The Midnight Peacock. Katherine Woodfine
friends and a job that – unexpectedly – she had turned out to be rather good at. For a moment, she grinned to herself. Twelve months ago she could certainly never have imagined that she was about to begin a career as a detective.
But the smile was only a fleeting one. For thinking of that only made her recall all the other things that had happened in the past year – and especially her encounters with the villain called the Baron.
Last Christmas she had never even heard that name – but since then, she and her friends had crossed the path of London’s most notorious crime lord on several occasions. Between them, they had managed to prevent his scheme to destroy Sinclair’s with an infernal machine – even after being locked up in the summerhouse in the roof garden by one of his henchmen. They’d exposed his disguise as the aristocrat Lord Beaucastle and helped to liberate much of London’s East End from the stranglehold of his vicious gang, the Baron’s Boys. Most recently of all they had rescued two valuable paintings by the Italian artist Benedetto Casselli, which the Baron had stolen on behalf of a secret society known as the Fraternitas Draconum, or the Brotherhood of Dragons. Though the society itself remained a mystery, it was thanks to their efforts that several of the Baron’s accomplices were now in gaol – and that the Baron himself was a wanted man, on the run from Scotland Yard. He hadn’t been seen by anyone since she had come face to face with him in a darkened Chelsea alleyway some months ago.
Of all their encounters, it was that one that she thought of most. Perhaps that was because it had been the first time that she had faced the Baron alone – or perhaps because he had confessed to her that he had killed not only her beloved papa, but her mother too, many years earlier. She had escaped from the encounter with no more than the scar on her forehead. Now, in spite of the warm fire, she shivered, thinking how lucky she had been.
I could have killed you a dozen times, he had told her. The words still puzzled her. It was true: so why hadn’t he? The Baron had a reputation for ruthlessness, for exacting the most horrible revenge on anyone who crossed him. Yet he had let her go, saying only: Farewell. This time I know I’ll see you again.
She found she was tapping her pen irritably against the desk. When it came to the Baron there were always these questions: the same frustrating spiral of mysteries and riddles. She counted them off the ever-growing list. How had the Baron known her parents? He had told her that he had once been a friend of her papa’s – but how could she possibly square the memory of her kind-hearted father with what she knew of the Baron’s cruelty and greed? She knew her papa had travelled during his military career, so perhaps the Baron had crossed his path – but how could he have met her mama? She heard the whisper of the Baron’s voice again. When she was by my side, she was the toast of Cairo . . . she gave all that up for a home and a husband – and you.
Cairo . . . What on earth had her mother been doing in Egypt? She knew nothing of either of her parents ever having travelled there. Ought she even to believe a single word that the Baron had said?
She got up from her chair and walked over to the fire. She’d promised herself that she would stop going round in circles like this. She’d spent weeks after her last encounter with the Baron, mulling over everything he had told her, trying to piece together each tiny piece of evidence. It had been their friend and adviser Mr McDermott – himself a private detective – who had put a stop to that. ‘I’d advise you to leave it alone. The Baron is the only one who can answer those questions – and with Detective Worth and Scotland Yard’s top men on his trail, he would be foolish to set so much as a foot in this country. Try to forget about him – and focus your attention on Taylor & Rose.’
Mr McDermott had been right, of course. He usually was. Reluctantly, she’d taken down the photograph of the Baron and her parents from the wall and filed it away in the folder in their office that was neatly labelled ‘The Baron’. For that was what she was going to do with the Baron now, she told herself: file him away with the rest of their paperwork on the office shelves. Far better to put all that aside and keep her attention firmly fixed upon new mysteries.
They certainly had plenty of those to keep them busy. In their first two months of business, Taylor & Rose had dealt with half a dozen different cases – from missing jewels to strange anonymous letters. Thanks to Mr Sinclair’s appetite for publicity, everyone knew about his latest innovation: London’s first (and only) young ladies’ detective agency. From where she stood beside the fire, Sophie could see its name, Taylor & Rose, printed in curving gold script across the glass panel of their office door.
Plenty of people had already come through that door, curious to see Mr Sinclair’s ‘young lady detectives’ for themselves. At first, the stream of visitors had made Sophie nervous. She lay awake at night, wondering how they could show everyone that two young girls really were capable of being detectives.
But little by little, she found her confidence was growing. With Mr McDermott’s guidance, Taylor & Rose was beginning to thrive – and Sophie had suddenly found herself a person of some consequence at Sinclair’s. When she had been a shop girl, she had been all but invisible, passing unnoticed through the crowds of shoppers. Now, people turned to look at her: salesgirls stared curiously in her direction; customers nudged each other, recognising her photograph from the newspapers; and some of the older doormen shook their heads, muttering that they ‘didn’t know what the world was coming to’. It would seem that not everyone approved of the idea of a young lady becoming a private detective.
But Sophie paid that no attention. She loved being part of Taylor & Rose. She had never really felt like she fitted in with Edith and the other salesgirls in the Millinery Department. It was not that she had minded selling hats for a living – in fact, there had been times when she had rather liked it. But her new work fascinated her like nothing else. Of course, the cases they dealt with were not on the same scale as the Baron’s schemes, but each was engrossing just the same. They put her brain to the test, forcing her to trust her instincts and hone her powers of observation – and they absorbed her completely.
But today for once she was struggling to keep her mind on work. It was almost Christmas; and the office of Taylor & Rose was unusually quiet. Mr McDermott was away on the Continent on business, Lil had gone out to visit one of their clients, and whilst the rest of Sinclair’s hummed with people, on the first floor, Sophie had been alone all the afternoon. The office was a pleasant place, attractively decorated for them on Mr Sinclair’s orders, with a pretty sitting area, furnished with elegant chairs and a table spread with the latest fashion papers. There were two desks, one for Sophie and one for Lil, and even the telephone which Mr Sinclair had insisted must be installed stood on its own dainty little table beside a vase of flowers.
Yet in spite of Mr Sinclair’s ladylike vision, the office of Taylor & Rose had swiftly acquired its own particular atmosphere, which was not really smart or elegant at all. It was a place where friends came to call, where crumpets were toasted before the fire on wet afternoons, where tea was poured from their own teapot, books and newspapers were read, and the latest cases were discussed – Sophie usually pacing up and down on the rug, whilst Lil leaned back in her chair, resting her boots on her desk in a most unladylike manner. In fact, the office had begun to feel like home, Sophie thought – in a way that nowhere had since she had left Orchard House a year ago.
But thinking of Orchard House led her back to Papa, and thinking of Papa led her back to the Baron, and that was no good at all. Sophie went back over to the desk, curled herself in her chair, and pulled the sheaf of documents decisively towards her. She must stop thinking about all that, and actually do something useful.
CASE NOTES, she read – but before she had got any further, there came an unexpected knock on the office door.
‘It’s only me,’ said a familiar voice, and Billy came into the room, bearing a stack of envelopes. ‘We’ve just finished downstairs. Mr Sinclair had the journalists eating out of the palm of his hand, of course. They’re ever so excited about the New Year’s Eve Ball. Here, I’ve brought up your post.’