hadn’t as yet had the opportunity to engage directly with the supernatural elements of that region. “Well, I suppose the party could be delayed a bit,” I acceded.
“Excellent,” the professor said while thumping a hand against his desk, causing all the contents to rattle like a bag of dry bones. “Then off you go, and do keep me informed as to your progress, my dear.”
As Prof Runal preferred immediate action, I found myself on a ship that very night. A doctor’s note (written by a Society vampire of that profession) was dispatched to my guardians, the Steward family, with an explanation that I had contracted a highly contagious virus and was under strict quarantine in a distant sanatorium until further notice, meaning until I should improve or die. The note ended with reassurances that my chances of survival were fairly reasonable.
I shall not bore you with the details of my time on the ship, for it was tiresome and even reflecting on it makes me weary. Only when I spotted my destination did a sense of animation stir my blood. I stared at the small town huddled on one of the delta islands at the edge of a jungle. The buildings, mostly made of wood and mud, were dwarfed by the trees that loomed over them.
“What a grand thing it is to travel,” I marveled, the tedium of the trip evaporating at the prospect of a little adventure. My spirits were so buoyed that I vowed, “This Brownie case will be wrapped up in no time, I’ll have the advantage of an expedition to Africa, and I shall return to London before anyone really misses me.”
Only after the passage of time can I laugh at my naïve presumptions.
Upon disembarking, I was met by a certain Inspector Jones of the British police force based in Lagos. I could immediately discern in the Inspector’s features that he had been expecting a man. This wasn’t at all surprising to me, as I was the only female investigator of any kind that I knew of.
All that the man had been told was that I was searching for slave traders (which wasn’t far from the truth). He hadn’t been informed that I was a woman, and a young one at that, an oversight that Prof Runal never failed to make as he paid little consideration to such minor details.
Inspector Jones was therefore much dismayed to discover this inconvenient truth upon meeting me at the port. His African counterpart merely shrugged his shoulders, accustomed as he was to the oddities of the white foreigners.
I sighed with a weariness no Englishwoman in the prime of her youth should experience, and gripped my walking stick with firm resolve. Inspector Jones glanced at the stick, his dismal view of me lowered further as he presumed me an invalid.
It was an understandable and unfortunate assumption that most people fell victim to upon seeing my walking stick. I was neither elderly nor infirm. The walking stick was a most useful tool, made of oxide green metal. One most certainly didn’t want a close encounter with either end, nor with the various tools cleverly disguised within it. It had been recently gifted to me by Prof Runal to celebrate my completion of one year of employment with the Society. Indeed, anyone who survived their first year had great cause for celebration.
“Investigator Anderson?” Inspector Jones politely inquired, glancing behind me, perhaps in the hope that the real and very manly Investigator Anderson would appear.
“Indeed,” I replied and gripped the bronze-plated steel fist that topped the fully loaded walking stick.
For a moment, I contemplated putting that fist to good use. A solid thump upside the head could do wonders, or at the least awaken a man to the startling fact that not all Victorian women were fainting wallflowers.
Given that Inspector Jones would be of no use to me concussed, I restrained myself and added, “You may call me Miss Bee.”
Thoroughly disappointed by my response, Inspector Jones frowned and stared at me fully for the first time. He startled when his
“Excellent,” the professor said while thumping a hand against his desk, causing all the contents to rattle like a bag of dry bones. “Then off you go, and do keep me informed as to your progress, my dear.”
As Prof Runal preferred immediate action, I found myself on a ship that very night. A doctor’s note (written by a Society vampire of that profession) was dispatched to my guardians, the Steward family, with an explanation that I had contracted a highly contagious virus and was under strict quarantine in a distant sanatorium until further notice, meaning until I should improve or die. The note ended with reassurances that my chances of survival were fairly reasonable.
I shall not bore you with the details of my time on the ship, for it was tiresome and even reflecting on it makes me weary. Only when I spotted my destination did a sense of animation stir my blood. I stared at the small town huddled on one of the delta islands at the edge of a jungle. The buildings, mostly made of wood and mud, were dwarfed by the trees that loomed over them.
“What a grand thing it is to travel,” I marveled, the tedium of the trip evaporating at the prospect of a little adventure. My spirits were so buoyed that I vowed, “This Brownie case will be wrapped up in no time, I’ll have the advantage of an expedition to Africa, and I shall return to London before anyone really misses me.”
Only after the passage of time can I laugh at my naïve presumptions.
Upon disembarking, I was met by a certain Inspector Jones of the British police force based in Lagos. I could immediately discern in the Inspector’s features that he had been expecting a man. This wasn’t at all surprising to me, as I was the only female investigator of any kind that I knew of.
All that the man had been told was that I was searching for slave traders (which wasn’t far from the truth). He hadn’t been informed that I was a woman, and a young one at that, an oversight that Prof Runal never failed to make as he paid little consideration to such minor details.
Inspector Jones was therefore much dismayed to discover this inconvenient truth upon meeting me at the port. His African counterpart merely shrugged his shoulders, accustomed as he was to the oddities of the white foreigners.
I sighed with a weariness no Englishwoman in the prime of her youth should experience, and gripped my walking stick with firm resolve. Inspector Jones glanced at the stick, his dismal view of me lowered further as he presumed me an invalid.
It was an understandable and unfortunate assumption that most people fell victim to upon seeing my walking stick. I was neither elderly nor infirm. The walking stick was a most useful tool, made of oxide green metal. One most certainly didn’t want a close encounter with either end, nor with the various tools cleverly disguised within it. It had been recently gifted to me by Prof Runal to celebrate my completion of one year of employment with the Society. Indeed, anyone who survived their first year had great cause for celebration.
“Investigator Anderson?” Inspector Jones politely inquired, glancing behind me, perhaps in the hope that the real and very manly Investigator Anderson would appear.
“Indeed,” I replied and gripped the bronze-plated steel fist that topped the fully loaded walking stick.
For a moment, I contemplated putting that fist to good use. A solid thump upside the head could do wonders, or at the least awaken a man to the startling fact that not all Victorian women were fainting wallflowers.
Given that Inspector Jones would be of no use to me concussed, I restrained myself and added, “You may call me Miss Bee.”
Thoroughly disappointed by my response, Inspector Jones frowned and stared at me fully for the first time. He startled when his
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