Free The Case of the Left-Handed Lady by Nancy; Springer

that it arrested the logical workings of the mind. Its merchandise flaunted, attracted, distracted, dazed. On the panelled walls and the varnished wooden counter-tops and even hanging from the ceiling were displayed an astounding variety of wares: bolts of fabric and trimming; hats, gloves, and shawls; tools and padlocks; wooden toys and tin soldiers; kitchen cutlery of all sorts; buckets and watering-cans; caps and aprons and wrought-iron coat hooks, china figurines, fancy-ware, flowers and ribbons, swags of lace and chiffon – it was as if I had stepped into an ocular whirlpool.
    At first, saturated with colour, sheen, and flutter, I could scarcely make sense of my surroundings. It was as if everywhere I looked, something shiny attempted to steal away my vital principle like a Mesmerist’s watch winking on its chain. But exerting an effort of will to sort out the spectacle before me, I began to notice that different categories of items were stored and displayed in different areas attended by different clerks – many of them female clerks, I saw with relief – behind counters that seemed to stretch for a mile. The shop was necessarily quite large, scarcely to be called a shop at all; indeed, this was my first experience of what came to be known as a “department” store.
    I wondered what constant exposure to this place might do to those who worked here. Hatters went mad and painters became poisoned; labourers in cotton mills grew stunted if they did not sicken and die; this “emporium” also seemed somehow unhealthful to me. How might such a plethora of pretty things affect, if not the body, then the mind?
    In a prominent position just inside the door was displayed a photographic portrait of the proprietor, Ebenezer Finch, & Son. Once I had managed to rein in my runaway thoughts, I studied this likeness with interest, not so much in Ebenezer Finch as in Son.
    Alexander Finch.
    Shopkeeper’s son of impudent fame, alleged seducer of Lady Cecily Alistair.

CHAPTER THE EIGHTH
     
    WITHIN THE ORNATELY FRAMED PHOTOGRAPH he appeared ordinary enough – indeed, so nondescript as to give one the impression that one had seen him somewhere before. An effect no doubt produced by the blankness of expression that is required in order to hold a pose for a camera.
    Wandering further into the kaleidoscopic depths of the shop, I looked about me, ostensibly for something to buy, but actually for Mr. Alexander Finch.
    I wanted to assess him. To arrive at some conclusion concerning his character. To guess at the degree of his involvement, if any, in Lady Cecily’s disappearance.
    As luck would have it, I found him almost immediately, for a loud, hectoring voice caught my attention. “Alexander, a monkey could dress them windows better!”
    Looking towards the source of this ungrammatical statement, I located an office – rather an octopus affair, with pneumatic payment-and-receipt tubes running into it from all areas of the store – evidently the proprietor’s office, elevated in the emporium’s farthest corner. Through its large windows, presumably meant for keeping an eye on commerce, I could see Ebenezer Finch haranguing his son.
    “. . . sort of colours one would expect from a screaming anarchist,” the father was blustering as he stabbed an accusing finger at his son. “Get them changed to something more tasteful straightaway.”
    “Yes, sir.” Standing with his hands folded in front of him, the younger Finch showed not the least emotion, not even a trace of angry red in his face.
    “But you’re not to set foot an inch beyond the doorstep, do you hear me?”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “Expedite the matter, and tell me when you’re done.”
    Dismissed, Mr. Alexander Finch gave a nod and exited the office.
    By taking a few quick strides, I contrived to encounter him at the bottom of the brass-railed stairs leading down to the main floor of the store. Rather breathlessly I addressed him, “Excuse me, Mr. Finch . . .”
    “May