A Deadly Fortune

by Stacie Murphy

  Damn Cavanaugh. He was putting Amelia in danger. And no matter what she said, Jonas didn’t trust him. He scraped the last bite of pie from his plate and shoved it aside. This half-baked plan he’d presented—and that Amelia had agreed to, for some reason he couldn’t begin to fathom—would fail, and Cavanaugh would use it as an excuse not to help her escape.

  “Doors in five,” someone called.

  Jonas arranged his face into a genial expression, nodded his thanks to the busboy who took his dishes, and made his way to his customary place beside the bar.

  He struggled to maintain the mask as the evening wore on. He flirted and joked and made aimless, pleasant conversation, but all the while his mind churned through the problem like a plow through soil, turning up new options and rejecting each when the light revealed some previously unrecognized flaw. There had to be a way he could better their odds.

  When his shift ended, Jonas dragged himself back to his apartment and flung himself onto his bed. Too agitated for sleep, he finally glanced at the clock and sighed, then got up to make coffee. He brooded at the table, rereading the telegram from Sidney that had arrived earlier.

  There was a bit of good news, at least. Sidney was on his way home. Jonas had never expected to miss him as much as he had. Sidney’s quiet, steady presence should have been dull. Instead, it felt safe. He also had a rigorous, logical mind and a surprisingly pragmatic approach to life for someone who lived—with one notable exception—within the constraints of polite society. What would Sidney counsel, if he were here?

  Light was just beginning to show through the front window when Jonas thought of the answer.

  24

  Andrew tried to hide his discomfort as he glanced around the room. The heavy velvet drapes were tied back to let in the noon light, the tall windows cracked in an attempt to clear the previous night’s cigar smoke. With its plush furniture and dark wood, it was the sort of room one might expect to find in any wealthy home, except… were those nymphs or cherubs in the painting on the far wall? Nymphs, he decided after a closer look. There were some things cherubs certainly would not do.

  Two days had passed since the confrontation in Andrew’s office. Jonas had stopped by his office the day before, his face stony, to ask Andrew to meet this morning in one of the club’s private supper rooms. He said it was so they could be sure of speaking undisturbed, but Andrew suspected Jonas had chosen the venue to make him uncomfortable.

  He supposed he deserved it. In truth, he would have been uncomfortable anywhere after what he’d done. Andrew still wasn’t certain whether the bargain he’d struck was justified by the circumstances or an unforgivable act of extortion. Either way, he felt he’d had no choice. He needed their help, and he’d done what was necessary to secure it, despite the flush of shame that roiled him every time he recalled Amelia’s face when she realized what he was saying. He crushed the feeling with a ruthless fist.

  He had to find Julia. Amelia could help. Nothing else could be allowed to matter.

  As Jonas rummaged through the bakery box Andrew had brought, Andrew cast another glance at the cavorting figures on the canvas. Whatever his misgivings, he was committed now.

  Jonas muttered something around a mouthful of pastry.

  “I beg your pardon?” Andrew asked.

  Jonas swallowed and spoke again, his voice studiedly neutral. “I said you should sit down. You look like someone’s maiden aunt, standing there frowning. We have more important things to talk about than vulgar paintings. Besides,” he added in a more practical tone, “if you think that one is bad, you should see some of what’s hanging on the third floor.”

  Andrew’s eyes strayed to the ceiling before he could stop them.

  Jonas went on. “We need to talk about the rest of the plan.”

  Andrew wrenched his attention back to the matter at hand. “The plan?”

  “Yes. Amelia’s given you a month to let you use her like some sort of human dowsing rod.”

  Andrew drew an irritated breath, but Jonas left him no opening, going on without pause. “You know how I feel about it. But as a purely practical matter, we need to come at this from more than one direction. We still don’t know what Amelia’s able to do, or what it will cost her. There are far too many patients for her to sort through on her own, and we have no idea how many staff may be involved. I don’t want her on that island one minute longer than she has to be, and I don’t want to give you any room to imply we haven’t held up our end of the deal.”

  “What are you thinking?” Andrew asked, trying to ignore the insult.

  “My first thought was to pay a visit to our wayward husbands.”

  Though Andrew wouldn’t have imagined it was possible, Jonas’s expression went even grimmer.

  “Given adequate time, I’m sure I could persuade Daniel Miner or Bryce Weaver to cooperate,” Jonas continued. “We could have this whole thing unraveled in short order.”

  “I can think of several problems with that idea,” Andrew said.

  “As can I,” Jonas said. “Even aside from the fact that Daniel Miner isn’t in New York any longer. I went to the courthouse before my shift yesterday. It seems he sold some property a few months back—a house. One he had recently inherited from his wife.”

  “Inherited?”

  “Daniel Miner reported his wife missing—the day after ‘Anne Fox’ arrived at the asylum, in what might be called a fairly extraordinary coincidence. A few weeks later, a woman’s body was found in a vacant lot, badly decomposed. He somehow still managed to identify it as that of his wife.”

  “I don’t understand.” Andrew tried to follow. “Are you saying the woman in the asylum isn’t Elizabeth Miner?”

  Jonas shook his head. “No, I’m sure she is. The body was probably a vagrant or a prostitute—god knows corpses are common enough in this city. Probably just a lucky coincidence, from Miner’s perspective. It certainly sped up the court proceedings. He had Elizabeth declared dead, and all her property transferred to him. He sold every scrap and decamped within the week for parts unknown. Left some debts behind, too, so I doubt he’d be easy to find.

  “So Miner is out of reach. And beating the daylights out of Bryce Weaver might be satisfying, but it carries its own risks, so we’ll set that option aside for now. The other possibility is less exciting, but I think it will work.” He looked at Andrew. “All asylum admissions are approved by a judge, correct?”

  “Yes. Every patient file has a copy of the order inside.”

  “Then get me a list of names, and I’ll go to the courthouse and match patients to their court records. They’re public. If there’s no record of a particular admission, then perhaps it means I’ve found someone who’s been admitted through unofficial channels.”

  Andrew frowned. “You said yourself, there are too many patients.”

  Jonas nodded. “Yes. But it’s the most obvious way to search without anyone on the island knowing it’s happening. And I’d need to spend some time at the courthouse anyway. We can’t say there’s not a judge involved in this somewhere.”

  “If anyone discovers what you’re doing—”

  “Don’t worry about me,” Jonas said. “You and Amelia are the ones who have to be careful. I consider every single person on that island to be a danger to her, one way or another.” He looked at Andrew, his eyes hard. “If anything happens to Amelia because she’s helping you…”

  Andrew forced himself not to drop his gaze from the larger man’s. “I understand.”

  “And you’re going to have to ask some questions yourself,” Jonas went on, in an only slightly less weighty tone. “We need to know what really happened to Blounton.”

  A chill of unease prickled down Andrew’s back at the mention of the young doctor.

  Jonas continued, saying aloud what Andrew had spent quite a bit of time trying to ignore. “If he knew about Julia and Elizabeth, if that is his handwriting you found, then he was involved some way—he was either part of the plot,
or else he discovered it. And if it was the latter, well then, how convenient, his dying when he did.”

  The words, with their matter-of-fact tone, dropped into the room like stones into a pond. They fell through the silence and were swallowed up, leaving the air around them rippled and unquiet.

  It was on the tip of Andrew’s tongue to apologize for having dragged the pair of them into this mess. Before he could say anything, though, Jonas shoved back his chair and stood.

  “That’s everything, then. Get me the list as soon as you can. We’ve a great deal of work to do, and waiting won’t make it any easier.”

  25

  Amelia began her search for Julia Weaver the next morning. Just after breakfast, an orderly arrived to bring her to ward seven.

  “Doctor’s orders,” he said as he unlocked the door. Amelia rose without a word and followed him, her stomach churning. She managed a discreet wave to Elizabeth as they passed her cell, regretting the necessity of leaving her friend behind. But it couldn’t be helped. And with any luck, Amelia would discover something that could be used to secure the other woman’s release.

  To Amelia’s relief, ward seven was clean and quiet. Perhaps a third of its patients sat in little clumps scattered around the room. Most were sewing, chattering quietly as they worked. As luck would have it, there was a newly hired nurse working her first day in the ward, and Amelia was able to stay within earshot as a more senior nurse advised her about the patients.

  “Most of this bunch’re lambs,” the older nurse said. “You’ll not be this lucky most days.”

  “Aren’t there any to be watchful of?”

  “None worth worrying over. These are some they let work outside.” The older nurse gestured to one woman, who sat slightly apart from her circle, her hands folded in her lap and a look of benign dignity on her face. “That one won’t get her hands dirty, though.” A snort. “She thinks she’s the Princess Louise.”

  One of the self-styled princess’s companions said something to her, and she bobbed her head in a regal nod before resuming her tranquil pose.

  “Most of the other patients go along,” the nurse went on. “They think it’s funny, and it’s a sight easier than arguing with her. She tries to banish them sometimes,” she added with a chuckle. “That’s a nuisance.”

  The nurses moved on as Amelia made a mental note to tell Cavanaugh there was at least one patient they could cross off their list. There might be any number of women wrongly imprisoned in the asylum, but it was doubtful the reigning British monarch’s daughter was among them.

  She spent the rest of the day moving among the patients, speaking to as many as she could. Amelia steeled herself to touch several and was far more relieved than disappointed when nothing happened.

  Jonas brought her to Cavanaugh’s office that afternoon, explaining his plan for aiding the search as they walked. When they arrived, Amelia was relieved to find the atmosphere between the two men was, if not warm, then at least businesslike.

  She was relaying what she’d learned that day—including the story of the alleged royal—when they were interrupted by a knock at the door.

  It was the young man from the front desk, holding a stack of files and looking harried.

  “I’ve brought the list you requested,” he said. “The full patient roster. And I thought I’d file these while I was here.” He dropped his chin toward the folders. “Although I can come back later if you’d prefer.” He darted a curious look at Jonas and Amelia, the former leaning against the wall, his arms folded, while the latter sat beside Cavanaugh’s desk, trying to look sane and inconspicuous.

  “Thank you, Winslow.” Cavanaugh took the stack. “I’m happy to file these for you so you don’t have to make another trip.”

  “That’s much appreciated,” Winslow said. “You will remember deaths are filed separately from discharges, I hope?”

  “I remember. Deaths in the bottom cabinet, discharges in the top. Thank you for the reminder.” Cavanaugh eased the door closed before the young man could go on. The sound of his footsteps faded, leaving the three of them glancing at one another in apprehensive silence. They were all obviously wondering the same thing. The young clerk had appeared to take note of their gathering. Did it mean something, or were they all simply on edge now that they were officially investigating in secret?

  Jonas finally pushed away from the wall. “I shouldn’t stay. And we’ll need to be more careful. If the three of us are in here together too often, someone will notice. I’ll come back for you in an hour,” he said to Amelia.

  Cavanaugh plucked the sheaf of papers from the top of the stack of files and held it out toward Jonas. “The patient list.”

  “Wait.” Amelia intercepted it. She ran a finger along the columns typed on the thin onionskin, using a pencil to strike through the names of the women she’d spoken to that day. She sat back as she finished, the sheer enormity of the task ahead nearly overwhelming her—despite a full day’s effort, the pages were barely marked. With a sigh, Amelia handed the altered list to Jonas, who folded it and tucked it into his waistband, his expression as somber as her mood.

  “I’ll get started tomorrow morning.” He strode out, leaving Amelia alone with Cavanaugh for the first time since she’d agreed to help him search.

  Avoiding her eyes, Cavanaugh carried the files into the storage room and began to stow them away. “How is ward seven?” he asked after a long moment. “I didn’t want to put you into any of the more challenging wards without warning you first. I thought seven might be a good place to start.”

  “It’s not bad.” Amelia followed him into the narrow space. He was near enough for her to notice the clean, spicy scent of his aftershave—much pleasanter than the heavy floral cologne he’d worn the day he confronted her in her cell.

  “Thank you,” he said after another pause. “For agreeing to help.”

  “You didn’t leave me much choice,” she said, though there was no heat behind the words.

  Cavanaugh flushed and finally raised his eyes to meet hers. “I know. I wanted to say that I—”

  He broke off as another knock came from the outer door.

  Amelia stayed in the storage room as he went to answer, wondering what he’d been about to say. That he was sorry? That he regretted what he’d done? That, whatever happened, he would help her escape with the time came?

  She didn’t get the chance to find out. Cavanaugh returned a moment later, his professional mien firmly back in place, to tell her he was needed in the infirmary—a patient with a fever.

  “You can stay here while I’m gone, if you like. I shouldn’t be long.”

  Relieved not to have to go back to the wards yet, Amelia agreed. After Cavanaugh left, she looked at the folders. She might as well file them while she waited.

  She was halfway through the stack when something at the bottom of a drawer caught her eye. Amelia reached for it. A cuff link. Bloodred enamel, the initials JB picked out in swirls of silver. John Blounton. She set it atop the cabinet and rubbed her fingers against her skirt, struck by a phantom chill at the idea of the late doctor standing where she now did.

  She was walking in a dead man’s footsteps.

  26

  The following evening, Jonas arrived at the asylum in a black humor, bearing bad news. “There’s no way I’m going to be able to check all the names against the files in a month,” he told Amelia as they neared Cavanaugh’s office. “If I spend every possible hour at the courthouse, I might be able to get through half the list.”

  “Half?” Amelia echoed. In her dismay, her voice emerged more loudly than she intended, echoing through the corridor. She winced and cast a furtive look around them, relieved to see no one near enough to have heard her outburst. Nonetheless, she lowered her voice and went on, “But you found the sale records for Elizabeth’s property in an afternoon.”

  “I found them in an hour.” Jonas rapped on Cavanaugh’s door, then opened it without waiting for a reply.

&
nbsp; The doctor looked up as they entered.

  Jonas flung himself into a chair with a sigh and went on. “This is something completely different. It turns out there are only a handful of records clerks, and there’s a constant flood of documents coming down from the courtrooms. They’re all supposed to be sorted and filed at once. Wills and lawsuits—anything involving money or property, anything someone would be likely to need again—actually do get filed. That’s why it was so easy to find the property records.

  “But everything else? It sits in stacks, and every once in a while, when a stack gets too tall, someone comes along and shovels it into a pasteboard box. Then the box goes onto a shelf—wherever there’s space.

  “At least they write the date on the side of the box, so you can tell roughly when those records came from,” Jonas added. He rubbed his forehead and sighed. “I’m going to have to go through every one of those boxes, sort out the asylum admissions, and mark each name off the list. In theory, the names left when I’m done will be those of our hidden women. Or it might just mean they’re in a box I haven’t found yet. Getting through half the list is a best-case scenario.”

  Cavanaugh was frowning. “We need more help.”

  “Indeed.” Jonas gave him a withering look. “Why didn’t I think of that? If you have an army of clerks you’ve neglected to mention, now would be an excellent time.”

  Cavanaugh didn’t reply, though his expression was frosty.

  Amelia suppressed a sigh. Jonas always grew snide when he was frustrated, but Cavanaugh didn’t know him well enough not to take it personally.

  “Well,” she said, deliberately stepping into the silence, “it’s true there’s no one we can trust outside the asylum. But there is someone we can trust inside it.”

  Both men turned to look at her.

  “I’m quite certain Elizabeth will be willing to help search the wards, if we ask,” Amelia went on. “I didn’t get a chance to tell her what was happening before I left the isolation ward, but she’s as involved in this as any of us. More, even.”