“Gosh, no, not me! Alcinda did it. That was her book, and she kept it very close. She used to show us her drawings, but not recently, not what she was drawing or writing in that book. I never saw it until after—after she was gone.”
“But it was the man you saw?”
“It was him. I saw him as clearly as I see you now, and I was nearly as close. He walked up to Alcinda, and said, ‘Mrs. Merle!’ Then he said something else that I couldn’t understand—I don’t think it was English—and he took hold of her arm, and she didn’t resist.”
She took a deep breath. “You can’t touch a ghost. So, unless he was a ghost as well, she must be alive. I ran after them, but just as I was about to catch up, he turned round and looked at me.” She clasped her hands beneath her chin and drew her shoulders in, hunching down in the chair. “He glared at me in the most horrible way, I can’t tell you how horrible it was! And he said—his voice was soft and gentle, but that made it worse—he said, ‘Go away, little girl. Don’t bother me unless you are ready to die.’ ”
She shuddered. “So I ran away! He frightened me so.”
“He meant to. How did the woman respond?”
“Not at all. She was like a sleepwalker. I don’t think she even knew I was there.”
“How well did you see her?”
“I know it was Alcinda,” she said stubbornly. “It absolutely, positively was! Isn’t there someone you know so well that you can recognize them from a distance, in the dark, without a word spoken? It was her. I know it. My sister is alive, and he’s got her.”
Tears shone in her blue eyes. “Oh, why did I have to run away! I am such a rotten coward! I should have followed them, seen where he took her, but I let him frighten me.”
“You were quite right to flee,” I said firmly. “It would be horribly dangerous—and utterly foolish—for a lone girl to try to pit herself against a grown man, especially one who spoke to her like that.”
“You must help me find her. Please, say you will, Miss Lane!”
I felt strangely torn. It was absurd, her story, and it made no difference that she obviously believed what she said. She must be fantasizing. And yet—
“Have you told anyone else? Did you tell your father?”
She nodded, looked wretched. “He thinks my brain has been affected by grief, and now he agrees with his wife that visiting the cemetery has such a bad effect, I’m forbidden to go there.” Her shoulders slumped. “You believe me, don’t you? I swear it’s all true. You must take this case. Jesperson and Lane are probably the only people in London clever enough to figure it out.”
For a moment I was distracted by the question of where this child had heard of our fledgling business, but I did not ask because it could not possibly matter. She was a child, she was grieving, she could not accept the reality of her loss. There was no case. I was about to tell her so, when she spoke again.
“There is another clue. In the book.” She nodded at Alcinda’s drawing book, still in my hands. “Towards the back, my sister wrote a few pages I can’t read. It might be Latin, or some other language. I’m sure it’s important.”
I found the pages. They were not in Latin. Although I could make no sense out of the jumble of letters and symbols, I knew Mr. Jesperson would enjoy the challenge; codes and ciphers were meat and drink to him. I realized then that although I did not believe we would find Alcinda Travers alive, I had decided we must help her little sister, somehow.
“Let me be honest with you,” I said. “I do not think your sister is alive somewhere, and I do not want to encourage you in false hopes. But there does seem to be some mystery connected with her death, and it may have to do with the man you met in the cemetery. My partner, Mr. Jesperson, should be able to decipher these notes left behind by your sister, and the picture should enable us to uncover the man’s identity. After that, we may discuss whether or not there is anything to be investigated.”
Despite all that I had said to discourage her hope, she was positively glowing with it now as she thanked me.
I asked a few pertinent questions—the location of the cemetery, the identity of the physician who had made the official verdict of death, whether Alcinda had any suitors, and how best to contact my young client if we needed more information or had news to impart.
“Our address is inside the front cover of Alcinda’s book,” she said. “Our telephone number, too, although my stepmother would find it awfully suspicious if someone she didn’t know wrote or telephoned to me—I will come back here.”
“If you come tomorrow afternoon, you can meet Mr. Jesperson,” I told her.
Very late in the day, a messenger arrived with a note from Mr. Jesperson, written on headed notepaper from his club, informing Mrs. Jesperson and me that he had been invited to dine and we should not wait for him.
Women are generally responsible for all the cooking and planning of meals in private households, but I have never known any to bother about “proper meals” without a man around. Left to ourselves, we glory in “feasting”—standing at the kitchen table, or wrapped in blankets before the fire—on whatever wild assortment we can forage from the larder, or delight in a “nursery tea” of soft-boiled eggs with bread and butter; or dine on tea and cakes, or apples and cheese, while reading.
It required no discussion for us to agree that soup, beef, potatoes, and all should be held over for the following day, and bread and cheese would satisfy us.
“We can have the apple tart—easy enough to make another tomorrow,” Mrs. Jesperson said. “Shall we eat in here, or …?”
“If you don’t mind,” I said, “I’ll take a plate to my room.”
“As you wish, Miss Lane.”
Although I felt sorry for it, a certain chill had come between us. “Call me Edith,” she had urged, more than once, but as I had not responded with a matching invitation, she must still call me “Miss Lane,” while I, to avoid giving further offense, hardly knew how to address her.
Mrs. Jesperson was an excellent woman, capable, kind, and intelligent. She might not have the brilliance of her son, but she was no fool, and I should have been grateful for her friendship. Having taken me in, knowing nothing about me, she continued to provide room and board without asking, or getting, anything in return. Of course, she did this to please her son. Many mothers must find themselves in a similar situation, forced to coexist with an unsympathetic younger woman, but our situation was rather different.
Jasper and I had come together through mutual liking and respect, with a view to business, but as we’d yet to see a ha’penny’s profit, our detective agency was more like an expensive hobby. This fine front bedroom, which might have been rented to a paying lodger, was mine gratis, and all my meals provided, even my laundry done, by the woman who kept us all on her own meager inheritance.
Being dependent had never made me happy. I longed to prove that Mrs. Jesperson’s investment had been a wise one; I did not know how much longer I could stay here without earning my keep. Jasper did not see the problem—for him, there was no problem. Edith Jesperson was his mother, after all, and he’d never known life without her capable, comforting support behind him. He was young, male, and utterly confident that any investment in his talents would be repaid a thousand-fold—in time.
Time, I must give it time. I reminded myself that we had been in partnership for a mere six weeks, and then I settled down to my supper and the absorbing company of a book about the adventures of an intrepid lady traveler in Lapland.
When I went downstairs in the morning, I found that Jesperson was ahead of me, behind the big desk, already at work.
“You’re up early,” I began, before reading the story in his wilted collar, stained cuffs, and faint golden stubble on his chin. “Or shall I say late? When did you get in?”