The Perilous Rendezvous by Nene Adams ©2005 - All rights reserved
A Gaslight Series Short Story

“There are two questions waiting for us at the outset. The one is whether any crime has
been committed at all; the second is what is the crime and how was it committed?”
— Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, The Hound of the Baskervilles

Lady Evangeline St. Claire took a final puff of her cigarette – one of the aromatic Egyptian blend of tobacco that she preferred – and tossed it out of the open window before beckoning to her companion and lover, Rhiannon Moore.

“Come here, my dear. I should like to draw your attention to the activities taking place on the pavement below,” she said.

Rhiannon smiled an apology to Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson, and joined the taller woman at the window. She and Lina were paying a call at the gentlemen’s shared lodgings; it seemed rude to ignore their friends in favor of some spectacle. She said as much to Lina, who replied airily, “Oh, I am certain that Holmes will soon have his curiosity satisfied!”

Her own curiosity was piqued. Peering past the lace curtains, Rhiannon saw a number of people on the pavement opposite 221B Baker Street. One of these figures caught her eye immediately. Dark-skinned and black-clad, the man paced up and down, his hands clasped behind his back. Twice, he nearly collided with pedestrians, so intent was he upon whatever inner turmoil caused him such anxiety. Rhiannon drew back a little, unwilling to be seen when the man cast a look towards the window. Lina’s hand settled between her shoulder blades, the touch reassuring and soothing her momentary anxiety.

“There are any number of troubles that a person may bring to a confidential inquiry agent such as Holmes or myself,” Lina said, her breath warm against Rhiannon’s ear. “Blackmail is the commonest; however, in my experience, victims of extortion will attempt to disguise their true identities in a variety of ways, or seek some surreptitious means of entry to avoid being seen by their tormentor. They rarely broadcast their presence so boldly, in full view, and in such a manner as to draw the fullest possible attention to themselves.”

“True,” Holmes said, having come up behind Rhiannon in order to glance over her shoulder at the pacing man. “When one witnesses a person in great agitation, oscillating to and fro upon the pavement outside a private detective’s domicile, one may reasonably surmise that the case has to do with an affaire de coeur.”

Rhiannon almost laughed at the disgruntled expression on Lina’s face. Her partner did not take kindly to being trumped by Sherlock Holmes; their rivalry was like that of siblings, and quite often the pair acted as if they were still in the nursery.

“Well, he doesn’t seem angry,” Rhiannon said, “more perplexed and grieved than suffering a rejection. Perhaps… I believe he’s made up his mind to see you, Mr. Holmes. He’s hurrying across the road… oh! The omnibus nearly had him!”

“Yes, such carelessness definitely indicates a love affair of some kind,” Holmes murmured. “The poor benighted soul.”

Lina snorted. “I beg that you will attempt to quell your tendency towards melodrama,” she said to Holmes, her voice filled with disdain. He shrugged, then returned to the settee and picked up a cucumber sandwich. The clang of the bell from downstairs alerted them to the presence of the potential client. A few moments later, there was a tap at the door.

“Mr. Holmes,” said Mrs. Hudson, the landlady, “there’s a Mr. Reed to see you, sir.”

Holmes welcomed the gentleman with easy courtesy, while Rhiannon played the part of hostess and poured him a cup of tea, serving it without sugar or milk, only a slice of lemon after he murmured his preference. Mr. Reed sat in an armchair near the fire, seemingly oblivious at the stares which were directed his way. His hand shook. After a moment, the bone china cup was dropped on the table with such force, tea slopped over the rim. A loud crack signaled the breaking of the saucer into three pieces.

“I beg your pardon,” Reed said, his voice also cracking. He clenched his hands into fists, the muscle in his jaw working. His accent revealed an American origin. “I did not… that is, it was not my intention…”

Lina glided over to him. “The saucer is of no moment,” she said. “Tell me, Miss Reed – for I see that you are not a man – what is it that troubles you so deeply? You are among friends. I give you my word that we will bend our efforts to help you, provided you are candid with us.”

Miss Reed? Startled, Rhiannon took another look at the person clad in a gentleman’s suit of lightweight black cheviot wool. The dark complexion indicated an African heritage, mixed with that of lighter-skinned Europeans somewhere in her lineage. Her shoulder-length, crinkly locks were drawn back in a sloppy tail at the nape of her neck. Beneath the well-tailored jacket – Rhiannon recognized Saville Row quality, as well as a fine shirt from Pink’s on Jeremy Street, which spoke of money – Miss Reed’s figure was well proportioned, and her height was less than a hand-span smaller than Lina’s six feet.

Regardless of the longish hair Rhiannon would never have guessed that this person was female. Not as the result of any overt signs of masculinity, but simply because in a sexually segregated society, any person in male costume was assumed to be male, unless otherwise indicated. Just as one did not expect to see a man in a dress, one did not expect to find a woman in trousers outside of the stage.

I ought to know better, living with Lina, Rhiannon thought, and sighed.

“Assure yourself that Lady St. Claire speaks for us all, madam,” Holmes added. “I also hasten to give you my word that what is said here remains in this room.”

“Naturally,” Watson said. “I have never known Holmes to break his word… or Lady St. Claire, for that matter.” He went to the gasogene, and returned with a brandy-and-soda which he pressed into the woman’s hand.

“It was Mr. Holmes that I came to see,” Miss Reed murmured, having regained control of herself. She took a sip of brandy, her tongue flicking out to remove a stray drop from her upper lip. “The police, the bank… they all think she’s done it, but I know that isn’t true.”

“Begin at the beginning,” Holmes instructed, beating Lina to the punch and earning a scowl. “Omit no detail, however insignificant.”

A glance from Lina made Rhiannon reach for the little notebook and automatic pencil that she carried in her jacket pocket.

“I have… a particular friend, a Miss Catherine Anderson,” Miss Reed said, settling into the armchair. Her gaze flashed from person to person; evidently, what she saw, or perhaps sensed, made her relax further, a portion of her trust gained. She drained the brandy-and-soda, and placed the empty glass on the table, using exaggerated care. “Miss Anderson is a British citizen, born and raised in London. You may have noticed I’m an American, from Washington.”

“Your nation’s capitol, I believe,” Lina said.

“That’s right. Miss Anderson and I met a year ago at a diplomatic function in Washington. The details aren’t significant to the current case. Our attraction was mutual. Suffice it to say…” Miss Reed broke off. When she resumed, her voice was steady once more, although her trembling hands betrayed some measure of her upset. “Our intention was to live together… a ‘Boston marriage,’ if you like. My position is such that I was unable to join Miss Anderson in London immediately. We carried on a regular correspondence while I put my affairs in order.”

“And Miss Anderson’s affairs?” Holmes asked, steepling his long, thin fingers in front of his face, and slouching down in his chair.

“She is employed by the Cuthbert & Co. Bank on Gracechurch Street.”

Lina nodded. “I know the place.”

“In the City of London, within the financial district known as the Square Mile that stretches from Blackfriars Bridge to Tower Bridge,” Holmes provided at Watson’s puzzled frown. “The bank in question is near the Leadenhall Market.”

“Exactly,” Miss Reed said. “I arrived in London yesterday, and met Miss Anderson for breakfast this morning at my hotel, the Savoy. It was a very joyous occasion. We’d been separated so long, and to finally meet again… it was one of the happiest moments of my life. Our lives, I should say, for Cat… I mean, Miss Anderson… I couldn’t mistake her gladness, nor her contentment over our reunion. Never once, by look or spoken word or deed, did I imagine that she might have cause to regret this renewal of our relationship. Mr. Holmes, Lady St. Claire – I am not a person who is easily gulled. Had I thought for one moment that Miss Anderson rued our meeting and did not desire me to remain in England, I would have left at once rather than stay where I was not whole-heartedly welcome.”

Miss Reed drew a deep breath. “Miss Anderson was to give her notice at the bank. I am not without means; our agreed-upon plan was to travel for a while – Paris, Vienna, Rome, Constantinople – before settling either in Europe or America. Either would have suited me, if Miss Anderson was happy. Now it seems those plans have been shattered by a circumstance which is so strange, so unaccountably bizarre, I can scarcely believe it to be true myself.”

Rhiannon leaned forward, completely mesmerized by the woman’s story.

“Go on,” Lina urged.

Holmes said nothing, but continued to watch Miss Reed, his eyes slitted in concentration.

“Miss Anderson is employed by Cuthbert & Co. as a bank runner,” Miss Reed said. “Every day, she walks through her assigned territory picking up cash deposits from the bank’s customers, among other things. Her schedule is precisely timed, so that by the end of the business day, she has come full circle back to the bank, bringing the deposits with her.”

“Forgive me… is this not an unusual occupation for a woman?” Watson asked.

“You might suppose that the bank would employ armed guards, and possibly a retired military gentleman to collect their funds and securities,” Lina said, “however some financial institutions – Cuthbert & Co. among them, apparently – have decided to be less conspicuous by employing female agents, for the precise reason that few would suspect a woman of holding a position of such responsibility. Furthermore, while would-be thieves might employ deadly force against a man, they will almost certainly underestimate a woman in the same position.” She turned to Miss Reed. “Was Miss Anderson armed?”

“Yes, she carried a Hopkins and Allen .38 caliber rimfire revolver,” Miss Reed replied. “As far as I know, she never had cause to use it.”

Suddenly, a loud bang sounded on the door, which flew open immediately afterwards, revealing an out-of-breath Mrs. Hudson. “Oh, Mr. Holmes! Here’s a to-do,” the stout lady said. “Inspector Lestrade is downstairs…”

“Ah, the Wardington poisoning!” Holmes stood, brushing invisible lint from his waistcoat. “I was anticipating a break in the case. Come, Watson, the game is afoot!”

Miss Reed’s eyes glittered dangerously. She stood, interposing herself between Holmes and the door. There was no doubt in Rhiannon’s mind that if pressed, the American woman would be a formidable opponent. “And my case, sir? Is a woman’s trouble not important enough to hold your attention?”

Holmes waved a hand through the air, coming close to striking Watson, who was hovering nearby with their coats. “My dear madam, I regret most deeply that a prior commitment forces me to abandon your cause. However, I leave you in good hands. St. Claire is more than capable of providing the assistance you require. Damnation! Oh, I beg your pardon… where is that blasted… aha!” He lofted a torn piece of paper, triumph writ large on his saturnine face.

Through the open door came a series of blistering oaths, floating up from downstairs. Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard was clearly impatient. Mrs. Hudson glanced from Holmes to Watson and fled, her face gone white at the inspector’s language. Frowning, Holmes checked Watson’s Army revolver before he and the doctor exited the room in a hurry, leaving Miss Reed, Rhiannon and Lina alone in silence, broken only by the bang of the front door closing behind the men, and Mrs. Hudson’s muffled footsteps on the carpeted stairs.

For lack of anything better to do, Rhiannon poured herself a cup of cooled tea. “Miss Reed, you may not know Lady St. Claire’s reputation, but like Mr. Holmes, she’s a dedicated and highly professional consulting detective.”

“I ascertain that the case is of some urgency,” Lina said, “and delay would prove inadvisable, otherwise I should be glad to give you references.” She took a silver-and-jade case from her pocket, and removed a cigarette. Her ebony brows rose nearly to her hairline when Miss Reed shook a lucifer from a match case taken from her own pocket, and struck it to life, holding the match as gallantly as any gentleman while Lina used it to light her cigarette. That bit of business seemed to dispel any lingering awkwardness. Miss Reed shrugged her shoulders, and flicked the spent match into the fire while Lina blew a stiletto-thin stream of smoke towards the ceiling.

“Miss Anderson and I separated, as she had to go to work,” Miss Reed said, sitting back down and composing herself as though the interruption had not occurred. “We were supposed to meet at the Savoy at four o’clock, and she did not come. I waited for a half-hour, then took a hansom cab to the bank, where I found the whole place in an uproar. After some persuasion, Mr. Plympton – the bank manager – told me that Miss Anderson had skipped with over five thousand pounds in cash, as well as a further two thousand pounds in negotiable bank bonds. He branded her a common thief, as did the police! Why, anything could have happened to Cat! What if she was knocked in the head? What if she’s laying somewhere, injured and frightened and alone…”

Miss Reed inhaled, and released the breath slowly. “It may be argued that a few evenings in Washington twelve months ago, and afterwards a copious correspondence do not equip me to know Miss Anderson so thoroughly, but I tell you now, that woman is incapable of such an act. That is not mere love talking; it is an indisputable fact, a positive certainty, and I stand by that fact with every fiber of my being. I would sooner expect Miss Anderson to fly to the moon than commit common thievery. I swear by all that’s holy, she doesn’t have it in her.”

Rhiannon heard the conviction in Miss Reed’s speech, saw the determination reflected in the woman’s eyes, and believed that she was telling the truth.

Lina looked thoughtful. “So Miss Anderson has vanished, presumed to have taken a considerable sum with her in this unlawful flight.”

“Mr. Plympton, that fool, refuses to listen to reason. He insists that the police investigate the matter as if poor Cat has flown with the cash, which means they’re concentrating on the docks, shipping offices and train stations. I know she’s still in London. I know it!” Miss Reed’s balled-up fist struck her thigh in a display of frustration that was immediately controlled. “I had hoped Mr. Holmes might be persuaded.. but will you help me find her, Lady St. Claire? I’ll spare no expense, of course.”

“Bah! A fee is of no consequence to me,” Lina said. Miss Reed’s dark complexion precluded her turning pale, but her skin assumed an unhealthy grayish hue.

Realizing the woman had misunderstood, Rhiannon hastened to add, “But of course, we will investigate Miss Anderson’s disappearance. You need have no worries on that score.”

Miss Reed’s relief was palpable. She stood, and collected an amber-headed walking cane that had been propped by the side of the armchair. Miss Reed did not quite tap her toe with impatience while she waited for Lina and Rhiannon to collect their gloves and reticules, but her anxiety to be gone was infectious. Rhiannon found herself virtually rushed out of 221B Baker Street, and squeezed between Miss Reed and Lina in the narrow confines of a hansom cab. Lina leaned out of the window. “Time is of the essence!” she instructed the man on the back of the box. “Gracechurch Street as fast as you can, and I’ll add a sovereign to your fare!”

The driver’s whip cracked like a gunshot, the cab lurched, the wheels rattled, and they were away, careening down the street and taking a corner at such speed, the vehicle nearly tilted on two wheels. The driver shouted encouragement to his horse; muscles bunched and twisted beneath the animal’s glossy coat as it stretched out its legs in a gallop, scattering pedestrians, street cleaners, peddler’s carts and other hazards from its path. Rhiannon clapped a hand to her wide-brimmed Gainsborough hat, and held onto Lina with her free hand. Although the day was cool, and the wind of their passage carried the distinct bite of a fast approaching autumn, she felt as though she was burning up, pressed tightly as she was against the two larger women, and subjected to the furnace-like heat that radiated through the layers of their clothing.

The Cuthbert & Co. Bank on Gracechurch Street was a modest establishment, lacking those neo-Classical architectural details that made the Bank of England such an imposing edifice. Nevertheless, the place had an air of commerce that was unmistakable, a je ne sais quoi that Rhiannon could only describe as the ‘smell of money.’ This impression was strangely enhanced rather than destroyed by the uniformed police constables loitering outside. Lina daintily picked up her skirts and vaulted from the hansom cab, pausing to assist Rhiannon. Miss Reed exited with deliberate grace, straightening her rumpled jacket and smoothing back loosened strands of her crinkly hair.

Lina marched inside the bank as if she had every right to be there. Rhiannon privately thought that her lover’s natural arrogance – she was, after all the daughter of a Duchess, with a line of nobility in her veins that stretched back to the Conqueror – was more effective than any pass-key at gaining entrance to the unlikeliest places. Lina’s cold stare, curled lip and flaring nostrils had cowed better men than the employees of Cuthbert & Co. Mere clerks could not withstand the cool glitter in the lady's emerald eyes. Within a very few moments, the women were ushered into the offices of the bank manager, Mr. Plympton.

Mr. Plympton proved to be a small, thin, round-shouldered fellow with a head of gray-flecked brown hair that was receding from his high forehead. “I have already told you, sir,” he began upon spotting Miss Reed, then his eye fell upon Lina, and he paused. She wore an unstructured Liberty silk gown in the avant garde aesthetic fashion, and a hat that was a masterpiece of the milliner’s art, besides being obviously expensive. Like the bank itself, Lina reeked of money, and this more than anything else commanded Plympton’s attention.

“Lady Evangeline St. Claire,” Lina said, advancing on him and giving the man no chance to beat a retreat. She presented him with a calling card taken from her reticule. “I am here to inquire after the whereabouts of Miss Catherine Anderson.”

His manner instantly chilled. “I am sorry to disabuse you, milady,” Plympton said, “but Miss Anderson is a fugitive wanted by the police for theft.”

“Slanderer!” Miss Reed said. Rhiannon put a hand on the dark-skinned woman’s forearm, and shook her head to indicate silence.

“Since the police are already investigating the matter,” Lina said, “you can hardly object to my own participation in the search.” When he opened his mouth, she added, “Any funds discovered by the police will be confiscated until the trial, and held under the charge of a number of financially hard-pressed Scotland Yard sergeants, the cash subject to being partly mislaid or lost altogether…” She left her voice trail off suggestively.

Plympton’s mouth tightened into a straight line, and he grimaced. “Whereas you, Lady St. Claire, pledge to return the bank’s money intact, is that it?”

“Indeed, sir, it is my goal to ensure that the bank’s reputation does not suffer in the slightest; to that end, I shall make good any shortcomings in Miss Anderson’s cash collection from my own pocket, provided you cooperate to the fullest extent possible.”

He shot a suspicious look at Miss Reed, but Lina’s offer was too good to resist. “Very well, milady. I accept your bargain, but remind you that the responsibility of this case – as well as any unpleasant consequences – rest solely upon your head. Like Pontius Pilate, I wash my hands of the affair.” Plympton sat down behind his desk, and clipped a gold-framed pince-nez to the bridge of his nose. The lenses slightly magnified his sherry brown eyes. His expression was pinched, as if an incipient headache threatened, which did not surprise Rhiannon in the least. “What do you wish to know?” he asked.

“How long has Miss Anderson been employed by your firm?” Lina asked.

“Five years,” Plympton answered, fussing with a tin of chocolates that bore a pasted label on the lid that read, Jackerly and Sons, Confectioners. “She has been a satisfactory employee; there are no complaints or reprimands on her record. Miss Anderson gave notice this morning; she intended to leave us in two weeks’ time. It must have been a ruse to allay our suspicions.”

“Do you have Miss Anderson’s route?”

He hesitated. “The runners’ routes are highly confidential. A matter of security, you understand.”

Lina said nothing; she stared at Plympton until he drew a sheet of foolscap towards him, and began to write on it in a banker’s typical copperplate using a fountain pen. The iridium nib scratched over the surface of the paper – the only sound in the manager’s office besides Miss Reed’s breathing and the tick of a clock on the mantelpiece.

After a moment, he said, “The police have determined Miss Anderson’s movements…”

“I beg your pardon,” Lina interrupted, “but I have no desire to be contaminated by Scotland Yard’s fumblings. It is best if I conduct the interviews myself, and trace Miss Anderson’s steps. Have you any notion how long she has been missing?”

Plympton put down the pen, and took an old-fashioned, turnip-shaped silver watch from his waistcoat pocket. “She ought to have returned to the bank two hours ago,” he said, sniffing. “Naturally, I alerted the police at once. This is not the first time that a formerly trusted runner has absconded with a great deal of cash. I’ve told Mr. Cuthbert on many occasions that we ought to send the runners out in pairs, but he will insist…”

“And where was she last seen?” Lina broke in, ending the man’s complaints.

Rhiannon found the answer surprising.

“I saw her across the street, at Mssrs. Jackerly and Sons the confectioners, which is her final destination of the day,” Plympton said, taking up his writing once more. “She did not return from there. I made the inquiries myself, and was told that she had left the premises.”

“Thank you.” Lina accepted the sheet of paper he held out when he had finished making his list. “I shall certainly…”

A man entered the room, unescorted by any clerk or constable. He was tall and quite fat; the lower part of his face was, oddly for the mild weather, swathed in a knitted muffler that, coupled with the hat jammed over his forehead, rendered him almost entirely incognito. Without saying a word, he locked the door, and aimed himself at Plympton’s desk. Miss Reed snatched at his lapel and stopped him.

“Who are you?” Miss Reed asked, her voice a low growl. “A cop? We don’t need anymore calamity howlers, damn your eyes!”

Lina scrutinized the stranger, and suddenly smiled. “Ah, we are joined by a most unexpected and unusual guest. This gentleman rarely leaves his rooms at the Diogenes Club, and his presence here is akin to Mohammed visiting the mountain. May I present Mr. Mycroft Holmes, who holds a somewhat ambiguous position in Her Majesty’s government?”

The man in question removed his hat and unwound the muffler. Rhiannon could discern the resemblance he bore to his brother, although Mycroft was older, and the sharp features that gave Sherlock Holmes an eagle-like aspect were blurred by fat. “Lady St. Claire, Miss Moore,” Mycroft said, nodding his head. He raised an eyebrow at Miss Reed, and was introduced to the ‘gentleman’ by Lina. That social pleasantry accomplished, Mycroft went straight to the point.

“Mr. Plympton,” he said in cut-crystal Oxford tones, “I have come to inform you that Miss Anderson’s disappearance has more far reaching implications than you have conceived.”

Plympton gripped his fountain pen, ink dripping unnoticed onto the blotting paper that protected the top of his desk. “What is it?”

“In addition to her regular duties as a bank runner, Miss Anderson was supposed to procure a package for Mr. Cuthbert from Rosenthal’s, the engraver on Fleet Street.”

“Yes, that’s true. Mr. Cuthbert gave me the order himself.”

Mycroft’s eyes were set beneath prominent brows, and his searing gaze took in every aspect of the small office and the people in it. “This goes no further, ladies and gentlemen. Should the newspapers print an account of what I am about to reveal, I shall know at whose door to place the blame.”

“Of course,” came from Plympton, and a murmured, “Naturally,” from Miss Reed. Rhiannon did not know if the American woman understood the significance of Mycroft Holmes’ position in Whitehall. The older Mr. Holmes was something of an éminence gris, and considered by those in high places to be the most indispensable man working in the British government. That he was here, in this bank, spoke of some incredible circumstance that could mean only ill for the entire nation if it was not successfully resolved.

Mycroft’s next words caused a shock to reverberate around the room. “The package that Miss Anderson was carrying,” he said with gravely, “contained the new printing plates for the five pound note.”

Miss Reed grasped the significance at once, and her eyes flashed in suppressed fury. “What did you mean, sending Miss Anderson on such a dangerous errand? Didn’t you know that would make her a target for God knows what kind of criminals?” She advanced on Plympton, who shrank back and looked to Mycroft for assistance.

“Rest assured, Mr. Reed, that Mr. Plympton had no knowledge of the sensitive nature of the package,” Mycroft said. “The scheme did not have my approval, either, but I was overruled by those who were taken with Mr. Cuthbert’s plan. On the face of it, it seemed an ingenious solution to the difficult problem of transferring the engraved plates from Rosenthal’s to a secure location before they were sent to the Bank of England. Mr. Cuthbert’s assurance was that no one would suspect a female bank runner of carrying these most invaluable and important articles, therefore we need not expect an attempt might be made to steal them. Hah! A money-saving plan that may very well cost England her financial security! Well, now that the woman has done a runner in truth… the sole compensation in this affair is that Miss Anderson can have had no idea what she was carrying. If we are lucky, she will be apprehended before the plates can be sold to anarchists, foreign agents, or simple counterfeiters.”

“How many others besides Mr. Cuthbert and yourself were aware of the scheme?” Lina asked.

“Damned few, if you’ll pardon the indelicacy,” was Mycroft’s answer. “The matter was kept under the tightest security, strictly confidential. I copied the authorization documents myself rather than let a clerk handle them.”

Lina scowled. “And why do you now disclose this information? Of course… your brother knew of the plan beforehand, and when he learned that Miss Anderson had vanished without a trace, Sherlock informed you that I have become involved in the case. You wished to bring me into your confidence, and alert me to the presence of the plates.”

“You have, as usual, milady, struck squarely in the gold.” Mycroft laid a big hand over his heart, and inclined his head. “Sherlock sent me an urgent communiqué stating that he had passed the case into your capable hands. He suggested that you might be found here. I thought it best that you know the stakes involved.” He turned to Plympton. “Scotland Yard is not yet cognizant of the missing Bank of England plates. It will be your task to inform the inspector in charge, and be sure he understand the magnitude of this crime, as well as the necessity for silence! Should word of this reach our enemies abroad…” Mycroft’s massive body shuddered. “The international implications would be very, very bad for this beleaguered nation of ours.”

“I quite understand,” Plympton said. “If you’ll excuse me, I ought to find the inspector straight away.” He removed his pince-nez, and made his way out of the office after unlocking the door.

Mycroft sighed heavily. “I must return to Whitehall. Who knows what may have befallen the government in my absence?”

“We will re-trace Miss Anderson’s route,” Lina said. “Should anything of importance come to light, I will send round a note at once.”

“Good luck, Lady St. Claire.” Mycroft assumed his hat and muffler.

Lina nodded. “Luck will have very little to do with it, Mr. Holmes, but I thank you all the same. Rhiannon and… er… Mr. Reed… come along; there is wickedness abroad.”

“By the pricking of my thumbs,” Rhiannon murmured, quoting Shakespeare.

Miss Reed grimaced, and followed the other two women out of the office, out of the bank, and into a hansom cab for the journey to their next destination – Mr. Walpole Drummond, a chemist whose shop was located near Threadneedle Street

“Nearly as many banks as churches in the district,” Lina observed. She had dismissed the hansom cab once they arrived at the shop; now she shook some wrinkles out of her silk skirts, and continued, “From this point onward, ladies, we travel via Shank’s ten-toed mare” – she thrust out a booted foot to illustrate her point – “even as Miss Anderson did on a daily basis. In this way we may discover some clue that has been overlooked by the police, or at the very least gain an understanding of Miss Anderson’s route. Miss Reed, I must remind you that intimidation tactics will not do in this situation. I beg you will allow me to conduct the investigation in my own way. Should you have something pertinent to contribute, by all means do so. Otherwise…”

“Silence is golden,” Miss Reed said. For the first time in their brief acquaintance, a tiny smile tugged at the corners of the woman’s mouth. She touched the head of her cane to the brim of her bowler hat. “I will be seen and not heard.”

“Excellent.”

A jangling bell over the door announced their arrival. There was a middle-aged woman behind the counter, her plain black bombazine dress covered by a crisp white apron. “May I help you?” she asked, sounding doubtful. Rhiannon thought that the woman did not have much experience with customers who were not bank clerks, typewriter girls or delivery persons.

“My name is Lady Evangeline St. Claire,” Lina said, and proceeded to dazzle Miss Wilhelmina Drummond (the proprietor’s daughter) with a demonstration of upper class charm. She soon had Miss Drummond at ease, leaning an elbow on the counter and chatting away as if she and Lina were two grandmother’s gossipping at a village well.

“Oh, aye, I seen Miss Anderson all right,” Wilhelmina said, “right prompt, as always. Bang on the dot o’ two, never a moment late.”

“Did you and Miss Anderson have a nice chat?” Lina asked.

Wilhelmina giggled. “Of course not!” She almost, but not quite, gave Lina a playful smack on the shoulder. “There ain’t no time. Miss Anderson’s in and out, quick as a wink. My dad’s very strict; the money’s to be done up with the receipts, waiting for the bank miss at 1:55 on the spot. She comes in, takes the money, and she’s gone again without so much as a ‘good afternoon.’”

“Nevertheless, did anything in Miss Anderson’s attitude or appearance strike you as being out of the way? Strange? Out of character?”

The woman started to giggle again, then stopped, frowning thoughtfully. “There’s a thing to ponder, for I’d put it clean out of my mind,” Wilhelmina said in wonderment. “Now as you mention it, milady, there was something off about Miss Anderson. In her appearance, I mean.”

“What was that?” Lina’s expression sharpened at this hint of a clue.

“Her hat,” Wilhelmina said promptly. “Look, Miss Anderson always dresses nice and proper, but practical, too – white shirtwaists, dark blue skirts with horsehair trim on account of the street rubbish, good boots, gloves and jackets. Second hand from Petticoat Lane, no doubt, and decent quality all the same. Her hats is the same, plain and no fuss, none o’ them feathers and flowers and dead birds and such rubbish. Today, though, her hat was… well, it was too big.”

There was silence while Wilhelmina considered the statement she had just made. “It was too big,” she repeated. “One of those wide brimmed hats, like yours, miss,” she said to Rhiannon, “except the brim was turned down. Mushroom-shaped, as t’were. Naught to see save a bit of chin and her mouth. The whole of the thing was feathered and beribboned to a fault, clusters of yellow and green silk flowers, false butterflies, taffeta bows, wax cherries, beading, lace… I never saw anything like it,” Wilhelmina concluded in wistful admiration.

Rhiannon thought the description painted a rather vivid picture of the most execrable and excessive millinery imaginable, but all Lina said was, “I see.”

They spent a few more moments determining that Wilhelmina Drummond had seen nothing else, and then took their leave.

Miss Reed said, “I’ve never known Cat to wear a hat like that. She’s more circumspect in her fashion, as Miss Drummond indicated.”

“Had Miss Anderson also been carrying a bright orange ruffled parasol, I should not be surprised,” Lina said cryptically. She consulted the paper that Plympton had given her. “We must press on, if we are to conclude our investigation before evening falls.” With no further explanation, she started down the pavement.

“Wait a damned minute!” Miss Reed said, snatching at Lina’s arm. “What does it mean?”

“The very prominent hat? We shall wait and see.” Lina side-stepped to avoid being grabbed. “I empathize with your fervent desire to see to Miss Anderson’s safety, and I am also cognizant of your natural wish to be informed of every development; however, my method demands that I draw no conclusions without every fact that can be reasonably determined. I do not explain myself, madam, until the time comes, and only I may say when that time has arrived. When I deem it necessary, I will reveal all to you. In the meantime, you do a disservice by demanding that which I am not yet willing to give.”

“I apologize.” Miss Reed closed her eyes and visibly calmed herself. When she opened her eyes again, she seemed much more amenable to reason. “You see, earlier today, I was so happy, Lady St. Claire, and now…”

Lina patted her hand. “I understand. Come, let us continue our quest for information. I am certain that there is an explanation awaiting us at the end.”

Aware of a police constable who had witnessed the minor altercation between Lina and Miss Reed, and was headed in their direction, Rhiannon was glad when their little group set off to their next destination – Gordon Gallowglass the tobacconist, on Fleet Street. As it transpired, Mr. Gallowglass had nothing unusual to report except the extraordinary hat that Miss Anderson had been wearing. The same was true at Wm. Hogg the stationers on Whitefriars Street, Alfred Stokes the brush-maker next door, the Coney and Sparrow public house on Shoe Lane, the Cheshire Cheese public house across the street, and Rosenthal’s engraving shop, where the missing woman had picked up the package intended for Mr. Cuthbert – the package that contained the Bank of England plates. The further they traced Miss Anderson’s route, and the more proprietors they spoke to, the more it became obvious that the Hat, as it had become capitalized in Rhiannon’s mind, had made a lasting impression on everyone who beheld it.

At last, foot-sore and weary, the women returned to Cuthbert & Co.

Miss Reed impatiently tapped her amber-headed cane on the pavement, and gave Lina a significant glance. “What is your conclusion?” she asked.

“Very well, Miss Reed, your patience should be rewarded. Here is my initial thought – that Miss Anderson could not have made herself more conspicuous if she had hired an oompah-band to accompany her on her rounds,” Lina said, drawing them towards an alley at the side of the bank, where they would have a bit of privacy, and be out of the pedestrian traffic. “Having said that, it was a peculiar kind of conspicuousness that, while garish in the extreme, nevertheless guaranteed her anonymity on two fronts. The first, that such a glittering chapeau would, with near absolute certainty, overwhelm and overshadow the woman wearing it, to the point that the hat would be all that one noticed. Second, the hat’s brim was structured in such a way as to hide the face. Why? What would be the purpose behind such a construction?”

“Because the person wearing the hat was not Miss Anderson,” Rhiannon said. The moment the words came out of her mouth, she knew there was no other explanation.

“A palpable hit, my dear!” Lina said, smiling.

The cane creaked in protest of Miss Reed’s tightening grip. “What happened to Cat?”

“In some fashion not yet determined, I suspect criminals became aware, not only of Miss Anderson’s employment with the bank, but also of the printing plates that she would be carrying today. Perhaps Mr. Cuthbert may be of some assistance…” Lina suddenly looked thunderstruck. She blinked, and finally said, “Of course! Miss Reed, I have a task for you that is vitally important.”

“There’s nothing I won’t do for her,” Miss Reed assured Lina.

“Go and speak to Mr. Plympton. Ascertain if he saw Miss Anderson this morning, before she set out on her scheduled appointments. If not he, then someone inside the bank must have seen her. Try to obtain as complete a description of her appearance as possible. Make haste, madam!” Lina urged. “Time is not our ally.”

Miss Reed ducked inside the building, and returned less than five minutes later. “Indigo skirt, white shirtwaist, fringed shawl and black straw bonnet,” she said, somewhat breathless. “The description was according to Mr. Plympton, and the other female bank runners concur.”

Lina frowned at the sheet of paper, and traced the lines of writing with a gloved fingertip. “Something is missing… but what?”

“Cat must’ve been taken just after she left the bank, because all of her customers reported that damned hat,” Miss Reed muttered. “Where is she? Lady St. Claire, do you suppose her kidnappers will ask for a ransom? I’ll pay it, there’s no question of that.”

“Ransom was not in these men’s minds,” Lina answered, still frowning at the paper. “It was something Mr. Plympton said… aha!” She looked up, crumpled the paper in her fist, and pulled a Webley .455 caliber revolver from her jacket pocket. “Miss Reed, are you armed?”

For answer, the dark-skinned woman removed a LeMat 9-shot revolver with a polished walnut grip from her jacket. The weapon had two barrels; the upper fired .35 caliber ammunition from an 8-shot cylinder, while the lower was a smooth-bore barrel that fired a single .50 caliber round filled with buckshot for true stopping power. “Just tell me what, or who, to aim at,” Miss Reed said, a grim light in her eyes.

“Mr. Plympton told us that the last sighting of Miss Anderson occurred across the street at Mssrs. Jackerly and Sons,” Lina said. “That name is not on my list.”

Rhiannon watched the building out of the corner of her eye. It seemed deserted, until she saw a curtain in one of the upper story windows twitch. The whole structure was hidden behind scaffolding that appeared to have been carelessly erected. Rhiannon would never have trusted her skin to that teetering, lashed-together collection of old boards and skinny pipes. Several men strode up to Jackerly’s front door and went inside. They were broad-shouldered burly types, wearing cheap, ill-fitting suits, and had bowler hats tipped rakishly over their eyes. Rhiannon had known their kind in the East End, in Whitechapel where she had once plied a light-skirt’s trade; these men were tough, hardened by poverty and violence, and just as likely to stick a knife into someone than offer a friendly hand.

“If I am not mistaken,” Lina breathed, “those are members of the Seven Dials gang, headed by Osborne Royden. Miss Reed, reinforcements are required in this instance. Do representatives of the police remain within the bank?”

“You are going nowhere without me,” Miss Reed said, a clear warning in her voice.

“Miss Anderson may be within that building. I cannot be certain…” Lina bit her lip. “A reconnaissance may be wise, to determine if Miss Anderson is inside, and how many gang members are with her.”

“What are they waiting for?” Rhiannon asked, puzzled. “They have the plates, which is what I suppose they wanted in the first place. Why stay there, so close to the bank?”

Lina shrugged. “The gang is no doubt lingering in anticipation of the arrival of their chieftain, Royden. Therefore, we have but a little time in which to act.” She turned to Miss Reed. “I have a plan,” she said, and pulled the American woman and Rhiannon into the alley, where they would not be overheard.

~~~ooo0ooo~~~

Rhiannon watched Miss Reed enter Jackerly and Sons Confectioners, her steps as confident as if she truly was a customer in search of tasty treats, instead of an agent of justice or retribution, as the case required. Lina had gone inside Cuthbert & Co. to have a word with the police inspector. Rhiannon’s task was to loiter outside the bank, as if she was waiting for someone to join her, and keep an eye on anything transpiring across the street. In the event that matters erupted into warfare, or Miss Reed gave a signal that she needed assistance, Rhiannon would summon reinforcements.

Lina joined her after several minutes. “Has there been any activity?” she asked, donning her kidskin gloves.

“Not a peep,” Rhiannon said.

“Inspector Muir proved a tad unwilling to act upon the word of a mere female,” Lina said, making a show of adjusting her bonnet ribbons, to cover the keen glances she was shooting across the street, “but I persuaded him that I was acting under the aegis of Mycroft Holmes. That formidable gentleman’s name was sufficient to gain Muir’s cooperation.”

Rhiannon was relieved that Lina would not be racing into Jackerly’s and confronting the Seven Dials gang alone. Her lover was quite capable of such head-strong behavior, and while Rhiannon trusted that Lina was able to take care of herself, she preferred not to have her nerves (or Lina’s self-defense skills) so sorely tested. “How did Mr. Plympton find your plan?”

Lina scowled. “Mr. Plympton… well, my dear, I believe he is the author of the scheme to steal the Bank of England plates. He is currently in police custody.”

“Oh?” Rhiannon blinked. “How did that come about?”

“The hat,” Lina replied promptly. “Do you recall that I asked Mr. Plympton to tell me where Miss Anderson was last seen? He answered that he had seen her going into Jackerly’s. We already know from our inquiries that everyone else on her route gave some impression of the astonishing chapeau. When Miss Reed told me that Plympton – and another female runner - had described Miss Anderson’s attire of the morning, including a black bonnet, I knew something was not right.”

“If he was able to remember what she was wearing that morning, why didn’t he tell you about that awful hat later in the day?” Rhiannon nodded in comprehension. “In fact, how did he know it was Miss Anderson going into Jackerly’s? It’s impossible for him to see across the street from his office. He couldn’t have seen her unless he was standing outside.”

“True. Furthermore, he told us that he had gone to Jackerly’s to seek Miss Anderson when she failed to appear at the bank. Had he done so in all innocence, I doubt Plympton would have been allowed to go free. Even if he did not recognize the gang members, surely he would have noticed that Mr. Jackerly and his sons were not in evidence, for I doubt such respectable tradesmen are part of the gang. They have no doubt been secured and tucked away until the gang has finished their business. Plympton is a patron of the confectionary; he had a tin of their chocolates on his desk. Anyone with an ounce of sense would have realized that something untoward was going on. But why would he lie? To try and prevent us from investigating Jackerly’s at once. His alerting the police was meant to divert the authority’s attention towards locating Miss Anderson.” Lina made a face. “Had I not been so intent upon proper investigative technique, I would not have wasted so much time. As it is, if something has happened…”

Lina broke off as a gunshot sounded from the scaffold-shrouded building.

“Quickly, my dear! Fetch Inspector Muir!” Lina shouted as she darted across the street, adroitly avoiding carts, carriages and cabs.

“Wait!” Rhiannon called after her heedless partner. Frustrated and worried, she hauled up her skirts and ran into the bank, shouting for Inspector Muir.

In the short amount of time it took for the inspector and a team of constables to hasten to Jackerly’s, the single gunshot had turned into several. Rhiannon thought the gang must have been armed to the teeth. Only Muir had a revolver; while the constables cleared the street, he settled himself behind an abandoned beer cart and waited. Rhiannon gnawed her bottom lip, terrified for Lina’s safety. Just when she thought she must scream or die from suspense, Lina poked her head out of the door. “Come along, man!” she cried. “What the Devil are you waiting for? Bring your Myrmidons, as well, for the stout arm of the law is what is wanted here.”

The gunfire had ceased. Inspector Muir, his face rubicund with humiliation, snapped at his constables and chivvied them into the building, and Rhiannon followed hot on his heels. They found the gang members subdued, one of them nursing a bleeding arm, and the rest held quiet at the point of Lina’s trusty Webley. Miss Reed was on the floor, using a clasp-knife to sever the ropes that were binding a pretty blonde woman dressed in a crumpled white shirtwaist and indigo blue skirt. As she sawed carefully at the rough hemp ropes, Miss Reed planted delicate kisses over Miss Anderson’s face, and murmured soft reassurances.

“What’s the meaning of this?” Inspector Muir asked after he had directed his men to begin handcuffing the gang members.

Having left off guarding the gang after the arrival of the constables and their Darby handcuffs, Lina was rooting around the counter, opening tins of chocolates and casting them aside. She ignored the inspector’s question until the man banged his hand on top of the counter, demanding her attention. “Mr. Reed was forced to shoot that fellow in self-defense,” she said. “I assure you, sir, that you would do better to concern yourself with the notorious Seven Dials gang, who have kidnapped and held this young lady, Miss Anderson, against her will. I suspect a white slavery ring. Further interrogation of the prisoners will assuredly yield a plethora of confessions; there should be no difficulty finding charges enough to prosecute these men.”

A middle-aged gentleman and two younger men – presumably Mr. Jackerly and his sons – were brought out from the rear of the shop; all three bore marks upon their wrists, bruises, and other signs of having been tied up and brutalized. “Thank you, sir, thank you!” the elder Mr. Jackerly said to Muir, wringing the inspector’s hand. “Your rescue was well timed! I shudder to think what may have happened if you had not risked yourself to save us!”

“Well, I was only doing my duty,” Muir said, puffing his chest out like a pigeon’s.

Rhiannon hissed in effrontery at the man’s blatant theft of the credit of the case, but Lina shook her head. “My dear, we have greater concerns. I have yet to discover the plates!”

Mycroft Holmes, accompanied by a number of distinguished gentlemen – including Colonel Sir Edward Bradford, the Metropolitan Police Commissioner – entered the shop. While Sir Edward pulled Muir aside to question him, Mycroft made a bee-line for Lina. “Have you found the engraving plates?” the heavyset man asked.

“As of yet, no,” Lina said. “They could be anywhere.”

“This poses a problem.” Mycroft pinched the bridge of his nose, and sighed wearily. “I cannot inform the police of the theft. The matter is far too sensitive. Should a single whiff of this catastrophe escape and be caught by members of the Press… I need say no more. Sir Edward will ensure Muir’s silence, and I doubt the common gang members were told what lay within the package. There is only so much trust among thieves. However, Royden is still at large. If we do not find the Bank of England plates, he may take them himself and disappear. I dare not ask for police surveillance of the shop…perhaps my brother has an idea…”

“I can help, I think,” Miss Reed said. She had joined the group, and stood with an arm around Miss Anderson’s waist. The other woman – slightly smaller and possessing the delicate prettiness of a Dresden figurine – leaned against Miss Reed for support. There were livid weals around both of her wrists, and her left cheek was bruised.

“I daresay that England will be grateful for any assistance you can render,” Mycroft said.

Miss Reed shrugged. “I have what I came for,” she said, gazing at Miss Anderson with a tender expression. “The plates are in a box of chocolates… I overheard that much when I came in. Then that one,” she continued, jerking her chin in the direction of the bleeding gang member, “came out from the back of the shop, talking about Plympton and wondering why Royden was taking orders from a ‘bloody’ bank clerk. That’s when I heard Miss Anderson scream.”

“I had worked the gag out of my mouth,” Miss Anderson said, looking slightly abashed and proud at the same time.

Miss Reed gave her friend's hand a gentle squeeze. “That fellow pulled a knife and was headed towards a storage cupboard, and I knew Miss Anderson was inside. I had to defend her, which is why I shot him. Next thing I know, some of the gang are shooting back, and Lady St. Claire came inside to help me.”

“The Crown will prefer no charges,” Mycroft said. “Continue, madam.”

“Do you remember the chocolate box from Jackerly and Sons that Plympton had on his desk?” Miss Reed asked Lina, who nodded.

“Of course! Who else would take charge of the precious plates! The gang must have been ordered by Royden to stay nearby, to ensure that their confederate would not do a flit. And hiding the plates at the bank was a stroke of cleverness… who would think of looking for them in the very place they were supposed to be! Mr. Holmes, Plympton is already in police custody, and I think on his way to Bow Street,” Lina said to Mycroft. He hastened to Sir Edward, and after a swift conference, the two gentlemen hurried across the street to the bank.

It was not long before Black Marias arrived to transport the prisoners to the Bow Street police station. Miss Reed and Miss Anderson lingered to hear the good news that Mycroft and Sir Edward had found the vital Bank of England plates in the chocolates tin on Plympton’s desk. Mr. Cuthbert’s arrival on the scene unveiled the fact that he had, indeed, informed Plympton of his plan to use Miss Anderson to transport the plates from Rosenthal’s; the man had believed that Plympton, who had managed the bank for twenty years, could be trusted with the secret.

“Two can keep a secret if one is dead,” Miss Reed said, scowling.

Mycroft inclined his head. “I could not agree with you more, madam.” The look he gave Mr. Cuthbert, the owner of the bank, was nearly sharp enough to draw blood. It was clear, from the thinning of his lips and the slow angry flush that crept along his jowls, that Mycroft intended to speak to Cuthbert about his foolish disregard for proper security.

Cuthbert had the sense to be ashamed of his lapse. “I understand that you gave your notice this morning,” he said to Miss Anderson. “What happened today is deeply regrettable, and I offer you my most humble apologies. Perhaps you will reconsider your decision to leave the bank. You are a valued employee, Miss Anderson, and I shall regret losing you.”

“I’m very sorry, sir, but as it happens, I’m leaving for America as soon as can be arranged,” Miss Anderson said, her dignity intact despite her wrinkled clothing, bruised face, and tousled blonde hair. “I trust there won’t be any trouble if I decline to remain in your employ for the full two weeks required?”

“My dear young lady, I shall have your severance pay drawn up at once, if you desire.” Cuthbert seemed relieved to have gotten off so lightly.

Miss Reed seemed inclined to give Cuthbert the rough side of her tongue for placing Miss Anderson in danger, but her companion’s breathless declaration of exhaustion triggered the woman’s need to see to her friend’s comfort. “I must get Cat to the hotel,” she said to Lina and Rhiannon. “How can I thank you for your help? You believed in me, and in Cat, enough to risk your lives against that gang of thugs. Without you, I don’t think she would have survived.”

“Yes, thank you, Lady St. Claire, Miss Moore,” Miss Anderson said, swaying against Miss Reed and giving her American friend a tired little smile.

“It was our pleasure to reunite you,” Lina said.

Rhiannon grinned. “Just take care of each other. That’s all the thanks we need.”

Miss Reed helped Miss Anderson into a hansom cab, and they were soon gone from sight.

“Now, my dear, what are your plans for what remains of the evening?” Lina asked, looking down at Rhiannon.

“Supper at Romero’s,” Rhiannon said, “then home to Grosvenor Street, where I will lecture you on the appalling habit of putting yourself in harm’s way…”

“I am sorry, my dear.”

“…and after I’m done berating you, I hope we’ll kiss and make up.”

Lina sidled closer. “Perhaps,” she said slyly, “we might kiss now, and make up later.”

“Perhaps…” Rhiannon said, quirking her lips.

A second hansom cab was quickly summoned, and the driver directed to Romero’s in the Strand. Overhead, the sun was sinking beyond the horizon in a blaze of mauve and gold, and stars were appearing in the deepening dusk. Gaslights were being lit up and down the street by a pair of lamplighters in broadcloth coats, their long sticks balanced over their shoulders. The lamps glittered at first, white and clear as the stars above, but soon settled to a steady yellow glow that reflected from the surrounding buildings, including Cuthbert & Co.

The gathering shadows hid the two figures in the cab as they slid together, so close that they were indistinguishable from one another, and where one ended and one began could not be told… which was precisely as it should be.

THE END