“Miss Potter, are you one of those crusaders who want to redistribute the wealth and give the vote to women?”
“Do you consider either of those bad things, sir?”
“To tell you the truth, I have no idea. I’ve never investigated the question before.”
“Then you are more intelligent than most of the male population. At least you haven’t made up your mind without having researched the issues. There is hope for you, yet.”
“Well, good, then,” I said, trying not to laugh. “At least there is hope.”
“So that man with whom you came into the charity was your employer?”
“Yes. His name is Cyrus Barker.”
“He seemed a brusque sort.”
He was indeed a brusque sort, but I didn’t want Miss Potter to get the wrong impression. “He’s a gentleman and a fine employer. And of course, a first-rate enquiry agent.”
“I’ve heard you detectives are very loyal to one another,” she noted.
“Sometimes in an inquiry, your employer is the only person you can trust. He’s saved my life on more than one occasion. Do you volunteer at the C.O.S.?”
“I did for a while, but now I work at a tenement called the Katherine Building. I interview prospective tenants, collect rents, and see that the building is well maintained. As an investigator, I keep a file on each tenant, their history, occupation, family, and beliefs. When they are gone-and, of course, being poor, they rarely stay long-their social history will be of greater use as a record of conditions during this time.”
“So it is a salaried position, then. I am surprised that you work.”
She laughed, displaying a set of perfect teeth. No one in need of money had teeth like that.
“I don’t need to, of course. My father owns a railway. I’m sure he could buy the Katherine Building twice over.”
“It seems an unusual pastime for a young woman, running a slum tenement. Most young ladies would simply marry.”
“Some find the institution of marriage to be a form of tyranny not unlike slavery. Most of us at the Charity Organization Society feel that way. We do not need a man to become whole individuals. We are scholars and freethinkers, Mr. Llewelyn. We refuse to be put on a pedestal but instead hope to help bring about social change.”
“Mrs. DeVere and Mrs. Carrick are both married,” I pointed out.
“True. It is a hard choice. We lose a lot of sisters to marriage. I’ve turned down several offers myself. It is a difficult decision to remain celibate.”
I tried hard not to blush, but I’d never heard a young woman speak so frankly.
“So are there many young women like you in the East End just now?”
“Oh, yes, dozens. Social work is a respectable use of time for young, unmarried women these days. But enough about me. Do you like being a detective?”
“Mr. Barker prefers the term ‘enquiry agent.’”
“What is the difference?”
“We take the moral high ground, so to speak. A detective is willing to break the law in order to solve whatever case he is working on. He may break into a house to obtain information.”
“So you’ve never broken a law to obtain information?” Miss Potter asked.
“Well, we’ve bent it a little once or twice.”
“And are you not a former criminal?”
“I was, in a way, but it was complicated.”
“Your distinctions have quite gone out the window, then, sir.”
“Allow me to return the compliment, Miss Potter. You are good.”
“You haven’t answered my question, Mr. Llewelyn,” she pursued. “Do you like being a detective?”
“No, no. You cannot put me off that easily, Miss Potter. You followed me here for a purpose. What was it, may I ask?”
“I thought I might help you,” she said, looking down at a handkerchief she was kneading in her hands. “I could volunteer at the C.O.S. again. Miss Hill would be glad to take me back. Perhaps I might overhear something said by one of the patrons that would lead you to Gwendolyn and her abductors.”
I wanted to tell her that we were no longer looking for a white slave ring but instead a madman. However, it was not my secret to reveal.
“What do you think?” she pressed.
“It doesn’t matter what I think,” I retorted. “It is what my employer thinks that is important. I don’t know what he shall say. He keeps a bachelor’s home and offices, I should warn you. Why do you wish to help, anyway?”
“Aren’t white slave rings a social problem, sir?”
“They are,” I admitted.
“You do wish Gwendolyn to be saved and these criminals caught?”
“Of course.”
“Then I suppose it is female detectives you don’t like.”
She argued well, I gave her that, but then, most women do.
“You’re building a straw man,” I reasoned. “I have neither criticized female detectives, denied wanting Miss DeVere to be found, nor claimed that white slavery was not a social problem. I merely wondered about your personal motives.”
“You’re protective of your employer.”
“I’m not sure he needs protection, but he doesn’t need to be interrupted in his work.”
“Very well,” she said. “I do have personal reasons. I want to be able to say, if only for my own sake, that I have worked for a professional investigator. It makes me feel I too am a professional and not a rich girl playing games. Tell your Mr. Barker I expect to be paid.”
“Do not consider yourself hired just yet, but I shall speak to him tonight. Will you be at the Katherine Building tomorrow?”
“Of course not,” she replied. “It’s Sunday.”
“Then I shall send word of my employer’s decision,” I said, rising from the bench. “I bid you good afternoon, Miss Potter.” I raised my hat to her and left the park. The Guv would be waiting for me, and also, I thought it best to be the one to end the conversation. It was the only control I had.
As I hurried out of the park, my mind gathered impressions. Beatrice Potter was a beautiful and intelligent young woman and seemed genuinely committed to bringing about reform in the East End. I did not think, however, that the girl was being truthful about her motives for wishing to join us in the hunt for Gwendolyn DeVere.
7
“Here they are, sir,” I said, laying the newly typed pages on my employer’s desk. Barker took the sheets in his hand and began to read. The tale went as follows:
“THE TALE OF MR. MIACCA
“There lived in Old London Town a man, though some say he was a giant or an ogre, and his name was Miacca. Mr. Miacca loved good children and would leave a farthing upon their windowsills, even those who lived high in attic garrets, but bad children he threw into a sack and took home for his supper. Mothers used to warn their children, ‘Be good, and do not go out of the street, or Mr. Miacca shall surely take you.’
“Now there was a boy named Tommy Grimes who lived in the Old Town, and like most boys and girls he was often good, but sometimes he had the devil in him. His mother warned him about his behavior and about leaving his street, but one day he turned the corner and Mr. Miacca took him. He threw the boy in his sack and carried him home for dinner.
“Mr. Miacca pulled Tommy out of the sack and set him on his chopping block. He pinched Tommy’s arm.
“‘You are too tough for my Sunday joint,’ he said, ‘but boy meat is good for a stew with herbs. But look, dear me, I have forgotten the herbs! Sally!’
“Mrs. Miacca came in from another room. ‘Yes, my dear?’
“‘Here is a boy for supper, and bitter he shall taste without some fresh herbs. Watch him while I am gone, and if he moves, hack off a limb with my cleaver.’
“Mrs. Miacca agreed, and Mr. Miacca went off, leaving her alone with Tommy.
“‘Does Mr. Miacca often have children for supper?’ the boy asked.
“‘Now and again,’ she replied. ‘But only bad ones such as yourself.’
“‘And is there no pudding to go with me?’ he asked. ‘I think I should make a poor meal without pudding.’