“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 watercolour landscape and some odd, interesting carvings from a culture I did not recognize. The furnishings were basic, but cushions and brightly patterned swathes 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 on 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 himself 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 afterwards 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, he at least 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 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 goodnight 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.”