The Victorian Imposter

“How long has she been at this?” Taylor asked her mother Paula.

“At least an hour and a half,” she replied. 

“Jesus. And for how many days now?”

“28.” The both of them sighed at the site of their daughter and sister Lucy dressed in traditional Victorian garb while digging through the side of a hill, the site of a cold case murder from 1999.

“Bloody hell!” shouted Lucy, the Indianapolis native.

“Oh,” Taylor started. “She has a British accent now?”

“Yeah, it started last week,” her mother replied. 

“Bollocks!” Lucy stomped her laced boots back to her family.

“Any luck?” her sister asked.

“No,” the lady scoffed. “Take me home.” She shuffled off with her arms full of hiked-up petticoats.

The three women headed back to town in their 2009 Honda Civic carriage. 

“I cannot fathom the audacity of those scoundrel peelers!” Lucy ranted from the back seat.

“Peelers?” Taylor asked Paula for clarification.

“Police.”

“I’ve requested their assistance every day for two fortnight,” the Victorian imposter continued. “Yet I have received nothing! Nothing! Those buggers!” She scoffs like an aristocrat who was just served cold tea when she plainly asked for hot. “Mother dearest?”

“Yes?” Paula replied from behind the wheel.

“May you take us to the chief inspector?”

“Yes,” she said. “I can take you to the sheriff.”

“Thank you one thousand times,” Lucy said. “I am cordially obliged to you.”

***

With the ring of the bell as the door opened, all of the police and people present snapped their eyes and dropped their jaws for the woman who just entered, sporting a nineteenth-century feathered teardrop hat in the midst of the American Midwest. As she shuffled to the counter, onlookers gawked at the bounce of her bustle. With dropped eyes, her mother and sister kept their distance.

“Excuse me, constable,” Lucy greeted the police officer.

“Yes, ma’am,” he stuttered, bombarded by ruffles, ribbons, ruching, and pleats.

“I have visited this very station on multiple occasions now to request the reopening of my dearest friend’s murder case,” she started, the crowd now gawking at her forced accent. “I have been denied assistance. I have been denied respect. All because your office and your people continue to dismiss me as barmy!”

“Barmy, ma’am?” he asked on behalf of the whole confused crowd.

“Yes, barmy. Batty.”

“Batty?”

“Yes, batty. As others say, up the pole.”

“Up the pole?”

“Yes, up the pole! Christ. Barking mad!”

“Mad, like crazy?”

“Yes. Crazy.” Lucy sighed. Her family shook their heads.

“I understand, ma’am,” the officer continued, shuffling around for a clipboard. “You’ll need to fill out -- “

“I’ve completed that form ten times now,” Lucy cut him off like the Queen scolding a wrongful Prime Minister. “I would like to speak with your highest official. Your chief inspector or your chief superintendent, if you even have one.”

“Excuse me, ma’am.” A wall of a man now entered their conversation. His dark circles, empty styrofoam cup of coffee, and loosened tie told everyone he wasn’t taking anymore shit today.

“Yes, sir.” Lucy faced off, standing strong in her stockings.

“I take it that you are Lucy Saunders.”

“That is I.”

The beat this man took to look her in the eyes to make sure she replied like how he thought she replied could have shaken the biggest wrestlers. However, this woman raised her chin just a few more degrees, to make sense he could see she was serious.

“I’ve been meaning to call you,” he started. “Come around the counter. Let’s talk.”

Jaws dropped for the millionth time in the last two minutes. Her family and her audience could not believe that she, parasol and all, could get to talk with Sheriff Moore. As she trotted after the sheriff, her family dragged behind her.

***

“First, I’d like to introduce myself.” He looked at the three women surrounding his desk. “I’m Sheriff Moore.” Lucy shook his hand with the etiquette of a well-trained debutante.

“I’m glad to make your acquaintance,” she replied. “Fifteen years ago, my friend was slaughtered.”

“You don’t waste any time, do you?” Moore joked.

“No, she does not,” Paula and Taylor echoed. The three chuckled. Lucy scoffed.

“My friend was slaughtered!” she repeated with pompous oomph. “And her killer still haunts our streets, like any good-for-nothing Jack Ripper.”

“ Yes. Now -- “

“Will you now reopen her case?” With the chop of her oratory knife, Lucy proved that she was still not going to waste any time. “Will you now assist me in doing your job?” Moore’s head fell like every British citizen bowing to their sovereign. However, this bow of the head was not tradition; it was guilt. Lucy looked down at her subject. She, Taylor, and Paula were all unmoving, frozen by the realization that she had finally gotten through to the man that mattered.

With lifted head, Moore replied, “I cannot excuse my own or my team’s tardiness, but yes. Yes, we will reopen and solve her case.”

“Splendid,” she replied just as quickly as she dapped her handkerchief to the corner of her eye. With the same agility and speed, she pulled out a jam-packed, almost-spilling-out, six-inch binder from under her skirt. It crash landed on the man’s desk with a sonic boom. Jaws dropped for the millionth-and-one time today. “As you may bear witness to, I have taken it upon myself with the utmost sincerity to begin the investigation. Please peruse through my findings, and use your fancy, beyond-my-time gadgets to solve this.” She stood up before him. The sharp stomp of her parasol pressured him and her family to raise as well. “Now, I shall enjoy some tea in the great comfort of my own home. For the first time in what seems to be centuries, I can take a break.” Lucy alone laughed at her own joke, her humor not seeming to land with the others. “Good day, sir.” She turned and shuffled away, with her two attendants following suit.

Sheriff Moore sighed, sat down, opened the binder, and smirked -- excited for the future relief of solving this case and for the chance to work with such a character.