With threats, bribes and calling in favours, yes, I stopped it.
Remember when Mary alluded to Richard's harsh world, and compared journalists to detectives? Here's the world she thought she knew, or in another words, when Mary decides to take a break from her suitors' attentions on Valentine's Day, she finally meets the people who helped to hush the Pamuk scandal and the Bates scandal.
Set in Picking up the pieces 'verse, a few months after chapter 3.
Co-written with Mrs Tater of course. Expect two updates, in a very close future.
February 14, 1923
I'm not going to give up on you without a fight.
When Charles Blake uttered those words to her at the Downton Bazaar, Mary had been more flattered than she'd let on, to him or to herself. Tony's kiss the previous spring had awakened her to the alarming idea that she wanted to know a man's love again, someday, and now that Charles had declared himself, too, she felt more a girl than she had since the war, the débutante who seldom captivated the interest of only one man at any one time.
On Valentine's Day, she descended Aunt Rosamund's marble staircase in much better spirits than she had the previous year. Though when she eyed the two towering arrangements which had just been delivered from rival London florists, and was assaulted by the heavy, competing odors of gladiolus and orchids, her nose tickling with the start of a sneeze, it occurred to her that much as she enjoyed male company, she just wasn't that girl anymore.
Not that she ever had been much for flowers, thanks to her hayfever.
Turning her back to them, she strode to the telephone table, picked up the receiver and asked the operator to put her through to Richard Carlisle's Fleet Street office.
"Hello, Miss Fields," she greeted the secretary when her familiar voice crackled in her ear. "Lady Mary Crawley calling."
"One moment, your ladyship," replied Miss Fields.
Mary smiled to herself behind the microphone that there was no hesitation; her telephone calls and letters had become as commonplace in Richard's offices these past several months as Charles' and Tony's had at Downton. The smile faltered when she considered that this had not been the case during their engagement, only to return at Richard's rasp over the line, asking to what he owed the pleasure.
"It's Valentine's Day," she replied, "and I was hoping you'd have a better offer for me than a matinee of Romeo and Juliet followed by tea at the Ritz, or You'd Be Surprised followed by dinner and dancing at the Criterion. And by better I of course mean something much less romantic." Her nostrils prickled again with the perfume of the orchids, and she stifled a sneeze. "And allergic."
In his office, Richard tried to ignore the disapproval in the green eyes that had narrowed at him across his desk the instant he said, Hello, Mary.
No more Crawley drama, right?
That was what Keith had asked last year when their paths crossed Lady Edith's one night on Fleet Street. Back then, Richard's right hand man had not approved of the potential ramifications of this unexpected encounter, and the return of Lady Mary in Richard's life, albeit in a rather distant role, even less.
"Let me guess," Richard spoke pleasantly into the phone. As much as he understood Keith's silent message that they had more important things to do, a little frivolous chat about the desire of suitors following his ex-fiancée couldn't hurt. "Lord Gillingham invited you to the first one, and Mr. Blake to the second."
To be honest, he needed some respite from the constant worry that had been their companion since Keith heard a disturbing rumor about their star caricaturist's lady friend parading on the arm of a jazz singer who, obviously, was not Pete Inzaghi. In moments like these, the American's penchant for the bottle turned into full blown self-destruction. The man vanished into thin air, causing havoc among his friends who searched for him in the seediest places in London for days and even once for weeks.
Richard considered his disheveled right hand, his tousled silver hair, the day-growth of stubble on his cheeks, the sad and almost fatalist frown.
Pete had really a talent for making them crazy with worry.
"Just a minute," he mouthed to his interlocutor and reached for a pen and paper to continue their brainstorming while hearing Mary's plea.
How about Old Chan's opium joint? he scribbled, and passed the note to Keith.
"Yes, they are rather predictable, aren't they?" Mary replied on the other end of the line.
She'd been keeping him apprised of her suitors' more amusing exploits since last summer, in letters, during phone calls, on the occasions when they were in town at the same time and brought their sons together to play. Perhaps predictability was why she hadn't chosen Charles or Tony over the other. Or why she hadn't sent either one packing. Not that either would be sent. They were persistent chaps.
"Can you guess who sent the orchids and who sent the gladiolus?" she asked.
Richard knew there was a hidden message to these flowers offerings, and he knew he should have known it.
Which one? The old one on the docks? Or the new fancy one behind Bekesbourne St? Keith replied in his usual, tiny, indecipherable writing. Sometimes, when Richard had to read his friend's reports and remarks, he felt like a new incarnation of Champollion, deciphering hieroglyphs, not that he ever voiced this opinion.
He narrowed his eyes, as much to decipher as to think about the supposed difference between orchids and gladiolus.
"You'll have to help me here. Honestly, I only buy flowers because I find them pretty or because I feel they will complement the person I offer them to, or the vase which said person is going to put them into."
Admitting his ignorance to his ex-fiancé about flowers - and, at the same time, discretely asking forgiveness for any misstep he may have committed in the past in that regard - was far easier than recognizing he badly needed a little trip to his ophthalmologist, Richard concluded as he straightened in his chair and stretched out his arm, a gesture which did not escape Keith's attention, sadly.
Once again Mary smirked. She'd long suspected Richard knew nothing about the traditional meanings of flowers, given the seeming randomness or downright inappropriateness of the few floral offerings he'd made her during their engagement. She leaned back against the telephone table, eyeing the monstrosities that flanked the staircase. If only Charles or Tony possessed a little of that spontaneity, this war of flowers might actually have a victor."As it was, neither seemed capable of straying from the book.
"According to The Language of Flowers," she said, "orchids are given to speak of a lady's beauty and refinement. Gladiolus proclaim the sincerity of the person who gave the flowers."
"Hmmh… Lord Gillingham offered the orchids, a good choice, because they're beautiful flowers, and, by the way, you should definitely go to Glasgow once in your life to see the collection in the Botanical Garden," Richard commented as he wrote back to his other interlocutor.
Probably the old one… found him there two years ago. Let's split up… I take Limehouse, you the docks?
"And Mr. Blake offered the gladiolus, a rather martial choice for a direct man. If the few memories of Latin class don't fail me, I think that gladiolus comes from the word for sword, or something like that…"
Diplomatically, Richard did not voice his opinion about the irony of such a declaration, considering what was said in the Liberal circles about Mr. Blake's inheritance and his oh-so-convenient job in the administration.
"I'm sorry to inform you you've got it backwards," Mary said, laughing. "The glads are Tony's offering, and you ascribe a more masculine meaning to them than I."
To be honest, the declaration of his sincerity had only made her think what a puppy Tony could be at times, turning up at Downton unannounced and gazing at her with his heart in his dark eyes, scarcely able to contain his eagerness when she did show him preference.
"You sound distracted," she said, suddenly less interested in an analysis of her suitors than in the man she was discussing them with. "Am I interrupting something terribly important? I assumed since Miss Fields put me through-"
"Besides the fact that our local Yank decided to disappear the day before he had to produce two sketches, one comic strip and another two full pages for five out of seven papers? Nothing terribly important, as long as the police don't come and say they found him drowned in the Thames."
OK. Meet late afternoon in park.
Keith was already on his feet when Richard motioned him back, waving the paper in the air.
Bring muscle. Morty cleared schedule.
Richard's right hand was perfectly capable of handling himself, even on the docks, but, like the rest of the gang, he was not getting any younger, and his prime years as a brawler were long gone. The man knew it too, as he nodded, and walked out.
"Heavens," said Mary. "I hope he turns up before the deadline. Although from what you've told me about Mr. Inzaghi, this is sort of erratic behavior is par for the course?"
Edith had mentioned, too, that her brief impression of Richard's team had been that of all of them, the American had stood out as surprisingly unprofessional. Mr. Gregson assured her he was a genius at his work, or Richard wouldn't put up with him.
"Well, there's his usual erratic behavior which is simply unnerving, and there's his punctual self-destructive behavior, which is downright worrying. Right now, I don't give a fig about the deadline, to be honest."
Richard scanned his wallet for a healthy amount of cash, replacing the rest, along with personal photos - Shawsie, family, friends - and official papers. No need to bring all this only to get it stolen by some enterprising pickpocket he would inevitably fail to notice as the day went by.
"Listen, I don't want to rush you, but if your dear suitors are all you want to talk about, I'm afraid I'll have to hang up soon."
Mary's thumb twitched against the base of the telephone at his dismissiveness, but she exhaled long and relaxed. He was right to be brusque; her "troubles" with her over-eager gentlemen hardly seemed so at all, compared with the disappearance of a person who was obviously a great deal more to Richard than an employee. His letters the last several months had been enlightening, as well as entertaining, as he shared anecdotes from work which revealed a side of him he'd never showed her before-or which she'd never taken the time to look for. For a businessman who claimed not to suffer fools, Richard could be loyal almost to a fault-and she had been no exception for his devotion.
"Thank you for indulging me," she said. "I suppose you'll be off to look for him? Do you…" She hesitated before forging ahead with this idea which had come suddenly into her head with her reluctance to bring their conversation with him to an end. "Do you need any help?"
Richard's eyes widened in surprise. Eighteen months of marriage to Matthew Crawley had not deprived Mary of her ability to wrong-foot her interlocutors. This was a good thing.
Still, he pondered his answer carefully. The dark side of Limehouse District was not a suitable place for a lady at all. Not that it was really dangerous, excepting the pickpocket hazard. But the lifestyle was not exactly what a woman like Lady Mary Crawley would find acceptable. On the other hand, she was a widow and a mother, not a blushing virgin anymore, and some company would be nice to keep his own worry in check if the search dragged on.
Moreover, a woman who saved pigs from dehydration, covered for a potential murder and went to dissuade a black jazz singer from marrying her cousin in his own basement apartment possessed the tools to survive a day seedy clubs and opium joints…
"Why not? How much more unromantic can you get for Valentine's Day? Meet me on at the corner of Commercial Road and White Horse Road in an hour. And don't bring anything valuable."
Aunt Rosamund's chauffeur parked the Renault in front of a dilapidated store which displayed a Chinese name in faded letters. After he opened the door for her to disembark, he did not immediately climb back into the driver's seat, but stood watching until he saw that she reached Richard-who was only standing a few yards away, by a lamppost-without incident. Though she tried not to show it, Marywas grateful for the extra watchfulness, if ever so slightly alarmed by the driver's parting words. Your ladyship is certain this is where you mean to go? She'd assured him she would be perfectly safe with Sir Richard, and please not to mention to Aunt Rosamund where she was spending Valentine's Day, or with whom.
"My," said Mary with a grin as she approached Richard, his trilby low over his forehead and the collar of his trenchcoat turned up against the February cold, wreathed in cigarette smoke. "I feel as though I've stepped onto the set of a detective film."
She glanced around, the grey sky and the shabby buildings with their peeling faded paint almost as drab as the black and white worlds viewed on cinema screens. Her clothes were dark, too, and the plainest she'd brought with her for a short stay with Aunt Rosamund; some of the mourning garments in the wardrobe back home might have been more suitable for this sort of outing.
"I hope I'm suitably inconspicuous?" she asked, noting a pair of scrawny boys blinking at her from across the street, who might have fitted in with Fagin's gang. She clutched her handbag and regretted bringing it along, glancing back where the Renault had been parked; but it had already driven off to the end of the street.
"Well, sometimes, I wish I could get out of this damn detective movie," Richard grumbled as a form of a greeting. "Before you say it, I know, wrong choice of occupation to start with…"
Without another word, he offered her his arm, not bothering to take his hand out of his trenchcoat pocket.
"Let's start, shall we?"
"Lead the way."
Mary tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow. Despite the unfamiliarity of their surroundings, she felt more at ease here, with Richard and his utter lack of gallantry and the musty clinging smell of his cigarette with his sure stride, than she had all morning at her aunt's house since the florist's delivery vans brought her suitors' offerings.
"Where are you taking me first?" she asked as they stopped at a cross-street for a passing bicycle. "It had better meet my exceedingly low expectations. Remember, I gave up the Ritz and the Criterion for this."
"Well, it might be a disappointment to you because I'm afraid it's a bit clichéd. We're going to the Jade Palace." Richard motioned to a façade down the street, one of the few which seemed to escape the general decay of the Limehouse district. "A place where gentlemen seek for gracious and exotic company, without fearing any regrettable consequences or any uncontrollable rumors. In the first case, they're perfectly right, since Lady Sun-Yi is very strict with prophylactic means, and in the second case, I'm afraid they're quite mistaken." He grinned wolfishly before turning left to a rather sinister back alley.
He loved back alleys. In their shadows resided the true power of information. One could discover the mechanism of a gigantic machine like London, if they knew where to watch. In their shadows, one could find the freedom to act and open a back door, if they were ready to play with the rules.
"I see," Mary replied, heat prickling across her cheekbones; she felt Richard's gaze on her, and hoped he attributed her flush to the cold and not to embarrassment.
The shadows lengthened as they turned down the alley, further out of the reach of the wan sun which failed to break through the clouds, and Mary found herself tightening her grip on Richard's arm, pressing closer against his side. She could only imagine what her mother and aunt would say to her setting foot in the Jade Palace. Of course they might be more alarmed about with whom-even though, ironically, he was the person most capable of keeping that secret.
"I'm sure I'd be shocked by some of the people you know to frequent such establishments."
Had he ever?
Blush deepening, she hastened to add, "How likely is it that we'll find Mr Inzaghi here?"
"If we're lucky, he decided to mend his broken heart with women and booze, and the Jade Palace would be his number one choice," he replied, checking his wristwatch - one of the few outlandish gifts his ex-wife offered him in the first months of their marriage. Since the gift had been made with his own money, and he liked the watch, he had decided to keep it, as a reminder of his foolishness. "We'll know very soon."
As if on cue, a back door opened to reveal a gracious silhouette clad in a dark red exotic dress. Lady Sun-Yi, or Madeleine Johnson for the few people pertaining to her inner circle, could put a Swiss clock to shame. Waiting for her, a boy, not older than twelve or thirteen, sat on the stairs, waiting for his order. Twice a day, before noon and before dinner, Madeleine would relay her clients' demands to Old Chan, a courtesy to the gentlemen who did not want to be seen in an opium joint.
Richard waited for the end of the transaction, motioning Mary to remain silent, before greeting his informant.
"Hello, Maddie."
What he had not anticipated was the frozen expression on her face.
"Richard, what are you doing here? Do I have to remind you we have an agreement?"
Mary tried not to gawk at the woman the instant she stepped out of the door, her luxurious silk gown incongruous with the back alley scene. She battled an unladylike smirk, as well-it would be a woman in red, wouldn't it?
The lady-if indeed the term applied at all-was not nearly so shocking, though, as Richard's address. Maddie? And they had an agreement? Dropping his arm, she looked up at him in expectation.
Richard frowned at Madeleine's unexpected hostility.
What now?
"I know, I know," he answered, raising his hands in an appeasing gesture. "No surprise visits, you never know who I could stumble upon. I don't want to ruin your business since it's mine as well."
"What do you want?" Madeleine shot back, though her suspicious gaze was on Mary.
"Nothing concerning whatever big name you're entertaining at the moment, I assure you. Is Pete here?"
The narrowed eyes, heavily lined in kohl, flickered briefly to Richard. "Pete?" she asked, distractedly, looking back at Mary. "No, I haven't seen him in ages. I thought he had a girlfriend?"
"Apparently not any more," Mary answered, tired of being a mere spectator.
"I wish he were here, for cheering up" replied Lady Sun-Yi, or Maddie, whatever her real name was. "I'm glad you are not alone on Valentine's Day, Richard."
He had to stifle a groan. Of course, she had to comment on Mary's presence. Well, if she wanted to start yet another war, he would oblige her, gladly.
"She's there to stop me from breaking the Yank's teeth when I get my hands on him. And please do drop the China doll act, Miss Johnson, it's an insult to your intelligence," he hissed between clenched teeth, towering above her, hands firmly back in his trenchcoat pockets.
From deep in Mary's memory came the image of Granny and Aunt Rosamund's hushed yet fascinated tones across the tea table, discussing how Richard had "manhandled" Lavinia. If only they could see him now, imperious in a dark alley with a woman of the evening who apparently supplied him with far juicier secrets than the Marconi scandal. But Miss Johnson was not easily cowed.
With a roll of her eyes, she said, "Pete's not here. Is there anything else you want to know, or may I get back to the big name I'm entertaining, while you look for Pete so your lady friend can stop you from punching him?"
"That is all, thank you," Mary said, taking Richard's arm once again and giving it a little tug in the direction they'd come.
Richard could feel her intent - and appreciated that she took her role in this debacle seriously - but he wasn't done yet. There was no reason he would be the only one having a nightmarish day.
"Maddie?" he called after her before she got the chance to go back inside. "If your big client is a man with carefully combed hair, a spectacular mustache, a paunch and a Welsh accent, please give him my regards. I promise I won't publish anything, but make him sweat."
The displeased frown that formed on her face as he finished his description was the perfect giveaway.
"And for your troubles, three tickets to Paris in April, and the best seats to see France vs England, for your father and your nephews… Good day."
Neither Mary nor Richard spoke as they made their way back up the alley in the direction from which they'd come. Almost as soon as they stepped out of the shadows, however, Mary said, "That was neatly done. But there's one loose end you forgot to tie up."
Richard had been scanning up and down the next block of the neighborhood from beneath the brim of his hat, considering where to continue the search for his wayward caricaturist, but he glanced down at her in question.
She raised a brow at him. "Are you going to give me a Parisian holiday not to reveal who spent Valentine's Day at the Jade Palace?"
"Come on, Mary, you wouldn't want to destroy the reputation of Mr. Blake's boss, would you?"