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A NEW YEAR FOUND ALEXANDRA Bathenbrook once again lost in the world and teetering on the cusp of a momentous decision. She assiduously studied the large map draping a wall of her new office space. The painted canvas presented a tantalizing depiction of her pending playground, circa 1900. She’d discovered this treasure in an antique store; a triumph of pastel brushed cartography too dated to be practical, but not yet priced as vintage. The Treaty of Versailles had changed the face of the globe monumentally and established the boundaries of an entirely new world order, which continued in flux. Alexandra reasoned that the League of Nations was likely in cahoots with textbook and atlas manufacturers to tinker annually with a few borders, just to force people to purchase updated editions.
The map could suffice as decorative, as she had found another means to help figure out the latitude and longitude of foreign capitals.
Alexandra remained transfixed, debating a single question over her daily dose of four o’clock coffee: New York or New Orleans?
The phone rang, jarring her concentration.
She slid over her French press, took a seat on a desk, and lifted the listening piece of the candlestick unit to her ear. “Alexandra Illyria, mistress to adventure! ... Yes, Father. I’m all settled in.”
The line from Edinburgh was full of static.
Once he concluded voicing his upset, she assured him, “William misheard. I am not a lesbian, though in this era of wonderful nonsense, anything is possible. ... Hello... hello?”
Her father’s voice choked off, and the line went dead.
Alexandra hung up the earpiece.
The first month of 1928 had been spent establishing her business—a daunting task that Alexandra conducted with unforeseen acumen and diligence. She had rented a street-level unit on Bond Street in the West End, amidst the hectic foot traffic of Mayfair and a short walk from Piccadilly. No cost would be spared to transform the brick-walled, wood-floored hollow into her vision of business-chic Shangri-La. The window-filled main room was outfitted with rattan blinds, a reception desk, three leather sling chairs beside a coffee table, a wood stove, and pygmy palms plugged into the corners. To the rear were her office, a kitchenette, a bathroom, and a small closet destined to become a darkroom.
Once her mailing address and phone line were secured, her arrival needed to be shouted to the world. It was while a sign-writer applied his calligraphic talents that she’d settled on naming her agency. The man stated the need to reduce his font size, since her full name would not fit across her streetside window and hung shingle. This was not acceptable, as small fonts do not shout “Adventure!” Thus, emblazoned upon her letterhead, business cards, and office facade was:
Alexandra Illyria–Adventure Photographer
No assignment too perilous!
It held the added advantage of keeping the Bathenbrook family name distant from the mishaps and scandals she would no doubt inspire along the way. She had mailed a press release to news agencies and the most vaunted exploratory societies. Newspaper ads were placed in the larger metropolises, and the wait for inquiries began.
She would soon be off to Switzerland.
Alexandra remained lost in thought. New York or New Orleans?
It was, and forever would be, all about logistics. Choosing to trek afar for any assignment meant a commitment of weeks and might rule out grander opportunities. Transportation timelines needed to be tight to avoid loitering hotels between ocean passage and designated dates with adventure. Alexandra discerned it to be beyond a one-person operation. To make it work, she required someone to man the fort while she was lost in travel, rendered incommunicado in the wilderness, or intoxicated.
She had imported the perfect complement to pull it off. Her Montana confidante, Oliver Martin, possessed the ideal skill set to serve as a travel agent, film developer, researcher, and purveyor of secretarial duties.
Archibald or Archibald?
Alexandra barely noticed Oliver rejoining her. It was “Decision Wednesday” which had naturally been preceded by “Mail review Monday” and “Correspondence Tuesday.”
A trickle of inquiries over fees and availability were arriving via mail. She had decided no job would be rejected; rather, a letter stating “all booked up” would be sent, as too busy sounded successful. Such tidings were already dispatched to proposals as far off as China.
Alexandra drifted off and took a seat in a sling chair to warm up near the heating stove. The one hard date and epicenter of her coming months would be April 10th in British Guiana. Her father had sent word he would be touring the Americas and hoped to rendezvous with her in its capital of Georgetown. Her current dilemma was determining what jobs could be worked around it.
“It’s easier to find passage to Paraguay,” Alexandra said. “No one goes to Paraguay! Is it truly via New York or New Orleans?”
Oliver had charted them out to be the only options for expedient ocean transport from either Livorno, Italy, or Hamburg, Germany. He said, “New Orleans is close to the Pensacola job.”
“Pensacola!” she scoffed, thinking it ludicrous. A man named Charles Thompson was purchasing a yacht and wanted her to sail along its voyage to new harboring in Key West. The only allure was that it was a viable route to Cuba, which was required to get to Guiana.
“Any update on his chin?”
Oliver had humored her odd request. “I found no pictures of this Thompson fella. This might sweeten the pot.”
Alexandra skimmed over the new correspondence. A family in Baltimore was requesting she photograph their son’s bris. “I don’t see the adventure in that.”
“If the rabbi has a shaky hand, it might be.” Her puzzled look begged for an explanation. Oliver added, “It’s the Jewish ceremony for circumcision. Removal of the foreskin from... the penis?”
“So that explains it,” Alexandra rejoiced. “All these years, I thought they came in two varieties.”
Oliver laughed, thankful for the levity, as her mood was churlish. At least she had warned that Decision Wednesdays overwhelmed her. He asked, “Why New York? Do you intend to drop in at the National Geographic Society in Washington?”
“I am not allowed to enter the District of Columbia until the end of the Coolidge presidency.” Alexandra failed to expand on her other reasons. Her longing to reunite with Archibald Leach was percolating, and the prospect of a return to New Orleans filled her with disgust.
Oliver let it go. “It is ‘Decision Wednesday.’”
“Louisiana it is!” She stomped her foot and exhaled steam. Her nasty mood resulted from many things: the cold and damp London weather, her lament that travel via the Big Apple was impractical, and foremost an article in this morning’s London Times. George Dyott was preparing to set sail with much fanfare from Hoboken, New Jersey, aboard the SS Voltaire, destined for Rio de Janeiro.
Alexandra finished her coffee. “I will skip the bris and report to Pensacola to sail off with a complete stranger, then ferry to Cuba, then sea passage to Georgetown. It’s all quite maddening!”
—‡—
THE BEST THING ABOUT self-employment was that Correspondence Tuesday could be blown off now and then. Now that she had a mailing address and a flat, Alexandra needed to catch up with her personal affairs and free up Will from receiving her mail.
Seated upon the cold floorboards of her office, bundled in her overcoat, she sorted photographs and letters to file. The chimney was yet swept, or any furniture ordered.
She heard the bell overhanging the front door jingle.
Oliver opened her door. “Walk-in customer. I know this man!”
This is exciting! Alexandra darted up. “Hide the coffee and make tea!” She took several deep breaths.
Professional comportment was not Alexandra’s forte. She removed her jacket and pushed back her hair before entering the sitting room. An older, lugubrious-looking man stood studying the framed photographs displayed upon a wall, which marketed her travels and experience.
“Good day, fine sir,” she said maturely. “I am Alexandra Illyria Bathenbrook. How may I be of service?”
“Harry Price.” He removed his top hat. His consternation over her youth was palpable. “I am here on behalf of the Ghost Club, which sounds like a childish venture, but not too foolhardy for the likes of Yeats, Dickens, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, nor myself! We investigate paranormal incidents. I wish to converse about Borley Rectory. It’s haunted, they say. Have you heard of it?”
“No, but such phenomena fascinate me.”
She hung up his overcoat and motioned for him to take a seat. Price was a tall man with a thin hairline and a long, unyielding face. His dark eyebrows shot up to the sling chair’s crumpling of his rigid posture, which left his knees bent even with his head.
Alexandra cringed. Her father had shipped the chairs from Siam, and it had taken an entire “Shampoo hair Sunday” to assemble them. At least the mystery of those leftover pieces of teak was now solved.
Price stopped fighting the quicksand. He asked, “Have you any experience in this field?”
“I haven’t followed it much since Houdini died but spent a couple of nights sleeping with Suki in West Wycombe.” Alexandra claimed the chair next to him and not the one across, as Price displayed a big man-spread. She felt the need to add for no constructive purpose, “Nothing sexual, mind you.”
“Harry Houdini was my friend and a fellow champion in exposing charlatans soiling this legitimate scientific field.” Price passed her a photograph. “The manor is in Essex County. The Reverend Henry Bull built it. He was a pastor with fourteen children.”
“Reverend Bull certainly embraced ‘be fruitful and multiply.’” The rundown Victorian dwelling looked huge and posed a gloomy backdrop. She asked, “What plagues this rectory?”
Price cleared his throat. “The diocese is having difficulty finding new clergy for the many reports of paranormal activity. They have requested that the club investigate. I desire a preliminary study before committing my time and reputation to the undertaking. If these tales of spirits are hysteria or collective bull-crap, our interest might appear a comeuppance. To be publicly fooled would be bad stew.”
“What is the job, sir?”
Price shifted in his chair, grimacing in discomfort. He was sinking deeper and looked like a bug being devoured by a Venus flytrap. “I arranged for a photography team to spend this Saturday night on-premise, but they backed out after visiting the grounds. I shall pay you six pounds for your service.”
Alexandra calculated it out to be $7.56 with the current 0.79% conversion rate applied. It was a pittance, but the job was local.
“Does the property have electricity?”
“Not in the slightest. If you accept, you will see it through?”
“I stand by my shingle,” Alexandra guaranteed. “Excuse me while I review my calendar.”
Oliver arrived with tea. She left for her office, leaving him private time to bask in the eerie glow of their guest. She hoped his obvious eagerness to ghost hunt didn’t knock the fee down to gratis.
A war of spiritualism was being waged.
The ghastly toll of the Great War, and the ensuing loss of fifty million more to Spanish flu, had frayed the spiritual fiber of humankind, foremost in Europe. It had resuscitated a longing to speak to the dead. Self-proclaimed clairvoyants and mediums—some legitimate, most con artists—arose to fill this demand. Séances were the rage. Moving tables, disembodied voices, and visitation by shady apparitions were regular fare once hands were locked and the lights dimmed. Local playhouses routinely filled beyond capacity to witness lesser shams. Price and Houdini believed that science could lay proof of an afterlife and ridding the field of ghost hustlers was paramount to the task.
Alexandra believed spirits existed. If she could uncover a trusted medium, she would pay any fee to have a brief reunion with Thomas and Emma. She returned to the reception area.
“I’m pleased to report I can make my team available, but due to travel and equipment costs, the fee must be ten pounds. We will arrive at noon, map out each floor, and remain vigilant through the eve. With no electricity, photographs may be problematic.”
Price grunted. “I must brief you before Saturday.”
“Oliver is at your disposal,” Alexandra stated.
Price struggled to rise, so she helped to free him from the chair. He let out a moan and placed a hand on his lower spine.
She asked, “How long have you suffered back pain?”
“Excuse me? I have no issues with my back,” Price exclaimed. “I take issue with your chair!”
Regardless, Alexandra said, “I’ve engaged the services of a Japanese masseuse. She is a petite girl with fingers more gifted than Rachmaninoff. This, after my first stab with Oriental practices ended in fiasco, as I had a Pavlovian response to strike my acupuncturist whenever jabbed.”
Price looked at her, vexed. “Whatever is this to me?”
He grabbed his overcoat and departed.
It amused Oliver. “Where are we to find a team on brief notice?”
“I’m already working on it.”
Alexandra tapped her lips with a forefinger. She gave thought to disassembling the chair, but it was nothing that couldn’t wait until “Office cleaning Thursday.”