The Hidden Family

“Been in business long?” asked the Inspector.

“No,” she said, tight-lipped. “This is a new venture.”

“Ah well.”

He looked around slowly. Luckily she’d put the computer away before lunch, and everything was much as it should be in an office. He moved to shove the door closed. “Don’t do that,” Miriam said quickly.

“Alright.” He found the one comfortable chair in the office—a wooden swivel chair too low to work at the writing desks—and looked her in the eyes. “How long have you known Erasmus Burgeson?”

“Huh?” Miriam blinked. “Not long. A few weeks?”

“I see.” Smith nodded portentiously. “How did you come to know him?”

“Is this an official investigation?”

“I’m asking the questions. How did you come to know him?”

“Uh.” Miriam considered her options. Not official, she decided. “If this isn’t an official investigation, why should I tell you?”

“Because.” He looked irritated. “Little lady, if you don’t want to cooperate while it’s unofficial, I can go away and waste my time making it official. And then you’ll have to cooperate, and it will be the worse for you because I won’t have to knock on your door polite, like. Do I make myself clear?”

“Perfectly.” She didn’t smile. “I first met Erasmus Burgeson because one of your own officers directed me to him when I asked if he knew where I could find a pawnbroker. Is that what you wanted to know?”

“Ah, well.” Smith looked even more annoyed now, but not in her direction. “You wouldn’t happen to know which officer this would be?”

“Hmm. He’d have been on duty in Highgate Close on, um, the morning of Saturday the sixteenth. I think he thought I might be lost. That might be enough for you to find his notebook.”

“Humph. So you asked for a pawnbroker and he gave you directions to Burgeson. Is that all? Why did you want a pawnbroker in the first place?”

The Inspector’s blunt manner was beginning to annoy Miriam. But that’s what he wants, she realized suddenly: He wants me to make a slip. Hmm. “I arrived on the India Line ship Vespasian that morning, after a crossing from Ceylon,” she told him, very deliberately keeping to her story—the Vespasian had indeed docked that day, with some passengers aboard, but was conveniently halfway across the Atlantic by now. “I was so preoccupied with packing my posessions and getting ashore that I forgot to ask the purser to convert my scrip to honest currency. In addition, clothing suitable for the climate of Ceylon is inadequate here. So I thought a sensible first step would be to find a pawnshop and exchange an old pair of earrings and a small pearl necklace for a decent wool suit and the wherewithal to find a hotel room and cable my banker.”

All of which was, very remotely, true—and indeed Erasmus had arranged, for a fee and by way of a friend of a fellow traveler, for the purser of the Vespasian to find a passenger of her name in the ship’s manifest should anyone ask—but it was only as Miriam spun it out in front of Smith’s skeptical gaze that she realized how thin a tale it sounded. If she was in Smith’s shoes she could punch holes in it with very little effort. But Smith simply nodded. “I see,” he said. “Your husband left you adequately provided for, didn’t he?”

Miriam nodded. “Indeed.” Keep it close. Make him dig.

“And so you dabble in manufacturing.” It wasn’t phrased as a question, so Miriam didn’t answer. She just sat tight wearing a politely interested expression, wishing for the phone to ring or something to disturb the silence that stretched out uncomfortably.

“I said, you dabble in manufacturing.”

“I do not ‘dabble’ in anything, Mr. Smith,” Miriam finally stated in her iciest tone. “You’re a police officer. You can go ask the patent office questions—I’m sure Mr. Sagetree will be able to tell you whether there is any merit in the applications I filed last week. The first three, Inspector, of the many I have in mind.”

“Ah. I stand corrected.” Smith leaned back in his chair. “Well then, may I rephrase? Do you have any opinion of Burgeson’s business? Does he strike you as in any way at all being odd?”

Miriam shook her head and allowed an irritated expression to cross her face. “He’s a pawnbroker,” she said. “He’s a very literate pawnbroker with a good line in conversation, but I imagine sitting in the back of a shop gives him a lot of time to read, don’t you?”

“A literate pawnbroker. So this would explain why you have visited his establishment on three occasions?”

Shit, shit, shit—“The first time, as I’ve told you, I needed money and suitable attire. The second time—let me see, on my first visit I had noticed a hat that was not then out of hock. I went back to see if it was available, and also to redeem my earrings and necklace. On the third occasion—well, he’d shown me some of the antiquarian books various of his customers pawned when they fell upon hard times. I confess I was quite partial to a couple of them.” She forced a smile. “Is that a crime?”

“No.” Inspector Smith stood, unfolding smoothly to a good six feet. He was a huge, imposing man, overweight but built like a rugby player, and now she noticed that his nose had been broken, although it had set well. “But you should be careful who you associate with, Mrs. Fletcher. Some people question Mr. Burgeson’s patriotism and devotion to the Crown, you know. He keeps strange company, and you would not want to be taken for one among them.”

“Strange company?” She looked up at Smith.

“Strangers.” He wore a peculiar tight, smug expression. “Frenchies, some of ’em. And papists. Uppity women suffragists, too.” Miriam glanced past his shoulder then looked away hastily. Roger was leaning in the laboratory doorway, one hand behind his back. I don’t need this, she thought to herself.

“He hasn’t done anything to hang himself yet,” Smith continued, “but there’s always a first time.” He nodded to himself. “I see my job as ensuring there isn’t a second, if you catch my drift. And that the first ’appens as soon as possible.”

Miriam looked past him. “Roger, go back to your workbench,” she called sharply.

Roger turned and shuffled away, bashfully. Inspector Smith shook himself, the spell broken, and glanced over his shoulder.

“Huh. Another bad ’un, I shouldn’t be surprised.” Smith smirked at Miriam. “Wouldn’t want anything to ’appen to him, would you? I really don’t know what the world’s coming to, a single woman running a business full of strapping young men. Huh. So, let’s see. The question is, are you a good citizen?”

“Of course I’m a good citizen,” Miriam said tightly, crossing her arms.

“I really don’t see what your point is.”

“If you’re a good citizen, and you were to learn something about the personal habits of a certain pawnbroker—” The inspector paused, brow wrinkled as if he’d just caught himself in an internal contradiction: “casting no aspersions on your reputation, if you follow me, ma’am.” Another pause.

“But if you happened to know anything that would be of interest, I’m sure you’d share it with the police…”

“I’ve got a business to run, inspector,” Miriam pointed out coldly.

“This business pays taxes which ultimately go to pay your wages. You are getting in the way. I’m a law- abiding woman, and if I find out anything you need to know you will be the first to hear of it. Do I make myself understood?”

“Ah, well.” Smith cast her a sly little glance. “You will, as well, won’t you? Huh.” He paused in the doorway. “If you don’t you’ll be bleeding sorry,” he hissed, and was gone like a bad smell.

“Oh shit,” Miriam whispered, and sat down heavily in the swivel chair he’d vacated. Now the immediate threat was past, she felt weary, drained beyond belief. The bastard!

“Uh, ma’am?”

“Yes, Roger.” She nodded tiredly. “Listen. I know you meant well, but, next time—if there is a next time— stay out of it. Leave the talking to me.”

“Uh, yes.” He ducked his head uncertainly. “I meant to say—”

“And leave the fucking crowbar behind. Have you any idea what they’ll do to you for attacking a Police Inspector with a crowbar?”

“Ma’am!” His eyes bulged—at her language, not the message.