Down These Strange Streets

find employment. I had no bank account, no property, nothing of any value to pawn or sell, and, after I had paid my train fare, little more than twelve shillings to my name. Although I had friends in London who would open their homes to me, I had imposed before, and was determined not to be a burden. It was therefore a matter of the utmost urgency that I should obtain a position: I emphasize this point to account for what might appear a precipitous decision.

Arriving so early in the morning at King’s Cross, it seemed logical enough to set off at once, on foot, for the ladies’ employment bureau in Oxford Street.

The bag that had seemed light enough when I took it down from the train grew heavier with every step, so that I was often obliged to stop and set it down for a few moments. One such rest took place outside a newsagent’s shop, and while I caught my breath and rubbed my aching arm I glanced at the notices on display in the window. One, among the descriptions of lost pets and offers of rooms to let, caught my attention.

CONSULTING DETECTIVE

REQUIRES ASSISTANT

MUST BE LITERATE, BRAVE, CONGENIAL, WITH A GOOD MEMORY, &

WILLING TO WORK ALL HOURS.

APPLY IN PERSON TO

J. JESPERSON,

203-A GOWER STREET

Even as my heart leapt, I scolded myself for being a silly girl. Certainly, I was sharp and brave, blessed with good health and a strong constitution, but when you came right down to it, I was a woman, small and weak. What detective would take on such a liability?

But the card said nothing about weapons or physical strength. I read it again, and then glanced up from the number on the card—203A—to the number painted above the shop premises: 203.

There were two doors. One, to the left, led into the little shop, but the other, painted glistening black, bore a brass plate inscribed Jesperson.

My knock was answered by a lady in early middle age, too genteel in dress and appearance to be mistaken for a servant.

“Mrs. Jesperson?” I asked.

“Yes?”

I told her I had come in response to the advertisement, and she let me in. There was a lingering smell of fried bacon and toasted bread that reminded me I’d had nothing to eat since the previous afternoon.

“Jasper,” she said, opening another door and beckoning me on. “Your notice has already borne fruit! Here is a lady . . . Miss . . . ?”

“I am Miss Lane,” I said, going in.

I entered a warm, crowded, busy, comfortable, cheerful place. I relaxed, the general atmosphere, with the familiar scent of books, tobacco, toast, and ink that imbued it, making me feel at home even before I’d had a chance to look around. The room obviously combined an office and living room in one. The floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, crammed with volumes, gave it the look of a study, as did the very large, very cluttered desk piled with papers and journals. But there were also armchairs near the fireplace—the hearth cold on this warm June morning; the mantelpiece so laden with such a variety of objects I simply could not take them in at a glance—and a table bearing the remains of breakfast for two. This quick impression was all I had time to absorb before the man, springing up from his place at the table, commanded my attention.

I say man, yet the first word that came to mind was boy, for despite his size—he was, I later learned, six feet four inches tall—the smooth, pale, lightly freckled face beneath a crown of red-gold curls was that of an angelic child.

He fixed penetrating blue eyes upon me. “How do you do, Miss Lane? So, you fancy yourself a detective?” His voice at any rate was a man’s; deep and well modulated.

“I would not say so. But you advertised for an assistant, someone literate, brave, congenial, with a good memory, and willing to work all hours. I believe I possess all those qualities, and I am in search of . . . interesting employment.”

Something sparked between us. It was not that romantic passion that poets and sentimental novelists consider the only connection worth writing about between a man and a woman. It was, rather, a liking, a recognition of congeniality of mind and spirit.

Mr. Jesperson nodded his head and rubbed his hands together, the mannerisms of an older man. “Well, very well,” he murmured to himself, before fixing me again with his piercing gaze.

“You have worked before, of course, in some capacity requiring sharp perceptions, careful observation, and a bold spirit, yet you are now cut adrift—”

“Jasper, please,” Mrs. Jesperson interrupted. “Show the lady common courtesy, at least.” Laying one hand gently on my arm, she invited me to sit, indicating a chair, and offered tea.

“I’d love some, thank you. But that’s your chair, surely?”

“Oh, no, I won’t intrude any further.” As she spoke, she lifted the fine white china teapot, assessing the weight of the contents with a practiced turn of her wrist. “I’ll leave the two of you to your interview while I fetch more tea. Would you like bread and butter, or anything else?”

A lady always refuses food when she hasn’t been invited to a meal—but I was too hungry for good manners. “That would be most welcome, thank you.”

“I’ll have more toast, if you please, and jam would be nice, too, Mother.”

She raised her eyes heavenward and sighed as she went away.

He’d already returned his attention to me. “You have been in the Highlands, in the country home of one of our titled families. You were expecting to be there for the rest of the summer, until an unfortunate . . . occurrence . . . led to an abrupt termination of your visit, and you were forced to leave at once, taking the first train to London where you have . . . a sister? No, nothing closer than an aunt or a cousin, I think. And you were on your way there when, pausing to rest, you spotted my notice.” He stopped, watching me expectantly.

I shook my head to chide him.

He gaped, crestfallen. “I’m wrong?”

“Only about a few things, but anyone with eyes might guess I’d been in Scotland, considering the time of day, and the fact that I’ve had no breakfast, but there are no foreign stickers on my portmanteau.”

“And the abrupt departure?”

“I was on foot, alone, there not having been time for a letter to inform my friends—there is no aunt or cousin—of my arrival.”

“The job is yours,” he said suddenly. “Don’t worry about references—you are your own best reference. The job is yours—if you still want it.”

“I should like to know more about it, first,” I replied, thinking I should at least appear to be cautious. “What would be my duties?”

“Duties seems to me the wrong word. Your role, if you like, would be that of an associate, helping me to solve crimes, assisting in deduction, and, well, whatever is required. You’ve read the Sherlock Holmes stories?”

“Of course. I should point out that, unlike Dr. Watson, I’d be no good in a fight. I have a few basic nursing skills, so I could bind your wounds, but don’t expect me to recognize the symptoms of dengue fever, or—or—”

He laughed. “I don’t ask for any of that. My mother’s the nurse. I’m a crack shot, and I’ve also mastered certain skills imported from the Orient which give me an advantage in unarmed combat. I cannot promise to keep you out of danger entirely, but if danger does not frighten you—” He took the answer from my face and gave me a broad smile. “Very well, then. We’re agreed?”

How I longed to return that smile, and take the hand he offered to shake on it! But with no home, and only