*
In the subway carriage, I absentmindedly rubbed my sticky fingers together. Portraits don’t bleed, but their sap is hard to remove. I lay back and let myself be rocked to sleep by the motion of the carriage.
A bell ringing in darkness woke me – next stop coming up – and I sat up suddenly. At the far end of the carriage I saw him, my client, the agent, yellow in the acid-neon glow. His eyes were on his paper and he was playing with the end of his pigtail as he read. How long had he followed me – since I left the studio? Since I left Shanghai? I pushed my way to the end of the carriage, stopping to look behind only as I reached the end. The crowd of people was too dense. Had he noticed my absence? Was he following me?
The next stop was not mine but I let myself be carried out on a tide of commuters herding to the escalators. It was still bright up there, and what I wanted was darkness. I stepped aside into a narrow old stairway, which led down into a labyrinth of concrete corridors decorated with Golden Light slogans illegible in the flickering neon. At last I got back to the platform. I would just wait for another train, go home and drink and sleep and forget.
The platform became quickly crowded.
‘Due in one minute,’ said the operator’s mechanical voice just as I caught sight of my vagrant, standing by the escalators, drawing looks as he berated a busking flautist. The musician was taking the harangue in good humour. Even though I knew the bond and its associations would linger like a bad taste for a few days, the strange apparition set my heart racing again. I turned my gaze back to the track.
‘Train Due,’ the oracle predicted.
‘Are we going in the same direction, Maestro?’
The train whistled like winter as its light raced through the tunnel towards me and I spun around. The agent’s face creased in that sly smile – I knew every atom of it – and he tutted softly, ‘You can’t escape, you know. I have the resources of the State. What can you draw upon? You have no friends. Except me—’
Then he tumbled towards me. Understanding the shock in his face was unfeigned, I stood aside. He fell past me, silently. The vagrant now stood where the agent had been standing a moment ago. I turned and looked down as the agent stirred. He’d landed face-first on the rail, and when he turned, I saw his lips were split and his nose crushed and bleeding. The crowd surged around us as the train began to stop, and if the agent screamed I did not hear it, lost in the screech of the breaks and the urgent shouting of the crowd.
I turned and looked into those mad, serene eyes that had captured me once. They were buried within that wild strange face. A bond was not severed.
I may be mistaken – it was noisy and I was upset – but I thought I heard a carefree, ‘Farewell, Maestro!’
Before I could reply he turned and walked away, swaying with loose laughter. The crowd parted before the madman.
Aidan Harte studied sculpture at the Florence Academy of Art and currently works as a sculptor in Dublin. Before discovering sculpture, he worked in animation and TV; in 2006 he created and directed the TV show Skunk Fu, which has been shown on Cartoon Network, Kids WB and the BBC. The Wave Trilogy is published by Jo Fletcher Books and consists of Irenicon, The Warring States and Spira Mirabillis.
The Curious Affair of the Deodand • by Lisa Tuttle
The Curious Affair
of the Deodand
by Lisa Tuttle
Once it had become painfully clear that I could no longer continue to work in association with Miss G— F—, I departed Scotland and returned to London, where I hoped I would quickly find employment. I had no bank account, no property, nothing of any value to pawn or sell, and, after I had paid my train fare, little more than twelve shillings to my name. Although I had friends in London who would open their homes to me, I had imposed before, and was determined not to be a burden. It was therefore a matter of the utmost urgency that I should obtain a position: I emphasise this point to account for what might appear a precipitous decision.
Arriving so early in the morning at King’s Cross, it seemed logical enough to set off at once, on foot, for the ladies’ employment bureau on Oxford Street.
The bag that had seemed light enough when I took it down from the train grew heavier with every step, so that I was often obliged to stop and set it down for a few moments. One such rest took place outside a newsagent’s shop, and while I caught my breath and rubbed my aching arm, I glanced at the notices on display in the window. One, among the descriptions of lost pets and offers of rooms to let, caught my attention.
Consulting Detective
Requires Assistant
Must be literate, brave, congenial, with a good memory & willing to work all hours.
Apply in person to
J. Jesperson
203-A 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 a 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 an 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-feet-four-inches tall – the smooth, pale, lightly freckled face beneath a crown of red-gold curls was 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 practiced 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,’ Mr Jesperson added.
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, but 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. Though, 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 recognise 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 that 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 S.P.R., 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 apologised.
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 toward the desk piled with papers and journals. ‘Although not myself a member of the S.P.R., 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 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 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 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 threepence 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 realise 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 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.
The Jo Fletcher Books Anthology Page 16
