A Deadly Fortune

by Stacie Murphy

  “Merely a touch of cold.”

  Andrew sensed Amelia’s eyes boring into his back. “Of course.” He gestured to the cot still folded against the wall. “It’s no trouble for me to stay.”

  “Oh, you won’t have to stay overnight,” Harcourt said. “I don’t plan to be very late.”

  “Well, then, certainly, I’ll stay,” Andrew said.

  “Wonderful.” A genuine smile stole across Harcourt’s face. “Thank you.”

  Amelia spoke as soon as Harcourt was out of earshot. “I’m going to search his apartment while he’s gone.” She went on, even as Andrew opened his mouth to object, “It’s the only chance we’re likely to get. The last chance to find something that could tie him to the deaths.”

  Andrew considered arguing, but her expression said it would be wasted breath.

  Thirty minutes later, Harcourt passed the office door again, flushed, but wearing evening dress and a determined expression of his own.

  * * *

  They waited in silence for the hall to empty. Andrew fidgeted in his chair, and Amelia reached across the desk to give his hand an encouraging squeeze. He raised his head to look at her, and something swelled in her chest as their eyes met. After a long moment, Amelia pulled back and stood.

  “It’s time.”

  Andrew nodded, his mouth tight.

  Amelia could still feel the warmth of his hand on her palm as she approached Harcourt’s apartment. She gave herself a mental shake. She had to focus.

  She pulled a hairpin from her pocket and checked the hallway. Clear in both directions. She had the lock open in seconds. Her hand on the knob, she glanced back long enough to see Andrew watching her from his office before she opened the door and stepped through, closing it behind her with a gentle click.

  The fading light from the west-facing windows lit the space just enough to make a lamp unnecessary. She stood in a wide room that appeared to be a combination of private study and parlor. On one side was a desk piled high with papers, one small cabinet, and a bookshelf. On the other, a small, round cabinet sat between a pair of comfortable-looking chairs with matching ottomans. Harcourt’s bedroom was visible through the open door behind them.

  Amelia took a moment to relock the apartment door. There was no reason to think she would be disturbed, but the sound of a key in the lock would give her a few extra seconds if she was wrong. She took a breath and set to work with all the frustrated energy she’d been unable to expend on the other apartments.

  First, the desk. Files upon files. She skimmed them all, but they looked no different than any of the hundreds of patient files she’d seen over the past weeks. There was a stack of admissions documents, none with a date earlier than a month before, and a smaller stack of discharges. None of it was suspicious. She went through all the drawers, looking for hidden compartments, but found nothing.

  She turned to the cabinet. It was low, fitted with brass hardware and glass knobs. The left side held supplies—pens, blotters, empty files, blank notepads. The right side was locked. Out came the trusty hairpin, and within a minute she had it open. Amelia blinked at the selection of bottles. Whiskey, cognac, brandy. A double row of wines. All of them expensive, equivalent at least to the best served at the club. A tell, just as with Russo.

  She moved on to the bookshelf. Fortunately, Harcourt did not appear to be a voracious reader. Amelia flipped through each volume and checked the backs of the shelves for hidden panels.

  She turned to the chairs, though she doubted he would hide anything in that part of the room; no point in keeping one’s secrets where any casual guest might happen across them. She was thorough, however, hunting for hidden pockets and checking under cushions. The cabinet between the chairs held a tray of glassware and an empty decanter.

  Satisfied she’d missed nothing in the front room, Amelia hurried into the bedroom. She searched the washroom first, finding only the usual assortment of grooming aids and personal items. In an alcove on the back wall was a ladder, similar to the one in the file room beside Andrew’s office. She turned her attention to Harcourt’s bedroom, the most likely place—indeed the only place remaining—where there might be something worth finding.

  Amelia began with the wardrobe. She put a hand into each shoe sitting at the bottom and checked the pockets of all the garments. Nothing except a few crumpled bits of paper. She put them in her pocket. The drawer of the bedside table was similarly unrewarding: tissues, throat drops, a pair of reading glasses missing an arm. She went through the dresser drawers and ran her hands behind the mirror.

  She felt behind the headboard and beneath the mattress. She swiped an arm through the narrow space under the bed, scratching her arm on the jagged bottom of a protruding bed spring but finding only dust. Frustrated, Amelia sat back on her heels, her roving gaze scanning the room before coming back to the bed.

  The headboard and footboard were solid panels all the way to the floor. The mattress sat low, the space under it no more than a foot high. Nothing very large could fit under there, and she hadn’t felt anything. But there was nowhere left to look, short of slitting open the mattress itself. She bent to peer into the dark space.

  A shallow metal strongbox sat exactly beneath the center of the bed, just past the reach of her bent arm. Amelia laid down flat on the floor and reached in, taking care this time to avoid the points of the twisted steel springs stippling the underside. Pressing her shoulder hard against the side panel, she was able to hook the tip of one finger around part of the latch. Slowly, she urged it toward her until she could get her hand and wrist around one corner. With a grunt of effort, she dragged it from beneath the bed. It was heavier than she’d anticipated. It also had a stout lock, considerably sturdier than the ones on either the apartment door or the liquor cabinet. She studied it, then spent several precious minutes working on it before it clicked open in her hand.

  Amelia’s chest buzzed with anticipation as she lifted the lid. She went still, her heartbeat pounding in her ears. Money. More than she’d ever seen in one place in her life, even on the club’s busiest nights. Stacks of bills five inches deep, bound and not, wrinkled and crisply new, all denominations. She began to count it but gave up after a few minutes. There were thousands of dollars here.

  Got you, she thought.

  41

  Andrew waited for the better part of an hour. He tried to ignore the acid churning in his gut and pretended to scribble notes on the paper in front of him. Every few minutes, he scanned the hallway and aimed what he hoped looked like a casual glance at Harcourt’s door. He’d just completed his most recent check and taken one step back toward his chair when a hacking cough echoed through the hallway.

  He froze. Probably an orderly. Please let it be an orderly. Or Klafft, out of his room for some reason. With a deliberate movement, Andrew pivoted on his heel and stepped into the doorway again. He clutched the doorjamb as a wave of horror swept over him. Harcourt, his face hectic and his normally smooth hair disarranged, stood at the top of the stairs. The older man was halfway to his office before Andrew tore himself from his stupor and stepped out to meet him. Harcourt didn’t pause, forcing Andrew to walk along beside him.

  “Dr. Harcourt. I didn’t expect you back so soon. I hope nothing is the matter?” Andrew thought his voice sounded almost normal.

  They stopped outside the apartment. Harcourt fumbled in his pocket for the key. He paused to muffle a mighty sneeze with his handkerchief, then answered.

  “A change of plans, I’m afraid. I’ve got a splitting headache. I’m sure it’s nothing. But I do find myself rather fatigued. I thought it prudent to come back early and try to get a good night’s sleep.”

  Andrew raised his voice as much as he dared, praying Amelia could hear him. “Yes, I’m certain that will help. So sorry to hear you’re not well. But I’m sure it’s for the best that you’ve come back early.” He aimed the last four words directly at the wooden panel. What would he say if Harcourt found the door unlocked?
>
  Harcourt looked at him strangely. “I’m afraid I must excuse myself. I have some work I really must get to, then I am going to retire. Thank you for staying,” he continued, “but please do feel free to go home, if you like. You’ve missed the seven o’clock, but you’ll be able to catch the eight.”

  “Ah, well, I have a bit more work myself. I’ll be here a while yet.”

  Paralyzed, Andrew watched as Harcourt unlocked the door and walked inside.

  42

  Jonas slid the last of the boxes back into place and stretched. He grunted as half the joints in his upper body crackled. He’d traded away the day shift he’d been assigned at the asylum and been waiting on the courthouse steps when it opened that morning. It would be closing soon, and he’d spent every moment in between hunched over a rickety table in a cramped room, sorting through mountains of paperwork until his eyes ached.

  It was as close as he was willing to come to apologizing for what he’d said to Cavanaugh the night before. It hadn’t been incorrect, but it had been unkind.

  Jonas settled back into the too-small chair and pulled his notepad closer. One of the clerks fussed with a box on the shelf behind him. He scanned his list and began to write down the names not scored out by black lines. Eight names. Eight women in the past three years who, as far as he could determine, had never been admitted to the asylum but had died there nonetheless.

  Jonas shoved his chair back and stood, startling a little squeak from the clerk. Jonas ripped the list from the pad and stuffed it into his pocket. He scraped the remainder of his things into his bag and strode out of the courthouse, where he stood on the steps, blinking in the late-afternoon sun. The day was unseasonably warm for May, but the heavy air couldn’t fully drive away the chill his discovery had birthed. But if Amelia was determined to stay on the island, he would do everything in his power to solve this mystery.

  Jonas wondered if she even knew why she was doing it. He’d seen the way her face softened when she looked at Cavanaugh. If the circumstances were different—if he hadn’t been so damn terrified for her—he would have welcomed it. If Amelia had tender feelings for Cavanaugh, maybe it would make her a little more understanding of his relationship with Sidney.

  Jonas shook himself alert. He and Sidney were meant to meet for an early dinner before his shift at the club, but according to the courthouse clock, he had some time yet. A cabdriver hailed him from the street, but Jonas waved him on and started down the sidewalk. Sidney’s office wasn’t more than a mile away, and the walk would do him good.

  Lost in thought, Jonas barely noticed as the city changed around him. The streets nearest the courthouse had been bustling with workers leaving their offices and shops. But the crowds thinned and died away as he crossed into a gritty area dominated by bars and warehouses. In the way of cities, it would give way again in another block to the quiet, elegant street where Sidney worked.

  He had just passed the mouth of an alleyway when a footstep scraped on the cobblestones behind him. Jonas tensed, but before he could turn around, something hard prodded him between the shoulder blades.

  “Don’t move,” a nervous voice said.

  Chiding himself for his carelessness, Jonas waited for the man to order him to empty his pockets. He didn’t bother telling the fellow he had no money; he’d find out for himself in a moment. But instead of a voice demanding his wallet, Jonas heard an unmistakable click as the man drew back the hammer of the pistol pressed to his spine.

  He spun with a choked shout. There was a loud crack, and Jonas staggered as a terrible blow struck his arm. He had a fleeting impression of his attacker—a hat pulled low, panicked eyes, and a bizarre plaid handkerchief tied over the lower half of his face like a stagecoach bandit—before his vision grayed at the edges.

  The horizon tilted, and the cobblestones rushed up to meet him. The last thing Jonas saw before the world faded was a surprisingly clean hand, the nails neatly trimmed, reaching into his pocket. He was amused by the irony, in a distant, indifferent sort of way. He’d worried for Amelia, but there he was, dying on a city street so a man could have his empty wallet.

  43

  Amelia went still at the sound of muffled voices in the hall. The scrape of the key in the lock, unmistakable even from the next room, made her heart leap into her throat. She thrust the money back into the box and lowered the lid. As she snapped the lock back into place, she hunted in a panic for somewhere to hide. The wardrobe—but then imagined coming eye to eye with a startled Harcourt if he should open it. She squelched a hysterical giggle. The washroom was out of the question, but if she could get to the ladder beyond—

  Footsteps moved toward the bedroom door.

  She was out of time. Amelia flung herself down and, her head to one side and her cheek pressed flat to the floor, slithered into the tiny space beneath the bed. No one larger than she could have fit. Even so, her shoulders hung on the side rail as the footsteps moved closer. She exhaled with a desperate huff and forced her body through the narrow opening, the pointed tips of at least a dozen springs scraping painfully across her upper back and shoulders. She hauled the box into place in front of her as the door opened.

  Amelia heard Harcourt enter the room and walk around to the far side of the bed. Shadows leapt across the floor as he lit the lamp. She could not move her head, and she quivered at each footfall on her blind side, each creak of the floorboards. She lay in an agony of suspense, with a paranoid certainty that he somehow knew she was there. Of course he had noticed something out of place in his study, or a drawer not completely shut, or a faint track in the dust on the floor. She would be discovered. Any moment now, a hand would reach into the dark and grab her, would drag her painfully into the lamplight. Instead, silent minutes ticked by.

  And then, disaster. Harcourt sat down on the edge of the bed, then lay back with a sigh. The pointed springs dimpling her back stabbed deep. Amelia stifled a scream. Tears leaked from her eyes. She felt a trickle of blood run down the valley of her spine. She squeezed her eyes closed and concentrated on taking short, shallow breaths. Dust tickled her nose and throat. There was no room to lift her cheek from the floor, and the cashbox in front of her upper body meant she couldn’t lift a hand from her side to rub the itch away. She fought the urge to sneeze, the knowledge that it would be disastrous only sharpening the need. She lay beneath the bed, hating herself for ever having thought this was a good idea.

  After what felt like eons, the crushing weight lifted as Harcourt stood. Amelia had to squelch another sound, this one of relief, as the daggers embedded in her back retracted. The space felt suddenly, blessedly, cavernous. After a time, the lamp went out. She went limp with relief as his footfalls faded, retreating back toward the door.

  Her relief was short-lived. The apartment door didn’t open. Instead, dim light filtered into the bedroom from the study. She nearly cried. He wasn’t leaving. He was reading or doing paperwork, and when he finished…

  Amelia fought her rising panic and tried to think. If it weren’t for the damned springs, she could wait it out. She could stay where she was until he fell asleep. She knew she could move out of the room quietly enough to avoid waking him. But the throbbing in her back, the thought of lying there, skewered like a bug, for god only knew how long, rendered that option distinctly unappealing. She thought again of the little closet with its ladder and hatch.

  It was a risk. Would it open at all? If it did, how much noise would it make? With only the washroom door between them, there would be little to dampen the sound. Could she even get there without alerting the currently-very-much-awake man in the next room? The door to the study was open. She would have to move past it. What if he saw her? At best their investigation would be ruined. Andrew’s complicity would be discovered. He’d be fired. Amelia would be drugged and tossed into a cell. At worst…

  If Harcourt were involved in the scheme—and everything she’d seen said he was—there was no limit to what he might be capable of. Julia knew. John
Blounton might have found out. She thought about the mother taken from her daughter, and about the young doctor, his poor head smashed and his body in the river. Amelia shuddered, imagining what might happen if she were found, and the movement sent a fresh shiver of pain through her back. Then, with a careful breath, she began to slide from her hiding place.

  44

  Andrew held his breath as the minutes crept past. How could Amelia have possibly avoided being found? But if she had been caught, there would have been some sort of outcry. Should he knock on the door? Attempt to lure Harcourt from his apartment?

  Just as he made up his mind to feign some sort of emergency and call for Harcourt’s aid, a muffled thump came from the records room. Andrew nearly jumped out of his skin; then he waited, uncertain. A series of thuds decided him. He closed his office door, then eased open the door to the records room and peered inside. The noises resumed, louder now. Dust drifted down from the access panel in the ceiling.

  He climbed the ladder and reached up to push against the panel. It resisted, and then it swung up a few inches with a screech he felt in his teeth. A dirty pair of hands appeared, clutching the edge. There was a grunt, and another screech, and Amelia knelt, looking down at him, her hair wild and her face streaked with grime. He stared at her, then broke into stunned laughter.

  She smiled. “Help a lady down?”

  She reached out a hand. He took it, and something passed between them at the touch. They gazed at each other for a long moment. Amelia flushed, then seemed to shake herself alert and began to climb down.

  He gasped when he saw the back of her dress. “You’re bleeding!”

  She reached the bottom of the ladder and turned with a grimace. “I know. I had a terrible time making sure I wasn’t leaving a trail through the apartment as I left. Is it bad?”

  He leaned forward, peering at the holes in her rough asylum dress. “Bad enough. Some of these look deep. You need to let me clean them. What happened?” He led her through to the office and reached for his medical bag, rummaging for gauze and disinfectant as she explained.