The Mammoth Book of Best British Crime 10

by Maxim Jakubowski

  Apply in person to

  J. Jesperson,

  203A Gower Street

  Even as my heart leaped, I scolded myself for being a silly girl. Certainly, I was sharp and brave, blessed with good health and a strong constitution, but when you came right down to it, I was a woman, small and weak. What detective would take on such a liability?

  But the card said nothing about weapons or physical strength. I read it again, and then glanced up from the number on the card - 203A - to the number painted above the shop premises: 203.

  There were two doors. One, to the left, led into the little shop, but the other, painted glistening black, bore a brass plate inscribed Jesperson.

  My knock was answered by a lady in early middle age, too genteel in dress and appearance to be mistaken for a servant.

  “Mrs Jesperson?” I asked.

  “Yes?”

  I told her I had come in response to the advertisement, and she let me in. There was a lingering smell of fried bacon and toasted bread that reminded me I’d had nothing to eat since the previous afternoon.

  “Jasper,” she said, opening another door and beckoning me on. “Your notice has already borne fruit! Here is a lady ... Miss ... ?”

  “I am Miss Lane,” I said, going in.

  I entered a warm, crowded, busy, comfortable, cheerful place. I relaxed, the general atmosphere, with the familiar scent of books, tobacco, toast, and ink that imbued it, making me feel at home even before I’d had a chance to look around. The room obviously combined as office and living room in one. The floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, crammed with volumes, gave it the look of a study, as did the very large, very cluttered desk piled with papers and journals. But there were also armchairs near the fireplace - the hearth cold on this warm June morning; the mantelpiece so laden with such a variety of objects I simply could not take them in at a glance - and a table bearing the remains of breakfast for two. This quick impression was all I had time to absorb before the man, springing up from his place at the table, commanded my attention.

  I say man, yet the first word that came to mind was boy, for despite his size - he was, I later learned, six foot four inches tall - the smooth, pale, lightly freckled face beneath a crown of red-gold curls was like that of an angelic child.

  He fixed penetrating blue eyes upon me. “How do you do, Miss Lane? So, you fancy yourself a detective?” His voice at any rate was a man’s; deep and well modulated.

  “I would not say so. But you advertised for an assistant, someone literate, brave, congenial, with a good memory, and willing to work all hours. I believe I possess all those qualities, and I am in search of ... interesting employment.”

  Something sparked between us. It was not that romantic passion that poets and sentimental novelists consider the only connection worth writing about between a man and a woman. It was, rather, a liking, a recognition of congeniality of mind and spirit.

  Mr Jesperson nodded his head and rubbed his hands together, the mannerisms of an older man. “Well, very well,” he murmured to himself, before fixing me again with his piercing gaze.

  “You have worked before, of course, in some capacity requiring sharp perceptions, careful observation, and a bold spirit, yet you are now cut adrift—”

  “Jasper, please,” Mrs Jesperson interrupted. “Show the lady common courtesy, at least.” Laying one hand gently on my arm, she invited me to sit, indicating a chair, and offered tea.

  “I’d love some, thank you. But that’s your chair, surely?”

  “Oh, no, I won’t intrude any further.” As she spoke, she lifted the fine white china teapot, assessing the weight of the contents with a practised turn of her wrist. “I’ll leave the two of you to your interview while I fetch more tea. Would you like bread and butter, or anything else?”

  A lady always refuses food when she hasn’t been invited to a meal - but I was too hungry for good manners. “That would be most welcome, thank you.”

  “I’ll have more toast, if you please, and jam would be nice, too, Mother.”

  She raised her eyes heavenward and sighed as she went away.

  He’d already returned his attention to me. “You have been in the Highlands, in the country home of one of our titled families. You were expecting to be there for the rest of the summer, until an unfortunate ... occurrence ... led to an abrupt termination of your visit, and you were forced to leave at once, taking the first train to London where you have ... a sister? No, nothing closer than an aunt or a cousin, I think. And you were on your way there when, pausing to rest, you spotted my notice.” He stopped, watching me expectantly.

  I shook my head to chide him.

  He gaped, crestfallen. “I’m wrong?”

  “Only about a few things, but anyone with eyes might guess I’d been in Scotland, considering the time of day, and the fact that I’ve had no breakfast, and that there are no foreign stickers on my portmanteau.”

  “And the abrupt departure?”

  “I was on foot, alone, there not having been time for a letter to inform my friends - there is no aunt or cousin - of my arrival.”

  “The job is yours,” he said suddenly. “Don’t worry about references - you are your own best reference. The job is yours, if you still want it.”

  “I should like to know more about it, first,” I replied, thinking I should at least appear to be cautious. “What would be my duties?”

  “Duties seems to me the wrong word. Your role, if you like, would be that of an associate, helping me to solve crimes, assisting in deduction, and, well, whatever is required. You’ve read the Sherlock Holmes stories?”

  “Of course. I should point out that, unlike Dr Watson, I’d be no good in a fight. I have a few basic nursing skills, so I could bind your wounds, but don’t expect me to recognize the symptoms of dengue fever, or—or—”

  He laughed. “I don’t ask for any of that. My mother’s the nurse. I’m a crack shot, and I’ve also mastered certain skills imported from the Orient, which give me an advantage in unarmed combat. I cannot promise to keep you out of danger entirely, but if danger does not frighten you—” He took the answer from my face and gave me a broad smile. “Very well, then. We’re agreed?”

  How I longed to return that smile, and take the hand he offered to shake on it! But with no home, and only twelve shillings in my purse, I needed more.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “This is awkward,” I said. “Unlike Dr Watson, I don’t have a medical practice to provide me with an income ...”

  “Oh, money!” he exclaimed, with that careless intonation possible only to people who’ve never had to worry about the lack of it. “Why, of course, I mean for you to get something more than the thrill of the chase out of this business. A man’s got to live! A woman, too. How are you at writing? Nothing fancy, just setting down events in proper order, in a way that anyone might understand. Ever tried your hand at such a narrative?”

  “I’ve written a few articles; most recently, reports for the Society for Psychical Research, which were published, although not above my own name.”

  His eyes widened when I mentioned the SPR, and he burst out excitedly, “C— House! By Jove, is that where you’ve been? Are you ‘Miss X’?”

  I must have looked pained, for he quickly apologized.

  I didn’t like to explain how hearing her name - one of her silly pseudonyms - when I was feeling so far from her, so safe and comfortable, had unsettled me, so I only remarked that I’d been startled by his swift, accurate deduction. ‘“Miss X’ was the name assigned in authorship to my reports, but in actual fact I was her ... her assistant, until yesterday, when a disagreement about some events in C— House led to my sudden departure. But how do you know of it? The investigation is incomplete, and no report has yet been published.”

  Without taking his eyes from my face - and what secrets he read there, I didn’t want to know! - Jesperson waved one long-fingered hand towards the desk pi
led with papers and journals. “Although not myself a member of the SPR, I take a keen interest in their findings. I have read the correspondence; I knew there was an investigation of the house planned for this summer.

  “I am a thoroughly rational, modern man,” he went on. “If I worship anything, it must be the god we call Reason. I’m a materialist who has no truck with superstition, but in my studies I’ve come across a great many things that science cannot explain. I do not sneer at those who attend séances or hunt for ghosts; I think it would be foolish to ignore the unexplained as unworthy of investigation. Everything should be questioned and explored. It’s not belief that is important, but facts.”

  “I agree,” I said quietly.

  He leaned towards me across the uncleared table, his gaze frank and curious. “Have you ever seen a ghost, Miss Lane?”

  “No.”

  But he had noticed some small hesitation. “You’re not certain? You’ve had experiences that can’t be explained in rational terms?”

  “Many people have had such experiences.”

  “Yes,” he drawled, and leaned back, a faraway look in his eyes. But only for a moment. “Tell me: do you possess any of those odd talents or senses that are generally called psychic?”

  Despite the many times I’d been asked that question, I still had a struggle with my reply. “I am aware, at times, of atmospheres to which others seem immune, and occasionally receive impressions ... sometimes I possess knowledge of things without being able to explain how I know. But I make no claims; I do not discount the effects of a vivid imagination allied with sharp perception and a good memory. Almost every so-called psychic medium I have ever met could achieve their results through looking, listening, and remembering, with no need for ‘spirit guides’.”

  He nodded in thoughtful agreement. “I have performed mind-reading tricks myself. If I didn’t feel obliged to explain how it was done, I suppose I could make money at it. So how do you explain ghosts? Aren’t they spirits?”

  “I don’t know. I subscribe to the idea that the ghosts people see or sense are after-images, akin to photographs or some form of recorded memory. Strong emotions seem to leave an impression behind, in certain places more powerfully than in others. Objects also have their memories, if I may put it like that. Occasionally, an inanimate object will give off vibrations - of ill will, or despair - so that it seems to project a kind of mental image of the person who owned it.”

  He gazed at me in fascination, which I found a novel experience. Even quite elderly gentlemen in the SPR had not found me so interesting, but of course I tended to meet them in company with “Miss X”, who was used to being the centre of attention.

  I decided it was time to get back to business, and reminded him of his original question: “You asked me if I wrote. I presume you were thinking that I could write up your cases with a view to publication?”

  “Certainly the more interesting ones. Publication would have two useful ends. On the one hand, it would bring my name to public attention, and attract new clients. On the other, it would provide you with an income.”

  My heart sank. I had friends who survived by the pen, so was well aware of how much time and toil it required to scrape a bare living in Grub Street. Even if Mr Jesperson solved an interesting, exciting case every week (which seemed unlikely), and I sold every story I wrote ... I was still struggling to work out how much I’d have to write, at thruppence a line, to earn enough to pay for room and board in a dingy lodging-house, when he said something that cheered me:

  “Of course, I realize not every case would be suitable for publication. I only mention it so you wouldn’t think you’d have to live solely on your percentage.”

  “What percentage?”

  “That would depend on the extent of your contribution. It could be anything from ten to fifty per cent of whatever the client pays me.”

  Mrs Jesperson had entered the room while he was speaking, and I heard her sharp intake of breath just before she set down the tray she carried on the table. “Jasper?” she said in a voice of doom.

  “I can hardly ask Miss Lane to work unpaid, Mother.”

  “You can’t afford to pay an assistant.”

  Despite my discomfiture, I intervened. “Please, let’s not argue over money. I must admit, it’s still unclear what Mr Jesperson would be paying me for, apart from the sort of intellectual support and companionship any friend would freely give. And I should like to be that friend.”

  Now I had their rapt attention. “As you deduced, Mr Jesperson, I left my last situation rather abruptly, without being paid for my work. I came to London to seek, not my fortune, but simply honest work to support myself.”

  I paused to draw breath, rather hoping one of them would say something, and I took a quick glance around the room to remind myself that even if Mrs Jesperson felt they could not afford to pay an assistant, they nevertheless had all this - the fine china, the silver, the leather-bound books and substantial furniture, a whole houseful of things - by contrast with the contents of my single, well-worn bag.

  “If I could afford it, I should propose an unpaid trial period, perhaps a month to discover the value of my contribution to your work. Unfortunately, I can’t even afford to rent a room—”

  “But you’ll stay here!” exclaimed Mrs Jesperson. She frowned at her son. “Didn’t you explain?”

  Mr Jesperson was now serenely pouring tea. “I thought you might have deduced it, from the wording of my advertisement. The part about working all hours. Of course my assistant must be here, ready for any eventuality. It’s no good if I have to write you a letter every time I want your opinion, or send a messenger halfway across London and await your reply.”

  “There’s a room upstairs, well furnished and waiting,” said Mrs Jesperson, handing me a plate of white bread, thinly sliced and thickly buttered, and then a little glass bowl heaped with raspberry jam. I saw that her tray also contained a plate of buttered toast, and a pot of honey. “And three meals a day.”

  ~ * ~

  The room upstairs was indeed very nice, spacious enough to serve as both bedroom and sitting room, and far more pleasantly decorated than any accommodation I’d ever paid for in London. Not a single Landseer reproduction or indifferent engraving hung upon the wall, yet there was an attractive watercolour landscape and some odd, interesting carvings from a culture I did not recognize. The furnishings were basic, but cushions and brightly patterned swathes of fabric made it more attractive, and I felt at home there at once, soothed and inspired by the surroundings, just as in the large, cluttered room downstairs.

  I spent some time unpacking and arranging my few things, and writing letters informing friends of my new address, before I lay down to rest. I hadn’t slept much on the train, but now established in my new position - even if it was nearly as problematic, in terms of remuneration, as my last - I felt comfortable enough to fall into a deep and refreshing slumber.

  Dinner was a delicious vegetable curry prepared by Mrs Jesperson herself. They could not afford a cook, although they did have a “daily” for the heavier housework. That evening, as we sat together, I learned a little of their recent history, without being terribly forthcoming about my own.

  Jasper Jesperson was twenty-one years old, and an only child. Barely fifteen when his father died, he’d accompanied his mother to India, where she had a brother. But they had been in India for only a year before going to China, and, later, the South Sea Islands. An intriguing offer brought them back to London more than a year previously, but it had not turned out as expected (he said he would tell me the whole story another time) and subsequently he decided that the best use of his abilities and interests would be to establish himself as a consulting detective.

  He’d concluded three successful commissions so far. Two had been rather easily dealt with and would not make interesting stories; the third was quite different, and I shall write about that another time. It was after that case, which h
ad so tested his abilities, that he decided to advertise for an assistant.

  His fourth case, and my first, was to begin the next morning, with the arrival of a new client.

  “Read his letter, and you may know as much about the affair as I,” said Jesperson, handing a folded page across his desk to me.

  The sheet was headed with the name of a gentlemen’s club in Mayfair, and signed “William Randall”. Although some overhasty pen strokes and blotches might suggest the author was in the grip of strong emotion, it might also be that he was more accustomed to dictating his correspondence.

  Dear Mr Jesperson,

  Your name was given to me by a friend in the Foreign Office with the suggestion that if anyone could solve a murder that still baffles the police, it is you.

  Someone close to me believes I am at risk of a murderous attack from the same, unknown killer, to whose victim she was at the time engaged to be married.