Respect And Respectability

Miriam found a novel way to break her writer’s block

Would you describe me as respectable?’ demanded Miriam Ackroyd. She blew a smoke ring that curled above us in her book-lined study.

“We-el, it depends…” I began.

I was new to working for Miriam and determined not to put a foot wrong. I dare not lose my job as her secretary. I needed the money to care for my brother. Dennis still suffered from shellshock after being blown up in the trenches during the War.

Miriam fidgeted with the French knots of her green silk kimono. It was almost noon and still she hadn’t started work for the day.

“Come on, Polly, I don’t pay you to be tongue-tied!”

She wasn’t paying me for much, at present. To my surprise, Miriam treated me more as a companion than as a typist and diary-keeper. She was notorious for her temper as well as for her addiction to Turkish cigarettes and champagne, but the tragic death of her friend Gloria Chilton, six weeks earlier, had distressed her greatly. Despite her strenuous efforts to hide the truth, I suspected the outrageous and sometimes downright rude exterior concealed a generous heart.

“You impersonate so many people,” I said. “Frankly, you’re like an actress, but I’m not sure actresses are always respectable.”

Miriam raised her eyebrows. “So you accept that I might appear to crave respectability?”

“As Damaris Vale, of course. As

Miriam Ackroyd, perhaps. Disguised as Carlotta Chatterley or Hugo Alabaster, certainly not.”

Miriam laughed. “I look forward to watching your face when you transcribe Carlotta’s next steamy romance or Hugo’s latest bloodthirsty thriller.”

Miriam’s real name was Euphemia Briggs and she was a popular novelist under each of her pseudonyms. Personally, I didn’t care for Damaris

Vale’s decorous love stories, let alone Hugo’s ripping yarns and Carlotta’s ripped bodices. But I loved Miriam’s mysteries. I’d answered her advertisement in London

www.myweekly.co.uk

Ladies and was thrilled to be offered a job by my favourite detective novelist.

Given that she paid a handsome salary, I’d expected to work furiously, but she confided in me that, for the first time in her life, she’d succumbed to writer’s block. She’d suffered two dreadful blows. Three months before Gloria’s death, another friend called Norah Bond had jumped off Tower Bridge. The two suicides had wounded her, especially when she learned from the inquests that both women had been deeply in debt at the time they died.

“If only they’d come to me,” she mourned. “Money’s no object, with a friend in need.”

The sentiment did her credit, but my

Well, well. “A gentleman caller?” Miriam shrugged. “I want you to answer the door, bring him in, and then leave us together.”

“You’re not planning to murder him with an invisible weapon, I hope?”

She smiled grimly. “Go into the sitting room and remove the Landseer from the wall. Slide the partition behind it and you’ll create an opening blocked by the books on that shelf.”

She indicated a row of gazetteers on a bookcase opposite her desk.

I was aghast. “You want me to eavesdrop?”

“Yes, Polly. During our short acquaintance, I’ve concluded that you’re almost as unrespectable as me.”

Before I could answer, the bell rang, and Miriam waved at me to go to the door.

The man waiting on the top step was a tubby fellow with straggly brown hair and pale porcine eyes. He doffed his trilby, although it would take more than that for him to resemble a gentleman.

“Good day. My name is Makepeace, and I have an appointment with Miss Miriam Ackroyd.”

“I’m her secretary. Please follow me.” I led him to Miriam’s study, announced him, and then followed my instructions to the letter. As I pushed the partition, I heard her speaking…

“I believe you are in possession of my property, Mr Makepeace.”

“Your photographs? Indeed.” Makepeace coughed, a horrid, racking noise. “Extraordinarily… vivid.”

“May I have them back?”

“Most certainly, Miss Ackroyd. Once we have completed certain… arrangements.” Another cough. “I’m not a wealthy man, Miss Ackroyd. As my letter said, I support many philanthropic undertakings. To keep up the good work, I need more funds.”

“What does this have to do with my photographs?”

“I hoped you’d consider donating to my charitable activities.”

“How much were you thinking of?” “Two thousand pounds.”

Miriam gasped. “A fortune!”

“Come now, Miss Ackroyd. You’re a rich woman. A prominent bestseller. You can afford it.”

A long pause. “If you give me time, I may be able to write a cheque.”

Another ghastly cough. “Oh no, Miss Ackroyd. My charities depend on cash.” “And if I refuse?”

“The photographs will go to your publishers as well as to half a dozen of our less reputable newspapers.”

“How dare you!”

“I shall collect the money at midday tomorrow. In bank notes, if you please.” “I don’t…”

“Yes or no, Miss Ackroyd?”

In a low voice, she said, “Very well.” “Excellent. I shall see you tomorrow.” Again he coughed. “I can assure you, it’s all in a good cause.”

I heard the study door shut. Miriam cleared the gazetteers from the shelf and I stared at her implacable expression.

“You heard our conversation?”

“Every word. What on earth…?”

She held up her hand. “If you know what’s good for you, don’t say anything more until this time tomorrow. Then you must do exactly as you did today.”

Alarmed and puzzled as I was, I kept my mouth shut. Whatever photographs she and Makepeace had been talking about, I knew she was adored by her readers. Her reputation mattered a great deal to her and I wondered how far she would go to protect it.

Makepeace returned at the appointed hour and again I showed him into the study before taking up my hiding place next door.

The man didn’t beat about the bush. “You have the money, I trust?”

“I’ve decided not to pay you.”

After a moment Makepeace said, “Have you taken leave of your senses, woman? Your good name…”

“Is as precious to me as all my writing names. Are you equally proud that your readers know you only as Auntie Anthea?” “What?”

“Did you really believe a successful writer facing a moral dilemma would embarrass herself by consulting the agony aunt of London Ladies? You should give more credit to a writer’s imagination. When I told you about the compromising photographs stolen from my married lover, I was indulging in artistic licence. There are no photographs. So you cannot be the thief.”

“I will not play your silly games…”