The Curious Affair of the Somnambulist & the Psychic Thief Page 2

  He took a teacup from his mother and handed it to me. “I thought you might have deduced as much from the wording of my advertisement,” he said calmly. “The part about working all hours. My assistant must be close by, ready for any eventuality. It’s no good if I must write you a letter every time I want your help, or send someone to fetch you.”

  “There’s a room upstairs, furnished and waiting for an occupant,” said Mrs. Jesperson, handing me a plate of white bread, thinly sliced and thickly buttered, and then a little glass bowl heaped full of raspberry jam. “And I provide three meals a day.”

  My worries vanquished, I gave Mr. Jesperson my hand, and thus began a new chapter of my life.

  Chapter 2

  Porridge in Gower Street

  Before my fortuitous sighting of Mr. Jesperson’s advertisement, my new occupation had never occurred to me as a possibility. And yet, why not? A detective solves mysteries. The fact that they were not the sort of mysteries that had drawn me to join the SPR was a positive attraction to me in the disillusion that accompanied my hasty retreat from Scotland. Now forced to wonder if any of the supernatural events I had investigated with Miss Fox were anything more than frauds or fantasies, I found it a relief to turn my attention to mysteries of a material, worldly nature.

  In my new career, I imagined, stolen objects would be recovered, missing persons found, villains outwitted, and evil plans foiled. Mr. Jesperson and I would solve straightforward crimes and present clear and satisfying solutions to problems without any connection to the troubling, ambiguous world of spirits and spiritualism.

  That is what I thought—but the reality of the cases we were asked to investigate was quite different.

  Over the next few months there was nothing to make me regret my decision. Life on Gower Street was comfortable, and if our fame did not grow as rapidly as Mr. Jesperson had so confidently expected, there were yet clients enough to keep us busy throughout that summer. We solved a number of strange and puzzling cases, but our reward was largely in the work itself, for our first clients were not wealthy, and some of them begrudged paying for unwelcome information.

  Lack of income did not worry me as much as perhaps it should, or as it had in the past. For once I was comfortably situated, living rent-free and with all meals provided. The household was run so smoothly and competently by Mrs. Jesperson that I never stopped to wonder what it cost. The truth is, I did not wish to question, for fear of disturbing my newfound happiness.

  Mrs. Jesperson was the sort of unappreciated marvel who works behind the scenes of many fine establishments. She kept things going by clever contrivances and sheer hard work. There were no servants—she claimed she did not need them, and because our surroundings were always clean and comfortable, and she was such a good cook, I believed her. Of course, there was a charwoman who came regularly to help with the heavier tasks, but I rarely saw her and did not notice when she ceased to appear.

  It was only on the first day of November, a day that began, inauspiciously, with porridge, that I understood how willfully blind I had been.

  Porridge is, of course, a healthful, nourishing breakfast, no doubt greeted with smiles of pleasure in many households throughout the land, but familiar as I was by now with Mr. Jesperson’s fondness for bacon and eggs, and with his mother’s natural wish to please her only son, the sight of the lumpy beige mass in three bowls on the table struck me as an augury of doom.

  There was no cream. Mr. Jesperson anointed his liberally with milk and sugar, but I refrained, sprinkling mine with salt in the Scottish way.

  No one remarked on the absence of toast. We had, after all, dined together the previous night upon boiled eggs—one each—and toast of remarkable thinness. There was only one conclusion to be drawn: We were now so hard up that even the cleverest, most economical housekeeper—as was Mrs. Jesperson—could not keep up a pretense of plenty.

  After breakfast, I helped clear away and do the washing up, and took the opportunity to peek inside the larder. Milk was delivered daily, and there was still a bit of butter, but apart from a sorry-looking cabbage, and canisters for flour, oats, rice, sugar, and tea (I did not inquire within), the cupboard was as bare as old Mother Hubbard’s.

  Although I tried to be discreet, Mrs. Jesperson saw me snooping, and said calmly, “I’ll pick up something for dinner when I go out.”

  But when she came downstairs again a little later, she did not have the appearance of a woman bent on begging the greengrocer or the butcher to let her have a little more on tick. She wore what looked like an entirely new hat, having managed to achieve a most pleasing and fashionable effect with a few cleverly placed trimmings, and from her ears depended a beautiful pair of blue faïence-and-gold Egyptian earrings.

  I was impressed, if surprised, but the same sight caused Mr. Jesperson to throw down his newspaper and leap to his feet. “Mother—no.”

  “There’s nothing else for it,” she replied, her manner serene.

  “I forbid it.”

  A touch of exasperation tightened her lips. “Jasper.”

  “Please, don’t.”

  “What, then, would you have me do?”

  “Give me a little more time—that’s all—just a little more time.”

  The earrings swung as she shook her head. “I told you last week—there is no more time. We could all be out on the street tomorrow morning, starving, unless—”

  “I’ll move,” I said quickly, turning to Mrs. Jesperson. “I’ll stay with friends; you can let my room.”

  She smiled at me sadly. “Thank you, Miss Lane, for the offer, but unless we were to let out every room, and sleep in the cupboards ourselves, I’m afraid it would not suffice. Last month, although our lease was renewed for another year, and the landlord was kind enough to agree to monthly payments, I was unable to make the first installment. And not only is the rent outstanding; I owe the butcher, the baker, the greengrocer, the…but no, the coal man doesn’t give credit.” Her gaze softened when she looked at her son, standing still and silent, his shoulders slightly bowed. “I’m sorry, my dear,” she said. “But life in London is too costly. I’ve done what I can to economize, but there are limits. In the country, we could have a garden, and keep chickens—”

  “You want me to give up my life to dig potatoes and tend poultry?” The bitterness startled me; I had never heard him speak less than kindly to his mother.

  She felt it, too. “No, Jasper. I meant that I would do those things, for you. I want you to be happy. You are very gifted, and I have always felt it best to allow you to pursue your own course. I know it is what your father would have wished. You must have your chance. But, in the meantime, we must have a roof over our heads.”

  “I’m sorry, Mother. I’m a beast.” He went to embrace her, and I looked away, giving my nose a sharp rub against a rush of useless sentiment. What must it be, to have a mother like that? My own mother had blamed me for not being the beautiful little fool she had expected to console her for the lack of a son—she could never see me for who I was.

  Mrs. Jesperson pulled away from her son with a regretful sigh and straightened her hat. I asked her what she meant to do.

  “Jasper doesn’t like it, but I mean to go to his uncle, to ask him for a loan.”

  “Another loan,” Mr. Jesperson corrected. He looked at me, his usually bright blue eyes darker, smoldering with unhappiness. “He made a condition: If there was a ‘next time’ I must dance to his tune. He thinks it disgraceful that the mother of a grown man should have to go begging…and of course he is right! Only I won’t—I can’t—accept his condition.

  “He’d put me in a solicitor’s office and have me copying documents night and day…or he’d article me to an accountant, or make me a clerk—something well below my abilities, and deadly dull—no, Mother, don’t object; I know what he intends, and I know why; hasn’t he told me often enough I’m ‘too clever by half’ and need to be taken down a few pegs? And if I suffer in silence, if I’m a good boy
for six months or so, I’ll be allowed to climb the ladder, to gain a little more responsibility and more pay, year by year, until I’m nearly as well paid and respectable as himself, with a good position in Her Majesty’s Civil Service.”

  “Would that be so bad?” she asked softly. “To have your talents recognized, and use them for good? Isn’t that what you want? Would it be so hard to take a more usual route, like everyone else, to put up with restrictions and being told what to do by people who aren’t as clever as you—only for a year or two—”

  He cut her off. “It would be too hard. If I didn’t die of boredom after the first month, I’d slit my throat during the second.”

  Perhaps Mrs. Jesperson had heard it before; she only shook her head again. “He may take pity on me…but if he sends me away with nothing, what do you propose we do about the rent?”

  They stared at each other a moment in a highly charged silence, while I twisted my hands together helplessly.

  Then he spoke. “Let me deal with it. Don’t go to Uncle today, Mother. I’ll go see Mr. Sims. Perhaps I can reason with him, man-to-man. It might be we can effect a trade—the barter system may work for us here as it did betimes abroad.”

  I did not understand until he said, “A man with many properties and many tenants is likely to have one or two mysteries he wants solved.”

  She bit her lip. “Do you really think he’d pay to find someone who had run out because they were as poor as us—and if he is so vengeful, how—”

  “I wasn’t thinking of that. There have been three cases of burglary—expensive jewelry taken—reported in the papers this past month.”

  “From properties managed by Mr. Sims?” She looked surprised, as, indeed, was I by this striking coincidence.

  “No.” He shook his head impatiently. “That’s not the point. When stories like that are published, people of property become nervous about their own safety. They are more likely to notice suspicious behavior and might want a detective.”

  “I think it more likely they’d want a night watchman. Oh, very well, Jasper! If you can get Mr. Sims to allow us another month, however you do it, I’ll manage the other bills myself.”

  “Thank you, O most wonderful, glorious of mothers. I shall make certain you do not regret giving me another chance.” He kissed her soundly on the cheek.

  —

  Outside it was damp, chill, and heavily overcast—typical of London at the beginning of November. There was an acrid flavor to the murky air that made me anticipate fogs, and despite the relative dryness of the morning, everyone seemed to hurry past, as if anxious to get indoors.

  Mr. Jesperson, too, seemed driven, setting off at such a rapid walk that I had nearly to run to keep up with him. He sometimes seemed to forget how much longer his legs were than mine.

  However, as soon as I gasped out a protest, he drew up sharply. “Forgive me! I am such a brute.”

  “I should hardly say that.”

  He took no notice. “I can see my faults, just as I can perceive the weaknesses in others. I know I am self-absorbed, devilishly proud, often unfriendly…only consider how I spoke to Mother—my dear mother, who has done so much for me and never complains. She deserves better, and so do you. Please take my arm, Miss Lane. You shall set the pace.”

  Pleased yet embarrassed by his consideration, I could think of nothing to say, which was just as well, for he still had much to tell me.

  “I am sure you will agree if I say that men often like to keep females innocent and dependent, never letting them grow up for fear it will somehow spoil their nature, but perhaps you may not have noticed how women can do something very similar to men? I have been thinking how a woman may look after a man—her husband or her son—so well that he may become a sort of monster…like a gigantic baby who takes and takes, never questioning how these good things come to him, at what price they have been purchased. He has only to want and his needs are met. Small wonder if he believes the world revolves around him.”

  “But that is not you.”

  He went on as if I had not spoken. “I had to grow up quickly after my father died. Under other circumstances—if I had been sent away to school—things would have turned out very differently, but my mother decided to take me abroad, in part to get away from interfering relations, but mainly because it was cheaper. She thought travel might provide a better education for me than staying here—and she was right!” He let out a short laugh.

  “Abroad, especially in the more remote places, I had to be my mother’s protector. I was not treated as a child by people we met, as I had been in England. Suddenly, I was the man, and it was up to me to look after my mother, not the other way round. I learned how to work, how to bargain, how to barter—how to trick people and how to steal. It was that or starve. I learned many things, useful in those distant lands—but then we came home.”

  I gave him a sidelong look. He had rarely spoken to me so personally, and I wondered if he would have said these things to me and looked me in the eye. Walking beside me, he might almost have been thinking aloud.

  “I feel completely British,” he continued. “I couldn’t be more so; this is my home, and yet, England is a foreign land to me. There are so many things I don’t know—simple things, important things, like how to behave. My mother takes care of me now—and I let her. Our roles have been reversed. For my part, I thought I should be able to earn enough, one way or another, doing what pleased me, to pay the bills. But that has proved more difficult than I had expected.”

  He fell silent, yet I found it easy to follow his unspoken thoughts, traveling on the path well known to us both, of our adventures over the past several months. There had been successes enough to confirm our initial decision to set up in practice together, but although we could be proud of our work, pride did not pay the rent.

  He sighed. “I have found the work I want to do. I think I am good at it. We are both good at it—you agree?”

  “I do.”

  “There is a need for good detectives, especially in this city, teeming with rogues and rascals.” We had reached New Oxford Street, its pavements crowded with jostling, noisy crowds, and as he spoke, without a stumble or hesitation, he steered me adroitly out of the way of a red-faced, puffing man barreling toward us unseeing behind his armload of parcels.

  I agreed: One had only to read a newspaper to become aware of the many sudden deaths, unsolved crimes, and mysteries in the city. “Perhaps we should take out another advertisement—try a different newspaper this time?”

  His answering sigh sounded more like a groan.

  Of course. Advertisements cost money. Everything cost money in our modern world.

  “My uncle thinks I am spoiled, a dilettante. He knows I have a brain. Unfortunately, he lacks imagination and doesn’t approve of that capacity in others. He decided I would do well to study law, and I found it easy to memorize laws and cases and, with my memory well stocked, could construct glib arguments to impress my tutors. But they did not impress me. I had never realized, until I looked into it, how artificial and absurd our legal system is. And once I had seen the truth, I could not bear to continue—I should have had to play a part, to pretend I believed in things I did not, to act as if they mattered—and to do so, I would have been untrue to myself. Even if I did not slit my throat, it would have been another type of self-murder. Do you understand?”

  I frowned. “I understand your feelings—but I can’t agree with your assessment of our legal system. Is it not widely agreed to be one of the best in the world, one of the great benefits of the British Empire? And how could a society exist without laws, and courts and barristers and judges to impose justice? It is no mean thing to be a good lawyer—why, if women were allowed to practice law, I have often thought—” Just in time, I stopped myself from mounting that particular hobbyhorse, which would certainly have carried me far away from his concerns.

  He said, “I agree entirely. Society must have a legal system, just as it must have a financ
ial system—and ours may well be the best in the world; my point is merely that it is highly artificial. Just as the value of paper money is imaginary—a commonly accepted fantasy—so with the law. It is a game. A great game, and important, but not one I wish to play. Having seen behind the curtain, I know it is only make-believe. I might pretend to take it seriously, but I should only be acting a part, and sooner or later, if I was not found out first and disbarred, the weight of that pretense would crush my soul.”

  We had reached Holborn, where Mr. Sims had his office, and suddenly the futility of our mission struck me, and I stopped walking. I had let myself be swept along by my partner’s enthusiasm, but now, anticipating an awkward encounter with a man to whom we owed money, I felt I must ask: “Do you have any reason for thinking Mr. Sims needs our services?”

  He looked down at me with his most guileless blue gaze, and I could not help thinking what a mystery he was to me still. Sometimes he seemed one of the cleverest and most multi-talented of men; at others, a mere playactor. “Only what I said before: that a man in possession of several properties and as many tenants must have at least one problem preying on his mind.”

  “So you do not, in fact, know anything about his personal circumstances?”

  A slight smile hovered about his lips as he shook his head.

  “Oh, I don’t believe it,” I muttered. I had not realized until that moment, when my hope was deflated, that I had been hoping for anything at all.

  “You must believe,” he said, holding my gaze. “It is our task to make him believe that whatever problem is preying on his mind—trust me, there will be something—that it is one we can solve.”

  I began to get angry. “What has belief to do with it?”

  “Everything. If you can believe in our ability to solve Mr. Sims’s problem as thoroughly as you believe in money—as unquestioningly as you accept that those grubby bits of paper called bank notes possess an intrinsic value that makes them worth collecting and protecting—he will believe it, too.”