Disclaimer: See Part One.
*****
Once the issue of our respective roles in the investigation was settled - though it was not quite the conclusion I had anticipated - Miss Cartwright went to her vanity table, opened the centre drawer, and withdrew the two sheets of foolscap on which were listed the names of the guests and the servicepeople whom we would consider potential witnesses to the burglary. I took the lists and glanced over them briefly.
"It was a relatively simple matter to compile the guests' names," she told me, "Leopold was at the door with the guest list, and he checked off each family as they arrived with their invitations."
"And once the loss was discovered, either you had him stop checking off names or somehow mark the later guests in a different way."
"It was the latter. After all, guests were still arriving even then, and we had to account for everyone."
"Of course. Did you get the names of the servicepeople as well?"
"No. But you can see here that we have the addresses of the companies listed."
I nodded. "I'll need to question everybody." This was, as always, no small feat, for there were a dozen family names listed, and of each family it seemed a suitor and his parents attended the debutante.
"My father and I interviewed them at the scene," Miss Cartwright protested.
"Of course, if you thought you had gotten every possible clue from them, the mystery would be solved and I would not be here," I replied calmly.
Her mouth twisted in something between annoyance and amusement. "Very well, you have a point there. I just hope you're a patient man, for this will likely prove to be a very long day."
"I am exactly as patient as I feel a given situation warrants," I shot back with a wry smile.
She laughed. Only a sentimental fool would compare a woman's laughter to music, or the chiming of bells, or somesuch doggerel, but her laughter did sound much more pleasant than the icy tone she had used not long before.
"However, you are correct," I added, "in that this will take some time - so if you are still determined to be an active part of this investigation I suggest we begin our expedition as soon as possible."
In response, she went to the book-case to retrieve the fox-headed walking- stick propped there.
"I'm ready when you are," she said as she took my elbow.
*****
Her father protested, of course, for many of the same reasons I had thought to dissuade Miss Cartwright from lending her aid to the case - in fact she herself forewarned me that he would likely 'have a litter of kittens' at the very idea - but as I had already learned, she was a spirited woman and would not be dissuaded without a fight.
"Emily, I really wish you would just leave this to the police," he said, "That's what they get paid to do, after all."
"Father, you know as well as anyone that I prefer not waiting for someone else to solve all my problems."
"I *know* that, but they already have someone in custody."
"We just want to make sure. After all, they'd look foolish if they charged the wrong man."
"Yes, but going after burglars? This is hardly the proper--"
"Daddy, you know how much you hate it when I go out unescorted?"
"Yes?" He sounded cautious.
She patted me on the shoulder. "Mr. Holmes will be my escort."
Mr. Cartwright looked me up and down as though he had never seen me before in his life.
"If anything happens," she continued, "He'll keep me safe."
I felt strangely honoured by her apparent faith in me to do so. I knew as well as she did that these cases could be utterly unpredictable.
"And I have my stick with me," she finished, brandishing her walking-stick. I kept my face neutral, in case this wasn't merely the bravado of a young woman trying to assert her independence.
Mr Cartwright sighed. "Em," he said, a bit softer now, "I know you're a smart girl. I know you know your way around London by now. But please, *please* be careful. As for you," he turned his attention to me, "If she so much as breaks a nail on this little field trip..."
"Daddy! He's trying to help us, remember? Besides, I'm sure you remember Michael?" Mr Cartwright grimaced at the name. "Yes... I remember young Michael. I hope you aren't planning to do anything like that again."
In the end I gave Mr Cartwright my solemn promise to keep his daughter and her virtue intact, on pain of having my ears tied under my chin and my feet knotted at the back of my neck. My charge, of course, thought the whole thing was massively amusing.
*****
That day was spent mainly walking or in various hansom cabs, travelling throughout the affluent neighbourhoods of London in search of the witnesses to go with the names on the first leaf of our list. I was surprised to find that Miss Cartwright, encumbered though she likely was by the more private architecture of modern female fashion, kept up admirably - although I had the presence of mind to slacken my usual pace.
One quality of human memory that I have frequently observed is its tendency to fixate on the most trifling aspects of a given scene. In this case, few people actually saw anything suspicious, but accusations and suspicions were freely offered for our consideration.
Mrs Jameson, for example, was certain that Mrs Andrews had done it because she had always hated the late Mrs Cartwright, while Mrs Andrews was equally certain that the widowed Mrs Thatcher had done it because the late Mr Thatcher had left everything to an obscure Scottish mistress whom he had met while traveling on business.
By the time we reached the Thatcher residence (which seemed well-maintained for the home of a poor widow) I decided to let Miss Cartwright handle the feminine intrigue while I interviewed her son James. James appeared inordinately disconcerted by the interview until, after a half-hour's worth of questioning, he finally admitted that he'd spent most of the interval in question in a broom closet with a maid without even waiting for the guest of honour to make her appearance and didn't wish his mother to find out about it - I supposed that he figured he would try to get in through the back door what he might not get in through the front. As Miss Cartwright and I compared notes, I learned that Mrs Thatcher, as one might expect, denied outright the story of the Scottish mistress as Mrs. Andrews' merely being catty, and put forth the theory that Mrs Matthews was the culprit because the latter tended to be nosy and had sticky fingers besides. Mrs Thatcher additionally contended that Mrs Matthews had been wearing a brooch to the debutante that had recently vanished out of Mrs Thatcher's own jewelry-box and would we be kind enough to get it back for her..
"Well," said my investigative collaborator as we walked towards the Matthews estate, "we've certainly learned a lot this morning."
"What we have learned," I replied, "Is that cordiality amongst these families does not extend beyond social engagements. I for one am surprised that they didn't kill each other outright at the debutante."
"There were certainly enough hatpins among the women to make that possible," she said. "I think the only reason they were even in the same house together was so their sons could decide whether or not I was the sort of woman they'd like their sons to marry - rich, pretty, and brainless."
I grunted diplomatically as I sifted through the facts and the gathered testimonies in the privacy of my mind. Meanwhile a small voice at the back of my head pointed out that two out of three was a good deal, and the third was a nonissue.
It was not until we had finished with the Matthews interview that I learned anything of note. After fifteen minutes in the same room as Mr Matthews - who tended to talk as loudly as most people shouted and had very strong opinions about everything (I pitied the man who tried to disagree with him) - I had cultivated a small but insistent headache and excused myself, meaning to cut the interview short. Miss Cartwright met me at the door to the parlour where she had been talking with Mrs Matthews.
"Ah," she said, "I was just about to come get you. Mrs Matthews has just told me something very interesting."
"Not more gossip, I trust?" I asked as I followed her back to the parlour.
"Tell him what you just told me," she said to Mrs Matthews.
"It was nothing, really," said Mrs Matthews.
"Every detail is important," I said.
"Well, if you're sure. I saw one of the maids, young, with blonde hair, escorting a little boy - he couldn't have been more than five or six years old - to the washroom. Who brings their young children to a debutante?"
"You saw them go to the washroom?" I pressed.
"Well, I wanted to see whose child it was. I asked the maid while the lad was in there, and she said he was with one of the delivery people - his apprentice or somesuch. I figured everything was okay then, and I went back to the main hall."
"How long before the burglary was discovered was this?"
"About fifteen or twenty minutes before."
"Thank you, Mrs Matthews. You've been very helpful."
"More helpful than the last interviews," Miss Cartwright murmured as we left, "You look like you've caught a good lead." "I have."
"The maid."
"Precisely."
*****
End of Part 7.
*****
Once the issue of our respective roles in the investigation was settled - though it was not quite the conclusion I had anticipated - Miss Cartwright went to her vanity table, opened the centre drawer, and withdrew the two sheets of foolscap on which were listed the names of the guests and the servicepeople whom we would consider potential witnesses to the burglary. I took the lists and glanced over them briefly.
"It was a relatively simple matter to compile the guests' names," she told me, "Leopold was at the door with the guest list, and he checked off each family as they arrived with their invitations."
"And once the loss was discovered, either you had him stop checking off names or somehow mark the later guests in a different way."
"It was the latter. After all, guests were still arriving even then, and we had to account for everyone."
"Of course. Did you get the names of the servicepeople as well?"
"No. But you can see here that we have the addresses of the companies listed."
I nodded. "I'll need to question everybody." This was, as always, no small feat, for there were a dozen family names listed, and of each family it seemed a suitor and his parents attended the debutante.
"My father and I interviewed them at the scene," Miss Cartwright protested.
"Of course, if you thought you had gotten every possible clue from them, the mystery would be solved and I would not be here," I replied calmly.
Her mouth twisted in something between annoyance and amusement. "Very well, you have a point there. I just hope you're a patient man, for this will likely prove to be a very long day."
"I am exactly as patient as I feel a given situation warrants," I shot back with a wry smile.
She laughed. Only a sentimental fool would compare a woman's laughter to music, or the chiming of bells, or somesuch doggerel, but her laughter did sound much more pleasant than the icy tone she had used not long before.
"However, you are correct," I added, "in that this will take some time - so if you are still determined to be an active part of this investigation I suggest we begin our expedition as soon as possible."
In response, she went to the book-case to retrieve the fox-headed walking- stick propped there.
"I'm ready when you are," she said as she took my elbow.
*****
Her father protested, of course, for many of the same reasons I had thought to dissuade Miss Cartwright from lending her aid to the case - in fact she herself forewarned me that he would likely 'have a litter of kittens' at the very idea - but as I had already learned, she was a spirited woman and would not be dissuaded without a fight.
"Emily, I really wish you would just leave this to the police," he said, "That's what they get paid to do, after all."
"Father, you know as well as anyone that I prefer not waiting for someone else to solve all my problems."
"I *know* that, but they already have someone in custody."
"We just want to make sure. After all, they'd look foolish if they charged the wrong man."
"Yes, but going after burglars? This is hardly the proper--"
"Daddy, you know how much you hate it when I go out unescorted?"
"Yes?" He sounded cautious.
She patted me on the shoulder. "Mr. Holmes will be my escort."
Mr. Cartwright looked me up and down as though he had never seen me before in his life.
"If anything happens," she continued, "He'll keep me safe."
I felt strangely honoured by her apparent faith in me to do so. I knew as well as she did that these cases could be utterly unpredictable.
"And I have my stick with me," she finished, brandishing her walking-stick. I kept my face neutral, in case this wasn't merely the bravado of a young woman trying to assert her independence.
Mr Cartwright sighed. "Em," he said, a bit softer now, "I know you're a smart girl. I know you know your way around London by now. But please, *please* be careful. As for you," he turned his attention to me, "If she so much as breaks a nail on this little field trip..."
"Daddy! He's trying to help us, remember? Besides, I'm sure you remember Michael?" Mr Cartwright grimaced at the name. "Yes... I remember young Michael. I hope you aren't planning to do anything like that again."
In the end I gave Mr Cartwright my solemn promise to keep his daughter and her virtue intact, on pain of having my ears tied under my chin and my feet knotted at the back of my neck. My charge, of course, thought the whole thing was massively amusing.
*****
That day was spent mainly walking or in various hansom cabs, travelling throughout the affluent neighbourhoods of London in search of the witnesses to go with the names on the first leaf of our list. I was surprised to find that Miss Cartwright, encumbered though she likely was by the more private architecture of modern female fashion, kept up admirably - although I had the presence of mind to slacken my usual pace.
One quality of human memory that I have frequently observed is its tendency to fixate on the most trifling aspects of a given scene. In this case, few people actually saw anything suspicious, but accusations and suspicions were freely offered for our consideration.
Mrs Jameson, for example, was certain that Mrs Andrews had done it because she had always hated the late Mrs Cartwright, while Mrs Andrews was equally certain that the widowed Mrs Thatcher had done it because the late Mr Thatcher had left everything to an obscure Scottish mistress whom he had met while traveling on business.
By the time we reached the Thatcher residence (which seemed well-maintained for the home of a poor widow) I decided to let Miss Cartwright handle the feminine intrigue while I interviewed her son James. James appeared inordinately disconcerted by the interview until, after a half-hour's worth of questioning, he finally admitted that he'd spent most of the interval in question in a broom closet with a maid without even waiting for the guest of honour to make her appearance and didn't wish his mother to find out about it - I supposed that he figured he would try to get in through the back door what he might not get in through the front. As Miss Cartwright and I compared notes, I learned that Mrs Thatcher, as one might expect, denied outright the story of the Scottish mistress as Mrs. Andrews' merely being catty, and put forth the theory that Mrs Matthews was the culprit because the latter tended to be nosy and had sticky fingers besides. Mrs Thatcher additionally contended that Mrs Matthews had been wearing a brooch to the debutante that had recently vanished out of Mrs Thatcher's own jewelry-box and would we be kind enough to get it back for her..
"Well," said my investigative collaborator as we walked towards the Matthews estate, "we've certainly learned a lot this morning."
"What we have learned," I replied, "Is that cordiality amongst these families does not extend beyond social engagements. I for one am surprised that they didn't kill each other outright at the debutante."
"There were certainly enough hatpins among the women to make that possible," she said. "I think the only reason they were even in the same house together was so their sons could decide whether or not I was the sort of woman they'd like their sons to marry - rich, pretty, and brainless."
I grunted diplomatically as I sifted through the facts and the gathered testimonies in the privacy of my mind. Meanwhile a small voice at the back of my head pointed out that two out of three was a good deal, and the third was a nonissue.
It was not until we had finished with the Matthews interview that I learned anything of note. After fifteen minutes in the same room as Mr Matthews - who tended to talk as loudly as most people shouted and had very strong opinions about everything (I pitied the man who tried to disagree with him) - I had cultivated a small but insistent headache and excused myself, meaning to cut the interview short. Miss Cartwright met me at the door to the parlour where she had been talking with Mrs Matthews.
"Ah," she said, "I was just about to come get you. Mrs Matthews has just told me something very interesting."
"Not more gossip, I trust?" I asked as I followed her back to the parlour.
"Tell him what you just told me," she said to Mrs Matthews.
"It was nothing, really," said Mrs Matthews.
"Every detail is important," I said.
"Well, if you're sure. I saw one of the maids, young, with blonde hair, escorting a little boy - he couldn't have been more than five or six years old - to the washroom. Who brings their young children to a debutante?"
"You saw them go to the washroom?" I pressed.
"Well, I wanted to see whose child it was. I asked the maid while the lad was in there, and she said he was with one of the delivery people - his apprentice or somesuch. I figured everything was okay then, and I went back to the main hall."
"How long before the burglary was discovered was this?"
"About fifteen or twenty minutes before."
"Thank you, Mrs Matthews. You've been very helpful."
"More helpful than the last interviews," Miss Cartwright murmured as we left, "You look like you've caught a good lead." "I have."
"The maid."
"Precisely."
*****
End of Part 7.