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Authors: Philip Pullman
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something."
He stroked his jaw and looked ill at ease.
"Miss Lockhart, you and I will have to have a talk. Not now—I'm busy—but it'll keep for a week or so. Your father was a very unusual man, and you're a very unusual young lady, if I may say so. You're conducting yourself in a most businesslike way. I'm impressed. So I'll tell you something now that was going to keep till you were a little older: I'm worried about that firm, and I'm worried about what your father did before he left for the East. You're quite right: there should be more money. But the fact is that he sold his share outright, for ten thousand pounds, to his partner, Mr. Selby."
"And where is that money now?"
"That's what I'm worried about. It's vanished."
The Passions of Art
ThKRE were EEW places, in the ENGLAND OF 1872,
where a young lady could go on her own to sit, and think, and possibly drink some tea. The tea was not so important yet; but sooner or later she would have to eat, and there was only one class of well-dressed young women who moved freely in and out of hotels and restaurants; and Sally had no desire to be mistaken for one of those.
But she was, as Mr. Temple had said, a very unusual young lady. She wasn't afraid of being alone, for one thing. The independence of mind her father's teaching had given her stood her in good stead; problems, she thought, were things you faced, not things you ran away from.
She left Lincoln's Inn and walked slowly along the river until she found a bench under the statue of some bewigged king, and then she sat down to watch the traffic.
The biggest blow was the loss of her pistol. She had copied the three stolen papers—the message from the East, Major Marchbanks's letter, and the single page from the book—into her diary, so they were preserved. But the pistol had been a gift from her father, and besides, it might one day save her life.
72
But what she wanted most was to talk. Jim would have been the ideal person to talk to, but it was a Tuesday, and he would be working. Then there was Major March-banks—but Mrs. Holland might be watching the house, as she had before.
Then she remembered the card tucked into her diary. Thank heaven the thief had not removed that!
FREDERICK GARLAND
PHOTOGRAPHIC ARTIST
45, Burton Street London
She had some money now. She hailed a cab and gave the driver the address.
Burton Street was a shabby little place in the neighborhood of the British Museum. The door of number 45 was open; a painted sign proclaimed that W. and F. Garland, Photographers, conducted their business there. Sally went in and found a dusty, narrow shop, crowded with various photographic bits and pieces—magic lanterns, bottles of chemicals, cameras, and the like—standing on the counter and packed untidily on the shelves. There was no one there, but the innei door was open, and Sally could hear voices raised in a violent quarrel. One of them was the photographer's.
"I will not!" he shouted. "I detest all lawyers on principle, and that goes for their spotty little clerks as well—"
'Tm not talking about lawyers, you lazy oaf!" came the equally passionate voice of a young woman. "It's an accountant you need, not a bloody lawyer—and if you don't get something sorted out soon there won't be any business left at all!"
"Balderdash! Stick to your mumming, you shrieking virago—here, Trembler, there's a customer in the shop."
A little wizened man ran anxiously out, with the air of one ducking away from flying bullets. He shut the door behind him, but the shouting continued.
"Yes, miss?" came a nervous voice from behind a huge, soup-strainer mustache.
"1 came to see Mr. Garland. But if he's busy . . ."
She looked at the door, and he cowered away from it, as if expecting some missile to come hurtling through.
"You don't want me to go and fetch him, do you, miss?" he pleaded. "I daren't, honest."
"Well . . . no. I suppose not at the moment."
"Was it about a sitting, miss? We can fit you
He stroked his jaw and looked ill at ease.
"Miss Lockhart, you and I will have to have a talk. Not now—I'm busy—but it'll keep for a week or so. Your father was a very unusual man, and you're a very unusual young lady, if I may say so. You're conducting yourself in a most businesslike way. I'm impressed. So I'll tell you something now that was going to keep till you were a little older: I'm worried about that firm, and I'm worried about what your father did before he left for the East. You're quite right: there should be more money. But the fact is that he sold his share outright, for ten thousand pounds, to his partner, Mr. Selby."
"And where is that money now?"
"That's what I'm worried about. It's vanished."
The Passions of Art
ThKRE were EEW places, in the ENGLAND OF 1872,
where a young lady could go on her own to sit, and think, and possibly drink some tea. The tea was not so important yet; but sooner or later she would have to eat, and there was only one class of well-dressed young women who moved freely in and out of hotels and restaurants; and Sally had no desire to be mistaken for one of those.
But she was, as Mr. Temple had said, a very unusual young lady. She wasn't afraid of being alone, for one thing. The independence of mind her father's teaching had given her stood her in good stead; problems, she thought, were things you faced, not things you ran away from.
She left Lincoln's Inn and walked slowly along the river until she found a bench under the statue of some bewigged king, and then she sat down to watch the traffic.
The biggest blow was the loss of her pistol. She had copied the three stolen papers—the message from the East, Major Marchbanks's letter, and the single page from the book—into her diary, so they were preserved. But the pistol had been a gift from her father, and besides, it might one day save her life.
72
But what she wanted most was to talk. Jim would have been the ideal person to talk to, but it was a Tuesday, and he would be working. Then there was Major March-banks—but Mrs. Holland might be watching the house, as she had before.
Then she remembered the card tucked into her diary. Thank heaven the thief had not removed that!
FREDERICK GARLAND
PHOTOGRAPHIC ARTIST
45, Burton Street London
She had some money now. She hailed a cab and gave the driver the address.
Burton Street was a shabby little place in the neighborhood of the British Museum. The door of number 45 was open; a painted sign proclaimed that W. and F. Garland, Photographers, conducted their business there. Sally went in and found a dusty, narrow shop, crowded with various photographic bits and pieces—magic lanterns, bottles of chemicals, cameras, and the like—standing on the counter and packed untidily on the shelves. There was no one there, but the innei door was open, and Sally could hear voices raised in a violent quarrel. One of them was the photographer's.
"I will not!" he shouted. "I detest all lawyers on principle, and that goes for their spotty little clerks as well—"
'Tm not talking about lawyers, you lazy oaf!" came the equally passionate voice of a young woman. "It's an accountant you need, not a bloody lawyer—and if you don't get something sorted out soon there won't be any business left at all!"
"Balderdash! Stick to your mumming, you shrieking virago—here, Trembler, there's a customer in the shop."
A little wizened man ran anxiously out, with the air of one ducking away from flying bullets. He shut the door behind him, but the shouting continued.
"Yes, miss?" came a nervous voice from behind a huge, soup-strainer mustache.
"1 came to see Mr. Garland. But if he's busy . . ."
She looked at the door, and he cowered away from it, as if expecting some missile to come hurtling through.
"You don't want me to go and fetch him, do you, miss?" he pleaded. "I daren't, honest."
"Well . . . no. I suppose not at the moment."
"Was it about a sitting, miss? We can fit you
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