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

betrayed my rank. Sitting with my mouth airing, I scolded myself internally: I must be more careful. This was why I had decided the nocturnal Sister must be a mute – because my distinctive voice might give me away.
    At the same time I began to understand why Lady Cecily might have entered into correspondence with this young man. Beneath his bland exterior lay a great deal of intelligence and – and some other, less definable qualities.
    Indeed, for a moment I felt quite uncomfortable as he leaned on his elbows studying me through his tinted spectacles, which made it difficult for me to see his eyes or read their expression.
    Just as I started to turn away from his scrutiny, the young man almost smiled. For a moment there was a flicker of some realisation – knowledge, or triumph – in his smirk. He said, “I do believe we have met. What, may I ask, is your name?”
    “Certainly you may ask,” I told him, controlling my tone as best I could.
    A moment passed before he understood that I would not answer. Then he seemed to drop the subject entirely. “I personally feel that boot-laces are far superior to buttons,” he remarked, holding up the tan boot. “They obviate the tedium of a button-hook, and mould the leather more closely to the limb of the wearer.” Which should not have been desirable or necessary, were the lower extremities not meant to be seen, after all, a glimpse now and then, as this young man knew quite well – though I felt a bit odd hearing him insinuate so. As he spoke, he yanked upon the laces to demonstrate their function, for all the world like a maid pulling upon stay-laces, giving the boot a wasp waist where an ankle should have been.
    I barely looked. “Indeed.” My attention remained on his round, blank, bespectacled face. “And if I am a lady, then would you consider yourself a gentleman?”
    “Just my point. This country is mad for valuing people according to their titles.” He continued to strait-lace the tan boot. “Why should an idle so-called aristocrat be considered more of a gentleman than any thrifty, sober, industrious member of the working class?”
    As he spoke this outrageous nonsense, I sensed passion beneath his cool exterior.
    Uncertain where it might lead, I asked cautiously, “You are in favour of democracy, then?” Shocking, if so, even to one who had been raised by a Suffragist.
    But he replied, “I scorn all such labels.” Indeed he almost sneered, setting down the tan boot, now appearing strangled in its own laces. “I pigeon-hole no one, I’ll befriend anyone,” (he said rather viciously,) “and if someone needs help, I’ll help them, whether they’re a scullery-maid or – ”
    The way he broke off gave me my cue. “Lady Cecily needed help?”
    His hard voice lowered, if not exactly softening. “Flat tyre on her bicycle, that was all, when I was out running errands on mine, and I patched hers with my kit, and we got to talking.”
    “Alexander!” roared a male voice close at hand.
    The young man in question lifted the delicate fawn-coloured boot. “To place an order, miss, all you need do is post us a tracing of your right foot – ”
    Mr. Ebenezer Finch hove into view, ranting, “Alexander, I told you – oh.” He broke off rather ungraciously. “I see. You’re helping a customer.”
    How very odd, I thought, that while the father was so choleric, the son appeared so stoical. More than stoical. Nearly wooden.
    After his father departed, without acknowledging the interruption in the least the young man told me, “Lady Cecily was a serious sort of girl. She’d been reading Das Kapital, and we discussed the exploitation of the masses.”
    Das Kapital ? I had heard whispers of the book – it was considered shocking, no, beyond shocking, Not Nice At All, simply deplorable. However, as with many such topics mentioned only in undertones – “life of ill repute,” for instance – I had not the faintest idea what it was, actually.
    However,