Ladies in Scarlet         Art and Accessories

I have never murdered anyone. Heavens, no! I can only imagine what must drive a man (or woman) to plot the death of another human being. I confess I have been told I have a temper, and I certainly will not mince words when challenged. But to resort to killing someone? I just do not have that in me.

Yet I know a great deal about murder. The tools, the methods – and a little about the criminal mind, as well. You see, it has fascinated me from a young age. Mark Twain said you should write what you know. So when I write, I write about murder.

It all began with this little book.

My father loved the dime novels. Particularity the Westerns. He would buy new ones every week and read them in his chair by the fire, as other men might read the newspaper or great works of literature. When I was 12, he went to London on a business trip, and when he returned, he had several new British novels. Among them was something very different. It caught my attention right away, and was compelling enough to cause me to steal it off his chair-side table and hasten to another room, door closed, to investigate. The thin volume was bright with color, with a gory murder illustration in gratuitous detail and emblazoned with the title "The Female Detective" boldly against the red background. I was enraptured.

In "The Female Detective" a woman referred to only as "Miss Gladden" or "G" solves a variety of crimes and mysteries, all while appearing to lead a normal life. At least that was my interpretation. She was, as far as I could tell, the first woman in her field, and had done so without pronouncement or accolades of any kind. Small seeds were being planted in my fertile young mind. If this woman can do this, why couldn't I? Elizabeth McManus's Female Detective Agency. It was a delicious little fantasy that I tucked myself into bed with at night, having grown too old to enjoy dolls.

As I grew older, reading mystery novels became a passion, just as it had for my father. Albeit, a guilty passion, and not one I shared with anyone, except for him. My family, if I had not mentioned before, was upper middle class and respectable. Respectable young women did not read Dime Novels.
I am the youngest in my family. My father owned a furniture business which was quite successful. My mother ran our house and did charity work, both occupations which bored me silly. My oldest sister, Catherine, was married and out of our house by the time I was 14. My second oldest sister Margaret, married soon after – to a boy from the neighborhood – and lived only a few doors down from us. My rakish brother James still lived at home. And there was me. By the time I was 20 I was still unmarried and I know my parents were anxious to get me off their hands. But I wasn't very social and the few boys who had come calling never suited me, nor I them. I believe some were even a bit frightened of me. Can you imagine that?

One boy who didn't seem to find me odd was a friend of my brother James, a Mr. Benjamin Finley. He was the younger brother of James' good friend Patrick actually. Ben was employed by the Chicago Police Department and had just been promoted to Junior Detective when I met him shortly before Christmas of 1891. He was a tall and rather awkward fellow, with pale skin and hair the color of apricots. But he had keen blue eyes that sparkled when we talked of murders and solving crimes – as well as mundane things like word puzzles and holiday cakes. We became fast friends almost immediately.

I confided to Ben that I enjoyed reading mystery novels – and I would even like to write one of my own someday. Rather than recite all the reasons why a young lady should not entertain such thoughts, he encouraged me to do so, and offered his assistance with “technical accuracy” from a police perspective. It had not occurred to me that one could not create a story completely from imagination, and that knowing how a “real” detective performs his duties might be helpful. I told him I would most certainly enlist his help (an offer I'm sure he would later regret) and perhaps he could even critique my manuscript as I progressed. It was so enjoyable to have a companion who shared my interests and didn't condemn my aspirations. Polite society was far less tolerant.

My parents always gave a lavish party on Christmas Eve. It was primarily to impress my father's business associates, but it included many of our relatives, friends and neighbors as well. It was the one time of the year my mother brought on additional household staff (beyond our regular cook and housekeeper) to help prepare and serve during the festivities. This year, she had hired a rather sinister-looking man, with dark, deep-set eyes and a perpetually grim expression, to play “butler” at our front door. I'm sure he was a fine gentlemen (my mother certainly checked all references before employing anyone) but I couldn't help but fantasize about him being involved in all sorts of felonious activities. So much so, that I found my self blushing when he would make eye contact with me. I took great care to note his features, his manners, all the things that I was sure would make a vivid description of an axe murderer or child molester in one of my stories someday.

Shortly after the new year, I went downtown to visit Ben at the police station. Ben was happy to show me around, and introduce me to the other detectives in his department. No mention was made of my writing aspirations, of course. I was rather disappointed to find out that the majority of his job was filling out paperwork and very little involved investigating gruesome murders using a magnifying glass, like Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson did. However, while I was there, a handcuffed man was brought in and “booked” before being locked in a cell on the lower level. I have no idea what his crime was, but I was exhilarated none the less.

In the bleak winter months, I took refuge in my room, reading through my father's collection of Beadle's novels, favoring scrappy young sleuths like “Will Somers, The Boy Detective” over tales of Kit Carson and Buffalo Bill. I began to think more and more of my own story ideas, and my desire to write the tale of a perfect murder. (Well, not so perfect that my hero - or perhaps heroine - could not solve the case.) Yet so many of the stories I read seemed so exotic – everything happening in faraway places, with extraordinary characters. I bemoaned my own, dull existence, so far removed from international intrigue. I was not sure I would know the “perfect” murder plot if it crept up behind me and stabbed me in the back with a ruby-handled dagger.

Then one morning at breakfast, Father was sifting through his morning paper as usual, when he came across a story that he found rather interesting.

“Says here,” he spoke to us in general, intending that we should all stop and pay attention, “that a man was hit by a cart last night on Washington Street while he was sleepwalking! Imagine that!

“Sleepwalking?” my mother replied, to indicate we were listening.

“Apparently” said my father, continuing to scan the paper for the details. “The man was in his night clothes, bare-footed. Stepped right in front of the iceman's wagon. Broke some bones – good heavens, it's a wonder he wasn't killed! Told the doctors had no idea how he got into the street!”

“Is that true?” I asked, now genuinely interested. “A person has no recollection of what they are doing while they are sleepwalking?”

“Seems so.” said my father. “Rather dangerous condition, I would say.”

“Indeed” said my mother, leisurely buttering a biscuit. “Very dangerous”.

“Indeed” I said. My mind was already racing ahead. “Dangerous.”

Want to read Will Somers, The Boy Detective?

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To be continued...