The Mysterious Lady Law (4 page)

A series of thuds and then a smattering of laughter in the balcony cut short a chorus of “Those In Peril On the Sea.” One of the choirboys had fallen off his box.

Julia hurried to fill the pause, eager to hear more. “I must admit—your reputation does not do you justice, ma’am. The gossip about you and your investigations is sounding more and more like jealousy. It is an admirable philosophy you aspire to.”

“Thank you, Julia.”

“So it really is all bosh?”

Lady Law twitched her cheek. “The gossip?”

“Hmm.”

“Great bosh. Among the more unsavoury mail I receive are letters hypothesizing my methods. Everyone from pious parishioners, grieving persons whose cases I had to turn down, disgruntled scientists and literary figures—they all pretend to
know
how I do what I do.”

“How do they suppose you do it?”

“Satanic rituals; clairvoyance; doppelgängers; a network of criminals doing my bidding by setting up innocent people; lucky guesswork through a web of false evidence; and other such nonsense. Oh, and my personal favourite, a magic mirror.”

They both chuckled.

“So how
do
you do it?”

“How did Mozart write entire symphonies without a single correction? How can a dog find its way home from a foreign country, even stowing away on a ship across the sea, entirely on its own? How did a spider manage to spin a geometrically, infinitesimally perfect web in an underground Yucatán cave a few years ago?”

“I haven’t the foggiest.”

“Instinct, Julia. Inspiration. They did it by tapping into something that cannot be measured, something beyond their knowledge. Deduction ought to be governed by hard work. A to B to C, following a linear trail of clues. But my mind works differently. Let me give you an example.” Lady Law’s gaze rested on a slim, middle-aged woman reading a bible across the aisle to their left. From her pocket she retrieved a pair of odd-looking brass goggles that extended in segments, as though each lens was a telescope in its own right, with several magnifications. She put them on and fiddled with tiny knobs on the sides of the frame, adjusting the magnifications. After several moments of studying her subject across the aisle, she began, “That woman is a notary’s widow. Very recently. She has rheumatism, but her new beau, the pharmacist, has given her a fresh medicine to try. She lives nearby and makes her living selling bibles door-to-door. Either her husband’s or her new beau’s name may be Stephen.”

Julia’s pensive frown focused on the goggles. “Admit it, you made most of that up,” she challenged. “Notary’s widow! Now I’ve heard everything.”

“You heard a smattering, a trifle of what I could infer from a closer study. Observe the paper cuts on her finger and thumb, how she turns the pages not with those digits but with the nail of her forefinger; paper cuts are sore for a while after the wound is made. Then there is the darkening of her fingertips and the faint ink stains on the waist of her dress, mere spatters now, washed and washed again. The letter in her shopping basket has a smudged letterhead. She has lately sorted paper, and has touched ink consistently over a long period, but she is not a notary. Her husband was.”

“How—”

“She has recently switched her wedding ring to the opposite hand—observe the depression in her wedding finger. Then she looked up and swallowed when the choir sang “
…on the feast of Stephen.
” An emotional reaction. Either she misses her husband or it is a pang of guilt for her dishonourable liaison with the pharmacist. Stephen.”

Julia shook her head in mock disbelief. Of course, Lady Law couldn’t prove any of this. It was all supposition. But given enough time and resources, a mind this observant might very well best any problem by virtue of sheer deduction. With a woman like
this
on her side, she had nothing to fear.

“And the pharmacist?” she asked for fun.

“Oh, that one is a little trickier.” Holding her parasol at her side, Lady Law turned for a fraction of a second, then, without warning, yanked the butt of the handle. To Julia’s shock, the action unsheathed a two-foot-long blade, rapier-sharp. “Do not move. Two men entered the church, but only one remains. He wears a dark green bowler hat and is standing near the holy water trough.”

“You know him?” A surge of dread petrified Julia.

“No. The second man may or may not be waiting outside—a straightforward ambush.”

Ambush? Straightforward?
“Eh?” Julia gasped. This was a church, not a Whitechapel back alley! What the heck was going on?

“They may be here for you, but I doubt it,” Lady Law suggested, her soft whisper sharpening for emphasis. “It will not be the first time I have been accosted. As you can imagine, my admirers are legion.”

“Admirers?”

“They tend to balk at twenty inches of steel.” Rising slowly, Lady Law’s diminutive form did not seem ruffled in the least. “It was nice to meet you,” she said, pocketing the goggles as though leaving to run a leisurely errand. “I will exit first, on foot, and leave my Hi-wheel for you. Direct my driver straight to the Pegasus. Mr. Grant seems hell-bent on keeping you to himself and you would be wise to indulge his protectiveness.

“Before I go, is there anything you wish to give me—any recollection of Georgina at all—to help me gain a foothold in the case? Anything she may have said, any unusual acquaintance she may have made, a debt, a fanciful tale, anything out of the ordinary?”

“Umm…um, no, not that I know of. She was a good girl. I didn’t know her friends very well. Rupert, her latest boyfriend, seemed harmless enough. I can’t imagine she’d get…I
know
she wouldn’t get mixed up in anything untoward.” Julia stifled the sudden urge to lash out at something.

“All right, Julia. You stay safe now and I will be in touch. Enjoy your flight.”

“You…you too. Take care, Lady—”

“Harriet. You may call me Harriet.”

Julia’s mind raced between the door and the hidden parasol blade. She reiterated, “Harriet.”

“Yes. All my friends call me that.”

Her pulse throbbed, but Julia waited in her seat until first Lady Law, then the mysterious stooping man in the green bowler hat left the church, a few moments apart. Who was he? Did he mean her harm? If so, why show himself at all inside the church? Why not simply wait outside and take her by surprise?

The meeting had been a cordial one and Lady Law—Harriet—had revealed more about herself than expected. That, too, now struck Julia as a little odd. Almost nothing about the case itself had been discussed, nor Georgy for that matter. Not the most propitious beginning to an already late investigation.

An old couple and a vicar exited via the main doors. Reassured, Julia gave the sign of the cross and then followed them out, holding her breath while she scurried down the steps to the steam-powered Hi-wheel. “Driver, wharf number fourteen, please. Quick as you can.”

“Right you are, miss.”

She climbed in and put her goggles back on. A deep, prolonged sigh left her light-headed, even a little giddy as the machine accelerated, its steam cylinders hissing, the crank wheels and pistons working overtime to spin the front wheel. The man in the green bowler hat and his accomplice were nowhere to be seen. Where had Harriet led them? Up an alleyway? Would she use her blade or merely flash it to scare the living daylights out of them? What a woman! But who the deuce was she
really
? Beneath the Amazon-in-a-corset, what made her tick? Fighting crime and all that ballyhoo sounded good for the headlines but, woman to woman, there was something missing in Lady Law. Julia hadn’t put her finger on it right away, but the realization hit her now as though she were watching her mother’s face in those last moments in their old house—a chill feeling of finality, overwhelming them both—before their move to a new life condemned to the breadline. Julia shuddered. She had seen Lady Law’s cold poise before, felt that same bitter anchor tug at her in those few years before her mother’s death. Yes, Harriet Law was missing something. One of the things that Georgy had possessed in abundance.

Hope.

Lady Law was a woman sharpened to an angry point—a blade inside a parasol—and she had found something better than hope to see her through. She had a mind and a talent no one could touch. That made her formidable, cold…and perhaps impossible to truly know.

Julia tried to settle against the thinly cushioned backrest as the vehicle clattered over the cobblestone. She looked forward to seeing Aloysius Grant again, but how could she appear eager without coming across as a desperate spinster besmirching the memory of her dearly departed sister? Perhaps this was too soon. Living life like Georgy had couldn’t possibly end well while her heart was still so heavy. But wasn’t that the point? Prolonging a chance at happiness, even for a day—Georgy would not want that for her.

And after all, Grant
had
come up with the Dover flyover date, whatever his true feelings might be.

“Post is here for ye, Sir Horace,” announced Mrs. Barleycourt, Holly’s old housekeeper, in her usual flustered, irritable tone. “Or shall I toss these out wi’ the rest of ‘em, for all the good it’s doin’ to keep pilin’ ‘em up like this. You’re after bein’ behind on yer bills again if yer no’ careful.”

He slammed his pen down, glared up at her from his desk. “Are any of those personal letters?”

Skimming through the dozen-strong pile, she picked three out and checked the postmarks. “One looks Portuguese, and the other two—from Scotland.” Holly scoffed and resumed his note-taking. “The rest are from banks and loan companies—expedition business, surely,” she went on. “Sir Horace, does this mean yer’ve cancelled yer Africa trip?”

“What? What was that, woman?” He didn’t bother looking up.

“I said, seein’ as yer’ll nay open these bank replies, have yer changed yer mind about the expedition?”

“Fiddlesticks, woman! If I receive a letter from Josh, hand it over at once. Anything else, I couldn’t give two hoots. Now leave me be.”

He heard the slap of paper on the sideboard, then heavy marching steps and plenty of muttering in the hallway. Mrs. Barleycourt could be an unconscionable nag, but she meant well and had never skimped on a single chore in twelve years. Holly had grown almost immune to her abrasiveness.

Undeterred, he read on from Josh’s journal:
“…yet the question remains: if a full-size psammeticum lens mounted on the Leviacrum telescope is only able to detect 4 millijoules of psammeticum energy from a collapsing star, how can my portable lens, at a fraction of that sensitivity, read hundreds of joules coming from somewhere in London?”

“Hmm.” Holly licked his thumb and eagerly turned the page.

“October 14
^th
—After much trouble, have fine-tuned my prototype telescope. It can now detect cosmic psammeticum energy with decent accuracy. But the London reading is now even more troubling—forty-eight KILOJOULES of energy! From where? If only we knew what psammeticum really is, and what it means. That it doesn’t occur anywhere else in space that we know of, other than in the jaws of solar destruction, is a terrifying notion. London may be in very serious danger. This is my discovery, but lest I be humiliated, I must investigate this baffling phenomenon firsthand, and prove its authenticity beyond doubt before submitting my findings.

“October 15
^th
—Have pinpointed the energy’s origin to a house on Challenger Row, No. 144. The psammeticum readings are very erratic: this morning, over fifty kilojoules; this afternoon, barely three kilojoules. Don’t know who lives there but they were not home when I called. I shall call again tomorrow.”

Scratching his sideburns, Holly checked back over the energy readings. A single kilojoule was not much, about equal to the amount of solar radiation received by one square meter of the earth in one second. But Josh and his scientific peers clearly hadn’t figured out what they were dealing with yet. Psammeticum energy, a recent cosmological discovery, had been found through the use of pioneering subspace lens filters, which was Josh’s main area of study. If anyone had the chops to perfect a
reliable
portable alternative, he assured himself, it was Josh.

“October 16
^th
—Residents of 144 Challenger Row absent again. Damn it! An unexpectedly wonderful day, though. Met Georgina Bairstow, part-time maid at 144. Beautiful girl, wonderful dry sense of humour. Asked her to dinner tonight. She accepted! Need to iron my suit. Maybe Mrs. Barleycourt will do me a favour—I can put up with her cantankerousness for this!

“Will endeavour to find out who lives at 144. Georgina wouldn’t tell me earlier—integrity, how rare!—but I doubt the neighbours will be as tight-lipped. There are always ways and means. Can’t wait to tell all this to Professor Holly. No offence to him, but he has had enough fame and fortune. I must take sole credit for any discovery if I am to achieve anything like his eminency in Britain. This could be my ticket to a full fellowship. What will I find inside 144?”

Holly lifted his head slowly and snapped the journal shut. That was the lad’s last entry, and Holly hadn’t seen or heard from him since. Where was he? Seven nights had passed since the telephone call and poor Georgina’s murder. What a strange night that had been—a breathless jog through dank, empty streets to Freeborn Avenue and a sombre midnight circus of clattering hooves, bedroom lamps, police uniforms, neighbours shivering in dressing gowns, propping each other up, arm in arm at their front doors.

The inspector in charge had taken Holly’s information and promised to contact him with any news of Josh Cavendish. None had come in. Four days ago, after personally speaking to each of Josh’s friends, colleagues, tutors, lecturers and then telephoning Mrs. Cavendish in Portsmouth, Holly had reported to Scotland Yard that his young protégé was missing.

Josh used Holly’s spare bedroom from time to time as a kind of quiet study. The living room library contained many rare scientific tomes, not to mention souvenirs from Holly’s countless African and Asian adventures. The lad genuinely seemed to enjoy spending time here, away from the pressures of university life. He kept his journal in the spare bedroom, in his desk drawer. Holly had found it quite by accident—he’d been searching for an address book instead, or some other record of acquaintances Josh had made but not mentioned.

He scribbled
‘144 Challenger Row?’
in his tatty notebook. There came a knock at the door. He stuffed the notebook in his trouser pocket and slid the journal under a pile of Josh’s mathematical worksheets. Psammeticum calculations. Double Dutch, even to a Cambridge fellow.

Knock, knock, knock.

“Mrs. Barleycourt?” he yelled.

She shot back, “My hands are full. Can yer no’ answer it yerself fer once?”

“And I pay you
why,
woman?”

“Yer’ll be mullin’ that over come wash day, Sir Horace.”

Grumbling, Holly tromped to the front door and yanked it open. “Yes?” He swallowed too fast, stifled a cough. “I mean…how do you do, Miss…Lady—”

“Harriet. How nice to see you again, Sir Horace. May I come in?”

“Of course—” He reached for her hat, then realised she hadn’t taken it off yet, “—you may. Um, this way, Harriet.” He showed her into the living room. “Please ignore the pigsty,” then, turning to the kitchen, “
Mrs. Barleycourt.
”

“Yes, sir.” His old housekeeper huffed and puffed at the door.

“We have a distinguished guest. Tea and biscuits,” he said, and to Lady Law intoned, “Please have a seat. Is there anything else I can get you?”

He muted his gasp when she smiled and fluttered her eyelids, for she was without a doubt the most beautiful woman he’d set eyes on since he’d first glimpsed Ayesha, Queen of Kor.

“Tea will be fine, thank you,” she replied. “Tell me, Sir Horace, how goes the planning for your latest expedition?”

“It does me good to see you.”

“Likewise. So are you making headway?”

“Oh, if only. I would give anything to…” He caught his smitten confession midgush, and paled “Oh, you mean the Africa trip? How stupid of me. Well I’m afraid I’m missing one key piece of equipment.”

“And what is that?”

“My protégé, Josh Cavendish, has vanished from the face of the earth. He was to be my companion to Namib…to Africa. He studies astrophysics in the Leviacrum, but his real passions are natural history and finding rare species of animals. My enthusiasm is mostly vicarious, I’m afraid. Without Josh, I have no intention of going it alone. But I wouldn’t mind seeing Africa one last time,” he waxed aloud.

“I can see that.” Harriet spent a moment scrutinizing him. “Actually, your protégé is the reason I am here.”

Holly snapped out of his daydream. “What? What about Josh?”

“Well, I am investigating the murder of a young woman, a Miss Georgina Bairstow, and it has come to my attention that Josh telephoned you the night of her death, asking you to go to her house and protect her.”

“Yes.”

“Do you know of any reason why Josh might be in trouble?”

“Not a one. He’s a quiet lad, wouldn’t say boo to a goose.”

“I see. Do you mind me asking what he was working on? Or perhaps a project you were both involved with? Something to do with your African expedition, by chance? The whereabouts of an archaeological site, say—a valuable piece of information like that could attract other, shall we say,
interested
parties. Far be it from me to make accusations, but Josh does have sizeable debts from his education. I understand he’s been under a lot of pressure lately.”

Holly didn’t like her loaded questions or, of a sudden, the Machiavellian nature of her visit. The Sossusvlei expedition was his and Josh’s closely guarded secret. It did indeed involve a priceless archaeological site, the whereabouts of which other interested parties would be eager to know, but it was not,
not
the kind of secret she was hinting at. In any case, Josh’s moral character was unimpeachable. Her suspicions did not add up…at all.

He no longer bathed in the spell of her eyes or her charisma. A chill grew between them, and he felt that he saw her properly for the first time. Mendacious, after all. Not to be trusted.

It was time to see exactly what she was made of.

Holly faked a frown. “You’re not saying…you don’t think…” He lowered his voice to a whisper, “…
the map?
You don’t suppose he’s in trouble because of…the map?”

Lady Law raised an eyebrow and leant in close. “Pray tell me…what map is this?”

“All aboard for the round-trip to Dover. Eleven-fifteen to Dover, all aboard. Fine weather this afternoon, light breezes, plenty of sun. Ticket holders for Dover, make your way to steam elevator fourteen. Single file now, that’s it. You’ll experience heat on your way up, but don’t worry, it’s perfectly safe. Mind the slippery gangway just before you board the airship. Easy does it. All aboard for Dover! Professor McEwan’s journey to the earth’s core. Ticket holders only.” The moustached station guard touched his blue cap when he saw Julia—a nice gesture of recognition for a fellow sky-hop. Though she didn’t know his name, they’d served together on the Griffin a few times, in separate departments. “Have a good one,” he said with a wink.

“Thank you. You, too.”

The packed iron elevator squeaked its way up inside the brass scaffold. The hiss of steam dissipated as they climbed. Julia dabbed her brow and neck with her handkerchief, then smirked at an old woman wearing a rain-mate.

The air was much warmer than usual on the gangway—lucky that. She hadn’t really dressed for altitude. The giant curved ridges shaping the airship’s golden exterior reflected bright sunlight. They had been polished. Indeed, every inch of the Pegasus gleamed and glistened as though this were its maiden voyage. Much had been made in the newspapers about Professor McEwan’s subterranean folly, his “iron mole”, after the original patent holder for its design, Professor Perry of America, had ventured into the earth’s crust years ago and had not been seen since.

But what folly! The very idea inspired enough excitement for the fleet to spruce up its flagship for this one-of-a-kind afternoon flyby. Dover was some seventy-three miles from London, over on the coast, so she would have plenty of opportunity to get to know Aloysius Grant. So far, he’d proven tough to figure out. Outspoken in front of his superiors, yet taciturn in private—something of a paradox.