Young Writers Society

1

The letter was propped up against the teapot and morning muffins. I pulled out my chair and sat down, reaching for the cup of tea Effie had already poured. ‘Who delivered that, Effie?’

‘I don’t know sir. It was on the mat when I came down.’

‘No seal?’

‘No sir.’

My address was written on the front in neat black letters, and there was a tiny ink spot in one corner. It looked boring. ‘It’s probably from a client. Do you have the newspapers?’

‘I’ve not ironed them yet, sir.’

‘Oh never mind, just bring them in.’

She raised her eyebrows a little. I wiggled my eyebrows back at her and grinned. She blushed pink as an alpenrose, ducking her head. ‘I’ll fetch them, sir.’

She went through to the kitchen and brought them back and I arranged them on the table in order of interest—French papers first, then English—and picked up Gazette de France.The French papers always arrived out of date—this one was over month old, dated March 10, 1799—and most of their news was already common knowledge. Still, just holding a French paper made me feel a little closer to home, and if Geneva was mentioned in any newspaper, it was usually in a French one.

The news was unpleasant. Napoleon had broken Jaffa; the siege was over and the port had been ransacked, with thousands of its soldiers massacred. I scanned the rest of the sheet for any news of Switzerland, but there was nothing. I tossed the paper onto the floor despondently and reached for The Times. I had been hopeful, but today there was nothing about the war, not even a footnote. Just notices about auctions and meetings and anniversary dinners of some society or other. I sighed and laid it back on the table. My hands were black with ink, and I wiped them absent-mindedly on my trousers.

‘Oh, sir, no!’ Effie pounced with a wet cloth. ‘Oh, I should have ironed them...’

I took the cloth and dabbed at my trousers. The ink stains turned a dirty grey against the light beige fabric, but my coat would cover it. I offered Effie the cloth. ‘As always Effie, I must bow to your superior knowledge of housekeeping.’

She tutted. ‘That’s another good pair of trousers ruined. I couldn’t get the acid and paint out of the last lot. You’ll have to see the tailor soon or go without.’

I shrugged and smiled. ‘Where’s the jam?’

She pulled it out from underneath The Daily Courant, and I cut open a muffin. ‘Thank you Effie. You may go now.’

‘Thank you sir.’ She bobbed a little curtsey and went out.

I munched in silence for a while before I remembered the letter and plucked it from where it had fallen between the teapot and sugar bowl. No seal, but when I opened it, there was a name at the top: Thomas Newman. I took another bite of muffin and settled down to read.

Dear M. Roussel,

My name is Thomas Newman. I am a constable in the organisation known as the Bow Street Runners. I very much wish to speak with you on a personal matter and business proposition. It will be to our mutual benefit if we meet today (29 April) outside St Bartholomew’s Hospital after you have finished your anatomy lecture there this afternoon at three o’clock. Please be punctual.

Yours sincerely,

Constable Thomas Newman.

I folded the letter, frowning. A constable? What was this about? For a second I felt fear flutter in my stomach, but pushed it aside. He couldn’t possibly know about the bodies; no one knew except Kettlesing and me, and Kettlesing wouldn’t give the time of day to anyone, much less consort with one of the Bow Street Runners. Besides, if Mr Newman did know anything, he would have hauled me up before the magistrate, not sent me a letter. No, this was something different. ‘Personal matter’ usually meant a client wanted whatever it was handled discreetly. He wouldn’t be the first lonely man to write to me demanding I make him a wife or mistress. I sighed and tucked the letter inside my pocket. It was always awkward having to deny requests like that, and I hated having to disappoint them.

I finished my tea and gathered the breakfast things together and took them out to the kitchen. Effie was sitting at the table drinking chocolate, but she leapt at once to her feet exclaiming, ‘I’m sorry, sir, did you call?’ I shook my head and she quickly took the crockery. ‘You should let me tidy up, sir.’

‘Yes,’ I said, not really listening. ‘Effie, what would you tell a man who wanted a wife?’

‘Was that what was in the letter, sir?’

‘Yes, I think so. A man wants to see me on ‘a personal matter’, and that usually means something like that. So what would you say?’

‘Well, I’d explain to him why I couldn’t do it and then...’ She thought about it. ‘I don’t know, sir. Tell him to go out and meet people.’

‘Meet people. Yes, I suppose that makes sense, although they wouldn’t like to hear it.’

‘Or maybe—’ Effie stopped.

‘What?’

She laid the crockery on the table and began unstacking the plates. Then she turned back and looked up at me. She was blushing again, but her dark eyes were very bright. ‘Maybe it doesn’t matter to them. Some people are so lonely, they’d want any kind of companion, even if it can’t love them back. You make companions for widowers or governesses for children. Why should a wife be so different?’

I was astonished. ‘It’s completely different! I can’t make emotions and the relationship between a husband and wife is all about emotion! Marriage is meant to be a partnership, a joining together of two people who think the same and feel the same. But my creatures don't have minds. They’re just clockwork, Effie, they can’t feel. They’re not human, you know that.’

‘Maybe that doesn’t matter to some people,’ she said stubbornly. ‘They just want to love. It doesn’t matter if they’re not loved in return.’

I stared at her in bewilderment. Back home in Geneva we’d never had any servants so I was never sure exactly how to treat them or even that I’d needed any, but everyone in London expected one to have them if one was respectable, and it did help in running a business if people considered one respectable. Effie’s outspokenness was one of the reasons I’d hired her, but her opinions did startle me sometimes, and this took me completely by surprise. Somehow I had expected her to be a romantic, someone who at least hoped for reciprocal love. Unrequited love had always seemed to me rather pathetic, despite numerous ballads and serials declaring to the contrary, but Effie could hardly be described as pathetic.

‘I had no idea you felt that way,’ I said. I had no idea that anyone could feel that way. Could there really be people as lonely as that? I could understand having a clockwork creature as a companion; that was more like having a solemn dog or monkey about the place, but as a wife or husband? It felt wrong. I could calibrate some diversity of personality, but not enough to generate real emotions. They just were not human.

‘I’m sorry sir.’ Effie turned away and began scrubbing the table. ‘It’s not my place. You know best what to tell the gentleman.’

‘I’m not sure that I do,’ I said frankly. ‘I appreciate your honesty, Effie.’

‘It’s not my place, sir.’ She dug the cloth violently into the table so the stacked crockery chattered in protest.

I looked at her stiff shoulders and sighed. ‘Mrs Shiller is visiting this afternoon with Clothilde. I may be a little late after my lecture, so if I am not back when they arrive, please show them into the drawing room and assure them I won’t be long.’

‘Yes sir.’