The Mysterious Lady Law (7 page)

Insistent tram bells drew Julia’s attention to the street outside the fish and chip café. Not many people out walking for late morning on a weekday, and those she could see were muffled tight. An old butcher ambled by her window, his apron flapping in the Arctic gusts, his cold breaths inches from the glass.

She shivered.

The red double-decker tram rocked through its sharp turn onto Piccadilly. On an advert covering its side, the familiar red, white and blue lettering meant to signify the Union Jack, read, Ambition Soars. The World Is Yours. Fly British Airships. Julia felt like resigning then and there.
No one
had come to her aid on the Pegasus. Indeed, no one had stayed around long enough to hear her cries for help. So much for security.
Bloody tin-pot outfit.

Thank goodness Al had come through in a pinch, despite being locked in the bathroom like that. She took a bite of her French toast and chewed slowly, trying to connect the dots of his rescue. He’d explained it to her once, at the station, but her dazed state had blurred all but the affection in his unblinking, adorable eyes.

“How was it you found me again?” She slurped a mouthful of hot—too hot—chocolate. It dribbled down her chin but she caught it with a napkin.

“Hmm, it was luck,” he replied. “I guessed something might be amiss when I heard a raised voice, though that didn’t unduly alarm me. The locked door on its own would not have, either. But the two together—I kicked the door a dozen times before its hinges buckled.”

He paused, sipped his coffee. “By that time you’d vanished. All I had to go off was the broken heel of a shoe. I ran outside and that’s where I found the dead crewman. His throat had been cut right in front of the elevator shaft. I hoped that you’d gotten away and that the murderer was an elevator descent behind you. Little did I know you were a trapeze artist, Julia.” He winked. “But the cage clearly wasn’t coming back up, so I had to climb down the tower’s exterior frame—”

“Wait, that gets scalding hot with all the steam.” Julia cut in. “Your descent was as harebrained as mine!”

He chuckled. “Gentleman’s gloves, two pairs for five shillings and nine pence. Good for rolling snowballs and sliding down hot brass in pursuit of murderers. Actually, the trickiest part was figuring out where the deuce you’d fled to. That darned mist! I’ll never forget how hopeless it felt…I was ready to tear the bastard apart—pardon me—if only I had a clue which way to go. The only light I could see through the smog seemed as good a gamble as any. The wet footprints clinched it. I remembered you’d broken a heel and figured you wouldn’t want to run with a limp, so that was how I knew they were your tracks.”

“Bravo. Not too shabby.”

“Good old blunt luck.” He fidgeted with his cuffs. “I could have easily gone the other way, bowled over a few fat members of Parliament in frustration. Come to think of it, I still might.”

Julia grinned as far as her mouthful of hot chocolate would permit.

“And you know the rest,” he added. “The clincher came when I heard the machinery start up. I ran up the stairs and saw the goddamn aurora borealis in full beam. Didn’t know what in hell to expect. You’ll have to excuse my language, Julia. It’s just that it still fires me up, thinking of that brute cornering you like that. And we have no idea who he is. It’s only a matter of time, though.”

Bunching the ends of her shawl about her collar, Julia rotated her taut shoulders. What an ordeal it had been! Crazy to imagine it, let alone to realise
she
had lived through it.

“I can never thank you enough.”

“You already have, Julia. Seeing you again is more than I could have hoped for.”

“You’re sweet.” She blushed, tried to hide it by nibbling her piece of toast.

Al reached for his cigar case but seemed to change his mind and instead melted her with a wry curl of his lips. “I promised myself I’d cut down. Tobacco seems to play havoc with my physical stamina,” he explained. “The chase somewhat took it out of me yesterday. Lucky I had enough left to finish the brute off. So have you given any more thought to Inspector Statham’s suggestion?”

“Which one is that?” she quizzed.

“About leaving London. He seems to think you would be safer away from here for a while, until we put the case to rest.”

“And what do you think, Al?”

“I think that if you were compelled to go, I would be obliged to follow.” He allowed a passerby to distract him from Julia’s gaze for a moment. “Hey, who else is going to keep me on my toes? Dancewise,” he added feebly.

“What are you saying?” She knew the answer before the question, or she hoped she did.

“Hmm? I was simply saying…I would be sorry…very sorry to see you go. The Swan would have lost a gem of a dancer.”

Al looked away again and she rolled her eyes. What was it that separated men from their emotions? They could flirt all day and drop a girl flat at midnight if her corset wasn’t for coming off. They could fight wars for money and happily squander those earnings at the local betting shop. They boasted they could do practically anything bigger and better than women, on the whole; yet, a simple declaration of affection snatched the wind completely from their sails.

At least Al had a legitimate reason for being cagey. Yet five years was a long time, long enough for at least a measure of healing. And she felt certain he wanted to open up to her.

“And you’d miss me, I suppose, for more than my dancing?” she fished.

“Yep.”

“Really?”

“Uh-huh.”

“What else will you miss me for?” Julia teased, anchoring her gaze on his darting brown eyes.

“Um, well there’s…I mean…you always…
Ah, hell,
why did I have to quit smoking
today
?”

She smiled in triumph and then heaved a sigh, for he was having none of it. Not yet. She would have to find the most propitious moment to coax Al Grant into discussing his feelings. Perhaps a romantic dinner.

“Shall we?” she said, getting up. “I must have a chat with Eddie Castle, my boss at The Swan, to tell him I mean to start dancing again next week. Will you escort me? Or have I taken up too much of your time already? I know this is your day off, but I wouldn’t want to be a burden.”

“It would be my pleasure.” Al paid the bill, gathered his frock coat and hat, and then held the door open for her. As she passed, he said, quite matter-of-factly, “We can have an early dinner together tomorrow, if you’d like. I’ve been known to cook a mean beef casserole. And my sister is dying to meet you.”

“Thank you. I’d be delighted.”

The following morning, Embrey, the red-haired constable stationed in the corridor outside her room, brought Julia a copy of the
London Daily First
. She thanked him and then rushed back to her bed, eager to find out what had happened in London—specifically, was there any further mention of her ordeal in the Observatory?

Page one had a wonderful artist’s rendition of the iron mole. She felt a lump in her throat when she began the accompanying article, titled “The World Beneath Our Feet!”

Is this the beginning of a new era for scientific exploration? At five-thirty last night, a Morse code message received from ten thousand fathoms under the earth’s surface announced the existence of a lost subterranean world. Professor McEwan detailed his first glimpses of the exotic land many miles beneath us. His discovery marks the first successful burrowing venture into our planet’s crust, though many are now speculating that Professor Perry, the American designer of the iron mole drill, who vanished during his own expedition three years ago, may be alive somewhere in this underground realm.

Professor McEwan described “breathtaking flora,” “a vast, subsistentocean kingdom with its own weather” and “pockets of strange, biologically generated, purple light.” He conjectured that the latter “may be emitted by some type of abundant organism, endemic to this underworld.”

While officials wait for his next message, scheduled for tomorrow morning, plans are already in motion for a second expedition, to be funded this time by the Royal Science Institute, the same learned body that first dubbed the venture ‘McEwan’s Folly’ early this summer. Officials meeting in the Leviacrum have yet to comment on Professor McEwan’s success, although—

A deliberate knock at the door made Julia sit up with a start. She folded the paper, straightened her skirt and blouse, and answered.

“Hello, Julia. How are you?”

“Harriet?”

“I’m not intruding, am I?”

“No, I was just…Please, come in. I was just reading the most amazing thing.” Julia picked up the newspaper and pointed to the drawing of the iron mole. “Have you heard?”

“Yes,” Harriet Law answered, unexcited. “He has done well, if it is true.”

“You doubt Professor McEwan?”

Harriet tapped the drawing with the tip of her parasol. “Until a thing is proved, sadly it can only be fiction.”

“Oh, but you must have been young once,” Julia protested. “Is it not the most exciting thing in the world, or even
under
it?”

“If he returns with evidence, then yes, it will go down in history. But that is unlikely.”

Julia shuddered.
Lord,
that was eerily reminiscent of her mother’s cynicism in those last, bitter days. Allergic to dreams and optimism.

Somewhat deflated, she asked, “So what news have you got?”

“You may want to sit down, Julia. I prefer to be as thorough as I can,” Lady Law suggested, brolly tucked under her arm as she scanned the rest of the drab hotel room. She picked up Julia’s book on the bedside table to check the title.
The Moonstone
. “Mm, you have good taste. Wilkie Collins is a marvellous writer.”

They both sat on the bed.

“So what have you found out?” Julia suddenly felt anxious to dispense with the small talk.

Lady Law set her parasol down, then crossed her legs. “It was a tricky case to solve, with an unexpected outcome. A downright peculiar outcome, in fact. Have you ever heard the name Joshua Cavendish?”

“Yes. Constable Grant mentioned he was friendly with Georgy. He disappeared last week.”

“How about Sir Horace Holly?”

“Of course. Everyone knows his adventures.”

Lady Law offered a reassuring nod. “The very same. It so happens that one of those adventures—or rather, a forthcoming adventure—lies at the crux of this case. Sir Horace and his protégé, a science student named Joshua Cavendish, had planned a secret expedition to Namibia, Africa, to find a priceless archaeological site. Their map, probably obtained by Sir Horace on one of his journeys to the Dark Continent, is a valuable commodity. Sir Horace had sworn the young lad to secrecy. As it turns out, Joshua was under a lot of strain at the Leviacrum, due to his academic commitments. No doubt planning for the expedition took its toll as well. He was prescribed a mild sedative—one that I learned can result in erratic behaviour. A rare side effect, but all too coincidental here, as you will see.

“Some time in the week preceding Georgina’s murder, she became romantically involved with Joshua. I don’t know where they first met, but several eyewitnesses saw them enjoying a meal together at the Red Lion pub-restaurant on Marlborough Street. Apparently they seemed close, affectionate, and in good humour. They also had a fair bit to drink that evening.”

Julia repressed a smile. Imagining Georgy while she flirted with a new boyfriend—perhaps her last moments of pleasure on this earth—struck a bittersweet chord in her heart. Poor Rupert would have been left bellowing through the letter box in any event!

Lady Law continued without a trace of sentiment, “The night of the murder, Joshua telephoned Sir Horace at his home and told him to make his way over to Freeborn Avenue, to look after Georgina. He said she was in danger. Now that was the first Sir Horace had heard about the girl, so naturally, when he turned up at the murder scene and found police there, he was more perplexed than anyone. No one ever saw or heard from Joshua again. That is, until he showed up on the Pegasus and tried to kill you, Julia.”

“Excuse me?”
Too many facts at once, too little sense.
“You’re saying Georgy’s boyfriend murdered her, then tried to murder me?”

“I’m afraid so. It took some time to identify the body from the canal. But it was Joshua. His beard was fake and his clothes were borrowed, perhaps stolen, but it was definitely him.”

“
Why?
Why would he want to kill us?”

Lady Law retrieved a folded-up sheet of paper from her pocket and passed it over.

“What is this?” Julia was hesitant to even touch the thing lest it cause her mind to spin further.

“Take a look.”

It was the most well-drawn, detailed yet unintelligible map Julia had ever seen. African place names littered the scrawled or shaded background of mountains, desert, oases and rivers. A cross marked a spot a few inches right of centre.

“Is this supposed to mean something to me?” Julia challenged, losing patience.

“It is a copy of Holly’s map. The genuine one—Joshua’s map, that is—has been taken into evidence by Scotland Yard. I found it in your garbage.”

Julia bunched her face into a scowl and shook her head.

“My conclusion is this,” Lady Law announced, her eyes burning with momentum. “Joshua walked Georgina home after dinner and he accidentally left the map there. He’d had a lot to drink. Maybe it slipped out while he took his jacket off. Later, after he’d left, Georgina, a little tipsy herself, thought it was a piece of rubbish and threw it out. But when Josh realised he didn’t have the map, he became frantic. A priceless secret like that, in someone else’s hands. He rushed back to Georgina’s house and accused her of stealing it from him. Perhaps he’d boasted about it earlier over dinner. She was still a little tipsy and didn’t recall throwing away that piece of rubbish. But he grew furious. Georgina didn’t care for his accusations and ordered him out, said it served him right for flaunting it in the restaurant.

“Flared temper, too much alcohol, stress from his Leviacrum studies, a prescription medication with erratic side effects, losing a priceless secret belonging to his mentor and idol: Joshua simply lost control and snapped. Georgina fought back bravely. I found hair fibres and traces of Joshua’s boot polish in your kitchen. Then he murdered her and fled. Before he got home, his mind addled with guilt and alcohol, among other things, he telephoned his mentor with a fanciful tale—said he was being followed, and that Georgina was in danger. A poor attempt to cover his tracks. That’s when he disappeared and also
why
he disappeared. He knew that if he showed himself, the police would want to question him, and they would soon find out he was the last one to see her alive. Am I going too fast, Julia? Please tell me if I am.”