lounged, with one arm resting along the back of it. She could not sit down without it looking as if he had his arm around her shoulder. She kept her chin held high.
“The exact details can be worked out as soon as you agree to it,” he said. “But suffice it to say that I think your talents for spotting the tricks of mediums and frauds could be very useful to my current line of work. You are a talented investigator. Very well-known, very clever. So let us harness our cleverness together. Yes, that’s it exactly.”
“I will not agree to anything that has only the barest of details. I am not that stupid,” she said scornfully. He had made his excuse up on the spot and she didn’t believe a word of it. He was riddled with lies, and he was simply saying what he thought would appeal to her. “You are making things up as you go. What exactly is your current line of work? For I am beginning to imagine that you are a fake and a fraud yourself, sir.”
“Are we not all composed of layers and not all are revealed truly even to ourselves?”
“No,” she said.
“There are many perceptions of truth,” he went on, like he was giving a philosophy lecture. “For example, while I believe you to be an able and indeed talented woman of science, others think you to be a shrill harpy.”
“How dare you!”
He opened his hands wide. “Not my words, dear Miss Starr. The words of others. There are those in this town who don’t appreciate your talents as I do.”
“Who?”
“Rivals in your very own business.”
“I have none! We all work towards the same aims.”
He shook his head sadly. “Would that this were true. Some resent a woman’s influence in the masculine arts. But I do not! All I want, Miss Starr, if I may speak plainly, is a little time in your company. I should dearly love to see your laboratory! May I not call?”
“You have tried and you were rebuffed. I am sorry, sir, but you may not call.”
His face darkened and his fists seemed to briefly clench. “What must I do to be able to be accepted at your house?”
“It is not my house,” she said through gritted teeth. “Sir, if you have any decency in your heart, you will leave me alone. I am very busy.”
“With what? I can help.”
“You can help by allowing me space. Good day, sir.”
She strode away and counted to thirty before she looked back. When she did so, he had gone.
Eight
“So you have discovered nothing?” Phoebe said to Marianne, later that evening. Price was dining at his club in the city, and there were no visitors expected to Woodfurlong. Marianne was already dressed for dinner, and she was in Phoebe’s own rooms, watching Phoebe’s maid Emilia attend to her cousin’s hair.
“No, nothing so far. I admit I am feeling unsettled by the whole thing. A natural reaction, you must agree, to that dreadful man Monahan. He was most bullying. And you have found out nothing about him from your gossips and contacts?”
“Well, there are a few whispers,” said Phoebe. She stayed perfectly still as the talented fingers of Emilia worked through her hair, pinning and curling and twisting. “There is actually a link between him and Lord Hazelstone – you know, the member of the House of Lords – I’ve never met him.”
“I know the name. He is involved in trade and so on. Does your husband not know him?”
“Lord Hazelstone? Perhaps. I shall ask him. But as for this Monahan, well, he might have been in his employment once, but no longer.”
“So whom does he work for now?”
“He seems to be quite placeless. He is a low sort with high airs that are not quite finished. Some of the ladies tittered at his name. They like to be charmed by him but would not dream of letting him anywhere near their daughters. He sounds the perfect cad. Emilia, does the name mean anything to you?”
Emilia de Souza was the bright daughter of an impoverished gentle family who were sunk too low to even be able to afford commissions in the army for the sons. One was working as a humble clerk and the other had taken to the church and ended up in a living so remote that Emilia sent him food parcels when she could. She was a good-natured soul who lacked any bitterness as to her reduced situation. She sprayed a little perfume over Phoebe’s hair, shading her mistress’s face with her free hand. “Jack Monahan ... no, my lady, I don’t recollect having heard it. I can ask around. Are you expecting him to be known among the staff?”
“I don’t know – Marianne, what do you think?”
“He is placeless, as you said. I recognise that in him. Perhaps he was once an officer. He carries himself with the confidence of a gentleman and he had, of course, gained admittance to Mrs Silver’s salon. I should go and ask her how she knew him but I fear she’d slam the door in my face.”
“Ah, then here is a job for me.” Phoebe sat forward and Emilia tutted. “Hush, girl, listen. I will go and talk to Mrs Silver. She can hardly close the door to me. Do you know when she receives calls?”
“I have her card. But you have no introduction.”
“I will obtain one. I know enough ladies in London to be able to tease out a thread of connection to this woman. And, while I am at it, I shall put out more feelers for this other mystery of ours – Edgar Bartholomew.”
“He seems to be a recluse.”
“Luckily, I am not. And I need another project if I am not to have a rose garden. Let me mobilise my forces.”
“You sound as if you are on campaign.�
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“Indeed I am!” Phoebe said. “I shall hunt this man down through the drawing rooms of London.”
“I suspect he does not frequent many. We are more likely to find him in clubs and private dining rooms, surely?” Marianne said in frustration. “We need a man. I would ask Simeon but he would be next to useless, and cannot get to the high places anyway. I need someone who can move in all circles and... dash it all, I am describing Jack Monahan.”
“Try Simeon. You never know. He has a good reputation, for what it is worth. As for this Monahan, could we use him, do you think? Use him, as he is intending to use you?”
“I do not know what he really wants from me, but it cannot be good. I think he lies out of fun, half the time. I have the dreadful feeling that none of this would have happened if I had not refused him at the start. Now I am a project to him. He only really seems to want to get me alone. He wants to come here.”
Phoebe nodded. “We need to know more about him before we allow that. What am I saying? We can never allow that!”
Marianne sat up straight as something occurred to her. “No man is without a past. Not Monahan, and not Bartholomew. He must have attended school, and a good one, I think. Perhaps there is still some old master who remembers him.”
“How old is this man?”
“He must be in his mid-fifties, perhaps less. His son is around thirty.”
“It is unlikely that you will find a master who taught him. But I suppose that it is worth a look. Well, then. Tonight shall be the last night I dine soberly at home, Marianne: tomorrow I, too, begin the hunt!”
IT WAS A HUNT FROM which Marianne was largely excluded, partly from her own nature – she knew she would be useless at polite conversation in elegant dining rooms and more of a liability to her cousin than a help. Though they had shared something of the same upbringing, they had known from early childhood that their futures would be very different. Phoebe had been schooled into society and loved it; Marianne had chafed under any instruction that tried to make her into an acceptable lady. But as she had no fortune to inherit, and a sad inclination to speak her mind, Marianne had abandoned any attempts at fitting into polite society and had embraced the more radical and shocking groups that accepted her into their circles. Bluestockings, liberals, and suffragists.
She left the comfortable drawing rooms to Phoebe without a murmur, and concentrated on exploring other avenues. While Phoebe flitted from fine house to fine house, charming everyone she met into gossip and revelations, Marianne moved among the middle circles of society, and those on the edges – often, well-bred folk with dangerous ideas. She spoke to old graduates that she still knew at the University Club for Ladies, and tradesfolk she had dealt with at Woodfurlong, and governesses and merchants’ wives and schoolteachers and, in a few cases, old colleagues of her father who still remembered him fondly and would indulge his wayward daughter. She had a list of the very best public schools, and sent letters to them all, enquiring as to former pupils and naming Edgar Bartholomew.
Marianne did not see Phoebe for three days, so intent was she on her task. While Marianne moved around town, she kept her eyes very open to any sign of Monahan, but if he was watching her as he had threatened, he was subtle about it. Nor did she hear from Mr George Bartholomew.
Yet all the while she had the prickling of unease at the back of her neck. Jack Monahan had promised to come after her, and soon he would, she was sure of it.
She even went into the police stationhouse on Bow Street, when she was passing, and spoke to a dismissive sergeant behind the desk. “There is no crime in walking about and looking at people,” he told her. “I do it all the time. Indeed, it is my job.”
Unless she had been physically harmed, then they might act – though her father would be more likely to be heard than she herself. If he brought a complaint that his daughter had been harassed, all of the Metropolitan police force would spring into action. She reminded the police that their own house had been broken into, as it was common knowledge that the penalties for house-breaking were harsher than for leg-breaking, but still he was unmoved.
She had suspected that the police would be of no help to her.
But on the evening of the third day, she had a stroke of luck. She received a reply to one of her letters, and it merely confirmed that there had once been a pupil called Edgar Bartholomew at the Westminster School. She was on the first train to London the very next day. She bought a newspaper to read in the ladies’ waiting room and for the journey itself.
A civil war still raged in Chile, she read. That did not interest her as much as an article about the now-ancient Reverend William Stainton Moses who was still proclaiming his skills at automatic writing as a revelation from God. She felt sorry for the old man, now, though his books still influenced the young and foolish and impressionable, and that made her angry. His ridiculous Ghost Club was an embarrassment.
She sought any mention of Harry Vane but he was absent this time. She had not yet found where he might be lecturing publicly and decided she needed to call at the Egyptian Hall to find out; also, Simeon might know. Or he might instead tell her all about how he intended to levitate a piano down Pall Mall.
She skimmed the trade section, out of a kind of respect to Price and how he made his money. He had lived in Prussia in his youth, for many years, and still used his experience to guide policy. The recent shift in power had unsettled things but as she read the article, her eyes unfocussed and she drifted, instead, to thinking of other things, especially how she was to persuade Phoebe that an electric corset was a terrible idea.
The train arrived. She left the paper on the seat for the next passenger to find and enjoy.
She walked along the side of the Thames and approached along Great College Street, passing the famed college garden on her right. It was said that it was the oldest cultivated garden in England. It was a shame that she couldn’t see any of it, with the tall grey wall keeping everyone out. She ignored the various doors along the wall, and headed for an archway at the far end. It was a school of high, but problematic reputation and the dispute over the future of the ownership of one building, Ashburnham House, was dragging on in the courts – it had been going on for twenty-two years now. She persuaded a porter to allow her into the main yard by using her very best upper-class accent as borrowed from Phoebe, and she was led up some steps and into a chilly, cavernous corridor. There the porter dithered, not sure if he could leave her alone while he went to fetch someone with more authority to tell her to leave.
Luckily a black-robed master came flapping along like a bat, and he took charge, drawing Marianne into a cluttered side room that smelled of dust. “My dear, are you looking for a particular boy?”
She was initially confused and wondered what kind of underhand and shady market they were running until she realised he had taken her to be the mother of a student. “No – my apologies!” She quickly explained about the positive reply to her letter, and asked if they had any master old enough who would possibly remember a pupil from almost thirty years previously.
“Oh my goodness, there is a tall order. It is true we tend to wear ourselves out here and simply die as we teach, and they do say that one Latin master expired during a lesson and his unfortunate state was not realised for three days. The boys simply filed in and out as usual, and assumed he was sleeping – such was the status quo. However, thirty years is a very long time. We would surely notice a cadaver in that length of time.” The master mused, his hands behind his back, staring at a blank bit of wall. “So, hmm, old masters, still present and hopefully still breathing. Luckshaw? Maybe. He smells particularly dusty. Collins? Oh, no, no, he came from Eton, didn’t he, though he probably started there in the last century. Oh! I have it. Wait here.”
She had no intention of going anywhere until she had her answers. She smiled and perched against a pile of boxes, and the master swished away.
He was gone for some time.
It was a strange and lonely p
lace to be, in a windowless store room, while all the noise and clatter of a boys’ school went on outside.
Finally, the man returned, and he wasn’t accompanied by another gown-wearing teacher. Instead, the man by his side was tiny, ancient, and dressed as a gardener. She remembered her old childhood mentor, and felt a rush of warmth for the man. She was already disposed to like him just through simple association. He coughed with a creak like a rusty door.
He was probably as old as the college garden itself.
“Bert has been here since Waterloo, haven’t you, eh, Bert?” The master clapped him on the back and disappeared.
Bert scowled at the door, which was left half-open, and then flashed Marianne a toothy and genuine smile. He touched one finger to his forehead, and said, “What may I do for you, madam? An old boy, was it?”
“Edgar Bartholomew.” She furnished him with as many dates and details as she could. She doubted that the man could possibly remember any pupil at all, even from so long ago, and she was right. He was not a teacher, after all.
He shook his head. “I have a remarkable memory,” he told her, in a voice as strong as a twenty-year-old man’s. “I can tell you everything I know from decades ago. I cannot tell you what I had for breakfast, alas.”
“It is often the way, in ...”
“Us ancient decrepit folk, yes. Oh, don’t worry. If I cannot admit I am old, what can I say? No, there is no Edgar Bartholomew coming to my mind. Was there anyone else?”
“Perhaps you might remember a certain Wade Walker?”
And his face lit up, to her delight. “A singular name for a singular boy. Ah yes! The pair of them – I see them now, one so dark and one so pale – yes! Both good lads, good students, and inseparable. Quiet, and respectful in manner.”
“Do you know what they went on to do in life?”
He shook his head. “No, no. I only know them as they passed through my gardens. I know all the good boys, who walk the paths and appreciate the flowers, and I know the bad ones, who scuff the gravel and pull up the plants. But that is all I know, I’m afraid.”
