Chapter Text
London, Sunday, 15th July, 1888
Sara peered out the window of the cab as it moved slowly through the quiet residential streets of South Kensington. She wondered if this neat, genteel part of London was always so quiet, or if this was due purely to it being a Sunday. It wasn’t a particularly nice day, but it hadn’t been a very nice summer. At least it wasn’t currently raining. A moment later, the cab came to a halt in front of a row of neat townhouses in amongst the countless rows of similar neat townhouses, and the driver slid off of his seat and came to open the door for Sara.
“Here we are, ma’am,” he said, holding his hand out.
Sara grabbed hold of her carpet bag in one hand, tucked her umbrella under her arm, and picked up her skirt in the other hand as she navigated her way down. Out of the corner of her eye Sara saw movement behind the lace curtain on the first floor and had a feeling that whoever it was had been watching her. Before she could have a better look to see who was there, the front door opened and an extremely genial gentleman in navy blue trousers and waistcoat, a white shirt, patterned tie, horn-rimmed spectacles and a striped apron stood before her.
“You must be Miss Lance!” the man said, beaming from ear to ear as he wiped his hands on the apron. “Welcome! Welcome!”
“Good morning,” Sara said, hoping her polite smile hid her surprise at the man’s appearance. The cab driver, who was removing Sara’s trunk from the back of the cab, took no effort to hide what he thought of this man.
“I’m so glad you’re here,” the man said, holding his hand out. “It’s so good you could make it.”
Sara shook his hand, wondering how to say that he had been the one to advertise the spare rooms. She was mildly surprised that he, and whoever lived on the first floor, were both at home as it was a Sunday morning and right at the time when a lot of the populace headed off to church. “Mr Green, I take it?” Sara asked.
“You can call me Gary. We’re all friends here,” he said, shaking Sara’s hand for slightly longer than strictly necessary.
“Right,” said Sara, not sure if she wanted to get too friendly with the landlord, especially one as seemingly peculiar as Mr Green. “I take it there are other tenants?” Her eyes flicked to the first floor windows.
“Yes. I have the ground floor and basement. I can’t let out the basement, too much damp, but it’s handy for storage,” Mr Green said, “Miss Ava Sharpe is on the first floor, and you’ll have the second as discussed in our letters.”
Sara looked up. It must have been that Miss Ava Sharpe who she caught watching her. “Right,” she said again, glancing at the dark clouds creeping over the city and wanting to get inside before it rained. “Very good. Well? Shall we?”
Mr Green helped the cab driver carry Sara’s trunk up the two flights of stairs to her new rooms, though Sara suspected that the driver would have had an easier go of things if Mr Green had just left him to it. Sara paid and tipped the driver, who headed on his way, before entering and looking around her new apartment. It was decorated with non-offending wallpaper, heavy curtains, and polished wooden floors all but hidden under numerous rugs. There was a fair sized sitting area with a nice big fireplace and furnished with a writing desk and two armchairs, plus a smallish dining space with a round table and four chairs, and two doors behind that which she guessed led to the bedroom and water closest, as Mr Green had promised in his letters that she would have a fully equiped bathroom with hot and cold running water.
“There’s gas lighting in every room,” Mr Green was saying, “And if there’s any particular furniture you’d like, I can certainly look into that for you. Sunday lunch is served at half-past one and I promise that afterwards you will not be needing supper. I always make up a plate for Miss Sharpe, but her work keeps her very busy so she doesn’t always have time to join me. Even on a Sunday!” he said and tutted.
“Right,” said Sara, hoping Mr Green would leave her to unpack, but for reasons she couldn’t quite explain, she asked, “What exactly does Miss Sharpe do?”
“Oh, don’t you know?” Mr Green asked, his eyes widening, excited to be the one giving out gossip.
Sara wondered how or why she should know. She’d hardly been here for five minutes.
“Miss Sharpe is a lady-detective!” Mr Green said.
“Oh,” said Sara sceptically. “Well, that - that’s a thing,” she said, never having heard of such a profession. “I will see you in a couple of hours then, Mr Green,” she said, ushering the landlord to the door.
“Yes. I have to get back to the potatoes, they’re not going to wash and chop themselves!”
“No, they’re not,” Sara said, closing the door the moment Mr Green was across the threshold and dropping the forced smile from her face. Sara exhaled heavily, wondering if Mr Green was always so almost painfully cheerful. In their correspondence, he had said that full bed, board and housekeeping was included in the rates, but Sara had assumed that there was a maid and cook, not that Mr Green himself took care of the washing, cleaning and meals.
Sara placed her carpet bag on the armchair and set her umbrella in the stand, before removing her cloak and bonnet and hanging them up on the rack beside the door. She then took the carpet bag into the bedroom, and removed her most precious items, including an old photo of herself and her sister, which she placed on top of the dresser for the time being.
“I said I’d find rooms of my own,” Sara said to the photo as she dragged her trunk into the bedroom. The room was light and airy, and well furnished with a wardrobe, dresser, double bed and beside tables, though all this didn’t leave much floor space.
“Less than a month in London, and I’m out of that Ladies’ Lodging House and into my own set of rooms. Gideon was right, the neighbourhood seems very nice and genteel. Though Mr Green is somewhat eccentric. I think I’m a little bit further from the clinic too, but the area is certainly preferable.”
She unlocked the trunk and opened the lid. Her eye caught the eye of her sister in the photo.
“I might be a lady doctor, and that might be eccentric, but Mr Green is stranger than me,” she said, almost able to hear Laurel rebuking her for being rude and making assumptions about someone she had only just met.
“And this Miss Sharpe - a lady detective? My career might be limited by ridiculous rules, but that’s not even a real job.” Sara didn’t know why she felt so strongly about this as she began unpacking her clothing. Everything in the top third she’d been wearing since she’d arrived in London little under a month ago, but all of her items below that she’d left in the trunk until she found a permanent residence. It was good to see them again.
“I think I’ve moved into a madhouse, Laurel,” Sara said and chuckled. “I know, I know, I’ll write to dad. I’d write to you, but I’d get as much of a response as I do from talking to your photo. Oh, and to give credit where credit is due, I have to say whatever Mr Green is cooking smells pretty good.”
…
Ava stepped away from the window the moment she saw the woman dressed in black glance up. For some reason, the action made Ava blush. Ridiculous, she thought, admonishing herself. That was just some woman, and Ava wouldn’t have been able to pick her from Eve as half of her face was covered by a veil. A moment later she had heard Mr Green in all of his unending enthusiasm greeting the woman, and then the undeniable sound of three people clumping up the stairs to the empty upper floor. Shortly after that, a particularly heavy and unfamiliar set of footsteps descended. Glancing again at the window, Ava saw the cab driver climb into his seat and ride off. The muffled voices of Mr Green and the woman could be heard above. Ava soon heard Mr Green’s familiar footsteps on the stairs, and she marched over to the door.
“Mr Green,” she said, opening it just as Mr Green passed her landing.
“Oh! Miss Sharpe you gave me a fright,” Mr Green said, his hand on his heart.
“What are you wearing?” Ava asked, looking him up and down.
Mr Green glanced at his apparel. “My apron?” he asked, pushing his spectacles up his nose.
Ava forced herself not to make comment about Mr Green embarrassing himself in front of strangers as more often than not she chose to go around in pantaloons even when not partaking in physical activities of any kind, so if Mr Green opted for an apron around the house, it was hardly her place to comment. “Very well. Who is that woman?”
“Which woman?”
“What do you mean, ‘which woman’? How many women do we have around here? Don’t answer that,” she said, holding up her hand before Mr Green could make mention of all her predominately female clients. “The woman who just arrived and you took upstairs?”
“Oh, that’s Miss Sara Lance,” Mr Green said, again looking very pleased with himself at being able to deliver the information. “She’s taking up residence upstairs. She’s an American too, and a lady doctor.”
“Do you say ‘lady doctor’ because she is a doctor who treats women, or because she is a woman who is a doctor?” Ava asked, not sure if she felt defensive, impressed, jealous, or something else entirely.
“Umm, both?” Mr Green replied, trying his best not to get confused. “I - perhaps if you come down to lunch at half-past one, you could ask her? Miss Lance will be coming down to lunch.”
“Shouldn’t you be addressing her as Doctor Lance if she is a doctor? You refer to Doctor Heywood as ‘Doctor.’”
“Well, yes, but - ah - ”
“Very well, lunch at half-past one,” Ava said. “If any clients come calling, do see them up, will you, Mr Green?”
“Of course Miss Sharpe. And you can call me Gary.”
“Mmm,” said Ava, closing the door and returning to her armchair. Mr Green asked her to call him ‘Gary’ almost daily, but it was never going to happen. So the new tenant was a professional woman as well. Perhaps Ava would find conversation with this Miss Lance or Dr Lance or however she should be addressed agreeable. She rolled her eyes at her own thoughts. That was unlikely.
…
Sara and Mr Green had just sat down to their lunch in Mr Green’s little dining room, which Sara found rather cluttered with a large number of knick-knacks, small statues, paintings on the wall and currently un-used and therefore unnecessary candlesticks which could surely be kept somewhere else. Mr Green had, however, provided an exemplary meal of roast beef with all the trimmings and a decent bottle of wine. On the sideboard there was a pudding sitting along with a jug of freshly made custard for dessert which Sara was looking forward to trying as well. She had thought it a little bit peculiar that Mr Green had made up a plate for Miss Sharpe before serving her or himself, but Sara was quickly discovering that a lot of things seemed a little peculiar around here.
“If I may ask,” Sara said, “How did you end up owning a house in London?”
“I inherited it,” Mr Green said, always excited when someone asked him about himself. “My dear old Uncle George, God bless his soul, was a confirmed bachelor, and left the house to me along with £5,000 in shares on the condition that I returned to the old country and live in this very house.”
“£5,000 and a house is pretty good incentive to move across the world,” said Sara. “Where are you from in the States?”
“New York,” Mr Green replied. “I worked as a clerk in the big metropolis, but between you and I, I much prefer keeping house, from the cooking and cleaning to the household accounts, it’s all much more the life I prefer than the hustle of a big Wall Street job.”
“Well, you look to do a good job of it,” Sara said. Mr Green looked as though he’d get eaten alive in any competitive financial setting. “These are very excellent potatoes,” Sara continued, genuinely impressed with the quality of the food, not to mention that it looked as though Mr Green had brought out his good crockery, cutlery and glassware for the meal.
Mr Green beamed. “I have a couple of different potato recipes, but this one is probably my favourite too,” he said.
“Where did you learn to cook?”
“From the usual people,” Mr Green said. “Mrs Beaton, Miss Acton, Miss Hill.”
“Cookbooks?” Sara asked with a smile.
“If you can read, you can cook,” Mr Green said with conviction. “I hope you like the beef and sprouts and - ”
“I hope I’m not too late,” said a new voice.
“Miss Sharpe!” Mr Green grinned, leaping to his feet.
Sara turned around in her chair and caught sight of her fellow tenant for the first time. Miss Sharpe was a tall woman with her hair swept neatly into a low bun at the base of her neck. She wore no jewellery or make-up, and at a guess, Sara would place her a couple of years older than herself. But what Sara found most striking was Miss Sharpe’s dress. Or rather, it wasn’t a dress. She was wearing a well-tailored suit jacket, waistcoat, shirt and tie, and a skirt in a black fabric with a slight pinstripe which matched the jacket and waistcoat.
“Oh, Miss Sharpe, I - I didn’t think you’d be joining us so I made you a plate and - ”
“I’ve got it, thank-you, Mr Green,” Miss Sharpe said, taking the plate and sitting at the spare place between Sara and Mr Green.
“Nice to meet you, Miss Sharpe,” Sara said, watching as Miss Sharpe moved to take her seat. She suspected that the skirt may in fact be a pair of full-length pantaloons, tailored to resemble a skirt when one was standing still. She tried not to stare.
“Miss Lance, I believe,” Miss Sharpe said primly. “Or is it Doctor Lance?”
“Either, I’m not fussed,” Sara said. She’d long since decided that constantly correcting how she should be addressed was not a battle she wanted to put energy into fighting.
“But you are a doctor?”
“Yes,” Sara said, trying to keep her attention politely divided between her meal and her companions, though Miss Sharpe’s steely blue-grey eyes were hard to look away from. “I work at a woman and children’s clinic and day surgery just off Piccadilly.”
“Are you a surgeon or a physician?” Miss Sharpe asked.
“Physician,” Sara answered.
“Trained here?”
“No, in the States,” Sara replied coolly, almost feeling as though she was being interrogated by this peculiar woman. “I’ve only been in London for a month. What about you, Miss Sharpe? I hear you’re a lady detective,” she said briskly before Miss Sharpe could continue her interrogation. Mr Green watched the women, not used to being caught in the middle of such a discussion.
“A private investigator,” Miss Sharpe corrected.
“Is there a difference?” Sara asked, trying to hide a smirk and wanting to see how Miss Sharpe reacted as much as anything.
Miss Sharpe looked at Sara as she chewed a mouthful of food and sipped her wine. “So what brings you to London?”
“Work,” Sara said, feeling that Miss Sharpe was somehow managing to look down at her despite them both being seated. “Plenty of opportunities in a big city. What about you? You accent tells me you’re not a native to this great metropolis either?”
“Work,” Miss Sharpe replied.
“Well, yes,” Sara said. “Biggest city in the world. All those millions of people leads to plenty of crimes to investigate.”
“Yes,” said Miss Sharpe, not encouraging further conversation.
They finished their meal in relative silence, even Mr Green seeming to grasp that conversation was not required. Thankfully the food made up for the awkward atmosphere, and as soon as dessert had ended, Miss Sharpe excused herself and returned upstairs.
“She’s chatty,” said Sara, pushing back her chair.
“Miss Sharpe likes to keep to herself,” said Mr Green, collecting up the dessert bowls.
“She’s a private investigator,” Sara said. “Her job title means that she very much likes to get involved in other people’s business. What sort of things does she investigate, anyway? Do people really come to her to investigate crimes?”
“Not crimes so much,” Mr Green said. “Being a woman, the police don’t take her very seriously. It’s more issues like cheating husbands, runaway sons, absconding staff.”
“Are all of her clients women?” Sara asked.
“Mostly, yes,” Mr Green replied. “Now, leave the cleaning up to me, that’s what you’re paying for after all! Go and enjoy the afternoon.”
Sara looked out the window. “I’d better get my umbrella.”
…
Ava stood what she hoped was back far enough from the window so that Miss Lance wouldn’t see her watching. She’d heard her go up the stairs and then come back down a minute later. Now she was heading out along the footpath, umbrella in hand, and, depending upon which direction she turned at the end of the street, she would be headed towards either north towards Hyde Park or Knightsbridge, or south towards Chelsea and the river, but there’d be no way of seeing which way she went without pulling back the lace curtains and risking being seen by Miss Lance herself.
Ava didn’t know why she cared. She had been surprised to see that Miss Lance was a couple of years younger than herself, but then again, she hadn’t really known what to expect from her new neighbour at all. Miss Lance’s pretty blonde hair had been done up fashionably, her bright blue eyes had been attentive and animated, but her black dress was that of one in mourning. Her shiny gold earrings and selection of rings suggested wealth, though whether new or inherited Ava wasn’t sure.
Lighting her pipe, Ava sat down on her favourite armchair. Though the lace overlay on Miss Lance’s dress had gone up to her neck, the cut around the bust was - Ava inhaled too quickly and coughed. Miss Lance was her new upstairs neighbour. She was pretty, educated and had some money behind her. Anything else was irrelevant.
Especially the hot feeling Ava got when thinking about the shape of her neck and shoulders below the lace, or her the curve of her body in that dress.