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Authors: Nancy Springer

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BOOK: The Case of the Left-Handed Lady
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I put on quite a lovely fur cloak, with a dainty little muff to match, before closing – and concealing – my “dressing-room.” Then, approaching a different bookcase, the one that stood by the outer wall, I reached behind another stout tome
(Pilgrim’s Progress),
manipulated another hidden latch, and slipped out of Dr. Ragostin’s office by the secret door.
CHAPTER THE FIFTH
 
MY CRAFTY PREDECESSOR HAD PLACED THIS exit well. I emerged behind a bushy evergreen that grew in the narrow space between houses. From there, I was able to make my way to the street satisfied that no one could possibly have seen me leave, not even that sharp-eyed Mrs. Fitzsimmons, who had probably verbally dissected me with Mrs. Bailey the moment my back was turned:
Poor dear, with more’n enough nose and chin but barely anything else, a woman can tell; if any man ever marries ’er ee’ll find ’imself sorely deceived.
Dealing with my miserable hair – the colour of bog mud, and as limp as the rotting vegetation thereof – had put me in a bad humour. Once safely in a four-wheeler cab, I pulled paper and pencil from one of my pockets and drew a quick, rather rude sketch of Mrs. Fitzsimmons and Mrs. Bailey with their old-fashioned white ruffled house-caps bent together in gossip, their shrewd baggy eyes, their lipless gabbling mouths – rather like a pair of turtles, actually.
Then, having got temper out of the way, I more calmly sketched a picture of a young gentlewoman in a fur cloak and muff and a brimmed velvet hat trimmed with grebe feathers. Beneath this elegant headgear she peered nearsightedly, for no lady, however faulty her vision, will wear glasses. So gently reared as to be nearly helpless, she walked with her head bent and her shoulders drawn in, very plain despite her fine clothing.
Dr. Ragostin’s shy child bride, Mrs. Ragostin.
By drawing this, I reminded myself who I was being today.
When the urge to sketch seized me, I could have drawn Ivy Meshle if I wanted to, or Mum, or Sherlock or Mycroft, or just about anyone I knew except Enola Holmes. My true self I could not quite capture on paper. Odd.
The cab took me to a fashionable street. As it pulled to a halt, I stowed my papers deep in a pocket; on two occasions Sherlock Holmes had seen my drawings, and I must be careful never to give myself away by leaving any behind. When I returned to my lodgings, I would burn the sketches.
Alighting at the corner, with both silk-gloved hands tucked into my muff I waited until the cab had driven away. You see, while only dowagers wore bustles anymore – mercy be thanked, their clumsy bulk was going out of fashion – still, a gentlewoman must trail a train. The hem of my long cloak and back of my even longer skirt dragged upon the icy cobbles, indicating the social class of one who rode in carriages. So I stood where I was until the cab had departed. Dr. Ragostin, I knew, really ought to keep his own little brougham and pair, but there were limits, however generous, to the funds Mum had provided me.
Fortunately, I seldom needed be Mrs. Ragostin.
Very fortunately, as I wore my own unaltered face for this purpose. Ivy Meshle could hide behind rouge, fair-hued hair additions, and cheap baubles, but no lady could do so.
As I stood on the corner, two top-hatted gentlemen strode past me with glares of disapproval. “
My
wife stays at home where she belongs, none of this peripatetic nonsense,” grumbled one to his companion. “That young lady will bring trouble on herself, wandering about alone,” the other agreed, “and ’twill be her own fault.” I ignored them, and tried not to let their comments darken the day, which was quite gloomy enough already; although the clocks had just struck one in the afternoon, a lamplighter climbed his ladder, for with the London sky thick with smoke, fog, and soot it might as well have been evening. All over the rooftops of the city, chimneys stood like dark candles spewing smut. Workmen and cleaning-women walked past me coughing; someone would die of the catarrh today.
A ragged little girl with a broom approached me; at my nod the child hurried to sweep the crossing for me, banishing from my path the muck of soot, stone dust, mud, and horse droppings that always coated the street.
Following the child to the other side, I tipped her generously – a penny, not just a farthing – then, myself willy-nilly “sweeping” the pavement with my train, I progressed towards my destination: the residence of Sir Eustace Alistair.
Upon the massive front door I found a large brass knocker in the shape of a lion’s head. Remembering to strike timidly, as befit Mrs. Ragostin, I employed it.
Presently the door was opened by a maid all shining in afternoon black, behind whom stood an equally resplendent butler.
“Her ladyship is not receiving visitors,” the butler told me, his manner as cold as the winter day.
“Her ladyship is not feeling well? If you would just take up this card, and my sympathies,” I said in the voice of an exceedingly well-bred mouse.
Balefully he fetched his silver tray, upon which I laid the card of Dr. Leslie T. Ragostin, Scientific Perditorian, on which I had penned “Mrs.”
“I sent the carriage away,” I murmured. “One must be discreet.” This to explain the absence of a footman or any other accompanying servant. Stepping inside, for they could hardly leave such a welldressed lady freezing upon the doorstep, I added, “I will just warm myself by the fire.”
The maid was good enough to take my cloak and muff – not my hat; a lady’s hat and hair, once arranged, remained inseparable. Hatted and gloved indoors, I could not have looked more absurdly upper-class.
Still, loitering in the rather grand parlour, I had no idea whether Lady Theodora – that was the wife’s name, Theodora; I had looked up “Alistair, Sir Eustace, Baronet” in Dr. Ragostin’s copy of
Boyles
to find the address – as I say, I did not know whether the lady would condescend to see me. She might find my unexpected arrival a straw worth grasping at. On the other hand, depending on whether pride outweighed desperation, she might consider such presumption to be the last straw.
Trying to imagine the dialogue taking place upstairs, I could only hope the lady understood what
perditorian
meant, and that the butler had been sufficiently impressed by my apparel and demeanour.
“Ahem.” The butler reappeared at the parlour door, and while he looked as disapproving as ever, he told me, “Lady Theodora is not dressed to receive you in the morning-room, but she wonders whether you would care to step into her boudoir for a few moments.”
Ah. Just as I had hoped. Although I must now proceed with the greatest delicacy.
Following the butler upstairs, I heard youthful voices issuing from a nursery on the floor above, where a nanny, or perhaps a governess, attempted to civilise the Alistair children. The Honourable Lady Cecily, according to
Boyles
, had no less than seven brothers and sisters.
Such being the case, it is amazing how youthful in appearance Lady Theodora turned out to be. Or perhaps such was the effect of her grief plus her perfectly lovely, lacy tea-frock. A recent fad instigated by the artwork of Kate Greenaway, tea-frocks allowed one to go without a corset when receiving (female only!) visitors in one’s personal rooms. In the high-waisted, comfortable, very pretty garment, Lady Theodora appeared charming and almost childlike, whereas I would have looked a proper stork in one.
She did not immediately turn to me as I stepped in at the door. With maids in fluttering attendance, fussing with her long curls of auburn hair, she remained upon a dainty chair facing her dressing-table, powdering her tear-stained face, so that I saw her first in the mirror.
Our eyes met in a glass darkly, as it were.
Remembering to be bashful, I glanced away.
I am sure she took a good long look at me while I stood gazing up and around like a tourist in a European cathedral. Actually, the room was rather similar to Mum’s at home – light and airy with Japanese screens and furniture carved in the delicate Oriental fashion. Not so grand. But I must seem awed.
Timid,
I reminded myself mentally.
Married young, naïve and terribly plain. No threat to anyone.
“That will do.” Turning, Lady Theodora shrugged off a filmy combing-jacket and shooed the servants away with her hands. “Mrs. Ragostin, please sit down.”
I perched on the edge of a settee. “My, um, apologies for intruding upon you in this, um, that is to say, unseemly manner, quite without a proper introduction, Lady Alistair, and at such a difficult . . .” I allowed my barely audible murmurings to trail away in a pretense of confusion because I, a stranger, was not supposed to know that this was a difficult time for her. Although she knew perfectly well that I did know; why else would I be there?
She spared me further pretense. “Your husband sent you, Mrs. Ragostin?”
I lifted my lowered eyes to Lady Theodora’s pretty face – no, beautiful: This was a beautiful woman. Somewhat square of jaw and full of mouth, but with brilliant eyes, her expression remarkably cultured and sensitive. A society lady who was not usually so direct, I imagined. Much more the type to play the game of social dissembling to its fullest, dealing in hints and intimations and coyness. Only extremity could drive her to be so blunt.
“Um, yes,” I faltered. “Dr. Ragostin felt that it would be indelicate for him to – to venture here himself, you know . . .”
Once more the stumbling halt, allowing her the choice, whether to speak of that which the whole world knew but was not supposed to know.
Lady Theodora stiffened for only a moment before she nodded. I have often noticed how a proud and beautiful woman will find a friend in one who is plain, quiet, and humble. “Yes,” she said in a low voice, “my daughter, Lady Cecily, seems to have – that is – I, or rather, we, her parents, don’t know where she is. Am I correct to understand that your husband finds persons who have gone missing?”
“Yes, quite so.”
“He is offering his services?”
“If you wish. But with no expectation of reward, my lady.”
“Indeed.” She did not believe this; she thought it more than likely that Dr. Ragostin was opportunistic and a sham, but at the same time –
She said it. “I am desperate, Mrs. Ragostin.” Watching my face, she spoke with deliberate control, but I could see her trembling. “There has been no news of my daughter – none! – for a week, and the authorities seem utterly ineffectual. Surely your husband can do no worse. No doubt I am being a fool, for I am under orders to summon no one on my own, but I can hardly be blamed if you have come to
me.
I cannot help feeling that a providential God may have sent you here, however self-serving – not you personally, I mean, but your husband – no offense intended.”
“None taken, I assure you, Lady Theodora.” I allowed my shy, apologetic gaze to drift towards her. “Most preposterous, my being here, but husbands
will
have their way.”
I could not have struck a stronger empathic chord in her. “Oh, Mrs. Ragostin!” She actually leaned forward to clasp my gloved hands. “How true! The men run everything, yet they are so
wrong!
In my heart I know that my Cecily has not – would not go anywhere they say she has. And the fact that they have not found her shows me to be correct. Yet they persist in believing . . . How awful. Even my husband . . .”
I nodded, thinking ahead to guide the conversation without, I hoped, her noticing. “Is your husband very much older than you are, Lady Theodora?”
“Only a few years. But – is Dr. Ragostin greatly your senior?”
“Yes. I am his third wife. Why, I am not much older than . . .”
She said it for me. Whispered it, actually. “Than my daughter. Lady Cecily.”
“Indeed. Quite. Therefore, I was thinking . . .”
“Yes?” Already we had become co-conspirators; our knees almost touched, she sat so close to me, clinging to my hands.
“I wonder if, as a girl of Lady Cecily’s age, I might notice something that the police detectives have overlooked . . .”
“Oh, how I wish you would, Mrs. Ragostin! I have been longing to do something . . . but what? And how?”
I almost forgot to play my role, but remembered in time to hesitate, biting my lip, before I said, “Well . . . one must start somewhere. If it is at all possible, Lady Theodora, might I examine Lady Cecily’s rooms?”
CHAPTER THE SIXTH
 
FIRST, OF COURSE, WE TOOK TEA. THEN, complicity and friendship sealed over the soothing hot beverage and its accompanying marmalade tarts, Lady Theodora called for Lady Cecily’s personal maid, who escorted me to the Honourable Lady Cecily’s rooms.
The usual thing for gentry is to have one’s bed in a room with a dressing-closet, behind another room where servants and friends come in and out. I walked straight through to look at Lady Cecily’s bedchamber, and it appeared at first glance to be sweetness itself, with a carved and daintily painted sleigh bed, more suitable, I thought, for a girl than for a young lady. Perhaps her mum had tried to keep her a baby? In a corner sat the usual dollhouse, meant to encourage domestic pride, but it did not look as if Lady Cecily enjoyed that sort of thing any better than I did. Her expensive china and porcelain dolls stood neglected on their shelves, dusty even inside their glass cases. Nor, I thought, glancing at similar glass “bells” on the mantelpiece, did she enjoy the genteel craft of moulding roses out of coloured wax.
BOOK: The Case of the Left-Handed Lady
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