“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 toward 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 perceptions 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 afterimages, 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 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 S.P.R. 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 center 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 publish?”
“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 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 percent 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 the tray she carried down 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 discomfort, 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 watercolor landscape and some odd, interesting carvings from a culture I did not recognize. The furnishings were basic, but cushions and brightly patterned swaths 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 had 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.
I will explain all when we meet. If I may, I will call on you at ten o’clock Wednesday morning. If that is inconvenient, please reply by return of post with a more suitable time.
Yours sincerely, etc.
I folded the letter and handed it back to Jesperson, who was gazing at me, bright-eyed and expectant.
He prompted. “Any questions?”
“The Foreign Office?”
“Never mind about that. It’s only my uncle, trying to keep me in work. Don’t you want to know what I’ve deduced about the writer of this letter? What unsolved crime affects this man so nearly? I believe I have it.”
“I think I’d rather wait and hear what Mr. Randall has to say, first. If you’re right, well and good, but if you’re wrong, you’ll only confuse me.”
He looked a bit crestfallen, making me think of a little boy who hadn’t been allowed to show off his cleverness, and I said, “You can tell me afterward, if you were right.”
“But you might not believe me. Oh, well, it doesn’t matter.”
I heard his mother murmur, “Party tricks.” But if he heard, at least he gave no sign, and let me change the subject, and the rest of the evening passed quite pleasantly.
MR. WILLIAM RANDALL ARRIVED PROMPTLY AS THE CARRIAGE CLOCK ON the (recently dusted) mantelpiece was striking ten. He was a dapper young man with a drooping moustache, his regular features lifted from mere good looks into something striking by a pair of large, dark eyes that anyone more romantic than I would call soulful.
He refused any refreshment, took a seat, and began his story after the brief, hesitant disclaimer that “it was probably a load of nonsense,” but his fiancée was worried.
“The lady I intend to make my wife is Miss Flora Bellamy, of Harrow.” Her name meant nothing to me, but we both saw Jesperson straighten up.
“Yes, I thought you might make the connection. She was, of course, engaged to Mr. Archibald Adcocks, the prominent financier, at the time of his terrible death.”
“So she thinks his death was connected to the fact of their engagement? And that you are now in danger?”
“She does.”
“How curious! What are her reasons?”
He sighed and held up his empty hands. “ ‘The heart has its reasons, that reason knows not.’ Women, you know, think more with their hearts than their heads. It is all too circumstantial to convince me, a matter of mere coincidence, and yet . . . she is so certain.”
Listening to them was frustrating, so I was forced to interrupt. “Excuse me, but would you mind telling me the facts of Mr. Adcocks’s death?”
Jesperson turned to me with a smile of secret triumph. I could have told you last night! said his expression, but he only remarked, “It was in all the papers, a year ago.”
“Fifteen months,” Randall corrected him. “He was attacked on his way to the railway station, not long after saying good night to Flora at her door. She wanted him to take a cab, because he had recently injured his foot, but he insisted that he could manage the short walk easily with the aid of a stick.” He hesitated, then said, “He borrowed a walking stick from the stand beside the door.”
“The injury must have been very recent,” I suggested, and Randall gave me a nod.
“Not long after dinner, that same evening. He tripped in the hall and struck his foot, but although it was quite painful, he insisted it was too minor to make a fuss about.”
“Not a man to make a fuss.”
“He was no weakling. And quite well able to look after himself. Something of an amateur pugilist.”
“Yet someone attacked him, unprovoked.”
“So we must assume. He was found lying sprawled on the path, his head bloody from a terrible blow. He was barely alive, unable to speak, and died from his injury that same night, without being able to indicate what had happened. It may be that he didn’t know, that the cowardly assault had come from behind.”
“No one was ever arrested,” Jesperson told me. “There were no suspects.”
I frowned. “Could anyone suggest a motive?”
“It was usually assumed to have been an impulsive crime, not planned, since the murder weapon was his own walking stick.”
“Not his own,” Mr. Randall objected. “Borrowed from Flora’s house.”
“Even so. It may be he was attacked by a gang of thugs who thought him an easy target because he limped. Yet, if they were intent on robbery, no one could explain why they did not take his wallet, stuffed with pound notes, or his gold watch, or anything else. He was found not long after he fell, lying in the open, near a streetlamp, and there were no obvious hiding places nearby. Although one witness reported hearing a cry, no one was seen running away or otherwise behaving in a suspicious manner.”
“Did Mr. Adcocks have enemies?” I asked.
“He seems to have been well liked by all who knew him, including those who did business with him. No one obviously benefited by his death.”
“Who inherited his property?”
“His mother.”
Before I could say anything more, Jesperson resumed. “Mr. Randall, you’ve suggested that Miss Bellamy believed his death was as a result of, or at least connected to, their engagement.”
“No one else thought so.”
“How did her family feel about it?”
He sighed and shook his head. “She has no family. Since being orphaned at an early age, Miss Bellamy has lived in the house of her guardian, a man by the name of Rupert Harcourt.”
Although the even tenor of his voice did not change, when he pronounced this name, I shivered, and knew we had come to the heart of the matter.
“Her parents named this man as her guardian?” Jesperson enquired.
Mr. Randall shook his head. “They did not know him. He had no connection to the family at all. When Mr. Bellamy died, the infant Flora was all alone in the world. A total stranger, reading of her situation in a newspaper, was so struck with pity that he offered her a home.”
“You find that strange,” I said, remarking his tone.
His eyes, for all their languid soulfulness, could still deliver a piercing look. “It is surely unusual for an unmarried, childless man of thirty-plus to go out of his way to adopt an unwanted infant. In fact, he never did adopt Flora, but set up some sort of legal arrangement to last until she married, or reached the age of twenty-one—a date still eight months in the future.”
“She has money?”
“Very little. To give him credit, Harcourt never touched her small inheritance, yet she never lacked for anything; toys and sweetmeats, clothes and meals, books and music lessons were all paid for from his own pocket. The money from her father was left to gain interest. I suppose it may be near one thousand pounds.”
It sounded a lot to me, being used to managing on less than thirty pounds a year, but it was not the sort of fortune to inspire a devious double-murder plot.
“Has any attempt been made on your life?” Jesperson asked suddenly, and I saw Mr. Randall wince and raise his hand to his head before he replied, “Oh, no, hardly—no, not at all.”
Jesperson responded testily to this prevarication. “Oh, come now! Something happened to frighten your fiancée, whatever you may make of it. Don’t try to hide it.”
With a sigh, Randall lifted the lock of dark hair
that half-hid his forehead and bowed his head to reveal a bruised gash, obviously quite recent, at the hairline.
He explained that a few days earlier he had been to dine with Flora and her guardian. After the meal, the two men had adjourned to Harcourt’s study, a large room at the front of the house, with cigars and brandy snifters, and there Randall had asked permission to wed Miss Bellamy.
“It was a formality, really, since she had agreed, but as the man was still her legal guardian, it seemed the right thing to do.”
“His response?”
“He said, rather roughly, that young ladies always made their own decisions, but he had no objections. Then he asked if I knew she’d been engaged once before. I said that I did, and he gave an unpleasant laugh and asked me if that hadn’t made me think twice. I didn’t know what he meant to imply, but it seemed meant to be offensive. Trying not to take offense, I told him that I loved Flora, and that since she had been good enough to accept me, nothing short of death would induce me to part from her. And it was at that dramatic moment that a book fell off a shelf high above my head.”
He winced. “It looked worse than it was—scalp wounds bleed profusely—but it was quite painful. I had never imagined a book as a lethal weapon.”
“Where was Harcourt when this occurred?”
“He was facing me, standing farther away from the bookshelves. Before you ask, I could see him clearly, and while I suppose he might have contrived it, I was not aware of him doing anything that could have triggered the fall. In any case, he seemed completely shocked, and almost as worried about his book as my head. I should probably say more. If he’d meant to harm me, I don’t think it would have been at any risk to any part of his collection.”
Down These Strange Streets Page 38
