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DETECTIVE JACK WINSTON nodded to Mrs. Bradley after a long and frustrating day. Instead of dining at her table as was his usual habit, he climbed the stairs to his rooms immediately, looking forward to a warm bath and to checking his journal for Riley’s reply.
After his soak, he settled into his chair at his writing desk and reached for the book. He read Riley’s message about having pasted a photograph and turned to the back, as instructed. The page bore a small black-and-white image of a young woman, whom he placed between twenty and thirty years old. Where was Riley’s photograph? Why would he post this picture of a—
Winston pushed the journal away, the heat of his error reaching his chest. Riley was a woman. He had been writing to a woman, soliciting her help. He stood, steadying the chair; the last thing he needed was Mrs. Bradley checking on him if the furniture crashed.
He picked up the book and brought the image closer to his face, searching the woman’s friendly eyes. She stared out from the photograph, focused on something behind the camera rather than at it. Long, dark hair hung loosely around her face, reaching her shoulders. She was pleasantly featured, though not what his mother would call classically beautiful.
What other assumptions had he made? Had he revealed more to her than he might reveal to another man? He flipped through the pages to reread their exchanges. At no point had she identified herself as a woman. And Riley’s words felt genuine, not as though she was intentionally misleading him.
Her observations had been sound. She must be quite skilled to be working at a museum. Perhaps it wasn’t unusual for women to hold such positions in her day. Was this a change he would see in his lifetime?
Winston paced, letting his discovery sink in. Not only was he corresponding with someone in the future; his correspondent was a woman. Yet he had assumed he was writing to a man based on the name alone. With instincts so wrong, how could he presume that he was equipped to solve a murder and a case of a missing person? Being named a detective by his uncle, the chief constable, did not make him one. He clearly had poor detection skills. Perhaps he should step down, let his uncle appoint a proper investigator to the case.
But who? Thomas Miller showed promise, but he lacked Winston’s comfort with business leaders and other society members. Other constabulary members had some experience investigating violent death, but from what he had gathered, the culprits were usually standing next to their victims, the violence the result of alcohol-fuelled arguments. Their investigations amounted to little more than assigning blame to the nearest pub patron.
Winston forced himself to slow his breaths. He sat, again with deliberate slowness. No. He did good work, even if he had drawn an erroneous conclusion. He rested his hands on the journal, pulling air deep into his lungs to counter the heat of embarrassment coursing through him. Despite his uncle’s position, Winston had availed himself of proper training; he was a good detective and had learned much through his own search for Ellis.
Did whether Riley was male or female affect her research skills? Likely not; otherwise, she would not be employed as an archivist. And since the museum trusted her enough to employ her, surely he could trust her as well. He would continue with his investigation and accept the occasional help of a woman living in the future if it meant he would solve the cases.
Winston counted to ten. He flipped back to Riley’s picture and traced his finger around its straight edge. Winston brought the journal closer, examining her face on the page. Her parted lips hinted at laughter, but the smile hadn’t yet fully formed. She looked almost playful. The photograph captured only her shoulders and head. She wore a simple dark dress without buttons or ruffles or other adornments. Its simplicity contrasted with the style worn by women in Winston’s time, but it highlighted the attractive features of her face. The cut appeared similar to women’s formal attire, revealing her long neck and a hint of her collarbones. Had she been at a formal event?
Despite his mistake, her thoughtfulness to include this photograph touched him. For their partnership to work, he needed to be honest with her. Winston stared at her image a little longer before starting his reply.
Dear Riley,
I do not comprehend quite how this works, but thank you for including your photograph. Truthfully, until I received it, I thought I was writing to a man. Riley is not a common woman’s name. You are the first female Riley I have encountered.
As we’ve developed this correspondence, I have found myself sharing far more than I do with anyone, and it seems knowing you are a woman has not changed my decision to be as forthcoming from this point.
And so I will provide something about myself and how I arrived in Vancouver. My family is in Toronto, and family lore suggests ancestors have lived in the area for over 150 years. My mother considers my father to be one of the business elite, and though he views himself rather more humbly, being part of this family came with expectations I wasn’t prepared to meet.
Winston rubbed at the tension in his neck. The memories were uncomfortable to revisit.
As I write this, I realize that the expectations were not only that I would become a leader in my father’s company but also that I would do so without care for my own ambitions. Alas, my ambition lies not in building companies or chairing meetings. It lies in finding answers, no matter where the truth hides.
My father has invested wisely and reaped many financial successes. His current interest is the railway. However, he talks to me of preferring to spend time with the conductors rather than with the other directors, sentiments he is careful to convey only when my mother cannot hear. She cherishes the status our family has, and that status—or the expectation I will take advantage of it—is one reason I left six months ago. I grew tired of continued conversations about my duty to work with my father—an opinion held solely by my mother.
My father has a somewhat more pragmatic view, and for this I am grateful. He gave me enough money to move away rather than watch me continue to struggle with disappointing her. He is a shrewd businessman, known to negotiate fiercely, yet until he granted me permission to leave. I had never seen him refuse my mother something she wanted. I know he shares her disappointment, but for different reasons. He had envisioned us working together, but I have chosen a different path.
Did she really need to know all this history? Perhaps not, but Winston found it helpful to pour his reflections onto the page. He expected Riley would welcome the background details.
My older brother Ellis, who should have taken over the business, disappeared some years ago. With his disappearance, expectations for him shifted to me. Thankfully, my younger brother, George, is far more commercially inclined, and he has done well without my shadow colouring his way. When the time comes—which I trust is several years from now—I will happily sell, or even give, my share of our father’s business to my brother. Work and life in Vancouver suits me. I have no intention of leaving.
Winston reread his last paragraph. Did he sound callous? In truth, he wished George well. He had tried to leave all the family tensions behind when he’d made his move west.
Please don’t think me cold; I love my family, but distance from them deepens my fondness for them.
With thanks for the clarity you have provided me,
Detective Jack Winston (though I feel we have reached a stage where it may be appropriate for you to call me Jack. I will leave that decision to you).
Winston set down his pencil. The faces of his family moved through his mind, his older brother’s face less distinct than those of the others. Did his parents still wonder at the whereabouts of their eldest son? If so, their wonder was private. Winston glanced behind him at his jacket on the coat rack, Ellis’s stone in its pocket. He longed to speak of Ellis with another person. It seemed the responsibility to keep his memory alive rested solely with him. He prepared for sleep. Memories of his past danced with images of Riley in the future as he drifted away.