Chapter 14
Chapter Fourteen
From its exterior, the boardinghouse on Brewer Street, just north of Picadilly Circus, appeared to be a modest and respectable place for Lydia Hailson to have let a room. It was a well-kept house, surrounded by a church, shops, and homes that also looked well cared for.
Last night, shortly after Jasper and Mrs. Zhao left, a knocking had come at the front door.
Leo had, momentarily, wondered if he had returned.
Part of her had hoped it was Jasper, and yet when she’d seen Dita standing on the front step, Leo had exhaled in relief.
The argument with Jasper had left her shaky and disappointed, and she knew deep down that if he’d come back right then, they would have only argued more.
Joining a detective agency wasn’t what she wanted in the least. She’d only used it as an example—and perhaps out of anger, to provoke him. But she didn’t want to be told what she could and could not do as a detective inspector’s potential wife.
That word set her heart aflutter each time she thought of it. Visions came, unbidden, of waking next to Jasper every morning, and of falling asleep in his arms every night. Of living under the same roof, sharing their evenings, and setting off each morning for work, arm in arm.
However, that was where a swirl of frustration set in—over the rules and expectations that would come with marrying a Scotland Yard detective inspector. Would she be expected to stay home? Would she be forced to give up her work at the morgue?
Leo cared deeply for Jasper, and her attraction to him was overwhelming to the point of distraction. But how could she accept his courtship if it meant she would need to restrict herself from doing what she wanted to do?
Last evening, she’d allowed Dita inside and invited her to stay for dinner. Mrs. Zhao’s roast was plenty big enough to feed them all for a few days. But Dita had only been stopping by on her way home to deliver the information that Leo had requested.
“On my first day at the department store, I saw Mrs. Gleason place Susan Clark’s employee information in a file cabinet drawer,” Dita said, emphasizing her false name and arching a brow.
“So, I waited until she and Mr. Gleason left for the evening, then dashed into her office and found Lydia’s file. ”
Leo was both impressed with Dita’s daring and irritated by it, though her frustration was more likely a remnant from her argument with Jasper.
Dita had jotted down Lydia’s address before returning the file to the drawer and escaping the office, unnoticed.
“I could ask Evelyn, another shopgirl, about Lydia, if you want,” Dita said as she handed Leo the scrap of paper with the address on it.
“No, don’t bring her up. I don’t want you to appear interested in her at all. It could be dangerous.”
After Dita’s answering sigh, Leo realized how much like Jasper she’d just sounded.
After rising earlier than usual the following morning, she set out for Brewer Street on foot, hoping to arrive around the time the landlady at the boardinghouse would be providing breakfast to her lodgers.
Leo wanted the chance to speak to the other women who lived there, if possible.
She anticipated that the landlady would allow Leo inside when she announced that she brought news of her missing lodger.
Mrs. Ferland, a middle-aged woman who offered rooms to working-class women, invited Leo inside and led her to a small but cozy sitting room. It was empty, though the voices of her lodgers drifted in from another room, alongside the clatter of cutlery and china.
“You said you bring news of Miss Hailson?” the landlady asked, her concern evident by her fraught, imploring stare.
“I went to the police station on Vine Street yesterday when she didn’t return for a second night.
They suggested that she’d taken off. But that isn’t like Lydia. Not that they listened any.”
Not all police stations were staffed with good officers, as Leo well knew. She wasn’t surprised that Mrs. Ferland’s worry for her lodger had been dismissed.
“I’m sorry to have to report to you, Mrs. Ferland,” Leo began, “but Miss Hailson is dead.”
The landlady’s eyes scrunched shut, and her chapped hand came up to cover her mouth. “Oh no. Oh, how awful.” She sat down in the nearest chair. “What…what happened to the poor girl?”
Leo had not known what to expect from Lydia’s landlady—if she would be caring, or cold and businesslike—but this reaction of sorrow heartened her. She took a seat on the chair adjacent to Mrs. Ferland.
“She was strangled,” Leo provided, which caused the woman even more visible horror. “I am assisting a man who knew Miss Hailson and would like her murder investigated.”
Teary-eyed, the landlady lowered her hand. “Are the police not doing that?”
“Not just yet.”
After the way she’d been treated at the local station, Mrs. Ferland only pursed her lips and gave a shake of her head.
“Mrs. Ferland,” Leo began, her questions many, and her time short. She imagined the woman also needed to see to her lodgers. “How long had Lydia been living here as your lodger?”
“About four months,” she answered. “She were a good lodger. Kind and respectful.”
“Did she have family or friends, or perhaps a beau?”
“No, none of that. A few of the other girls here invited her to join them on an evening out from time to time, but she always said she were too busy.”
“Doing what?” Leo asked.
“Working,” the landlady said readily.
Leo blinked, confused. “But how could she work in the evenings? She was employed at Gleason’s Department Store.”
The store closed its doors in the early evening.
Mrs. Ferland dabbed at the corner of her eye and sniffed. “I saw that dress she were wearing lately and knew she were off to that store each day, but that weren’t her real work.”
Intrigued, Leo leaned forward. “What was her real work?”
Agitation gripped the woman, and she sniffled again as she stood up, arms crossed. “I knew it were too risky. Worried something might happen, and now… Oh.” Her chin quivered as she tried to stem the flow of new tears.
Leo got to her feet and asked again, “Mrs. Ferland, what was Lydia’s real work?”
The landlady composed herself and answered, “She were a writer. A reporter, though no paper would hire her on permanently, of course, seeing how she were a woman. But she published stories wherever she could sell them. Did well enough to pay her rent on time every week.”
A thrill vibrated through Leo, opening a whole new avenue of inquiry. If Lydia had been a reporter, did that mean she had been working at Gleason’s for a story?
When she asked Mrs. Ferland this question, the woman bobbed her head. “That’s right, undercover, she said. It were a big story, she claimed. One that were sure to get her onto the payroll of a newspaper.”
Or one that would get her killed. Leo’s skin prickled with gooseflesh.
“Did she tell you what the story was about?”
Mrs. Ferland shook her head. “She wouldn’t say.
Got the impression it were dangerous since in the past, she’d told me about her other articles.
Didn’t breathe a word about this one, though.
I told her to be careful. I told her…” She shook her head and lifted her apron hem to dab at her eyes and nose again.
“May I look at her room?” Leo asked. If Lydia had been working at Gleason’s undercover and writing a story, it was possible she’d have notes or drafts of her article stashed there.
Mrs. Ferland agreed and led Leo to the second floor. Voice quavering, she said she’d checked Lydia’s room each evening, hopeful that she had returned at some point during the day, but with no luck.
The room was small—no larger than Leo’s own cramped Duke Street bedroom.
It was much tidier than Leo’s room, however.
The bed was neatly made, there were no articles of clothing left lying about, and a narrow stand of shelves was organized with Lydia’s few possessions.
Even the small writing desk near the single window overlooking the street was orderly and clean, with a Remington typewriter, some books, fountain pens, and a box of typewriter paper.
She walked to the desk, hopeful that there would be some typing on the paper in the box, but the pages were blank. Opening the desk drawer, she saw that it was empty.
“Have you tidied the room recently?” Leo asked.
“No, this is how Lydia likes to keep her space,” she answered. Then after a pause, she added, “Liked, I mean.”
Downstairs, another lodger called for Mrs. Ferland.
The landlady excused herself for a moment.
Leo twitched the curtains, looking out over the street, thinking.
If Lydia was a reporter, why wouldn’t she have anything she’d written on her desk, or in it?
There were no pages on the stand of shelves, and no closet to put anything in.
Just a bureau where, Leo discovered after a quick search, was filled with clothing and undergarments.