Chapter Four
Meg: I am so proud of myself for getting another chapter out so quickly. I promised myself yesterday to work on my two papers after I posted that last chapter, but I must have been on a writing high, because I wrote the entire first part of this chapter then. Today I wrote the last two parts when I was in the library, where I was trying to get some college-related work done.
At least readers will be rewarded for my slacking off.
Lyon sat on the cold, damp ground, using a headstone as a backrest, as she wrote in a little maroon pocketbook.
She snapped her head up at the sound of feet crunching on dead leaves. A rugged sailor deliberately approached her in a faltering limp, his blue cap covering his eyes.
She got to her feet and instinctively thrust her hand into her pocket, lightly gripping the Lancaster pistol that was tucked away in there. The pocketbook was still open, so she pretended to read from it while she kept an eye on the man. He stopped when he was a few feet away.
"Missy!" he growled.
She looked up from the book. "Good afternoon, sir."
"Lookin' for Spitalfields rookery. Know ye of the place?"
Lyon nodded. "It's off Dorset Street."
"Can ye point me roight?"
"You go out the east gate there," she said, pointing to a gate to her right, "and head down that road, Little Paternoster Row, and then turn-"
Too late she caught the man's swift approach out of the corner of her eye. He grabbed her gun hand and twisted it behind her until she was forced to drop the gun. He pressed a razor to her throat and grunted in her ear, "Too easy."
Beads of sweat broke out on Lyon's forehead. "My bag is there, behind that tombstone," she said calmly. "Take it, and I won't go to the police."
"Good, because I can't afford to spend anytime in jail," the sailor said, his voice changing as he released her.
Lyon turned toward the man, who pulled off his cap and a few very well-placed whiskers and patches of fur. "MR. BASIL!" she exclaimed angrily. "What is the meaning of this?"
Basil chuckled. "I'm sorry, Renée, it was meant to be a joke. I just got carried away."
Her legs felt like jelly from the fright of the ordeal. She sank down onto the grass, saying, "If that's your idea of a joke, then I wonder what you consider to be a danger. No wonder your girlfriend is so sour all the time, if you play jokes like that on her."
"You were about to shoot me, though. You would have gotten anyone else who did not know that you had a pistol in your pocket. Next time don't take your eyes off the suspicious person."
"Gee, thanks," she said sarcastically. "What are you doing here dressed like that?"
Basil sat next to a tombstone across from Lyon. "I was at the East India docks anyway, and I thought to check if you were here."
"I thought you might come by today. The servant girl at my lodgings said that you were by yesterday," she said. "You have something for me, don't you?"
The detective pulled out a piece of paper. "I have been in contact with a Pinkerton detective in the States for several years now. I received a letter from him yesterday. He found the location of your family."
Lyon felt like Basil had punched her in the stomach. "In the States?"
"Yes. There is an Allan McGeady, living with his 26-year-old daughter Francis and his 17-year-old daughter Jessica, in a farmhouse about 6 miles away from St. Anthony, in Minnesota. She's attending a teaching school next fall. Your sister Gwen is married and living in Saint Paul with her husband, who works with a railroad company."
Lyon pressed her back into the tombstone behind her. "Gwen's married?"
"Yes."
"To whom?"
"The man's name is Justin Bryan. He's a native of the St. Anthony area. She met him when they moved there in the spring of '97."
"While I was here, trying to kill the queen," she murmured. She closed her eyes. "Why did you take it upon yourself to look for them?"
"I asked my Pinkerton man, Greene, to look for them back in '97, after the Diamond Jubilee, just in case I ran into you again. It was an attempt to dissuade you from crime. You beat me to it by leaving of your own accord. I forgot about it until now."
"You didn't forget," Lyon said with a smirk. "You don't forget anything."
"All right, you have me there," Basil admitted. "I didn't forget; I only thought that you may be able to act on the information that you could not discover for yourself six years ago."
Lyon opened her eyes. She turned around and stared at the gravestone behind her. "Six years, huh? So they've been living there for six years. A little American farming town?"
Basil nodded.
"Rumor has it that it takes four or five years for those little American farming towns to get any sort of information from Europe. You can find farmer's wives wearing the Parisian fashions of five years ago. Perhaps they did not hear of the near crisis that was the Diamond Jubilee until just a year or two ago. It might have taken them even longer to discover that their dear daughter and sister was a part of the regicide plot, and is currently wanted for treason."
"Rose-"
"See this tombstone?" Lyon said, tracing the lettering on the stone she had been leaning on. "This was a friend of mine, one Gregory Rogers. He died soon after finding me in the East End. He was writing to Francis, letting them know that I was still alive. I have no idea if the letter was ever sent out. But surely they know of the disgrace I became by now. And you want me to face them again?"
"I said nothing of the sort," Basil said quietly. She heard something soft, yet with some weight, hit the ground. "I am only offering you the means of contacting them again if you so choose."
Lyon turned back toward Basil. A thick, tattered brown envelope was on the ground in front of her. She slowly picked it up. "Thank you, I guess."
"You are not happy at all?"
"I'm… disappointed." She sighed. "I now feel obligated to let them know that I'm all right. But that could have so many negative repercussions on me. It would certainly blow my cover, potentially ruin my career, and may even get me arrested and tried for treason. I'm too afraid of all that."
"I understand," the detective said. "No one is making you do anything you don't want to do."
"Well, I want to contact them. But before this discovery I was safe in the ignorance of how to do so. Now you've thrust me out on a ledge, and I feel obligated to jump."
They fell into silence, one thousand thoughts and anxieties spinning through Lyon's mind. She felt like this meeting with Basil had caused her to regress; she was 18 and abandoned again, facing Basil as he had offered her the means of redemption soon after the attempted regicide of which she was a part. She just wanted to get these thoughts out of her head.
"What do I owe you for the services of the Pinkerton fellow?" she asked.
He shook his head. "Nothing. You never asked my permission to search them out."
"You know how stubborn I am. I refuse to let your efforts go unrewarded."
"Just receive it as a kindness."
"BASIL! The man spent six years trying to find them!"
"Consider it to be a few weeks. The trail went cold several times, and Greene wrote back, giving it up. Then he'd stumble across something new, and follow that. So the work was really the equivalent of a few weeks."
"Fine. So how much do I owe for his weeks of work?"
"Nothing."
"BASIL!" she exclaimed again.
"Greene owed me a favor anyway."
"Basil, give me some solid way to repay it or else I'll be very angry with you and with myself," Lyon said, exasperated.
"Well…" the detective looked around them, making sure that no one was nearby. He then said, "My Meg is looking for a job. I don't like the idea, but her mind is set on it, and she won't be happy unless she tries it."
"Do you want me to find her a job? My editor is always looking for a female fashion writer. He makes me do it from time to time, but it's so dreadfully dull, I always fight him about it."
"I might take you up on that offer if she really can't find anything herself, but I don't think she'd like the idea. She doesn't trust you due to your professional relationship with Ratigan."
"So what did you have in mind?" she asked.
"I need you to keep your eyes and ears open the next time you're visiting Ratigan."
Lyon forced a few laughs. "I don't visit Ratigan. I haven't seen him since my last interview."
Basil raised an eyebrow. "Must I highlight all of the ways in which you betray your personal interactions with Ratigan?"
She folded her arms. "Go ahead."
"One: you call Meg 'Miss Sarentis,' instead of 'Mrs. Havers,' Ratigan is the only other person I know of who is so socially insensitive to her status as a widow. Two: you prevented a murder in June by alerting the Yard before it occurred. The Yard has no idea that the victim to be was a long-time associate of Ratigan's, although they do know that the cronies sent to carry out the murder were Ratigan's."
"Who told you that?"
Basil grinned, but said nothing.
"Damn you," she growled.
"Three: you have a recent picture of Ratigan in your locket."
"How would you know that?" Lyon exclaimed. "I wear my locket at all times, and I don't recall ever showing you its contents!"
Basil pointed to her chest. Lyon looked down; the locket was hanging open, revealing the picture.
"Four-"
"Okay, okay, you win!" she interrupted. "Ratigan knows I talk to you, I guess there's no harm in you knowing that I talk to him. But I will not snitch on him or his operations again. I only protected that man because the consequences of not doing so would have been much worse for many innocent people."
"I am not asking you to tell me where his lair is," Basil said. "I just want you to alert me if you become aware of any designs Ratigan has on Meg due to this job. You don't even have to tell me what they are. I just want to know when I have to start taking extra precautions with her."
Lyon sighed. "Sounds fair enough, I suppose. Ratigan would kill me, of course, but then again so would Miss Sarentis if she knew how well acquainted Ratigan and I are." She gathered up the tattered brown envelope and put it in her canvas bag. Picking up her dropped pistol and the pocketbook, she placed both items into her pocket. She stood up. "It's getting a little too chilly for me to be out here much longer."
He rose to his feet. "Good afternoon, Miss Lyon."
"Until we meet again, Mr. Basil."
Lyon left by the north gate, while Basil took the one facing the west side of the city.
Isabelle grasped my hand as we approached a daunting mansion built of white stone in a wealthy neighborhood.
"This is Mr. Jenners' house?" I asked in disbelief.
"Yup," Isabelle said. "Wait until you see the inside."
"You've been here before?"
"With my father, yes. Never on my own."
We arrived at the heavy oak door. Isabelle rang the doorbell.
"And it's 'Sir' Jenners," Isabelle said. "I keep telling you it's 'Mister,' because that's what the privates call him. He gets along swimmingly with them."
"That's not what Basil said."
"Basil and I must not be talking about the same man," Isabelle scoffed. "Mister-, erm, Sir Jenners is a politician, a military commander, a baronet, and has even managed to be a gentleman."
The door opened, and an elderly man with graying fur, dressed in a crisp, black suit appeared. "Yes?"
"We're here to see Sir Jenners," Isabelle said, handing him our calling cards.
The butler scrutinized the cards for a few moments, but bowed us into the cream marble foyer. I gaped at the marble around us. There were several statues of classical figures on the walls, miniature marble imitations of real works of art.
The butler led us into the parlor. The wallpaper was a dark red pattern, with dark chestnut furniture. The drapes were also red, with gold tassels hanging from them. There were few ornaments besides a few red and black vases, much in the style of ancient Greece.
The butler bowed again. "Please, wait here." He left the room and shut the door behind him.
"Isabelle," I hissed, "this is a very rich, very important man!"
"I know," she whispered back.
"Is he married?"
"No."
"Why not?"
She shrugged.
I bit my lower lip. "Oh, I'm so nervous! What should I say to him?"
"I'll make the introductions," she reassured me. "You'll know what to say when the time comes."
I took a few deep breaths, trying to clear my head so I could think clearly. "I'm not going to get the job, am I?"
"Oh, you silly goose!" Isabelle said, forcing me into a seat. "What does it matter if you do or don't? You can always look for another job. Mr. Jen- erm, Sir Jenners, may want someone with actual experience in cataloguing. But it's worth a shot, right?"
"I might faint from the nerves. I've never been in such a nice house. I'm way too poor to be here!"
"Meg! You look absolutely gorgeous in your new dress. And it is new- it's the latest fashion. You fit right in."
I closed my eyes. "Kill me now, before I make a fool of myself."
"Meg!"
I heard the click of the door opening. Isabelle jabbed me in the side and stood up. I followed suit, feeling somewhat wobbly and sick to my stomach.
A very large man entered the room. He was tall, and well-built- not too thick, and not too thin. His fur was a grayish-black, while he had a thin, black goatee on his chin. He wore a black suit with a red cravat. A long, thick tail swung lightly behind him, evidence that this well-dressed, handsome creature was a rat.
He smiled sweetly when he saw us. "Good afternoon, Miss Fremly," he said, his voice a low, reverberating baritone. He bowed before her. Taking her hand, he planted a gentle kiss on it. "What a pleasure it is to see you again."
"The pleasure is all mine, Sir Jenners," Isabelle said, curtsying and blushing in response.
"And who is this?" he asked, motioning towards me.
"Sir Jenners, this is my friend Mrs. Megana Havers."
"It is a pleasure, Mrs. Havers," Jenners said, taking my hand and offering it a kiss as well. I nearly melted when his lips touched my hand.
"Sir… Sir Jenners," I breathed.
"Please ladies, sit down," Jenners said. Isabelle and I sat next to each other on a velvet upholstered sofa. The gentleman took a dark leather chair across from us. "How is your father? I heard he's just left for the Porte."
"Yes, he left last week. He's seeing the Sultan on a diplomatic mission."
"When will he be back?"
"Sometime in March, I believe."
"Tell him to see me when he comes in, then."
"I will. He may be a bit delayed, though," Isabelle said, blushing again. "I am getting married around that time."
Jenners took her hand and looked at her ring. "Ah. And who is the lucky man?"
"Dr. David Dawson. He was previously of the Queen's 66th Regiment in Afghanistan."
"I like the fellow already," he said. "Although I believe I have come across his name in the papers. What is his current profession?"
"Oh, he has a small private practice here in London. He's also an associate of Mr. Basil of Baker Street," Isabelle said.
"The detective who saved the queen from Professor Ratigan at the Diamond Jubilee?"
"The same."
Jenners looked impressed. "And how did you meet this Dr. Dawson?"
"Well, it was in Shanghai, actually, while he, Basil, and Mrs. Havers here were on a case."
"You know these gentlemen as well?" Jenners asked me.
"Yes, sir," I replied. "I am Mr. Basil's secretary."
He peered curiously at me. "Pardon me for asking, but what is your maiden name?"
"Sarentis."
"Aha! I have heard of you in the papers before! So tell me," he said, his eyes twinkling, "is this visit really to gather clues for your next big case?"
"Not unless you've done something against the law," I said deviously.
He laughed.
"Actually," Isabelle interjected, giving me another swift jab in the side, "we did come here today to ask you something, but not about a case. I hear you're looking for someone to help catalogue your library."
"Yes, I am," Jenners said.
"Mrs. Havers here would like to help."
Jenners crinkled his forehead, displaying an obvious dislike for the idea. "Have you catalogued books before?" he asked me.
"Well… no," I said. "I do have some experience with organizing Mr. Basil's case files and doing some book-related research for him. I am a very fast learner, if someone will teach me how to catalogue a library."
"I beg your pardon, Mrs. Havers, but don't you already have a job with Mr. Basil?"
"Yes. However, I am looking to expand my knowledge."
He glanced at Isabelle and then back to me, as if sizing us both us. "I could teach you, but only if you picked it up very quickly. Come with me."
He got to his feet. We arose and followed him out of the room.
"My library is quite extensive," Jenners said as we went up the marble staircase. "I spent years gathering all sorts of tracts, pamphlets, rare books. Much of my collection actually deals with literature on the divine right of kings versus the equality of the three estates of government- king, lords, and commons- in making laws." He stopped on the landing and turned back to Isabelle and I. "Do you know what I am talking about?"
Isabelle shook her head. I pursed my lips together, and then asked, "From the Civil War?"
"Precisely," Jenners said, starting up again down a long, dark-paneled hallway. "There are original English Civil War tracts by William Prynne and Sir Robert Filmer, as well as copies of John Milton and Algernon Sidney's works."
"That's probably why I thought he was related to Algernon Sidney," Isabelle whispered.
It was my turn to jab her as Jenners turned around. "What was that?"
"What do you think?" I asked. "Does the king have a divine right to rule?"
"I doubt my opinion on the issue matters much. The Dutch invasion of 1688 discouraged any future English king from insisting on the legitimacy of the divine right to rule." He pulled out a set of keys. Inserting a large brass key into the larger keyhole of the library, Jenners turned it until it clicked open. "The king, or queen, is merely a figurehead; nowadays the Prime Minister makes the major political decisions."
He opened the door and motioned for us to go in.
"But to answer your question, Mrs. Havers, I entirely disagree with the divine right to rule," he concluded. "An entire country cannot afford to give so much power to a single individual."
We entered the library. My jaw dropped at the sight. It must have been at least two floors tall and occupied an entire wing of the house. There were dark wood shelves on every available wall from the floor to the ceiling, filled with books. Thick, dark-green curtains hung over long, narrow windows, while the floor was a dark wood. There was a fireplace in the middle of the opposite wall, with a long, narrow mirror hanging over it, a small fire alight. There were several tables and a desk overflowing with paperwork, but nothing was on the ground except two piles of books as tall as Isabelle and I.
"I think I died and ended up in Paradise," I said softly. Jenners smiled at the comment.
"Have you read all of these books?" Isabelle asked in disbelief.
"I might have been able to if I hadn't been in Parliament for so many years," he said. "Most of these books are collections of other men's libraries, where I had to take their entire collection in order to get a few of those Civil War tracts. I extended this room sometime ago to accompany the extras." He sighed. "It's become overwhelming. I am ashamed to say that several bedrooms have taken up the surplus. It's gotten to the point that some people who have perused these shelves have discovered several copies of the same book. That is why I want someone to catalogue it all; I have no inkling of what I truly own, or even where a specific book is when I want to read it. I would do it myself, but I have neither the time nor the patience. I can donate the surplus or any books I don't want to some library or other."
"Why don't you hire a professional librarian to catalogue everything?" I asked. Isabelle must not have liked that question, because she attempted another jab at my side. I easily sidestepped it, causing her to stumble and nearly trip over my feet with the momentum.
Jenners appeared amused. "Ladies, you should really stop doing that if you want to leave here with your ribs intact," he said, beginning to clear a spot on one of the tables.
We both glared at each other, blushing at the same time.
The gentleman had his back to us. "To answer that question, Mrs. Havers, let me just say that a professional librarian would not like the way in which I want the collection to be catalogued. I know what I want; it's easier if I can mold someone else into my way of thinking than work with already hardened clay."
He motioned me over to him. I stepped up to the table, Isabelle following behind. He placed a thin booklet on the table. "This tract is Sir William Temple's Observations upon the United Provinces of the Netherlands. Tell me where and when it was published, and what edition this is."
I opened the booklet and found the title page. "Erm… published in 1668. Wait, no, 1705, 1668 was the year he was ambassador at The Hague. This is the seventh edition, and it was published… well, these two places in London: 'within Grays-Inn Gate next-'"
"London will do," Jenners interrupted. "Good, you can read seventeenth-century title pages. There are many clues to the place of publication. I am very concerned about where these tracts are published, because a lot of royalists lived in the United Provinces and published their tracts there during the Interregnum Period. After the Restoration, many republicans lived their exiles in that particular area as well. But some managed to get their works published in London, strangely enough."
"Oh," I said, trying to sound like I understood the significance.
"Here, let's try this William Prynne tract," he said, pulling out another one.
He gave me several more tracts and had me copy down the author, title, publication date, publisher or place of publication, and edition each time. When I had finished with the last tract he looked at my writing.
"It's legible, but can you type?" he asked.
"Yes."
He leaned against the table, folded his arms and looked at me. "Mrs. Havers, are you willing to go through this entire library and catalogue it for me?"
I glanced at Isabelle. She looked as shocked as I felt.
"Do you really mean that?" I asked, turning back to Jenners. "I got the job?"
"Only if you want it," he said.
"Oh yes!" I cried, putting my hands to my mouth.
"Will you be able to come in on Monday?"
"Yes."
He offered me his right hand. I placed my right hand in his and gave it several firm shakes. He clasped his left hand on top of my hand. "Excellent. I look forward to it."
"You never told me how handsome he is," I giggled as Isabelle and I entered 221 ½ Baker Street.
"I didn't think you'd consider him handsome. He is a rat, after all," she said.
"What does that have to do with his looks?" I asked.
"Nothing, I guess. But yes, isn't he handsome?" she squealed.
Basil and Dawson looked up from their chairs. They were leaning close to each other, indicating that they had been deep in conversation before we came through the door.
"Who's handsome?" Basil asked.
"Sir Jenners!" I exclaimed.
"Oh." Basil and Dawson shared a look of annoyance.
"How did the interview go?" the doctor asked.
"I got the job!" I blurted out, jumping up and down.
"What?" Basil asked, sounded stunned. "He actually hired you?"
"What, you didn't think it would happen?" Isabelle demanded.
Basil slouched in his armchair. "Not the very first day," he murmured. "Not this soon." He then reached for his violin, his sole comfort in times of distress.
Meg: Algernon Jenners is actually based on a fictional rat. I saw The Secret of NIMH for the first time last week, and immediately fell in love with the villain rat, Jenner, because he is so charming and charismatic up until the end of that movie. I had created the character of Algernon Jenners, under a different name, long before I saw the movie, but used the physical description and some of movie Jenner's personality. By the way, just because this guy is a rat does not make him evil!
Also, when I refer to "the Civil War" in the future, I mean the English Civil War, not the American Civil War. It took me awhile as an American to get used to this designation every time I heard it from my British boyfriend and my Kiwi professor who specializes in seventeenth-century English History. Since the story does take place in England, it is natural, at least to my logic, that the English would consider any reference to "the Civil War" to be about a war that took place in their homeland.
If anyone is daunted by the information that I provided on the English Civil War, royalists, republicans, the United Provinces and the like, don't worry; I won't make any long references about that stuff again. I only wanted to give the reader an idea of what Meg would be doing while working for Jenners and how obsessed with the time period Jenners is. Any references made by him in the future will probably confuse Meg as much as it will confuse the reader.