Princess of the 19th Century Department Store - Chapter 35

The manager pulled on the metal handles and opened the heavy walnut door. Cold air swept in from the street.

Canning entered without his uniform. He wore a long gray wool coat and a short-brimmed top hat, both of which he handed to the attendant, revealing a white shirt and gray waistcoat.

There were no sleeve garters on his arms, and his ivory silk cravat was tied in the simplest possible fashion.

From those details, Daisy deduced that he lived only a few minutes away and had no formal engagements that day.

Canning inclined his head. His face revealed little. After giving the manager a couple of perfunctory replies, he climbed the wooden staircase beside the hall, his tall shadow disappearing into the corridor.

Only when he was out of sight did Daisy withdraw her assessing gaze.

She tightened her grip on the pen as ambition beat inside her like a drum.

In her last life, who knew how much money and effort it would have taken merely to become familiar to an official of his rank?

Passing up an opportunity like this would be inhuman.

She finished signing the register and followed the directions upstairs by the opposite staircase.

The second-floor reading room was vast. Endless wooden shelves rose like stone monuments in a park, while rows of old-fashioned tables stood along the windows.

Daisy slowed and studied the room’s layout.

The curved staircases on either side of the ground-floor hall opened into the same area, yet not another person was in sight. The air smelled strongly of ink.

At the far left end of the long French-style gallery stood a set of double doors. Beyond them appeared to be a more private reading area, with carpets and fine furniture—clearly not a place for an ordinary subscriber like her.

After considering why Canning might have come here, Daisy decided on a subtler approach.

The newspaper archive occupied a corner, where she woke a drowsing attendant.

“Excuse me. Where are the archived copies of The Times?”

“Section H, rows six through twelve.”

He slumped over his desk again.

Daisy nodded and walked into the forbidding depths of the stacks.

The shelves there were packed with document envelopes and cardboard boxes labeled by year. The major newspapers of decades past had all been preserved.

She touched the envelopes and wooden dividers. The shelves holding the last five years were neat and free of dust, proof that people consulted them often.

She moved farther into the darkness, reaching the papers from fifteen and twenty years ago.

Again, her pale fingers came away clean. Someone had been searching here too.

From the traces left behind, the box most recently opened held newspapers from sixteen years ago.

She had guessed correctly.

Five minutes later, Daisy emerged carrying a thick kraft-paper envelope.

She was not finished.

She entered the forest of shelves in Sections B and C and returned with two heavy books: *Compendium of Chamber of Commerce Acts* and *Practical Accounting by D. R. Lisu*.

With everything in hand, she went back to the tables. Her gaze swept the room before she chose an unremarkable corner by the window, four or five rows from the private reading-room doors.

She placed the newspaper envelopes to her left, opened one, and drew out a thick stack accompanied by a puff of fine dust.

These were all the papers from December fifteen years ago, still remarkably well preserved.

After glancing through the social news, she found what she expected: the report on the assassination of Westminster’s chief superintendent and his wife.

Seeing their tragedy set down in black and white produced an inexplicable twinge of guilt.

It was soon smothered by her capitalist nature.

In business, everything was measured by whether it could be used. The one useful thing was the sole delight; all else faded into irrelevance.

She turned to the political pages and read every item concerning Whitechapel.

The enormous room remained perfectly silent. Daisy sat alone, utterly absorbed.

After she had worked through a stack of newspapers, footsteps sounded in the empty hall, drawing nearer.

Someone emerged from the double doors of the private reading area.

Daisy pulled her awareness from the printed lines and fixed it on the approaching steps.

Her target passed her and continued toward Section H.

A while later, Canning came out between the shelves. He glanced around and, without much surprise, noticed a vaguely familiar figure.

She appeared to be a plainly dressed young girl, her face hidden behind books and newspapers. Only when he drew closer did he see that she was holding the very yellowed issue he wanted and reading it with such concentration that interrupting her seemed rude.

After hesitating, he approached.

“Excuse me. May I look through that stack of newspapers?”

He had taken the bait.

Daisy tightened her fingers, then raised her head in confusion and lowered the sheet concealing her face.

Her clean, delicate features showed no trace of cunning. She looked up at the man across the table from precisely the right angle.

Surprise entered her eyes—three parts, no more—and her voice became awkward.

“Inspector Canning—no, Superintendent. What are you doing here?”

She knew him.

Canning thought for a moment, then remembered where he had seen her. The interview room returned to his mind.

“Your family…runs a grocery shop.”

Daisy nodded inwardly, pleased.

“That’s right. You have an excellent memory. My surname is Nash.”

She straightened the newspapers and pushed them to his side of the table.

“I’ve finished with these.”

Then she withdrew her attention, opened the thick book beside her, and lowered her head as though no one else in the world concerned her.

Canning thanked her briefly. After a moment’s thought, he pulled out the high-backed chair opposite and sat down with the papers.

The room was quiet except for the turning of pages. He scanned the social news and read the follow-up reports on the assassination.

Daisy leafed through her old volume, lifting her eyes just enough to observe him.

Every trace of color had left his face.

His fingers clenched the paper until the knuckles whitened. His cheek tightened, his jaw trembled faintly, and a blue vein pulsed at his temple.

At last his gaze emptied. He slowly lowered the page.

He remained silent until the words before him had ceased to mean anything.

When Canning recovered, his quick mind caught on a point of suspicion. He glanced across the table.

The book’s title faced him: *Compendium of Chamber of Commerce Acts*.

Fifteen years ago had also been an important year for free trade. His doubts eased.

Even so, the last time he had seen that cover was in his godfather’s study.

What an unusual girl.

Daisy sighed, closed the book, and reached for the next one. As if her eyes were sore, she looked up and met a gaze filled with pure curiosity.

“What are you reading?”

Canning had never seen anyone like her—a young, plainly dressed girl who seemed to have no connection whatsoever to finance or law, studying such specialized material. It violated every expectation.

Daisy opened the book with an artless expression.

“After the smuggling case, my family took a new grocery shop. It’s larger than the old one, at No. 6 Dorothy Street, and we’re about to open.

“We need to buy much more stock now, and the accounts are growing complicated. I don’t understand any of it, so…”

She gave him an innocent smile and let the sentence trail off, as if embarrassed to admit her ignorance.

Canning understood. He nodded and was about to reply when sudden rain drummed against the window, shattering the atmosphere she had so carefully created.

Daisy looked outside and frowned.

The expression quickly vanished. She rose naturally, carried the books back to their shelves, then returned and hesitantly pointed to the newspapers, asking if Canning might put them away.

He nodded and continued reading.

Daisy understood the importance of leaving space. She turned and took two slow steps.

One.

Two.

Three.

The rhythm was perfect.

A voice behind her asked her to wait.

She turned in surprise. “Was there something else, Superintendent?”

“Why don’t you take the books home to read?”

The moment he asked, Canning realized the answer and regretted the question. Plainly, the manager would not let her remove anything.

An inexplicable sense of social duty rose within him.

Before Daisy could decide how to answer, he asked, “Do you have a guarantor?”

Daisy shook her head. She looked honest, a little forlorn, and rather pitiful.

“No.”

Canning pressed his lips together. Unable to ignore it, he stood.

“Wait here.”

He returned all the newspapers to the attendant and came back. A minute later, Daisy followed him downstairs.

Respecting every rule, Canning explained her home address and family business to the manager.

The man became all smiles. “Of course, of course. What possible cause for concern could there be?”

Canning nevertheless insisted on signing a written guarantee.

This genuinely surprised Daisy, though she maintained her grateful, humble expression and poured out thanks.

Canning paid them no attention. To him, this was no different from helping any stranger he met on the street.

When he saw the rain worsening, he told the manager to lend her an umbrella.

He no longer wished to remain. He put on his coat and hat, stepped outside, and departed in the private carriage that had been waiting nearby.

Daisy watched it disappear, then walked from beneath the portico with a heavy umbrella over her head.

She rubbed her stiff cheeks and continued without looking back.

One step driven by pity, the next by ambition.

The rain fell as though the sky had split open. Black clouds hung low, puddles soaked her shoes, and each stride made her legs heavier.

Daisy sighed inwardly.

Tsk.

She really was a wretch.

Canning was clearly a man who respected rules. Reserved though he was, he possessed genuine kindness. Anyone he judged weak and deserving of care received the same consideration. He was a truly good man—the last patch of unpolluted moral high ground in Whitechapel.

And yet his past was tragic, while the road ahead of him promised more hardship.

It made deceiving him feel just a little, ever so slightly, unbearable…

Daisy shook her head and stamped out the strange spark of conscience that had revived from the ashes.

After storing it away with great caution, she recovered her light step and headed home.

…