27

Wednesday, June 16

“I’m looking for an electrician,” the slender, well-dressed Mister Pennyworth said to the clerk at the Guild Hall. “I’m upgrading my employer’s lodge and need to install electricity throughout the main and outer buildings. An acquaintance of mine mentioned a fellow, a German, recently arrived. Sadly, my friend couldn’t recall the chap’s name. Can you help me?”

The clerk’s right hand was gone, a cheap hook in its place. The price of progress, I suppose. I had no personal experience dealing with electrical burns, but my acquaintances still in the nursing profession told me the smallest of external injuries often hid extensive damage of the underlying tissue, and amputation was frequently required if the victim survived the initial jolt.

The clerk scowled when he heard me inquire for a foreign worker, but opened his roster of active electricians all the same. If the man were a guild member, his dues paid the clerk’s salary. “I have three German sounding names here, sir,” he said. “Wasserman, Schmidt, and Heller. Any of those sound familiar?”

“Afraid not. Any of them recent members of the guild? My acquaintance said the man had only arrived in England within the past month and had been an electrician in Germany.”

“Then I can’t help you, sir. It takes at least a year as an apprentice and a reference from a guild member before one can apply for membership. Even if he was a master electrician in his own country, we require them to undergo the same program as anyone else.”

“Do you register apprentices?”

“No, sir. Many don’t complete their training. It’s not easy, and . . .” He held up his hooked hand, “not entirely safe. We don’t track ’em ’til we ask for dues. We have several skilled workers I can refer you to, if you’d like.”

I sighed. Another dead end. “No, thank you. Not yet, at least.”

I had just turned to go when a red-faced man burst into the office and rushed toward the one-handed clerk, nearly shoving me aside.

“Simmons! I’ve a complaint to lodge!”

The clerk eyed me with an unspoken apology before turning to his new customer.

“Aye, Jimmy. What’s got your tail up?”

“Someone’s been using my name and billing people for work they didn’t ask for. They’re hurting my good name.”

I touched the brim of my hat in farewell. As I headed out the door, I caught just the last bit of the conversation.

“What’s this about?”

“I just got a letter from the secretary to the dean at St. Paul’s . . .”

The rest faded away as the door closed behind me and I walked across the street to rejoin James on a park bench.

“Anything?” he asked.

“No one may join the guild until after one year of supervised employment and a recommendation by a member in good standing, not even a skilled worker from another country. So, Herr Ott could not have joined the guild for now.”

“An apprentice, perhaps?”

“Perhaps, but there is no roster kept of apprentices. He may be working for a master electrician, but we have no way of knowing. What now?”

James closed his eyes in concentration. “The sketches of Ott are due tomorrow. The man’s also a skilled gunsmith. I suppose I could ask around some of the high-end gun shops, but I’d just as likely scare the man off.”

I enjoyed seeing him at work, his well-trained mind sorting through various courses of action toward tracking his quarry down, and I gazed with a growing respect for this very decent and courageous man.

He reopened his eyes just in time to catch me looking at him.

“Best we admit defeat for today,” James said after a pause, “and await the drawings from Germany. Let’s pay Elizabeth a call to see how she’s faring.”

Elizabeth had brought a sketchbook and was doing her best to play the part of a struggling artist on the same park bench she and Margaret had used the day before. She became so engrossed in getting the texture of the brick walkway right that she was startled when she felt the breath of someone looking over her shoulder.

“Back again? I didn’t notice you drawing yesterday. Was that your father with you?” The English was perfect, but with the lilting musical intonation of a native Russian speaker.

Elizabeth turned and looked into the Kropotkin daughter’s deep blue eyes inches from her own. When the other girl saw how she had taken this handsome young man unawares, her eyes, full before, fell half-closed and a light pink flush crept up her throat.

Elizabeth stammered in surprise, which only extended the coral hue past Miss Kropotkin’s neck and onto her cheeks. “I, um, I wasn’t drawing yesterday, no. My father was reading a book to me, and we were discussing it as he went along.”

“Really? My father reads to me all the time, and it’s all politics and economics. I hope your session was more interesting.” She looked down at her shoes for a moment, as though surprised by her boldness.

“Poetry. He was reading a recent translation of The Odyssey. We were at the part where Odysseus put on the lambskin to escape the blinded cyclops.”

Katarina looked up again, her eyes batting twice. “I don’t know that part. Could you recite it to me?”

Elizabeth felt the girl was standing closer now, though she hadn’t moved a step. “Sorry, I can’t recall it word for word.”

The girl’s lower lip protruded a fraction. “Not even a little bit? For me? I adore poetry.”

“Trust me, it’s not the romantic kind.” Elizabeth coughed. “But where’s your father? You walked together yesterday.”

“Oh, so you did notice.” She nodded toward the far side of the small pond. “He said he was meeting someone, and for me to promenade on my own until he signaled for me to join him.” She looked down at Elizabeth. “I’d rather wait here.” Then, extending her hand like royalty, palm down, she said, “My name is Katarina.”

Elizabeth stood and took the hand awkwardly, in terra incognita. “James, like my father,” she said while she nodded a welcome, trying to look neither too eager nor reluctant. She looked across the pond and saw Kropotkin sitting on a bench reading a paper. She would be able to see a secret meeting, but at the same be forced to engage this forward young woman while hiding her gender. She smiled, forcing her jaw to relax. “Please join me. I’d be delighted to draw your likeness.”

As Elizabeth had expected, Katarina found the opportunity to serve as a muse for an artist irresistible. “What pose would you prefer, monsieur?” she asked, while posturing with one hand behind her head, the other on her hip. “But no nudes. I don’t know you that well.”

Katarina giggled at the open-mouthed reaction to her last remark. Elizabeth swallowed hard as she gestured for her unexpected model to sit on the end of the bench, so that she could sketch Katarina while keeping an eye on the girl’s father.

“Are there any poems you can recite while I sit here, James? This is boring.”

“Art requires patience, Katarina, and sometimes silence. I want to catch how your hair falls upon your shoulders, please.”

Katarina began to object, then looked down at her left shoulder, smiled, and kept quiet. That bought Elizabeth a good ten minutes of peace.

Elizabeth’s eyes caught the movement before the clear sight of a man walking toward the senior Kropotkin. It was difficult to look across the pond with Katarina focused on her. “Turn your head to the right, please,” Elizabeth said. “I want to catch the curve of your chin.” Katarina obeyed in silence, straightening as she turned, her eyes now looking back toward her house. “James?” she asked, holding her pose, “how much longer do you think it will take?”

“About five more minutes,” Elizabeth answered, as she made notes on the page underneath Katarina’s sketch, which had been finished five minutes ago. It wouldn’t win any prizes, but at least it resembled her. Given her apparent ego, Elizabeth knew it would be close enough.

Elizabeth’s attention was focused on the stocky man in the black suit and derby who had sat down next to Kropotkin and produced his own newspaper. She was certain the two were talking, shielded by the papers, but was unable to say who was talking at any given moment. The meeting lasted no more than three minutes, by which time her model was blowing her hair out of her face and tapping her hand on her thigh.

“Here you are, Katarina. A poor rendering of your good looks, I am sorry.”

Katarina was all smiles again when released from her pose, and after scrutinizing the drawing for twenty seconds, said, “Well, not a masterpiece, but a good likeness all the same.” Then shifting her gaze back to Elizabeth, she said, “I am sure you would do even better with practice. Same time, tomorrow?”

Elizabeth half-bowed. “If I’m lucky.”

“Then let us both pray for good fortune. May I have this?”

“Certainly. Something to remember me by.”

“At the very least.”

Elizabeth half bowed once more. “But now I must go. Until we meet again?”

Katarina inclined her head. “Until.”

The stocky man in the dark suit was walking at a brisk pace back in the direction he had come. Despite his rather ducklike gait, he waddled at a good clip. Elizabeth was hard-pressed to keep up without being too obvious. As the man left the park and returned to the busy city streets, she lost him.

Suddenly, a thin hand seized her arm from behind. Before she could resist, she was spun around and brought face-to-face with a stern Peter Kropotkin.

“Who are you, young man, and what were you doing with my daughter?” The paternal Kropotkin was keeping a firm grip on Elizabeth’s arm, and although she had violated the first rule of covert surveillance, that is, to go unnoticed, she had to choke down a laugh of relief that his concern was his daughter and not her proximity to him or his meeting.

“Beg pardon, sir!” she said in an uneven voice. She had intended it as a tenor, but in her surprise tightened her vocal cords: Her pitch quavered, much like that of an adolescent whose voice was changing, a serendipitous piece of authenticity. “I was practicing my drawing, and she agreed to pose for me. We were out in public, and there was nothing improper, I swear! Ask her yourself.”

The man released Elizabeth’s arm but continued to glare at her. “She said you gave her the drawing and schemed to meet again tomorrow. Is this true?”

“She asked if I would be here tomorrow. I said I might. Is that a problem?”

“Meeting with young boys without my knowledge, from families I do not know? How could that be a problem?” He pointed his finger inches from Elizabeth’s nose. “Especially if he does not return. Do you understand me?”

Elizabeth swallowed. “Perfectly, sir.”

He nodded. “Good. Now go. I will be looking for you, and next time I will have a cane. You are fortunate. In Russia, I would have a whip!”