Chapter 28. Our Miss Clew
Here was a lived-in room, complete with cat, telly and smoking kettle.
The cat opened one eye.
“That’s Ceawlain, King of Wessex,” the hostess introduced. The cat closed its eye again.
The woman hoisted the kettle, poured water into an earthenware pot and sighed ecstatically.
“I’m glad this day’s done!” she announced. “I never expected it would be so dreadful.” She took stale-looking brown bread from a tin and began buttering slices.
“So, you’re American,” she said briskly. “I don’t see how THAT’s going to work.”
Scarlet cast back in her mind for the exact phrasing of the advertisement. She recalled the lessons of her college days selling magazines door to door and sat down without invitation.
“If you’re trying to modernize Victorian novels,” she began, “Surely you want the largest market possible.”
“I don’t want them Americanized,” said the woman sharply, “That wouldn’t do at all.”
Scarlet tried to look bright. “What is the series, exactly?”
The old lady began slicing an apple and placing each apple slice on a piece of brown bread. She poured herself a cup of tea and sat down.
“Our Miss Clew,” she said brusquely. “Ever heard of it?”
Scarlet’s face flushed an intense red. This was nothing short of a miracle.
“Heard of it?” She gasped, “I’m reading The Whiplash Puzzle right now!” And she pulled it from her bag. “Are you Esmé Hope Bottomley?”
The old woman’s face crumpled as if she might cry.
“You’re the only one who’s read the books,” she gasped. Then she seemed to regain control. “Do you suspect the vicar?”
“Does a vicar come in later? Because this mystery takes place at a ladies’ college. Or do you refer to the dissenting preacher?”
“No,” said Miss Bottomley with satisfaction, “There is no vicar.”
Scarlet laughed out loud. She had been “tested”. And she had passed.
“Miss Bottomley, I am so glad to meet you,” she said. “I admire your writing so much.”
Miss Bottomley snorted. “I haven’t written a line in fifty years. Life got rather rudely in the way.”
“Please do tell me about the job,” asked Scarlet.
But Miss Bottomley was already busy munching. Instead, for an answer, she reached into a pocket of her apron and produced a letter from Coltsfoot & Briggins, publishers.
“Dear Madam,” it said,
“We are in receipt of your letter of the ninth and would be willing to extend our deadline until April 1st allowing you to attempt your own revision of the “Miss Clew” series. If you feel you are unable or if the revision does not meet with our needs we have in house editors on whose expertise we can call. Please feel free to contact me if you experience difficulties.
Nigel Mountjoy
Editor in Chief”
“How perfectly obnoxious,” said Scarlet. “What an awful man. Have you signed anything with these people?”
Miss Bottomley sighed. “I sold the series long ago. They don’t have to do this for me. They don’t have to do anything for me. I just hoped to prevent anything really embarrassing – Miss Clew becoming a hooch dancer or a James Bond spy with knives in her shoes.”
“I totally agree,” said Scarlet. “She’s so wonderfully daring and intrepid with such imaginative ideas. Will they allow you to keep the story Victorian and simply update the language?”
“I don’t know what they will allow,” said Miss Bottomley. “Modernize” is the only word they used. I just don’t want to be left out of it entirely. I think they were surprised I was still alive.”
Scarlet saw at once what was required. Miss Bottomley needed a liaison with the publishers – a go-between with writing ability whom she could trust.
“I will negotiate with them for you,” she offered, “To make the new books something you can be proud of. I’ve been negotiating with publishers for years as my vita shows.” She produced the piece of paper and laid it smartly on the table. This was certainly true, although the publishers usually said “no” at the end. Poetry being so difficult.
“You have the job if you want it,” sighed Miss Bottomley. “You can’t imagine how dreadful all the other applicants were. They all took me for the housemaid. I must say it’s instructive to see how people treat the help. They really display their true colors.”
Scarlet had to agree.
“What does the position pay?” asked Scarlet.
“I’ve no idea,” said Miss Bottomley helplessly. “What do you think is fair?”
“Sixty pounds?” asked Scarlet shyly.
“Sixty pounds a week?”
“No – for the whole three months.”
“Let’s say ten pounds for the first week and we’ll see how it goes,” said Miss Bottomley. She’s not completely gaga, thought Scarlet.
“That would be acceptable.”
Miss Bottomley read slowly through Scarlet’s qualifications.
“You live in the country?”
“Not anymore. I’m looking for a place in town. I’m getting a divorce.”
“There’s plenty of room upstairs,” Miss Bottomley waved a hand. “I don’t go up there. But it would be quite convenient for you to be in the same building as I hope you will see.”
“But I have a baby,” Scarlet said. “So I don’t know –“
Miss Bottomley glowed. “A baby? How old?”
“Six weeks.”
“Six weeks old? And you’re getting a divorce? What did the devilish man do?”
Scarlet told her. Miss Bottomley gasped like a benevolent gudgeon.
“Thank goodness you found a competent solicitor! They’re hardly thick upon the ground. Certainly, I’ve never had such luck.”
How could the resident of this vast house in such a toney square not know any decent solicitors? Scarlet tried to figure out the politest way to enquire about Miss Bottomley’s peculiar living situation.
“Have you always lived in this house?”
“Good heavens no,” said Miss Bottomley. “I was a pensioner in a bedsit. I won the tontine – a year ago, now.”
“Tontine?”
“Last one alive sweeps the pot,” said Miss Bottomley with satisfaction. “There’s got to be some benefit to living to 88 years old.”
And the story spilled out.
Miss Bottomley had been the only child of a country parson who scrupulously educated her as a hanger-on of rich county families – some of whom were her relations. He clearly saw no other life for his daughter than “sponger”, flatly telling her she wasn’t “pretty” enough to marry. Scarlet could see how this kind of life spawned Miss Clew’s character – a skeptical observer born with principles in an unscrupulous world.
Miss Bottomley had written the Miss Clew series – thirteen books in total – as her virgin flight into the world of literature, securing just enough cash to transfer to London and secure her own flat – a scandal causing many relatives at the time to loudly wash their hands of her. But Miss Bottomley’s newer, more personal novels were unsuccessful at reaching an audience – several, indeed, remaining unpublished. Scarlet made a note to get her hands on these manuscripts at the first possible opportunity.
Miss Bottomley said that as she moved into her forties she became less and less able to “suffer fools” (she meant the literary world) and was reduced to taking in typing. The “flat” became a bedsit – she was even forced to sell off the Miss Clew series – her only asset. Love – marriage – courtship – were completely out of the question as prerogatives of the comfortably off. Some sad experience with a curate soured poor Miss Bottomley even on the modest comforts of the church.
Therefore, it was with considerable surprise when at age 86 she was informed that she was the sole living heir to the Pursuivant Estate (“My dear mother was a Pursuivant.”)
She had never even met Mabel Pursuivant – ten years her elder – a woman who preferred foreign travel to a life at home.
One year later, she inherited this house, indeed, this entire square. Her shoulders rocked with laughter. Who would ever have believed such a thing? What had become of the six daughters of Lord Henry Pursuivant – and the two nephews of Mr. Roundswell? Dead, it seemed. Everybody died. Nobody could muster up an offspring.
“Unlucky lot. Lumbering me with this place,” she laughed. “Well, it’s a good address. Certainly comfortable. I took one tour when I moved in – I don’t go upstairs now. There’s a cleaning staff, hired by the estate agent, so should you encounter bugs or dust simply inform me and I can assure you heads will roll.”
“Thank you,” said Scarlet warmly. “What will you charge?”
“Oh, my goodness,” Miss Bottomley demurred, “I couldn’t charge anything for having you on permanent call! It’s to suit my convenience! What we’ll need to see about is how it suits you.”
Good luck all around! So much glorious, clean, quiet space, warm – and in the heart of London! An entire square? Her new employer must be very rich – it was obvious she hadn’t yet come to terms with it – at the age of 88 perhaps never would. She should be receiving abject letters of accommodation from her publishers, not condescending brush-offs! Something was very wrong there.
Miss Bottomley had suddenly emerged as more of a fairy godmother than an employer and Scarlet was determined to return the favor.
Alysse Aallyn 
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