Crime on her Mind: Fifteen Stories of Female Sleuths from the Victorian Era to the Forties (1975) by Michele B. Slung

Author:Michele B. Slung [Slung, Michele B.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

The Murder at Fernhurst

Hulbert Footner

AS AN OFFICE BOY, a reporter, a playwright, an actor, an employee of a crooked investment house, and as an author, William Hulbert Footner (1879-1944) enjoyed a varied career. By birth a Canadian, he spent the later part of his life residing in a historic seventeenth-century house in Maryland. In addition to Madame Storey, he created two other sleuths: B. Enderby and Amos Lee Mappin. He also wrote novels of the criminal underworld and tales of backwoods adventure, the latter based on his experiences during a solitary 1,200-mile northern trek he took as a young man.

Rosika Storey chose to be called “Madame” because, as she states ruefully, “no one would believe that a woman as beautiful as I could be still unmarried—and respectable,” adding “but I am both, worse luck!” Actually, in the many stories and novels detailing her cases, she maintains a stern aloofness towards would-be suitors (most of them turn out to be villains, anyway), and, for the public at large, she cultivates an aura of mystery and goddesslike superiority. Describing herself as “a practical psychologist—specializing in the feminine,” she admits that there is both more publicity and more money in solving criminal cases, money being necessary to keep her in exquisite Fortuny gowns and to support her Gramercy Park menage, which includes her devoted secretary, Bella Brickley, and a pampered pet monkey.

In order to rest and to escape from the strain of the tremendous publicity that followed upon her success in the famous case of the Smoke Bandit, Madame Storey retired for a few days to the house of her friends, the Andrew Lipscombs, who lived in the Connecticut hills remote from any neighbor. I accompanied my employer, since she insisted that I needed a holiday as well as herself. We simply locked up our offices and went away, leaving the telephone to ring, the mail to accumulate, and the hordes of curiosity-seekers to mill around the door as they would.

We supposed that we had kept the place of our retreat a secret from all, but that fond hope was soon dissipated. Late on the night of our arrival as we were playing bridge with our friends in the blessed quiet of their house, Madame Storey was called to the telephone. She returned to the card table with the grave, remote look that I knew so well, her working look, and my heart sank.

“Well, Bella, we have another case,” she said.

I laid down my cards. It was useless to protest, of course.

“There’s been a terrible affair down at Fremont-on-the-Sound,” she went on; “a gentleman has been found in his study, shot dead, and a young girl has been arrested. The man who called me up, evidently the girl’s lover, begged me to come and try to get her off. His voice, coming through the receiver, had an extraordinary quality; young and manly; shaken with grief and agitation; yet proud and confident in his girl; it won me completely. I said I would drive right down.

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