The Mysterious Lady Law (5 page)

“Hello,
Julia.
” Varinia Wilcox, a striking redhead and one of Julia’s favourite waitress friends, waved from several tables away. She rose onto her tiptoes and arched her arm, pointing over the passengers filing past, toward the window on the far side of the dining room.

Alone at a small table with a grand view, Grant wore a smart mid-grey, pinstripe morning suit. Tempering her grin, Julia saluted Varinia and made her way over to him. She eyed the other women’s outfits, praying her four-piece ensemble was fashionable enough for the occasion. She wore a yellow silk jacket and flared skirt trimmed with lace, an undershirt bodice of ivory taffeta and her new yellow wide brim hat with a blue ostrich plume on top and pale blue tulle streaming down the back. It drew several approving looks from couples already seated.

“There you are.” She’d hoped to surprise Grant but he neither flinched nor looked up at first. He gazed out the window instead, then dabbed the end of his half cigar with a lit match and blew the first kisses of smoke out through moist lips.

She cleared her throat. “Good afternoon.”

Flicking out the flame, he responded, “Oh, good afternoon. How are you?”

His diffidence reminded her of her father when he wanted to be left alone of an evening. “Fine, thank you. I see you managed to get a window view. How, may I ask?”

“Simple. I beat the queue. Having a badge won’t make you rich, but it does have its perks.” As soon as she eyed the empty chair, he leapt to his feet and apologized, “Where are my manners? Please have a seat, Julia.” He held out her chair for her. “You’ll have to forgive my rusty social graces. It’s been a while since I invited a lady to dinner…or lunch.”

“So you’re not married?” She already knew the answer to that, but not why such a striking gent should be unattached.

“No.” Once again, Grant peered pensively through the large porthole window while he sucked at his cigar. “Not for five years now.”

Tense, she wound her purse strings around her fingers under the table.
Well, that might explain—

“What did Harriet Law have to say?”

“Surprisingly little…for a famous interrogator. She asked me hardly anything about Georgy, and even less about the case. That woman works in mysterious ways.”

He didn’t so much as blink.

“I was meaning to ask you,” Julia said, “why you dislike her so much? I mean in the hotel, you were rather rude. Not that she didn’t have it coming—I’m certain she must have done
something
—but the
frisson
did seem somewhat personal, if you don’t mind me saying.”

He puffed away at his cigar. Who
was
he? Definitely not the same overly polite and concerned constable she’d come to like and to trust with her life over the past few days.

“Personal? You could say that.” He tapped the excess ash into the glass ashtray. “You could also say I am what I am today because of her.”

“What do you mean?”

He massaged the knuckle of his bare ring finger with an idle forefinger and thumb. “Madeleine was murdered five years ago this November. We’d been married for two. The authorities failed to produce a single name in their investigation—not even a suspicion of one—so I pleaded my case to Harriet Law and she turned me down flat. No apology, no explanation, simply a door slammed in my face. Her reaction, when I was at my most helpless, my most vulnerable, was inhuman. I didn’t speak to a soul for three months after that. She was my last chance to find out why Maddy was no longer here. And Harriet Law,
Lady
Law had shown me what life was going to be like from then on. A shut door.” He sucked in a mouthful of smoke, then leaked it out again. “So you see—it could be called personal.”

No wonder he cried the other day. Poor bloke
.

“Then one morning I woke up and realised I couldn’t let that happen to another human being. I joined the constabulary and vowed to do everything in my power to keep that door open for others…always…regardless of mood or schedule or personal bias. Harriet Law is not interested in justice. She is an agenda unto herself. And that no one can reproduce her methods is not only highly suspect, it does not add up. When the brightest minds in the country, nay the world, can’t connect the dots in a substantial number of her case reports, there is something profoundly wrong with the woman’s process. That might have been a purely scornful remark five years ago, but now, from an experienced police officer, it is a very real and very troubling conclusion. Lady Law might solve every crime she engages, but she is not to be trusted.”

“Well, you’re not the first to say that and I dare say you won’t be the last. For my part,” Julia said as she plonked her elbows on the table, then, remembering where she was, quickly removed them, “it isn’t a question of trust. Lady Law’s results are unimpeachable. She does exactly as advertised.”

“Not exactly,” he argued.

“No, maybe not insofar as
how
she gets there. But, given the choice, I’d much rather know who killed Georgy and why than leave the case forever unsolved. I’m very sorry for your loss, Constable Grant, really I am, but Lady Law can provide me with that which you cannot. It might not be fair to all those other people soliciting for her services. It might even be a blinkered decision on my part—Lord knows, she is a well of secrets, and
not
someone I would trust as a person—but anyone in my position would do the same. You yourself went to her, did you not?”

Grant stubbed his cigar and waved for the nearest waitress. Goldie Buchanan. “You’re right, of course.” He gave a fake, assenting smile. “It’s up to us to fathom her secrets, her deceptions. You are being a loyal sister and it is not my place to question your decision. Would you like something to drink?”

“Thank you. I’ll have a lemon posset.”

He spoke up to the waitress, “One lemon posset…and one black coffee, then we’d like two copies of the menu, please.”

“Yes, sir.
Ma’am.
” The young blonde flicked Julia a wink.

“On your bike, Goldie,” Julia joked, immediately feeling a pang of reproach—this was the first time her workmates had seen her since Georgy’s murder.

“Nice day for it,” she said to Grant’s back as he craned his neck to watch the propellers kick-starting at the stern. He didn’t respond.

Hmm. Where to go from here? He was being civil and decorous for her sake, but what if his attachment to Julia
didn’t
extend beyond that oath he’d sworn? After he’d seen her safely to the conclusion of the case, perhaps he would simply move on to the next damsel in distress.

What if he wasn’t even capable of anything more from a relationship? Not that she could ever ask
that.
The heavy sponge thumping in her chest was full enough already.

The pianist eased into his gentlest repertoire at the other end of the exquisite dining room. Julia’s stomach tickled as the Pegasus began its purposeful rise. It was a long way to Dover. Too long for such tense, weighted conversation. The room looked so pristine and the faces so happy, so hopeful. She was determined this would not be an afternoon without gaiety. Without levity. Let Professor McEwan do the digging. She and Grant would not remain at odds any longer. There was music playing and she loved to dance.

Oh, how she longed for him to see her dance.

“It’s a smashing day for it,” he replied at last, eyeing her up and down. “And might I say how radiant you look in that dress? I always wondered what you would look like up close.”

“Excuse me?” Her blush couldn’t find its way through the plethora of questions. “What
can
you mean? You always wondered…when…where?”

He held his innocent poker face for a few moments, then let it lift into a cheeky grin, baring his teeth. The twinkle in his eyes left her feeling naked.

Oh my God. How long has he…?

Her heartbeat galloped. She fanned her face.

“So how long have you been a patron of The Swan?” she asked.

“Long enough. And yet…” He clipped the nub off a fresh cigar. “Not long enough. I could happily watch you dance forever, Miss Bairstow.”

“Oh?” Julia batted her eyelids at him, then giggled when he chuckled. “Only forever?”

“You have something else in mind?”

She glanced round the dining room, across to the oval dance area in front of the piano and the bandstand. “I’m sure I can come up with something. But do
you
dance, Al?”

He paused. “Al? Al—I could get used to that. And though I can’t dance a step, I’ll endeavour to try. I warn you, though, this might turn ugly.”

“Not from where I’m sitting.”

He shook his head, pretending surprise. “I didn’t know you were such a
flirt
.”

“Constable, I kick my legs up for a living.”

She smiled to herself.

Yes, Georgy would approve of him, too.

The hillside site at Dover was a veritable three-ring circus of photographers, police, picnickers, mobile sandwich and hot chestnut stalls, curious ramblers and more bespectacled men than Julia had ever seen congregated in one place. She guessed the latter were scientists and newspaper men. The Pegasus swooped low for a wonderfully close passing view of the iron mole, minutes before the start of its grand adventure. Other airships followed suit, then the convoy climbed, executed a one-hundred-and-eighty-degree turnaround and flew back over the machine, this time affording the passengers on the opposite side of the ships a clear view.

“It’s revving up,” Al enthused, responding to
oohs
and
aahs
from the far tables. “Come on.” He took Julia by the hand and hurried her across. A growl from below spun to a wiry squealing crescendo, much louder than she’d expected. No one would make way for Al, so to gain a better view he climbed onto a nearby chair. Julia offered to let him steady himself on her shoulder—the spectacle obviously meant more to him—but instead he helped her up onto a chair of her own.

Heady with excitement, she kept hold of his hand all while they watched.

The giant drill spun so fast she couldn’t make out its iron grooves. Its nose was a whirling monstrous cone of quite astounding power. Its silver body, a long, caterpillar cylinder covered with a spiral of toothlike treads, soon blackened under a layer of earth tossed up from the burrowing drill. A little over ten feet of penetration and already the debris cloud reached as high as the airships, masking much of the show.

Loud cheers and applause filled the Pegasus. Al beamed like a schoolboy at the fair. He reached over and gave Julia a peck on the cheek. She gripped his hand tighter. The Pegasus circled the cloud for a better view and she cheered along with everyone when the mole’s rear slid into the hillside and vanished, leaving a huge dark crater.

“It’s amazing,” she yelled above the furor.

“What’s that?” asked Al.

“Professor McEwan…he doesn’t even know what he’ll find down there.”

“I know. He’s a braver man than I…the magnificent fool.”

“Do you think we’ll ever see him again?” she asked.

Laughing, high on the moment, he hurled his hat and gloves at the ceiling and replied, “I don’t suppose he’s thought that far ahead. Relish it, Julia. He digs down, we climb high, the sun is out. This is a good day to be English!”

The small brass and woodwind sections finished their rendition of “Land of Hope and Glory,” then deferred to the string quartet for a lively number. Strauss’s “Tristch-Tratsch Polka,” one of her absolute favourites. Couples from all over the dining room, and even a few from the upper deck, scurried onto the polished, glittering dance floor and arranged themselves in a circle.

“Now or never,” Julia teased, holding her arms out for Al to lift her down from the chair.

He grinned and leapt to her aid with the agility of a swashbuckler. “Hey, do you even know this dance?”

“One way to find out.”

The dust cloud faded in the whorl of a breeze outside, permitting full, unfettered entry to the most brilliant sunlight Southern England had seen in weeks. It reflected off shiny crockery and bare tabletops and the roof of the spotless piano, blinding every dancer who spun in that direction. To her surprise, Al segued into the fast tempo with grace to spare, his compact, athletic frame matching her turn for turn. The feel of his hand on her waist made her giddy and his gaze found hers even when they changed partners. It inspired her to improvise during the ladies’ solo forays into the centre, and her bouncy quick-shuffles and spins soon drew generous applause from spectators. Al never once faltered. He was the steady glide to her soaring syncopation. This was her moment to shine. Hers and Al’s. While they were together, everyone else aboard the Pegasus faded away.

She had never enjoyed dancing more.

The gloaming descended early that evening, a little after five-thirty. Already the autumn fog visibly grasped at the quays and airship docking wharfs, its smog-fingers sliding along the Thames between factories, hangars, and around the Leviacrum. The Pegasus was the last to dock and Julia was one of the last to leave the dining room. Al had nipped to the bathroom a few minutes before and she waited for him at the exit. Patrons of every conceivable age and class acknowledged Julia on their way out with compliments on her dancing.

She checked her watch. Al had left her over five minutes ago. Was he all right? The only other person in the dining area was a bespectacled, rather hunched fellow wearing a thick, dark beard and a mop of curls, just returned from the bathroom. He looked familiar somehow. Where had she seen him before?

Strangely, he took a few steps toward the kitchen corridor, in the opposite direction of the exit. Hands low behind him, he paused. Deliberate sideways glances, short, measured paces back toward the bathroom doors, then out into the centre aisle. He stopped again.

Was he lost?

“Excuse me,” Julia shouted across, “if you’re looking for the way out, here it is.”

His somewhat theatrical bow in reply struck her as very odd. As did the dark green bowler hat he’d been holding behind his back, which he now raised and placed carefully onto his thick curls.