suggested an ABC tearoom, which was respectable enough for young men and women to converse freely. They agreed to accompany us, though I imagine, if pressed by their families why they were late, they would merely say that the traffic had been heavy.
As we waited for the lobby to clear, I noticed a middle-aged gentleman staring at us. He was of medium height, impeccably dressed, with gray at the temples and a monocle, looking so intently at us I thought for a minute he might be Beatrice’s father. Then he noticed my stare, turned, and walked into the crowd. I debated whether to follow him, whoever he was, but didn’t know what I would say. Knowing it was the quickest way to be told to mind one’s own business or go to blazes, I resisted the impulse. Besides, I had ladies to attend to.
“Will you help me on with my wrap, Thomas?” Miss Potter asked.
“Certainly,” I said, and all thought of the man was shelved as I settled the thin material over delicate shoulders.
We found a cab and took it to a nearby tearoom. In a very brief time, dainty saucers holding thimblefuls of coffee were brought out, along with cream and sugar, which I noticed the ladies partook of liberally.
“What did you think of this evening’s speaker, Mr. Llewelyn?” Miss Levy asked.
“She was certainly…” What? I thought. Abstruse? Bizarre? “Thought provoking.”
“Miss Lee is a visionary,” Israel stated. “She sees things as they should be, as they must be. Dare I say, as they shall be?”
I knew Israel well. He was quoting someone, himself perhaps, his own column the following morning, which no doubt he had already written before attending the lecture. Zangwill knows who to flatter and when.
“I must say,” Amy Levy put in, “that you are quite a surprise as a detective, Mr. Llewelyn. I thought you all had shoes the size of boats and were carved out of granite, like your Mr. Barker.”
“I hadn’t noticed his shoes before, Miss Levy, but I can attest to the granite.”
“So, do you really think he shall find Gwendolyn’s killer?” she pressed.
“If anyone can, Mr. Barker can,” I said. “Did you know Miss DeVere well?”
“Oh, yes. I was sometimes left to entertain her while her mother was occupied with her duties.”
“That must have been somewhat demeaning, considering that you volunteer often while she only comes occasionally. I’m sure you have duties of your own.”
“He is astute,” she said to Beatrice Potter. “Yes, Hypatia was given preferential treatment, being the wife of a major.”
“So, you two ladies are best placed to answer a question I have, and you must be truthful. What kind of child was Gwendolyn DeVere?”
The women locked eyes with each other for a moment. It was Beatrice who spoke, and she did it cautiously. “Miss DeVere came from a very good home and was inclined to be proud.”
“What Beatrice means,” Miss Levy explained, “is that she was something of a brat. Don’t give me that look, Beatrice. You know it’s true. She resented being dragged into the East End. Hypatia hoped to give the girl an understanding of the poor, but between my lips and your ear, she was going the other way. She shrunk before any homeless alien and complained of the smell.”
“Interesting,” I noted. “Did Mrs. DeVere speak of her husband much?”
“Oh, yes,” Miss Levy said. “Every other sentence began with ‘My Trevor,’ but what she said of him didn’t strike me as singularly impressive.”
“It doesn’t sound as if Mrs. DeVere had the ideal life she wished to present to the world,” I said.
“That is hitting the nail on the head,” Miss Potter replied. “She was rather high-strung. Her daughter was, too. I didn’t envy the major living among such nervous females. Oh, dear! Now they are dead. I am terrible.”
“No,” Israel said gallantly. “You merely said what everyone is thinking.”
“What do you ladies think of Miss Hill? Is she a competent directress?”
“Most certainly,” Beatrice said, sitting up in her seat.
“Why, yes, the very idea,” Miss Levy added, knitting her fine dark brows together. “She is a dear. That is a typical male response.”
I put up both hands in defense. “It was a question, not a statement. I am not casting aspersions upon her character, which I am certain is above reproach.”
“She is very competent, and you will not find a keener mind in the East End,” Beatrice added.
“I can imagine,” Israel put in, “that this girl’s disappearance would affect the charity negatively, especially if some connection is made to it.”
“So far, Octavia has been able to keep the details out of the newspapers, but Stead came into the office this morning and I think the two of them had words. He was upset because she hadn’t told him.”
“They know each other, then,” I said.
“Oh, of course,” Miss Levy replied. “We’re all Fabians. It’s a socialist organization. We’re working to create reform.”
“All of you?” I asked, looking across the table at Israel. He suddenly grew quite interested in what was going on in the kitchen.
“So,” I commented, “my best friend is a socialist and has neglected to tell me.”
“You know me,” Israel said, trying to make a joke of it. “A man of mystery.”
I looked at him carefully. Sometimes even one’s best friends have things about them they’d rather one didn’t find out.
“How long has Dr. Fitzhugh been working at the C.O.S.?” I asked, changing the subject tactfully.
“Five or six months now,” Miss Levy answered.
“And what kind of fellow is he?” I prompted. “What opinion have you formed?”
Both girls looked at each other then, and Beatrice shrugged slightly.
“He keeps to himself,” Amy Levy said. “He’s a rather diffident fellow. He seems to carry an air of tragedy about him. I’d even say shame. He’ll hardly talk to us, which is rather strange. Being unwed and a rising young surgeon, one would think he’d be glad to make our acquaintance.”
“It’s very important for a young doctor to marry,” Beatrice added. “It gives him respectability. No woman would visit a physician who wasn’t married.”
“He is not unattractive,” I noted.
“He needs to shave his beard or grow it out more,” Miss Levy stated. “And he needs to be more cheerful and far less furtive.”
“I see.”
“So, Mr. Llewelyn,” she continued, resting her forearms on the table and leaning forward, so that the light from the candle was reflected in her black eyes. “You must tell us, are we suspects?”
“Of course,” I answered.
Both girls smiled. Perhaps it was a delicious feeling to be suspected as a criminal when one knows one is innocent, though having been in such a circumstance, I can state quite the opposite. I remembered Lord Hesketh’s assertion that the socialists might have sacrificed the girl in order to bring attention to the white slave trade. If that were true, what exactly had happened? How had she gotten into Miacca’s hands?
“Even me?” Zangwill asked. “I’m a suspect, too?”
“Even you, Israel. Mr. Barker casts a wide net. So what do you think of Rose Carrick?”
“She is a good worker. She and her husband, Stephen, make an odd pair, however. They’re like mismatched book-ends.”
“Stephen comes from a merchant family,” Miss Potter said. “I believe they make soap-Carrick’s Fine Glycerine Soap or something like that. Rose is a bailiff’s daughter. When they met, they fell in love on the spot, to hear her tell it. Stephen’s parents didn’t approve, of course. They threatened to disinherit him; he stood up to them; and when the smoke cleared, he was left without a penny, never to darken the Carrick door again.”
“Tragic,” Zangwill said.
“Yes, but I don’t believe it at all,” Amy Levy said. “We’re only getting Rose’s side of the story. I wonder what old Mr. and Mrs. Carrick have to say about the events.”
“It cannot be easy to keep company with someone of a different class,” Beatrice said, and it seemed to me she was trying hard not to look my way.
“Does Stead come often to the C.O.S.?” I asked, casting about for something more to ask.
“Just occasionally,” Miss Levy replied. “He and Miss Hill have worked on many campaigns together and are
