Chapter 2

 

 

 

A young man kept a close watch on the front entrance of the Bull and Lamb Tavern. Unnoticed by any passerby, he pulled his peaked cap low over his eyes with his fingerless-gloved hand as he expeditiously scanned the street. His vigilance was needed, for he was on a case—and in disguise.

The working-class bloke wasn’t a man at all, but Eleanora Galway of The Galway Investigative Agency.

Two men sauntered toward her, heading in the direction of the pub. Adjusting the front of her loose-fitting trousers while simultaneously hiking up her shoulders, Eleanora spit on the sidewalk. They kept walking and entered the tavern without giving her a backward glance.

Good.

She wanted to blend into the background. To Eleanora, a male disguise was uncomplicated due to her height, broad shoulders, a fake bushy mustache, and adeptness at mimicking a masculine manner.

Masquerading as a laborer meant the strapping down of some parts and the padding and hiding of others. It also allowed Eleanora to smoke in public without censure. Not that she cared what others thought, but dressing and acting as a man granted a sense of freedom, even though she owned and operated an investigative bureau.

Reaching in her pocket, Eleanora removed a small paper pack of cigarettes that she’d purchased at Rothman’s small tobacco kiosk on Fleet Street. She then struck a match against the brick wall and lit one. Drawing deep, she exhaled with pleasure.

“Ellie, do I smell smoke?”

Althea, her younger sister, stood guard at the head of the alley. She was well hidden in the shadows, but near they could speak in low tones without being noticed.

“Yes, Althea. It’s part of the costume. I don’t do it that often. No admonishment if you please.”

Her sister sighed. “Is the subject still inside?”

Mrs. Anna Kitchener, their client, required attestation that her husband, Jacob, was having an affair. They needed proof positive of adultery and any other grounds needed for a divorce.

Many of their cases involved women and marriage. With the changes in various marriage acts and laws and a loosening of women’s rights, (though not nearly loose enough for Eleanora) business had soared.

According to their client, Mr. Kitchener refused to consider divorce. Though according to his wife’s blunt statement, the marriage had fallen apart months ago. They no longer shared a bed. Not that the couple had shared it more than three times total. Too much information, perhaps, but it gave Eleanora a clear picture of their subject’s mindset.

“Yes. I can see him. He’s standing at the bar, nursing a pint. Speaking to no one,” Eleanora murmured, the cigarette dangling from her lower lip.

They had done a cursory background check on the man before beginning the actual surveillance. They did so with nearly all their clients, for knowledge is power.

Mr. Kitchener worked as a solicitor at a prominent law firm in Westminster, a famous enterprise with an elegant address and clientele. The few former clients she approached had spoken highly of him and claimed that his reputation was commendable.

Kitchener was a thin, prudish-looking man who wore spectacles. Eleanora had deduced when she’d started her surveillance that he hardly looked the part of an adulterer. But since forming her investigative agency five years past, she had often been surprised on more than one occasion.

Outward appearances meant nothing.

Regardless, her gut instinct was seldom wrong. And her gut told her there was more going on here than a possible adulterous husband.

The subject downed his beer and headed for the exit. Taking one last draw on the cigarette, Eleanora dropped it to the cobbles and ground it out with her boot.

“Althea, we’re up,” she mumbled.

Her sister emerged from the darkened alley, dressed in appropriate clothing a young woman would wear out for a leisurely walk with her beau. She wore a wool skirt, straw bonnet, a tattered shawl, and tucked away in her reticule was a Bulldog revolver. Althea was a dead shot, even better than her. Eleanora preferred a knife and had one not only hidden in her boot, but tucked up in the sleeve of her coat.

Eleanora looped her arm, and her sister slipped hers through it. They blended into the humanity of London, like a working-class couple out for an evening stroll. It was a masquerade they often used and had much success with since her sister was a good deal shorter.

Standing well over ten inches above five feet, Eleanora was taller than most men and solidly built. Perhaps built a little too voluptuously, for she had to bind her breasts and wear loose clothing and use extra wadding to conceal her curves. It was a hindrance more than anything.

Mr. Kitchener stepped onto the sidewalk, gave them a passing glance, then scurried up the street. The sisters sauntered along behind, keeping a discreet distance. Passing by two more pubs, their subject did not show any interest in them. He had a specific destination in mind and had needed the pint as liquid courage. The way he twisted his hands showed his aggravation and anxiety. Was he heading to his mistress? Though if he had a mistress, why not agree to the divorce and—

“Sweet Mother,” Eleanora muttered as Mr. Kitchener climbed the steps toward the entrance of a multi-leveled brick house.

“What is it? A brothel?” Althea asked.

“Of a sort. It’s a molly house.”

This was not a twist Eleanora had considered. Mr. Kitchener dallied with men? Her gut was right once again, at least about people not being as they appear.

“Molly—as in homosexual? I read that it is a mental illness, though I find that explanation dubious,” Althea whispered. “We should proceed with caution.”

Eleanora gave her sister an incredulous look. “Do not believe all the books you’ve read. That book’s opinion is incorrect and offensive.”

“But it was written by a German psychiatrist,” Althea stated. “It was among Da’s books.”

Grief sliced through Eleanora at the mention of their late father. Hollis Galway, straight from Ireland, had been a chief inspector with the Metropolitan Police, D Division, Marylebone.

Lord, how she missed him.

“As I said, it doesn’t mean the book is accurate. Even Da said that.” They stopped a few yards from the building.

“That is true. I stand corrected. What next?” Althea asked, her voice low.

“I’m not keen on giving this information to Mrs. Kitchener. Maybe he is seeing a law client,” Eleanora replied in an equally low tone.

Her sister snorted derisively.

“Far-fetched, I know,” Eleanora replied. “But our client is out for revenge. She will see her husband ruined and humiliated publicly.”

“It is against the law, Ellie, regardless of our opinion.”

Eleanora straightened her peaked cap. “Well, the laws aren’t always right, either. Stay here. Let me get the lay of the land.”

Althea pulled on Eleanora’s coat sleeve to halt her. “Remember what Da used to say, ‘you cannot involve yourself in the private lives of your clients.’ Kitchener’s sexual preference is not our concern. Nor is what his wife will do with the information.”

She knew her father’s sage advice on this particular topic. But Eleanora could not—and would not—remain emotionally distant from her work or from the people that hired her agency.

“I’ll take it under advisement,” Eleanora whispered as she gently shook off her sister’s hand. Climbing the stairs, the sound of a piano wafted from the building, and as she moved closer, the distinct warble of a masculine voice singing in the falsetto style.

Eleanora knocked, then immediately slouched as she had observed many young men do.

The door opened. A tall, thin man stood before her—dressed as a woman—complete with wig, makeup, as well as a fancy gown one might wear to a ball. The man’s whiskers were visible through the heavy powder.

“Hello, my lad. All are welcome here. Come in! I’m Kitty Muldoon, your hostess.”

Kitty stepped aside, and Eleanora crossed the threshold into the alcove.

“Ooo, you’re a bit of rough; some of the toff gents will like that,” Kitty stated, giving Eleanora a thorough inspection. “Unless this is a costume, like mine.”

“Give over,” Eleanora grumbled in a deep voice. “I’m not here for none o’ that. I need to talk to the awkward lookin’ bloke with spectacles that came in not five minutes past. I’m not here to cause no trouble.”

The sounds of laughter and merriment carried into the hallway. From the backroom, she heard ribald lyrics: “riding on top—of an omnibus.” Eleanora bit back an amused smile.

Kitty’s false eyelashes fluttered flirtatiously all while tapping Eleanora’s arm with a fan. “Do you promise not to be a nuisance, my sweet ruffian?”

How bizarre could this situation possibly be? A woman dressed as a man, talking with a man dressed as a woman.

“I swear it,” she answered, giving Kitty a sly smile. “A few minutes of the bloke’s time, and I’ll get gone, no mistake.”

“Are you certain you won’t stay?” Kitty whispered. “You’re a charmer.”

“Thanks, but not tonight, love.”

Kitty winked and moved off, no doubt to fetch Kitchener. Curious, Eleanora followed part way, enough to catch of glimpse of the backroom. It was expensively decorated like any upper-class parlor, with velvet curtains, plush chairs, and a crystal chandelier.

Men dressed as women sat in the laps of other men. A few were kissing. Many were drinking and smoking and having a grand old time. To each their own was always Eleanora’s thought on such matters of sexual preferences.

Have fun, lads.

Mr. Kitchener emerged, looking decidedly suspicious.

“What do you want?” he snapped, annoyed at having his entertainment interrupted.

“I here to warn you.” Eleanora stayed in disguise, using the same deep voice that she had used with Kitty. Considering her own voice was deep for a woman, lowering it another octave or two wasn’t a hardship.

“Your wife hired me to follow you,” Eleanora continued. “She will want this information about your proclivities and will use it to her advantage. Give her the divorce she seeks, and I will not reveal what I have discovered.”

Fair enough arrangement in Eleanora’s mind. Mr. Kitchener’s secret life would remain safely in the shadows, Mrs. Kitchener will obtain her divorce, and The Galway Agency collects its substantial fee.

It was a win-win-win situation for all concerned.

The irritated Mr. Kitchener narrowed his eyes with suspicious anger. Eleanora recognized the look. Jacob Kitchener was contemplating an escape and was willing to fight his way toward it.

Without hesitating, he let loose a roundhouse blow Eleanora was just able to miss by ducking to the side. She then kicked the man’s legs out from under him, and he fell to the carpeted floor like a sack of potatoes. Eleanora straddled him, her knife slipping from her sleeve.

Holding it to his neck, she whispered menacingly, “None of that, now. Or I’ll slit your gizzard, sure as shite.”

She had heard a sailor down by the docks in the East End make the same threat to another man, and she had been using it ever since. It was effective intimidation, and Mr. Kitchener’s eyes widened with fear.

“Now, will you talk without causing a fuss?” she asked.

Kitchener nodded, his head bobbing nervously.

“Here, what’s all this, then?” Kitty cried. “Take a room in the back if you’re up to playing about. No roughhouse here. Not in the front hall!”

Obviously, Kitty had not seen the knife, and with sleight of hand, Eleanora slid it into its holder under her coat sleeve. And judging from Kitty’s reaction and the “what’s all this” tone, Kitty could be a copper. How interesting.

“A slight disagreement, love. I promise that we’ll behave. Right, sir?” She glared at the man under her, giving him a slight squeeze with her thighs.

“Absolutely.” He nodded for good measure.

Eleanora jumped up and held out her hand to Kitchener. He took it, and she hauled the slightly-built man to his feet with no effort at all.

“All friends again.” With her free hand, she straightened Kitchener’s collar to prove the point.

Kitty gave them a dubious glare, but left them alone.

With an exhale, she released the man’s clammy hand. The dampness had seeped through her thin gloves. “You will inform your wife tonight that you will grant the divorce. Have my payment ready by three o’clock tomorrow afternoon when I stop by to collect it,” Eleanora demanded.

“How much of a payment?” he squeaked.

“Just the rest of the fee owed to my investigative agency—nothing else. If all goes well, there will be no need to reveal to your missus of anything I’ve discovered.”

Mr. Kitchener straightened his spectacles, giving her a dubious look. “Why are you doing this? You could have blackmailed me.”

“The Galway Agency does not traffic in such doings, Mr. Kitchener. Nor do we ruin lives if it can be helped.” Eleanora reached in her coat pocket and slipped the man her business card.

“The Galway Agency. Legal (civil or criminal) or confidential advice or investigations, privacy assured,” he said, reading the card.

“Should you need our services, do not hesitate to contact us. We have a pact, then?”

Mr. Kitchener met her gaze. “Yes. I will have the payment ready for you.”

Eleanora turned to leave, then halted. “Do not seek out such flamboyant places as this, Mr. Kitchener, or your secret will be secret no more. There is a guild on Bryanston Street in Marylebone. The Sportsman Club. It’s private, circumspect, and should serve your needs. Tell them The Galway Agency sent you.” Touching her forelock, Eleanora slipped out the door, not waiting for a response.

Althea was still standing in the same spot, next to the stairs. “You took long enough.”

Eleanora smiled. “All straightened out. If it goes to plan, we collect the fee tomorrow afternoon and close this case. Shall we catch a hansom and head home?”

Home was 149 Cleveland Street, near London’s West End. The location was upscale for the daughters of the late Inspector Hollis Galway of the Metropolitan Police, but their late mother came from a bit of money and afforded them this address.

They ran their business from this multi-storied brick flat; the George and Dragon Pub next door made a convenient place for any clandestine meetings. And to buy a nice steak and kidney pie if there was no time for a proper meal.

Arriving home, they found their cousin, Sybil Nolan, in the parlor, hands-on-hips. “Where have you been?” she questioned, exasperation clear in her tone.

“On the Kitchener case, why?” Althea responded.

Sybil was part of their agency but worked more behind the scenes, keeping the books and such. Sybil’s father, James Nolan, was their late mother’s younger brother. Sybil’s parents were currently living in Yorkshire, running a profitable sheep farm.

“Because we got a note delivered not fifteen minutes hence. Here. Look at the signature,” Sybil cried with excitement.

Eleanora took the note, and Althea leaned in to read it as well.

 

Immediate assistance needed regarding a ghoulish delivery. Come at once. Will pay handsomely for your discretion and secrecy. Police must not be involved.

Christian Bamford, Duke of Allenby

Colosseum Terrace on Albany Street Rear entrance marked 2A.

 

“How did you respond?” Althea asked Sybil.

“I bloody well said yes. Said we’d be along sharpish, though not in those words. Didn’t you see the carriage outside? The driver said he was told to wait.”

“I thought I saw a crest on the door. Hard to tell in the dark,” Althea mused. “Truthfully, I assumed someone was engaged in a late-night rendezvous.”

Sybil tapped the message. “It’s a duke! Think of the fee we can charge. And we can brag that we serve the aristocracy.”

“We had a knight as a client once,” Eleanora stated, still studying the note. “Sir Reginald Ramsay.”

“A knight is not a duke,” Sybil responded.

True enough.

“Ghoulish delivery? Of what, a dead body?” Althea questioned with a touch of sarcasm in her tone.

Eleanora could only hope.

How she craved to sink her teeth into a meaty case much like the ones Scotland Yard detectives investigated, or those detectives within the CID, the Criminal Investigative Division. Their father had trained them well. However, women were not permitted to join the Metropolitan Police. At least not in the capacity she wished. Being a low-paying police matron did not appeal at all. Undaunted, she decided to take matters into her own hands and start up her investigative agency.

Their father and their uncle, also a copper, proudly supported her and Althea in their endeavor.

How she had yearned to prove that they were capable of solving a complex crime as well as any man. Better even. How she had wanted to make them understand that their faith in them had not been misplaced.

But their father had passed away before she and Althea could show him what they were truly capable of. Perhaps Eleanora wanted to prove it to herself more than anything.

“Ellie? You have a strange gleam in your eyes,” Althea said. “What are you thinking?”

“Let’s go—all three of us. Why even send a carriage? We could walk there within minutes,” Eleanora urged, growing excited at the prospect of a possible dangerous case.

“Shouldn’t we discuss this further?” Althea said. “Honestly, Ellie. For someone who has such a well-ordered mind, you act far too impulsively at times. It’s getting late.”

Althea snatched the note from Eleanora and waved it in the air. “How do we know this note is legitimate? What if we are being called out to an isolated place only to be assaulted in the worst way possible? Even if this note is from a duke, despite the fancy carriage. I’ve heard of Allenby and his circle of friends and read about him in the paper. Rakes and ne’re-do-wells, all of them. This all could be a ruse.”

Eleanora crossed her arms. She did not like being reminded that despite her overall self-discipline, she could be impetuous.

“And you are being overly cautious, Sister. We cannot wait until morning. This is regarding a ‘gruesome delivery.’ We have to address it now—this very minute. We have our weapons. We can all handle ourselves. I suggest we depart.”

“Wait, you can’t go like that,” Sybil admonished.

“I don’t have time to unwrap and change clothes,” Eleanora replied. “The mustache alone will take about fifteen minutes to remove.” She touched the bushy mustache that concealed her full lips. She would need to find a better-quality adhesive for each time she removed the false facial hair it had left red welts. “Make haste.”

Althea and Sybil sprang into action gathering notebooks and pencils.

A duke. How exhilarating.

Allenby. 

Never heard of him, not that she kept up on peers and their doings as Althea did. The gossip in the papers had never interested her.

She could only pray it would be a stimulating case.