REBECCA BAKER IS A PRIVATE INVESTIGATOR ── in her late 20s, with an eye for glamour, and a brain seeking more complex challenges budding in the streets of 1950s london. So far, except a localised exposure in a vanity magazine, the young sleuth hasn'...
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London, England 15th June, 1953.
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THE TWELFTH NIGHT OF JUNE WITNESSED a welcome change⸻after two consecutive days of rain pelting down against the windows, it had finally stopped. On the morning of 15th June, the smell of a subtly burnt wispy breeze hovered in a kind of mellow haze; the sun was out, the fog had lifted and as promised, a black, glossy Bentley Mark VI had been parked neatly at the main entrance. At around 8, Rebecca turned the keys to her door and climbed down the stairs in a button-down shirt and a petite pencil skirt. Mr. Harrison had not contacted her beyond the letter she sent in reply⸻which, if she chose not to lie, put her off slightly. After accepting the case, she felt she deserved a better intimation on the task at hand, but none seemed to have come her way⸻not even a confirmation that the letter was recieved. She could also begin to see how, if her latest client still nurtured the wish to recruit her, she would have to enter as the friend's ward, and exit as the friend's ward, regardless of the success of the case. Which meant, Rebecca Baker would never step on the stage, Jessica would forever be the page boy, No one would know that the lawyer was Portia⸻except, probably, just one person⸻a one person Rebecca would do better than to think about again.
"Good morning, ma'am", the driver in the uniform greeted her, holding out the door as she descended down the last few flights of stairs. "I have been sent by Mr. Harrison to escort you."
Rebecca returned a polite smile. "Thank you, that's very kind of him!"
Her voice lacked natural vigour. She had often found herself fail terribly when she tried to disguise a certain feeling with pretence. This time was no different. Very soon though, her initial train of thought had to be altered to some extent⸻for the Bentley was indeed, a grand car. Once inside, she found herself in the company of a suave tan leather touching her hips; the interior, too, smelt dewy, coconut-y. In a second, she had been transformed to a new world⸻a better world. Outside, the daily clutter from the roadside cafe, the honking and the buzz continued. Strange, Rebecca thought, as she leaned comfortably in her seat, how owning a lump of cash could win over almost everything, and everyone. Meanwhile, Thomas, the driver, as she remembered reading on the name tag, closed the door behind her and brought the car engine roaring to life. With a smooth gust of smoke escaping the car's pipe, she was soon en route to her first quest of truth and lies.
In about an hour, they had driven through the cobblestones, the bridges, the soot propelling factories and had entered a land of birch and oak, meadows of green continuing till horizon was reached. The tyres jolted occasionally, caught by a sudden puddle left by the rain before a milestone declared their probable destination. Norbury, 16 miles.
