by Issy Brooke
“I live in a house called Woodlands,” she said slowly, trying to sound confident, and worrying that the lie would be obvious. “Woodlands, just off the High Street in Upper Holloway.”
Anna accepted that, and gave no sign of suspicion. They shook hands again, and parted. Marianne walked slowly along the road and spent a long time looking in shop windows, and Anna seemed to do the same along the other side of the street. It became a test of nerves as they both watched each other while pretending not to.
Eventually Anna called a cab and rode away.
Marianne caught the train into town, and then asked a cab driver to take her to Bird Street.
“Ain’t no such place, miss,” she was informed chirpily.
She had suspected as much.
It was just her luck to have met another woman with broad interests and a high intellect, and have her to be an imposter full of lies.
Twelve
Anna was a mystery, Marianne thought, but not the biggest or most interesting one at the moment, and she tried to convince herself to put the woman out of her mind. She had other things she had to attend to. Anna had likely been having an affair with George – really, she had admitted as much. She had seemed plausibly shocked and upset about the news of his death.
And Marianne felt a pang of genuine sympathy. For how could Anna openly mourn the loss of her lover? They should not have been together and society would not tolerate her shedding a public tear for him. Anna’s lies – at least, some of them – were understandable misdirection.
Marianne walked slowly, keeping to the edge of the road, out of the way of hurrying pedestrians. Her main focus now, she felt, was to get to the bottom of the blackmailing of Price. He himself seemed content – well, that was not the right word: resigned, maybe? – to continue paying the money to his unknown blackmailer, but it made Marianne’s blood boil. It had to be stopped. Though how she was to do that, when Price would not tell her who was blackmailing him, was a problem. He seemed convinced, naively so, that once he had paid “enough”, they would stop. Of course they would do no such thing.
She felt an uncomfortable obligation to the dead George Bartholomew, to “not let that man win” but she had known, from the start, it was a pointless chase and she had taken the case simply for the money. She felt none of her usual fire to expose Edgar Bartholomew; he was not making a fool of anyone but himself. She exposed mediums, because she objected, on moral grounds, to their deception. They preyed on the weak, the vulnerable, the lonely and the bereaved, and it made her blood boil. Plus, it was a way for her to earn money. Money meant independence, of a sort.
Money didn’t cut you loose from family responsibilities, though.
However, the only real paying job she had at the moment was the Bartholomew case, and it was something that she had to do.
But her final problem was Jack Monahan. She had some tantalising snippets of information about him – who he had once worked for, what manner of man he was – but nothing real and concrete.
Except that she did have his address, printed on his card that was shoved to the bottom of her bag. She fished it out from underneath her revolver, notebook and handkerchiefs. She recognised the street name, and knew it to be close by the river. She set off at a brisk pace rather than call for a cab or take a crowded omnibus. She hoped that he lived in a respectable house with servants that she might pump for information. She organised her possible tactics in her head, as she refused to be caught out again. She would ask sweetly and charmingly at first. If that did not work, she could try a little bribery. Her last resort was, of course, threats and intimidation.
The house appeared respectable but on closer inspection, it was yet another property that had been divided up. On the ground floor lived a thin-looking woman who said she was married to a middling clerk in the post office. She opened the door but left Marianne standing outside while Marianne asked if she was in the right place. She told Marianne that the two upper floors were taken by Mr Monahan, but that he retained only a daily girl and a man servant who was “as dirty as he was rude, and as silent as he was ugly. And unlikely to be home, while there was drinking to be done.”
“Can you tell me what Mr Monahan does for a living?”
“I thought that you knew him,” the woman said with narrowed eyes. “You said as you were calling on him friendly-like.”
Marianne leaned forward and dropped her voice. “Our paths have crossed a little, lately, and he left me his card and invited me to call.” She showed the woman the proof. “But there is much I do not know and I think it is wise for me to find out before I let the acquaintance progress ... if you read my meaning?”
The woman nearly rolled her eyes but she stepped back into the corridor and said, “Come in out of the wind. You’re wise to feel him out first, as is. I wouldn’t like to say as he’s a good match for a likely young woman, at the end of the day. Oh! Miss, step this way sharpish.” The woman grabbed Marianne’s arm and hauled her through the front door and into her own front room, partly closing the door to the corridor, shielding her from the two men that entered the house and went on up the stairs.
“That was him,” Marianne said in a whisper.
“Yes, with his grubby man along with him.”
“So what does he do for a job?”
“He does nothing, as far as I can see. He used to do the dirty work for Lord whats-his-face, but they had a set-to and the Lord gave him the boot, and none too soon, if you ask me. Heaven knows what he got up to, sneaking in and out day and night. Now he roams around trying to get his old job back. He’s always in some scheme or another.”
“He does not sound at all like the sort of man I wish to associate with.” Marianne was making up her mind. She’d continue on her way, and look no more into Monahan.
He probably only thought that she was more wealthy than she actually was.
The woman was nodding. “You do right, miss. I’ll see you out.”
But as Marianne turned to go, there was more knocking on the street door. The thin woman sighed. “Now who?”
“I’ll get it, Mrs Hathaway!” called the familiar smooth voice of Monahan from upstairs. “I’m expecting someone.”
Marianne and Mrs Hathaway remained behind the slightly-open door as Monahan’s footsteps bounded down the stairs and he greeted the new person with warmth and laughter. “Dunston, you’re late!”
“I’m never late, eh! Here or there?”
“Bill’s upstairs. Let’s go out. Drinks?”
“That’ll do nicely. Got into that girl’s good books yet?”
“Not a sniff of it. She won’t be got through flattery.”
“Precious little to flatter her about, eh? Too much reading does terrible things to a woman’s face.”
“Oh, I just need to use the right sort of flattery. Science is her thing so I realise I need to praise her brain, that’s all –”
The voices faded and the street door slammed closed.
Mrs Hathaway had a look on her face that was halfway between sympathy and told-you-so, and Marianne could only nod with a wry smile. “That confirms him as a cad, a cheat and a liar,” she said.
“I am sorry, miss.”
“Oh, don’t be. I knew from the start. My main question is – why me? Have you any idea? I am a woman of no importance at all. I have no money and no means.”
“That do seem strange, but all I can say miss – if you forgive me – is that perhaps he mistakes you for someone else.”
“I cannot think who.”
SHE LEFT THE HOUSE and intended to continue on her way. Unfortunately her way back to the railway station lay the same way as Monahan and his friend Dunston. She lagged behind and tried not to look as if she was following them, but she was also eaten up by curiosity and could not help but keep them in her view.
Monahan must be a man with a fear of the law, she thought, for he looks about himself constantly. She tried to stay behind other people, but it was less easy for a well-dressed woman to blend
in than a man in a hat and a dark coat could. She jumped behind a clergyman too late. Jack Monahan saw her, said something to his companion, and strode back along the pavement to apprehend her. She slid her hand into her bag as he approached, and let her fingers brush her gun.
“Good day, Miss Starr! Well met. You have been watching my house, then, and following me. What larks!”
“I have done no such thing,” she said. “Yes, I admit I have been to your house – for I, sir, am no liar. I went, and then I left. Now I am simply returning home. You, however, have been following me, plaguing me and threatening me. You cannot deny it.”
“I have done no such thing! The threats, I mean. I have never threatened you. I do admit the rest. I have followed you from time to time! Such fun. It does me good to stay in practice.”
“But one cannot do such things,” she said in exasperation. It was like trying to chastise fog. He seemed pleased with himself, rather than repentant. “Practice for what? Who are you, and why do you think that you can do these things?”
“I am Jack Monahan, and that is my real name. I am sure you have looked into it. It is known, around town. I am a gentleman, but one who must work, and I have travelled widely, which might account for my manners if any seem rough or brutish – for which I do apologise.”
“Oh. I did wonder about your manners,” she said. “We thought you might be one of those fallen gentlemen who fight abroad and come home thinking they can carry on as if they are in Kabul or wherever still.”
“I was never in Kabul,” he said. “But yes, I suppose you have me right. Well done!”
“And what is this to me? Why do you plague me so? Your insistence is troubling and I suspect you mistake who I am.”
“No, not at all! I believe that we have the same aims. We both want to expose people. Come, there is a private dining room that I know, not far from here. Let us go there, and I shall buy you lunch, and we will talk. It is past time that we do. As you wilfully refuse to come to me, I shall insist that we dine out together.”
“It is late for lunch,” she said, trying to turn away.
“I am hungry. Let us not be bound by the rules of when one may eat and when one may not.”
Much as she longed to run away, this was her chance to get to the bottom of things with the infuriating man. Of all the various people who had plagued her over the years, he was by far the most persistent. Even the random letter writer of Hastings had given up after a few rebuffs from her. But Jack Monahan, it seemed, really had something to gain from her, or he thought that he did. And she did want to know why he was so determined.
“Is it a respectable place? I will not enter a low dive with you.”
“Thoroughly respectable, and we shall send word home to your cousin to tell her where we are, and who you are with, almost as if you are a decent sort of woman.”
She did not rise to his insult. “What of your companion?”
“Don’t worry. I have told him I must attend to this. He will go on elsewhere.”
Grudgingly, she agreed to his plan, and he reacted as if she had said yes to a marriage proposal. With a grin, he marched her around a corner and up some steps into a pleasant hallway where they were met by a smartly-dressed man. A boy was despatched with a note to Phoebe. The smart servant took them to a small but warmly furnished room, and promised them that a light meal would appear within moments.
“This is excellent,” he said, beaming at her. “Thank you for trusting me. I can be honest with you and tell you that there are certain people, in particular, that I need to get close to. Never mind why. Now, you happen to have the way in to get close to those people. I have been trying other tactics to gain entry to certain places but these have been fruitless. Alas, my past does precede me. I have been away too much, and I lack certain essential contacts. And I have tried to pay a woman to be on my arm and give me some respectability but that did not go well.”
“I should imagine not, if you had to pay her.”
He grinned ruefully and she studied him. For all his casual confidence, he seemed to desperately need – something.
He did need her.
But she was not sure that she cared to be needed in this way. He was yet still too secretive.
“Well,” she said. “Who is it that you want to gain access to? Is there any connection with mediums and séances? Otherwise I must tell you that I am useless to you. I do not really move in society.”
As she said that, she realised that she might not be the end target. She did not move in society much but Phoebe did. Was she simply being used as a stepping stone? His next sentence confirmed that suspicion.
“We should get to know one another properly first,” he said. “I have told you this all along, have I not? I have a plan! Why don’t you have me invited to dinner? That way, when I begin to accompany you to ...ahh, these séances, we will not arouse questions or comment.”
“And you cannot get invited to other gatherings to meet these same people?”
He blinked. “No, I cannot. They would not be at those gatherings.”
Marianne sat back. What rot, she thought. He says one thing but he means another. The food arrived and picked at the selection of sandwiches delicately and with little enthusiasm. He tucked in, and watched her, waiting for an answer. He was smiling, as if it was a foregone conclusion.
Does he think I am stupid, she thought. Does he really imagine I do not already see through him? Clearly he has had no dealings with women – well, women of any class – at all. We are not so easy to hoodwink as a streetwalker.
“I need something from you, too,” she said at last.
“Of course. We will be a partnership. If you need me in the future, just send word.”
“I need you now, before I will aid you. I need to gain access to a particular room, and spend some time there, without being noticed.”
He stopped, mid-chew, and frowned. “Excuse me?”
She felt a little rush of triumph. It was rather marvellous to have surprised the man. “A man has died under strange circumstances and I wish to know exactly what happened. The body will have been removed by now, but I want to get back into the room, and look for any evidence as to how he might have died.” She took a deep breath. “I suspect poisoning.”
“You said you want to get back into the room. You’ve already been there?”
“Oh yes,” she said, airily, and enjoying every minute of his shock. “I found the body, after all.”
SHE HAD EXPECTED MONAHAN to make complicated plans to be undertaken at night, but when she described the situation and layout of the room, he rolled his eyes and said, “Oh well – come on, then.” They went out into the streets and it did not take them too long to get to the right road. They marched up to the lodging house and stood on the opposite side of the street, looking at it.
“You say the housekeeper is blind?” he asked.
“As a bat.”
“Then it is simple. I shall talk to her and you can creep upstairs. There is no need here for complicated subterfuge, exciting though that would be. Oh, there is one issue,” he said and sighed. “This plan won’t work if the door is locked.”
“Don’t worry about that,” Marianne retorted. “I have methods.”
He looked at her sideways but she was already striding across the road. It never did for a man to know too much about a woman, after all. One must have one’s secrets. Especially if those secrets were marginally criminal.
She waited for him to catch her up at the entrance to the building. She stood to one side as he rapped sharply on the door. “Have you a cover story?” she hissed as they waited.
“I am always prepared with at least seven,” he said. “For any eventuality.”
That was something to aspire to, she thought.
The door was opened and the plan sprang into action. He began to charm the old housekeeper with long tales that kept suggesting they had a point but seemed to go nowhere, while Marianne slipped past them both and cre
pt as silently as she could up the stairs to the attic.
Once at the door, she found that it was locked, and she was almost pleased as it gave her a chance to practice the tricks that Simeon had taught her. There was no lock that he could not break – even while blindfolded and upside-down. She had a small kit in her handbag, nestling next to her gun. As the door was an internal one, with no need for real security, it was a simple matter of using one of her skeleton keys in the warded lock. Within moments she was in the room.
She pressed a handkerchief to her mouth hastily. The body had been removed, but the smell remained. There were more signs of disarray. The bed clothes had been flung to the floor, and the chest now stood open. The police had not done any investigation as, to them, there was no suggestion of foul play.
But Marianne had a deep suspicion about George Bartholomew’s father.
She prowled around the room. The housekeeper had not even begun to clean up yet. Perhaps she was going to pay someone to do it for her. The place was still foul with sickness but she fought past her revulsion and tried to identify what she was smelling. Vomit, diarrhoea, and garlic. There was also sweat, and unwashed clothes, and general staleness.
She steeled herself to peer under the bed. It was dark, and she blinked, not sure what she was actually seeing.
The chamber-pot appeared to be faintly glowing.
She pulled it towards her very carefully. Inside was mostly bloody solid matter, and very little liquid. In the pale light of the bedroom, there was nothing that was obviously emitting a glow now.
She pushed it away, thoughtfully.
She had thought that she might take samples back to her laboratory but now the idea filled her with revulsion. She could not carry a full chamber pot through the streets of London. She did pick up one of the bedsheets and rolled it carefully so that the stains were inside, and did not show. She glanced once more around the horrible room but there was nothing that leaped out at her.
She ran down the steps, tapped Monahan on the shoulder as she passed him, and shot right out into the street. She was hailing a cab as Monahan extricated himself from the housekeeper and came to join her.
