Chapter Eleven

Meg: I know, it's been over one month again. The good news is spring finals are over and I have received a research grant for this summer which pays for me to do research without having to work a summer job. So in between writing a long thesis paper on civil religion in Nazi Germany and modern Israel, I will have time to make a better effort in keeping up with this story.

A light drizzle poured from the sky, covering wooden crates, rotted ropes and broken bits of buoys in a light mist. Two men in dark, tattered jackets with wool caps pulled over their eyes hunched underneath a canvas tarp, peering out at the nearly abandoned docks.

The shorter, stouter of the two shivered a bit. He pulled out a pocketwatch.

"Time to get Meg soon," he murmured.

"Oh?" his partner replied, his eyes peeled on the door of a wooden shack patched together with bits of warped and mismatched wood.

"Do you want to get her, or should I?"

"Go ahead, doctor," the great mouse detective said.

"I've escorted her home every single day for one week," Dawson said. "She may want you to walk her home this evening."

"She knows I'm on a case."

Dawson shook his head. "How long are you going to be this time?"

"As long as possible."

The doctor sighed. It was one week since the letter had been returned to the wooden shack that they were staking out, the unofficial post office for packages and mail for dockworkers, sailors or their families. Basil had posted a young boy in the shack to watch the letter and alert the two mice when it was picked up.

"Let's face it Basil. It appears that the owner of the letter is either not expecting it or has simply forgotten about it. If Ratigan is the recipient he would have made an effort to get it by now."

"Which makes me believe it is Ratigan all the more," the detective replied, his voice low but excited. "He may know we are watching it."

"How is that helpful? He may never pick it up."

"Sometimes that it the best evidence we can gather," said Basil.

"Aren't you worried that you're missing a more compelling case while we're off following a trail that may not even lead to Ratigan?"

"No."

"Or that your sweetheart hasn't seen you in a week and is starting to feel neglected."

"Come now, Dawson," Basil said, his gaze still riveted to the tiny shack, his face void of emotion. "This is more important than our relationship."

"Basil! Do you hear yourself?" the doctor asked, astounded.

"Sacrifices must be made."

"Really?"

"She sacrificed our working relationship to work for Sir Arrogant Jenners over there near Hyde Park. I'm doing this to make sure Ratigan never bothers her again."

"Does Meg know this?"

"Why wouldn't she?"

Dawson looked askance at his friend. "You mean to say you haven't discussed your current disinterest in her in this way?"

"It doesn't need to be explained. She knows."

Dawson puffed up his chest and shot his friend an exasperated look. "I have news for you, Basil of Baker Street. She doesn't know. She thinks you're either angry with her, dislike her, or don't want to be bothered with her now that she no longer works for you."

Basil glanced at his friend. "How would you know?"

"For a world-renowned master of deduction and observation you are quite blind sometimes," Dawson said, his voice edged with annoyance. "She's started complaining to me on those walks back to Baker Street. When you are at home you ignore her comments, her suggestions, and sometime even her questions; anything that doesn't relate to the case."

"I do no-"

"All the while this may not even be a case!"

The two fell silent, the rustle of the water droplets filling the void. Dawson glanced at his friend from time to time, watching for any visible effect from his words. The detective, however, remained stony-faced.

Dawson pulled out his watch again. "Time to go. Do you…" he turned toward Basil. "Do you want to get her? I can wait for the letter."

Basil shook his head. "I need to pay Aaron when he is done anyway."

"I can do that."

"That's quiet all right, doctor."

Dawson closed his eyes. "Fine. Don't catch your death of cold out here." He gently disentangled himself from the tarp. He walked away slowly, allowing the blood to flow back through his legs after being crouched for so long. The icy rain poured relentlessly on his damp clothes.

He turned around when he was past the shack and looked for Basil. But all he saw were crates glistening with fallen drops of water, and a few pieces of canvas slung over the wooden boxes.

It was one of those days where the world seemed to be against me. I had slept poorly the night before and gotten to work late, drenched with the frigid November rains and less than thrilled about another day of recording information for Sir Jenners. I had nearly finished one full wall of books in the month since I had started working for him. The work was fulfilling in the way that keeping busy often is, but it had its moments of redundancy.

So I moved lethargically today, taking longer breaks, often catching myself reading several pages of a particularly interesting volume, or just sitting back in my chair at the desk and staring into the flames in the fireplace. Only the entrance of Sir Jenners every so often fluttering into the office snapped me out of my daydreams, causing me to bend over my work and pretend to read the flowery script of a seventeenth century title page.

Sir Jenners spoke to me briefly a few times throughout the day, mostly apologizing for constantly coming and going, that he had a lot to do with the newspaper he had just purchased. I later found out from one of the maids that he was meeting with the staff members of The Daily Press in the dining room downstairs.

At 4:12 p.m. I came across an issue with one of the pamphlets- there was a different publication located on it than another copy of the same pamphlet had yielded, even though the two were printed in the same year. I wondered if he wanted to place that in the "keep" or "donate" piles, as he was donating any multiple copies of his pamphlets or books. I decided to stretch my legs a bit and ask him.

I headed down the winding stairs, the rain sounding like uncooked rice thrown against the windows rather than water. I hesitated before the doors of the dining room, uncertain whether he was meeting with someone. I held my ear up to the door. No movement. I made a short, quick rap on the door.

"Come in!" he said sharply.

I opened the door. Sir Jenners was sitting at the head of the mahogany table at the far end of the room, a few papers strewn about. "Sir Jenners, I am so sorry to disturb you, but there is a problem with one of these pamphlets and I don't know what you want to do."

He smiled. "Megana! Come in, come in! What seems to be the problem?"

I heard the musical ring of the doorbell as I approached Sir Jenners. "This will only take a minute."

We were bent over the pamphlet, Sir Jenners deep in thought about the problem, when one of the maids, a pretty girl with dark, curly hair and rosy cheeks, entered the room. "Sir, a Miss Renée Lyon is here to see you."

"Ah." Sir Jenners looked up from the pamphlet. "One minute, Eliza." He turned to me. "I'll think about it and let you know what I plan to do tomorrow. Just leave it on my desk."

"All right. May I ask-"

"Show Miss Lyon in," he said to the young maid.

I closed my mouth and nodded. I quickly walked out of the room, too afraid to ask what the journalist was doing in Jenners' house, but burning with a desire to know.

I left the room, bumping into Lyon just outside the door.

"Miss Sarentis?" she asked, looking curiously at me. "What are you doing here?"

"It's Mrs. Havers," I said shortly. "And I happen to work here."

"Work? Here? What sort of work?"

"A project for Sir Jenners that I must get back to," I said.

Then, suddenly, I saw her give an expression that looked like surprise and understanding at the same time. The color left her face. She wavered, as if about to faint.

"Really?" she moaned.

"Miss, are you all right?" Eliza asked.

Lyon slapped herself, the report ringing throughout the hall and causing Eliza and I to jump at her show of violence. With that the blood rushed back to her face. "Fine!" she cried. "Perfectly fine! Perhaps I'll see you again soon, Miss Sarentis."

"Mrs. Havers!" I snapped.

"Oh, I do beg your par-" she began.

I turned on my heel and began to walk away.

"-don," she finished. She sighed, and turned toward the door. She took a deep breath before entering.

I stopped and turned back to Eliza as the door closed. "What is she doing here?" I asked.

The maid shrugged. "She's never been here as to my knowin'. Why?"

"She's the reporter who's interviewed Professor Ratigan three times!" I hissed.

Eliza's mouth dropped open. "Really?"

"Yes!"

She looked around, as if making sure there was no one around. Then she went over to the door and stuck her ear next to the door. She motioned for me to come over.

I hesitated, wondering how much trouble I could get into if Victor, the butler, came across us. I listened for movement, but all I heard was the murmuring of a voice from the dining room. So I took a place next to Eliza and leaned against the door, my ear pressing near the crack.

A minute passed, and no noise came from within. I wondered if the door was too thick. Then I heard Jenners' voice, cold and emotionless, say: "Don't just stand there. Sit."

"You wanted to see me?" I heard Lyon's voice say as a chair scraped across the marble floor. "I received this note-"

"As have all of the employees for The Daily Press and her sister publications. I've called each of them here."

"Yes, I have-"

"The newspaper is not doing well," Jenners said. "Brenkus did not manage the paper well at all. In order to continue operating the paper I will be cutting costs in other areas. I am assessing what is absolutely necessary and what is not. Tell me, how long have you worked at Aline?"

"About three years now."

"Who hired you?"

"Larry Gault."

"Why?" Jenners' tone was one of suspicion.

"Well, I don't know what exactly Larry was thinking, but I can only assume he thought I was a good writer."

"From now on you will give Mr. Gault the respect he deserves and refer to him by his proper title and surname."

There was an awkward pause.

"Have you ever written for The Daily Press before?" Jenners continued.

"I often cover stories when other reporters are too busy to do it. My most recent story for the newspaper was the final days of Henry Lanz's murder trial. The Press is a daily and Aline is a monthly, after all, so sometimes I have time in between working on my other stories for Aline."

"Are murder trials your normal assignments for The Daily Press?"

"No. Usually they're public meetings on education or housing issues with various community groups. Once in awhile I cover an accident or police incident. It's usually just some story Baldwin absolutely needs someone to cover and I have time for, so I don't consistently write about one particular subject."

"What are your normal assignments for Aline?"

"Profile pieces on extraordinary people and extensive pieces on public issues."

"What sort of public issues?"

"Temperance is one that seems to come up a lot. Last year it was the Boer War. I actually went to South Africa for a few weeks for that story."

"South Africa? Who's idea was that?"

"It was mine, but Larry- uh, I mean, Mr. Gault, supported it as well."

"Why?"

"You'll have to ask him," she said, as if she didn't really know either.

"Don't give me that," Jenners snapped. "I am asking you."

"I…I think he thought that readership would go up if Aline had a piece about the War in there."

"Did the readership go up?"

"I don't believe so, no."

"So your suggestion was an unnecessary waste of time and expense for the paper?" he asked.

"It didn't disappoint the current readership."

"Answer the question!"

"I don't think it was a waste."

"I didn't ask what you thought!" Jenners barked. "I asked if it was a waste of time and expense for the paper!"

"No," said Lyon, her voice wavering slightly, but perceptibly. "I covered good stories- the evacuation of the inland towns, the British troops on their way to fight, the logistical issues with supplying the troops, some information on what the farmers were doing with their cattle. They were very well received."

The clean flap of turning pages reached my ears, and then the sound of a thin paperback book tossed onto a table. "So explain to me how you came up with the idea to interview the infamous Professor Ratigan."

"Everyone in the kingdom thought he had died when he fell off Big Ben after the Diamond Jubilee six years ago. Needless to say, his attempt to take over the Danish throne terrified all of Europe, if not the world. Most reporters were trying to find some way to contact him. I decided to do it through the newspapers."

"Why did you think he'd even be reading the newspapers?"

"I had read, in past articles written by him… Stanley Crowe, he's the crime beat reporter for The London Free-Press, he was also the crime beat reporter then, and did a series of articles after the Diamond Jubilee on Professor Ratigan's hideout… he mentioned in his articles that there were newspapers from the three major London newspapers at the time just piled up in the hideout. Since most of his henchmen were working-class criminals with little to no formal education, I surmised that the professor was the prolific news reader."

"How old are you?"

"Twenty-four, sir."

"When did you start reporting?"

"Well, I wrote a few minor pieces on female fashions and charity bazaars when I worked as a secretary for The London Free-Press. My serious journalism work began when Lar-, erm, Mr. Gault, hired me at Aline. Even then it took me nearly two months until I was allowed to do something more than fashion stories."

"How soon after you began your work at Aline did you write your article about Ratigan?"

"Nearly four months later."

"So you put an advertisement asking Ratigan for an interview?"

"Yes, sir."

"And he responded?"

"Via another advertisement, yes."

"And Mr. Gault let you, with your lack of any journalism skills, interview one of the most dangerous public figures of our time?"

"No. He tried to send another reporter to the rendez-vous point, but Professor Ratigan did not show up. He send Mr. Gault a note instructing him to allow me to conduct the interview."

"Let me get this straight," Jenners said, as if in disbelief. "I'm supposed to believe that Ratigan chose you, a woman and an unskilled journalist, to interview him?"

"Perhaps he thought I was safer…" Lyon began, starting to become defensive, "…because I am a woman and was an unskilled reporter. I may have been less likely to pick up clues as to his location and give it to the police."

"That would be a reasonable explanation except there was a photographer with you for each interview."

"Professor Ratigan requested that Mathew Bradley accompany me on each interview. He's the best photographer associated with the paper." She did not add that Ratigan had requested Bradley each time to deter suspicion from the journalist.

"Mr. Bradley says that you received all of the instructions. Why is that?"

"I don't know. Perhaps because I was the one who made the first contact."

A chair was pushed away from the table. Then carefully calculated footsteps echoed off the floor.

"Do you know why I bought The Daily Press, Miss Lyon?" Jenners asked.

"Brenkus was looking to sell?"

His laughter was cold and mocking. "There's a little more to it than that. I am a patriotic man, Miss Lyon. I take great pride in this city, this country, and this great empire."

The footsteps appeared to be approaching the door at which Eliza and I were eavesdropping. I shot her a fearful look. She appeared to take no notice.

"Ever since that loon Randolph Brenkus took over, The Daily Press has printed nothing but sensational stories, cheap thrills, pure falsehoods to sell a paper."

"You're referring to James Scully? Baldwin fired him as soon as it was revealed that he had been fabricating facts and people."

"It's not just Scully. The Daily Press, Billings', and Aline have all become subpar publications more intent on publishing stories to attract a low-class, popular readership rather than printing articles meant to be savored and valued by future generations as a mark of our country's greatness."

The footsteps were moving away from the door now.

"I don't think a popular readership is bad at all," Lyon said. "It's a sign of the times. Literacy among the lower classes has gone up greatly in the past twenty years, so in order to sell newspapers we may have to market-"

"Your opinion is insignificant, Miss Lyon," he abruptly cut in. "You know nothing of the newspaper business."

"I beg your pardon," Lyon said with indignation. "I work in it!"

There was another moment of silence, a long pause. Then Jenners' low, deep tone reverberated, only the notes reaching my ears.

"What did he say?" Eliza asked.

"Didn't hear it," I said.

"My goal is to bring back the good old-fashioned standards of The Daily Press," Jenners continued. "Nothing sensational. Just plain, solid news. I am getting rid of any writers who are more concerned about the quantity of the readership than the quality. No more ridiculous stories about the Royal Navy sailor's widow who doesn't receive his pension to support her family. No more stories about how low prices are affecting homeless shelters and soup kitchens. And no more stories about low-life criminal ruffians like James Ratigan!"

I heard Lyon give a sort of angry huff.

"It's my paper, Miss Lyon. I don't abide by the ordinary and insignificant."

"Then what are we to write about? Boring meetings, boring trials, and boring people who just happen to hold a noble title?"

"What you are to write about will be my concern. I will assign who covers which piece of news from now on. As your first assignment you will cover the charity bazaar tomorrow night at Saint Paul Cathedral Rectory."

"A charity bazaar?" Lyon exclaimed. "That's not newsworthy to any publication except a church bulletin!"

"Boring to you, perhaps, who has probably never embroidered a slipper or crocheted a tablecloth. But for dozens of girls of that parish that bazaar is an opportunity to show off their womanly skills."

"But it's ridi-"

"Don't like it? Then leave. There are plenty of men who have families to support who would murder for your job. No other paper will hire a female journalist who has been sacked. Maybe a male journalist, but definitely not you."

"What about the long-term piece I am currently working on?"

"Ah, yes," Jenners said, sounding pleased with himself. "Mr. Gault did discuss that tall tale with me. I have taken the liberty of doing some research into your Mr. Dagnar, and I have come up with nothing. I don't see why you should be paid to pull this scam any longer."

"I can show you the evidence I have!" Lyon cried, desperation in her voice.

"I will not waste my time with your falsehoods, Miss Lyon! And if you so much as even breathe Dagnar's name again, I will have you sacked as you should have been three years ago!"

We heard silence, and then footsteps again, but the latter sounded like they were outside the door; the slow, methodical footsteps of an old man.

"Victor!" Eliza grabbed my arm and pulled me away from the door. We were out in the center of the foyer when Victor came into view from the long hallway leading to the kitchen.

"Why no'm, there's not one omnibus that comes out this way," Eliza said softly, as if answering a question I had just asked. "Genteel men like Sir Jenners have their own carriages, so there's no need for 'em. I can call a cab for you if you don't want to walk back home in this miserable weather."

"No thank you, Eliza," I said just as softly. I glanced at Victor. He was walking rapidly toward us, looking greatly annoyed. "I can walk back home. I don't have much money for a cab anyway."

"What are you two doing?" he asked.

"Miss Meg here wanted to know if there was an omnibus route nearby that she might be able to take home so Mr. Basil wouldn't have to come get her in the rain," Eliza said. "I was just telling her-"

"Sir Jenners has important business going on here!" the butler snapped. "Please take your conversation elsewhere where he can't hear it!"

"I am sorry," I said. "We're done now. Thank you, Eliza." I turned to the staircase and made my way up the carpeted stairs, feeling a little empty inside, as if I had lost something very important to me.

Plop. Plop. Plop. Plop.

Water dripped off the pipes at a slow, steady rate, the drizzle at the surface feeding into the sewers and landing a short distance from the barrel that was Ratigan's home.

Frank lifted up the grate and crawled out from the ground. He held the pipe up as Mayhew lifted himself with an effort, Lydia helping him. When he was clear of the grate she lifted herself up and Frank let go of the grate, letting it clatter loudly. The girl jumped and winced at the noise.

Mayhew held out his arm and she took it, helping him as they followed Frank into the barrel.

There were at least a dozen thugs in the throne room, chased from the streets by the miserable weather, drinking in the relative luxury of the Boss's domain. They hardly glanced at the trio, but they all shivered as Mayhew passed. The old man frightened most of them.

Lydia, however, felt scared of the thugs and safe with Mayhew. She patted his arm, feeling as if nothing could hurt her while he was there.

They passed on into the small sitting room that Gerard and his cronies were accustomed to using. Lisa sat on the divan, lipstick and eyeliner heavy on her features as she chewed on a peppermint. Mikey, Ray, Bob and Gerard played cards at a table in the corner.

Lydia held onto Mayhew's arm more tightly, as if using him as a shield. "What's the news, boys?" Frank asked.

"Boss's on a rampage," Ray sighed. "No one has done nothing right today."

"How bad?" Frank asked.

Lisa glared at him. "He told me to clear out by tomorrow. Called me the most horrible things! Said I was no good to him!"

Frank laughed.

"What is that for?" she snapped, indignant.

"He wanted to see Mayhew," Frank said, ignoring Lisa. "So he's going to give me hell for nothing?"

"Probably," Mikey said, looking at his hand.

"Wait here," Frank said to Mayhew, going through a door at the opposite end of the room.

"Well, look what we have here." Gerard's eyes glistened darkly. "Not only Hades himself, but his Persephone as well. Thought you were too good for the likes of us, Lydia."

The girl stared at her feet and said nothing.

Gerard got to his feet and walked toward them. Mayhew protectively stepped in front of the girl. The thug laughed. "I already told you old man, this is my domain. And I'll lay a half crown that you'll no longer have power here. Boss's not pleased with you."

Mayhew half-turned his head, looking confused.

"You mean you don't know?" he asked, gasping in shock. "You must truly be going crazy if you don't remember deliberately defying the Boss!"

Lydia stared sideways at Mayhew. He looked blankly at Gerard. The thug smirked, then looked at Lydia. "You must really be pleasing if he's willing to disobey the Boss's orders to keep you away from here!"

"What?" she asked, looking at Mayhew. He continued to stare blankly.

"The detective has been waiting for Mayhew here to pick up a letter from Parker for over a week now. Mayhew knows. He's picked up every other piece of mail but that one. Way to give the detective a heads up that Edward Brandt is a suspicious character indeed."

Frank came back in. "He wants to see you now, Mayhew."

The old man gripped Lydia's hands on his arm, and then gently released her. She looked helplessly as her protector limped away as if in a daze.

"Your time with the devil is up, Persephone," Gerard said.

Lydia closed her eyes. It was not Mayhew who was Hades. The lord of the dead stood before her, ready to force feed her the sour, blood-red pomegranate seeds that would bind her forever to Hell on earth.

Meg: Things to know in this chapter include omnibuses and the Four Seasons myth. Some of you may know that an omnibus is just a fancy name for a bus. In the nineteenth century there were also buses, normally very large horse-drawn carriages, in which people paid fare to ride to a certain part of the city. They used to be real headaches, apparently- they were crowded and musty and, as there were no actual bus stops, people got on and off whenever they felt like it, which could make a trip very long indeed. By the late nineteenth century, however, actual bus stops and destinations for different omnibuses were added.

The Four Seasons myth is vital to understanding Gerard's references to Hades and Persephone. It's my favorite myth, and I am actually surprised I have not used it in a story before. Persephone was the daughter of Demeter, the goddess of the harvest. She was kidnapped by Hades and taken to the underworld where he tried to make her queen of the dead. She cried a lot for her mother and hated the world of the dead; she was, after all, the daughter of the goddess who brings life to the earth. Hades set a sumptuous feast before her, because if Persephone took even one bite of food she would be forever bound to the underworld, but she was too upset to eat. While her mother searched for her the crops went bad and people began to starve, so Zeus sent Hermes to tell Hades to let Persephone go. When Hermes got there he discovered that Persephone had eaten six pomegranate seeds.

So Demeter and Hades came before Zeus to settle who got the girl. Demeter argued that Hades had tricked Persephone (it's unclear if she knew about the ban on food or if Hades had told her the seeds were too small to count) and Hades argued that the girl had, indeed, eaten the food. Zeus decreed that the two gods would divide the girl between them. Demeter got Persephone for six months of the year, while Hades got her for six months to be his queen. We have spring and summer because Demeter is happy to have received Persephone again, so things grow. But then she is sad when her daughter goes to the underworld in fall and winter, which is why the earth dies in those months.

Any questions, confusion, praise or complaints, PM me or leave a review.