Author's Note: I thank the delightful and funny josycostume for my inspiration.

A Fitting End

CHAPTER ONE

Aberdeen Avenue, Toronto

"Detective Watts. What are you doing here?"

Louise Cherry's voice jolted Watts from his wool-gathering, snapping his spine uncharacteristically straight. Engrossed in sorting notes for the interview ahead, he hadn't noticed her behind him.

"What am I doing here?" he asked after a pause. "You wish me to explain coincidence? The result of random actions in the past? Or is this a philosophical question about our existence in the universe at this exact time and place, Miss Cherry? According to Marx's critique of Hegel, 'I am nothing, but I must be everything.' Should I quote further?: '… the rational is actual is contradicted precisely by an irrational actuality, which everywhere is the contrary of what it asserts and asserts the contrary of what it is."

He eyed her, hoping for a sympathetic soul. No. She is clever, but not a deep thinker. Although she was contrary.

Watts scrambled for an explanation.Some banal words for social conventions? He flinched. Not my strong suit. Or was she asking if he was there on Constabulary business? This woman was an ally while he languished in Station 4's cells. Was that it? Payback? Fishing for information? She must know George rehired me. He glanced at her face again and saw wide-eyed innocence over a flash of smile before settling into her characteristic, chin-up primness.

Oh… Heat flamed his ears. She meant, what is a homosexual doing at a purported brothel?

He shoved two fists full of papers into his pockets, ignoring a protest ripping from one seam. Before returning to Station 4 tomorrow, he needed to finish this last private inquiry. Unfortunately, the family who hired him insisted he dig around at this address.

He tipped his hat to her, deciding to be opaque since he was not here officially. While he didn't think he'd be on thin ice with George Crabtree, his gambling days were over. "Investigation. And…you?"

She smirked, patting the notebook in her hand, and elbowed him aside to stand on the top step beside him. "Took you long enough to get here. When the police don't know how to do their job, it falls to the Fourth Estate. I don't know about you, but I am on a deadline. Will you do the honours?" she rattled off, indicating the ornate brass eagle door knocker. "Then you can stand back and observe my interview with the Baroness."

"I find not knowing anything is always a good place to start," he told her, and he did as she bade.

ooOO0OOoo

The house was quiet mid-morning, with no sounds from the floors above. Her majordomo was attending personal business, and her compatriots were asleep or taking advantage of daylight for hand-work, leaving her to manage customers. There was only a handful scheduled today, but one never knew. Semper Paratus. Always prepared.

Nika surveyed her parlour, satisfied all was polished and in order. She was an ocean away from Parisian or Viennese culture, but that was no excuse for lower standards. Lilacs scented the air, mixed with the clean smell of lemon wax polish. Floors and furniture gleamed, while spotless windows allowed a flood of sunlight to make the blush-pink walls glow, reminding her of a morning in the Carpathians. She so missed the brisk air of the mountains where light flowed and shaded the landscape like the skirts of a dancer. Or the smell of the sea, the vast blue Mediterranean at Toulon or Nizza, instead of Toronto's smokey haze.

Through her front window, she spotted a man lurking on her doorstep, and a woman moving smartly up the flagstones behind him. She was unsure if they arrived as a pair or by coincidence. Neither circumstance boded well. A quick, practiced look told her no sales agents or itinerant knife-sharpeners were at her door.

I doubt they are seeking any of our services, either.

The man wore a green plaid suit, a white shirt, and a high-collared necktie. His light-colored hat was perched too high on his head—very unfashionable. He'd never make it as a spy unless he was trying to bury himself in that costume. The woman wore a beige walking suit with a white shirt-waist, patterned bow tie, and a leather bag over one shoulder, carrying something in her hands. Business-like and practical. Also dull as dirt and forgettable: she could slip through a crowd unnoticed.

Nika pressed her tongue against the roof of her mouth. She knew how to dress for any occasion, for any effect, one of the many skills gained during her forty-five years, along with seven languages. Not in the habit of avoiding unpleasantness, she went to the foyer, where the outline of her unwanted guests made shadows on the tile floor. With a wry smile, she straightened her embroidered skirts—some of Elspeth's best work—toensure the crimson petticoat she wore underneath gave nothing away.

She unlatched the right-hand section of the double entry door, something the rental agent called a 'coffin door.' The name had appealed to her sense of humour. She pulled the knob, revealing an unsteady man with a green-plaid arm clawing the air. Beside him, the bland woman glared.

"May I help you?" Nika remained calm as the gentleman righted himself. He was younger than she thought, maybe in his thirties, with a high forehead and dark-furrowed brows.

The woman stepped forward, her hand outthrust. "I am Louise Cherry, feature reporter from the Toronto Telegraph. Are you Baroness Lekzezyski?"

I must be slipping. This woman is older than I judged, early thirties, too. Nika smiled inwardly. And bold. Under other circumstances, Nika might approve because she appreciated boldness. She folded her hands and spoke mildly. "No. I am not 'Baroness Lek-zez-y-ski." She observed them, praying that would be the end of it. Neither moved. She kept her face a polite mask, covering her frustration to wait them out. Nika knew the value of patience, too.

The man coughed. "Detective Llewellyn Watts, with questions… of my own." He gave Miss Cherry a sidelong stare.

They know each other... interesting.

"Perhaps…er…Madam… you do not wish us to collect out here on the street?" the man said. "May we come in?"

Nika could maintain her poise indefinitely but did not wish for a scene, which meant witnesses. She surveyed the street. Zounderkite! These ridiculous people will not go away. Nodding to one of her neighbors, she stepped back gracefully, keeping her voice low and even. "You may enter. The parlour is to the left." She closed the door, thinking furiously about how to dispose of these intruders.

One way or another.

ooOO0OOoo-

Louise caught the guilty expression on Detective Watt's face, considered it, and filed that detail away for later. She valued observation because people always had so much to hide. Her job was to uncover secrets, and she lived by the motto, 'A story is always in the details.' She flicked her eyes over the façade: a solid, three-story flat-fronted brick affair set on a small corner lot in a quiet neighborhood. An iron fence separated the garden from the sidewalk. This was one of the safer addresses she'd been sent to, but she knew better than to go anywhere at night. The house looked innocuous.

So many traps did.

Did a young woman enter here to meet a terrible fate?

Her source said this woman styled herself a European baroness and ran a house of ill-repute. Leading the way inside, Louise immediately cataloged the parlour because she never knew how soon she'd get tossed out. Louise wasn't sure what to expect, but this wasn't it. Overdone velvets and red draperies—every surface brimming with erotic artifacts—were de rigueur for a well-heeled brothel, a male version of a harlot's boudoir. This room was bright and airy, feminine without being vulgar; no suggestive art on the walls, no sumptuous pillows, and no smell of liquor or cigars swirling in a hazy fug. Bright windows, white curtains, a fireplace, and a few chairs; the only decorations were green plants and a large, framed embroidery sampler over the fireplace. Nothing grand. If anything, the room was plainer than current fashion dictated.

A baroness? Louise frowned. She's fake or fallen on hard times.

Whoever she is…

Louise assessed her quarry, noting the woman's dress with envy. The light purple French serge gown had a modern silhouette, with embroidery of leaves at the bodice, hem, and cuffs. Wavy chestnut hair nestled in a tortoiseshell clasp at the nape of her dancer's neck. Her only ornaments were a simple band on her right hand and an oval silver locket. Louise's foray into expensive fashion—a bright cerise satin gown with shiny swirls of embroidery and feather-trimmed hat—was gauche by comparison.

Did prostitution pay for that violet frock? This house? She considered the house's bland exterior. Perfect camouflage for nefarious goings-on inside. Louise counted herself a realist. Brothels offer protection and a roof over one's head, shielding women from the dangers of street life.

And being labeled a streetwalker did not always mean you were one.

She bristled. More than once, she'd been stopped on suspicion of prostitution when she was out doing her job for being unescorted at night. That was because the Toronto Office of the Staff Inspector—better known as the 'Morality Department'—wielded vagrancy laws against single women differently than men. She prided herself on carving a place above it all through grit and persistence, but the experiences started her asking questions and getting answers.

Despite an impassioned pitch, her editor relegated the story she researched and prepared on the subject to the circular file. It only made her angry and more curious about the women—girls. Anger and curiosity led her to the appalling fact dozens of women disappeared every year, and no one cared because they were labeled prostitutes. Their families rejected them, tossed them away like so much trash—just like her story.

Outraged, she began her own probe, getting tips and introductions anywhere she could. And this house? Women slipped away into places like this—might feel fortunate for a genteel situation. Most did not stay long: they saved a little money, changed their names, then melted away. Louise wanted to know if the women she sought passed through these premises. Her mission was to find out: did the women leave town willingly, were they held captive or dead?

So far, my observations do not match my source's information. Louise frowned. The baroness and her parlour gave no hint of depravity or danger. Then why was Llewellyn Watts here? Had they found one of those missing women and traced the case here? Her pulse raced at the thought.

The trio stood in the front room, Detective Watts scratching his neck while their hostess calmly observed. Louise's impatience flickered. Despite what she told Detective Watts, she'd been unaware of constabulary interest in either the baroness or the missing women. That required a recalculation of her approach.

It was satisfying to bowl Detective Watts aside, but a mistake to volunteer so brazenly. I'll get more information if I let the detective go first. Louise smiled up at him. "Since you were here ahead of me…"

"Ladies first."

She blinked. "No. Honestly. The constabulary-"

"I insist."

"Do the two of you need a moment…?" The baroness interrupted.

Something lightly accented the woman's voice, which Louise's ear could not identify. It's not a Romance language. Most Europeans speak English with a British accent; her cultured tones sounded flat. Did she learn it from a North American? Louise also heard no hint of amusement in those tones. No sense of humour, I guess.

Louise scowled at Detective Watts and opened her notebook, glancing towards the upper floors. We need to move this along. "You claim you are not Baroness Lekzezyski? If you are not her, can you tell me if she lives here or her whereabouts?"

Detective Watts surprised her by answering. "Miss Cherry, I believe our hostess is Madame Berenika Łęczeszyska."

The detective pronounced the name 'Len-chey-zees-ka.' "Not a baroness, but a corruption of your Christian name."

A smile ghosted the woman's face, noting the amusement never reached her light brown eyes.

"Very good, detective. That's close, but not quite right. I pronounce my surname When-cheya-sheetz-ska. You did better than most, perhaps because your Christian name—Welsh, is it not?—has a unique sound to the double L. My husband's family is venerable, but I am no aristocrat."

So…married and foreign. Eastern European? Louise scratched in her notebook, annoyed that Detective Watts was better informed. Her source had been wrong about the name—but not about everything. There was something about this woman and her house. I can feel it. "So, you are who I am looking for. Why the prevarication?"

Detective Watts drew in a breath to object, but the woman interrupted.

"Miss Cherry, calling someone a liar is no way to make an acquaintance. For convenience's sake, you may address me as Madame Nika."

She admits to being a Madam? Louise paused her pencil, refusing to be flustered.

Detective Watts exhaled, gesturing with his hand. "And you are a widow. Your lavender dress…the weeping willow decoration. Your husband passed at least a year and a half ago. Err…my condolences."

Madame Nika said only, "Thank you, Detective."

Louise ground her teeth about not understanding the mourning clothes. Madame Nika's voice remained pleasant, but she had not offered them a seat, and Louise desperately wanted to know what sent Detective Watts here. Probably a murder. She stole a look at him while he and the madam assessed each other. Who died, and why did the investigation lead here? Louise checked her notes and sighed inside at how thin they were. What else does Detective Watts know about Madame Nika?

Louise made a quick decision, retreating a half step and pitching her voice as sweetly as she could muster. "I apologize, Madame. Detective Watts, perhaps you should ask your questions…"

ooOO0OOoo

Watts nodded at Miss Cherry, certain she was fishing for information in her usual blunt style and that he probably should banish her. Alternatively… she might have something I can use. "Madame Nika…" he pointed to a chair. "Could we…?" The woman chose a chair by the fireplace, leaving a second chair and the sofa for him and Miss Cherry. Miss Cherry chose the sofa.

He let the ladies sit while he paced slowly, fishing notes from his pockets. Madame Nika was silent, patient as a sphinx—and prepared to be about as forthcoming, he guessed. He decided on personal questions to get her talking, and compare that to what he learned from city records. He watched how she planned her answer before he finished asking his question. "You are from Poland, are you not? Why Toronto?"

"Poland?" she scoffed. "A pawn in other people's greed. War and chaos have ripped apart my dear country so often I do not recognize her." A hint of steel was in her eye, quickly concealed underneath a sad smile. Her tones softened. "Why Toronto? My husband, Franciszek, and I toured all over Europe for opera and the stage, from Constantinople to the West End in London," she said. "I designed costumes; he created backdrops, scrims, and flats. We were in Paris doing Tartuffe—you know this one?A beautiful production. Bastille Day Roman candles set fire to the theatre roof, and the whole place caught flames. Franciszek died the next day, 15 July, 1909." She paused briefly. "I moved to London but had no heart left for the stage, so I came here. The New World seemed… appropriate, you know? I preferred Buffalo, but Toronto is less expensive."

The theatre. Considering her performance here, I bet she started out on the stage. In his experience, theatre people were overly dramatic and stretched the truth. He found them confusing.

He said, "You rented this house and offered rooms to women." He ran through his ideas while she nodded, deciding a straightforward question might rattle Madame Nika's practiced façade. He patted his jacket and took a photograph from a pocket.

"Madame Nika, when was the last time you saw either of these individuals?" He passed the picture to her, watching her reaction closely.

She examined the card, turning it toward the windows with long fingers before offering it back to him. "That is Signora Russo. Her, I met on two occasions. I will have to consult my ledger if you wish exact dates. Last December, I believe." Madame Nika met his eyes with a level gaze.

Miss Cherry twisted her neck to get a glimpse. He tapped the card, waiting for a reaction. "What occasioned your meeting?"

"She brought her husband's suit in for refurbishing and a piece of lace for repair."

He blinked. That was unexpected. Watts usually enjoyed the unexpected. Let's see how she takes the next part. "Her husband died just before Christmas. Her family says she disappeared a month later."

Behind him, Miss Cherry ceased scribbling while Madame Nika looked expectant. Watts was comfortable with silence because it gave him space to free his mind, so he let the silence stretch, considering why he was in this lady's parlour.

Why was anyone anywhere? What is human nature that drives decisions, large and small?

Watts found nothing suggesting a motive for murder in his private inquiries. Angelo and his second wife, Giulia, lived and worked in the Ward. Mr. Russo was sixty-two, a calzolaio or shoemaker, in poor health, and didn't believe in doctors. His death certificate listed natural causes. Their priest at Our Lady of Mt. Carmel explained the first Mrs. Russo came to Canada in an arranged marriage, typical of Sicilian immigrants. When she died in childbirth, her youngest sister, Giulia, was married by proxy in Sicily and sent from the old country to quietly take her place. Watts had heard of this practice, which was illegal in Britain and her colonies until recently unless you were married elsewhere. Her proxy marriage took care of the technicalities.

The second marriage produced no children surviving infancy. Giulia Russo raised her four nephews as her own. Neither parent spoke English well, neither broadcast a negative word about their marriage to a living soul, and no one had a bad word to say about either. There were no financial concerns, no debt, no insurance. There was no association with mob crimes, although Angelo played the numbers. His heirs, a brother and the sons from his first marriage, got his workshop with the apartment above, his inventory, client list, and savings; his wife received her clothes, some jewelry, and the equivalent of her dowry. It wasn't much.

He had a clear picture of Mrs. Russo: widowed at forty-nine, wearing head-to-toe black as she calmly settled her affairs, informed the family she was leaving Toronto, and disappeared to destinations unknown. No leads, no foul play, too much territory to search. Watts swallowed down memories of his sister—the abandonment, the search, the reunion and abandonment again. This is not the same. Mrs. Russo left a situation where she was subservient to her husband and step-sons, where her own house wasn't hers anymore. He almost envied the woman's ability to reinvent herself.

God knows, I tried.

He thought the husband's family was unwilling to accept the truth: this lady wanted to move on with her life independently. Instead, they spun a tale of murder and intrigue because Watts found Madame Łęczeszyska's name in the widow's discarded papers. They heard a rumor, some whisperings and demanded he investigate. He told them they were grasping at straws, even though he privately understood the impulse.

He also told them husbands visit brothels and wives are more than often aware, turning a blind eye. The family didn't even try to deny their father and brother consorted with prostitutes, arguing for a man's natural right to stray. Instead, they paid him an extra fee for today's visit, certain he'd uncover a dark plot. The facts say otherwise, he reminded himself. Pursuing the widow this way only proved her excellent judgment in escaping.

Watts ceased pacing, looking at his hostess. Admitting Mr. Russo patronized this brothel would have only made my point that the wife knew. Very likely ending my inquiry. Madame Nika remained unperturbed. He knew one must stay calm to hide a lie; he had personal experience with hiding secrets. Years of it. He'd have liked it better if she was flustered or nervous—something closer to a normal reaction. Her tight control led him to one conclusion and one question:

Madame Nika is lying? Why?