Oscar nodded grimly.
“What does that mean?” Jo asked, looking from Eddie to Oscar.
“It means that our friend Mr. Kinch didn’t hang himself,” Oscar replied.
“With his belt, you mean. He used something else,” Eddie ventured.
“No. I mean he didn’t hang himself,” Oscar said.
“But there’s a mark on his neck,” Jo countered.
“Yes, but it wasn’t made by a noose,” Oscar said. “Kinch was strangled.”
Jo took a step back from the grave, stunned. When her aunt had first broken the news about Kinch’s suicide, Jo had found it hard to believe. Guilt over Beekman’s death had driven him to it, her aunt said, but why would Kinch feel guilty if—as Oscar claimed—he hadn’t killed Beekman?
She’d tried to talk herself out of her doubts. She’d tried to stop asking questions. Because that was what everyone around her wanted. But now the questions came flooding back.
“How can that be, Oscar? The papers all reported that he hanged himself. Dr. Ellsworth, the asylum’s spokesman, said Kinch was overcome by remorse.”
“He was overcome, all right. By a large and strong man,” said Oscar, standing up straight. “Had he hanged himself, the furrow left by his belt would be wider, not as deep, and higher on his neck. The petechial hemorrhages and congestion of the face would be absent. His hands and arms would show at least some livor. I doubt I’d see a fracture in the thyroid cartilage. Someone wrapped a cord around his neck and pulled it. Hard.”
“Francis Mallon,” Eddie said. “I’d bet a thousand dollars. He had both access and opportunity. He was one of the very few—besides the doctors, and a handful of cops—who did.”
“But why?” Jo asked.
“To frame somebody else for Beekman’s murder,” Eddie said. “One of Della’s girls saw Mallon kill Alvah Beekman and attack Phillip Montfort, right? Since Kinch was also there at the murder scene, we thought he and Mallon might be accomplices, but we were wrong.”
“You’re saying Kinch just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time?” Jo asked skeptically.
“Yes. He saw what was happening and tried to stop Mallon, but he couldn’t because he was under the influence of morphine,” Eddie said. “He managed to raise the alarm, though, and the cops came. Your uncle, who’s dazed from the blows he took, is confused and blames Kinch for the murder. Kinch can’t argue, because he’s out of his mind. He’s taken to Darkbriar, where Mallon works. Mallon kills Kinch and says Kinch confessed.”
“It’s possible,” Oscar allowed.
“But why would Mallon say that Kinch had confessed to all three Van Houten murders?” Jo asked.
“Because he committed them. And he was worried he’d be found out. That’s why he came after us, Jo. He must’ve seen us following up our leads and felt we were getting too close.”
Jo shook her head. “It still doesn’t make sense,” she said, trying to put it all together. “What reason would Francis Mallon—an orderly at Darkbriar—have to kill three members of Van Houten? Kinch was the one who believed the firm was guilty of wrongdoing. He was the one who claimed to have proof of it. He was blackmailing the firm, not Mallon.”
“She’s got you there, pal,” Oscar said.
“Just because we don’t know what the reason is doesn’t mean there isn’t one,” Eddie said.
“True,” Jo conceded, irked that no matter how many layers of the mystery they peeled back, the answers still eluded them.
Oscar handed Eddie the lantern, then reached into the corpse’s trouser pockets, one after the other, but found nothing. He took off Kinch’s shoes and felt around inside them. Again nothing. He fished through the corpse’s jacket pockets, then ran his hands over the jacket for good measure.
“Aha!” he said, stopping near the hem. “You have a pocketknife?” he asked Eddie.
Eddie handed him one and Oscar sliced the jacket’s lining open. He reached inside and pulled out a pendant on a gold chain.
“Look,” he said, handing it to Jo.
Jo took the pendant from Oscar and cradled it in her palm, overcome by emotion. It was gold and shaped like half a heart, and it glinted warmly in the lantern’s light. Eleanor was inscribed on it. Though Jo had never seen it before, she recognized it.
“It’s him,” she said in a voice hushed with awe. “There were two halves of this heart. Eleanor wore one half with the name Stephen engraved on it and Stephen wore the other with Eleanor on it. He came back for her, just as he said he would—seventeen years too late.”
“Kinch is Stephen Smith,” Eddie said, amazement in his voice. “Just as you suspected, Jo.”
“He didn’t die at sea. He somehow survived the storm that took his ship and he came home,” said Jo, astonished by the enormity of their discovery.
“Kinch—pardon me, Mr. Smith—has been very talkative so far,” Oscar said, unbuttoning the corpse’s shirt. “He told us how he died. Now maybe he’ll tell us why.”
Jo, Eddie, and Oscar all fell silent as they gazed upon Stephen Smith’s bare chest. It was like a page of a book, covered with words. Some were legible; others were blotted out by decay.
Jo was the first to speak. “It’s his story. Written on his heart. Just like he said.” She was so hopeful that the words might finally tell her what she needed to know.
“He told Scully that the ones who tattooed him were Lascars and Africans, but the words are all in English,” said Eddie.
“He probably wrote it out for them. They didn’t have to understand the symbols, just recreate them,” Oscar said. “Give me your pad. And shine the lantern down here.”
Eddie, kneeling on the edge of the grave, leaned down over the coffin and held the lantern just above Kinch’s chest. Oscar wrote down everything, leaving spaces to indicate letters that had become indecipherable. When he finished, he showed the pad to the others.
They puzzled it out together.
“ ‘I am Stephen Smith … ,’ ” Oscar started.
“ ‘The Bonaventure carried … ,’ ” Eddie added.
“Carried what?” Jo said, beside herself. “Oscar, can you make out those letters?”
“No, there’s too much discoloration.”
Jo continued to stare at the notepad. “ ‘I tried to stop it but was abandoned on … ,’ ” she said, deciphering more of the words. She looked at Oscar. “On what?”
“Can’t make those letters out, either,” Oscar said. “Or the ones after by.”
“He was abandoned,” Jo said in a hushed voice. “He didn’t perish in a storm; he was left somewhere to die.”
“I bet the letters we can’t make out spell the name of the person who abandoned him. And where he was left,” Eddie said. “And I bet the person who did it was also behind the wrongdoing he discovered.”
“ ‘The devil take his soul, for God will not,’ ” Jo said, deciphering the final few words.
Eddie gave her a long look. “You still believe nothing bad happened at Van Houten?” he asked.
Jo raised her eyes from the notepad and met his gaze. “All along it’s been so hard to believe that the firm was involved in anything illicit, but now it’s hard not to,” she said. “Was one of the partners who died behind it—Scully or Beekman? Or one who’s still alive? Asa Tuller? John Brevoort?”
“This person, whoever he is, could be the one directing Mallon,” Oscar offered. “That could be the connection you’re looking for between Mallon and Van Houten.”
Jo nodded. “You’re right, Oscar,” she said. “It makes sense.”
Eddie was oddly quiet. Then he said, “There are two more partners you neglected to mention, Jo. Two besides Stephen Smith. And they were both in Zanzibar with Smith.”
Jo took his meaning. “No,” she said vehemently. “It’s simply not possible, Eddie. You’re saying my un
cle or my father was behind the wrongdoing? That one of them is the man who left Smith to die? I can’t believe that.”
“Can’t? Or won’t?” he demanded.
Jo, angry now, didn’t answer right away. Eddie didn’t know what he was talking about. He didn’t know her uncle, and hadn’t known her father. They were no more capable of hurting another human being than she was.
“You’re spending too much time at the World and the Herald. You must be,” she finally said. “That sort of sensationalist nonsense is worthy of them, not you.”
The comment came out louder, and meaner, than she’d intended. The corpse, the pendant, learning that Kinch was indeed Stephen Smith—it had all brought her emotions close to the surface.
“Sensationalist? Why? Because I can see the truth and you can’t?” Eddie said hotly.
“But it’s not the truth!” Jo retorted.
“Why, Jo? Because no one in your pretty, perfect little world can do any wrong? Only those of us outside it?”
He was talking about more than her uncle, more than their investigation. He was talking about the mistakes she’d made in believing his sister to be his girlfriend and accepting Bram’s proposal.
“That’s unfair, Eddie!” she shot back. “I said I was sorry. I tried to explain the night we went to Pitt Street, but you wouldn’t let me. It’s not only about the two of us. You’d know that if you’d bothered to listen to me. But you walked away, and—”
“Um, Eddie? Jo? Sorry to interrupt another tiff,” Oscar said. “But are we still talking about the dead man? This one whose coffin I’m standing in? Because if we are, I have a question. …”
“Sorry, Osk. What is it?” Eddie said as Jo took a deep breath to calm herself.
“Why did Smith do this? I can see why he’d tattoo his face—to avoid being recognized. But putting all these words on himself doesn’t make sense. Ship tattoos are done with dirty needles. They hurt. They get infected. People die from them. So why not just write the story down on paper? Why have it written on your body?”
“So it couldn’t be taken from him. Because everything else had been,” Jo said softly, embarrassed to suddenly find herself in tears. “We were looking for the wrong man for so long. Stephen Smith threatened the partners of Van Houten, but he didn’t kill them. Mallon did. I’m certain of that now.”
“Why?” Eddie asked. His voice was gentler now.
“The pendant,” Jo said. She was still holding it. She looked at it now and was deeply moved by what it stood for—constancy, faith, love. “God only knows what Stephen Smith went through, and how he survived it, but he never stopped trying to get home to Eleanor. How can a man like that be a cold-blooded killer? He was only trying to claim what was his—the woman he loved and their child.”
A gust of wind swirled through the cemetery. Jo shivered. Eddie was standing close to her and must’ve felt her tremble. “Do you want my jacket?” he asked.
“No, thank you,” Jo replied. The chill she felt had nothing to do with the wind. “The killer’s still out there.” She wiped her cheeks with the back of her hand. “Everyone thinks it’s over now that Kinch is dead, but if we’re right, then Mallon killed three men and he’s still walking the streets. What if it’s not over? What if my uncle’s still at risk?”
“Are you going to tell him about Mallon?” Eddie asked.
“I have to,” Jo replied.
But how? she wondered. He didn’t want her even to think about the events of the past few weeks anymore. How would he react when she told him what she’d learned tonight, and how she’d learned it? Would he believe her?
Somewhere in the city, a clock struck the hour.
“Midnight,” Eddie said.
“As much fun as this has been, we’d better finish up and go,” Oscar said. He pulled the corpse into a sitting position, hastily slid its shirt off, and inspected its back. There were no tattoos on it. Oscar reclothed the body, then folded Smith’s hands neatly across his chest. He was about to ease the coffin lid back down when Jo stopped him.
“Shouldn’t we say something?” she asked. She doubted that Flynn had taken the time to bestow any final words on Stephen Smith.
“Like what?”
Jo thought for a few seconds, then said, “I’m sorry we disturbed you, Mr. Smith, but thank you for telling us your story. I hope you don’t mind if I take your pendant. I’m going to need it for proof when I talk to my uncle. I need to keep him safe. I wish Eleanor had survived. I’d find her for you and give her your heart. I’d tell her you loved her and did your best to get back to her. I’d tell her what was written on your heart.”
“We made it,” Eddie said, stepping out of the cab at Lexington and Twenty-Second Street.
“Thank you,” Jo said to the driver as she paid him.
They’d walked part of the way from the asylum to get the smell of death out of their noses, and their clothing, though Oscar still reeked. Jo was tired now. It had been hard work to shovel the dirt back over Stephen Smith’s coffin, and tricky business to sneak through the gates. Luckily, the watchman had fallen asleep, despite his big mug of coffee.
Jo was aching with sadness, too. This was the end of the line. She could do no more. The manifests Stephen Smith had sent to Eleanor Owens would remain hidden, for both she and Eddie had tried—and failed—to find them. Mallon would remain unquestioned, at least by them.
Eddie was right—Mallon was too dangerous to approach. She would tell her uncle what she’d learned, and then he would go to the authorities. They would be the ones to approach Mallon. Jo’s time as a sleuth was over. With all her heart she wished it weren’t. She wished things could be different. She wished she were different—the sort of girl who could forget her duties to her family and follow her own heart’s desires. But she wasn’t.
“Anyone hungry?” Oscar asked. “The Portman’s not far. I bet they’d scare up a sandwich for us.”
“How can you even think about food after where we’ve just been?” Jo asked.
“Dead people always make me hungry,” Oscar said. “Once you’re in the ground, there’s no more noodle kugel for you. No more roast chicken or potato latkes. So eat, drink, and be merry, I say. But especially eat.”
“I would love to go with you, Oscar, but it’s almost one o’clock in the morning and I have to sneak back into my house,” Jo said. Then, impulsively, she hugged him.
“What’s that for?” Oscar asked, as she released him.
“I don’t know when I’ll see you again. Or if I’ll see you again. And I just wanted to say thank you. For everything. I’ve never met anyone quite like you. I know you’ll make the most wonderful doctor, and here’s something else I know: Sarah Stein wishes you’d take her to dinner.”
Oscar blushed. He kissed Jo’s cheek.
Then Jo turned to Eddie. The look that passed between them was one of love and loss. It was naked and sad, and Oscar saw it. “I … uh … I think I’ll just walk down the street now. For no good reason,” he said.
“Can’t imagine you’ll be seeing much of me again, either,” Eddie said. He was looking at Jo, not Oscar.
Jo lowered her head so he wouldn’t see the tears brimming in her eyes. “I’ll miss you every day of my life. Because you changed my life, Eddie. I’ll never, ever forget you.”
“No more, Jo,” Eddie said, his voice husky. “Please.”
Jo nodded. She raised her head and tried for a smile. “Goodbye,” she said, hugging him.
He hugged her back, holding her tightly, his cheek against hers, his eyes closed. And then he let her go.
“You need me to walk you home?” he asked.
“It’s only a block away,” Jo said.. “I’ll be fine.”
“All right, then. There’s another cab coming,” he said, looking up the street. “Right behind that carriage. I’m going to take it and pick up Osc
ar.”
The hansom cab Eddie had seen was occupied. It rolled by them and then abruptly stopped. The door opened. A young man, slender and tall, stepped out.
“Jo? Jo Montfort?” he called. “Is that you?”
Jo turned around slowly, her heart in her throat.
It was Bram.
Bram looked at Jo as if he didn’t trust his own eyes.
“Josephine, what in God’s name are you doing out on the streets at this hour?” he demanded.
“W-well, I … I was j-just … ,” Jo stammered. She couldn’t tell him the truth, but she had to say something.
“Who is this man? Has he hurt you?” he asked, eyeing Eddie suspiciously.
“Hurt me? No!” she said. “He’s my friend, Bram. Abraham Aldrich, I would like you to meet Edward Gallagher.”
Eddie offered his hand. Bram did not take it.
“And Oscar Rubin, too. Well, Oscar’s not here at the moment. He’s over there.” She pointed down the street. Bouncing on the balls of her feet nervously, she smiled and racked her brain for something to say. Finally she asked, “What brings you out at this hour?”
“Teddy Farnham’s going-away party.”
Jo remembered that Teddy was leaving for a tour of the Continent soon. “Did you have fun?” she asked, as if it were perfectly normal to be having this conversation out on the street in the middle of the night.
Worry filled Bram’s face. “Jo, are you all right? Please come inside the cab. I’ll take you to your door.”
“You good with that, Jo?” Eddie asked.
“What?” Bram said, turning to look at Eddie.
“You heard me. Even though I wasn’t talking to you,” Eddie replied, standing his ground.
“What perfect timing!” Jo quickly said, moving toward the cab. “I won’t have to walk through the square. Good night, Mr. Gallagher.”
“Miss Montfort,” Eddie said, tipping his cap.
Bram put a protective arm around Jo’s shoulders and led her to his cab. “Gramercy Square. Number Fourteen,” he said to the driver as Jo climbed in.
These Shallow Graves Page 34
