to anything specific. She was just… well, distracted, I suppose.”
“Yes. And yet when one of her women comes to her with a problem, she listens with her entire being concentrated on that woman, because that is where her interest lies, because, quite simply, she has little time for the concerns of men.
“What happens, then, when this extravagantly charismatic, articulate, single-minded individual comes into contact with a segment of the population that is feeling unwanted, unimportant, and useless? What happens when some of those people are also very wealthy (remember all those young men whose deaths passed large parts of fortunes onto their sisters), when they are educated and come from powerful families and are so elated at being given a purpose, something of value in their lives, that they would give everything to the person who has given them back their dignity? Yes, exactly.
“You know that Iris Fitzwarren left money to Margery Childe. She left it to the New Temple in God, but it amounts to the same thing. Not all her money by any means, but quite a lot. Are you also aware that another young woman died last October, in an automobile accident, and left the Temple a small fortune? And a third drowned in her bath in August, leaving a larger one?”
Lestrade’s eyes narrowed unpleasantly.
“I personally was not aware of that,” he said carefully. “I will find out if Inspector Tomlinson knows.”
“Perhaps at the same time you could mention that another wealthy Temple member was injured two days ago when she fell onto the tracks of the Underground, just as a train was coming into the station.”
The big building was not silent, I thought in the minutes that followed, just sturdily built, like the opera house it had originally been designed as. Lestrade reached for the telephone, and in a minute he was speaking to a man who, his intonation implied, was marginally his superior, and something of a rival.
“Tomlinson? Lestrade here. I have someone in my office with information on the Fitzwarren case… Because I was here, and she knew me slightly from a previous case… Yes, I do think it’s worth your coming in. I don’t think I ought to give you her name or her information over the telephone… Well, it’s up to you, but if I were you, I’d give dinner a miss… All right, twenty minutes.” He laid the receiver into its cradle but left his hand on it. “If this other woman is in danger…”
“Her name is Veronica Beaconsfield—yes, of that family— and she’s at the moment in Guys under the eye of Dr Watson or another of Holmes’ minions, who would probably be happy to be relieved by an official guard. Miss Beaconsfield is, just to complicate matters, Miles Fitzwarren’s fiancee. He has agreed to take her away from London after the doctors say she can leave, probably Monday or Tuesday, and keep her safe until we settle this. Holmes thinks Lieutenant Fitzwarren may be willing to tell you about his connexions with the drug world.”
“Perhaps I should give one of our drugs men a ring, have him listen to you, as well.”
“Not tonight. I must be on my way. No, truly, Inspector, I am more than happy to work with all and sundry on this, but tonight I have to be at the Temple for the evening service. I shall miss the first part of it as it is, but I need to be there when she finishes, because there isn’t another meeting until Monday, and time is of the essence.”
The police in 1921 were more restricted in their auxiliary use of civilians than they had been thirty years earlier when Holmes was at his peak; nonetheless, their concerns were primarily with the embarrassment of having incompetents endangering themselves or making a muddle of an investigation. With my background, and having received the spurious impression that Holmes was to be more or less constantly at my side, I knew Lestrade could be persuaded into supporting (however reluctantly) my proposed actions. On the principle that asking for a thing invites refusal, I simply told him my plans.
“So,” I concluded, “there’s nothing yet to justify a full, open investigation on your part, and there’s a good chance it’d scare them off. I am already in a position to watch for anything odd, to take advantage of it. I can take care of myself. All I need is a way to set up an alarm for your instant response if I need it. If you put a watch on the Temple, or try to infiltrate, it would be duplicating what I already have, and it could easily put the investigation, and me, in danger.” (I was saying, in effect, I’ve put myself into your hands; don’t take my information and betray me with it. He heard me, though he did not care for it in the least.)
“At least stay until Tomlinson comes, let him hear what you have to say.”
“I’ve given you everything of any importance, Inspector Lestrade. It’s more important for me to be at that gathering of the Circle than waiting for your colleague.”
“He may decide to arrest Margery Childe straightaway.”
“If he does, then he’s a damned fool and ought to be back pounding a beat, and you can tell him that Sherlock Holmes himself said that. Arrange a meeting tomorrow if you like. Or midnight tonight, for that matter.” I gave him the number of the telephone that, along with the flat’s other furnishings, was temporarily for my use.
He waited until I was at the door before he asked me the vital question.
“Do you think she killed those women?”
I was taken unawares by a sudden jolt of revulsion for my persona, my shoes, and the decision that had brought me here.
“Frankly, no,” I said tiredly. “But I think you need to take a very close look at her. She is the common link between three dead women and a fourth who got lucky. She knows everything about her inner circle of followers. She knows that Veronica Beaconsfield and the others willed money to benefit the Temple. She has a friend on the staff of the
I passed Inspector Tomlinson at the door, a tall and elegantly dressed figure perhaps a bit too aware of his own masculinity; not a characteristic, I reflected, that would help him on this particular case.
FIFTEEN
Saturday, 15 January-
Friday, 21 January
—Susan B. Anthony (1820-1906)
Beginning that Saturday night, I immersed myself in the Temple. Walking in just as the service was ending, I joined the Inner Circle as it made its way to the common room, oblivious of the raised eyebrows and shared glances, and announced to Margery my willingness to assume whatever of Veronica’s duties I might be capable of, until she returned.
That was my entree into Temple business. I could not, of course, fill Veronica’s shoes administratively, but teach I could, and teach I did. I also ran errands, typed letters, answered telephones, fetched supplies, poked my nose into any available nooks and crannies, and in general offered myself up as anyone’s dogsbody. With no particular discussion on the matter, from that first night I contrived to assume the position of fledgling member of
