Down These Strange Streets (George R.R. Martin) (Kitty Norville 6.50)

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 fro

m 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.