The Mary Russell Series Books 1-4: The Beekeeper's Apprentice; A Monstrous Regiment of Women; A Letter of Mary; The Moor (63 page)

Lestrade’s eyes narrowed unpleasantly.

“I personally was not aware of that,” he said carefully. “I will find out if Inspector Tomlinson knows.”

“Perhaps at the same time you could mention that another wealthy Temple member was injured two days ago when she fell onto the tracks of the Underground, just as a train was coming into the station.”

The big building was not silent, I thought in the minutes that followed, just sturdily built, like the opera house it had originally been designed as. Lestrade reached for the telephone, and in a minute he was speaking to a man who, his intonation implied, was marginally his superior, and something of a rival.

“Tomlinson? Lestrade here. I have someone in my office with information on the Fitzwarren case. . . . Because I was here, and she knew me slightly from a previous case. . . . Yes, I do think it’s worth your coming
in. I don’t think I ought to give you her name or her information over the telephone. . . . Well, it’s up to you, but if I were you, I’d give dinner a miss. . . . All right, twenty minutes.” He laid the receiver into its cradle but left his hand on it. “If this other woman is in danger . . .”

“Her name is Veronica Beaconsfield—yes, of that family—and she’s at the moment in Guys under the eye of Dr Watson or another of Holmes’ minions, who would probably be happy to be relieved by an official guard. Miss Beaconsfield is, just to complicate matters, Miles Fitzwarren’s fiancée. He has agreed to take her away from London after the doctors say she can leave, probably Monday or Tuesday, and keep her safe until we settle this. Holmes thinks Lieutenant Fitzwarren may be willing to tell you about his connexions with the drug world.”

“Perhaps I should give one of our drugs men a ring, have him listen to you, as well.”

“Not tonight. I must be on my way. No, truly, Inspector, I am more than happy to work with all and sundry on this, but tonight I have to be at the Temple for the evening service. I shall miss the first part of it as it is, but I need to be there when she finishes, because there isn’t another meeting until Monday, and time is of the essence.”

The police in 1921 were more restricted in their auxiliary use of civilians than they had been thirty years earlier when Holmes was at his peak; nonetheless, their concerns were primarily with the embarrassment of having incompetents endangering themselves or making a muddle of an investigation. With my background, and having received the spurious impression that Holmes was to be more or less constantly at my side, I knew Lestrade could be persuaded into supporting (however reluctantly) my proposed actions. On the principle that asking for a thing invites refusal, I simply told him my plans.

“So,” I concluded, “there’s nothing yet to justify a full, open investigation on your part, and there’s a good chance it’d scare them off. I am already in a position to watch for anything odd, to take advantage of it. I can take care of myself. All I need is a way to set up an alarm for your instant response if I need it. If you put a watch on the Temple, or try to
infiltrate, it would be duplicating what I already have, and it could easily put the investigation, and me, in danger.” (I was saying, in effect, I’ve put myself into your hands; don’t take my information and betray me with it. He heard me, though he did not care for it in the least.)

“At least stay until Tomlinson comes, let him hear what you have to say.”

“I’ve given you everything of any importance, Inspector Lestrade. It’s more important for me to be at that gathering of the Circle than waiting for your colleague.”

“He may decide to arrest Margery Childe straightaway.”

“If he does, then he’s a damned fool and ought to be back pounding a beat, and you can tell him that Sherlock Holmes himself said that. Arrange a meeting tomorrow if you like. Or midnight tonight, for that matter.” I gave him the number of the telephone that, along with the flat’s other furnishings, was temporarily for my use.

He waited until I was at the door before he asked me the vital question.

“Do you think she killed those women?”

I was taken unawares by a sudden jolt of revulsion for my persona, my shoes, and the decision that had brought me here.

“Frankly, no,” I said tiredly. “But I think you need to take a very close look at her. She is the common link between three dead women and a fourth who got lucky. She knows everything about her inner circle of followers. She knows that Veronica Beaconsfield and the others willed money to benefit the Temple. She has a friend on the staff of the
Clarion
, and this person would have known about the mutilations of the other victims. Margery has private rooms in the Temple complex, is often in retreat and unavailable, with a sharp-toothed maidservant to guard her doors, and very probably has some sort of private entrance. She is also embarking on a very expensive bid for public attention which will lead, she hopes, to a certain degree of political power. Clinics, literacy programs, and shelters can hardly be supported by the contributions taken in at the services. If you want me to tell you
what your job is, I might suggest that a closer look at the church’s finances would be in order, and a close scrutiny of the automobile and drowning accident reports. Inspector Tomlinson will undoubtedly have his own ideas. Now, I am away. Good evening, Inspector Lestrade. Thank you for the drinks.”

I passed Inspector Tomlinson at the door, a tall and elegantly dressed figure perhaps a bit too aware of his own masculinity; not a characteristic, I reflected, that would help him on this particular case.

  15  

SATURDAY, 15 JANUARY—FRIDAY, 21 JANUARY

Woman must not depend upon the protection of
man, but must be taught to protect herself.

—
SUSAN B. ANTHONY
(1820–1906)

B
EGINNING THAT SATURDAY
night, I immersed myself in the Temple. Walking in just as the service was ending, I joined the Inner Circle as it made its way to the common room, oblivious of the raised eyebrows and shared glances, and announced to Margery my willingness to assume whatever of Veronica’s duties I might be capable of, until she returned.

That was my entrée into Temple business. I could not, of course, fill Veronica’s shoes administratively, but teach I could, and teach I did. I also ran errands, typed letters, answered telephones, fetched supplies, poked my nose into any available nooks and crannies, and in general offered myself up as anyone’s dogsbody. With no particular discussion on the matter, from that first night I contrived to assume the
position of fledgling member of the Circle, and in that rôle I contributed (in a deprecating manner) one or two ideas to a proposed political demonstration, helped print the tracts, took them around to the other Circle members, and on Tuesday stood on the pavement outside Parliament to distribute them. We were not arrested, fortunately; answering the police questions might have proven awkward, but the mere participation in the act bound me to their hearts more tightly than any amount of hard labour.

As the days passed, with the bustle of the Temple affairs and the continued friendly, open enthusiasm of Margery, I began to wonder if I had not imagined the strange episode of the night of the sixth. The Temple was about action, about helping and strengthening and changing the world one step at a time, and the thought of some miraculous healing going on behind its sedate brick walls seemed somewhat farcical, even tasteless. However, as Thursday approached, I was aware of a sense of anticipation.

In the end, the day went as any other Thursday, Margery disappearing into her study at five o’clock for a prolonged meditation, then, after her “love” talk, again retreating upstairs, alone but for Marie.

I spent a large part of all daylight hours in the Temple, and at night I worked late at my inadequate but ornate desk in the glass and steel flat. I did go up to Oxford on the Wednesday to consult with an increasingly agitated Duncan (who greeted me at his door waving a telegram from the Americans, who had blithely informed him that six European colleagues were to join us, as well), and I met Holmes twice in a clandestine manner, once on Monday and again on Thursday, after he returned from Scotland (where he had escorted Veronica and Miles to their lodge) and before his intended return to Sussex on Friday. The Monday meeting was with Lestrade and Tomlinson, and it ended with them disgruntled and me in possession of a telephone number—to which I promised I should report regularly and which they guaranteed would upon request produce an instant and surreptitious support force.

Life was schizophrenic, but not distressingly so, for I found myself enjoying my work in the Temple, discovered myself surrounded not by brittle aristocrats born with silver on their tongues and
Debrette’s
in their veins, but by intelligent, hardworking women whose reserve hid shyness more often than it did condescension. It was a pleasure to work with quick minds, and one afternoon I joined in with glee when a speech-writing committee asked me for ideas. Several of my suggestions made their way into speeches given by Margery and others, particularly phrases from my childhood heroine, Abigail Adams: “All men would be tyrants if they could” met with great approval, as did “Arbitrary power [over wives], like all hard things, is easily broken.” To accompany a speech on the idea that power corrupts, I suggested: “By taking our place in the thrones of power, we save the nation from the touch of corruption, men as well as women.” For a speech to ecclesiastical wives, I suggested: “Drunk on power, and the grace of sobriety.” And one Margery adopted for a Saturday night talk was: “Power without love is death; love without power is sterility.” I had a grand time, found myself showered with dinner invitations, and wondered if I had found for myself a new profession in the world of speech writing, or perhaps advertising.

Friday afternoon found me in a stuffy, centrally-heated room with five beginning readers, their heads bent over the newly printed primers, fingers prising meaning from the marks on the paper, eyes squinting, lips sounding out each hieroglyphic before speaking it. Three grey heads, a brown, and a white blonde, bent down, laboriously giving birth first to one word, then the next, so slowly that any possible meaning was lost long before the sentence had reached an end. We had been trudging on for nearly an hour, my students and I, and I was craving the stimulus of tea or coffee or even fresh air when abruptly the brown head raised itself and I was looking straight into two startled eyes.

She looked back instantly at the page, removed her finger from the line, and, seizing the book in both hands, spoke in a single, flowing sentence.

“The boy has a cup of tea for his mother,” she read, and repeated it, then looked up again and laughed, her eyes shining with the suddenly comprehended magic of the written word. Her teeth were mostly gums, she smelt of unwashed wool, her hair lay lank, and her skin wanted milk and fruit, but for the moment, she was beautiful. Veronica Beaconsfield knows what she is about here, I thought to myself, and took the work-roughened hand and squeezed it hard.

At 4:30, I went downstairs to the tearoom and drank a cup with two of the circle who were waiting for their ride to a weekend in the country. They were exclaiming in irritation about the fog that had begun to close in and its inevitable delays, and I realized that I had been peripherally aware of the heaviness in the air. When I passed through the Temple offices on my way to Margery’s tutorial, I glanced out of the window and saw the streamers that presaged an onslaught. Not bad yet, but I decided to miss the service that night rather than stumble across London to my flat. It would be thick later.

I went a few minutes early to Margery and told her about my happy experience with my beginning reader. She was genuinely pleased and interested, and again, as so often, I wondered what had actually happened that night two weeks before.

The topic I had set for the evening was the diatribe in Jeremiah against “baking cakes for the Queen of Heaven.” We were twenty minutes into the session, deeply engrossed, when it came to an end with a brisk knock at the door and Marie’s entrance. She held out a piece of paper to her mistress.