The Case of the Curious Client: A Bow Street Society Mystery (third edition)

  BOW STREET SOCIETY:

  The Case of The Curious Client

  By

  T.G. Campbell

  All characters in this novel are fictional. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  Front cover illustration by Peter Spells

  Bow Street Society Logo by Heather Curtis

  Edited by Susan Soares

  Copyright © 2016 Tahnee Georgina Campbell

  All Rights Reserved

  Third Edition.

  Available on Kindle and other devices

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Acknowledgements

  PROLOGUE

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY-SIX

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  TWENTY-NINE

  THIRTY

  THIRTY-ONE

  THIRTY-TWO

  THIRTY-THREE

  THIRTY-FOUR

  EPILOGUE

  Notes from the author

  More Bow Street Society

  Gaslight Gazette

  Sources Of Reference

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Thank you to Karen McDonald for her proofreading skills and the support she patiently gave me through this entire process, especially during “camera gate.” Thank you also to Pashen and Thayne for their support in this endeavour.

  While researching the historical context for this novel, I had assistance from certain individuals and organisations. The assistance they gave me, and the information they provided me with, was both invaluable and appreciated beyond measure. Those individuals who assisted me included Peter Lane at the London headquarters of The Magic Circle, who gave me a guided tour of the museum, imparted his expert knowledge, and made a generous offer to have this manuscript considered for the Magic Circle’s Library, and Paul Robert of The Virtual Typewriter Museum, whose enthusiasm and generosity were both charming and appreciated. He sent me electronic copies of the operating instructions for the Salter 7 and Blick 5 typewriters. Also, Neil Handley, MA, AMA+, FRSA, Curator at the British Optical Association Museum, The College of Optometrists for taking the time to answer my questions. Also, the staff at the Metropolitan Police’s Heritage Centre for their time to give me a tour of the collection, for their patience, and for signposting me to other invaluable sources.

  I’d also like to thank Lee Jackson for creating, arguably, the most comprehensive collection of contemporary sources from the Victorian Era, The Victorian Dictionary (see the Sources of Reference section at the end of this book for the full website address). I found this website invaluable. I’d also like to thank Mr Jackson for answering my questions in both a swift and polite way.

  Finally, I’d like to thank Yahari for the fantastic Bow Street Society logo design, and all my friends and family for their continued support and encouragement.

  PROLOGUE

  “Victoria is on her way,” Mr Joseph Maxwell said in a hushed voice as his deep-set green eyes betrayed both apprehension and excitement. A man of average stature, but of slender form, he had broad shoulders, freckle-covered, sunken cheeks, and high cheekbones. His distinctive red hair was neatly combed and parted to the left. An apprentice journalist with the Gaslight Gazette newspaper, he had an overall well-turned-out appearance. This consisted of a black frock coat over a dark-grey waistcoat accompanied by a high-collared white shirt, and black, silk cravat. The last had its tiny bow tied over his Adam’s apple. The scents of lavender and carbolic soap lingered around him.

  When his two companions reacted with a mere polite smile and subtle nod, though, he rested his clasped hands upon the table and twisted around in his chair. He watched as a waitress carried sliced Victoria Sponge cake to a couple sitting on the opposite side of the crowded tearoom. He wore the respectable attire of a middle-class gentleman, whilst she was adorned in a burgundy bustle dress and feather-topped hat which mimicked the fashion worn by ladies of a similar class. Both were in their twenties, despite the fact his brown hair was duller than her blond, and both were around five feet nine inches tall. Rubbing his thumbs together, an ache in Mr Maxwell’s back then obliged him to face his companions once more.

  The tearoom was housed above a branch of the Aerated Bread Company with its only access being a set of stairs leading from the rear of the ground-floor shop. Located on the Euston Road, the A.B.C. Tearoom—as it had come to be known—was a favoured refreshment stop for many a Londoner. Northbound travellers on their way to the London and North-Western Railway’s Euston Square terminus were also daily regulars. Due to its popularity, there was often a queue down the stairs. Yet, the staff could be relied upon to clear the tables discreetly and efficiently. Thus, ensuring one was seated in no time at all.

  A four-foot-high counter faced the door with a tin sign affixed to its front announcing all customers must ‘Enquire here.’ To its left was a tall, wooden-framed display cabinet containing a vast array of delectable goods, including freshly baked aerated bread loaves and scones. In addition to allowing one to see what was on offer, the cabinet’s glass panes also protected the goods from being contaminated by the bad smells of the city and ‘germs.’ The remainder of the room’s furniture consisted of ebony tables covered by white tablecloths and high-backed chairs with firm, dark-green cushions. With regards to décor, exposed floorboards were preferred over carpets due to the high rate of footfall the tearoom experienced. The walls, meanwhile, were papered with a dark-green, curving plant design on a slightly lighter green background. The low winter’s sun poured in through sash windows, adding to the already welcoming glow of the wall-mounted, gas lamp sconces. Their sashes were open to provide the reassurance of fresh air from the street, thereby negating a customer’s concerns about the possible build-up of carbonic gas.

  “Are they the couple we’re waiting for?” Mr Maxwell enquired. “Miss Dexter, may I see your sketches again?”

  Miss Georgina Dexter offered a gentle smile and pulled her satchel onto her lap. From it, she took two drawings: the first of a male, the second of a female. Her posture remained impeccable as she held them across the table to him. At only five feet tall, she was considerably shorter than he. Yet, her petite form was nevertheless in perfect proportion. There was also an age difference of three years between them, with her being the younger at eighteen. Like him, she was fair skinned with red hair. Hers was two shades darker and several inches longer than his, though, and kept tightly pinned beneath a midnight-blue bonnet with black edging. The plain straight-lined dress she wore matched the bonnet in colour. With her entire chest and part of her neck covered by its material, Miss Dexter felt as comfortable as she could in the company of two bachelors—neither of whom she courted.

  “Yeah,” Dr Percy Weeks replied. His Canadian accent was in stark contrast to those of his English companions. Unlike them, he was slouched with his head leant back and his hands resting upon the backs of their chairs. A lit cigarette, perched in the corner of his mouth, bobbed as he exhaled smoke in their di
rection and warned, “So, stop gawkin’ at ‘em.” Miss Dexter pressed a handkerchief to her mouth as she coughed, whilst Mr Maxwell crumpled his nose and moved his head back. “Dunno why I’m here anyway.”

  I must agree with you, Doctor, Miss Dexter thought. The man reeked of liquor and, despite being in a tearoom, had refused to purchase a cup, citing the fact he didn’t drink “such shit” and much preferred coffee. As if hearing her thoughts, he retrieved a silver flask from his overcoat and took a swallow of Scotch whisky without a hint of shame. Her concern regarding his Bow Street Society membership—born from behaviour of this kind—wasn’t of real note, however, when one considered his affiliation with the Metropolitan Police at Scotland Yard. Yes, police officers were often exposed as drunks, but Dr Weeks was allegedly a man of medicine, one upon whom the Yard relied (or so she was told). It left her feeling utterly bewildered whenever she tried to fathom how such a man as he could be granted such great responsibility.

  Aside from his vulgar choice of vocabulary, lack of manners, and distinct accent, Dr Weeks’ other remarkable traits could be said to be his short, slick-backed hair, small, waxed moustache, and long, short-haired sideburns, all of which were jet black. The fine quality of his attire meanwhile was in blatant contradiction to his behaviour. A dark-green, tailor-made, three-piece suit was accompanied by a matching tie with gold pin, and a white shirt with starched collar. His knee-length, black overcoat hung from the back of his chair, whilst a black, felt trilby sat upon the table. At twenty-nine, he was the eldest of the three.

  “Miss Trent said we’d need a doctor when Miss Johnson faints,” Mr Maxwell said.

  His words pulled Miss Dexter back from her thoughts, and she offered him another smile as she rested her charcoal smudged hands in her lap. Though he’d seen the sketches earlier, she was reluctant to point this out when he studied them for a second time.

  “She seems to know what she’s doing,” Mr Maxwell added. “Miss Trent, that is.”

  “Put the damn things outta sight,” Dr Weeks growled, pulling the sketches from Mr Maxwell’s grip and tossing them back to Miss Dexter. “Jesus.” He shook his head.

  “Sorry,” Mr Maxwell muttered as he felt his cheeks grow hot and his mouth turn dry.

  Miss Dexter quietly cleared her throat and slid the sketches back into her satchel. “Miss Trent’s instructions, to me, were to watch Miss Johnson and Mr Eddows, and to only act when the time is right.” She cast an awkward glance between them as she lifted her teacup to her lips. “I intend to do that.”

  The scrape of a chair against the floor then pulled their attention back to the young couple. Miss Johnson was doubled over with her face contorted in pain as she gripped her corseted stomach with a lace-clad hand. Upon seeing this, a passing waitress stopped at once to enquire, “Are you unwell, Miss?”

  “Of course I am unwell!” Miss Johnson snapped, her outburst garnering further attention from those at nearby tables. “I feel positively foul!”

  “Here, darling.” Mr Eddows spoke softly as he pushed her half-eaten slice of Victoria Sponge towards her. “Have something to eat. It may help you feel better—”

  “I shan’t have another bite!” she cried and, much to his dismay, shoved the plate across the table before she gripped the table’s edge and turned her wrath upon the waitress. “You must have baked with rotten eggs.”

  “No, Miss,” the waitress began, “I can promise you we don’t—”

  Her words were cut short by Miss Johnson suddenly toppling backwards, however. Both the waitress and Mr Eddows leapt forward to catch her, the latter succeeding. Looking at those around them, he cried, “Is there a doctor in the house?!”

  “That’s my cue,” Dr Weeks said, stealing himself with another swig of whisky and getting to his feet.

  Those sitting at the tables around the couple’s strained their necks and delivered hushed commentaries to their immediate neighbour. Miss Johnson’s faint had also garnered horrified gasps from customers elsewhere in the tearoom, but even they couldn’t pull their eyes away.

  Upon reaching the couple, Dr Weeks stepped in front of Mr Eddows and delivered several firm taps to Miss Johnson’s cheeks.

  Mr Eddows rose at once to lean across Miss Johnson and shield her. “Stop that.” He glared over his shoulder at him. “What do you think you’re doing? Who are you?”

  “I’m the doctor ya called for,” Dr Weeks stated and half-turned to drop his cigarette into the vase of flowers in the table’s centre. Gripping Mr Eddows’ arm, he encountered a greater degree of resistance than he would’ve expected when he yanked it away. “And I’m tryin’ to help yer friend, so get outta the way.”

  Mr Eddows stepped back and, watching Dr Weeks recommence his tapping of Miss Johnson’s cheeks, muttered under his breath, “Americans.”

  “Canadian, actually,” Dr Weeks corrected as he pressed the back of his hand against Miss Johnson’s forehead.

  “Is there a difference?” Mr Eddows enquired sardonically.

  “Canadians are more refined,” Dr Weeks retorted as their eyes met.

  “Not this Canadian,” Mr Maxwell remarked into Miss Dexter’s ear as they joined them. Her cheeks immediately flushed crimson, obliging her to bow her head as she took a bottle of smelling salts from her satchel and passed it to Dr Weeks. Pulling its cork out with his teeth, he then spat it onto the table and wafted the bottle’s contents under Miss Johnson’s nose. Within seconds of inhaling the salts’ pungent aroma, Miss Johnson was brought out of her faint with a sharp gasp.

  Despite this seemingly happy event though, Mr Eddows eyed Miss Dexter and Mr Maxwell with suspicion. “Who’re you?”

  “Just friends of Dr Weeks. We were taking tea with him when we heard your call for help,” Mr Maxwell explained.

  Mr Eddows responded with a blunt hum, but the suspicious glare remained.

  “Let’s get ya outta ‘ere,” Dr Weeks said as he helped Miss Johnson to her feet.

  “I’ll just fetch your bill, sir,” the waitress informed Mr Eddows.

  “You honestly expect us to pay for this poison?” Mr Eddows challenged. The waitress’ mouth opened, but Mr Eddows halted her voice at once by exclaiming, “Don’t be ridiculous, woman! The cake made her ill! Look at her!” He gestured to the trembling Miss Johnson who, despite her apparent illness, maintained a healthy pink glow. “I utterly refuse.”

  “If you’d permit me to fetch the manager, sir—” the waitress replied.

  “You already have my answer,” Mr Eddows interrupted and picked up his coat and hat along with Miss Johnson’s. Mr Maxwell had brought Dr Weeks’ things which he now proceeded to put on. “Come on, we’re leaving,” Mr Eddows instructed once they were ready.

  “B-But sir, you can’t—” the waitress stuttered with her hands outstretched as Mr Eddows strode out the tearoom. Dr Weeks followed, supporting Miss Johnson who held onto his arm for grim life. Wide-eyed at the sight, the waitress went to chase after them but was blocked by Miss Dexter who’d stepped into her path. “Pardon me, Miss—”

  Miss Dexter took her hands in hers. “Don’t worry.”

  “Miss?” the waitress enquired, confused.

  “Your manager already knows of this,” Miss Dexter replied. Offering a smile of reassurance, she parted company from the waitress to take her place in the pursuit of the others.

  “Tell him the Bow Street Society was here,” Mr Maxwell instructed the waitress as he passed. Catching up with Miss Dexter by the door, they both then took deep breaths as they crossed its threshold and descended the stairs.

  Parked outside was a two-wheeler, highly varnished, hansom cab. It had both the inside and outside plates and stencilled certificate on its back, to show it had passed its examination by the inspectors at Clerkenwell. Furthermore, whomever owned it, in this case the Bow Street Society, had paid the two shillings for the licence to drive it around London. Further expense the Society had incurred was fifteen shillings carriage duty to Somerset House and five shill
ings to the Metropolitan Police for a licence and badge to drive. Though the cab was inspected annually, a cabman’s ability to drive was only assessed once. At the end of each year, the cabman took his current licence to New Scotland Yard who would issue him a clean licence that was valid for a further twelve months. His length of service had to be recorded on the back of his current licence by his employer before he could have it replaced, however.

  Pulling the cab was a single, brown horse, brown being the more fashionable colour and the one most preferred by cab customers. The wheels, meanwhile, were approximately four feet wide. Between these wheels, resting upon the axle, was the main body of the cab; a wooden bench within a two-sided box with a ceiling that also doubled as a canopy over the passengers’ heads. The front edge of this canopy was carved into a curved arch whilst, attached to the edges of the left and right walls by hinges, were heavy, wooden doors with pointed middle sections to accommodate passengers’ knees. These, coupled with the wooden canopy, provided some shelter from the elements and from any mud and spray the horse’s hooves kicked up. Glassless windows in the cab’s sides enabled passengers to see where they passed, as well as providing the much-valued free flow of fresh air. Finally, candlelit lamps hanging from the top corners of the front of the cab enabled passengers to see when climbing into the cab at night.

  The driver was sitting upon a narrow seat, attached to the outside of the cab’s back wall, elevated enough so he could see over both the cab and horse. This seat also had iron railings on three sides to prevent him from toppling out when the cab was in motion. His broad shoulders were hunched over his calloused hands which in turn held the horse’s reins. These reins ran along the top of the cab, through the hollow tips of a V-shaped attachment mounted upon the canopy’s front edge (to keep the reins in line) and down to the horse’s harness. Aside from his face, the driver’s hands were the only other parts of his body visible beneath a heavy, black cape. Even his scuffed, and slightly torn, black-leather boots were concealed, though they rested against the back of the cab. Having pulled down the brim of his brown hat, to block the low, winter’s sun, he now pushed it back up with a fat thumb as he enquired in a rough voice born from London’s East end, “You wanna cab?”