Read Online The Case of the Left-Handed Lady by Nancy; Springer - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Nancy; Springer
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“Roly-poly puddings?”
“No, Miss Meshle, nothin’ like that. I think it were papers.”
“You think you saw this girl selling newspapers ?”
I should have kept my mouth closed, or at the very least, my tone under better control.
“No, my – um, no, Miss Meshle.” Frightened into stupidity, Joddy would be of no further use.
Indeed, after a few more attempts, I found that there was nothing more to be got out of him. “That will do. Thank you, Joddy.”
After he had left, I muttered several naughty things in a low tone, then dismissed the episode from my mind. The frustrating, addlepated boy had probably seen some other pretty girl.
Sipping my tea and, I admit, admiring my own artwork for a few minutes before I burned it in the fire, I continued to mull over the matter of the missing Lady Cecily.
I discarded the absurd notion that she had eloped, for reasons already mentioned, and also because she would hardly have gone off in her nightgown! Rather, in preparation for such a romantic escapade, she would have been waiting in her most fetching frock.
But supposing her escapade, rather than being romantic, had involved any of the poorer neighborhoods of London – well, the essence remained the same: She would not have gone in a nightgown. Had she perhaps secreted some more humble apparel for herself, and hidden the nightgown to make it appear –
What? That she had been snatched from her bed by a kidnapper?
And forcibly carried down a ladder? Nonsense. Impossible, in my experience of ladders.
Had the ladder been placed at her window as a blind?
If she had gone away on her own, how had she travelled? Had anyone assisted her?
I had too many questions and not enough answers.
Presently I rang the bell again.
“Joddy,” I told the boy-in-buttons when he appeared, “go fetch me a cab.”
Miss Meshle was going shopping.
But not in any of the establishments I normally frequented. I had the cab, which cost sixpence a mile, drop me at the nearest railway station – much less expensive, as I had to travel some small distance, to a northern part of London where I particularly wanted to visit a certain commercial establishment: Ebenezer Finch & Son Emporium.
Exiting the train at St. Pancras Station – a frothy architectural confection if I ever saw one – I walked a few blocks. As Ivy Meshle, an ordinary office worker whose skirt, while decently concealing her ankles, did not trail in the dirt, I attracted leers instead of glares. This time the top-hatted gentlemen took no notice of me at all, and no one suggested it would be my own fault if I came to harm – but male clerks ogled from shop doorways, and a working-class loiterer spoke to me: “ ’Ow do you do, sweet’eart ? What’s yer ’urry? Stop an’ chat a bit.”
Pretending I had not heard, without so much as a glance I strode past him. Thank goodness he did not follow, as had been known to happen. Indeed, a slop-girl walking in the slums enjoyed more peace than any decent female on city streets. I found it necessary to ignore several other male pests before I finally spied my destination.
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
“No, Miss Meshle, nothin’ like that. I think it were papers.”
“You think you saw this girl selling newspapers ?”
I should have kept my mouth closed, or at the very least, my tone under better control.
“No, my – um, no, Miss Meshle.” Frightened into stupidity, Joddy would be of no further use.
Indeed, after a few more attempts, I found that there was nothing more to be got out of him. “That will do. Thank you, Joddy.”
After he had left, I muttered several naughty things in a low tone, then dismissed the episode from my mind. The frustrating, addlepated boy had probably seen some other pretty girl.
Sipping my tea and, I admit, admiring my own artwork for a few minutes before I burned it in the fire, I continued to mull over the matter of the missing Lady Cecily.
I discarded the absurd notion that she had eloped, for reasons already mentioned, and also because she would hardly have gone off in her nightgown! Rather, in preparation for such a romantic escapade, she would have been waiting in her most fetching frock.
But supposing her escapade, rather than being romantic, had involved any of the poorer neighborhoods of London – well, the essence remained the same: She would not have gone in a nightgown. Had she perhaps secreted some more humble apparel for herself, and hidden the nightgown to make it appear –
What? That she had been snatched from her bed by a kidnapper?
And forcibly carried down a ladder? Nonsense. Impossible, in my experience of ladders.
Had the ladder been placed at her window as a blind?
If she had gone away on her own, how had she travelled? Had anyone assisted her?
I had too many questions and not enough answers.
Presently I rang the bell again.
“Joddy,” I told the boy-in-buttons when he appeared, “go fetch me a cab.”
Miss Meshle was going shopping.
But not in any of the establishments I normally frequented. I had the cab, which cost sixpence a mile, drop me at the nearest railway station – much less expensive, as I had to travel some small distance, to a northern part of London where I particularly wanted to visit a certain commercial establishment: Ebenezer Finch & Son Emporium.
Exiting the train at St. Pancras Station – a frothy architectural confection if I ever saw one – I walked a few blocks. As Ivy Meshle, an ordinary office worker whose skirt, while decently concealing her ankles, did not trail in the dirt, I attracted leers instead of glares. This time the top-hatted gentlemen took no notice of me at all, and no one suggested it would be my own fault if I came to harm – but male clerks ogled from shop doorways, and a working-class loiterer spoke to me: “ ’Ow do you do, sweet’eart ? What’s yer ’urry? Stop an’ chat a bit.”
Pretending I had not heard, without so much as a glance I strode past him. Thank goodness he did not follow, as had been known to happen. Indeed, a slop-girl walking in the slums enjoyed more peace than any decent female on city streets. I found it necessary to ignore several other male pests before I finally spied my destination.
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
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