Down These Strange Streets

THE CURIOUS AFFAIR OF THE DEODAND by Lisa Tuttle

Lisa Tuttle made her first sale in 1972 to the anthology Clarion II, after attending the Clarion workshop, and by 1974 she had won the John W. Campbell Award for Best New Writer of the Year. She has gone on to become one of the most respected writers of her generation, winning the Nebula Award in 1981—which, in a stillcontroversial move, she refused to accept—the British Science Fiction Award in 1987, and the International Horror Guild Award in 2007, all for short stories. Her books include a collaboration with George R. R. Martin, Windhaven; the solo novels Familiar Spirit, Gabriel, The Pillow Friend, Lost Futures, The Mysteries, and The Silver Bough; as well as several books for children, the nonfiction works Heroines and Encyclopaedia of Feminism, and, as editor, Skin of the Soul: New Horror Stories by Women. Her short work has been collected in A Nest of Nightmares , A Spaceship Built of Stone, Memories of the Body: Tales of Desire and Transformation, Ghosts and Other Lovers, and My Pathology. Born in Texas, she moved to Great Britain in 1980, and now lives with her family in Scotland.

Here she introduces us to a proper young nineteenth-century gentlewoman who is about to try out a new role, that of “Watson” to an eccentric Sherlock Holmes–like figure—and who will discover a surprising aptitude for that role before their first case is through.

ONCE IT HAD BECOME PAINFULLY CLEAR THAT I COULD NO LONGER CONTINUE to work in association with Miss G—F—, I departed Scotland and returned to London, where I hoped I would quickly find employment. I had no bank account, no property, nothing of any value to pawn or sell, and, after I had paid my train fare, little more than twelve shillings to my name. Although I had friends in London who would open their homes to me, I had imposed before, and was determined not to be a burden. It was therefore a matter of the utmost urgency that I should obtain a position: I emphasize this point to account for what might appear a precipitous decision.

Arriving so early in the morning at King’s Cross, it seemed logical enough to set off at once, on foot, for the ladies’ employment bureau in Oxford Street.

The bag that had seemed light enough when I took it down from the train grew heavier with every step, so that I was often obliged to stop and set it down for a few moments. One such rest took place outside a newsagent’s shop, and while I caught my breath and rubbed my aching arm I glanced at the notices on display in the window. One, among the descriptions of lost pets and offers of rooms to let, caught my attention.

CONSULTING DETECTIVE

REQUIRES ASSISTANT

MUST BE LITERATE, BRAVE, CONGENIAL, WITH A GOOD MEMORY, &

WILLING TO WORK ALL HOURS.

APPLY IN PERSON TO

J. JESPERSON,

203-A GOWER STREET

Even as my heart leapt, I scolded myself for being a silly girl. Certainly, I was sharp and brave, blessed with good health and a strong constitution, but when you came right down to it, I was a woman, small and weak. What detective would take on such a liability?

But the card said nothing about weapons or physical strength. I read it again, and then glanced up from the number on the card—203A—to the number painted above the shop premises: 203.

There were two doors. One, to the left, led into the little shop, but the other, painted glistening black, bore a brass plate inscribed Jesperson.

My knock was answered by a lady in early middle age, too genteel in dress and appearance to be mistaken for a servant.

“Mrs. Jesperson?” I asked.

“Yes?”

I told her I had come in response to the advertisement, and she let me in. There was a lingering smell of fried bacon and toasted bread that reminded me I’d had nothing to eat since the previous afternoon.

“Jasper,” she said, opening another door and beckoning me on. “Your notice has already borne fruit! Here is a lady . . . Miss . . . ?”

“I am Miss Lane,” I said, going in.

I entered a warm, crowded, busy, comfortable, cheerful place. I relaxed, the general atmosphere, with the familiar scent of books, tobacco, toast, and ink that imbued it, making me feel at home even before I’d had a chance to look around. The room obviously combined an office and living room in one. The floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, crammed with volumes, gave it the look of a study, as did the very large, very cluttered desk piled with papers and journals. But there were also armchairs near the fireplace—the hearth cold on this warm June morning; the mantelpiece so laden with such a variety of objects I simply could not take them in at a glance—and a table bearing the remains of breakfast for two. This quick impression was all I had time to absorb before the man, springing up from his place at the table, commanded my attention.

I say man, yet the first word that came to mind was boy, for despite his size—he was, I later learned, six feet four inches tall—the smooth, pale, lightly freckled face beneath a crown of red-gold curls was that of an angelic child.

He fixed penetrating blue eyes upon me. “How do you do, Miss Lane? So, you fancy yourself a detective?” His voice at any rate was a man’s; deep and well modulated.

“I would not say so. But you advertised for an assistant, someone literate, brave, congenial, with a good memory, and willing to work all hours. I believe I possess all those qualities, and I am in search of . . . interesting employment.”

Something sparked between us. It was not that romantic passion that poets and sentimental novelists consider the only connection worth writing about between a man and a woman. It was, rather, a liking, a recognition of congeniality of mind and spirit.

Mr. Jesperson nodded his head and rubbed his hands together, the mannerisms of an older man. “Well, very well,” he murmured to himself, before fixing me again with his piercing gaze.

“You have worked before, of course, in some capacity requiring sharp perceptions, careful observation, and a bold spirit, yet you are now cut adrift—”

“Jasper, please,” Mrs. Jesperson interrupted. “Show the lady common courtesy, at least.” Laying one hand gently on my arm, she invited me to sit, indicating a chair, and offered tea.

“I’d love some, thank you. But that’s your chair, surely?”

“Oh, no, I won’t intrude any further.” As she spoke, she lifted the fine white china teapot, assessing the weight of the contents with a practiced turn of her wrist. “I’ll leave the two of you to your interview while I fetch more tea. Would you like bread and butter, or anything else?”

A lady always refuses food when she hasn’t been invited to a meal—but I was too hungry for good manners. “That would be most welcome, thank you.”

“I’ll have more toast, if you please, and jam would be nice, too, Mother.”

She raised her eyes heavenward and sighed as she went away.

He’d already returned his attention to me. “You have been in the Highlands, in the country home of one of our titled families. You were expecting to be there for the rest of the summer, until an unfortunate . . . occurrence . . . led to an abrupt termination of your visit, and you were forced to leave at once, taking the first train to London where you have . . . a sister? No, nothing closer than an aunt or a cousin, I think. And you were on your way there when, pausing to rest, you spotted my notice.” He stopped, watching me expectantly.

I shook my head to chide him.

He gaped, crestfallen. “I’m wrong?”

“Only about a few things, but anyone with eyes might guess I’d been in Scotland, considering the time of day, and the fact that I’ve had no breakfast, but there are no foreign stickers on my portmanteau.”

“And the abrupt departure?”

“I was on foot, alone, there not having been time for a letter to inform my friends—there is no aunt or cousin—of my arrival.”

“The job is yours,” he said suddenly. “Don’t worry about references—you are your own best reference. The job is yours—if you still want it.”

“I should like to know more about it, first,” I replied, thinking I should at least appear to be cautious. “What would be my duties?”

“Duties seems to me the wrong word. Your role, if you like, would be that of an associate, helping me to solve crimes, assisting in deduction, and, well, whatever is required. You’ve read the Sherlock Holmes stories?”

“Of course. I should point out that, unlike Dr. Watson, I’d be no good in a fight. I have a few basic nursing skills, so I could bind your wounds, but don’t expect me to recognize the symptoms of dengue fever, or—or—”

He laughed. “I don’t ask for any of that. My mother’s the nurse. I’m a crack shot, and I’ve also mastered certain skills imported from the Orient which give me an advantage in unarmed combat. I cannot promise to keep you out of danger entirely, but if danger does not frighten you—” He took the answer from my face and gave me a broad smile. “Very well, then. We’re agreed?”

How I longed to return that smile, and take the hand he offered to shake on it! But with no home, and only twelve shillings in my purse, I needed more.

“What’s the matter?”

“This is awkward,” I said. “Unlike Dr. Watson, I don’t have a medical practice to provide me with an income . . .”

“Oh, money!” he exclaimed, with that careless intonation possible only to people who’ve never had to worry about the lack of it. “Why, of course, I mean for you to get something more than the thrill of the chase out of this business. A man’s got to live! A woman, too. How are you at writing? Nothing fancy, just setting down events in proper order, in a way that anyone might understand. Ever tried your hand at such a narrative?”

“I’ve written a few articles; most recently, reports for the Society for Psychical Research, which were published, although not above my own name.”

His eyes widened when I mentioned the S.P.R., and he burst out excitedly, “C—House! By Jove, is that where you’ve been? Are you ‘Miss X’?”

I must have looked pained, for he quickly apologized.

I didn’t like to explain how hearing her name—one of her silly pseudonyms—when I was feeling so far from her, so safe and comfortable, had unsettled me, so I only remarked that I’d been startled by his swift, accurate deduction. “ ‘Miss X’ was the name assigned in authorship to my reports, but in actual fact I was her . . . her assistant, until yesterday, when a disagreement about some events in C—House led to my sudden departure. But how do you know of it? The investigation is incomplete, and no report has yet been published.”

Without taking his eyes from my face—and what secrets he read there, I didn’t want to know!—Jesperson waved one long-fingered hand toward the desk piled with papers and journals. “Although not myself a member of the S.P.R., I take a keen interest in their findings. I have read the correspondence; I knew there was an investigation of the house planned for this summer.

“I am a thoroughly rational, modern man,” he went on. “If I worship anything, it must be the god we call Reason. I’m a materialist who has no truck with superstition, but in my studies, I’ve come across a great many things that science cannot explain. I do not sneer at those who attend séances or hunt for ghosts; I think it would be foolish to ignore the unexplained as unworthy of investigation. Everything should be questioned and explored. It’s not belief that is important, but facts.”

“I agree,” I said quietly.

He leaned toward me across the uncleared table, his gaze frank and curious. “Have you ever seen a ghost, Miss Lane?”

“No.”

But he had noticed some small hesitation. “You’re not certain? You’ve had experiences that can’t be explained in rational terms?”

“Many people have had such experiences.”

“Yes,” he drawled, and leaned back, a faraway look in his eyes. But only for a moment. “Tell me: do you possess any of those odd talents or senses that are generally called psychic?”

Despite the many times I’d been asked that question, I still had a struggle with my reply. “I am aware, at times, of atmospheres to which others seem immune, and occasionally receive impressions . . . sometimes I possess knowledge of things without being able to explain how I know. But I make no claims; I do not discount the effects of a vivid imagination allied with sharp perceptions and a good memory. Almost every so-called psychic medium I have ever met could achieve their results through looking, listening, and remembering, with no need for ‘spirit guides.’”

He nodded in thoughtful agreement. “I have performed mind-reading tricks myself. If I didn’t feel obliged to explain how it was done, I suppose I could make money at it. So how do you explain ghosts? Aren’t they spirits?”

“I don’t know. I subscribe to the idea that the ghosts people see or sense are afterimages, akin to photographs or some form of recorded memory. Strong emotions seem to leave an impression behind, in certain places more powerfully than in others. Objects also have their memories, if I may put it like that. Occasionally, an inanimate object will give off vibrations—of ill will, or despair—so it seems to project a kind of mental image of the person who owned it.”

He gazed at me in fascination, which I found a novel experience. Even quite elderly gentlemen in the S.P.R. had not found me so interesting, but of course I tended to meet them in company with “Miss X,” who was used to being the center of attention.

I decided it was time to get back to business, and reminded him of his original question: “You asked me if I wrote. I presume you were thinking that I could write up your cases with a view to publish?”

“Certainly the more interesting ones. Publication would have two useful ends. On the one hand, it would bring my name to public attention, and attract new clients. On the other, it would provide you with income.”

My heart sank. I had friends who survived by the pen, so was well aware of how much time and toil it required to scrape a bare living in Grub Street. Even if Mr. Jesperson solved an interesting, exciting case every week (which seemed unlikely), and I sold every story I wrote . . . I was still struggling to work out how much I’d have to write, at thruppence a line, to earn enough to pay for room and board in a dingy lodging house, when he said something that cheered me:

“Of course, I realize not every case would be suitable for publication. I only mention it so you wouldn’t think you’d have to live solely on your percentage.”

“What percentage?”

“That would depend on the extent of your contribution. It could be anything from ten to fifty percent of whatever the client pays me.”

Mrs. Jesperson had entered the room while he was speaking, and I heard her sharp intake of breath just before she set the tray she carried down on the table. “Jasper?” she said in a voice of doom.

“I can hardly ask Miss Lane to work unpaid, Mother.”

“You can’t afford to pay an assistant.”

Despite my discomfort, I intervened. “Please. Let’s not argue over money. I must admit, it’s still unclear what Mr. Jesperson would be paying me for, apart from the sort of intellectual support and companionship any friend would freely give. And I should like to be that friend.”

Now I had their rapt attention. “As you deduced, Mr. Jesperson, I left my last situation rather abruptly, without being paid for my work. I came to London to seek, not my fortune, but simply honest work to support myself.”

I paused to draw breath, rather hoping one of them would say something, and I took a quick glance around the room to remind myself that even if Mrs. Jesperson felt they could not afford to pay an assistant, they nevertheless had all this—the fine china, the silver, the leather-bound books and substantial furniture, a whole houseful of things—by contrast with the contents of my single, well-worn bag.

“If I could afford it, I should propose an unpaid trial period, perhaps a month to discover the value of my contribution to your work. Unfortunately, I can’t even afford to rent a room—”

“But you’ll stay here!” exclaimed Mrs. Jesperson. She frowned at her son. “Didn’t you explain?”

Mr. Jesperson was now serenely pouring tea. “I thought you might have deduced it, from the wording of my advertisement. The part about working all hours. Of course my assistant must be here, ready for any eventuality. It’s no good if I have to write you a letter every time I want your opinion, or send a messenger halfway across London and await your reply.”

“There’s a room upstairs, well furnished and waiting,” said Mrs. Jesperson, handing me a plate of white bread, thinly sliced and thickly buttered, and then a little glass bowl heaped with raspberry jam. I saw that her tray also contained a plate of buttered toast, and a pot of honey. “And three meals a day.”

THE ROOM UPSTAIRS WAS INDEED VERY NICE, SPACIOUS ENOUGH TO SERVE as both bedroom and sitting room, and far more pleasantly decorated than any accommodation I’d ever paid for in London. Not a single Landseer reproduction or indifferent engraving hung upon the wall, yet there was an attractive watercolor landscape and some odd, interesting carvings from a culture I did not recognize. The furnishings were basic, but cushions and brightly patterned swaths of fabric made it more attractive, and I felt at home there at once, soothed and inspired by the surroundings, just as in the large, cluttered room downstairs.

I spent some time unpacking and arranging my few things, and writing letters informing friends of my new address, before I lay down to rest. I hadn’t slept much on the train, but now established in my new position—even if it was nearly as problematic, in terms of remuneration, as my last—I felt comfortable enough to fall into a deep and refreshing slumber.

Dinner was a delicious vegetable curry prepared by Mrs. Jesperson herself. They could not afford a cook, although they did have a “daily” for the heavier housework. That evening, as we sat together, I learned a little of their recent history, without being terribly forthcoming about my own.

Jasper Jesperson was twenty-one years old, and an only child. Barely fifteen when his father died, he’d accompanied his mother to India, where she had a brother. But they had been in India for only a year before going to China, and, later, the South Sea islands. An intriguing offer brought them back to London more than a year previously, but it had not turned out as expected (he said he would tell me the whole story another time) and subsequently he decided that the best use of his abilities and interests would be to establish himself as a consulting detective.

He’d concluded three successful commissions so far. Two had been rather easily dealt with and would not make interesting stories; the third was quite different, and I shall write about that another time. It was after that case which had so tested his abilities that he decided to advertise for an assistant.

His fourth case, and my first, was to begin the next morning, with the arrival of a new client.

“Read his letter, and you may know as much about the affair as I,” said Jesperson, handing a folded page across his desk to me.

The sheet was headed with the name of a gentlemen’s club in Mayfair, and signed William Randall. Although some overhasty pen strokes and blotches might suggest the author was in the grip of strong emotion, it might also be that he was more accustomed to dictating his correspondence.

Dear Mr. Jesperson:

Your name was given to me by a friend in the Foreign Office with the suggestion that if anyone could solve a murder that still baffles the police, it is you.

Someone close to me believes I am at risk of a murderous attack from the same, unknown killer to whose victim she was at the time engaged to be married.

I will explain all when we meet. If I may, I will call on you at ten o’clock Wednesday morning. If that is inconvenient, please reply by return of post with a more suitable time.

Yours sincerely, etc.

I folded the letter and handed it back to Jesperson, who was gazing at me, bright-eyed and expectant.

He prompted. “Any questions?”

“The Foreign Office?”

“Never mind about that. It’s only my uncle, trying to keep me in work. Don’t you want to know what I’ve deduced about the writer of this letter? What unsolved crime affects this man so nearly? I believe I have it.”

“I think I’d rather wait and hear what Mr. Randall has to say, first. If you’re right, well and good, but if you’re wrong, you’ll only confuse me.”

He looked a bit crestfallen, making me think of a little boy who hadn’t been allowed to show off his cleverness, and I said, “You can tell me afterward, if you were right.”

“But you might not believe me. Oh, well, it doesn’t matter.”

I heard his mother murmur, “Party tricks.” But if he heard, at least he gave no sign, and let me change the subject, and the rest of the evening passed quite pleasantly.

MR. WILLIAM RANDALL ARRIVED PROMPTLY AS THE CARRIAGE CLOCK ON the (recently dusted) mantelpiece was striking ten. He was a dapper young man with a drooping moustache, his regular features lifted from mere good looks into something striking by a pair of large, dark eyes that anyone more romantic than I would call soulful.

He refused any refreshment, took a seat, and began his story after the brief, hesitant disclaimer that “it was probably a load of nonsense,” but his fiancée was worried.

“The lady I intend to make my wife is Miss Flora Bellamy, of Harrow.” Her name meant nothing to me, but we both saw Jesperson straighten up.

“Yes, I thought you might make the connection. She was, of course, engaged to Mr. Archibald Adcocks, the prominent financier, at the time of his terrible death.”

“So she thinks his death was connected to the fact of their engagement? And that you are now in danger?”

“She does.”

“How curious! What are her reasons?”

He sighed and held up his empty hands. “ ‘The heart has its reasons, that reason knows not.’ Women, you know, think more with their hearts than their heads. It is all too circumstantial to convince me, a matter of mere coincidence, and yet . . . she is so certain.”

Listening to them was frustrating, so I was forced to interrupt. “Excuse me, but would you mind telling me the facts of Mr. Adcocks’s death?”

Jesperson turned to me with a smile of secret triumph. I could have told you last night! said his expression, but he only remarked, “It was in all the papers, a year ago.”

“Fifteen months,” Randall corrected him. “He was attacked on his way to the railway station, not long after saying good night to Flora at her door. She wanted him to take a cab, because he had recently injured his foot, but he insisted that he could manage the short walk easily with the aid of a stick.” He hesitated, then said, “He borrowed a walking stick from the stand beside the door.”

“The injury must have been very recent,” I suggested, and Randall gave me a nod.

“Not long after dinner, that same evening. He tripped in the hall and struck his foot, but although it was quite painful, he insisted it was too minor to make a fuss about.”

“Not a man to make a fuss.”

“He was no weakling. And quite well able to look after himself. Something of an amateur pugilist.”

“Yet someone attacked him, unprovoked.”

“So we must assume. He was found lying sprawled on the path, his head bloody from a terrible blow. He was barely alive, unable to speak, and died from his injury that same night, without being able to indicate what had happened. It may be that he didn’t know, that the cowardly assault had come from behind.”

“No one was ever arrested,” Jesperson told me. “There were no suspects.”

I frowned. “Could anyone suggest a motive?”

“It was usually assumed to have been an impulsive crime, not planned, since the murder weapon was his own walking stick.”

“Not his own,” Mr. Randall objected. “Borrowed from Flora’s house.”

“Even so. It may be he was attacked by a gang of thugs who thought him an easy target because he limped. Yet, if they were intent on robbery, no one could explain why they did not take his wallet, stuffed with pound notes, or his gold watch, or anything else. He was found not long after he fell, lying in the open, near a streetlamp, and there were no obvious hiding places nearby. Although one witness reported hearing a cry, no one was seen running away or otherwise behaving in a suspicious manner.”

“Did Mr. Adcocks have enemies?” I asked.

“He seems to have been well liked by all who knew him, including those who did business with him. No one obviously benefited by his death.”

“Who inherited his property?”

“His mother.”

Before I could say anything more, Jesperson resumed. “Mr. Randall, you’ve suggested that Miss Bellamy believed his death was as a result of, or at least connected to, their engagement.”

“No one else thought so.”

“How did her family feel about it?”

He sighed and shook his head. “She has no family. Since being orphaned at an early age, Miss Bellamy has lived in the house of her guardian, a man by the name of Rupert Harcourt.”

Although the even tenor of his voice did not change, when he pronounced this name, I shivered, and knew we had come to the heart of the matter.

“Her parents named this man as her guardian?” Jesperson enquired.

Mr. Randall shook his head. “They did not know him. He had no connection to the family at all. When Mr. Bellamy died, the infant Flora was all alone in the world. A total stranger, reading of her situation in a newspaper, was so struck with pity that he offered her a home.”

“You find that strange,” I said, remarking his tone.

His eyes, for all their languid soulfulness, could still deliver a piercing look. “It is surely unusual for an unmarried, childless man of thirty-plus to go out of his way to adopt an unwanted infant. In fact, he never did adopt Flora, but set up some sort of legal arrangement to last until she married, or reached the age of twenty-one—a date still eight months in the future.”

“She has money?”

“Very little. To give him credit, Harcourt never touched her small inheritance, yet she never lacked for anything; toys and sweetmeats, clothes and meals, books and music lessons were all paid for from his own pocket. The money from her father was left to gain interest. I suppose it may be near one thousand pounds.”

It sounded a lot to me, being used to managing on less than thirty pounds a year, but it was not the sort of fortune to inspire a devious double-murder plot.

“Has any attempt been made on your life?” Jesperson asked suddenly, and I saw Mr. Randall wince and raise his hand to his head before he replied, “Oh, no, hardly—no, not at all.”

Jesperson responded testily to this prevarication. “Oh, come now! Something happened to frighten your fiancée, whatever you may make of it. Don’t try to hide it.”

With a sigh, Randall lifted the lock of dark hair that half-hid his forehead and bowed his head to reveal a bruised gash, obviously quite recent, at the hairline.

He explained that a few days earlier he had been to dine with Flora and her guardian. After the meal, the two men had adjourned to Harcourt’s study, a large room at the front of the house, with cigars and brandy snifters, and there Randall had asked permission to wed Miss Bellamy.

“It was a formality, really, since she had agreed, but as the man was still her legal guardian, it seemed the right thing to do.”

“His response?”

“He said, rather roughly, that young ladies always made their own decisions, but he had no objections. Then he asked if I knew she’d been engaged once before. I said that I did, and he gave an unpleasant laugh and asked me if that hadn’t made me think twice. I didn’t know what he meant to imply, but it seemed meant to be offensive. Trying not to take offense, I told him that I loved Flora, and that since she had been good enough to accept me, nothing short of death would induce me to part from her. And it was at that dramatic moment that a book fell off a shelf high above my head.”

He winced. “It looked worse than it was—scalp wounds bleed profusely—but it was quite painful. I had never imagined a book as a lethal weapon.”

“Where was Harcourt when this occurred?”

“He was facing me, standing farther away from the bookshelves. Before you ask, I could see him clearly, and while I suppose he might have contrived it, I was not aware of him doing anything that could have triggered the fall. In any case, he seemed completely shocked, and almost as worried about his book as my head. I should probably say more. If he’d meant to harm me, I don’t think it would have been at any risk to any part of his collection.”

“He’s a book collector?”

“Nothing so benign,” he replied. “In fact, it was because of the collection that Flora rarely set foot inside that room. She found the morbid atmosphere more unpleasant than the scent of our cigars.”

“R. M. Harcourt, of Harrow,” Jesperson said.

“You know of him?”

“I had not made the connection until this moment. He has written of his collection—at least, certain recent acquisitions, in a journal to which I subscribe.”

Turning to me, Jesperson explained that Mr. Harcourt took a particular interest in murder, and had, over the years, managed to acquire a goodly number of weapons—knives, guns, and a variety of sharp or heavy instruments that had caused the loss of human life: a lady’s hat pin, a piece of brick, a Japanese sword, an ordinary-looking iron poker. In addition, he had amassed a library on the subject of the crime, as well as what might be described as mementos of murder, odds and ends that were connected in some way with any famous—or infamous—crime: hair from the heads of murderers or their victims, bloodstained clothing, photographs of crime scenes, incriminating letters. He possessed poison rings, flasks, phials, bottles, and even the very cup in which Mrs. Maybrick had mixed the arsenic powder with which she’d killed her husband.

“He’s very proud of it,” Randall said. “Occasionally, people call at the house to see the collection, or to offer new items they hope he’ll buy. I was polite, but, frankly, I will never understand the appeal of such gruesome objects.

“After the accident, Flora became hysterical, and made me promise I’d never enter that room again. Then she decided that was not enough, and that I must not return to the house. She also suggested that we not announce our engagement, and wait until she’s twenty-one to marry.”

“She suspects her guardian?” Jesperson asked quietly.

Mr. Randall hesitated, then shook his head. “She says she does not. But she feels I am in danger, through my attachment to her, and if she’s right about that, who else could it be?”

“Forgive me, but . . . are there no rejected suitors?”

“Flora told me she received but two marriage proposals in her life, and she’s never mentioned anyone, I’ve never heard of any other man, who might harbor such strong feelings for her,” he replied. “But, in any case, she is wrong. Adcocks’s murder, quite naturally, affected her nerves. She sees danger, an unknown assassin, lurking everywhere; an evil force behind every accident.” He paused to take a deep breath.

“Shortly after the injury in the study, I chanced to stumble over an object in the hall—and I might have fallen and struck my head a second time if Flora hadn’t been there to catch me. This was the same object that Adcocks had bruised his foot on, and this coincidence was too much. Her nerves are not strong. How can they be? She’s suffered so much, has lost everyone she has ever loved—that’s when she insisted I leave at once, and not come back. She imagined danger where there was none.”

“And yet, whether or not you are in danger, someone killed Mr. Adcocks,” Jesperson said with heavy emphasis.

“Precisely. And if you can solve that crime, I hope her fears may be put to rest.”

AFTER MR. RANDALL HAD DEPARTED, JESPERSON DASHED OFF A LETTER TO Mr. Harcourt.

“I think it best that Harcourt has no reason to connect us with his ward or her fiancé,” he told me. “Therefore, I shall present myself to him as a fellow aficionado of murder. And as he shows me his collection, it may be that, if he does know something of Adcocks’s death, he’ll give himself away.”

“Won’t he wonder how you’ve heard of it?”

“Not at all. It is quite well-known in certain circles.” He scarcely paused in his writing as he replied, stretching out his other hand and running it down the spines of a stack of journals on the desk beside him, as if he were one of those blind folk who read with their fingertips.

Abstracting one issue, he paused to flip through the pages until he found the one he wanted me to see.

It was a page of letters, with the headline More Solutions to the Ripper Murders. The letter indicated by his finger was signed R. M. Harcourt, The Pines, Harrow. Another, finishing in the next column, bore the name of J. Jesperson, Gower Street.

“So he may know who you are?”

“As you’ll see by the date, this issue is a year old. I was still a mere student of crime and detection then, unknown to the public.” Finished, he sealed the envelope and held it out to me. “Take this to the post office—” He stopped, with a look of chagrin. “Forgive me.”

“For what? I am your assistant.”

“My manner was too peremptory. I should have—”

I cut him off. “If we’re going to work together, you must stop thinking of me as a female who’ll be mortally offended if you forget to say please.”

“It’s not that.”

I waited.

“I advertised for an assistant, not a servant. I hope we can work together as equals.”

“Understood,” I said, not revealing how pleased I felt. “Also understood is that when time is of the essence, politeness can go hang. And the only reason I am still standing here with this letter in my hand, rather than halfway to the nearest post office, is that I don’t know where that is.”

MR. HARCOURT REPLIED WITH AN INVITATION BY RETURN OF POST, SO THE next day found us on the train rattling through the northwestern suburbs of London, at one time a familiar journey to me. Although I had not been in Harrow for more than ten years, it was the scene of my youth, my father having been a classics master at Harrow School until his untimely death.

However, we had lived in the village on the hill, whereas Mr. Harcourt’s house was almost a mile away, in one of the newer developments that had grown up following the extension of the Metropolitan Line.

Jesperson had said nothing in his letter about a companion, and we had decided my role would be that of Inconvenient Female Relative. Naturally, I would have no interest in the collection—indeed, if I knew what it was, I might well be shocked—so while the men were closeted together, I’d be free to conduct my own investigation. Randall had told Miss Bellamy to expect me.

The Pines was a mock-Tudor affair shielded from the road by the two namesakes that gave it a somewhat secretive and gloomy air. But that was nothing compared to the interior of the house. As I stepped across the threshold, I was gripped by panic. I am sensitive to atmospheres, no matter how much I try to blame it on imagination, and what I felt in that hallway was as bad as any haunted house. But it is difficult to describe to someone who has never experienced such things. If I were describing a smell, I could compare it to a tannery, a slaughterhouse, or a sewer. Only someone with no sense of smell could bear to live there.

Fighting the panic, I looked around for distraction. A large, attractive Chinese vase, green and yellow, had been put into service as a stand for umbrellas and walking sticks. Among the curving wooden handles clustering above the open top, the silver-capped walking stick stood out, commanding attention not simply by its different appearance, but by the grim air of menace it exuded, like a low and deadly hiss.

Of course, I knew at once what it was, and felt appalled. How could they have kept it? Why hadn’t it been broken and destroyed, the wood burnt to ash, the silver head melted down to be remade into something new?

Tearing my horrified gaze away, I spotted the hideous stone gargoyle crouching like a demon near the foot of the stairs, and shuddered at its baleful look before my partner’s light touch on my arm recalled me to the present as he introduced me to the owner of these things.

Mr. Harcourt was a portly, balding man with a luxuriant and well-tended moustache, and—for me, at any rate—a cold and fishlike stare. There was more warmth, and a twitch of a smile, in the greeting he gave Jesperson, leaving me in no doubt that my presence was unwelcome.

Relief came swiftly in the form of a young lady descending the stair. Slender and dark-haired, with a face that was handsome rather than pretty, she was dressed like a shop assistant or office worker in a crisp, white shirtfront and plain dark skirt. Even smiling warmly in welcome, she had a serious look, her eyes haunted by worry.

“Flora! Exquisite timing, as ever. Although if you had known to expect company you would have worn one of your pretty dresses, I hope,” said Harcourt. He performed hasty introductions and rapidly withdrew with Jesperson behind a solid oak door, leaving us alone in the hall with its sinister atmosphere.

“Perhaps you’d like to see the garden,” said Miss Bellamy, touching my elbow to guide me along a corridor toward the back of the house. As I passed through the door, leaving the house, the taste of open air was almost intoxicating.

“You are sensitive,” she remarked, leading away from the cold back wall of the house, through an arbor, along a path, into a sheltered rose garden.

“I claim no special powers,” I said, “but the atmosphere in that house is . . . extraordinary. I have to wonder how you can live there.”

She nodded slightly. “And yet, you know, most people feel nothing. Mr. Adcocks never did. Mr. Randall’s mood alters when he visits, and I am aware of his unease, yet he will not admit it.”

Although I had not said so to Jesperson, I had toyed with the idea that Miss Bellamy herself might be the killer we sought. The manner of Mr. Adcocks’s death seemed to indicate an attack by a strong and brutal man, an action impossible by most women; nevertheless, I had found that men tended to underestimate the female sex quite as much as they idealized it, and I could imagine a grieving fiancée who was in truth a coldhearted murderer.

But that idea vanished to nothing as soon as I set eyes on her, a slip of a girl, and as we sat down, side by side, on a curving bench in a sunny green spot, the scent of roses and the warm hum of bees filling the air around us, I was utterly certain that this gentle, soft-spoken woman, so concerned about the feelings of others, was incapable of killing another human being, by any means.

“How can you bear to live in that house?” I asked her.

“Don’t forget, I’ve lived there nearly all my life,” she said. “People can get used to almost anything. Imagine someone who must work in a slaughterhouse every day.”

“I imagine such a person would be brutalized and degraded by his work,” I replied. “If the comparison were to someone who must live in a slaughterhouse . . . well, I can’t imagine many who would stick it for long. I’m surprised you never ran away. What was it like when you first came here? Were you terrified?”

She looked thoughtful. “I can’t remember anything before I came here. I was not yet two years old. And back then, Mr. Harcourt’s collection was only small. It grew along with me. Over the years, as he added items, he told me the story of each one. So I became accustomed to tales of violent death and human wickedness from an early age. I was not at all attracted to those things, but I accepted their existence. Imagine a child growing up in a madhouse or a prison. Even the strangest situations become normal if one knows nothing else.”

“But now, at last, you can escape,” I said. “Have you set a date for your wedding?”

She stared at me. “Surely William told you? I think it’s best we don’t even speak of an engagement until after I’m of age, and can leave here.”

“You believe your guardian doesn’t wish you to marry?”

She gave a short, humorless laugh. “Oh, I believe he would like to see me married! A wife and a widow in the same day would please him very much!”

There was no point in beating about the bush. “Do you think he killed Mr. Adcocks?”

She did not flinch. “No. Despite his fascination with the subject, Mr. Harcourt is no murderer.”

“Do you suspect someone else?”

She did not reply. I thought I saw something cornered and furtive in her look. “Miss Bellamy,” I said gently, “however painful this is, we can’t help unless you tell me what it is you suspect, or fear, no matter how slight or strange. Were you there, did you see anything, when Mr. Adcocks was attacked?”

She shook her head. “I bid him good night and went up to my room. I thought he was safe . . .”

“And your guardian?”

“He was shut into his room, as usual.”

I looked toward the house, but the ground floor was shielded from my view by shrubs and foliage. “Is there another exit? From his room?”

“No. And I would not have missed the sounds if he’d left the house.”

“Who murdered Mr. Adcocks?” I asked suddenly.

“No one.”

“And yet he is dead.”

“He was killed by a powerful blow to his head. The blow came from a walking stick. Can it be called murder, is it even a crime, without human intervention?”

I had seen objects levitate, hover, move about, even shoot through the air as if hurled with great force although no one was near. Usually, there was trickery involved; but not always. I had seen what I believed to be the effect of mind over matter, and also witnessed what was called poltergeist—the German for “noisy spirit”—activity. Yet I was deeply suspicious of everything attributed to the action of “spirits.” I had yet to encounter anything that was not better explained by the power of the human mind.

“What are you saying?” I asked her gently. “You believe that the stick, an inanimate object, moved, and killed a man, of its own volition?” Yet even as I asked, the memory of the malignant power I had sensed in that very stick, only a few minutes earlier, made me much less certain that I was right.

“Have you ever heard of a deodand?”

“I’m not familiar with the word.”

“It’s a term from old English law: deo, to God, dandum, that which must be given. It referred to any possession which was the immediate cause of a person’s accidental death. The object was then forfeit to the Crown, to be put to some pious use.”

I couldn’t think of anything to say to that, and she smiled. “That walking stick was a deodand. Not officially; it’s hardly that old. But it was the proximate cause of death to a young man almost seventy years ago—so my guardian told me.

“And the unpleasant stone gargoyle beside the stair? It fell off the tower where it had been placed many centuries before, and killed a mother and child.

“My guardian collects such things, along with his morbid keepsakes from actual murders.

“He gave Archie that stick, knowing what it was, and suspecting what it would do.” She stopped and passed a hand across her brow. “What am I saying? Of course he didn’t suspect. Why should he? None of them had ever hurt him, or me. Not even when I was a child who played with whatever took my fancy—he wouldn’t let me touch anything dangerous, of course, nothing sharp or breakable. I whispered secrets in the gargoyle’s ear, even used to kiss it, and it was that gargoyle—” She stopped, her hand to her mouth.

I waited for her to go on.

“It was in the wrong place, too near the stair. I thought perhaps, when the maid washed the floor, she’d pushed it out, but she insisted she never did. Yet it was not where it usually was, and that’s why Archie stumbled against it, and wrenched his ankle.

“It happened again, just a few days ago, to Will. He fell over it, and if I hadn’t caught him, he might have struck his head, might have been killed, just like Archie!”

“Someone moved it,” I said, trying to inject a note of reason. “If not the maid, then your guardian, or a mysterious stranger. And if Mr. Randall’s stumble had resulted in a serious injury, even death, that would have been an accident; no one could possibly call it murder, even if someone moved the gargoyle.

“But that stick . . . I really can’t imagine that a stick, in Mr. Adcocks’s possession, could have caused his death without the intervention of another person. If you think your guardian was controlling it, willing it to strike—”

“No! Why would he do that? Even if he had the ability, why would he want to kill my fiancé when he was looking forward to seeing how I would cause his death?”

She had gone white except for two hectic splashes of red in her cheeks. I shook my head. “I don’t understand.”

“Of course not. Because you don’t understand that I, too, am a deodand. I am the gem of his collection. My early history explains why he took me in. I killed my entire family before I was two years of age.”

I gripped her hands. “Miss Bellamy—”

“I am utterly sane,” she said calmly. “I am not hysterical. These are the facts. Being born, I brought about the death of my mother.”

“That’s hardly—”

“Unique? I know. Listen. Nine months later, my father was taking his motherless children on holiday when we were involved in a railway accident. In the crash, my brother, a child of two, was thrown to the floor, as was I. I landed directly on top of him, a fact which may have saved me from injury, but caused his death. I have never known whether he died of suffocation, or if my weight broke his neck.”

“No one could call that your fault,” I said, trying not to dwell on the image.

“I know that,” she said, pulling her hands away. “Believe me, I am not such a fool as to think it was anything other than extremely bad luck. I have had many years to come to terms with my past. I do not require your pity. I tell you this so you may understand Mr. Harcourt’s interest in me.

“My father was injured in the accident. Some months later he was still in an invalid chair, needing a nurse to help him in and out and wheel him about. We’d gone out for a walk—when I say ‘we’I mean my father in his chair pushed by his nurse, a young man, and I in my pram, pushed by mine, a pretty young woman. We stopped at a local beauty spot to admire the view. My nurse put me down on a blanket on the grass, near to my father, who was dozing in the sun, and then I suppose they must have stopped paying much attention to anything but each other as they fell to flirting. I hadn’t yet learned to walk, but I was getting better at standing up, and as I hauled myself to my feet, using my father’s chair as support, somehow I must have let off the brake—maybe the nurse hadn’t properly set it—and as he rolled away, I just watched him go, picking up speed, until I saw the chair carrying my last living relative go over the edge of the cliff, and carry him to his death on the rocks below.”

I made no more efforts to comfort. “So Mr. Harcourt considers you some sort of loaded weapon in his possession? Ready to go off when you are loved?”

“He has never said as much, but that’s what I’ve understood by a gleam in his eye, and a quickening of interest, once I became of marriageable age. It was he who contrived to introduce me to a number of wealthy young men, until Archibald Adcocks took the bait. And he pressed me to accept, although I was inclined to wait.”

“Regardless of what Mr. Harcourt believes—”

“I know. And you’re right, I don’t believe it of myself. Mr. Harcourt imagines, because he kept himself so coldly distant, repelling my natural affection, and sent me to day school rather than risk my becoming too close to a kind governess, that I never was loved, and never loved anyone, since my father died.

“But there was a girl at school . . . My guardian may have no idea how passionately girls can love each other, but I’m sure you will,” she said, with a look that should have made me blush. Instead, it made me smile.

We looked at each other like conspirators. “I take it your friend remains alive and well?”

“Indeed, and still my dearest friend, although we’re now more temperate in our emotions . . . or, at least, the expression of them. So, you see, I know my affection is not dangerous.”

“And yet you seem to think that by becoming engaged to marry you, Mr. Adcocks signed his own death warrant. And that Mr. Randall is under threat for the same reason.”

“Yes . . .” She looked thoughtful. “But not because of my feelings for him, or his for me. It’s something else. Marriage to anyone would take me away from this house, would remove me from my guardian’s collection. That’s it,” she said, and stood up.

“What is it?”

“He thinks marriage is the only way he might lose me. He’s never imagined I might simply decide to leave.”

I stood up, too, to face her. “I don’t understand.”

“Mr. Harcourt is scarcely sane when it comes to his collection. He cannot bear the thought of losing a single piece of it. He is happiest when gloating over it alone, and whenever he has a chance to add something new. Although he admits potential buyers, he only wants their envy and admiration as they view his objects—he will never agree to sell an item, no matter how much money he is offered.

“And while he has been talking about my marriage since I was sixteen, and began pushing me at eligible bachelors on my eighteenth birthday, driven by thoughts of what he thinks will happen when I am once more part of a family, greedily imagining how his collection will grow after the violent, accidental death of my husband, he knows this will be possible only if he lets me go. In his twisted mind, I am part of his collection, and the thought of losing me, even only temporarily, and in aid of gaining more, is terrible to him.”

“His mind is divided?”

“I am sorry, Miss Lane. You should not have been brought into this. There was no need for William to enlist the aid of a detective. I should have realized that I am the only one who can end this madness.”

She started back to the house and I followed. Although I had no idea what she intended, I felt that we were approaching crisis.

She raised her fist to rap on the heavy oak, but at the very first blow, the door swung open.

Harcourt was at the far end of the room, by the window, displaying something in a flat wooden box to Jesperson. They both looked around sharply as we entered, Harcourt startled and annoyed. Clearly, he had not expected us, and I could only assume that he had neglected to shut the door properly.

“What’s the meaning of this disturbance?” he demanded, hastily shutting up the box.

“I must speak with you.”

“Let it wait. We have company.”

“I am happy to have witnesses.” She took a breath. “I shall not marry.”

I had tensed myself against the negative atmosphere upon entering the house, and had been particularly reluctant to enter Harcourt’s study, expecting it to be the epicenter, yet as I followed more slowly into that room, I found that what had been unpleasant and discordant was now harmonious. Using the metaphor of smell, consider bonfire smoke. A great waft in the face is horrible, but at the right distance, the scent of burning leaves and wood is pleasant.

“You’ve rushed in here to say that? I am at a loss to understand why,” Harcourt replied coldly. “Your change of heart is of no interest to me. I suggest you write to Mr. Randall.”

“You don’t understand. I mean I shall never marry.”

His eyes bulged. “Are you insane?” Suddenly, he turned on me. “What have you been saying? What sort of mad rubbish, to turn her mind?”

“Miss Lane had nothing to do with it,” Flora said swiftly. “I have been thinking matters over for the past several days, and only now decided to tell you—”

“Oh, very likely!” He had been casting a venomous glare on me, but now stared coldly at Jesperson. “I’m afraid I must ask you to take this female person away, immediately.”

I could see that my partner was at a loss: Should he leap to my defense, invent excuses, or pretend to a masculine solidarity that might leave the door open for future visits? Although I didn’t want to leave Flora alone with Harcourt, I didn’t know what we would achieve by trying to stay, so I left the room, just as Flora was demanding, “Am I not allowed to have my own friends?”

“As long as I’m your guardian, Flora, you will do as I say. You’ll have nothing more to do with that female, and you will not break off your engagement. We’ll forget you ever said anything about it. Mr. Jesperson, if you please!”

As they emerged, with Flora in the lead, I was surprised to see the hint of a smile on her face. She winked at me before turning on her guardian again.

“So, I am to be your object and meekly allow your will to prevail in everything, until my twenty-first birthday changes everything?”

“That will change nothing,” he said scornfully. “You don’t imagine you’ll be anything different than you are now? Than you’ve always been?”

She flinched, but held steady. “In the eyes of the law.”

“The law.” He snorted. “The law is an ass. It has nothing to say about you. It has no idea what you are.” His gaze on her was horrible.

“I may as well go now,” she said quietly.

“Go? What are you talking about?”

“You are right that a few months will change nothing. You are pleased with the situation; I am not. So I shall leave.”

She looked from me to Jesperson, saying, “If it’s not too much trouble . . .”

He was swift to take her meaning. “Of course, come with us. Any help we can give—”

I heard the rattle, and saw that the Chinese vase was rocking violently back and forth, until it tilted too far and fell, shattering against the hard floor, and spilling its burden of umbrellas and walking sticks.

Only one of the sticks did not come to rest with everything else on the floor, but shot through the air, straight at Jesperson.

If it had struck where it aimed, against his throat, I have no doubt it would have killed him, but he was quick. Almost as if he’d expected the attack, he stepped lightly aside, his arm rising, fluid and graceful, to catch the stick.

Unlike an ordinary thrown object, the stick continued to move after it was caught, writhing and pulling to escape, while he gripped it more firmly, frowning as he looked for a thread or wire and tried to work out the trick of it.

Certain there would be no invisible thread, I looked instead at Harcourt. His expression was nothing like those I’d seen on the faces of mediums or mentalists; he looked utterly astonished, and thrilled. If he had caused the stick’s activity, it was through a power hidden from his conscious mind, something he did not suspect and could not control.

Then another movement, glimpsed from the corner of my eye, caught my attention, and as I turned to look, I heard the terrible grating, grinding noise made by the stone gargoyle as it ponderously rocked itself across the floor. Although no one was near enough to be at risk if it fell over, I nevertheless called out a warning.

Flora took one look and shouted: “Stop it! Stop it right now!”

The gargoyle stopped moving, and so did the stick, although Jesperson still kept a tight hold and a wary eye on it.

Harcourt took a hesitant step forward, his eyes still fixed upon the stick. “Give—give it to me, if you please, Mr. Jesperson,” he said. “That—that is the weapon that killed poor Mr. Adcocks; and before that, a young man in Plymouth. If not for your exceptionally quick reflexes, you would have been its third victim.”

After a reluctant pause, Jesperson handed over the stick, saying, “You expected this might happen?”

“Never,” the man gasped, staring at the stick in his hands with an unhealthy mixture of lust and fear. “Who would imagine that the instinct to kill would be inherent?”

“You imagined it inherent in me,” said Flora. “A mindless, killing force so powerful that it could use me—a living, intelligent being—without regard for my own free will?”

“No, no, certainly not,” he said, without conviction. “You were a mere infant, with no ability to think or act for yourself, when fate used you to terminate the lives of three innocent souls. It is quite different now.” He had been looking at her, but the lure of the object in his hands proved too much, and he soon returned to staring at it like a besotted lover.

“You’ve always thought of me as another piece in your collection,” Flora said bitterly. “A mindless, soulless thing, and not even your favorite.”

“Dear Flora, don’t be absurd. I know you are no ‘thing.’ You have been like a daughter to me. Have I not always cared for you as best I could? Bought you whatever your heart desired? My only concern has ever been to see you safely and happily married to the man of your choice, when the time came.”

While my sympathies were entirely with Flora, I recognized that to an outside observer, she would seem hysterical, and Harcourt the sane one.

“Yet you must have wondered,” Jesperson said, as if idly. “Eh, Harcourt? You surely wondered if your ward was intended by Fate for family happiness. Perhaps you saw her first engagement as a scientific experiment. The result was not as you hoped, but perhaps as you feared . . . ?”

They exchanged a look, man to man, and although Harcourt shook his head ruefully, I saw the smug satisfaction beneath the solemn look.

“You’re vile,” Flora murmured. She cleared her throat and announced, “I can never marry. I won’t put another life at risk.”

This time, Harcourt did not protest. He shrugged and sighed, and said, “I would never force you to go against your will, no matter how foolish it seems to me.”

“That’s not all. I’m leaving your collection today, Mr. Harcourt—”

“Oh, come now. Don’t be childish. You can’t blame me for what you are!”

“Not for what I am; only for what you’ve tried to make me. The atmosphere in this house is hideous, not because of the objects, but because of your gloating fascination with murder and violent death. I’m going. I won’t set foot in this house again as long as you are alive.”

Having stated her intention, she made straight for the door.

I felt the shudder that ran through the house even before her hand touched the door handle; it was a sensation so subtle yet so profound that I thought at first I might be ill.

Harcourt yelled. His nose was bleeding; the walking stick had come to life again in his hand and seemed determined to beat him to death. He managed to remove it to arm’s length, and struggled to keep it under control. The gargoyle, too, was shuddering back to life, and, from the variety of creaks and groans and fluttering sounds I heard coming from the next room, so were other bits of the collection.

“Move,” said Jesperson urgently, propelling me forward. “Get out of the house! Is there anyone else?” Hearing the shouts, the little maid who’d let us in reappeared, and, although looking utterly bewildered, she allowed him to usher her outside as well.

We met Flora at the front gate and turned back to look at the house.

“Where’s Harcourt?” Jesperson demanded. “He was right behind me.”

“He won’t leave his collection,” said Flora. “He’ll have gone back for it. He used to worry aloud about what he should save first, if the house were on fire.”

“But it’s the collection itself that’s the threat!”

On my own, I might have left Harcourt to his fate, but when my partner ran back inside, I felt it my duty to follow. Mounting the front steps, I was able to see through the window into the study, and what I saw brought me to a standstill.

Pale and portly Mr. Harcourt was leaping and whirling like a dervish, holding the silver-headed stick away from his body like a magic staff, as he struggled to avoid a flurry of small objects from striking him. Occasionally in his efforts he unconsciously pulled his arm in closer to his body, allowing the stick to give him a sharp crack on his leg or shoulder, and then he would shriek in pain or anger.

Books and other things continued to tumble from the shelves. Many simply fell, but others seemed hurled with force directly at him, and these struck a variety of glancing blows against his body, head, and limbs. A glassfronted display case shook fiercely, as if caught in an earthquake, until it burst open, releasing everything inside. A great malignant swarm composed of small bottles, jars, needles, pins, razors, and many more things I could not recognize now enveloped the man, whose cries turned to a constant, terrified howling as they attacked him.

Feeling sick, I turned aside and went indoors to my partner, who was throwing himself bodily against the solid oak door, as if he imagined he could force it open. Seeing me, he stopped and rubbed his shoulder, looking a little sheepish.

I gave him one of my hairpins, assuming he would know how to use it.

As he fiddled with the lock, I listened to the horrible sounds that accompanied the violence on the other side: thuds and thumps, shrieks and wails and groans, and then a shocking, liquid hissing, followed by a gurgle, and then the heaviest thud of all, and then silence.

By the time Jesperson managed to get the door open, it was all over. Harcourt was dead. His bloody, battered corpse lay on the carpet, surrounded by the remnants of his murderous collection. Whatever life had possessed them had expired with his. There was a sharp, acrid stench in the room—I guess from the contents of various broken bottles—but nothing so foul as the atmosphere it replaced.

“Vitriol,” said Jesperson. “Don’t look.”

But I had already seen what was left of the face, and it was no more shocking than the sounds had led me to imagine.

As I went out to give Flora Bellamy the news, and to send the maid to fetch the police, I already knew that this had not turned out to be a case I could write about for publication.

And, as it developed, it got worse.

It was fortunate indeed that Jasper Jesperson had some influential relatives who moved in the circles of power, for otherwise I think the local police would have been pleased to charge him with murder, in the absence of more likely suspects, and if he hadn’t done it, I was their next choice.

Even though we might argue we had saved his life, our client was so far from pleased with the outcome of our investigations that he refused to pay us anything. It was not Harcourt’s death that bothered him so much as Miss Bellamy’s insistence on releasing him from their engagement. She would give him no better reason for her change of heart than to say that she was reconsidering how she might best spend her life, and that she was inclined to seek some form of employment by which to support herself “like Miss Lane.”

Flora Bellamy never set foot inside The Pines again. Even though her guardian was dead, she had decided to take no chances, and hired others to empty the house before selling it. In his will, Harcourt left everything to his ward, with only one caveat: Although she could decide whether to keep or dispose of “the collection,” she must do so as a whole, and not break it up.

This stipulation she decided to ignore.

“Perhaps I’m wrong,” she said to me, the last time I saw her, “but I believe it could be dangerous. Individual objects are only things, but when gathered together, they became something more—first in Mr. Harcourt’s imagination, and then in reality.

“The concept in law of the deodand was that something which had once done evil could be remade into something useful, even holy, by good works. That was not allowed to anything in Mr. Harcourt’s collection—his use of those things was opposed to good; it venerated the evil deed.”

Her way of redemption was to donate everything that remained in the house to a good cause. Being extra cautious, she chose one so far away that she would not have to fear an accidental encounter with her former possessions, and had everything sent to a leper colony on the other side of the world.

I took it as a positive sign that she did not feel obliged to sacrifice herself in a similar way.

She decided to share a flat with her school friend, and embarked on a course of training in bookkeeping and office management.

Jesperson and I, naturally, discussed the details of this case—which began with one unsolved murder, and concluded with two—at great length when we were alone together, and also with Mrs. Jesperson, but we were never able to agree upon how to assign the blame for the killings. We all agreed that both Adcocks and Harcourt were murdered, yet we also agreed that if there was no murderer, murder could not have been done.

I hope our next case will be less of a curiosity.