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I spent some time unpacking and arranging my few things, and writing letters informing friends of my new address, before I lay down to rest. I hadn’t slept much on the train, but now established in my new position—even if it was nearly as problematic, in terms of remuneration, as my last—I felt comfortable enough to fall into a deep and refreshing slumber.
Dinner was a delicious vegetable curry prepared by Mrs. Jesperson herself. They could not afford a cook, although they did have a “daily” for the heavier housework. That evening, as we sat together, I learned a little of their recent history, without being terribly forthcoming about my own.
Jasper Jesperson was twenty-one years old, and an only child. Barely fifteen when his father died, he’d accompanied his mother to India, where she had a brother. But they had been in India for only a year before going to China, and, later, the South Sea islands. An intriguing offer brought them back to London more than a year previously, but it had not turned out as expected (he said he would tell me the whole story another time) and subsequently he decided that the best use of his abilities and interests would be to establish himself as a consulting detective.
He’d concluded three successful commissions so far. Two had been rather easily dealt with and would not make interesting stories; the third was quite different, and I shall write about that another time. It was after that case which had so tested his abilities that he decided to advertise for an assistant.
His fourth case, and my first, was to begin the next morning, with the arrival of a new client.
“Read his letter, and you may know as much about the affair as I,”
said Jesperson, handing a folded page across his desk to me.
The sheet was headed with the name of a gentlemen’s club in Mayfair, and signed William Randall. Although some overhasty pen strokes and blotches might suggest the author was in the grip of strong emotion, it might also be that he was more accustomed to dictating his correspondence.
Dear Mr. Jesperson:
Your name was given to me by a friend in the Foreign Office with the suggestion that if anyone could solve a murder that still baffles the police, it is you.
Someone close to me believes I am at risk of a murderous attack from the same, unknown killer to whose victim she was at the time engaged to be married.
I will explain all when we meet. If I may, I will call on you at ten o’clock Wednesday morning. If that is inconvenient, please reply by return of post with a more suitable time.
Yours sincerely, etc.
I folded the letter and handed it back to Jesperson, who was gazing at me, bright-eyed and expectant.
He prompted. “Any questions?”
“The Foreign Office?”
“Never mind about that. It’s only my uncle, trying to keep me in work. Don’t you want to know what I’ve deduced about the writer of this letter? What unsolved crime affects this man so nearly? I believe I have it.”
“I think I’d rather wait and hear what Mr. Randall has to say, first. If you’re right, well and good, but if you’re wrong, you’ll only confuse me.”
He looked a bit crestfallen, making me think of a little boy who hadn’t been allowed to show off his cleverness, and I said, “You can tell me afterward, if you were right.”
“But you might not believe me. Oh, well, it doesn’t matter.”
I heard his mother murmur, “Party tricks.” But if he heard, at least he gave no sign, and let me change the subject, and the rest of the evening passed quite pleasantly.
MR. WILLIAM RANDALL ARRIVED PROMPTLY AS THE CARRIAGE CLOCK ON the (recently dusted) mantelpiece was striking ten. He was a dapper young man with a drooping moustache, his regular features lifted from mere good looks into something striking by a pair of large, dark eyes that anyone more romantic than I would call soulful.
He refused any refreshment, took a seat, and began his story after the brief, hesitant disclaimer that “it was probably a load of nonsense,” but his fiancée was worried.
“The lady I intend to make my wife is Miss Flora Bellamy, of Harrow.” Her name meant nothing to me, but we both saw Jesperson straighten up.
“Yes, I thought you might make the connection. She was, of course, engaged to Mr. Archibald Adcocks, the prominent financier, at the time of his terrible death.”
“So she thinks his death was connected to the fact of their engagement? And that you are now in danger?”
“She does.”
“How curious! What are her reasons?”
He sighed and held up his empty hands. “ ‘The heart has its reasons, that reason knows not.’ Women, you know, think more with their hearts than their heads. It is all too circumstantial to convince me, a matter of mere coincidence, and yet . . . she is so certain.”
Listening to them was frustrating, so I was forced to interrupt. “Excuse me, but would you mind telling me the facts of Mr. Adcocks’s death?”
