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“Hey,” Winehart said. “Diaz and Roper are taking the hotel gig. You and Anderson want the kid or the rich bitch?”
Before Mason could answer, the chief stepped in. He looked old. He looked tired. He looked human. Mason figured he looked just the way he wanted to look. Their eyes met for a moment, each daring the other to look away. They both knew that Mason had seen something he wasn’t supposed to see. Knew something he wasn’t supposed to know. The question was, what were they both going to do about it?
“How’s it going, Detective?” the chief asked, carefully.
“Just another day doing the work of angels, sir,” Mason said. Winehart seemed confused when the chief chuckled. She didn’t get the joke.
THE CURIOUS AFFAIR OF THE DEODAND
by Lisa Tuttle
Lisa Tuttle made her first sale in 1972 to the anthology Clarion II, after attending the Clarion workshop, and by 1974 she had won the John W. Campbell Award for Best New Writer of the Year. She has gone on to become one of the most respected writers of her generation, winning the Nebula Award in 1981—which, in a stillcontroversial move, she refused to accept—the British Science Fiction Award in 1987, and the International Horror Guild Award in 2007, all for short stories. Her books include a collaboration with George R. R. Martin, Windhaven; the solo novels Familiar Spirit, Gabriel, The Pillow Friend, Lost
Futures, The Mysteries, and The Silver Bough; as well as several books for children, the nonfiction works Heroines and Encyclopaedia of Feminism, and, as editor, Skin of the Soul: New Horror Stories by Women. Her short work has been collected in A Nest of Nightmares , A Spaceship Built of Stone, Memories of the Body: Tales of Desire and Transformation, Ghosts and Other Lovers, and My Pathology. Born in Texas, she moved to Great Britain in 1980, and now lives with her family in Scotland.
Here she introduces us to a proper young nineteenth-century gentlewoman who is about to try out a new role, that of “Watson” to an eccentric Sherlock Holmes–like figure—and who will discover a surprising aptitude for that role before their first case is through.
ONCE IT HAD BECOME PAINFULLY CLEAR THAT I COULD NO LONGER CONTINUE to work in association with Miss G—F—, I departed Scotland and returned to London, where I hoped I would quickly find employment. I had no bank account, no property, nothing of any value to pawn or sell, and, after I had paid my train fare, little more than twelve shillings to my name. Although I had friends in London who would open their homes to me, I had imposed before, and was determined not to be a burden. It was therefore a matter of the utmost urgency that I should obtain a position: I emphasize this point to account for what might appear a precipitous decision.
Arriving so early in the morning at King’s Cross, it seemed logical enough to set off at once, on foot, for the ladies’ employment bureau in Oxford Street.
The bag that had seemed light enough when I took it down from the train grew heavier with every step, so that I was often obliged to stop and set it down for a few moments. One such rest took place outside a newsagent’s shop, and while I caught my breath and rubbed my aching arm I glanced at the notices on display in the window. One, among the descriptions of lost pets and offers of rooms to let, caught my attention.
CONSULTING DETECTIVE
REQUIRES ASSISTANT
MUST BE LITERATE, BRAVE, CONGENIAL, WITH A GOOD MEMORY, &
WILLING TO WORK ALL HOURS.
APPLY IN PERSON TO
J. JESPERSON,
203-A GOWER STREET
Even as my heart leapt, I scolded myself for being a silly girl. Certainly, I was sharp and brave, blessed with good health and a strong constitution, but when you came right down to it, I was a woman, small and weak. What detective would take on such a liability?
But the card said nothing about weapons or physical strength. I read it again, and then glanced up from the number on the card—203A—to the number painted above the shop premises: 203.
There were two doors. One, to the left, led into the little shop, but the other, painted glistening black, bore a brass plate inscribed Jesperson.
My knock was answered by a lady in early middle age, too genteel in dress and appearance to be mistaken for a servant.
“Mrs. Jesperson?” I asked.
“Yes?”
I told her I had come in response to the advertisement, and she let me in. There was a lingering smell of fried bacon and toasted bread that reminded me I’d had nothing to eat since the previous afternoon.
“Jasper,” she said, opening another door and beckoning me on. “Your notice has already borne fruit! Here is a lady . . . Miss . . . ?”
“I am Miss Lane,” I said, going in.
I entered a warm, crowded, busy, comfortable, cheerful place. I relaxed, the general atmosphere, with the familiar scent of books, tobacco, toast, and ink that imbued it, making me feel at home even before I’d had a chance to look around. The room obviously combined an office and living room in one. The floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, crammed with volumes, gave it the look of a study, as did the very large, very cluttered desk piled with papers and journals. But there were also armchairs near the fireplace—the hearth cold on this warm June morning; the mantelpiece so laden with such a variety of objects I simply could not take them in at a glance—and a table bearing the remains of breakfast for two. This quick impression was all I had time to absorb before the man, springing up from his place at the table, commanded my attention.
I say man, yet the first word that came to mind was boy, for despite his size—he was, I later learned, six feet four inches tall—the smooth, pale, lightly freckled face beneath a crown of red-gold curls was that of an angelic child.
