Woman. Red hair. Buy shirt?
Cordie sounds puzzled as she relays my message. “Have you solda gingham blouse or shirtwaist to a woman with red hair?”
“Not in winter,” he says.
Last year?
Mr. Willoughby thinks long and hard. “No, wait. I did,now that you mention it. The garment was poorly made, quite tacky, in fact. Igave it to her for next to nothing. I remember the lady because she had airs,and I found that inappropriate in one lacking style and good taste.”
Name! I sign. Name! Name! Name!
Cordelia releases an embarrassed cough. “You wouldn’t know heridentity, by chance? Apparently, it’s important.”
He goes into the back room, mumbling phrases like, “highlyunusual” and “better buy something.”
Fortunately for us, Willoughby values order above all else. Heproudly reads the date on the merchandise receipt, the 21st of April, 1890. Hiscustomer is identified as one Maude Lambson.
Her work? I ask. Where?
But Cordie has reached the limit. “Jumping Jehoshaphat, whatdoes it matter?” she inquires, turning to me.
This comment is rhetorical so I don’t waste time on it.Instead, I point toward Willoughby. Ask! Her work where?
My companion sighs gustily. “Miss Hester wonders if you knowwhere the lady worked.”
The storeowner has no idea, but I feel indebted to him anyway.I gesture to Cordelia. Clothes, I sign. You buy. My treat.
She clears out most of the high-end items, and Mr. Willoughbywrites a rather extensive receipt. An embroidered shawl, silk gloves, ankleboots, muslin nightgown, feathered hat, and a day dress.
Reminder to self—Cordie cannot be trusted with carte blanche.
I hand over every dollar on my person to the shopkeeper. Hepromises to box up the goods and hold them until Willard arrives. Cordie and Iexit the store, walking half a block before Mr. Willoughby hurries outside, hismemory enhanced by hard cash.
“There was something odd about Miss Lambson!” he exclaims. “Shehad very dirty hair. Lots of coal soot near the roots.”
Smiling, I elbow my companion, encouraging her to express myappreciation.
“Thank you, sir,” she replies woodenly.
“Not at all, not at all. Come again. Should you need anotherreceipt, my collection goes back five years.”
Willard Little Hawk told us he would be at the saloon, so Igive a lad my last coin to go inside and fetch him. Cordelia tells the handymanabout the shop and asks him to pick up her parcels in an hour or so. She orderstwo baked potatoes from a street vendor and then loans me sufficient change topay for our meal. With sign lessons beginning soon, Cordie and I hurry to BlackSwan Lane, eating the taters on the fly.
Five blocks later and Stonehenge begins to change from humble toposh. The smells alone prove that we’re moving uptown. Midden piles and rotgutsaloons give way to restaurants, teahouses and bakeries. I know we’re close toBlack Swan because of the chocolatier with it’s rich, box-of-candy scent andthe perfumery which evokes a summer garden of lilies even in winter. I savorthe aromas of the rich as we stroll along.
Two Cockney women pass Cordelia and me, chattering likemagpies. “There’s no satisfyin’ Ol’ Archie,” one of them says.
“Garn,” the other agrees. “’E’s bad to work fer.”
I listen as the girls walk through the side entrance of theWindsor Hotel, complaining about their boss the entire time. The grande dame ofStonehenge accommodations, the Windsor sits two doors away from Kelly’s digs,frequented by those willing to pay a fortune for discreet luxury. In short,this is my father’s sort of place. Enjoyed by the rich and made ridiculous bythe poor.
A thought strikes me, and I stop in the middle of the sidewalk,upsetting Cordelia and a few other pedestrians. Lady X/Freckles/Maude Lambson musthave lived nearby, certainly within walking distance of Willoughby’s store. Shecouldn’t afford to hire transportation and wasn’t the type to go too far afieldfor shopping—Maude liked things to come easy, after all. Assuming that sheworked as a maid, a fancy place like the Windsor would have brought her intocontact with the rich on a daily basis, and there’s a Cornish community notthree minutes away on Falmouth Road.
The scratch at my neck suddenly stings, and I pull my scarfeven higher. Miss Lambson worked at this very hotel and met her killer here.
She begins to weep inside my head, confirming my latest clue.
Kelly sighs and shuts the door to his office. “All right,Hester. We’re alone now. Tell me why I had to send Miss Collins on an unnecessaryerrand.”
For pipe tobacco? I sign.
“I don’t smoke, you ninny.” He sits down in the chair oppositeme, and leans forward. “We haven’t long until your companion returns. You askedfor privacy?”
I take the ill-gotten piece of gingham out of my reticule, andhold it out to the doctor.
“Did you remove this from the evidence we collected yesterday?”he asks.
Maybe, I reply.
“Which means yes. Are you aware that tampering with evidence isa criminal offense?”
Know name. Lady X.
The side of Kelly’s jacket swings open and hits my arm. I heara light ticking. He must have taken out his pocket watch.
“And you deduced this in … nineteen hours? Fairly quick for anovice crime-fighter.”
I reach inside my bag again and bring out the chalk and slate. Iwrite the letters slowly—according to Cordelia, my chalkmanship leaves much tobe desired. Not enough flounces and swirls for a female.
MAUDE LAMBSON
Kelly takes the slate, reads the name aloud. “This is Lady X?”
I gesture for the tablet, and he returns it.
CORNISH/MAID AT HOTEL
“Which hotel?” Kelly asks.
I return the writing tools to my reticule and stand. Showyou, I sign quickly.
We are out of the office in seconds, and Kelly doesn’t think toquestion how a blind girl can show him anything. He merely informs his secretaryto give Cordelia a cup of tea should she return before us. After stepping outof the medical building, I turn my body to the right and point with my canetoward the Windsor.
The doctor links his arm with mine and leads me forward.“Stonehengians aren’t known for cooperating with the police, Hester. I maystretch the truth a bit as I question people. Don’t let it alarm you.”
We cross the street and arrive at
