Page 107 of An Artful Dodge
“Here in London?”
He nodded. “At the Arthurian.”
I hesitated. “To be honest, I am still considering what I’d like to do for work. But thank you for thinking of me.”
His face fell. I understood that he wished to help, and I added, “Don’t worry, Mr. Stiles. Whatever I do, it won’t be thieving.”
“Well,” he said as he rose, reassumed his coat, and picked up his hat. “You can let me know if you’d like an introduction.”
“Mr. Stiles,” I said. “Are you happy as a policeman?”
That stopped him in his tracks. He gave a snort and a rueful chuckle. “Oh, Iwishwe could have you at the Yard. You’d be a better source than all the books of photographs. Not to mention you’re cleverer than most of our constables.” I opened my mouth to protest that I hadn’t been hinting for a position. “Someday we may allow women to become detectives, but not yet.”
“Of course not,” I said. “Besides, I’d look dreadful in those hats you all wear.”
He looked befuddled.
“I’m asking,” I said, “because it seems to bring you satisfaction, and ... well, I was wondering why you became one. You’re clearly educated, and you seem as if you might have chosen banking or even the law.” He didn’t reply at first, and I added, “You needn’t tell me, if you’d rather not.”
“No, no, it’s a reasonable question. I don’t mind.” Mr. Stiles redeposited his hat on the table nearby and lowered himself back into the chair, crossed his ankles, and interlaced his fingers at his waist. “I know there are lads at the Yard who are disgusted with London, sour about all the filth and detritus, the constant wave of crime, the many ways people injure each other day upon day. Burns calls it ‘man’s inhumanity to man’ that ‘makes countless thousands mourn.’”
“That sounds like poetry.”
“It is.” He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “But I don’t think man is innately inhumane. I believe crime and cruelty are caused by things such as hunger, exhaustion, illness, death of loved ones, loneliness, a feeling that no one cares.”
He must have seen my puzzlement, for he smiled and drew a breath, with a look that suggested he was reminding himself to tell a story from the beginning rather than the conclusion. “I told you I grew up on a farm, in a small town outside London. And I told you about my sister Cathy.”
“The one who’s fourteen, like Sarah.”
“Fifteen now,” he amended. “Her birthday was Saturday last.”
He seemed to expect something, so I murmured, “Ah, lovely.”
“When she was eleven, she saw her best mate, Ellie, run over in the street by a cart that had rolled backward on a small hill. The wheel crushed the life out of her. And Cathy gave such a shriek that ...” The memory halted him, and his face was bleak. “I was coming out of a shop across the way, so I couldn’t see beyond the cart, and for one awful, awful moment I thought it was Cathy under the wheel.”
I knew exactly how he felt.
“I ran to where I could see her, standing with both hands over her mouth as if she was trying to stop her shriek, but it just kept coming out of her, on and on. Then she dashed toward Ellie. Within seconds, the entire town came forward and gathered around, trying to help—the doctor, the apothecary, her parents, her friends. Nothing could be done. Ellie died in her mother’s arms, with Cathy holding her hand.”
The scene arose vividly before my eyes. “It’s terrible,” I managed.
“It was,” he said. “But afterward, there was such kindness.” His brown eyes were bright. “For Ellie’s family and for Cathy. Even for the carter, who was nearly out of his mind with guilt. ‘I didn’t see her,’ he said over and over, tears running down his cheeks. The poor man was nearly broken by it. Ellie’s family could have blamed him out of anger, but they didn’t because the truth of it was, he’d done nothing wrong. Mr. Banks had seen the whole thing. Ellie had tripped and fallen at the very moment when the cart rolled backward, hardly a single turn of the wheel. It was just an accident.” He rubbed at his temple. “We all took care of each other out of loyalty and decency. Oh, we always had small feuds. Arguments over who should be elected magistrate or where the new school should be built. But in that moment, our loyalty was stronger than our squabbles.” He gave a rueful smile. “I’m waxing philosophical, aren’t I?”
“I asked,” I reminded him.
He tapped his fingertips on the chair arms. “I’d done my schooling in London, and I thought I’d like to try to help people here take care of each other. That sounds very grandiose of me. One man trying to change a bit of London.”
“Not at all,” I said.
He looked almost wistful. “I do believe a tragedy can remind us of our better natures. The loyalty and compassion we owe each other. Our duty to make the world a better place for everyone. The importance of finding the truth, not just blaming the easy mark. I could do a small bit of that, for whoever stood in front of me. We all can do that, policeman or no.”
I’d rarely been to church, only for funerals, but his words resonated like a solid chord from the organ at the end of the final hymn, perhaps because I’d been feeling something like this myself in recent weeks. I knew what loyalty looked like—not just my own to others, but that of Mary, Amelia, Sarah, and James to me. I’d seen kindness from strangers. I knew the importance of truth telling. I’d seen Mr. Stiles and Mr. Fuller trying to create some fairness in this corner of the world.
My fingers pleated my skirt absently. “Mr. Fuller said something like that, about how newspapers could make the city a better place, bring justice and help to people who need it.”
“How did you convince him to write that article for you?” he asked.
“I told him all that Maggie had suffered, beginning with Simonson brutally assaulting her in the back room when she was caught.”
