The Doll's House

Ivy Marwood finished writing a few lines and placed the sheet of paper atop a stack that already lay neatly on the desk. Next to the papers lay the photograph of a black girl about eight years old in a linen dress, along with a letter from the Christian Women's Brigade. Ivy took the stack, wrapped it in brown paper, and tied it with string.

"Here it is, Mrs. Beele," she said to the woman who entered with a tea tray. "'The Case of the Ruby Dagger,' ready to send off to the journal." Ivy glanced at the photograph. "Is the girl on her way?"

"Yes, Miss. The Women's Brigade will bring her tomorrow," Mrs. Beele said, taking the parcel.

"Please do not stand on formality, Mrs. Beele. Call me Ivy. William was a stickler for propriety but I am not."

"I know, dear. It is strange, his not being here. Before I came in, I fancied I heard him coming up the stairs. I almost put two cups on the tray."

"He always liked his tea after an execution."

Ivy's adopted father, William Marwood, had passed away a week ago, and "The Ruby Dagger" was her first case since his death. It had been a simple affair; a man desperate to pay back his gambling debts murdered his wife in order to sell her jewels. Ivy caught him while he was attempting to disinter her body after learning that she had been buried with her famed ruby necklace, upon which hung a large, sharp gem rumored to have been used to assassinate the shah. As usual, after the man's arrest, trial and sentencing, Ivy had written up the case to be published in The Shopkeeper, the most popular monthly journal in London. It was strange for her to see someone else placing the noose around the condemned man's neck, as that had always been her father's duty as London's executioner.

William Marwood's death exposed a hollow place in Ivy's life; she had no real companions. Though she acted as a confidante for many throughout London and beyond, she had no confidantes of her own. Mrs. Beele, who had raised Ivy since she became Mr. Marwood's ward, refused to be her only friend.

"You need to get out," Mrs. Beele told her after William's funeral. "You no longer have the old man's health as an excuse. See the sights! Find a young man!"

Ivy gave her a look. She was no tourist, and the only young men who courted her seemed to do so for the sake of experiencing an illicit thrill or the possibility of acquiring an exotic souvenir. Her other suitors were foreign businessmen eager to have her beauty and illustriousness as feathers in their caps. Ivy easily repelled both groups by giving them a tour of her laboratory, in which she kept medical equipment, jarred organs, both human and animal, and an ice-cooled chamber in which, owing to her primary profession as a coroner, she always kept one or two corpses.

"What about Mademoiselle Francine?" Mrs. Beele asked.

"I am afraid we have not spoken in years. After we graduated from Queens College she returned home to fight the slavers in Mpala. I hear things are not going well."

"What about Sarah Davies? She was like a big sister to you."

"We have corresponded since she and her husband moved to Lagos. Recently she's been convalescing in Madeira; it seems she never got rid of her cough."

"That is a shame," Mrs. Beele sighed. Then she ventured, "How about a ward? Someone to whom you can pass on your legacy, like William did for you."

"I won't adopt her," Ivy said, and then realized that she already pictured a girl in her mind.

Mrs. Beele smiled. "Shall I call the Christian Women's Brigade?"

Though Ivy was born in the East End, the papers reported news of her exploits with headlines such as "Egyptian Detective Ends Vicar's Viscous Murder Spree" and "West Indies Woman Foils Foul Five in Mayfair...