The Case of the Left-Handed Lady (9 page)
Read The Case of the Left-Handed Lady Online
Authors: Nancy Springer
Approaching Ebenezer Finch & Son Emporium, I felt my eyes widen, for never had I seen such capacious bow windows flanking the door of a shop, or so many polished brass dress forms upon which were displayed the latest strait-belted fashions. In, I might add, the most startling of chemically derived colours.
Walking inside provided even more of a shock to my sensibilities. One must understand that shopping as I knew it consisted of entering a stationer’s dark little establishment, or an apothecary’s, or a draper’s, for instance, and telling the fusty blacksuited man behind the counter what of his particular merchandise one wanted, upon which he would either bring an item forth from storage or else take down an order. Shopping was logical and dull. But this Ebenezer Finch & Son Emporium, brilliantly gas-lit even in the daytime, was so far from dull that it arrested the logical workings of the mind. Its merchandise flaunted, attracted, distracted, dazed. On the panelled walls and the varnished wooden counter-tops and even hanging from the ceiling were displayed an astounding variety of wares: bolts of fabric and trimming; hats, gloves, and shawls; tools and padlocks; wooden toys and tin soldiers; kitchen cutlery of all sorts; buckets and watering-cans; caps and aprons and wrought-iron coat hooks, china figurines, fancy-ware, flowers and ribbons, swags of lace and chiffon – it was as if I had stepped into an ocular whirlpool.
At first, saturated with colour, sheen, and flutter, I could scarcely make sense of my surroundings. It was as if everywhere I looked, something shiny attempted to steal away my vital principle like a Mesmerist’s watch winking on its chain. But exerting an effort of will to sort out the spectacle before me, I began to notice that different categories of items were stored and displayed in different areas attended by different clerks – many of them female clerks, I saw with relief – behind counters that seemed to stretch for a mile. The shop was necessarily quite large, scarcely to be called a shop at all; indeed, this was my first experience of what came to be known as a “department” store.
I wondered what constant exposure to this place might do to those who worked here. Hatters went mad and painters became poisoned; labourers in cotton mills grew stunted if they did not sicken and die; this “emporium” also seemed somehow unhealthful to me. How might such a plethora of pretty things affect, if not the body, then the mind?
In a prominent position just inside the door was displayed a photographic portrait of the proprietor, Ebenezer Finch, & Son. Once I had managed to rein in my runaway thoughts, I studied this likeness with interest, not so much in Ebenezer Finch as in Son.
Alexander Finch.
Shopkeeper’s son of impudent fame, alleged seducer of Lady Cecily Alistair.
CHAPTER THE EIGHTH
WITHIN THE ORNATELY FRAMED PHOTOGRAPH he appeared ordinary enough – indeed, so nondescript as to give one the impression that one had seen him somewhere before. An effect no doubt produced by the blankness of expression that is required in order to hold a pose for a camera.
Wandering further into the kaleidoscopic depths of the shop, I looked about me, ostensibly for something to buy, but actually for Mr. Alexander Finch.
I wanted to assess him. To arrive at some conclusion concerning his character. To guess at the degree of his involvement, if any, in Lady Cecily’s disappearance.
As luck would have it, I found him almost immediately, for a loud, hectoring voice caught my attention. “Alexander, a monkey could dress them windows better!”
Looking towards the source of this ungrammatical statement, I located an office – rather an octopus affair, with pneumatic payment-and-receipt tubes running into it from all areas of the store – evidently the proprietor’s office, elevated in the emporium’s farthest corner. Through its large windows, presumably meant for keeping an eye on commerce, I could see Ebenezer Finch haranguing his son.
“. . . sort of colours one would expect from a screaming anarchist,” the father was blustering as he stabbed an accusing finger at his son. “Get them changed to something more tasteful straightaway.”
“Yes, sir.” Standing with his hands folded in front of him, the younger Finch showed not the least emotion, not even a trace of angry red in his face.
“But you’re not to set foot an inch beyond the doorstep, do you hear me?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Expedite the matter, and tell me when you’re done.”
Dismissed, Mr. Alexander Finch gave a nod and exited the office.
By taking a few quick strides, I contrived to encounter him at the bottom of the brass-railed stairs leading down to the main floor of the store. Rather breathlessly I addressed him, “Excuse me, Mr. Finch . . .”
“May I help you, miss?” Halting to face me, he seemed pleasant and obliging enough. A bit dandified, perhaps. He wore tinted eyeglasses indoors. And instead of the usual sober garb of a clerk, he had on a peacock-blue ascot with a horseshoe pin, a silver-grey waistcoat with white buttons, and very smart cuff-links; indeed, his was the male equivalent of the fashionable but inexpensive clothing that ornamented Miss Meshle. If he were a seducer, perhaps he would show some interest in me –
Nonsense. Any comparison to me was hardly fair to Lady Cecily, who was not giraffe-like in personage.
I told Alexander Finch, “Sir, I find myself quite bewildered by such a palatial establishment graced by such a variety of wares, and I wonder whether you might show me . . .” Then I let my voice sink to a murmur only he could hear. “Lady Theodora Alistair sent me to speak with you.”
My heart quickened as I watched to see how he would react.
But he barely reacted at all, showing only the faintest flicker of surprise, from which he recovered quickly, falling in with my charade. “If you’ll just walk this way, miss, I’ll be pleased to assist you.”
He led me back through the store, past a counter where an attractive female clerk stood behind absurdly disembodied carved wooden hands displaying gloves, past another where a spinsterish woman exhibited cast-iron hearth sets to husband and wife; past several more, until he reached one where a willowy young working girl stood. To her he said, “Disappear.”
Although his tone was low and neutral, she fled wide-eyed without a smile or a word – in fear? But perhaps such was her usual manner with him. She was, after all, a doe-eyed young thing, and he was the master’s son.
Himself slipping behind the now-vacant counter, Mr. Alexander Finch told me, “Here we have the very latest fashions in ladies’ footwear.”
It would have attracted attention, you see, appearing disreputable, had I simply stood and talked with him. But we could converse over a counter-top, and to any onlooker it would seem that he was strictly attending to business, waiting upon me.
I wasted no time. “Lady Theodora is taking matters into her own hands,” I explained, or fictionalised, “to see what the fair sex, in an unofficial way, can accomplish in searching for the missing Lady Cecily.”
“Quite so. Something for spring, you say?” Pulling open some of the many deep drawers beneath and behind the counter, he brought forth a fawn-coloured boot with a delicate heel, a pearl-grey one that buttoned up the front instead of the side, and a tan one with laces.
The boots were of excellent quality and quite lovely, but I only pretended to look at them as I told him, “No doubt you think it foolish, but Lady Theodora feels we must try. You see, the police have been of no help.”
“I’d say not. All they do is watch me, and my father’s so vexed with me, he won’t let me out the door.”
He said this just as imperturbably as he’d said anything else. So far I had gained no sense of him, none at all, whether for good or for ill.
“Do you live at home with your parents?” I asked for lack of any better question.
“No, I stay with the other clerks.”
No doubt in a dormitory above the store.
“Well, you’ve some respite from your father’s vexation, then. Why is he angry with you?”
“Because I forget my place, as he calls it, treating people all much the same.” He gestured towards a bentwood chair placed on my side of the counter. “Would you care to have a seat, my lady?”
“Oh, no!” I sat rather abruptly, because my knees weakened. “I am not – I don’t – such a title – ”
“Well, the quality of your speech says you’re not what you appear to be, either.”
While not titled by birth, certainly not one to be presented at court, I was a squire’s daughter, and as such, a member of the gentry, one who does not work for money. And my accent, if not my clothing, betrayed my rank. Sitting with my mouth airing, I scolded myself internally:
I must be more careful.
This was why I had decided the nocturnal Sister must be a mute – because my distinctive voice might give me away.
I must be more careful.
This was why I had decided the nocturnal Sister must be a mute – because my distinctive voice might give me away.
At the same time I began to understand why Lady Cecily might have entered into correspondence with this young man. Beneath his bland exterior lay a great deal of intelligence and – and some other, less definable qualities.
Indeed, for a moment I felt quite uncomfortable as he leaned on his elbows studying me through his tinted spectacles, which made it difficult for me to see his eyes or read their expression.
Just as I started to turn away from his scrutiny, the young man almost smiled. For a moment there was a flicker of some realisation – knowledge, or triumph – in his smirk. He said, “I do believe we have met. What, may I ask, is your name?”
“Certainly you may ask,” I told him, controlling my tone as best I could.
A moment passed before he understood that I would not answer. Then he seemed to drop the subject entirely. “I personally feel that boot-laces are far superior to buttons,” he remarked, holding up the tan boot. “They obviate the tedium of a button-hook, and mould the leather more closely to the limb of the wearer.” Which should not have been desirable or necessary, were the lower extremities not meant to be seen, after all, a glimpse now and then, as this young man knew quite well – though I felt a bit odd hearing him insinuate so. As he spoke, he yanked upon the laces to demonstrate their function, for all the world like a maid pulling upon stay-laces, giving the boot a wasp waist where an ankle should have been.
I barely looked. “Indeed.” My attention remained on his round, blank, bespectacled face. “And if I am a lady, then would you consider yourself a gentleman?”
“Just my point. This country is mad for valuing people according to their titles.” He continued to strait-lace the tan boot. “Why should an idle so-called aristocrat be considered more of a gentleman than any thrifty, sober, industrious member of the working class?”
As he spoke this outrageous nonsense, I sensed passion beneath his cool exterior.
Uncertain where it might lead, I asked cautiously, “You are in favour of democracy, then?” Shocking, if so, even to one who had been raised by a Suffragist.
But he replied, “I scorn all such labels.” Indeed he almost sneered, setting down the tan boot, now appearing strangled in its own laces. “I pigeon-hole no one, I’ll befriend anyone,” (he said rather viciously,) “and if someone needs help, I’ll help them, whether they’re a scullery-maid or – ”
The way he broke off gave me my cue. “Lady Cecily needed help?”
His hard voice lowered, if not exactly softening. “Flat tyre on her bicycle, that was all, when I was out running errands on mine, and I patched hers with my kit, and we got to talking.”
“Alexander!” roared a male voice close at hand.
The young man in question lifted the delicate fawn-coloured boot. “To place an order, miss, all you need do is post us a tracing of your right foot – ”
Mr. Ebenezer Finch hove into view, ranting, “Alexander, I told you – oh.” He broke off rather ungraciously. “I see. You’re helping a customer.”
How very odd, I thought, that while the father was so choleric, the son appeared so stoical. More than stoical. Nearly wooden.
After his father departed, without acknowledging the interruption in the least the young man told me, “Lady Cecily was a serious sort of girl. She’d been reading
Das Kapital,
and we discussed the exploitation of the masses.”
Das Kapital,
and we discussed the exploitation of the masses.”
Das Kapital
? I had heard whispers of the book – it was considered shocking, no, beyond shocking, Not Nice At All, simply deplorable. However, as with many such topics mentioned only in undertones – “life of ill repute,” for instance – I had not the faintest idea what it was, actually.
? I had heard whispers of the book – it was considered shocking, no, beyond shocking, Not Nice At All, simply deplorable. However, as with many such topics mentioned only in undertones – “life of ill repute,” for instance – I had not the faintest idea what it was, actually.
However, Mr. Alexander Finch did not seem to require my comprehension in order to keep talking. “Lady Cecily considered our meeting most fortuitous. She wanted me to show her the proletariat.”
Proletariat? A government building, perhaps?
“Not just domestics, clerks, and artisans, but the true toiling downtrodden factory-fodder masses,” Mr. Alexander went on. “Naturally, I obliged her. We corresponded, and over a period of time – ”
“Oh!” I interrupted.
“I beg your pardon, is something wrong?”
“Not at all.” I had exclaimed because now I saw how Lady Cecily’s charcoal drawings had come to be created. “You took her to the dock district, and the workhouse, and St. Giles, and the fish market at Billingsgate.”
Other books
Death's Jest-Book by Reginald Hill
Like a Boss by Adam Rakunas
Sharing Nicely by Blisse, Victoria
Wild by Alex Mallory
The Vision by Heather Graham
The Door Into Summer by Robert A Heinlein
The People Next Door by Christopher Ransom
The Eternal Wonder by Pearl S. Buck
Wicked Girls by Stephanie Hemphill
The Tesla Gate by John D. Mimms