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Chapter Two

A Case

As the door closed, the noise on the street faded. Beatrice and Drake were now alone together in their small office.

Unbeknownst to anyone else, she and Drake were alone regularly now, whenever Beatrice was able to shake Miss Bolton.

Though Mrs. Steele would not have approved, she needn’t have worried.

Drake treated Beatrice with the utmost professionalism, even offering her port and a pipe at the end of particularly long workdays.

(Neither of them smoked, but they agreed that it was fitting for detectives to at least possess the prop.)

“Any new cases?” Beatrice asked. She took off her bonnet and shook out her dark curls. The white streak in her hair—gained during a competitive round of whist—had grown a bit thicker after the events of last autumn. Catching a killer was almost as stressful as a boisterous card game.

“Nothing of interest,” Drake replied. “Any new beaus?” His deep voice was touched with a hint of an Indian accent—and contempt.

Inspector Drake disapproved of high society, and could not understand Beatrice’s attempts to participate in the Season and solve crimes.

But Drake was not the one who received constant correspondence from Mrs. Steele, telling tales of her financial misfortune and insisting that a prosperous marriage was the only way to rescue the family.

He did not have anyone who relied upon him for monetary support, as Beatrice did: Sadly, his mother had passed long ago, and his wealthy half sister, Alice, was off on a Grand Tour, enjoying her newfound freedom after being locked in an attic for years.

Beatrice, on the other hand, had recurring nightmares of chasing shadowy figures around the city while her sisters, parents, and darling niece huddled in a shack submerged in the Swampshire squelch holes, wasting away….

She tried to perish the thought.

“As a matter of fact, I received three marriage proposals today,” she informed Drake, withdrawing a parcel from her reticule.

“Really?” Drake raised an eyebrow.

“No. I suffered through three conversations about paint drying.” She set the parcel on his desk.

“What is that?” he asked, eyeing it suspiciously.

“Cake that I stole while everyone was droning on about the paint,” Beatrice replied.

“It was unnecessary to bring that all this way,” Drake told her. “Supplying me with sweets is not in your job description.”

“It’s almond,” she told him. “Your favorite.”

“I never said that was my favorite.”

“I am capable of deduction, Inspector.” She crossed to the chessboard in the center of the office, considered it a moment, and then moved her queen.

“Going to the queen so early?” Drake said as he unwrapped the cake parcel. “Dangerous.”

“Why hold back such a powerful piece?”

“Why indeed,” he murmured. “There are a few letters we received from prospective clients,” he went on, his tone growing businesslike as Beatrice removed her muslin shawl and hung it by the front door. “Though none seemed promising for—What are you wearing ?”

“I know, it’s last season,” Beatrice began apologetically, gesturing to her gown. “Five seasons ago, really—”

“I wouldn’t know anything about that,” Drake scoffed, indicating his own rumpled suit. “I am talking about the tassels!”

Beatrice looked down at the colorful embellishments sewn around the neckline, sleeves, and skirt of her dress.

“Miss Bolton added them to help me stand out among the other young ladies of the Season,” she explained.

“You certainly stand out,” Drake said, raising an eyebrow. “Though perhaps not in the way she intended.”

“Keep up the commentary and I’ll add some on to your clothes,” Beatrice told him.

“An empty threat, as you can’t sew a single stitch,” Drake replied.

Beatrice could not argue with this—her attempt at sewing had once gotten a man killed, after all—so instead, she crossed to her desk and began to leaf through a pile of letters. As she riffled through them, she unearthed one in a familiar script and tore it open.

She scanned the contents. Spotting the words “husband” and “eligible,” as well as at least two guilt trips, Beatrice deduced the sender immediately.

“My mother sends her regards.” She folded it closed and returned it to the desk.

“Is she in good health?” Drake asked. Though he affected a disinterested tone, Beatrice could tell from the way he watched her, intently, that he genuinely cared.

In spite of the fact that Drake had wrongly accused Beatrice’s sister Louisa of murder, the Steele family had forgiven him—and even taken a liking to the matter-of-fact inspector.

After all, through his accusations, he had unearthed a plethora of secrets and ultimately forced the family closer together.

“She is fine, apart from her usual nerves,” Beatrice assured him. “Which are nothing that couldn’t be healed by an increase in income…” she added under her breath.

She brought her hand to her throat reflexively.

She always wore a locket with a sketch of her sister Louisa and niece, baby Bee Bee, inside—a token from home.

[*] (Her niece and Miss Bolton’s dog had the same name, which led to some confusion, but as they were both named after Beatrice, she could not complain.) Though Beatrice had wished to come to London, she could not help but miss the family she’d left behind in Swampshire—financial complaints and all.

But her hands felt no cool metal. Instead, they brushed bare skin.

“My locket,” Beatrice gasped, panic rising in her throat. “It’s gone!”

She looked around, hoping it had merely fallen to the floor of the office—but the little necklace was nowhere to be seen.

She pulled out her reticule and began rifling through its contents: an extra hat pin (extra sharp), newspaper clippings, old letters, a bloody handkerchief she had found and thought might be something sinister, until the blood turned out to be lipstick… but no locket.

“Did you walk here alone again?” Drake asked, crossing over to her, his expression darkening. “I have warned you time and time again, this is a city, with pickpockets, thieves, mimes, poets—”

As he spoke, Beatrice reached the bottom of her reticule and withdrew one last item: the poet’s portrait.

“Aha!” she cried, waving the parchment in the air. “It must have been him!”

Drake took the portrait and scanned the name and credits listed below the painted headshot. “?‘Archibald Croome,’?” he read. “?‘Actor, poet, bard, and sonneteer.’ Not a very talented one; most of those words mean the same thing.”

“I should have known he wasn’t saving me just to do a good deed,” Beatrice muttered. “It was all a guise for picking my pocket.”

“You are accustomed to the slow pace of the countryside, as well as its lack of street performers,” Drake told her, tossing aside the portrait. “Things move quicker here. You have to keep up.”

“I can keep up,” Beatrice said immediately.

She could not be seen as provincial. Not if she wanted to be taken seriously as his partner. But, she thought, her na?veté was apparently obvious to all—even a stranger on the street had recognizedit.

Drake motioned for her to come closer, and she obliged. “Poets and pickpockets thrive when you are distracted,” he began, his tone annoyingly didactic.

“I’m never distracted,” Beatrice began.

“Someone outside is stabbing people with a broadsword!” Drake interrupted.

“Fetch my shield!” Beatrice shrieked. “I knew it was a useful purchase—” She whirled around to look out the window. A group of men with top hats and canes passed by, no medieval weaponry in sight.

When Beatrice turned back to Drake, confused, he held one of her earrings in his hands.

“How did you do that?” She pressed a hand to her now empty lobe.

“Street smarts,” Drake repeated. “One must know the way of criminals in order to catch them.” He stepped forward and gently put the earring back in her ear, one hand resting on her chin.

She caught his scent, reminiscent of cinnamon and oranges. Drake looked down at her, his hand still holding her chin, and a strange feeling rushed from his fingertips into the pit of her stomach.

Drake’s eye met hers.

“Now, next time,” he said softly, “you shall be en garde.”

“Please, Drake,” she whispered, “you know how I feel about French.”

He nodded, holding her gaze. Then he finally dropped his hand.

“Now you are prepared, then,” he said, his brisk tone returning. “I cannot have a partner who is vulnerable in such a way. What if someone stole important case information off your person? Not that we have any important cases…”

Beatrice had no reply to this, so she turned and opened the office window. The heat had become too stifling. If only she could relieve her growing insecurities as easily…

She returned to her desk and began to sort through a stack of letters.

There had to be something for them to solve.

She moved aside a half-full teacup—how long had that been there?—and sliced open the next letter. Holding it up, she read aloud:

“?‘To DS Investigations. I have contacted Sir Huxley about this matter, and he suggested that I ask the two of you instead. After a dinner party last Sunday, my spectacles went missing.’?”

Drake sighed. Beatrice felt his frustration.

Inspector Drake’s half sister, Alice, had paid for their office.

She had used her family fortune to furnish it, stocked the shelves with research books, and left Drake a stipend for business expenses.

Yet though this was much appreciated, it did not guarantee the operation’s success.

Alice Croaksworth could pay for a lease, a library, and lamps, but she could not change public opinion.

And the public of London had chosen Sir Huxley as their foremost inspector.

According to the sketches of Huxley in the newspaper, this gentleman detective was devastatingly handsome, with a full mustache and chiseled features.

He flitted around the city with his asp-topped cane, solving all the best crimes.

His connections with the upper classes afforded him access anywhere, and his fame was further buoyed by newspaper articles singing his praises.

Once, Beatrice had been Huxley’s biggest fan—and Inspector Drake had been his partner.

But then Drake and Huxley had parted ways, and Beatrice had learned Huxley was a hack who relied on fans like her to send him answers and clues to the crimes he then “solved.”

Still. No one else in London knew this, and therefore they turned to Sir Huxley for all intriguing cases. Drake and Beatrice were left chasing cats, dogs, and eyeglasses.

They had to start somewhere, Beatrice supposed.

“Last Sunday,” Drake said thoughtfully, leaning back in his chair. “It was very hot that evening. Even worse than today.”

“Perhaps he removed his spectacles, due to the heat,” Beatrice suggested. “They were probably fogging up.” She paused, looking over at Drake just as he spoke.

“We can’t know that for sure,” he said, at the exact same time she recited the words along with him. He made a noise of irritation in the back of his throat. “Well, it’s true,” he said.

“I’m going to write back and advise him to check his windowsills,” Beatrice said. “I surmise that he opened one for some air, removed his glasses when they fogged up, and left them on the ledge. Though if you have another idea, based on more evidence, I am happy to include that as well…?”

“I concur with the windowsill theory,” Drake said stiffly. “But please indicate in your reply that it is just that: a theory.”

Beatrice penned a reply, adding Drake’s addendum (though in very small writing), then folded up the letter and placed it atop a tall stack of outgoing mail.

“You already replied to the rest of the cases?” Beatrice asked in surprise.

“You haven’t been around in a while,” Drake replied, straightening his already-tidy desk.

I should be grateful, Beatrice thought. Drake’s diligence would keep the business going, even in her absence—and if she and Drake could find a real crime, the positive press would be profitable.

They’d be able to attract a steady supply of cases, and Beatrice would have an income of her own, without relying on Alice Croaksworth’s charity.

She could support her family, ensure that baby Bee Bee was well provided for, and avoid a marriage of convenience.

For some reason, at that moment, her mind conjured an image of the fair-haired man who had stood against the tree, smoking his pipe as she pushed through the hedges of the Carnation Club.

A little bell chimed as the door to the office opened, wrenching Beatrice from her thoughts.

A man stepped into DS Investigations. “Good afternoon,” he said in a grand voice. “I hope I’ve come to the right place. I need someone to solve a horribly brutal murder.”

“A brutal murder?” Beatrice exclaimed, leaping to her feet. “Yes, you have certainly come to the right place.”

Skip Notes

* Beatrice had asked an artist to draw her youngest sister, Mary, as well, but the miniature portrait he created mysteriously disintegrated when placed inside the silver locket.