She set her chin. “If you can explain it to Mr. Smurl in a few minutes, pray take as long as you like to explain it to me. I am not slow-witted, and if it is truly a matter of business, I should be able to help.”
Fiction at short notice was never my specialty. As my silence continued, I could feel her mood hardening still more against me. It seemed unfair that she should think me one of those women who denigrate their own sex and will only discuss business matters with a man; I wished I had not stated so plainly that I had not come to discuss funeral arrangements, but I could see no way out of it now.
“My business with Mr. Smurl is of a personal nature,” I said.
Her eyes glittered. “Indeed? Then you had better approach him outside of business hours—why not call at his home? Or write to him?”
“I do not have his home address.”
“Surely you do not expect me to give it to you.”
“That would be most kind of you.”
She snorted—a word she would certainly take objection to, but accurate. “I will do nothing to encourage your delusions. You are not the first female person to imagine she might have business of a personal nature with Mr. Smurl.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” I said, giving her my iciest glare.
“Oh, I think you do, Miss …?”
When I did not respond, she sniffed. “It is Miss, I presume?”
“You make quite a few presumptions,” I replied, still frostily. “I am sorry if you feel I have misled you. That was never my intention. I have come here in the hope of having a quiet word with Mr. Smurl with regard to his wife.”
I saw that I had surprised her. “His wife?”
“Yes.” It was a shot in the dark, but I could think of nothing better. “Are you acquainted with Mrs. Smurl?”
“Certainly.” She drew herself up. “I told you, I have been with the firm for in excess of ten years, and our families have long been friends. I know both ladies.”
Goodness knows what she made of the shock that registered on my face at this, but she hastened to amplify: “I mean, of course, both Mr. Albert’s mother and his wife.”
“I suppose his marriage is quite recent?”
She frowned. “Why should you suppose that? Mr. Smurl has been married perhaps a dozen years. If you claim to know her …”
I saw that I had not won her over in the least. “I never claimed to know her. I said my business with Mr. Smurl concerned his wife—yet perhaps I was wrong, as I was unaware there was another lady in his household bearing the same name; the ‘Mrs. Smurl’ I have been delegated to find may have been his mother. I came here on behalf of the Travers family. You may recall a recent funeral—”
“Oh, the poor young lady! Of course I remember. How could I forget? She was so young and beautiful, and her death so sudden and inexplicable! So terribly, terribly sad!” Her eyes were moist, her whole aspect again as soft and yearning as when I had first seen her. “But what business could her family have with Mrs. Smurl?”
“I had assumed they might have met her here, or at the funeral.”
“Oh, no, that is quite impossible. Neither lady has ever had anything to do with the business.”
“Maybe, in passing …?”
“No. There must be some mistake. Possibly, although I introduced myself quite clearly, I am the lady she was thinking of? If you will tell me the message, I can …”
“There was no mistake. If she was not at the funeral, then perhaps Mrs. Travers met her elsewhere—”
“Utterly impossible.”
We glared at each other. I said, “I find it remarkable that you are so certain.”
“Mr. Smurl does not entertain visitors—and never does business—in his home. Both his mother and his wife are in poor health, and have scarcely set foot out of doors in recent years. Nor do they receive. So unless Mrs. Travers is a doctor or a priest, she has not met either lady.”
I saw I should have to back down. “Forgive me. Perhaps, after all, she was thinking of you. She was so deeply moved by the genuine kindness she received …” Seeing that she looked mollified, I took another chance. “But I won’t feel I have done my duty unless I have a word with Mr. Smurl. Could I not call back later today? Will he not be in at all?”
I saw training and business instincts—and perhaps the thought of what Mr. Smurl might say—battling her desire to be rid of me. “He always calls in just before he goes home for his di—luncheon. Between half past twelve and one o’clock.”
I thanked her, effusively and insincerely, saying I would return. “Might you ask him to wait for me? At least until one o’clock?”
It had occurred to me there might be another way of learning Mr. Smurl’s home address, and when I met Mr. Jesperson outside, I proposed we should go to the nearest post office to look in the local directory. Smurl was such an unusual surname, we were unlikely to be misled, and, indeed, apart from the business listing for Smurl and Snigg, the local directory revealed only one: Smurl, Albert E. A glance at a map of the area enabled Jesperson to locate his street almost exactly halfway between the funeral parlor and the cemetery.
I looked at the clock on the wall. “We still have nearly two hours before he may go home,” I said. “Thank goodness the rain is off.”
We set off at a brisk walk. The area was unknown to me, but I knew I could trust in Jesperson’s sense of direction, and his memory: even a quick look at a map was enough to fix it in his mind.
Although I knew it was pointless to try to plan a rescue before we had set eyes on the prison, I could not help speculating on her situation. Did he keep her locked in an attic or allow her some limited freedom? Were his wife and mother aware of her presence? Did he use her as a servant, nursemaid, perhaps, to the two invalids, or did he, as his mode of address suggested, consider her his wife? Wife and slave and prisoner—unfortunately, those terms need not necessarily be exclusive.
“She may even be a willing prisoner,” said Jesperson.
His words made me shudder, and I had to disagree. “You saw the portrait—did that look like a lover to you?”
“Not to me, but recall Mr. Bailey’s remarks—and Miss Snigg’s. A certain class of female must find him irresistible.”
“Not Alcinda! You read what she wrote—she hated the idea that he might try to make love to her.”
“And who do you suppose she was trying to convince? Herself? But please, let us not quarrel! I only wish you to bear in mind the possibility that the lady may not thank us; may even refuse to be rescued.”
I understood. I am not entirely ignorant of what may be done in the name of love. The heart has its reasons, and so on. Even if Miss Travers had not lost her heart to her abductor, she might, like many before her, choose to stay and suffer his attentions, rather than return and find herself disgraced, “ruined” in the eyes of a world that values women as if they were soft fruit. “But we must give her the chance.”
“Of course.”
I took his arm, and, as we walked along together, I mused aloud on how the kidnapping had been managed. Of course, Miss Travers must have agreed to drink some potion, but how had he been so certain he could steal her away from her own funeral? Did he have confederates? Perhaps the doctor who signed the death certificate, or trusted employees who would help him make the switch to an empty coffin and ensure Miss Travers was not buried alive …
“Of course she was buried alive,” said Jesperson.
I flinched, my fingers tightening on his arm, and he looked down into my face, surprised. “Surely you noticed the alarm bell system in Bailey’s quarters?”
“I thought … they might alert him to intruders. Protection against body-snatchers, perhaps?”
“How should the dead summon their protectors? I admit, I did not understand until I read the brochure given me by Mr. Bailey.” He quoted the paragraph he’d found so enlightening: