by Leah Scheier
Mr. Porter nodded briefly and cleared his throat. “Was your wife the only one with a key to Lady Rose’s room?” he inquired.
“No, I myself have a master key that fits all the locks in the house. No one else has access to it, as it sits on my bedroom dresser with my other keys and does not leave my side while I am awake. Rose does not normally keep her door locked, but that night she chose to fasten it, and then left her keys on the table behind her.”
“How did she leave the room, then?”
“There is a tall tree outside her window. As a child, she used to climb down to the garden every morning until her mother finally ordered the branches trimmed. They have since grown to their original height and are easy to scale.”
“How would you describe Lady Rose’s character?”
Lord Hartfield shifted uneasily in his chair. “I think most men would claim to have trouble understanding their daughters. Young girls seem to act on whims and moods that are a complete mystery to their parents. And yet I would say that my daughter has never been as excitable as the majority of her acquaintances, nor as capricious or spoiled. She was always a devoted child and a loving one, if a little quiet and awkward. This Season was her coming out, and even I must admit that so far it has been a complete disaster. She hung about in the shadows during the dancing, answered company in monosyllables, and was finally declared by the family physician to be suffering from an ‘attack of nerves’ and so unable to participate in the remainder of the social season. My wife was quite unhappy over it.”
I couldn’t help feeling sorry for the missing Lady Rose. Perhaps the strain of disappointing her family over and again had proved too much for her. I could not blame her for running away, and I wondered if I, too, might one day wish to disappear in the middle of my “coming out.” It had certainly crossed my mind during many a dinner party. Still, for a well-bred noblewoman to vanish so suddenly without a warning—? But Cartwright was already asking the question on my mind.
“Your Lordship, can you recall any recent unusual events or any change in her behavior?”
“No, I cannot. My son, however, informed me that during my absence he saw her speaking to a tall young man in the garden by the solarium. They were at some distance from him and he was unable to see the man’s face, but the fellow’s dress was that of a gentleman, though not of her station. It was the first time she has done anything of the sort, and the fact that it occurred the morning before her disappearance seems significant to me. I am truly shocked that she would behave in this fashion and at such a crucial time, just weeks before her brother’s marriage. To bring this shame upon us now…I have been struggling to understand it, and I cannot.”
“Do you have any idea who the gentleman might be?”
“I do not. Indeed I was surprised by my son’s report.”
“Was Lady Rose opposed to her brother’s marriage?”
“Not to my knowledge. She barely mentioned it at all.”
“Can you tell me what was missing from her room?”
“Several dresses, a pair of shoes, some articles of jewelry, and a large suitcase, one of a pair. The personal belongings that one packs for a journey. And yet she left behind one item that surprised me.”
“What was that?”
“For her sixteenth birthday, I gave my daughter a small crucifix necklace encrusted with diamonds. She loved the gift and swore to keep it with her always. I remember laughing at her enthusiasm but, true to her word, she never left her room without it; when it did not suit her gown she would tuck it into the bodice of her dress and wear it as a sort of talisman. And yet, the morning of her flight, she left it untouched in the drawer. I cannot believe she would have left it behind voluntarily.”
“You believe she may have been abducted, then?”
“It is the only explanation other than a deliberate deception.” Cartwright shook his head and frowned. “The kidnapper would have had to scale the tree outside her window, have woken her, have waited patiently while she packed some clothing, and then forced her to climb down the tree carrying a large satchel. A descent down the staircase and out the front door with a struggling or unconscious girl would have been risky, even at night. Besides, the bedroom door was locked from the inside, and her keys still lay upon her desk.”
“I confess I cannot think of an explanation.”
“You have received no ransom note?”
“No, thank heaven.”
“Have you questioned the servants? Did anyone observe anything unusual?”
“To question the servants would have been to admit that something was amiss, and was therefore impossible.”
“Has the room, at least, been left untouched?”
“Again, how could we ask her parlor maid to neglect her mistress’s quarters without arousing suspicion?”
Cartwright leaned further forward in his chair, and I saw that his pale face was flushed and he was vibrating with a suppressed energy. “So now Your Lordship wishes us to investigate your daughter’s disappearance from her bedroom after the maid has destroyed any trace of that evening with her duster. If you were concerned about a possible abduction, why did you wait two days before coming to consult us?”
The nobleman flushed and looked helplessly at the older agent. “We thought only of the scandal at first, Mr. Porter, and we prayed that she would return home before any damage was done. It was my recent discovery of the crucifix that prompted our decision to consult you and risk this exposure. We are now quite prepared to assist you in any way that would not compromise our privacy.”
Mr. Porter seemed to consider a moment before replying, “Frankly, Your Lordship, I wonder if you are attaching too much significance to a piece of jewelry. A woman in the throes of a romance often forgets even her most sacred duties—so I admit that this abandonment of the necklace does not surprise me. Still, I must examine her room before making a final decision on the matter. I would be willing to go down to Hartfield under some other guise in order to avoid gossip, if you like. You may inform your housekeeper that you are expecting workmen this evening. That will explain our visit.”
With a satisfied nod, the nobleman rose to go.
“One more thing,” remarked Cartwright as Lord Hartfield gathered his cloak and hat. “It would be helpful if you could send us the names of your household staff, along with their dates of hire, agency, or references. And also, please leave your daughter’s portrait behind.”
There was a grim silence after the earl had left, and I was certain that my moment had finally come. There was no longer any reason to keep my presence there a secret, and I felt sure that Cartwright would immediately throw open the bedroom door and drag me out into my shame. I waited miserably for the summons, my head pressed against the wooden doorpost. When nothing came, I sank back onto my heels and exhaled slowly. It seemed that I would be a happy prisoner for a little longer. Outside the door, Mr. Porter and his apprentice had resumed their conversation.
“Well, Cartwright, you seem to be lost in thought. What do you make of it?”
“The man seems less anxious about his daughter’s welfare than about the wedding preparations.”
“That is not fair. Consider his position, his reputation, the concerns of his wife and son. Surely you do not believe that he would be indifferent if his daughter were in any real danger?”
Cartwright rose to his feet and paced in front of his mentor. “And yet, if the daughter left of her own will, I wonder she did not leave a letter for her father. They seemed to have had a decent enough relationship.”
“Ah, but that means nothing to a lady who fancies herself in love. Girls of that age will often act in a perverse and capricious manner and may even shock the men who trust them.” Cartwright glanced at my keyhole again, smiled briefly, and resumed his pacing. “Well, you may be right. Nevertheless, it is our duty to find her, even if she does not wish it.”
Mr. Porter folded his arms. “I am not likely to shrug off an earl’s request, my boy. We
will go down this evening as I promised, and then we can put this case to rest…or not. In the meantime, I have several other matters to attend to. Be sure to meet me at Paddington at six—and do not forget to bring the two disguises.”
“Yes, sir.”
There was a scraping sound of shoes upon the carpet and the creak and slam of the front door. No sooner had the agent gone than the bedroom door upon which I was leaning swung open, and I tumbled into the room at Cartwright’s feet. I scrambled upright, brushed off my skirt, and stood in serious attention before him, as if I had been summoned on a secret mission and was now prepared to trot out my report. He was staring at me with a look of teasing disbelief, like a comedian who has just been handed several tricks at once and is trying to decide which one to use. Finally he leaned against the wall and jerked his chin in the direction of his room.
“So, Miss Joyce, you’ve had half an hour to poke around my bedroom. What scandalous things have you found out about me? Or must I wait until we are in a more public place for you to announce my story to the world?”
I was tired of blushing before this boy, of feeling silly, small, and female. So I threw my head back as if our conversation was quite natural and gave him a triumphant smile. “I am sorry to disappoint you, Mr. Cartwright, but I have no interest in finding anything out about you. I do, however, have something to say about the Hartfield case, if you care to listen.”
There was a brief struggle in his eyes; the desire to prolong the joke was strong but curiosity won out in the end, and he crossed his arms. “Well, what is it, then?”
“I thought it strange that Lady Hartfield and her stepson went up together to the girl’s bedroom when Lady Rose didn’t come down to breakfast.”
He opened his mouth to answer, and then paused as the idea dawned on him. “And why is that?”
“I would expect that they would have first appealed to one of the servants to inquire after their mistress.”
He nodded briskly. “And what does that suggest to you?”
I had not thought that far ahead, so I chose a safe reply. “I cannot theorize without talking to them first. I’d like to speak to their servants, too, I think.”
He sauntered away from me and collapsed wearily into his armchair. “You would like to interview them, would you? What on earth has this to do with you?”
I moved quickly to stand before him and leaned over him with solemn gravity. (At my height, I did not get the opportunity to tower over people very often.) “It has everything to do with me, Mr. Cartwright. It might interest you to know that Mr. James Farringdon, the blackmailer who has my cousin’s letters, has recently taken a post at Hartfield Hall. Or perhaps you already knew that.”
I had been waiting patiently for that look, the staring eyes, the trapdoor mouth, the blankness of surprise. That look was what I lived for, honestly.
He inhaled sharply and sat up in his chair so suddenly that I had to jump back to avoid being knocked over by his head. “It cannot be a coincidence,” he murmured to himself. “Of course it can’t. That is why we need to speak to servants, butlers, ladies’ maids, anyone who knows him.”
He shook his head and threw his hands out. “And yet we—I cannot interview them. Their servants are under the impression that Lady Rose is enjoying a visit with her aunt in Brighton, and we cannot truly question them without exciting their suspicions.”
“And the savvy Mr. Porter has all but dismissed the case. Before it has even started.”
His eyes flickered ominously. “So?”
“Well, his conclusions must be your conclusions; he is your master, after all.”
“Oh, so naturally I must obey my master,” he snapped. The mocking grin had left his lips, and there was a cool tension about him now, like the wariness of a fencer. Something told me that I was about to tread on dangerous ground, that he would resent any further comments. But the clues were literally lying at my feet, impossible to ignore. The boy’s shameless clutter, his forthright manner, the equality between the apprentice and his master were entirely unnatural. There was no way he could deny it.
“Mr. Cartwright, you do not respect Mr. Porter as a teacher or even as a colleague,” I declared. “Why on earth did you choose to work for him?”
His jaw set and his brows came down; there was an angry glitter beneath the white surface of his smile. “And why, Miss Joyce, are you still mourning Sherlock Holmes’s death?” he demanded suddenly.
“I am not—”
“Oh, stop, I beg of you. I know that you are lying, I can see the sadness in your eyes.”
I could not answer him. There was no way that I could speak about my history or my loss; he would simply have to bear the mystery. “We were talking about you, sir.”
“No, Miss Joyce. We were talking about subjects that are not to be discussed. You have yours, clearly, and I have mine. Let that be enough.”
“I cannot mention Mr. Porter in your presence?”
“We do not talk about my post, how I came by it or why. As far as you’re concerned, I was born the day I moved here, I have always been a detective’s assistant, and I have no other aspirations.”
If I had not already been interested in his past, those instructions would undoubtedly have sparked my curiosity, for his apprenticeship and manner were not the only remarkable thing about him. I glanced at his collar, remembering the cross-shaped scar that I had seen when we first met. Its shape and depth was that of a deliberate injury, and yet the location of the cut was quite unusual. Self-inflicted gashes are usually closer to an artery or a vein, to ensure maximum blood loss, while neck wounds from an attacker are typically located near the jawline, a straight slash beneath the chin made while seizing the victim’s head. This one was different; it was its own story, a crimson brand, his tiny, livid secret. He saw my puzzled look and followed the direction of my eyes. His cheeks flushed scarlet, one hand traveled halfway to his collar as if by instinct. I quickly turned my head and focused on the window, but he had already risen and walked away from me. “Good day, Miss Joyce,” he told me shortly. “I trust your cousin will forgive you for this last infraction.”
I grabbed my purse and joined him by the door. “I slipped away when she was out.”
“Well, then you’d best be going now, before she realizes that you’re missing. Otherwise you won’t be able to come back tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow! But—”
“At half past two. Mr. Porter will be out.”
“But—I—”
“Oh, and if, by chance, I haven’t yet returned,” he added with a little smile, “please try to wait for me in the study, on the sofa, like a normal girl. Not beneath my bed, or inside the chimney, or hanging like a kitten from the curtains. Please.”
ADELAIDE WAS NOT at home when I returned, and so I was able to greet her innocently at dinner. Cook had let me in the servants’ entrance and had stared pointedly at my muddy boots before nodding me upstairs. Though she knew that my three-hour absence and my dirty boots were not the result of a “little stroll” across the street as I had claimed, I knew about the “extras” that the cook purchased every week, bits of candle, fat, and sugar that she later sold in secret by the tradesmen’s door. Cook would never reveal my secrets out of fear that I would respond in kind.
Adelaide and I had a peaceful dinner with no further mention of my returning home, which I hoped meant that the subject would remain closed. Even so, I was no longer certain about my role in London or in this investigation. Cartwright and Porter would be taking over now; they were at Hartfield Hall already. Perhaps they would solve the case that very day, and I would hear about it in a letter, or through my cousin. Who was I that they should include me in their adventure? I was a child who made startling observations, who occasionally terrified her relatives and frequently flouted every decent rule. But most importantly, I was a girl.
And yet—he had asked me to come back. Perhaps that meant something after all.
I retired early that nigh
t, but I found that I could not sleep, for our final conversation played over and again in my imagination. Why had he asked me to come back—again? What exactly did he want of me? Did he wish to see me because I stimulated him, because I challenged him? I had always thought that young men hated that quality in a lady. I edged over to the dresser mirror and studied my reflection in the glass. Surely it had to be my mind that had charmed him, and nothing else. I was so slight and simple, after all, my cheeks so thin and pale. If I smiled just right, there was a sweet, coy glitter in my eyes, and if I held my breath, my figure rounded out a little—almost like a woman’s, but not quite. And that hair, the wayward coiling curls, that mass of fog around my forehead—my hair did not improve the picture. I pulled the covers around my shoulders and sank back into my pillow. It had to be my mind, I decided finally. There could be no other explanation.
I ought to have been proud of the distinction, of being recognized for my intelligence. That was what I’d worked for all this time. I wanted to be proud, to fall easily asleep with this new confidence wrapped tight around me. But somehow, I could not manage it. It was not a fitting thought, perhaps, especially for the daughter of the great detective, but I couldn’t help wishing that just once I could be seen as more than a useful brain.
The following morning, I was hovering by the fireplace like a nervous sentry, waiting desperately for my cousin to declare her schedule for the day. I was hoping she would announce a shopping trip, a stroll across the park, or perhaps another social call; I could refuse any of those plans, and they would take Adelaide from the house and leave me free. It was not until our lunch was finished and she had settled into her armchair by the fire with a book of poetry that I realized that my window for escape had completely vanished. I shrank miserably into the sofa and tried to read her thoughts. She could not possibly intend to sit there for the entire afternoon; it was her second day in London. The Season had already started, and there were shops to visit, people to meet in drawing rooms. What was she doing?
