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The words landed like the punches of my former schoolmates, those posh boys’ school bullies, robbing me of breath. “You’re wiser than you know, child,” I said, standing to signal the end of the conversation. “But it’s off to bed with you now. You have a dog to sleep in your room with you?”
She nodded, “Gryf is with me and Hannah tonight.”
“Mind you give him a pat from me, and don’t step on him when you sneak into bed.”
She smiled at that as she left my kitchen. “Good night, Mrs. Mac. Thank you for ‘avin’ my back. I ‘ave yours too, if you need it.”
I waited until the door closed behind her. “That means more than you could ever know,” I whispered to the night.
Unpinning my hair from its tight knot was the last thing I did each day, and it was the moment that signaled I could finally, literally, let down my hair. It grew in soft, thick waves to my waist, with golden highlights and dark auburn undertones, and brushing it was like polishing copper to a warm shine. I had not cut it since I was fifteen years old, and I cared for my hair as though it were all the proof society needed that I was a woman. Rarely had someone looked past my neatly braided hair and well-made dresses to notice the Adam’s apple I covered with lace collars and scarves. And never had I allowed anyone to see me without all the foundational garments that gave my lean, straight figure a feminine shape. In the privacy of my own room, I wore the dressing gown I’d made for myself from velvety delaine wool dyed a rich ocean blue and lined with silk, because even without curves to define me, soft fabrics and silken hair did nicely.
I had transferred the inspector’s card into the pocket of my dressing gown, and when my hair had been braided for bed, I slipped it out to examine. Dhruv Lestrade, Inspector, Scotland Yard was printed in bold, masculine letters on the heavy linen card, and an address in Fitzrovia was handwritten on the back.
I considered what I knew about the man as my fingers traced the letters of his name. He had black hair, dark eyes, and an Indian given name, but his complexion and features did not automatically signal South Asian heritage or prevent him from doing a job traditionally held by Englishmen. He could very well be white, or he could be passing as a white man. If he were passing, was it accidental or on purpose? And did that make him more or less sympathetic to others trying to live their authentic lives?
The inspector’s apology to Jess and myself had intrigued me, and his interest in the fate of a young South Asian boy had surprised me. But perhaps most disturbing to my carefully crafted life, his voice and his smile provoked me. And now I was curious about the man who wielded them so well.
I sighed, and against my better judgment, I penned a note to send with a messenger in the morning.
Dear Inspector Lestrade,
Jess relayed these further details your other witnesses may have missed:
The man who pushed Ajay into the hansom cab had distinctive buttons on his “fancy” waistcoat. The design pressed into the brass was of an inverted Y with cross-bars on each piece, giving it the appearance of a three-sided cross.
She described him as blond-haired, large-framed, with ruddy skin, and said he was “old,” apparently around my own age. I am thirty-five, and do not consider myself old, so make of that what you will.
Jess has determined that you don’t seem “too bad.” This, from her, is high praise. Please see that you do not abuse her trust.
Sincerely,
O. MacKenzie
Early that afternoon a messenger brought his reply.
Dear Mrs. MacKenzie,
Thank you for your note. Young Jess has acute powers of observation, and I wonder if I might prevail upon her to identify the symbol she saw on the kidnapper’s button? I have several options from which I’d like her to choose and am happy to bring them back to your kitchen at your convenience. Perhaps a time when your bread is as fresh as the slice you served me? It was most excellent.
You are certainly not old, as I am thirty-eight and have only just begun to feel my age.
I find myself mightily curious as to the name which follows O. Ophelia, perhaps? Or Olympia? And is MacKenzie your husband’s name or your own?
With Gratitude,
Dhruv Lestrade
Dear Inspector Lestrade,
I appreciate the compliment on the bread, though I give credit for its fluffiness to Jess, whose kneading vigor was directly proportional to her concern for Ajay, and to her friend Reesy, whose enthusiasm for cooking continues to motivate my own recipe experimentation. I will be trying a new recipe for Irish soda bread involving orange rind and honey today. If you bring your buttons after supper, I shall save you a slice.
I am not certain whether I should be concerned that you see me as a mad Ophelia, or that you refer to my height in considering Olympia.
And MacKenzie is my own surname. The Mrs. is a decorative title to allow me the freedom my station requires.
Mysteriously,
O.
