#Okay so apparently Wells didn’t join the Fabians until 1903 but whatever

[birdofdawning]

The Ghost Who Wrote to The Times

(Okay so I wanted to write one of those Victorian short stories where the men are all gathered at their club smoking cigars or the young women are sitting in their old nursery after a ball, and someone starts telling an odd story. And I wanted it to be Bering and Wells, but with Our Myka, not an anachronistic Myka I had to explain away.

So. It’s the current year and our heroes retired into civilian life some time ago, having come out of their Warehouse careers mostly intact in mind and body (perhaps Myka’s leg sometimes hurts in bad weather; perhaps Pete hesitates before he goes anywhere underground…). And they are at a dinner party at a restaurant.

The narrator — these stories must always have an anonymous narrator — only knows them slightly. As for the other characters, they only exist in this story and I wouldn’t recognise them if I passed them on the street.

“I knew a ghost who wrote letters to The Times” said H.G.

No-one responded. The conversation — general complaints about public transport in San Francisco — had died a few minutes earlier and no-one seemed too keen to start it up again. Most of us had indulged a little too heavily by this point and were starting to feel tired; even Pete Latimer was staring blankly into his coffee. The waiting staff had been pointedly clearing the dishes off the table and Ivan had just mentioned his early start. We were obviously about to call it a night.

“The ghost was of an acquaintance who died. Of illness” H.G. went on after a moment, “There was no question about the matter. My brother attended his service. And yet the next month, and regularly, for a time, after that, the dead man continued to send correspondence to the editor of The Times.”

There was a pause, and then Josie said “This isn’t going to be one of those stories that you start telling and then Myka and Pete make loud coughing noises and change the subject? With lots of meaningful glares? Because national security or whatever?”

“Oh I hope not,” said Myka, eyes closed.

“Alright,” Josie sat back in her chair. “How was your dead man writing to The Times? Was it a scam or something?”

“No, no,” assured H.G. “No scam. The letters were all quite in his style. And were written with the insights and ideas that had caught people’s attention in the first place.”

Myka began restraightening her place setting. “And you would like to tell us all about it.”

“Oh, please, can you? Can she? It sounds so intriguing!” Ivan’s friend (whose name I never caught) had only met H.G. that night and was Enamoured. We were used to the phenomenon.

“Oh, well, if you’re interested!” said H.G. brightly, signalling the poor hovering wait staff for another glass of wine, “briefly, of course, and with, perhaps, a few interesting observations I may have made at the time.”

Myka sighed, and H.G. sat back in her chair and regarded us with the air of someone about to give small children a treat.

“My ghost’s name was… well, I shall call him Quentin Quillian Quire. Which is a funny name for me to choose, but you will see why in a moment. Now Quentin Quillian Quire was a Cambridge man with a first in mathematics, and an inquiring mind. He made his living setting exams and writing primers and textbooks for students. And he had very progressive ideas about… oh, socialism and feminism and colonial restitutions and that sort of thing, all of which he shared loudly and liberally with all about him.”

“Aren’t people like that such a joy?” said Myka.

“He was a regular correspondent to the editor of The Times” went on H.G, who seemed not to have heard, “and was beginning to make a name for himself as a Voice of Reform. And not without reason; his letters were plainly written but filled with such earnest description of the realities of life for millions of Londoners, that they really caught the attention of the reformers at the time, if not the Public At Large. Charles (my brother, you know) knew him fairly well — they were both members of a socialist organisation — and they often attended meetings together. I met him once or twice, perhaps, and thought him a little excitable but pleasant enough.

“And then Quentin Quillian Quire got sick. It took hold quickly and he was dead in six weeks. It shocked everyone. Charles went to the service, as I said, and he said it was almost all fellow socialists. The only family member who attended was an uncle who seemed to disprove of the service, the attendees, and of Quentin Quillian Quire himself for (we assumed) having the presumption to die without consulting the family first. All and all a dour matter.”

“They didn’t approve of left wing politics?” wondered Ivan, “Is that why the family…?”

“I haven’t the Earthliest idea. I imagine they did not. Either way they were determined to have as much to do with him while he was dead as they had while he was alive — which I strongly suspect was very little, since he didn’t have anyone… but that comes later.”

“Later?” said Pete. “Hasn’t he just died?”

“He has indeed, Pete. Now. This was when Charles and I had only been in London for a few months. Charles was tutoring and trying his hand at a little journalism on the side, and I was a machinist in…” She stopped abruptly and blinked several times, seemly trying to regain her thread.

“At a tech start up?” offered Myka, “This would have been about twenty-five years ago I’m assuming?”

“Did they have tech start ups twenty-five years ago?” wondered Pete, and Myka shot him a level glare and said that of course they did, even if they weren’t called that yet.

Josie rolled her eyes. “You’re both using that retired government spook ‘this is a code’ tone again and we can all hear it.”

“’Government spooks?’” gasped Ivan’s friend.

“Hardly a ‘start up’,” contradicted H.G, ignoring her, “I was working for a family firm that made precision machine innards — the things that go inside barometers and clocks and gages and so-on. I learned a lot about craftmanship and even more low Italian. But that’s not important. Anyway, Charles and I stayed with an Aunt and our cousin Isabel in a little house near Regent’s Park, and were (on the whole) very happy. And, as we had started rolling our vowels, we been taken up by the younger representatives of literary London and it was not uncommon for a friend or two who found themselves in our neighbourhood to call in around suppertime for a drink and a chat. Fortunately our aunt habitually retired early and was a little deaf, so we could remain unchaper—”

Myka cleared her throat, and H.G. hurriedly carried on “But yes, to my point. One evening we were entertaining a dear friend, J. We were drinking very indifferent brandy and talking about people we knew and what was wrong with them, and J pulled out The Times to show us… Oh, I don’t know, something he didn’t like in the letters column. And Charles said ‘Oh, look at this, isn’t it queer?’ and pointed to a letter on the other page.”

“I love how all H.G’s stories sound like Victorian pastiches,” Josie shared with me in a loud aside, “The sheer Britishness seeps out of her.”

“I think it’s mostly affectation,” said Myka.

“We looked at where he was pointing,” said H.G, repressively, “and saw a long comment on… the benefits of co-education I think. But it was signed ‘Q. Q. Quire, Holborn’. ‘Well?’ I said, ‘I should say I think I agree with Mr Quire once again; but I don’t see why you should make such a fuss about him.’ But J was quicker than I. ‘That is odd’, he said, ‘it’s his politics and quite in his style too. Is someone playing a game? Because I don’t think it very funny’. And then, of course, I did see. Q. Q. Quire was dead.”

“… He’d sent it before he died, and it had only been published,” guessed Ivan’s friend.

“No, but that is an excellent guess, my dear! You may have an almond.” H.G kindly offered her the bowl she had captured earlier in the evening. “Quire had been dead over a month at this point, and The Times is a daily paper. Moreover, it was responding to a letter that had appeared only a few days earlier.”

“And I’m guessing his actual name was as distinctive as Q. Q. Quire?” mused Myke, obviously getting interested now despite herself. “A co-incidence was unlikely?”

“Indeed.” Giving Myka a quick sideways glance, H.G. carelessly swirled her wine in her outstretched hand and looked pleased with herself. “Well now,” she went on, “Wasn’t that an odd situation? A dead man writing to The Times. Charles and J asked around, but nobody knew anything. And Quire’s death appeared quite genuine, with nothing notable about it. It was, sadly, unremarkable for the time.”

“Why, what was happening at the time?” asked Ivan with a frown. “This was, when, the late Nineties?”

“Oh, ‘Cool Britannia’!” gushed Ivan’s friend, “Blur and Pulp! Suede! Oh, you must have seen some great concerts!”

“Quite.” said H.G. “I was an inveterate concert-attender. Now, J knew the assistant editor at The Times — the one who dealt with the actual letters sent to the Editor — and he confirmed that it was definitely the same writer. It was the same careful hand on each letter. But there was another interesting thing: he (the assistant editor) seemed quite unsurprised that Quire was still writing. Because he was entirely unaware that Quire had died.”

“He’s not really dead!” yelled Pete, causing Ivan’s friend to knock over her glass.

“He’s really and truly dead,” said H.G, passing Ivan’s friend her napkin. “Quire simply wasn’t well known enough to Society At Large for his demise to have caused much of a splash. Other than his socialist friends, no-one seemed to be aware of him except as a gentleman who argued a lot in the letters column of The Times. And the family only placed a death notice in a local parish newsletter.”

“What did the assistant editor say when your friend told him that Quire was dead?” asked Ivan’s friend.

“Ah, but he did not tell him!” said H.G, patting her hand indulgently, “No, my dear, it was just too wonderful and strange. We wanted to see what would happen next!” She reached for her wine.

Myka rested her chin on her hand. “Huh.”

“Wot,” said H.G, glass half raised.  

“Oh, I was just wondering...”

H.G. narrowed her eyes “Were you.”

“Yes. I was wondering… who decided to write a story about it first?” inquired Myka slyly.

H.G. smiled. “Well, now that you mention it…” she said, examining her wineglass nonchalantly, “We may have perhaps jotted down a few idle notions one evening. Purely outlines you understand. Nothing to speak of really...”

“Oh of course!” agreed Myka, “just a few outlines. By you and your friends. Many years ago. And I guess you’ve forgotten the details now, after so long. Your memory…”

“My memory is excellent, darling,” bristled H.G. “Let me see.”

“Wait,” said Pete, “this other guy, Jay, do you know who he is too? Is that why you’re getting all me when I spot a new food truck?”

“Yeah,” said Myka, “He’s a food truck. But I’ll tell you another time. Or we’ll be here all night.”

H. G. was staring blankly across at a poster of the Bosphorus and frowning. “J came up with a very silly story, all Stevenson and ‘Bagdad on the Thames’,” she said after a moment. “He decided that a group of men, inspired by the writings of Q. Q. Quire (whose name must only be spoken in reverential whispers), had formed a secret society to carry on the blessed work of the ‘Benefactor of All Mankind’. Each member was the guardian of a sentence written by Quire, and every Thursday night the secret Brotherhood of Qs would come together in the darts room of a local pub and randomly bring their sentences together in a new order — I forget how, but it was very funny — and send the resulting text to the Times so all could read the Master’s words anew!” H. G. sniggered, remembering; then, noticing our bemused faces, she looked faintly apologetic. “Ah, yes. Well. It was very funny at the time. To us”

“What about Charles?”

H.G. frowned. “Oh, he wrote some rather insipid tale about… the ghost of Quire lingering in the house, and somnambulism, and Quire’s landlady doing automatic writing or some such...” she waved her fingers vaguely.

“And you…?” Myka was leaning forward intently.

Pete frowned “I know that look.”

She rolled her eyes. “Shut up, Pete.”

He studied her for a moment, then turned to the rest of us. “Yeah, it took me a while in the early days, I admit. But once H.G. showed up I realised: That face? is Myka’s makin’ time—”

Myka thrust a finger into his face. “You finish that sentence Latimer, and I swear to god—!” She lunged for the empty Turkish Delight bowl, “I will stab you. In the arm. With this tiny fork.”

Pete, who had just opened his mouth, closed it again.

“I believe I was telling a story,” H.G. interjected mildly.

“Yeah, yeah you were. Sorry. Carry on,” said Myka, still eyeballing Pete.

“Thank you,” said H.G. She thought a moment. “Though in fairness to Pete, darling, I must admit that you do—" Myka waved her fork in the air. “Yes, well. Let me see.” Helena frowned.

“You wrote a story,” reminded Ivan’s friend.

“That’s right. I wrote rather an odd story — well, an outline, really — about how Quire had actually been electrocuted while setting up a telegr— that is, a telephone… and his consciousness was now spread throughout the telephone network… a blind, dreaming mind using the electrical system as a massive brain. Caught up in fragmented memories. And every now and then, when the connections were right, the mind of Quentin Quire would remember itself enough to compose another missive to the editor of the Times, as it had done so often before. And this would arrive at the newspaper the next day as a cable.”

“Helena!” Myka’s eyes were shining. “Did you invent transhumanism when you were nineteen?”

“I don’t know,” said H.G, startled. “Did I?”

(But Ivan said, no, that would be nice wouldn’t it? However Mary Shelley… And Myka interrupted to explain that he had misunderstood and here is what she actually meant… And Ivan said Ah, but mid-Century Science Fiction… And the rest of us looked vacantly at our wine glasses until Pete said Hey if I wanted to listen to English professors argue I would have become a janitor at the U like my dear old mother always wanted. How about we save the work talk for Monday and hear about this ghost.)

“Well then, apparently I didn’t,” said H.G. “And anyway, it was a crude piece. I couldn’t work out how his consciousness — the electro-chemical impulses in the nerves of his brain — got to be mapped onto the electrical network in the first place. So I left it.” She shrugged.

“It wouldn’t explain the handwriting anyway,” Ivan’s friend enthused.

“No.” said H.G.

“But you brother’s story would have! Because the possessed person…”

“Quite,” said H.G, reclaiming the almond bowl. “But as I was saying. We entertained ourselves for an evening and then went on with our lives. And then what do you think happened?"

Pete spread his hands wide. “Something came down the chimney! And it was… Mary Poppins! And she said ‘Oh Helena, you’re so clever and witty and obviously brush your hair one-hundred times every night, do make me a cup of tea, my dear, with just a hint of milk, and perhaps some of those little scone-things—'”

Myka threw a napkin at him, and Josie caught it and made as if to push it into his mouth.

“Another letter was published,” guessed Ivan.

“It was. One afternoon J bursts in waving a journal. ‘Look at this’ he says. We obligingly look at this. There, in the letters column, is another polemic by one Q. Q. Quire. On the plight of unmarried women being abandoned by society, with several quite practical things society could do to help said women, if society did want to help such women. Which it didn’t.

“And I was struck by how… important this was to the writer. Charles’ friends meant well, they truly did. But their ideas were so grand and unwieldly, requiring sweeping social transformation; and were, I’m afraid, largely ignorant of the everyday struggles of the working class. But Quire’s writings weren’t like that. They showed an honesty and realism about the problems—"

H.G. broke off. “Forgive me, you’re just wanting to hear a story. Yes, so. I was intrigued anew by Quire’s passion. Had he always written like that? I couldn’t recall. I determined to find out.”

I sat up. “Did you use a microfiche?!” I asked eagerly.

“No! But wouldn’t that have been fun! No, I visited a library and read through their back-copies of The Times.”

Myka frowned. “Was it tricky getting access to—?” She shock her head, “No, you can tell me later. You did a textual analysis of previous letters?”

“I suppose I did! Quire had been writing semi-regularly for almost two years. He used a good solid style of argument straight from the schoolroom — outline the problem, provide examples, offer blame and/or solutions, conclusion: ‘I hope all intelligent Englishmen will agree with me that this sad state of affairs cannot be allowed to continue, etc, etc’. And there were several clichéd phrases he was fond of, and once you noticed this you kept tripping up over them. All in all his style was pedestrian but utilitarian.

“And, to begin with, he stuck to the talking points of any good Fabian. “More exposure to the arts to raise the consciousness of the working classes” and so-on. But then, about eight months into his campaign — in October — something changed. It began very small: an anecdote about the personal safety of several female staff in private households. Not the sort of thing a good middle class socialist tended to think about in those days. And it continued from there: how employers could hold their crucial letters of recommendation over the heads of departing employees… the cruel attitude to mental health and addiction… the brutally long hours staff were expected to work. And the way he described these things… It gave the letters a… a weight… an impressiveness that couldn’t help but strike the reader. And an urgency! You felt that something ought to be done — immediately done! — to improve the situations he spoke of.” H.G. shook her head, as if to dislodge her thoughts.

Then, regarding us all with a rather condescending smile, she leant on the table and steepled her fingers. “Now it seemed to me that these insights into the life of the poor were more than one would expect a vague middle class mathematician to have noticed. So I posited that he had been speaking to someone who actually knew what it was to be a cleaner or a maid. And I wondered who.”

Ivan nodded. “Yes, obviously. Did he use a cleaning service?”

H.G. frowned and shot him a look. “Yes, actually, as it happens, I knew that the rooms Quire rented used live-in cleaners. So I determined that would be my first place of inquiry.I proceeded to locate and interrogate the landlady.”

Myka frowned. “Hum. So a busy property manager… gotta be a lotta stuff on her mind... and then here’s some teenager with machine oil on her t-shirt showing up asking questions about previous tenants. I have to wonder if she was that happy taking the time out of her day to be ‘interrogated’ by, well, by a child?”

“We shall never know, Myka,” replied H.G. leaning towards her, “because I didn’t approach her as a teenager with machine oil on her t-shirt.”

“No?”

“No. You see, I approached her…” She lowered her voice. “… déguisé.”

They grinned at each other.

“MA!” Pete yelled at Josie, pointing, “They’re doing that staring at each other thing again! In French! And I just ate!”

Myka punched him in the arm, while Josie carefully explained what would happen if he ever called her ‘Ma’ again.

“Yes,” H.G. continued over the noise, “I wore my best dress and hat, and took some of Charles’ socialist books. And I knocked on the door of Mr Quire’s former residence as Mrs Edith Bland, come to return some literature borrowed from Mr Quire before my recent trip abroad.” And her already clipped accent seemed to become even more refined as she spoke. “So, the landlady—”

“The property manager,” corrected Myka.

“The property manager was summoned to inform me that, sadly, Mr Quire had passed on some two months previous, and here was the address of his family if I wished to pay my respects and return his property.

“‘Oh no!’ said Mrs Edith Bland, paling attractively at the news, ‘Poor Mr Quire! Was it an accident?’ No no, said our friend the property manger, Mr Quire died of an illness, most unexpected. ‘Oh how awful,’ said Mrs Bland. ‘But, do you know, I am not at all surprised: he was such an unlucky fellow! I remember saying the same thing—’ (this is a clever bit Pete, pay attention) ‘—saying the same thing last October or was it September, when he injured his hand. And it took so long to heal, I dare say because he would keep working! I did warn him to rest it — his brothers and sisters in the reform movement would take up the slack meantime! But he would keep writing his letters…!’”

(“Mrs Bland wasn’t afraid of a little light conversation,” observed Josie.

“No she was not,” said H.G. with a smirk.) “’Oh but Mrs Bland,’ said our excellent property manager, ‘you understand he didn’t write those letters himself. At least, they were his words but he didn’t hold the pen if you see what I mean. Susan, one of my cleaners, did it on her afternoon off. She has a fair hand and I believe Mr Quire paid her something for each bit of writing she did for him.’”

There were murmurs of understanding around the table. “That explains the handwriting!” said Ivan’s friend, and Josie slapped the table, crowing “So it was a scam! Like I said at the start!”

H.G. looked thoughtful. “No, I really wouldn’t describe it as such. Not really. Because… Well, I’ll finish and then you can decide.”

“You asked to speak to Susan, of course,” said Myka.

“I tried. Lord knows what excuse I would have come up with for me to do so, but I didn’t get that far. The property manager became rather grim and said that she had had to let Susan go. That the silly girl had gotten ideas above her station and that was one thing that she (the property manager) would not abide with.”

“How old-fashioned!” exclaimed Ivan’s friend.

“Well, the Nineties in England was an old fashioned place.”

“Thatcher,” nodded Ivan perceptively.

“Anyway, there was no more to be gotten from the property manager. So I carried on with my own work. I had an actual job, you remember. And I waited until Sunday afternoon.”

“You questioned the other cleaners on their day off,” said Pete.

“I did. And they had heard that Susan had found a new place at a… well, a motel. A motel near Farringdon Station. So off I went.”

Suddenly H.G. stopped and regarded us all sternly. “You people don’t walk anymore! You just jump into your cars and drive around. I believe you’d live in your cars if you could. You’re like infants. Now listen to me, I used to walk miles every day and—"

“So off you went,” interrupted Myka.

“What? Oh, yes, I went to the coaching hou—”

“Motel”

“—Motel, and asked for Susan Goode.”

“This time disguised as a stable-hand!” shouted Josie. “No, a street urchin! No, a mysterious dominoed lady, possibly of aristocratic bearing!”

H.G. gave her a superior look. “I was dressed as the daughter of a Kentish shopkeeper. Which I was. Am.”

“In her crop-top and One-Star shoes,” suggested Pete.

“And enormous trousers,” said Myka.

“With cargo pockets,” said Pete.

“All of this and more,” assured H.G. with a majestic wave of her hand, “I was indeed a vision as I stood in Clerkenwell Road asking for Susan.

“I remember that she was out but they said they were expecting her back soon, and that I could wait in the kitchen. And when she did arrive… well, to cut a long story short I simply introduced myself and put it to her that she was writing to The Times as Quentin Quire. She denied it at first, but not for very long. You see, she was proud of what she was doing. She believed in it. She believed that she was carrying on Quire’s work.”

“The staff are starting to clean up,” I observed.

“I’m almost finished. And not before time too: I have to be out at Miramar tomorrow morning to test a Thing — Oh, I meant to tell you about that!” she said turning to me, “It’s really quite exciting — an old idea of mine. Rather brilliant, actually. You know those turbines…”

Myka nudged her elbow. “SUSAN!”

“Of course, yes. Quite right. But make sure you ask me about it next week!” she pointed at me emphatically.

“Ha. H.G’s schnockered,” said Josie.

“You’re all schnockered,” said Pete, fondly.

“I’m not schnockered! I switched to water! I switch to water ages ago!” Myka huffed.

“So. Susan?” encouraged Ivan’s friend.

“’The Problem of Susan’” said Ivan.

H.G. raised her eyebrows but apparently decided to ignore him. “Yes. So, I suggested to Susan that Mr Quire had asked her to write his letters for him after he had hurt his hand. And she admitted that yes, that was how they started but then his hand had gotten badly infected, so she carried on. And then, when it had gotten better, Mr Quire had said that she was quite the little muse and that he didn’t see why they shouldn’t continue as they had been.”

Pete frowned “Wait, I’m not sure I like the sound of that. We sure this Quire was a good guy? Why was the girl fired again?”

“No no, I really don’t think there was anything like that happening. Quire was quite an innocent in his way. But I only met him the once.”

“What was Susan like?” asked Ivan’s friend.

“Oh, small, smaller than me, anyway. Maybe a year or two older. Blonde. Unremarkable to look at, perhaps. But shrewd, practical, quick. She understood the world very well. Her only weak spot seemed to be Quire — she adored him in the truest sense of the word.”

(“That means she worshiped him like a god” Myka whispered to Pete. “You know, you won’t believe this, but I did actually go to college,” Pete whispered back. “Of course you did, baby, of course you did, you ignore the mean lady,” whispered Josie, patting his shoulder kindly.)

H.G. was gazing at her empty glass musingly.

“Susan,” prompted Myka again, gentler now.

“Susan.” H.G. looked blank for a moment, then found her thread again. “Yes, Susan couldn’t say enough about Quire. He would have become a Great Man, and she knew that Providence had a plan for us all, but it was a tragedy that Mr Quire had been taken from us before he could begin his reforms. And Mr Quire really cared about those from the lower stations like her; and he never minded her stopping their writing to tell him about something that had happened to her or someone she knew, but he actually used these stories to make people pay attention more, and want to do something to help. And Mr Quire took the time to show her how to write an argument so people would understand, and he said she showed a real talent for it, imagine! And so-on.

“And when I had really won her confidence she told me that Mr Quire had spoken to her of how the plight of the underclass was going to come to an end shortly, and soon the workhouse doors would be thrown open and all the men and women would be welcomed into society—”

“Wait, the workhouse?” asked Ivan.

“I expect she was speaking metaphorically,” explained H.G. “Anyway, Quire had won over a devout believer in Susan. She spent her only afternoon off sitting with him and helping him construct letters that would Reform Society.”

“Until she was fired,” said Myka.

“Until she was fired. Which can’t have been too long before Quire had become sick. I fancied I could point to the exact week — Quire abruptly stopped talking about social reform and began explaining how the train service could be made more efficient.” She smiled at us. “Which was what made me remember this in the first place — you all complaining about the subway.”

Josie threw up her hands. “Hey, someone needs to do something! This week I was late to work four mornings in a row! And I’m the manager, I’m supposed to be setting an example!”

“You need a Q. Q. Quire,” said Myka.

“You could be a Q. Q. Quire!” suggested Pete. “’Be the Quentin Q Quire you wish to see in the world’.”

“Did Susan know Quire had died?” asked Ivan’s friend.

“Ye–es…” H.G. screwed her eyes up, trying to remember. “Yes, I don’t remember how she had found out. But she wouldn’t have written her own letters otherwise. Because she felt so strongly that his work was important and that it had to continue. That it would make a difference.”

She frowned suddenly. “And the funny thing… the ridiculous thing… was that she believed she was simply following Quire’s teaching. That she didn’t matter at all — it was still Quire writing in her mind. She didn’t see that what had made his writing so…” she gestured violently, “so… effective! So persuasive in the first place! …was her.”

There was a silence.

After a moment Ivan’s friend said “So Jay… his story… was sort of right after all. In a way, I mean. The secret society worshiping Q. Q. Quire.”

H.G. smiled wearily at her. “Yes, perhaps. In a way.” She blinked for a moment. “You may have another almond,” she decided, magnanimously.

“What happened to Susan? Did she keep writing?” asked Josie.

H.G. looked down. “I don’t know. When we parted she certainly intended to carry on. I remember that. It was the most important thing in the world to her. And I meant to see her again, when we both had the time. Another Sunday afternoon. But then suddenly I was pregnant, and having to leave my lovely job, and Charles was being an oaf about it, and to be quite honest, I forgot all about her. Until tonight.”

She looked up and gave us another smile. “That’s not a good ending. How about this: And we never again saw ‘Q. Q. Quire’ corresponding with the Editor in the letters column of The Times.”

There was another pause. We all seemed to be trying to think of something to say. 

“That was so interesting! A real little mystery!” Ivan’s friend offered after a moment.

“It was sort-of a scam,” said Josie, “in a way.”

“I hadn’t realised how backward labor relations were in Britain at that time,” frowned Ivan, “This under New Labour?”

“I’m going to pay the bill,” said Myka, looking over at the wait staff.

Pete had been giving H.G. a measured look. After a moment he said “So what I’m hearing is that a dead guy gets the credit for all the work a woman put in.” And then, more softly, “Seems like there’s a lot of that going around.”

H.G. gave a short laugh. “Perhaps. I don’t know. Thinking about it all again, I’m wondering if it’s more…” She broke off to consider. “More about a dreamer who thought he had so many wonderful ideas to share with the world. And then he left. And someone who loved him had to carry on the work alone.” She sighed. “Oh, I don’t know. I’ve had too much wine.”

Pete nodded slowly. But as we all stood to collect our jackets and bags, he said “I guess maybe Charles was sometimes an okay guy?”

“Sometimes,” agreed H.G. “Maybe sometimes he was.”

Before the big glass doors Myka steadied H.G. and helped her on with her coat. “That was alright, wasn’t it?” asked Helena. “Telling that story? You liked it, didn’t you?”

“I like all your stories,” said Myka, kissing her forehead.

Then she took her wife’s hand and they stepped out into the night.