These Shallow Graves

by Jennifer Donnelly

  “I didn’t come here to dance, Mr. Gallagher,” she said coldly.

  “No? Then why did you come? To break more hearts? Or to step on the pieces of mine?”

  Jo’s eyes narrowed. “That is rich coming from you, Eddie!”

  “Coming from me? I’m not the one marrying Bram Aldrich!”

  “No, you’re not. Why would you? He can’t advance your career,” Jo said pointedly.

  “What are you talking about?” Eddie asked, confused.

  “Spare me the bad acting,” Jo said. “I came here because I have something for you. Something you’ll truly love—a scoop. I know where Kinch is. Fay told me. She followed him last night. He’s in a boardinghouse on Pitt Street.”

  “You could have told me you were getting engaged, instead of making me read about it. Why didn’t you?” Eddie asked.

  His eyes sought hers and she saw an anger there that matched her own. And something else. Something she didn’t expect to see—hurt, deep and raw. It was a sham, she was sure of it. She quickly looked away, determined never to be swayed by him again.

  “We had an agreement, remember? My answers, your story,” she said. She would not let him see how badly he’d hurt her.

  Eddie’s eyes hardened. “An agreement. That’s all this was, wasn’t it? I forgot,” he said. He grabbed his coat and hat off a barstool. “All right, then, let’s finish it.”

  He led the way through the crowd to the door. Jo trotted to keep up with him. It was harder, much harder than she’d imagined, to be close to him. A part of her wished that she’d never glimpsed him with his lady friend, that she was still ignorant of the sort of man he really was. At least then she could believe he still cared for her. Because seeing him again made it painfully clear to her that she still cared for him.

  A story. A way to make his name. That’s all this is to him, she told her herself, shoring up her defenses. That’s all you are to him.

  Eddie reached the door. He opened it and held it for her, and the two of them hurried out of Jimmy Mac’s and into the night.

  A man sat on the stoop of Number Sixteen Pitt Street cleaning his nails with a knife. Soot had blackened the house’s red bricks. Its stone steps were cracked. Its front door sagged forlornly on ancient hinges.

  The man’s hands were dirty, his clothing ragged and patched. As Jo and Eddie neared him, he pulled something out of his hair and crushed it between his fingers.

  “Are you the landlord?” Eddie asked.

  The man pointed to the door.

  Jo and Eddie opened it and walked into what had once been the elegant, high-ceilinged foyer of a fine single-family house. Pitt Street had been a desirable address a hundred years ago, but its graceful homes had been sold off and turned into boardinghouses as the clamorous city pushed ever northward.

  On the left of the foyer was a large withdrawing room, its tall, arched doors long gone. Eddie entered it and Jo followed. Chunks of plaster had fallen from the ceiling. What remained of the wallpaper was stippled with mildew. A few old chairs, stuffing spilling out of their torn upholstery, were scattered around the room. A tarnished gas chandelier provided a sickly yellow light.

  People, vacant-eyed and broken, warmed themselves by a meager fire. A few nursed glasses of cloudy gin dispensed for a penny a shot by a man sitting in a corner. As Jo watched, another man carefully folded a piece of newspaper into the bottom of his shoe to cover the holes in its sole. A woman wearing a moth-eaten jacket applied rouge to her cheeks in the reflection of a cracked mirror. Then she reached down the front of her dress and hiked her breasts up so that they were nearly spilling out of the garment.

  “Want a room, do you?” a voice said.

  It was the man selling gin. He had bright eyes, greasy brown hair, and a straggly beard.

  Jo stiffened, insulted by the implication. “We do not,” she said.

  “We’d like to pay a call on one of your lodgers. A Mr. Kinch,” Eddie said.

  “No one here by that name,” the man said.

  “Are you certain?” Jo asked.

  “You think I don’t know who’s staying in my own house?” the man growled.

  Uncowed, Jo said, “He’s very unusual-looking. He has tattoos on his face.”

  “Oh, him,” the man said. “He left. Stayed one night. Never gave his name.”

  “When?” Jo asked, her heart sinking.

  The man worked a bit of food from his teeth with his tongue. He stared ahead of himself silently. As if he hadn’t heard her. Eddie put a dollar into his hand.

  The man touched the brim of his hat and said, “This afternoon. Around three.”

  “Have you rented his room yet?” asked Eddie.

  “No.”

  “Can we see it?”

  The man looked from Eddie to Jo, then laughed. “Sure you can see it. Rent’s a quarter. For looking at it, or for anything else you have in mind.”

  Eddie gave the man a look. Then he gave him the money. The man handed him a key. “Three C. Third floor. At the back.”

  Jo followed Eddie to the staircase. She had to steel herself to climb it. Roaches crawled over the steps and up the wall. The smell of unwashed bodies and chamber pots was overwhelming. But there was an even worse stench underneath those—the stench of despair.

  Jo’s nerve was faltering by the time they finally reached the third floor. A door opened near the landing and a man came out of it, weaving and bobbing. He made his way to the bathroom. Seconds later, Jo heard him being sick. She glanced into his room and saw a woman sitting on the edge of the bed, her head in her hands.

  “Do you really think we’ll find anything here?” she asked Eddie.

  “It’s worth a look,” he replied.

  They reached Kinch’s room and Eddie unlocked the door. He found a switch on the wall, and the room’s sole gas jet sputtered to life. Jo followed him inside, her eyes widening. She’d glimpsed such rooms in the Bend, but she’d never stood inside one. A torn curtain hung from the small, grime-encrusted window. There was a filthy rug, a small fireplace, and a single bed with a stained mattress. Looking at the cracked walls and the smoke-blackened ceiling, Jo thought she would fling herself out of the window if she had to spend even one night here.

  “This makes no sense. He has money. Richard Scully gave him a thousand dollars. He could stay in a decent place. Why would he come here?” she asked.

  “So he could disappear,” Eddie replied. “I bet he moves around constantly. Probably only spends one night in any given place.”

  He’d barely spoken to her, or even looked at her, all the way from Reade Street. Even now, he said as little as possible. Jo hated this new silence between them but was doing little herself to dispel it.

  Frowning, Eddie crossed the tiny room to the mattress and flipped it over, then did the same to the rug, but found nothing. Jo glanced at the fireplace. There were ashes in the grate. Not from wood or coal, but the kind left after burning paper. She knelt down and peered into them. At the edge of the pile was something small and white, a scrap of paper. Most of it had burned, but a tiny bit was still intact. She picked it up. Fragments of words were visible.

  cis Mallo

  arkbri

  Jo caught her breath. This was a clue. An important one. She was sure of it.

  “Eddie, look!” she said, forgetting her anger in the excitement of her discovery. “These letters, they’re parts of names—Francis Mallon and Darkbriar, I think. Mallon was the orderly Eleanor Owens attacked when she escaped from Darkbriar, remember? Kinch must be going to see Mallon. To ask him about Eleanor. Maybe to find out if she said anything to him about the manifests.”

  “You know something, Jo?” Eddie said.

  She turned to him eagerly. “What?” she asked.

  But Eddie wasn’t looking at her. He was gazing out the filthy window. In a tired, holl
ow voice he answered her. “I just don’t care anymore.”

  “That’s it? We’re done? It’s over?” Jo said, livid.

  “The driver’s waiting. Get in,” Eddie replied through gritted teeth. He was holding the door of a hansom cab open for her.

  They’d walked out of the boardinghouse, and then from Pitt Street to Houston Street, after Eddie declared he was through—through with Kinch, Scarface, Eleanor Owens, the Nausett, the Bonaventure, and her. Especially her.

  “You’re just going to leave me here?” Jo asked. She was standing on the sidewalk. She’d refused to get into the cab.

  “Yes, I am. I can’t do this anymore,” he said, and started to walk away.

  For a few seconds, Jo was speechless. First he broke her heart, and now he was leaving her in the lurch with their investigation unsolved. How could he do these things?

  “I’m blind, I must be,” she said aloud. “You really fooled me, Eddie.”

  Eddie stopped. He turned around. “I fooled you? What are you talking about?”

  “I thought you were kind. I thought you cared. But you’re not. You’re cruel!” Jo shouted angrily.

  Eddie spun around. “Me? Me? Seriously, Jo?”

  “Hey, sister, you want a ride or not?” the cabdriver yelled.

  “Not!” Jo shouted, slamming the cab door closed.

  She stalked up to Eddie, her fists clenched. “Are you forgetting why I came to you? Because of my father. I haven’t stopped caring. I cared then, and I care now. I want my answers.”

  “For God’s sake, Jo, I care, too! I care about you!” Eddie said. His words, spoken loudly, echoed down the dark street.

  Jo almost laughed out loud. “Is that so? I must say, you have a very strange way of showing it.”

  “Me?” Eddie said.

  “Yes, Eddie, you!”

  Eddie held up his hands. “I’m going now. Because this is crazy. But before I do, tell me one thing, just one thing. …”

  Jo jutted her chin at him. “What?”

  “Why did you do it?” he asked. “Why did you rip my heart out? Why did you say yes to Bram?”

  Jo felt like he’d slapped her. She took a faltering step back. “Do not do this, Eddie. My nerves cannot withstand further assaults at the moment.”

  Eddie snorted. “Oh, please. Your nerves are as strong as steel. I know why you did it. Because I’m not good enough for you. Because no matter what I do, no matter how hard I work, I’ll never be a van Rensselaer or an Astor or an Aldrich.”

  “What did you say?” Jo asked, her voice shaking with anger.

  “I think you heard me just fine.”

  “Oh, is that what you think, Eddie? Let me tell you what I think. I think you’re a cad. And I think your lady friend would be awfully upset if she could hear you right now.”

  Eddie suddenly looked confused. “My what?” he said.

  Jo glared at him. “Don’t play the innocent. I saw you with her. On Fifth Avenue. Outside the Aldriches’ home. Just over a week ago.”

  “On Fifth Avenue?” Eddie echoed, looking confused. “A week ago?” Understanding broke over him. “That was Eileen. My sister. I was taking her to dinner.”

  Jo was stunned. “Your … your sister?” she said in a small voice.

  Eddie had told her about Eileen the night they’d gone to the Bend. She’d lost the hearing in one ear when a priest beat her. Jo remembered now how the girl on Eddie’s arm had leaned in close to him. It was because she’d been trying to hear what he was saying.

  “You thought Eileen was my girl,” Eddie said flatly. The anger in his beautiful blue eyes turned to hurt. “Is that the kind of man you think I am? You think I could kiss you, and fall asleep holding you in my arms, and then carry on with someone else?”

  Jo’s heart turned to lead as she realized what she’d done. I’ve made a mistake, she thought. A terrible one.

  “I—I didn’t know what to think.” She stumbled over her words. “I saw you with a girl, and my uncle … he said he’d overheard a reporter at the Standard, a reporter with an Irish surname, saying dreadful things about a young woman whom he was using to get a story.”

  “I don’t know what your uncle heard, but it didn’t come from me,” Eddie said. He gave her a sad smile. “Eileen and I, we look a lot alike. Didn’t it even occur to you that she might be my sister? Maybe you wanted to think I was with another girl, Jo. It makes things easier, doesn’t it? If I’m a cad, then you don’t have to make a hard choice.”

  “That’s not true!” Jo protested.

  Eddie shook his head. “Like I said, I can’t do this anymore. Meet with you. Be near you. Talk about what was, or wasn’t, between us.”

  “Eddie, I’m sorry, I—”

  “I love you, Jo,” Eddie cut her off. “You’re the most remarkable, beautiful, confounding girl I’ve ever met. I shouldn’t say that to you, I know. And I’m not saying it because I want to, but because I have to. I’m telling you so that you understand why I won’t see you anymore. It’s not right. You’re another man’s fiancée now.”

  Jo stared at him. He looked miserable after his admission. She wanted to say something, anything, but she didn’t trust herself to speak without bursting into tears.

  Eddie flagged down another cab. “This time, you’re getting in.” He opened the door. “Irving and Sixteenth,” he said to the driver.

  Silently Jo climbed into the cab and Eddie closed the door behind her. The cab’s window was down. She put a hand on the sill.

  “Goodbye, Miss Montfort. I hope you find what you’re looking for,” Eddie said with a sad smile.

  Tears welled in Jo’s eyes. “Eddie, no. You can’t. You can’t say such things to me and then just walk off.”

  “Yeah, Jo. I can,” he said. And then he turned away from her and headed down the street.

  “Eddie, wait!” Jo called after him, but the only answer she got was the sound of his footsteps fading.

  Distraught, she sat back in her seat and tried to collect herself. But it was no good. “Damn it! Damn you!” she yelled, pounding a gloved hand on the seat. She swallowed hard to get the lump out of her throat. “What have I done?” she said.

  But she knew. She’d believed the worst of Eddie instead of the best. She’d lost faith in him because she had no faith in herself. Not in her ability to decide for herself. To choose for herself. Or even to be herself.

  And now it was too late. She’d promised herself to Bram. The engagement had been announced. A date had been chosen. Everyone was so happy. Everyone but her.

  “What am I going to do?” she whispered.

  The tears that had been welling finally fell. Drops became a torrent. Sobs wrenched themselves out of her.

  Jo’s heart was in pieces. And she’d shattered it herself.

  Jo sucked in a deep breath. “Pull yourself together,” she hissed at herself as she walked up Irving Place.

  The cabbie had dropped her at Sixteenth Street. Jo had paid him and started toward Gramercy Square, concentrating on her breathing as she walked. She had to calm herself. It wasn’t easy getting back inside her house. She would need her wits about her.

  It was a little after midnight and very dark. Irving had only a few sputtering gas lamps to light her way. She passed Seventeenth Street, then Eighteenth, lost in painful thoughts about Eddie.

  How could she marry Bram now, knowing Eddie’s true feelings for her? And knowing her own true feelings for him? But how could she break her engagement to Bram?

  And the investigation into her father’s murder—how would she continue it without Eddie’s help? They were a team, an effective one. They’d been so close to finding Kinch. So close to confronting him face to face. Though she was frightened of the man, she wanted to look into his fearsome eyes and ask him who he was. Was he Stephen Smith? Had he killed Richard Scully?
And her father?

  He would hardly tell her if he had, but she would know anyway. His eyes would reveal the truth.

  Jo, breathing easier now, thought back to what she’d learned at Pitt Street. Kinch was going to go to Darkbriar, to speak with Francis Mallon. She was sure of it. He was still searching for the manifests. If she could only find them before he did. If she had them in hand, she could see for herself what the Bonaventure’s cargo was, and if the ship really was connected to Van Houten.

  I’ll go see Francis Mallon myself, she decided. I don’t need Eddie for that. All I need to do is go to Darkbriar and ask to speak with him.

  She shuddered at the thought of walking through Darkbriar’s high gates, and into the asylum itself, but told herself that she was being silly. She’d be perfectly safe.

  Busy concocting a story to tell her mother tomorrow that would give her time to get her out of the house to Darkbriar and back, Jo didn’t hear the footsteps at first. By the time she did, it was too late.

  A hand was clapped over Jo’s mouth. Her arm was twisted behind her back. Terrified, Jo struggled against her attacker, but she was no match for him. He dragged her down a dark alley that ran between two houses and pushed her against a wall. Stars exploded behind her eyes as she hit her head. Rough bricks scraped her cheek.

  Her attacker had taken his hand away from her mouth, but he still had hold of her arm. It felt as if it were being ripped from its socket. Suddenly something glinted silver before her eyes. It was a knife, its blade caught in a shaft of moonlight slanting in through the top of the alley. A whimper of fear escaped her.

  “Not another sound or I’ll cut you,” a voice said—a man’s voice, harsh and low.

  Jo nodded as best she could.

  The man pressed himself against her. “Such a pretty girl,” he said, his breath warm in her ear. “What’s she doing out by herself? She should be home, where good girls belong. Only sluts walk the streets at night. Are you a slut, Miss Montfort?”

  “Please … ,” Jo whispered. Her eyes were closed. Her body was shaking. She was out of her mind with fear.