It wasn't until considerably later, when they were speaking privately, that she told her it was then she realised it must have been the swords that gave the game away.
To recap – if one could call such recollection a recapitulation of what had gone before – the meeting of two such disparate characters could not have been planned, not even by the Great Intelligence himself, had he for once been in mischievous mood.
The last case had gone well, insofar that mankind had been saved yet again (even though it did not know that fact), and Scotland Yard had had nothing but praise and acclamation for the mysterious, veiled female with a 'seriously disfigured' face, who had, almost single-handedly, helped them to solve one of their most pressing mysteries. Whispers were abroad about "The Great Detective", and how she had been able to search out clues, information and suspects alike, whereas the plodding detectives of the ordinary police force had been unable to make any kind of progress at all.
"Like wading through mud, uphill and backwards…" one of them had been heard to mutter, on more than a single occasion. This benighted individual had no idea that he had been dealing with an alien entity, hell-bent on wiping civilisation as he know it from the face of the earth, whilst disguised as a mind-reading phrenologist, of the most persuasive type. Would he even have understood, if it had been explained to him? Doubtful. Would he have understood that the veiled woman could, with the help of a shadowy friend and companion, break through the space-time continuum in order to rectify the evil that was 'out there', without changing the timeline? Even less likely. Such things just did not happen in the ordered Victorian world that he inhabited. Fairy tales for his infants were more likely to be true…
The carriage trundled on through the yellowish pea-souper fog, which rolled around the streets in the manner of a drunken man weaving his way home after a long and interesting night out. The veiled woman sat in one corner of the seat, and flung back her head covering with a sigh of relief. Her companion shuffled uncomfortably on his side of the vehicle.
"Why must you keep that on all the time?" This question was asked with an air of absolute certainty as to her reply.
"And risk goodness knows what reaction from the general public? Try not to be ridiculous, if you are able to do so."
"They know you."
"Yes, and they like what I do for their society. However, I prefer to retain a certain degree of mystery, and I can well do without their prurient sympathy or spurious concern. My 'skin condition', indeed. Apes!"
"Hm." Her companion turned to look out of the window. "You don't have a very high regard for humankind, do you?"
"Do you?"
"Well," came the somewhat hesitant reply, "maybe not all the time…their brains are far too tiny and circumscribed for my liking."
"Question answered, then," replied the veiled woman. "Also, they are far too unpleasantly wrapped up in themselves to be of any use to me – apart from as the odd meal…" Her voice trailed off, and she aimed a sly kick at her companion, when he did not respond immediately.
"When did you last eat?" he asked eventually. He thought some more, then his face cleared. "The police cell was empty when we left, wasn't it? And there were some strangely quiet and muffled noises in the background before that, whilst I was talking to the Inspector in the main office." He paused, weighing his words carefully. "How do you manage that?"
"Manage what?"
"Not to get blood everyw…oh, never mind. You know what I mean, I think…"
"Indeed."
Silence reigned inside the carriage for a while, and the two travellers allowed the noises of the night and the streets to be their background music as they each retreated into their own thoughts. Carefully placed on the seat beside the woman, the swords rattled gently in their cases as the horse trotted onwards.
The streets of the city were awash at night – particularly in the East End of London. Awash with what, it might be better not to say. The flotsam and jetsam of life often ended up here, each trying, in his, her or its own way, to keep afloat. Every so often, a being would float to the top, and then would either wave or drown, depending on its character, and the luck it may or may not have had.
The girl moved cautiously along the side of the street, trying to keep out of the shadows, and hastening into each new patch of lamplight, fitful and sporadic as it was. In her mid-twenties, dark-haired and respectably cloaked and bonneted, she had an air of self-possession that sat oddly with her careful and circumspect movements. Home was, at present, a small and somewhat inhospitable garret above a Chinese pawnbroker's shop, which took up the majority of her meagre earnings from the factory in which she worked. Hours were long, and comforts were scarce, but she scraped by – just.
As she half ran, half walked along the street, her mind kept on harking back to the moment that she had found herself homeless, three years before. Try as she could, she was not able to expunge these images from her mind: her mother and father casting her out from the relative comfort of their respectable home in the suburbs. Not the best of places, in truth, but not the worst, by a long margin. The kind of environment where appearance was paramount, neighbours watched each other like birds of prey eyeing up a possible victim, and any deviation from the normality of provincial life was regarded with the utmost suspicion, even hatred.
"You're not ordinary – you're a freak of nature – we have no place for you here – get out of our sight lest you corrupt your sister – go and make your living on the streets, where you can choose the friends your 'nature' wishes, without bringing disgrace down on the family…" These were the phrases that had driven her away, with only a small case of useful possessions, together with the money currently in her purse, to her name. No inheritance now for her, as she had been cut off from all family help and succour: for what? For having a mind and a will of her own, and not wishing to be trammelled into a state of matrimony that she could never have borne, to the son of her father's oldest friend. How could she, in all honesty and truth, when she loved another? Going against the grain of both society and upbringing, how quickly had one chance meeting grown into something special and, she had once hoped, lasting. She could not say any of that to her parents – and never would. Prevarication after prevarication had put them off the scent – she had supposed. They had been sly, however, and had bribed their housemaid to bring them her post – steaming the letters and replies open, reading them, and then resealing them. How long had that been going on? She realised that she had never really thought about that aspect, but surmised that it had been long enough to awaken suspicion in their minds, and then cement that belief unshakeably and resolutely in their convictions. They had burned the incriminating letters in front of her – the heat from the blazing fire in the grate of the once-comfortable drawing room still flamed in her heart as she relived that moment. Her father's accusations, and her mother's tears; their cold, harsh voices as they spat out the truth of her attachment, turning her tender words back upon her as if they were branding them on her skin with hot iron.
"Had these been to a man, we could have forgiven you, in time, perhaps…but this…this…" Lost for words, for the first time since his tirade had begun, her father hurled the final letter into the hearth, and turned to her, brandishing the poker like an avenging crusader.
"How could you…?" her mother wailed, into her handkerchief. Then, looking at her daughter properly for the first time that afternoon, she continued, between sobs, "After all the care we have taken to bring you up correctly, religiously and as we saw best. How could you throw it back in our faces like that?"
Nothing the girl could say would change things – her words on paper, the loving and caring sentiments, the protestations of undying affection, remembrances of stolen time together, all these had condemned her by their very being. Ink and letters, as her father took great delight in telling her as he pushed her out of the room, could not lie.
So, finding herself ostracised for these 'preferences', she left the family home the next day, determined to try to make her way on her own as best she could. Determined, also, not to give in to their prejudices and hatred.
It had not been easy; but she never had supposed it would be. She was entirely cut off from all support. No family friend would help, and risk the wrath of her father, and she dared not get in touch with her letters' original recipient. Better she was thought cold-hearted by that person, she decided, than run the risk of ruining two lives. The finding of accommodation was the worst part, initially – nobody wanted to rent long term to a single female with, at that point, no job and very few prospects. All assumed the worst: that she was on the streets, selling herself for money. She eventually found a garret room above a pawnbroker's shop, which was run by a Chinese family, also fairly recently arrived in the area. They, for whatever reasons of their own, most likely because they needed the extra income, took pity on the girl, and let a room to her – on the premise that she was to look for "respectable work". If they had their doubts about her, they never let it show in their attitude. To her, this was a refreshing change from the cruel and biased certainties she had left behind.
Work in the factory was hard and brutal, and she frequently arrived home close to tears. Pay was poor, the overseers were harsh, and her rent, whilst not completely extortionate, was draining. The little money she had brought with her on so suddenly leaving home went some way to help her in the first few weeks, but even though she was eking it out frugally, she was really beginning to feel the pinch. However, the family, though initially slightly wary of this foreign stranger in their midst, was kind.
One day, she arrived home from work to find the son of the family in the main body of the shop performing a series of actions and movements that fascinated her. He started in surprise when she came in, and tried shamefacedly to pretend that he had been polishing up an oriental sword that hung on the wall. A questioning tone came into her voice, as she asked what it was, exactly, that he had been doing. She was entranced by the rapidity, ease and fluidity of his movements, and wanted to be able to replicate them for herself. What she had seen was something so very different from her ordinary life, and she felt that if she could manage to do something like that, with such a degree of concentration, it would remove her mind from all of her cares and worries for a time.
"Self-defence with movements, and also with swords and knives", came the reply. "Very useful in the big city – especially round here."
"I'd rather like to learn – can you teach me?"
"A woman? A foreign woman? Doing this?" The young man laughed heartily at the idea, but swiftly choked to a halt when he saw the utter intense seriousness of her expression.
"Well, as you say, it's useful. And I do have to travel about on my own a lot, to and from the factory, for example. And sometimes it can be quite late, and dark. And you know what the fog's like. And there's often some very odd folks about. Also, I don't want to be mistaken for a street-walker, so it might be an accomplishment I could well use." She smiled to herself as the unbidden thought of her sainted mother and father watching her use this particular 'accomplishment' slid into her mind. For them, the playing of the piano and a bit of spoken French were advanced enough: 'unladylike' was a word heard in their household, and applied to her, all too frequently. She particularly remembered the occasion several years ago, when she had been caught learning how to pick locks, having persuaded the postman's son (conveniently skilled thus) to teach her. The fact that she by then also possessed a set of useful picks (provided by the same young man) had, somehow, escaped their eternal and unremitting vigilance. "Go on…show me, please…"
"Very well. You've convinced me, in spite of everything. And, unlike my mother and sister, you have to go out of the area to work. But we'll have to be quite quiet about this. My father would probably approve, though," came the thoughtful reply.
So, a training period commenced, and very soon the girl found that she was, in fact, a natural at this sport. Dresses and stays were a nuisance, in truth, but she soon discovered that a baggy suit belonging to the young man's father would suffice for training – it covered her up modestly, yet she had a freedom of movement that she could never have previously imagined. In time, they progressed from the kicks, blocks and punches to work with the swords, and here, as before, she was amazed just how natural she felt when working on the moves. Even the young man was heard to comment that she might soon outgrow his training, and his father merely nodded, quietly. The fact that she was a woman, and a foreigner at that, had not again been mentioned, but from time to time she caught sideways glances, and smiles, that made her think she had been the topic of family discussion for a while. However, she persevered, learned, and improved. Indeed, she felt much safer walking to and from work in the gloom of the London dawns and dusks. Also, she now carried a concealed dagger, short but deadly, in a pocket of her skirts. The young man's father had given it to her one evening, as she came in from the cold and damp. He had not said anything other than "It is now time for you to have this. Take good care of it, and it will do the same for you."
She had heard many rumours of gangs in the area, but had not thought too much about them. As more and more people of all nationalities flooded here, desperate for work and low rent accommodation, factions grew and split as each group wanted more property, space and wealth. Bloodshed was not unknown, and murder was no stranger to these streets, but the police seemed to want to have as little to do with the place as possible. Xenophobia was rampant, and the prospect of policing somewhere 'foreign' was not appealing to the majority of the force. She had also encountered some strange glances as she went to and from her work. These, she assumed, were due in part to the facts that not only did she keep herself very much to herself, rarely joining in with the general banter and chat in the factory, but also that she was lodging with an obviously 'foreign' family – this was unusual here, and word on the street travelled quickly: knowledge was often valuable currency amongst those for whom crime was a major source of employment.
This evening, however, her progress along the street was quite rapid, and she made sure that she kept her right hand within easy reach of the concealed dagger. Even so, she was wary and watchful, as she had quickly learned how to be. Turning a corner, she crossed the road on the final leg of her journey, and, as she was so close to home, her mind momentarily wandered from its usual alertness. A figure emerged, shadow-like, from the gloom, and stepped in front of her.
"What's the rush, darlin'?" growled a rough voice, slurring the words slightly. She recognised one of the overseers from her work: one with whom she had had several run-ins over the past while. He seemed to have taken a liking to her, despite her studied avoidance of him, and he could not, or would not, understand that she had no interest whatsoever in him, or, for that matter, in any of the other men in the factory. Clearly, smarting with wounded and misplaced pride, and buoyed up by the courage gained from a bottle of gin, he had pursued her thus far, and she did not have to think very hard in order to guess his intentions. Appalled, and with a sharp exhalation of breath, she stepped to one side, but he blocked her way again. Turning, she found three other cronies of his, barring the way of her only other line of escape.
"Running home to your foreign lover boy, I'll bet," snarled one of the other men, through bared and rat like teeth. "You should have more sense."
"What's he got that we haven't, then?" taunted another. "Don't tell me – you prefer the cast of his skin, or is that all…? Or maybe it's his sister you're after – we've noticed how you always gives us lads the brush-off…" His comment tailed off into a coarse laugh, as he saw the colour flood into her face, and he made a grab for her arm. "When we've finished with you, you'll be begging him to take you back – soiled goods and everything…if we don't cut your throat first." She could smell the cheap gin on his breath as he leaned in towards her.
Her hand moved as if of its own accord to the concealed pocket in her skirt, and, with the rapidity of a striking cobra, she lashed out with the knife. Her attacker yowled, and retreated a couple of paces, clapping his hand to his cheek to stem the sudden stream of blood.
"You unnatural little bitch!" he cried, grimacing with the unexpected pain. "Right, you had it coming, miss high and mighty. Giving yourself airs and graces, thinking you're too good for the likes of us. Just you wait – you won't know who you are by the time we've finished with you." The girl then sprang into action, putting the paces and moves that the young man had shown her, in the seclusion of the shop, into reality. Swing, parry, get them off balance, kick, aim, punch… Rehearsal for this type of event impacting on her had certainly crossed her mind, but she had not bargained on its happening quite so soon, and quite so near to home. Calling out would probably not be of much avail, as these occurrences were all too frequent in this area, and people usually kept their heads down and ignored disturbances. As for the police: much use they would have been. They kept well away. She also knew that if they were summoned, it would be the men's' word against hers, and who in their right mind would even think of a woman attempting to defend herself round here?
Whirling round again, she aimed a series of kicks at her attackers, and a neatly placed elbow jab left one of them floored and gasping for breath. Still clutching her dagger, she twirled and spun about, to face the overseer again. Striking out at him, she slipped on a greasy cobblestone, and momentarily lost her balance. Skirts were indeed an encumbrance, and she felt at a distinct disadvantage. He grasped a handful of material, and forced her to her knees, thumping her down hard on the stony and unforgiving pavement. As the force of the impact shook her to her bones, the knife clattered onto the cobbles, and was snatched up by one of the other men, who waved it aloft in triumph.
"Not even a British blade," he spat derisively. "Well, my dear, let's see what damage it can inflict on your pretty face – after we've done with you, that is."
They began to bundle her towards a dingy and dank side alley off the main part of the street. Winded, she tried her best to continue to kick and punch as she had been taught, but the four of them together were much too strong for her.
"Who's first, then?" gloated the overseer, "but I want two goes. One for her refusal, and one to teach her how to behave with a real man." She writhed and lashed out, but was unable to break their strong hold on her. Three of them held her down, as the overseer stood in front of her, fumbling with his belt. Shutting her eyes, she yelled desperately for help at last, and then knew no more, as the overseer aimed a final blow at her head that knocked her senseless.
"Why are we going this way back?" The silence inside the carriage was broken, as the veiled woman peered out of the window. "It's not the usual route from Scotland Yard."
Her companion looked through his own side window, paused for a long moment, then said:
"I felt like a change – don't you just love the atmosphere of the city at night, especially the insalubrious areas?"
"No. Certainly not – unwashed, stinking apes are far too multitudinous round here for my comfort or liking," came the sharp reply.
"You need to learn more compassion." This was said with a distinct sense of irony, as the man peered more closely through his window. Something on the street appeared to have caught his attention.
"And you – you need a better sense of direction… Where on earth are we going? What now…?"
Suddenly, the carriage slewed unceremoniously to a halt, as the woman's companion had rapped loudly and compellingly on the roof. He unhitched the door, and leapt out.
"Quick!" There was no mistaking the urgency of his tone. No light humour now, but the utmost seriousness. "Help me! Over there! And bring the swords."
Fastening the sword belts around her again with a skill clearly borne of long experience, and then calling to her driver to wait, the woman swiftly followed her companion out of the carriage, towards a small and ill-lit alley from which came an alarming degree of shouting and scuffling. Three men were holding a girl, whilst a fourth man, with one hand on his belt, beat her about the head. A shiny dagger was in the hand of one of the men holding the girl, and, at the clatter of approaching feet along the cobbles, he let go of her and spun round to face his new adversaries. Seeing only a man and woman approaching, albeit quickly, he relaxed slightly.
"Come for the entertainment, have you?" he mocked. "I suppose you can have your turn after we've done. For all that she'll be worth. I hear that gentlemen and women like you pay good money for such as this. Toffs watching how the other half live…and enjoying the spectacle."
The other men had by now turned to see what was afoot, leaving the girl slumped unconscious on the cobbles, her dress torn, and her face cut, bruised and bleeding.
"We was teaching her a lesson," another said. "She'll go with the likes of the foreigners, but not with us. We'll show her what British men can do."
"No. You most certainly will not." The woman said this with force and assurance, lifting her veil as she did so. The four men reeled back in shock, then, as they fully took in the woman's appearance, strode forwards again, with menace in every step of their approach.
"Get out the way, you…bloody circus freak!" This jibe came from the overseer. "You'll be the next, after her, I can tell you. I bet you'll be worth waiting for, an' all. And your gentleman friend can watch and learn…"
The four assailants squared up to the two newcomers, and the dagger glinted evilly in the lamplight. The woman looked briefly at her companion, and then both moved with surprising speed and agility. The swords were drawn, and within a few minutes, minutes which were marked by remarkably little noise, a fair amount of luminous light, and an almost complete absence of blood, the attackers had been laid to waste. Two lay dead, and two would not survive until daylight, such was the extent of their injuries. Picking up the knife, which had been dropped in the melee, and putting it carefully into the front of her sword belts, the woman turned to her companion.
"I suppose we now have to take this human creature back home, to try to heal her?"
"It would be kind – I can help you with that."
"I'm not in the least bit kind, as you well know," came the sharp retort, "but I would not wish to leave her here, and for us to take her anywhere public for treatment would be tantamount to shouting out our involvement." She looked at the bodies of the four men again. "What a waste of four apes – but will they be missed, round here? You yourself said that we were travelling through an 'insalubrious' area. I suppose, however, it is a good job that I ate before we left the police station, and my larder is stocked, anyhow… They would probably taste terrible: full of gin, no doubt…if we could just move them somewhat further into the shadows…"
They did this with the minimum of fuss, and then, leaving the dead and dying to their own devices, the two hauled the unconscious girl into their waiting carriage. If there had been anyone there to watch, nothing would have been said: it was that kind of place. One where even the police feared to tread. The horse was urged onwards, away from the site of the attack, towards a leafier, and decidedly more pleasant, suburb of the city.
It had all been a blur since she had been dragged into the alley, and she remembered nothing since the overseer had hit her so hard it had loosened some teeth, and nearly broken her jaw. She was, therefore, extremely surprised to wake, and find herself very much alive in a large and comfortable bed in a neatly and carefully furnished room, with a fire burning in the grate. This was clearly not her room over the pawnbroker's, but she was at a complete loss as to where she might be. Had some street-kindly philanthropist found her? At that, she shuddered, as the thought of her parents' philanthropy rushed into her mind. Not, surely, one of those places that thought that they could 'better' the lives of so-called fallen women? Anything but that. She struggled to sit upright, groaning at the pain in her head, and feeling, as she did so, that there was a large bandage across it.
"You nearly died, I think," came a soft voice from a distant corner of the room, "but my companion seems to have managed to save your life. That was a savage beating, and it was going to get considerably worse, if I'm not mistaken. We came along in the very nick of time. You're quite safe here, by the way," the voice added, in a conciliatory tone, as the girl's look of alarm had clearly been noticed.
"You'll throw me out, won't you? Back onto the streets?" Her fear had heightened, and her absolute confusion as to where she might be was making it all worse. "Where am I? Is he a doctor? How does he know I'll be all right? Who are you, anyhow, and who is he?"
"That, you might say, is the question and also the answer," was the enigmatic reply. "You are on the road to recovery, undoubtedly, but you also need time and peace. I have taken the liberty of informing your landlord and employers that you will not be returning either to your lodgings, or to your place of work. All your belongings have been brought here."
"How did you find out…" the girl's voice trailed off, as the figure moved out from the shadowed corner into the light of the room.
"We have contacts all over this city," the figure said quietly, "and it was not difficult for me to trace the oriental dagger back to its original owner. He is glad that you are safe, but sent the dagger back to you, for future use."
Staring at the figure as it moved further into the light, the girl watched, in horrified fascination, as it lifted the veil that had been obscuring its face. She shrank back into her pillows, trying to put as much distance as possible between herself and this…'person' was not the right term at all, nor was 'woman', even if the dress gave a passing semblance of normality. The face that confronted her was nothing so much as that of a reptile, with scales where skin ought to have been. The extremely human eyes glinting at her from this anomalous figure did nothing whatsoever to dispel her by now almost uncontrollable feeling of panic.
"You might have heard of 'The Great Detective', in all possibility," the woman (for such she felt she had to call her) said. Without waiting for either confirmation or denial, she then added, "and I am she." The girl nodded nervously. Even in the part of the city where she had lived, the name was not unknown – especially amongst those who operated on the shady side of the law.
"How soon can I leave?" This came out in a rush of words, and she blushed as soon as she said it. Her parents had, indeed, brought her up politely, for all their prejudices and limitations, and she realised that the sentence was definitely not what she ought to have said at that juncture.
"Not yet. We'll have to wait and see. That head injury may take a while to heal properly, and we don't want you to relapse."
"What about payment? Medication, time, oh…everything that you've done for me?"
"Again, we'll see. And," the comment was snapped out before she could even think that she was going to ask the question, "if you're wondering about returning to employment, I could always do with a housemaid…"
"I'm not sure…," the girl hesitated. What would people think of her now? Working for a being from a freak show? Then, she came to a surprising conclusion in her own mind. What did it matter? Cast out from her family, attacked by her fellow workers: she might as well stay here in what she presumed would be relative safety. But could she trust this…creature? Still, she was safe so far, and nothing untoward had happened - yet. If only the shadowy figure of the man who had healed her would reappear: she might be able to get some answers from him.
"Think about it," the woman said. "As I said, you're safe. But for now, rest some more." Again the girl shrank back as the figure approached nearer to the side of the bed, stretching out a hand that was as equally disfigured and scaly as the face that had frightened her moments before. Ready to scream, the girl felt the hand touch her forehead, and trace a gentle curve down to her chin. Instead of roughness, however, the touch was surprisingly cool and smooth. It momentarily reminded her of a part of her past that she had thought to be closed off, out of necessity…but she pushed that assumption quickly out of her mind. Her life had changed exponentially since then, and she was not sure that she ever wanted to go back.
As the woman emerged from the room, her companion pushed himself away from the banister rail on which he had been leaning.
"She'll do, then?" he questioned.
"Probably," came the terse reply, "but we'll have to see if she really is up to it. She had obviously put up a fierce fight back there. Quite a firebrand! Clear signs of some training. And about that dagger. When I returned it, and the owner gave it straight back to me, he said that his son had been teaching her martial arts and sword skills, and that she was a fearsomely good pupil. That, in itself, is promising. However, I think she wants to see you rather than me: a more familiar type of face might put her at her ease. You, she probably trusts already. Me…she'll need to get used to. But tell her," and at this point she laughed gently, "tell her I'll not eat her alive…or dead."
The man opened the door, and went into the room. As he approached, the girl looked at him apprehensively, clearly full of unasked questions. He decided to pre-empt her.
"Yes, I am a Doctor – of sorts. Yes, my friend and I healed your wounds. No, we do not expect payment – except perhaps your discretion and, maybe, your commitment to work here. As she said, you'll be safer here than elsewhere. And, fearsome though she may look, she won't eat you! Just keep on the right side of her temper, is all…and don't ever go into the larder without asking first." Looking past him, out of the open door onto the landing, relief mixed with anxiety spread across the girl's face, as she asked him the one question that he had not yet answered:
"But just what is she? That dreadful skin thing? Is it a disease? Is it catching? Does it hurt?"
"You wouldn't believe me if I told you," he replied. "But it's not a condition – it's just her skin, and I don't suppose it hurts her any more than your skin does you. She's a living, breathing being like us…well," his voice trailed off for a moment "not really like us, but living and breathing, all the same. Ask her for her story, when you get to know her better: it'll likely come more easily from her." Leaving the girl no choice but to think about what he had said, he went to the door and walked swiftly out of the room again, clearly satisfied with what he had seen. The phrase "get to know her better" resounded in the girl's mind – so was her future being mapped out already? Somehow, in a way she could not quite fathom as yet, she felt extremely comfortable with this thought. And, she had noticed some oriental swords on the landing sideboard, as well, when the man who called himself a Doctor came into the room…this could be a fascinating development.
Joining him as he crossed the landing, the woman spoke again as they turned to go downstairs.
"Do you think she can be relied upon?"
"You can judge that as well as I," came the reply. "She is, I suppose, somewhat in our debt at the moment, but yes, I think she can be. However, it might be in your interests to find out her name, if you plan to work more closely with her. And tell her yours, and your history, eventually – then she will have some idea about with whom she is dealing. Secrecy does not always bring rewards, as you well know."
They had not heard the door opening behind them, for they had been completely engrossed in their conversation as they progressed down the staircase. A sudden clatter from the landing at the top of the stairs made them turn and look up in surprise. There stood the girl, wielding one of the oriental swords from the sideboard in her hand – apparently oblivious to either her surroundings, or their interested gaze. As she swung and parried, they watched in astonishment, until, with a last effort, she whirled around, and ended up facing them. A small cry of alarm at being noticed escaped her, and she made to put the sword back into its casing.
"A promising start!" the woman snorted. "Why not begin your work here by wrecking the house and possessions?"
"I think that I'd really like to stay, though, and you said you needed a maid…" the girl replied, quite unabashed at this remark. "I can dust, by the way, if that's required, and I do know how to use these swords…I've trained with ones like them before. Are they your husband's?"
The man and the woman looked at each other in astonishment at this, and imperceptibly moved slightly further away from each other on the staircase.
"I live alone," the woman said curtly, "and they belong to me. There is no…" and she hesitated before finishing her remark, "man living here. The Doctor is a very old friend and colleague, and we still work together from time to time. As to your ability with the swords," she added, "well, that's very apparent, if a bit sudden, and are you not currently supposed to be both resting and recovering? Also, if you definitely want to stay here to work as a housemaid (although I've never yet met one who could handle a sword, much less deal with me…which makes me think this relationship could become very interesting, she added to herself), I might even need to know your name. I can't just call you 'girl'. That would be extremely impolite. You, however, may call me Madame Vastra."
"Jenny. Jenny Flint, ma'am. At your service," the girl replied, dropping a mock curtsey at the top of the stairs. She caught the older woman's glance, and straightened up. Nevertheless, the look shot at her was not entirely admonitory, but had a degree of warmth to it, and also a degree of a faintly familiar emotion that she was not entirely sure how to place at present. She detected humour there as well, however, and so gave the swords a swift but gentle pat as she returned to her room, feeling the gaze of her new employer follow her as she closed the door.
And, as Vastra said to Jenny quite some time later, privately in her chamber, it was then she realised that it must, on balance, have been the swords that gave the game away.