These Shallow Graves

by Jennifer Donnelly

  Stoatman opened the box. He smiled wistfully at the sight of the silver flask. “This was mine,” he said. “Your father won it when we made a wager on the 1880 presidential election. I picked Hancock. He bet on Garfield. Charlie always backed the winners.” He looked up at her. “Thank you for this.”

  “You’re very welcome,” Jo said, saddened by Stoatman’s recollection. She’d accompanied her father to the newsroom during the last election. It hit her now that she would never do so again.

  She rose. Stoatman did, too. They made small talk about the mild weather; then Jo took her leave. Sad as she was, she was also determined. She had to speak to that reporter. An opportunity to return to the newsroom wouldn’t come her way anytime soon. As she walked out of Stoatman’s office, she saw her chance. The reporter was standing by the staircase, talking to a copyboy. He had his jacket on and looked like he was ready to leave.

  “I’ll walk you out, Miss Montfort,” Stoatman said.

  “That won’t be necessary, Mr. Stoatman,” Jo quickly said. “I know my way. Good day.”

  She walked to the staircase. When she was a few feet away, she abruptly stopped, closed her eyes, and pressed the back of one hand to her forehead. It was a ploy she’d seen Trudy pull when she wanted to spend the day in bed instead of going to class. She hoped Eddie would see her, but it was Stoatman who did.

  “Miss Montfort, are you all right?” he asked.

  Jo opened her eyes. “Yes, I’m fine, thank you,” she said, chagrined.

  “Mr. Stoatman!” another voice said. Jo recognized it as belonging to the young woman from the front desk. She was standing at the top of the stairs, breathless. “The mayor’s here. He’s in a lather about your editorial on the subterranean railway.”

  Stoatman bit back a curse. “Gallagher!” he barked at Eddie. “See Miss Montfort home!”

  Jo couldn’t suppress a triumphant smile. A carriage ride uptown would give Eddie Gallagher plenty of time to explain himself.

  Eddie looked alarmed. “But it’s five o’clock, chief,” he protested.

  “Don’t worry, Gallagher. The Park Row bars won’t run out of beer while you’re gone. Get a move on!” Stoatman ordered as he disappeared down the stairwell.

  “I’m so terribly sorry to be a burden, Mr. Gallagher,” Jo said, in a voice that suggested she was anything but. Eddie, looking thunderous, offered her his arm. She allowed him to lead her down the stairs. They crossed the foyer, and then he held the door for her. Out on the sidewalk, he took her arm once more and walked her to her carriage.

  “Miss Jo, what’s wrong?” Dolan asked worriedly when he saw her.

  “I felt a bit heady,” Jo lied. “Mr. Gallagher here kindly offered to see me home.”

  “I knew this wasn’t a good idea,” Dolan said unhappily, handing Jo up into the carriage. She sat in the rear-facing seat. Dolan waited for Eddie to get in and settle himself across from her; then he closed the door.

  As soon as they’d pulled away from the curb, Jo dropped her wilting flower act. “Why did you say such a terrible thing about my father?” she demanded, still furious.

  “You seem to have made a miraculous recovery, Miss Montfort,” Eddie observed. “I’m so relieved.”

  Jo ignored that. “If you know something about my father’s death, you must tell me, Mr. Gallagher. I have a right to know.”

  Eddie smiled smoothly. “Really, Miss Montfort, it was nothing. Just—”

  Jo cut him off. “Do not patronize me. This is my father of whom we are speaking. If you refuse to explain your comments to me, I shall share them with my uncle, Phillip Montfort, and you can explain them to him.”

  Eddie leaned forward in his seat. His smile was gone. “I could lose my job over this,” he said. “Eight dollars a week is nothing to you, Miss Montfort. You probably spend that much on fruit gums. But it’s all I’ve got.”

  “I do not care for fruit gums, Mr. Gallagher. They’re vulgar. Are you going to tell me … or my uncle?”

  Eddie’s gaze hardened. “You want the truth? Here it is. Your father was found dead on the floor of his study late at night. There was an entry wound on his right temple. An exit wound at the back of his skull. The slug was lodged in the wall.” He paused, gauging the effect of his words. “Should I continue?”

  “Yes,” Jo said, shoring up her courage. The image of her father with bullet wounds in his head was extremely distressing, but she needed to hear what Eddie had to say.

  “The gun was in your father’s right hand. He wasn’t cleaning it when it went off. Only a fool cleans a loaded gun, and Charles Montfort was no fool. It was suicide. The police know it. Stoatman knows it. Every editor in the city knows it. There was plenty of talk between cops and reporters that night. Your uncle bribed the police captain and the coroner to record the death as an accident, then threatened to sue the hell out of any paper that said otherwise. He didn’t have to threaten Stoatman. Your family already owns him.”

  “You wish to discredit my uncle now, as well as my father? Perhaps someone made a bribe, but not my uncle. He would never do such a thing,” Jo said hotly.

  Her voice was rising with every word she spoke, but her brave front was crumbling. Could Eddie Gallagher actually be right? One thing he’d said was undeniably true: only fools cleaned loaded guns, and her father was no fool. From the moment she’d heard the explanation of his death, she’d found it impossible to accept.

  “They teach you anything in finishing school besides embroidery, Miss Montfort?” Eddie asked. “Your uncle had a good reason for bribing the police—you. Suicide is a lot of things. It’s ugly and sad, but most of all it’s scandalous. If people knew the truth, they would wonder why your father killed himself. Maybe Charles Montfort had money troubles, they’d say. Maybe there was a woman involved. Maybe he lost his mind. The old New York families—your people—they’re not too keen on scandals, are they?”

  “No, they’re not,” Jo said, shuddering at the thought of anyone in her circle finding out that her father had killed himself.

  “There’d be no doors slammed in your face. Society families are too polite for that,” Eddie said. “But the invitations would stop and the proposals would never start. Your uncle wants to make sure you marry an Aldrich, a Roosevelt, or a Livingston. Otherwise you’ll have to settle for new money—a fate worse than death.” He sat back in his seat. “Do you see what I’m saying?”

  Jo was silent. She was in shock. Not only from what Eddie had said, but from how he’d said it. No one had ever spoken to her like that. Not once in her entire life.

  “What I see, Mr. Gallagher,” she said when she’d collected herself, “is that you take pleasure in being cruel. Whatever you think you know about me and my people, know this—Charles Montfort was my father and I loved him.” She turned and rapped on a small wooden door in the driver’s-side wall of the carriage.

  It slid open. “Yes, Miss Jo?” Dolan said. He’d turned his head, but kept his eyes straight ahead on the rush of evening traffic.

  “Pull over, please, Dolan. I wish to walk the rest of the way. Kindly take Mr. Gallagher home,” Jo said, struggling to keep her voice steady.

  “What’s the address, sir?” Dolan asked.

  “Twenty-Three Reade Street, but you don’t need to take me home. I can walk,” Eddie replied.

  “I wouldn’t hear of it,” said Jo.

  Dolan slid the door closed. A few seconds later, the carriage came to a stop by the curb.

  “Miss Montfort, I … Please forgive me,” Eddie said haltingly. His smug air had vanished. He looked ashamed of himself. “I’ve gone too far. It’s how I react to being cornered. I come out swinging and try to knock the other fella down before he can knock me. Only this time the fella was a girl.”

  “Dolan will take you home now,” Jo said. Her face was hidden by her hat brim. She would not let him see how
badly he’d upset her.

  Eddie leaned toward her. “Miss Montfort, I’m sorry. Really. For my behavior and for the loss of your father,” he said. His eyes sought hers and she saw, in their depths, that he meant it.

  “Everything all right, Miss Jo?” Dolan said as he opened the door.

  “Perfectly,” Jo said. She stepped out of the carriage and headed toward Gramercy Square without a backward glance. No one looking at her would have guessed she was struggling just to put one foot in front of the other. As she walked, she thought about what Eddie Gallagher had done. He’d upset her and insulted her, but had he also told her the truth?

  His words echoed in her mind: Charlie Montfort put his revolver to his head and blew his brains out. Overcome by emotion, she stumbled and had to grasp the iron fence of a nearby brownstone for support.

  “Miss? Are you all right? You want I should call a cop?” It was a newsboy.

  “I’m fine, thank you. It was just a spell,” Jo said, forcing a smile. She took a few deep breaths and continued up Irving Place.

  She wished she could talk to someone about this—someone who might be able to tell her if it was true. But who? Not her mother or uncle. She’d have to tell them how she found out, and they’d be furious with her. As she reached her house, she paused to calm herself. Her eyes traveled over the stoop, to the second floor, and the windows of her father’s study. And suddenly she realized there was someone who could tell her if Eddie’s claim was true.

  “You, Papa,” she said quietly.

  A cool night breeze blew through the windows of Jo’s bedroom, billowing the draperies out like sails. Pale moonlight spilled across the floor. Downstairs, the grandfather clock struck the hour—two o’clock. Jo heard its deep, familiar chime.

  She sat up in her bed, wide-awake, and felt for the matches she’d placed on her night table. A few minutes later, she was padding past her mother’s bedroom and down the stairs, carrying a glowing candle and hoping she didn’t bump into Theakston.

  As Jo slipped inside her father’s study, careful to sidestep a loose floorboard right outside the door, she exhaled deeply—relieved that she hadn’t encountered their butler. Theakston was a meddler and a snitch. Normally, he’d be in bed at this hour, along with the rest of the servants, but he’d been known to polish the silver or wind the clocks on nights when he couldn’t sleep.

  Jo placed her candleholder on top of her father’s massive mahogany desk and looked around. If she was going to find any answers about his death, she’d find them here. His study had been his sanctuary. It was a masculine room, all dark wood and leather. He spent an hour or two here every night reading, writing letters, and consulting his agenda for the next day’s appointments.

  It was that agenda Jo was determined to locate. She wanted to see what he’d written under September 16, 1890, the day he’d died. She’d asked her mother about it at dinner.

  “Do you know what happened to Father’s agenda? I should like to have it as a memento,” she’d fibbed.

  But her mother, still fragile in her grief, hadn’t wished to speak of it. She’d picked at her meal then retreated to her bedroom. She hadn’t asked Jo about her day or why her trip to see Reverend Willis had taken so long. Sitting by herself at the dinner table, Jo wondered if her mother even remembered Jo had left the house.

  “It has to be here somewhere,” she whispered now, riffling through a desk drawer. She pulled out scissors, fountain pens, a box of matches—everything but the agenda. She searched the other drawers and looked under the blotter but found nothing.

  It’s not like this in mystery books. In mystery books there’s always a secret compartment. Shelves that move. Something, she thought. Help me, Papa. Please.

  She walked around the desk, searching for a false panel, but found nothing. Then she pulled all the drawers out. When she had them on the floor, she felt around inside the frame, hoping to find a latch or button. Again, she turned up nothing. Sighing heavily, she put the drawers back. She’d just slid the last one into place when she heard it—a creak.

  Jo knew that sound. It was the loose floorboard outside the study’s door. And she knew who’d made it.

  Theakston.

  Jo knew she only had seconds.

  She licked her fingers and pinched the candle’s wick. Its flame faded with a hiss, but no smoke. Grabbing the candleholder, she crawled under the desk, cutting her knee painfully on something as she did. She pulled the desk chair into place just as the door opened.

  There were footsteps. His. They crossed the room slowly. She heard him plump a cushion, then wind the clock. What’s brought him up here? she wondered. Had he heard her walking around?

  Go, Theakston, she silently pleaded. Leave.

  But he didn’t. Instead he walked to the desk and straightened the blotter. “Blast that maid,” he muttered. “I told her not to touch anything in here.”

  He was standing in front of the desk. Only a panel of wood separated them. Jo’s heart was pounding so loudly, she was certain he would hear it. She could imagine him coming around the desk, pulling the chair out, and peering down at her, his smile oily and triumphant.

  Miss Josephine? This is most irregular. Is everything all right? he’d ask.

  By morning, her mother would be fully informed. By lunchtime, the entire household staff would be. He hated to tell tales, he’d say to Mrs. Nelson, their cook—who would tell every other servant in the house—but he was concerned for Miss Jo. She was too forward for a young lady.

  After what seemed like an hour but was only a minute, Jo heard him walk to the door and then close it behind him. She let out the breath she’d been holding and crawled out from under the desk. There was blood on her nightgown from her knee. She remembered that she’d seen a box of matches in a desk drawer. She dug them out, relit her candle, and inspected the cut. It was thin but deep. What made it? she wondered.

  Crouching down, she ran her hand over the floorboards under the desk. Something sliced the skin of her palm, and she sucked in a breath at the pain. Moving her candle closer to the boards, she examined them carefully and saw that a thin, sharp piece of metal protruded from a gap between two of them. One of the boards was shorter than the rest, and scuffed.

  Jo was so excited that she sat straight up and whacked her head on the underside of the desk. “Blast!” she hissed.

  She grabbed a letter opener off the desktop and wedged its tip under the short board. It came up easily. Underneath it was her father’s agenda. The small hollow in which it rested was lined with lead to keep mice out. An edge of that lining was what had cut her.

  “Bless your black heart, Theakston,” she whispered. If he hadn’t come snooping, she wouldn’t have ducked under the desk.

  Jo lifted the agenda out and flipped to September 16. Tucked between that page and the following one were ten one-hundred-dollar notes. Jo had never seen so much money, and seeing it now made her uneasy. She knew that her father’s business transactions were conducted with checks, not cash.

  She put the money on the floor, then scrutinized the page, hoping to find something that would tell her why he’d killed himself. She saw the words Meeting, VH partners, noon written in her father’s neat hand. That signified nothing unusual. VH stood for Van Houten, the shipping firm in which he was a partner. Her father routinely attended business meetings with the rest of the partners.

  Lower down on the page was an additional notation: A. Jamison, 4 p.m. Jo knew that Arthur Jamison was her father’s banker. Did Papa go to the bank that day to withdraw the thousand dollars? she wondered.

  She looked at the page for the following day, September 17. At the bottom, she saw something that was unusual—the very last entry: Kinch, VHW, 11 p.m.

  VHW stood for Van Houten’s Wharf, the site of the shipping firm’s docks. Her father always abbreviated it that way. But Kinch? That name meant nothing to Jo. It wa
s so odd-sounding. Maybe it wasn’t a person but a ship. That would make more sense, considering the VHW notation. Then again, why would her father be boarding a ship at all, never mind at such a late hour? Van Houten’s partners didn’t inspect cargo; their clerks did.

  She flipped to the day before her father died, September 15. The same notation was at the bottom of that page, too: Kinch, VHW, 11 p.m. But there was additional writing underneath it. The letters were large and loopy, as if scrawled in haste: Eleanor Owens, b. 1874.

  “Who’s Eleanor Owens?” Jo whispered. She wasn’t a friend or family member—Jo had never heard her name mentioned. She wasn’t an employee, either. Van Houten only had one female employee—the woman who cleaned their offices—and her name was Tillie Polk. If Eleanor Owens wasn’t a friend or an employee, who was she?

  Then the answer came to Jo and she gasped. “Dear God,” she said aloud, “Papa had a mistress.”

  Jo had seen those sorts of women. They drove flashy carriages through the park, wore too much jewelry, and rouged their cheeks.

  She wasn’t supposed to know they even existed, but Trudy had told her about them. They’d had a friend at school, Jacinta Smyth, who left one day without any explanation.

  Trudy did some digging and found out that Jacinta’s father had a mistress who’d had his child. When he refused to support the baby, the woman paid a visit to his home—during a dinner party. The resulting scandal was so terrible that the family had to move to Cleveland.

  “But why would Mr. Smyth do such a thing?” Jo had asked Trudy.

  “Because Mrs. Smyth’s a cold fish. You can tell by looking at her. Men have to be kept satisfied. They have needs.”

  “Don’t women?” Jo had asked.

  “Only the bad ones,” Trudy replied.

  Jo looked at the notation again. What does the b before 1874 stand for? she wondered. If it stands for born, then Eleanor Owens couldn’t be Papa’s mistress because she’d only be sixteen years old. At least, I hope she couldn’t be his mistress.