The Convoluted Adventure of the Vengeful Yankee Financier

By Neil Willcox

Gentleman Adventurer Heinrich von Schneemann finds himself on a curious mission; his patron Lady Glenshire has sent him to the seaside to investigate a haunted house. There Schneemann finds fraud, ambition, young lovers, dubious business plans and enormous amounts of gin. Lurking behind it all is Saul Tarrington, a ruthless American businessman.

Before he can deal with him Schneemann is called away. An old friend from his Wild West days has gone missing. As events tumble out of control he finds himself at odds with all his friends and allies. Perhaps Schneemann can solve the crime, but can he resolve the greatest mysteries of all – love and matrimony?

A comedy crime novel set in 1902 The Convoluted Adventure of the Vengeful Yankee Financier pokes outrageous fun at occult mysteries, crime stories and Edwardian England.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Neil Willcox
• Release date: Feb 7, 2019
• ISBN: 9781370343171

Neil Willcox

Having worked in the back office of an insurance company, as a fruitpicker, in a call centre, as a teaching assistant and as a ticket seller Neil is in no way qualified to write historical fiction, let alone make jokes about it. Yet here we.

Book preview

A Seaside Holiday

Chapter 1.

As a rule Heinrich von Schneemann did not attend the funerals of people whose death he was responsible for, but in this case he had made an exception.

Several dozen people were crowded by the graveside so he was able to remain discreetly at the rear and observe the ceremony.

Such a shame. Such a young man. So full of promise.

Indeed Madam. He turned to the elderly lady beside him, dipped his head in greeting. Mrs Killian is it not?

Well remembered Mr Schneemann. She sighed. He did not try to offer his hand as he was holding his gloves and stick in one and his hat in the other. Bareheaded from respect. At least it was a warm day, even if it was overcast. She seemed comfortable in her mourning black, from the wide hat to the dull boots just visible under the long, full skirt.

I used to think it a pity that he did not marry his childhood sweetheart. See her down there, behind Mr Arthur. Today, though, I think it a mercy. She mourns as a friend rather than as a bereaved wife.

He could not recall the exact relationship of the lady to the central figure of today’s events – his aunt’s sister perhaps? He had been introduced to her at a garden party the previous summer before the unfortunate train of events that had ended with them out here.

I can only offer my condolences.

And I mine. Also my appreciation for your testimony at the inquest. It saved his dear mother some distress.

Schneemann swallowed, feeling uncomfortable. The vicar continued his address. Why was it taking so long? The interminable funeral service inside the church had covered all this. At the graveside it should just be the brief words of committal.

It was the least I could do. Testifying it was an accident, well. I can assure you that as far I as I know he did not take his own life.

Not everyone was so sure, Mr Schneemann. There were those questions about irregularities in the accounts of the Widows and Orphans Relief Fund.

Schneemann revised his estimate of her intelligence upwards by two steps and her good sense in talking to distant acquaintances about sensitive affairs down by a similar amount. It is not my place to comment on that subject.

Oh no. Of course not. He thought that she might nevertheless attempt to continue on the topic when they were joined by another lady. Of medium height, moving stiffly with a cane, her face concealed by a thick veil held down by a large black hat, hands hidden by gloves, everything else covered in a large old fashioned mourning dress that reached the ground. She croaked a greeting.

Mrs Perse. Mrs Killian responded gloomily. This is Mr Schneemann, a friend of Albert. He was with him the day before... it happened.

Oh yes. She made a hissing sigh. The one who could do nothing.

To my shame madam. He felt no shame, let alone guilt. Albert had received exactly what he deserved.

At long last the coffin was being lowered into the hole. Someone, probably the mother, was crying loudly. Schneemann was thankful to be on the periphery of things. He would have preferred to stay away entirely. Good manners compelled his attendance and it was as well to be on hand should something untoward should occur.

Imagine the fuss if someone had wanted to view the body. That could have embarrassed all his plans.

Mrs Killian was talking about the arrangements. They did not intend to have the funeral today, but when the coronation was postponed it seemed prudent to have it as swiftly as possible. She nodded thoughtfully. Of course all our prayers are with the King for a swift recovery.

As if to disagree with her the vicar finished his final part of the ceremony, nodding in a satisfied manner to the chorus of amens. Schneemann had hoped it was over but some male members of the family were incompetently trying to shovel token clods of earth into the grave. It seemed wasteful; the gravediggers standing off to the side could do the task much more efficiently and would get paid even if the relatives managed to complete the job.

He clamped down on his cynicism about funerals. It did no good to laugh at a farce like today with Uncle Robert having to be saved from falling red-face first into the pile of earth by his ten year old son, the tedious vicar smilingly accepting unearned compliments, the exaggerated mourning of the fashionable friends. Not to mention his own part. Yet if it brought comfort to anyone then he would let them continue, keeping his bitter laughter to himself.

At last they turned to go. He found himself offering an arm to Mrs Perse who muttered thanks to him, then took it with a powerful grip. They moved slowly towards the carriages. The word had gone about that no automobiles were to be used. Schneemann approved; for all their noisy speed he preferred a good horse.

Ride with me, Mr Schneemann. It seemed she had a coach of her own. Delayed by her infirmity they were one of the last to leave. He waved his hat to the Blenkinsopps with whom he had arrived, indicating that they should leave without him.

London was overflowing with people; houses were being demolished and replaced with tall blocks of flats and new dwellings sprang up wherever a bus line or railway station would serve them. Just as the homes of the living were full, so were those of the dead. Churchyards and cemeteries were packed, and there was no land in central London left to bury anyone. So they had come out here to Surrey, to deposit the worldly remains of Albert Minton in the great Queensbury necropolis.

It spread over many acres of countryside. There were fields of square, sparsely inscribed headstones standing watch over small grassy graves. Larger family plots were covered in gravel with bigger, individually decorated stones looming at the end. Further over he could see a small village of mausoleums, from single coffin size to great gloomy two story stone monstrosities. He was not a morbid man yet he had to hold in a shudder as they passed a disapproving angel standing on the back of a graven lion.

Schneemann handed Mrs Perse up into the carriage, a small, modern model pulled by a matching pair of black horses. Both the coachman and the burly carriage groom were dressed in thick boots and somewhat ill-fitting black clothes. A slight affection there; as Mrs Perse was not a relative (so far as he knew) putting her servants into mourning was unusual.

He avoided the unnecessary help of the servant into the coach and sat down facing forward, opposite Mrs Perse, while the man clumsily folded the step and jammed the door shut. The coach pulled away with a jerk.

Very sad day Mrs Perse, he said Most regrettable. He regretted ending up here, riding in a coach with a lady unknown to him. Although it kept him away from curious family members who might ask him difficult questions, all he had in common with the stranger was the funeral and the dead man. It was inevitable that the conversation would tend towards that. Perhaps he should try a different thread. Did you come far?

Not too far, she groaned. From Worthing.

How was your journey? That was quite a distance to travel by carriage, more than forty miles. She seemed to understand his implied question.

We came up yesterday. I do not like the railways. She shuddered and almost whispered the next part. My dear husband died in a railway dining car.

I’m sorry to hear that Madam. They had reached the exit from the graveyard. Schneemann was surprised to see them turn right rather than left with the others. Although he might have preferred to miss the reception at The Chequers Inn it would attract comment if he did not make an appearance.

Ah, Mrs Perse. Are we going to the reception?

Do not worry Mr Schneemann. You will arrive at your correct destination. Her voice sounded clearer, younger.

Also familiar.

He snatched the heavy veil away from her to reveal broad brown eyes, a freckled nose and the sharp grin of a woman who was probably no older than thirty. Miss Puce.

Andromeda Puce widened her smile. Why, hello Heinrich. Did you enjoy the theatrics as much as I did? I wondered if you were ever going to catch on. Ah, ah. Please don’t move again. She had produced a revolver from about her person.

"You are indeed a mistress of disguise. However this seems, if you will forgive the term, overly dramatic. If you wished an interview you could have sent a message. I would have happily waited on you."

She shook her head. "I fear that is a polite fiction. If I had tried to arrange a meeting conventionally I suspect that it would not have ended happily for me."

He nodded noncommittally. Well, as you have me at a disadvantage, perhaps you can suggest a topic of conversation.

The Widows and Orphans Relief Fund. What happened to it?

Really Miss Puce, I am at a loss...

She gestured firmly with the pistol. "Really Heinrich. Do not prevaricate. When I tell you that I require an answer, know that the consequences will be most unpleasant if you fail to do so."

I see. He uncrossed his legs. I presume that it was you and your associates who were blackmailing Albert before his unfortunate death. And that was why he made that... unaccountable transfer of funds. Yet you think that I have something to do with the situation?

She sighed. Why yes. You were the person he went to that evening. You were the last to see him alive. I neither know nor care about your involvement in his death. I do care that we never received our payment. So I ask again and, I’m afraid, for the last time. Where is the money?

He frowned. I’m sorry to disappoint you. I do not have it. He raised one hand. Wait. I admit that I was involved in the movement of the assets, but they are no longer under my control. They have been deposited at Shaw Brother’s bank, in the account of the Widows and Orphans Relief Fund.

An expression of puzzlement crossed her face. You returned the money? Almost a hundred thousand pounds? That makes no sense.

Time for a little deception. Even the sternest of society hostesses would confess that lying to someone holding a gun on you is barely impolite. Well, I must admit that I did not undertake this service out of the goodness of my heart. I have been amply rewarded. He brushed some dust from his coat sleeve with his glove. I shall not only be paid, everyone who knows shall be grateful and happy to see me.

Her head jerked upright. "You shall be paid? So you have not yet? Her smile reappeared. A gentlemen as experienced and wise as yourself would surely require cash on delivery."

He winced at the phrase ‘cash on delivery’, more commonly associated with tradesmen than gentlemen, and remained silent. She continued. If so, assuming that you have told me the truth, the money is in the account, but you have not yet informed the trustees. In fact, unless I miss my guess, you will still have access to that account. She raised the gun. Please confirm if I am correct in my speculations.

He nodded reluctantly. In fact you are. Though that does mean that shooting me would be a very poor use of this situation. As it happened the money was back with the very puzzled trustees and Schneemann had received neither a single penny nor a single thank you. They remained quite ignorant of his involvement.

No doubt, although it would give me quite some personal satisfaction. She frowned, pondering for a moment. The carriage rocked as it turned a corner. She knocked on the communication hatch and the driver opened it. To London, Shacklebury. And hurry.

Schneemann carefully reached into his waistcoat pocket and checked the time. If you wish to be sure to reach the bank before it closes you might do better to catch the train.

I do not like the railways. She gave a toothy smile. Especially for business like this. Too easy for you to try and make an escape. I would hate for you to have an accident in the dining car.

Like your late husband, He muttered, as the carriage slowed. Glancing out the window he could see a cart piled high with potatoes. Yet the railway has one advantage.

Oh? Do tell Heinrich.

I would not try this on a moving train. He flipped up his stick, catching Miss Puce on the wrist. She cried out as the revolver fell from her hand. Hearing the commotion the driver pulled back on the reins, slowing the carriage still further. Schneemann shoved open the door and leapt out, narrowly avoiding a kick from her long narrow shoe.

You cad, he heard, To strike a lady!

Rather than stay and debate the niceties of correct manners while being coerced at gunpoint he dodged around the potato cart and ran for the houses beyond. There were a number of staring faces at the crossroads including several idlers outside the country inn. Schneemann jammed his hat on but realised that a running man in black topcoat and mourning attire would be scarcely less notable even with his head decently covered.

Outrunning a carriage was a losing proposition. If he must be caught, better to be somewhere where he would be guaranteed witnesses.

He flew under the arch and into the yard of the inn, slowing just enough to avoid running face first into the heavy black wooden door. Gathering his wits he stepped inside.

He ignored the curtseying maid and marched forward into the gloomy passages, calling for the landlord. He found him sitting on a stool in the overly warm public room, gossiping with his cronies.

Does this establishment have a telephone my good man?

He shook his balding, liver spotted head. I’m sorry sir. But I can send the boy to the post office at Farthingay Junction. It’s only three quarters of a mile.

Schneemann shook his head, catching his hat on a low beam. He caught it neatly. I might as well go myself. Pretending a sudden thought he said, Perhaps you can arrange something?

At the thought of a paying customer the landlord stood, suddenly energetic. Jonathan! Go harness the trap. You’re taking this gentleman to the Junction. He turned back to Schneemann. Some refreshment while you’re waiting sir?

Brandy and water. He handed over a guinea. But make it quick. I don’t want to wait.

It was at that moment that they were joined by Miss Puce’s associates, the tall coachman who had surprisingly delicate features and the shorter, much burlier groom. There he is, said the latter, showing a gift for the obvious.

Schneemann turned to them, a look of mild curiosity on his face, his stick held loosely in his right hand. The landlord also faced them. Can I help you?

The groom stepped forward. We want a word with this fellow.

"And yet I do not wish to have a word with you." Schneemann piled a hundredweight of scorn onto the final word.

The landlord looked from the well dressed, well spoken gentleman who had just handed him money to the two men in ill fitting black who seemed to be threatening him. Right then my good men. I think you’d better go outside.

The coachman, Shacklebury if Schneemann recalled his name correctly, proved himself to be the brains of the partnership. I’m sorry to disagree with you in your own house landlord. We want to talk to this ‘ere gentleman about his behaviour towards my daughter.

He could feel the sympathy of the room drain away from him. He heard himself say I’m sure I don’t know what you are referring to, but it was a weak response, an instinctive denial.

She’s lead a sheltered life, and without any womenfolk about her. I’ve tried to teach her the ways of the world since my dear Maud died, but there’s only so much a man can do while earning an honest living.

Nonsense.

The man held his hands, appealing to the onlookers. Now he denies it, but while she was away with friends he took advantage of her innocence... now wait a minute!

Schneemann realised to his chagrin that this thug’s sob story was going to win over this rough crowd better than any tale of his own. They all liked to think they had hearts of gold, no matter how many strangers they cheated. So he strolled to one of the internal doors.

I have no idea what these... gentlemen are talking about. I have business elsewhere, so I say goodbye.

Before anyone could stop him he stepped through into the hallway and dashed towards the sitting room at the end. There he closed the door, blocking it with a sideboard, opened the window into the yard and stepped out.

Jonathan was leading a horse out to the waiting trap. Schneemann put his hat on his head, tucked his cane under his arm and took the leading rein from him. It seems a nice day for a ride, so there’s no need to harness this fellow.

As he swung himself up onto the back of the horse, Jonathan stammered She’s a mare sir. Name of Florence. Sir, you have no saddle, no stirrups...

Thank you Jonathan. He would have tipped him, but Florence, not used to bareback riders, was requiring the use of both hands. That will be all.

He tapped at Florence’s flank with his heels, then again as she ambled towards the archway. He could hear swearing from the window behind him so he kicked again and she trotted out. He turned towards the west and tried to get more speed from the reluctant mare.

Heinrich! A dark figure tried to intercept him, and he was able to avoid her as they finally reached a canter. Come back here!

His hat was slipping, so he took the opportunity to wave it at his pursuers. Sadly I must refuse your invitation. Good day Miss Puce!

Chapter 2.

Schneemann woke to blinding sunlight shining directly into his eyes from the window. Grh, he said.

It had been a long and weary chase across the Surrey countryside. His nag had not been able to outpace the powerful horses that pulled Miss Puce’s carriage on the road so he had been forced to go across country to avoid them. Unfortunately his attempts to acquire directions from the locals had got him very lost. He finally found himself at a small suburban railway station shortly after the last train had gone for the night. He had had to bribe the stationmaster and the driver of the mail train to let him ride it into London. Of course there were no cabs about that late. So he had walked home, wishing he had bedded down with Florence in the stable he had left her in. The first glimmer of the midsummer dawn had been showing when he finally fell into bed.

His servant was standing over him. I do apologise sir. The messenger said it was urgent. He held out an envelope on a silver tray, the long, tastefully manicured thumb seeming to point at it.

Schneemann woke up at the sight of the handwriting. He took the letter, pulled a knife from its place under the bedside table and slit it open.

Number 4

Cornwell Square

London

Dear Mr von Schneemann,

I would greatly appreciate it if you could join me at the offices of The London Evening Hermes on Fleet Street at your earliest convenience.

Yours Sincerely,

Lady Jane Glenshire

He sighed. Despite describing their relationship as partners and politely sending requests rather than orders, this was typical of Lady Jane’s modus operandi. A gnomic note delivered at an inconvenient hour directing him to some obscure location for an undisclosed purpose. It meant, of course, that any hypothetical interceptor of the message would remain ignorant of his purpose but that did nothing to assuage his own lack of knowledge.

At least the phrase join me suggested that she would be there to answer his questions.

He looked at the clock. It was just before seven. Coffee Hatton.

The kettle is boiling sir, and I will set it brewing after I bring your shaving water. Would you care for some toast?

Just two slices. He threw back the covers and got up, feeling only slightly stiff from his long uncomfortable ride of the day before. I think my yellow check suit and a bow tie will be appropriate. If you could lay them out while I breakfast I would be most grateful.

Of course sir. Hatton tucked the tray under his arm and swept out of the room. Whatever would he do without him?

****

It was a quarter to eight according to the clock outside the Fleet Street Offices of The London Evening Hermes when Schneemann bounced up the steps. Despite his lack of sleep he felt energised. Perhaps it was the improvement in the weather; June had been dull and wet even for England. The summer sun was already starting to warm his head under the jaunty straw boater.

The paper had changed hands three times in the past year. Firstly when Sir Michael Bramwell died, then again two weeks later when his executors sold it off against the wishes of the family. It had been controlled by a mysterious foreign investor until April when as part of the fall out of another case it had dropped into the hands of Ian Pike, a Scottish businessman Schneemann was slightly acquainted with.

At the front desk he slowed for a moment. He concluded that if Lady Jane were here she would not be badgering some junior reporter over a misspelling on the society pages or going through the archives for an obscure story from the previous century. She had people to do that kind of thing for her – Schneemann for example. She would be with the publisher or, at worst, in the office of the editor.

He took off his hat, nodded at the grey whiskered man in the dark blue jacket with gold braid and said Schneemann. To see the Editor. Whilst the doorman looked down at the appointment book Schneemann strolled past and through the glass-windowed door into the offices.

The space was crammed with desks and was gloomy despite the many gas lights burning. Though only half the seats were full it was very noisy, with the clatter of typewriters, men yelling at one another and the whistle of a kettle. He passed a boy taking orders for breakfast; beef and oyster pies and a pint of porter seemed the favourite.

At the back of the row of desks there was a door with a sign on it. It was filthy and unreadable. Most of the men ignored him, either caught up in their work or just incurious as he strolled over to it.

He opened the door and could hear loud voices coming from further back in the building. He selected a door that read Publisher that seemed to be the source of the commotion. Behind it he found a familiar face.

Good morning Miss Dunwell. Am I correct in assuming that Lady Glenshire is here?

She looked up from where she had been pecking out something on a large, modern looking typewriter. Good morning Mr von Schneemann. Her quiet northern voice could barely be heard above the combination of muffled noise from the newsroom and louder, almost clear voices from next door. I shall let her ladyship know you have arrived.

Lady Jane’s companion had been a maid before she had been plucked from service and became a project for her ladyship. In her smart dark clothes, the sort that charitable women might wear while doing good deeds amongst the unfortunate, she appeared competent, elegant and slightly older than she really was.

She vanished through one of the several doors with a swish of skirts that revealed her button up boots. Schneemann amused himself by picking up a sheet of paper. He looked through the news from last night; it seemed the Australians had beaten Yorkshire by 44 runs, whatever that meant.

The voices rose again. Miss Dunwell returned. I told them you were here. Mr Scott said not to interrupt, her ladyship said to come in.

Schneemann frowned. Which should I do?

She shrugged. I am Lady Glenshire’s companion and, today, secretary. She glared at the typewriter. So I take her instructions. She looked up at him. "I would not dare to advise you sir."

He sighed, put the paper down, covering it with his hat, and leant his stick against the table. Have I offended you in some way Miss Dunwell?

No Mr von Schneemann. Her ladyship was expecting to hear from you last night, and was distressed that no message came despite having someone wait up for it. She may also be in a bad temper as she in unused to rising quite so early in the morning. But as for me, I am quite well.

It was clear to him that the someone who had had to wait up was Annette Dunwell, and further that Lady Glenshire had somewhat unfairly taken it out on her when she had learned there was no message. Well fairness was not the lot of those who had to work for a living. Nevertheless he would apologise.

I am sorry. After the funeral I was fooled by a mistress of disguise, set upon by thugs, and had to escape cross country on a very slow horse. It was dawn before I arrived home and I thought I would wait until morning to make a report.

She looked suspicious, as though he might be making fun of her with his ludicrous adventure. You’d better go in. She’s not happy.

Thankfully her happiness was not his responsibility. He picked up his hat and stick and walked through.

It was a large room with a bright window looking out onto the yard at the back of the building. There was a wide desk, many stools and several comfortable looking chairs. None of them were in use.

Standing beside the desk was Lady Jane Glenshire, a woman of medium height, moderate age, fair looks, fearsome intelligence and ironclad willpower. She was dressed in a more fashionable version of Miss Dunwell’s outfit, black and practical with elegant lines. The gleaming toes of her boots could be seen poking from under her skirt. Her large black hat was sitting on the desk.

Opposite her was a man Schneemann had never met but knew by reputation. Receding red hair, bushy eyebrows, thick glasses. He appeared to have discarded his coat and stood in shirt sleeves and waistcoat. His scuffed brown shoes were disreputable, as were the ink stains on his hands and sleeves. Robert Scott, editor-in-chief of this paper. He had interrupted the two in mid-argument.

Ah said you were to wait outside. Scott’s accent clearly placed him as being from north of the border.

Not at all. Come in. Mr von Schneemann is privy to all my secrets.

Lady Glenshire’s declaration was news to him. He stepped inside and closed the door, trying to appear business-like as he hung his hat on the stand. If he had known he would be playing a dependable man this morning he would have dressed less like a dandy.

Aye, well, there’s the thing, isn’t it! A woman canna keep secrets, and that’s no good.

Lady Glenshire shook her head, smiling tightly. But Mr Scott. This is a newspaper. We are not in the business of keeping secrets. Rather our task is to reveal them to the world.

He shook his head. "Don’t try to bamboozle me, milady. I’m the editor and I know exactly what the Hermes needs. And I tell you it isn’t decent."

Her voice sounded like a blade that had left in the ice-house overnight. What, precisely, is it that isn’t decent?

Brave, foolish or oblivious, Scott blundered on. A lady. In charge of a newspaper. It’s just not done.

And yet it shall be. They stood for a moment, staring.

Lady Jane waved her hand imperiously. Clearly this will be more complex than I had thought. Please take a seat. Annie! As the gentlemen sat on chairs facing the desk Miss Dunwell appeared at the door. Tea for three, Annie. She vanished again.

The large seat behind the desk seemed to dwarf Lady Glenshire but she when she sat upright she made it seem like a throne. Very well. Firstly, introductions. Mr von Schneemann, Mr Scott, the editor of this fine establishment. Mr Scott, Mr von Schneemann, a friend who has acted discreetly for me on a variety of matters in the past.

The two men shook hands, muttering conventional and insincere greetings.

Mr Scott. You had some objections. Please, lay them out for me so I can relieve you of any worry.

From her tone and gaze, Schneemann doubted anyone would be relieved of worry this morning. He leaned back in his chair, decided against taking out a cigarillo, and settled in to listen.

Milady, it simply isn’t done. A newspaper is no place for a lady, and that’s that.

"I am sorry Mr Scott, but that is not that. I believe you employ female reporters."

He sputtered. "Female correspondents."

Oh I see. She frowned a little. "Women who report – I’m sorry, correspond – on topics of interest to your female readership."

Aye, that’s so. He seemed to feel on firmer ground now. Recipes, household tips, feminine pursuits.

She nodded. I recall the columns. Articles on clothing, shopping, and, in these modern times, bicycling. He nodded. How the Education Acts will alter child-raising, what changes to the tariffs would do to household bills, whether there will be any footmen left if a European War breaks out or if they will all march off to be shot at.

Ah, Lady Glenshire, that’s politics, not suitable topics for a lady.

She raised an eyebrow. "Yet the results of politics come down upon women as much as on men. More so in many cases. Never mind though. My point is simply this; that you publish articles by, for, and about women. Your newspaper is no haven of masculinity. It caters to the distaff side as well."

Perhaps what is needed is a newspaper for women, by women, said Schneemann. "To hold up a mirror to their lives and their interests." The others ignored him.

Writing is ladylike. Scott frowned. Although ah’m not so sure of it as a profession. Wouldn’t want my daughters to do it. Would you?

Lady Glenshire smiled sweetly. I hope that my children will find ways to make themselves useful although it is my intention to ensure that they will not ever be required to work to pay for their expenses.

Hmph. Writing is ladylike, as I said. But not, not all the other work!

I believe, she said, the slightest burr in her voice reminding Schneemann that Glenshire was in the highlands, that printing is also considered women’s work.

In Scotland perhaps ma’am. Milady. But this is London!

Ma’am is fine, Mr Scott. And I am aware that this is London. I do not intend to get my hands dirty with the actual press. She presented her hands, large, long fingered, with a restrained wedding ring on one hand and a large mourning ring on the other.

Amusing as this was, Schneemann decided he would try and cut through to the heart of the argument. "My apologies for interrupting. Am I correct in assuming that Lady Glenshire is taking on a role at the London Evening Hermes?"

Miss Dunwell returned at this moment with a dull brown tea set. She removed Lady Glenshire’s hat from the desk and set the tray down there. She took the hat and placed it on the rack. Ignoring the gentlemen she said, Is that all milady?

Thank you Annie. The girl left.