The darkness outside the window was complete and the stack of files before her was visibly shrinking when there came a knock at the door. “Come in,” she called sharply: there was no possibility of a surprise police raid here, not without gunshots and explosions to telegraph their arrival.
The door opened and the rough-looking fellow outside cleared his throat. “Got a problem downstairs. Woman at the door, asking for you by name. Says Burgeson sent her.”
“Was she followed?” Lady Bishop asked sharply.
“She said not, and I had a couple of the lads go ’ave a word with the hack what brought her. Nothing to fear on that account.”
“Good.” Lady Bishop breathed slightly easier. “Who is she? What does she want?”
“Figured we’d best leave that for you. She’s not one such as I’d recognize, and she’s dressed odd, like: Mal took her for a madwoman at first, but when she used your name and mentioned Burgeson I figured she was too dangerous to let go. So we stashed her in the cellar while we made arrangements.”
“Right. Right.” Lady Bishop nodded to herself, her face grim. “Is the Miller prepared?”
“Oh, aye.”
“Then I suppose you’d better bring her up here and we can get to the bottom of this, Ed. I shall start with an interview—to give the poor woman a chance to excuse herself. But when you come, bring Mal. In case we have to send her down.”
She spent the minutes before Ed’s return with the prisoner methodically prioritizing her remaining correspondence. Then she carefully moved the manila paper folders to a desk drawer, closed and locked her writing case, and tried to compose herself. In truth, Lady Bishop hated interrogations. However necessary it might be for the pursuit of the declaration, the process invariably left her feeling soiled.
The rap at the door, when it came, was loud and confident. “Enter,” she called. Edmund opened the door; behind him waited a woman, and behind her, the shadow of Mal the doorman. “Come in,” she added, and pointed to a rough stool on the opposite side of her desk: “and sit down.”
The woman was indeed oddly dressed. Is she an actress? Margaret wondered. It seemed unlikely. And her outfit, while outlandish, was in any case both too well tailored and too dirty for a stage costume. Then Lady Bishop took a good look at the woman’s face, and paused. The bruise on her cheek told a story: and so, when the woman opened her mouth, did the startling perfection of her dentistry.
“Are you Lady Bishop?”
Margaret, Lady Bishop stared at the woman for a moment, then nodded. “I am.” She had the most peculiar feeling that the woman on the stool opposite her was studying her right back, showing a degree of self-assurance she’d have expected from a judge, not a prisoner. Titled? Or a lord’s by-blow?
“I’m Miriam Beckstein,” said the woman. “I believe Erasmus has told you something about me.” She swallowed. “I don’t know how much he’s told you, but there’s been a change in the situation.”
Lady Bishop froze, surprise stabbing at her. You’re the Beckstein woman? She turned to look at her assistants: “Ed, Mal, wait outside.”
Ed looked perturbed. “Are you sure, ma’am?”
She gave him a hard stare: “you don’t need to hear this.” Why in Christ’s name didn’t you say it was her in the first place? She wanted to add, but not at risk of tipping off the prisoner about her place in the scheme of things.
Ed backed out of the room hastily and pulled the door shut. Margaret turned back to her unexpected visitor. “I’m sorry; we weren’t expecting you, so nobody told them to be on the lookout. Do you know who struck you?”
Beckstein looked startled for a moment, then raised a hand to her cheek. “This? Oh, it’s nothing to do with your men.” A distant expression crossed her face: “The man who hit me died earlier this evening. Before I continue—did Erasmus tell you where I come from?”
Lady Bishop considered feigning ignorance for a moment. “He said something about a different version of our world. Sounded like nonsense at first, but then the trinkets started showing up.” Her expression hardened. “If you think we can be bought and sold for glass beads—”
“I wouldn’t dream of it!” Beckstein paused. “But, uh, I needed to know. What he’d told you. The thing is, I ran into some trouble. I was able to escape, but I came here because it was all I could do—I got away with only the clothes on my back. I need to get back to Boston and contact some people to let them know I’m alright before they, before I can get everything back under control. I was hoping…” She ran out of words.
Lady Bishop watched her intently. Do you really think I’m that naive? she asked silently, permitting herself a moment’s cold anger. Did you really think you could simply march in and demand assistance? Then a second thought struck her: or maybe you don’t know who you’re dealing with…?
“Did Erasmus tell you anything about me? Or who I am associated with?” she asked.
Beckstein blinked. “He implied—oh.” Her eyes widened. “Oh shit.”
Lady Bishop stifled a sigh of exasperation. Indelicacy on top of naivety? A very odd mixture indeed.
The Beckstein woman stared at her. “Erasmus didn’t tell me enough…”
Margaret made up her mind. “I can see that,” she said, which was true enough—just not the absolution it might be mistaken for. Either you’re really down on your luck and you thought I might be an easy touch, or perhaps you’re really ignorant and in trouble. Which is it? “Tell me who you think I am,” she coaxed, “and I’ll tell you if you’re right or wrong.”
“Okay,” said Beckstein. Margaret made a mental note—what does that word mean?—then nodded encouragement. “I think you’re a member of the Levelers’ first circle. Probably involved in strategy and planning. And Erasmus was thinking about brokering a much higher-level arrangement between you and my, my, the people I represent. Represented.” She swallowed. “Are you going to kill me?” she asked, only a faint quaver in her voice.
“If you were entirely right in every particular, then I would absolutely have to kill you.” Margaret smiled to take the sting out of her words before she continued. “Luckily you’re just wrong enough to be safe. But,” she paused, to give herself time to prepare her next words carefully: “I don’t think you’re telling me the entire truth. And given your suspicions about my vocation, don’t you think that might not be very clever? I want the truth, Miss Beckstein. And nothing but the truth.”
“I”—Beckstein swallowed. Her eyes flickered from side to side, as if seeking a way out: Margaret realized that she was shaking. “I’m not sure. Whether you’d believe me, and whether it would be a good thing if you did.”