These Shallow Graves

by Jennifer Donnelly

  Eddie sat forward in his chair. “I’d take it to another paper. Use it to get myself hired there. Even though I’m on staff at the Standard, I write for other papers, too. They pay me by the article. Stoatman doesn’t know. I use a pseudonym. The Oliver Little story? That one’s for the World.”

  “I see,” Jo said.

  “Big stories lead to big jobs,” Eddie continued. “Charles Montfort’s death turning out to be murder? That would be a huge story. I’m sorry to put it like that, but it’s true. No one cares much about the Oliver Littles of the world—he’ll get a few column inches on page three and then he’ll be forgotten. But Charles Montfort—rich, well-connected, a pillar of society? He’s a different matter entirely. If we could get some solid proof, the case would have to be reopened and investigated. Even Phillip Montfort couldn’t get it hushed up.”

  “He wouldn’t want to,” Jo said, defending her uncle.

  Eddie raised an eyebrow.

  “You don’t know him like I do. He hushed up my father’s suicide, yes, but he had his reasons. And he knows as well as anyone that suicide is one thing, murder another. If he believed my father had been murdered, he’d do everything in his power to bring the killer to justice.”

  Eddie nodded, then said, “As I told you earlier, this could get ugly. And I don’t quit on a story. I do whatever it takes. We have an agreement?”

  “Yes,” Jo said, grateful to have his help. “We have an agreement.” The circumstances of her father’s death had changed, but her need for answers hadn’t.

  Eddie held out his hand and they shook on it. Jo, never having made an agreement before, kept shaking.

  “You can let go now,” Eddie said.

  “Oh,” she said, embarrassed. “All right.” She self-consciously picked up her mug again, the coffee cooler now, and sipped from it. “When can we start?” she asked.

  “Right now, but—”

  “Right now?” Jo said eagerly, banging her mug down. “Really?”

  Eddie held up his hands. “Yes, but hold on. … Before we can find any answers, we need to ask a new question. It’s no longer Who upset Charles Montfort enough to make him kill himself? It’s Who did Charles Montfort upset enough to make that person kill him?”

  Eddie fished his notebook out of the breast pocket of his jacket.

  “After the news of your father’s death broke, I decided to have a look at the police report,” he said. “That was before we talked to Oscar, of course, but the information I got from it might still be helpful to us.”

  “What did it say?” Jo asked, keen to know.

  Eddie flipped his notebook open. “It said that all the Van Houten partners were at your house earlier that day for lunch and a meeting. Your butler, Mr. Theakston, let them all in and let them all out again—except for Phillip Montfort, who exited through the servants’ door under the stoop because he went to the kitchen to compliment the cook.”

  “Yes,” said Jo. “That’s what my uncle told me.”

  “Theakston also said that before your uncle went to the kitchen, he and your father argued. Theakston heard their raised voices.”

  “They did. My uncle told me that my father was despondent and claimed he had nothing to live for. My uncle tried to make him see reason. The discussion became heated,” Jo explained.

  Eddie frowned. “Which makes sense if your father was a suicide, but it turns out he wasn’t.”

  “I think it makes sense either way,” Jo ventured. “Perhaps trouble or threats made by the person who killed him made him so unhappy he wished to take his life.”

  Eddie weighed her words but didn’t comment on them. His eyes went back to his notes. “Theakston also stated that everyone was gone by four p.m. and that he locked the house at nine p.m.—front door, servants’ door, garden door. He was awakened at approximately midnight by the sound of a gunshot, as were the other servants: Ada Nelson, Katharine McManus, Pauline Klopp, and Greta Schmidt.”

  “I’m sure they all would have heard the shot,” Jo said. “Mrs. Nelson’s room is off the kitchen. Theakston’s, too. The three maids live on the top floor. Only Dolan, our driver, wouldn’t have. He lives behind Gramercy Square over our carriage house.”

  “Mr. Theakston and Mrs. Nelson stated that they immediately ran upstairs and met your mother at the door to your father’s study. She’d come down from her bedroom on the third floor. The maids were on the staircase. Your mother was knocking on the door and calling to your father, but got no answer. All six stated that the door was locked from the inside. Theakston tried to break it down but couldn’t. He ran to fetch Dolan. They met a patrolman on the way back. The officer—his name was Buckley—broke the door down. Once inside the study, he saw your father’s body and said that the women should not enter. He noted that neither Theakston, Dolan, Mrs. Nelson, the maids, nor your mother had any blood on their clothing.”

  It took a few seconds for Eddie’s meaning to sink in. “You’re not saying that Theakston, the rest of the servants, and my mother were suspects?” said Jo, appalled.

  “I’m not saying anything. The police were the ones asking the questions. But even if it weren’t for the absence of bloodstains on their clothing, the locked door ruled them out.”

  “How about the absence of any desire whatsoever to do my father harm? Did that rule them out?” Jo asked sharply, angry at him for even suggesting such a thing.

  Eddie continued, ignoring her tone. “The officer ascertained that your father was dead. A revolver identified by Theakston as belonging to your father was found in his right hand. The officer didn’t touch the gun. When Dr. Koehler arrived, he removed the revolver from your father’s hand and opened the chamber. It contained one spent casing and five live bullets,” Eddie said, glancing up from his notebook. “Your father kept his revolver loaded?”

  “He did. He was very protective of us. Always worried about our safety,” Jo said. Her eyebrows knit together in concentration. “Oscar said the manufacturer’s mark on the casing from the bullet that killed my father didn’t match those of the other five bullets still inside his revolver.”

  “Which apparently didn’t trouble Koehler, as Oscar told us. Or the cops,” Eddie said.

  “Does it trouble you?” Jo asked.

  Eddie nodded. “It does,” he said. “Sportsmen tend to have favorites. Favorite fishing rods. Favorite lures. Favorite gunmakers and ammunition. Why would your father switch from one make of bullet to another?” He looked at his notepad again. “Koehler didn’t think the different markings were important. The cops didn’t even record them in their report. But Oscar thinks the presence of a different casing means the killer used a different gun.”

  “But if that’s so, how did the casing from the killer’s gun get inside my father’s revolver?” Jo countered.

  “Good question,” Eddie said, frowning. He flipped a page in his notebook. “Oscar said the casing was marked UMC .38 S & W and the unfired bullets were marked W.R.A. Co. .38 LONG.”

  Jo drew a sharp breath. She knew that last mark. She’d seen it very recently.

  Eddie’s eyes darted to her face. “What is it?” he asked.

  “I just remembered something,” she said. “I should’ve thought of it back at the morgue, but I was too upset. The day of my father’s funeral, I went to his study and found a bullet. It was on the floor, tangled up in the carpet’s fringe. At the time, I thought Papa might’ve left some bullets loose on the desk while he was cleaning his gun and knocked them off after he shot himself, as he fell to the floor. And that someone—Theakston, maybe—had kicked one across the room.”

  Eddie sat forward in his chair, his gaze intense. “Do you remember the mark on that bullet?”

  “Yes. It was W.R.A. Co. .38 LONG,” she said, her gaze equally intense. “Eddie, what if—”

  “The killer fired the lethal shot from his gun, then found yo
ur father’s loaded revolver.” Eddie said.

  “He replaced one of the bullets in the chamber with the spent casing, and then put the revolver into my father’s hand! It makes sense, doesn’t it?” Jo asked, excited that they’d come up with a plausible explanation for the presence of two different bullets.

  But instead of echoing her excitement, Eddie frowned again.

  “What?” Jo asked.

  “How could the killer be smart enough to replace a bullet with the spent casing, and then be stupid enough to drop the bullet on the floor?” he asked.

  “Maybe something spooked him. Maybe he heard footsteps or shouting,” Jo offered.

  Eddie nodded but didn’t seem convinced. He turned back to his notes.

  “When Buckley declared your father dead, your mother—who was still outside the study—became extremely distraught. Mrs. Nelson took her to her room. Theakston told Miss Klopp to fetch Phillip Montfort, and the other two maids to fix a pot of coffee. Buckley stopped him. He said he needed one girl to go to the station house to tell his captain what had happened. Miss McManus went. Miss Schmidt went to the kitchen. They all went back to their rooms first, though, to get dressed.”

  Eddie paused to take a sip of his coffee, then continued.

  “Buckley sent Dolan for Dr. Koehler. He then asked Theakston to show him all possible exits from the house. They tested the servants’ door and the door that leads from your kitchen to your back garden. Both were locked. Theakston had run out of the front door to fetch Dolan but said he had to unlock it first. There are four master keys to the doors. Buckley stated that he was unable to search for them right away, because the coroner arrived, followed by the police captain and Phillip Montfort, and he had to brief them, but he confirmed the keys’ whereabouts before he left. One was your father’s and was found in his desk. One was your mother’s and was in her bedroom. Theakston’s was in his vest pocket. The fourth, Mrs. Nelson’s, was hanging on a hook by the pantry.”

  Eddie stopped speaking. His frown deepened.

  “What is it?” Jo asked.

  “Mrs. Nelson stated that she hadn’t been able to find her key when she went to bed that night. Buckley noted that she was distressed because she was worried the killer had used her key to get inside the house. Theakston was able to calm her down when he confirmed that her key was, in fact, hanging in its usual place.” Eddie looked at Jo. “That sounds odd to me.”

  “Not if you know Mrs. Nelson. She’s very absentminded. Always misplacing things,” Jo said. “Maybe the shock of my father’s death made her think she’d lost her key when she hadn’t.”

  “That could explain it,” Eddie allowed. “The last thing the report mentions is your uncle’s arrival. Miss Klopp went to his house to fetch him. He answered the door himself. He was up late working in his study. His servants had gone to bed. He rushed to your house, accompanied by Miss Klopp. When he saw his brother’s body, he collapsed. Dr. Koehler and one of the officers helped him up and took him out of the room. Dr. Koehler wanted him to lie down, but Mr. Montfort said he was fine, he just needed a glass of water. He went to the kitchen. Koehler and the police captain—Perkins—went with him.”

  Jo’s heart ached for her uncle. He’d never told her that he’d collapsed. Which was just like him, stoic and protective. He must’ve been devastated when he saw his brother’s body, yet his first thought had been to guard the family from scandal.

  Eddie suddenly slapped his notepad down on the table, startling Jo.

  “This makes no sense,” he said, frustration in his voice. “How did the killer get in, fire a shot, and get out again totally unseen? The doors to your house were all locked. The door to your father’s study was locked, too, from the inside. The whole scenario’s impossible.”

  Jo’s heart sank. She’d hoped they were getting close to an answer.

  Eddie ran a hand through his hair. “We’re missing something here. We must be. Do any of the Van Houten partners have a key to your house? Could one have come back later that night?” he asked.

  “Are you suggesting that one of my father’s partners killed him? After your ridiculous suggestion that my mother might have?” Jo asked, incredulous.

  “It’s a possibility,” Eddie said.

  “No, it’s not,” Jo retorted. “None of them has a key to our house. My father grew up with these men, Eddie. They are all from old and fine families. It’s inconceivable that they’d harm him. And I’m sure they all accounted for themselves on the evening of his death.”

  “Yeah, they did,” Eddie said, paging through his notes. “They were all at home—Scully, Beekman, Brevoort, Tuller. What about your uncle? Does he have a key?”

  “My uncle,” Jo said flatly. “My father’s only brother. The man who is a second father to me.”

  Eddie nodded.

  “You yourself just told me that he was at home when my father was killed. Pauline Klopp, a maid, was sent to fetch him. She saw him there. He answered the door. But even if he hadn’t been at home, the mere idea of him killing my father is completely absurd.”

  “How about rivals? Business competitors?”

  Jo raised an eyebrow. “Can you really see elderly Mr. Woolcott Sloan of Sloan and Thorpe Shipping shooting my father? Who do you think these people are, Eddie? Pirates?”

  Eddie drummed his fingers on the table, then picked up a pen that was lying there. “Can I look at the names and notations you told me about on our way to the morgue? The ones from your father’s agenda?” he asked.

  Jo took her father’s agenda out of her skirt pocket and handed it to him.

  He copied down the notations for September 15—Kinch, VHW, 11 p.m., Eleanor Owens, b. 1874, and noted that September 17’s and October 15’s were identical—Kinch, VHW, 11 p.m.

  When he was finished, he said, “What if your uncle’s wrong? What if Eleanor Owens was your father’s mistress? She tries to blackmail him. He refuses to pay her. She comes to the house late one night. He lets her in, takes her to his study, and she brandishes a gun, maybe just to scare him. It goes off accidentally. She puts it in his hand and—”

  “Runs out of the house through two locked doors?” Jo offered.

  “What about the study’s windows?” Eddie asked. “The police didn’t mention anything about them in their report. Were they locked?”

  “No. The locks are old and don’t work anymore, but they don’t need to.”

  “Why?” Eddie asked.

  “Because the windows themselves are old and can’t be raised very high. Perhaps only a foot or so. Papa only had them opened on the hot days, so they would’ve been closed the night he was killed. Plus they’re quite high. The study’s on the second floor, above the ground and first floors. I would guess the windows are twenty feet off the ground, which would make for a long drop.”

  Eddie sighed. “Fine. The logistics don’t work, but she’s still a suspect. How about the name Kinch?” he said. “Had you ever heard your father mention it?”

  “No, but since it’s a single word I wonder if it might be the name of a ship instead of a person.”

  “What could a ship have to do with this?”

  “I have no idea,” Jo admitted. “What about the man I saw looking up at my father’s window? What if he’s the murderer? He certainly looked like one.”

  “He could be a suspect, but we still have the same problem. How’d he get in and back out again?”

  “We don’t have anything, do we?” Jo said, discouraged. “Only a murderer who must be a phantom because he can move through locked doors, or make himself invisible, or … Oh. Oh my God.”

  Jo felt as if an icy wind had just blown right through her.

  “What is it?” Eddie asked, his eyes fastening on hers.

  “He was there, Eddie,” Jo said. “In the study. The killer was there the whole time!”

  “Slo
w down, Jo. Start at the beginning,” Eddie said. “You’re talking so fast I can’t follow you.”

  Jo took a deep breath, let it out, then tried to speak slowly. “The curtains,” she said. “The killer was hiding behind the curtains.”

  Eddie leaned back in his chair; he gave her a skeptical look.

  “They’re wide and puffy and they puddle on the floor. I often hid behind them as a child. My entire household could hide behind them. And that’s where I found the bullet. … Don’t you see?”

  “Yes, I think I do,” Eddie said, sitting up straight.

  He locked eyes with Jo. His gaze was electric. Suddenly they had a piece of the puzzle in their hands, and they both knew it.

  “The killer came into my father’s study late at night—” Jo began.

  Eddie cut her off. “How did he get into the house?”

  “He got hold of a key somehow.”

  “Unlikely. The four keys were all accounted for, remember? Maybe your father let him in. Because he knew him.”

  “Or her,” Jo said darkly.

  Eddie nodded. “They go to your father’s study. The killer shoots him. He finds your father’s revolver and puts it in his hand. He hears footsteps overhead. Your mother’s. He panics. He knows he can’t leave the study—he’ll be seen.”

  It was hard for Jo to imagine the scenario of her father’s death, but Eddie didn’t spare her. He made her work. He made her think. It was not what she was used to from a man, and she liked it.

  “He locks the door to give himself some time,” she said, “and hides behind the curtains. In his haste, he tries to put the bullet he took out of my father’s revolver into his pocket, but he drops it. He doesn’t know he’s dropped it, though, because it hits the edge of the carpet and makes no noise.”

  “And then he waits. Barely breathing. Standing perfectly still. So still, the curtains don’t even rustle.”

  “Listening to my mother weep and my uncle collapse,” Jo said bitterly. “And then, once it’s quiet and the police are gone, he leaves.”