The Private Diary of Elizabeth Quatermain, vol. IV: Only in America
by Lady Norbert

A/N: This third chapter is dedicated to Miss Kathleen, my original minion...wherever you are.

7 April 1900

Skinner, according to Tom, is being held at the jail on East Street.

We have completed breakfast, and though it was hardly a merry affair, I do not feel as angry with my companions as I did yesterday. There have been no formal apologies, but we are quite usual with each other once again, so I believe I too have been forgiven for my outburst.

Tom once told me how, during their exploit with my father, they had all believed Skinner was the one responsible for a series of thefts and sabotages. As it turned out, it was a different member of the League, one now dead, about whom the others do not speak. I daresay that part of the reason they are hesitant to say now whether they believe him or not is because they were wrong about him then, and are willing to at least accept the possibility that he may be innocent now as well.

For my part, it is another matter entirely. I know he is innocent.

The morning meal being now over, I am assembling a small collection of things to take to him in the jailhouse. He must be going mad in there - I know I would be - and so the least I can do is pay him a visit and take him a few items. Nothing exceptional, really. I have a basket containing two books, a few pieces of fruit, and some sheets of blank paper, a pen and an inkstand. I imagine he is terribly bored; these might help him pass the time less horribly, until he is freed. As a joke of sorts, to lift his spirits a trifle, one of the books I am taking is A Tale of Two Cities, the one he fell asleep reading in the library. I also went to his room and collected his jar of greasepaint, in case he needs to conceal his "condition" better.

later

It is just past luncheon, though I have skipped the meal. I found it quite necessary to come back here and spend a bit of time alone, to compose myself before greeting any of the others.

I went alone to the jailhouse, which I expect raised a few eyebrows from any strangers who happened to witness it. Under the present circumstances, however, I do not care. I did not ask the others to accompany me, nor indeed, tell them where I was going. It may be that they have gone sightseeing without me, though I cannot think that they would be so heartless.

The jailhouse is...not a pleasant place. It is dark, though there is electric lighting, and each prisoner's cell is fitted with a small, high window that allows some natural light to enter. I spoke to the guard at the main desk, and after he reviewed the contents of my basket, he escorted me through the building. I could hear whistling and some vulgar comments as I passed the barred cells, and I will not pretend that I was not a little afraid. But I held my head up and did my best to ignore them.

Skinner was sitting on a low bench, which also (by the look of it) served as his sleeping cot. His leather coat was folded at one end, as to make a pillow. He looked up when we approached, then started to glance away; his head suddenly snapped back up as he realized it really was me.

The guard unlocked the cell. "You have a visitor, Brit," he said, opening the door for me. "I'll be back in half an hour."

I stood there for a moment, uncertain how to proceed. He got to his feet, looking thunderstruck.

"Bess, why - what on earth are you doing here?"

"I...I wanted to see that you were all right."

He motioned for me to sit down, and I did. "Here," I said, passing him the basket. "I brought you a few things...nothing much. I just thought they might make it a little more bearable."

He looked at the basket briefly, then set it aside and turned his attention back to me. "I didn't want you to come here," he said.

I must have looked hurt, because he added quickly, "Not that I'm not glad to see you. Been miserable in here, if you want to know the truth. But you shouldn't have come."

"I just thought someone ought to look in on you." I felt strangely stupid, like my brain and tongue were no longer civil.

"How are the others?" he asked awkwardly. "I mean, do they think..." He let the sentence hang there.

"They don't quite know what to think," I said truthfully. "I suppose they're shocked - we were all shocked. Give them a little time, they'll come around."

He studied me for a moment. "You believe me, don't you?"

"Yes."

"Not to sound ungrateful, but - why?"

"Well, it's not hard to have faith in someone who's never let you down." His hands were on his knees, and I reached out to pat the nearest one. He turned it palm-upwards and curled the fingers around my own.

"We're going to get you out of here," I told him. I don't know where it had come from, but I was suddenly furious about the whole affair and determined to do whatever it took to free him. "I promise."

"Might take awhile," he said. He didn't look at me.

"I'm not leaving this city without you. And neither will the others."

He turned his head in my direction then, a funny sort of lopsided smile crossing his face. "Lord knows I wouldn't want to get in your way when you're settled on something." He actually chuckled, and I had to smile in response.

I really was not certain what I could do, not while remaining within the boundaries of propriety and without telling him everything which lay on my tongue. It was an uncomfortable situation, and that in itself was strange, for we are almost never uncomfortable with each other. Perhaps he was as unsure as I was about how to behave under the peculiar circumstances. So we just sat there quietly, my hand in his, our knees not quite touching.

"Is it very bad in here?" I asked finally. "Is there anything you need?"

"Nah. I'm all right. Could do with a bit of fresh air, of course." He smiled wryly, and I found myself wishing I could bottle sunlight.

The guard came back. "Five minutes."

We stood up, not sure how to end this odd visit. He still held my hand. I felt pained, not wanting to remain in that place and yet unwilling to leave him.

"Bessie, listen," he said. "Don't come back. I don't want you in this place...it can suck the life out of anybody. Promise me."

Reluctantly, I did.

"All right. Now, go on back to the ship. And look after yourself," he added, smiling lopsidedly again, "since I can't for now."

"We will get you out of here," I repeated. He just nodded.

Rodney has kissed my hand before, always with what I term mock chivalry. He acts as though he is pretending to be gallant. This time, though, he lifted my hand and pressed it very firmly to his lips for a moment, then moved it so the knuckles rested against his cheek. "Go on, love," he said, releasing his grip.

I nodded, no longer trusting myself to speak, and the guard let me out of the cell. Somehow I made my way back outside, into the hansom cab which had waited for me, and back here. Only when I was safe in my room did I give full vent to my grief.

later still

After I had regained my composure and erased any outward sign that I had been crying, I went in search of Tom.

I found him up on the deck, shooting. He does this from time to time; one of the Indian soldiers fires a target into the water, and he shoots it where it lands. When we are moving on the ocean, it's probably fairly challenging, but docked in the river, I imagine it's much easier.

"Where've you been?" he asked me in surprise. "We haven't seen you all day."

"I went to visit Skinner."

He paused in the midst of aiming. "Ah. How is he?"

"He's...not doing well."

"I'm not surprised."

"Tom, he's innocent."

"I want to believe that too, Elizabeth."

"What's stopping you?"

He turned to look at me, and paused. I stood there patiently, letting him study my expression. "You're really convinced of this, aren't you?"

"Yes, I am. We've got to do something, Tom. We've got to find out who really did this."

"The police are handling it," he pointed out.

"Hang the police! I told him we would get him out. If you won't help me, I'll do it myself."

He sighed. "Do you know what the last thing he said to me was? Yesterday, when I was leaving?"

"No. What?"

"He said, 'Keep an eye on Bess for me, Tom. You know how trouble finds her.'" I could almost hear Skinner's voice in my head, saying those very words. "And he's right - although in this case, I think you're going looking for it."

"Does that mean you're going to help me?" I asked hopefully.

He chuckled. "Reckon it does, li'l sis."

We decided to head back to the White House and retake the tour, to see if we could spot anything out of the ordinary. As it happened, we again had Richard as our tour guide, and he remembered us.

"Such a shame about your friend!" he said sympathetically. "I suppose it must have been a terrible shock to you, miss."

"Yes, rather," I said. "Do you remember anything unusual about that day?"

"Apart from your friend? No, not really."

I raised an eyebrow at him. "I beg your pardon?"

"Well - if you'll excuse me for saying so, he is a bit odd-looking, isn't he? Never met anyone that pale, English or otherwise."

I felt more than a little affronted by this, but I elected to let it pass without comment. We made our way to the State Dining Room, the home of all our troubles. I half-listened while Richard talked about the Tiffany decor, then joined Tom as he studied the remaining silverware on the mahogany table.

"Anything?" I whispered.

"Nothing unusual," he replied. "But I spoke to the guard, the police have been all over this room. If there was anything here to find, they've already found it."

"You can't even tell what's been taken," I said, looking at the place settings.

"Yeah. This isn't the whole set, you know. They keep some of it in storage; they brought out some of the extra pieces to stand in the place of the ones that were taken. Didn't want anyone else to notice the theft - they're trying to keep it out of the papers."

"That's probably a good thing for Skinner as well," I murmured.

"You're not kidding!"

We left the dining room and went back to the North Entrance hallway, where we stood for a few minutes. Tom leaned against the wall and lapsed into one of his brown studies; I've noticed that when he's thinking particularly hard, he traces the letter V on his cheek or his chin with his forefinger. I waited for him to finish his contemplations.

"I think we should talk to the tour guide who was with the group after ours," he said at length. "Find out exactly who made the discovery."

It is no small boon, when seeking answers to a problem in the home of American government, to have a United States Secret Service agent working with you. Tom's credentials enabled us to get an audience with the very man we needed, an elderly gentleman named Harry James.

"Oh, yes," he said, when Tom asked him about the burglary of the day before. "Yes, I was with that group. Most alarming! I had just started to tell them about how President Monroe purchased the silver - 1817, you know, from France - and I looked down, and I saw that four of the place settings were missing spoons! Well, I sent for the guards at once, as you can be sure. I understand they've got the ruffian in custody."

I opened my mouth to protest, but Tom gave me a warning look and I remained silent. "Mr. James," he said, "how many people know exactly what's been taken?"

"Well, I do, and of course now you do as well. There were four, no, five guards. And I expect the President has been notified."

"No one else? You didn't mention it to any of the people in your tour group, or anything like that?"

"No. I tried very hard not to let them know there was anything wrong; I think I succeeded. I'm told they don't want this in the newspaper, so I don't think anyone else has been told."

Tom nodded. He was getting that faraway look in his eyes again. "All right, sir, thank you very much."

I followed him back to the entrance hall. "What are you thinking, Tom?" I asked. He didn't answer right away; I'm not even sure that he heard me.

"Four spoons," he muttered.

I looked at a nearby clock; it was approaching teatime. "Brother?"

"Sorry. Let's get back to the Nautilus. We need to talk to the others."

When we had all assembled in the main chamber for tea, Tom addressed the company. "Skinner," he informed everyone, "didn't do it."

Music to my ears.

"How do you know?" asked Nemo.

"We talked to the tour guide who discovered the theft," he explained. "He said that four spoons had been stolen from the table."

"And?" Mina pressed.

"And nobody else knew what had been taken at that point, except for that tour guide and the guards he summoned. Nobody else really knows now, except for us and maybe President McKinley. They've replaced the missing spoons with extras from the set."

"But what does that prove?" I asked him. I was at least as eager as anyone else to hear that this somehow exonerated my poor friend, but Tom's logic was bewildering.

"Well, it doesn't really prove anything - yet," he admitted. "But it's got me thinking. Elizabeth, did you write about the event in that diary of yours?"

"Of course."

"Run and get it, will you? Maybe you noted something that will get my attention."

I returned with the diary, and at Tom's bidding, I read aloud the entry I'd written about our tour. I omitted certain personal details, of course. He looked disappointed, for there was nothing which was of any use.

"I propose," said Nemo, glancing at me, "that we all return to the Executive Mansion tomorrow and take the tour again, together. Five pairs of eyes are better than two, as are five pairs of ears. We must do our best to solve this."

It would seem that they believe, at last, that Skinner is innocent. For what reason they have accepted this, I have not ventured to ask. It is enough for me that they do.

Tom has gone to the jailhouse to visit him. He asked me if I wanted to accompany him, but as I have promised Skinner I will not return, I was forced to decline.