by Anna Maclean
Yrs. truly
Father
I put down my teacup and tapped my fingers on the table. Bankrupt? How could that be? Mr. Barnum had made a fortune with his Jenny Lind tour and he had made almost as much money again last year from the sales of his autobiography. I myself had purchased a copy of the book, so good was the promotion, managed by Mr. Barnum himself. The book itself had been…well, let’s say that it did not aim for high literary quality and it achieved that aim. Bankrupt? I put down the letter and sipped my tea.
“More oatmeal, Miss Louisa?” asked Auntie Bond’s maid, Martha.
“I’ll have more, please,” said Lizzie, who sat opposite me reading her own mail from Mother and Father. Undoubtedly Father had reported to her what I was to receive for Christmas, and now Lizzie and I would have even more secrets from each other. I hummed, thinking about that red leather portfolio in Mr. Crowell’s window, and also wished Father had thought to mention the color of Lizzie’s new shawl. I could have trimmed a new hat to match from Auntie Bond’s scrap bag. But men do not generally think of such things as colors of shawls, and whether that red will clash with that violet.
“Good to see a young woman with appetite,” said Martha, scooping a second helping into Lizzie’s bowl. “The cold weather is good for digestion, I always say.”
“It is not too cold,” said Lizzie, looking at me. “Shall we skate today, Louy, and have a holiday? There’s ice on Boston Pond.”
The thought of a holiday was tempting. I could be out in the air with sweet Lizzie, racing over Boston Pond and enjoying a fine winter day, or sitting indoors and stitching the reverend’s shirts by dim candlelight. The choice was obvious; I also hoped a day in the fresh air would help Lizzie recover from yesterday’s shock. It is not often, fortunately, that a young girl is turned away from a séance circle only to discover the medium has died of a weak heart that very afternoon.
“Give me two hours,” I said. “Then meet me at the pond.” While Lizzie finished her second helping of oatmeal, I dressed quickly, brushed my hair to a sheen, and then twisted it into a snood, put on hat and coat, and was out the door.
Boston Public Library, in those days, was still in the old school building on Mason Street, its collections shelved between rows of schoolrooms, so that to approach the periodical reading room I had to tiptoe past a rhetoric class, where young boys loudly and badly disclaimed memorized poetry. Mrs. Simmons was at the desk that day, cotton sticking out of both ears to dim the noise, and she frowned when she saw me, for my requests were often complicated.
“May I have back issues of the New York papers?” I asked her.
“Which ones?”
“All of them, please, for the past month.”
Mrs. Simmons heaved a sigh, studied me over her spectacles, then disappeared down a long, dark aisle.
An hour of reading revealed nothing; the showman was known for his manipulation of the presses in his favor, and I began to fear that whatever gossip Uncle Benjamin had about Mr. Barnum’s finances was no more than that: gossip.
But then, just minutes before I was to leave to meet Lizzie, I opened the November 28 issue of the New York Tribune and found a notice in the legal section. One Edward T. Nichols of Danbury, Connecticut, was being sued by Phineas T. Barnum for failure to pay a $4,000 debt. Furthermore, the notice continued, Mr. Barnum had severed all relationship with Mr. Nichols and would not honor debts or agreements made by that man.
I whistled. I couldn’t help myself. Four thousand dollars. That much would have kept the Alcott family afloat for several years and longer. Mrs. Simmons looked up from her ledger and gave me a stony glance.
So Uncle Benjamin had known of this, somehow. Perhaps he had come into Boston to speak with bankers or some such thing and spent a night at one of his gentlemen’s clubs. Oh, how I envied those cigar-smoking, comfortably shod old gentlemen with their private wood-paneled studies and taprooms, where they could sit and talk and exchange news without being interrupted by Nurse Ann from the nursery, or Betty the cook, or the wife and children. How could women ever advance themselves without such institutions?
I swallowed more than a little resentment—we women did, after all, have the Lily, our own newspaper and journal, at least, and one so advanced that it advocated the vote for women!—and took writing paper from my reticule.
Boston, December 9
Dear Uncle Benjamin,
A loving hug to you and Cousin Eliza! I miss our walks together and think of you with ever so much fondness, though I am enjoying as well as I might my time here in Boston. Uncle, Father says you know a little something about Mr. Barnum’s financial situation.
I paused and chewed the end of the pen. Uncle was exceedingly old-fashioned and did not like to discuss pecuniary matters with females. I must tread carefully.
I have formed a kind of friendship with that personage and humbly ask your advice. Are there subjects of conversation I should avoid to prevent injury of his feelings?
My letter finished, I refolded the newspaper to return it to Mrs. Simmons, who was very specific about the way her papers were to be folded, when on impulse I reopened the paper to the society page. My impulse proved fruitful: There was a notice about Mr. and Mrs. Deeds. She had given a dance the night before, on November 27, and the columnist described in great detail the hothouse roses, the platters of oysters and trays of cream cakes, the six-piece orchestra, the extravagant gowns of the women. “Mrs. Deeds wore a pearl-and-diamond collar recently added to her famed collection of jewels,” the reporter had continued. It had to be the same necklace she had worn at the séance, a week later; yet Mr. Deeds had said the price had not been agreed upon, and the necklace was still “on loan.” Since she had already boasted, a week before, of owning the necklace, it must have been a great blow to Mrs. Deeds’s pride when the purchase was foiled. I thoughtfully refolded the paper.
The letter to Uncle Benjamin was posted on my way to Boston Common, and a little voice nagged inside my head all the way as I walked. Why did I wish such information about Mr. Barnum? The séances were over and I would probably never again see Mr. Barnum; nor had I known him long enough or well enough to form a true bond of caring with him. Yet, I felt I would be holding my breath till I heard from Uncle Benjamin.
This happens in writing a story, as well. You discover a thread and for no reason other than that it amuses you, you begin to unravel it. And unravel and unravel, till at last, tied at the end of the thread, is the secret you have been working toward without even knowing it was there.
At the Common, the ice was new and slick, the sun poked between clouds, and Lizzie and I raced in circles on the pond, playing tag like children, showing off our spins and backward figure eights till we dropped with exhaustion on one of the benches.
“Oh, I haven’t had so much fun since…since…” But Lizzie couldn’t remember the last time we had laughed so long and so hard.
“Your sister should have fun more often; it suits her,” a man’s voice called to us. “Hot chocolate?” I turned and saw Constable Cobban carefully making his way over the ice toward us, balancing three cups just purchased from a vendor’s cart. I knew from the look on his face that the thread I had pulled had a secret at the end.
“Hot chocolate! Perfect!” exclaimed Lizzie, reaching for a cup.
“Lizzie, you remember Constable Cobban of the Boston Watch and Police,” I said, somehow not surprised to see him. He nodded, handed a cup of hot chocolate to me as well, and sat beside me on the bench. A girl in a bright red skating outfit glided by and Cobban watched, sipping his chocolate.
“You are not here to skate,” I said.
“No. I’ve come looking for you. Miss Bond said I might find you here.”
“It is about Mrs. Percy,” I said.
“It is. Her stepbrother came to see me last night. Very angry, he was.” Cobban drank his hot chocolate in one gulp and balanced the white cup on his huge red palm. “Seems a significant quantity of jewelry and money
is missing from Mrs. Percy’s rooms,” he said. “It’s not just a matter of bracelets, Miss Louisa. And there’s more. He says his sister was in excellent health, no heart trouble at all; her physician will vouch for it. The opium did not kill her. She was not strangled, for there are no marks on her neck. But she probably was suffocated while she slept. Asphyxiation caused the appearance of a weakened heart.”
“Oh, dear,” I said.
“No, oh, Suzie Dear,” he said with an inappropriate attempt at humor. “She must be found and tried for murder.”
He rose and returned our emptied cups to the vendor, then gave me a sad glance. His breath steamed in the cold air, and the tip of his nose had turned red and shiny.
“I told you only because you will undoubtedly read all this in the evening paper. I suppose it would be a waste of time if I asked you to forget this occurrence and not entangle yourself,” he said. A flash of winter sun caught in his coppery hair, giving him a slightly metallic, ornery appearance.
“Mr. Cobban, I was in the next room to this ‘occurrence.’ I am already entangled,” I said.
“As I thought.” He sighed, then grinned. “Good day, ladies. I am sorry if I have injected a somber note. It was pleasant to watch you enjoying yourselves.” He walked away, a serious tall, thin man in bright red plaid making his way through the throng of merry skaters. Never before had I noticed the lonely quality of his slightly stooped shoulders.
“Just one thing, Constable,” I called after him. “What is the name of Mrs. Percy’s stepbrother?”
He answered over his shoulder. “Mr. Nichols,” he said. “Edward Nichols.”
The name was familiar. I had read about it in connection with Mr. Barnum’s difficulties. Mr. Nichols was the man who had cheated him out of his fortune.
CHAPTER SIX
The Locked Room
THE NEXT MORNING, upon awakening, I raised my right hand to the dim light of dawn and inspected my bruised knuckles. Yesterday, after Cobban had left, Lizzie and I had taken one more turn around the rink, and I had fallen. Too bad, I thought, I won’t be able to stitch the reverend’s shirts today. How will I pass the time?
I already knew, of course. Lizzie was happily ensconced in Auntie Bond’s parlor, practicing a thumping march, when I again put on hat and coat, feeling more than a qualm of guilt. How would I purchase Lizzie’s Christmas present if I did not finish the reverend’s shirts on time? A woman should complete her household duties and maintain order in her little kingdom before pursuing other activities, and when time allows she should study literature, philosophy, and languages. Crime scenes and dead bodies were not a part of this useful system. But, kind reader, I ask your indulgence. If you love a story, where better to find one than where a crime has been committed?
The winter air was mild and the streets more congested. The costumes of the ladies grew much richer as I approached Arlington Street. One woman, attired in scarlet velvet, wore black kid boots buttoned with silver and a large brooch of pearls and peacock feathers. I ached for them the way, as a child, I ached for cake. Someday, I thought, I will earn real money and the Alcott girls will dress in fine things, not hand-me-downs. Our youngest sister especially, May, was particularly pretty and graceful and loved beautiful things, yet was wearing Cousin Eliza’s patched country castoffs. Someday, I promised May in my heart as I walked down the street eyeing other women’s fashions, I will buy you a dress that will make your heart soar with pleasure. And a necklace, as well, though one of garnets and silver, not pearls and diamonds.
I was not as determined to bring Suzie Dear to justice as was Constable Cobban, understanding full well that girlish desire for new, shiny adornments. If money and expensive jewelry had been stolen, who was to say that another had not taken them? Perhaps even Mrs. Percy’s own brother, who even better than a maid might know where such things were hidden, and then in pretended outrage claim them stolen. Perhaps insurance was involved as well.
When I arrived at Mrs. Percy’s house, a man stood watch at the door.
“No one is allowed inside, miss,” he said stiffly, staring straight ahead. Judging from his posture, he had studied illustrations of the queen’s guard at Windsor Castle.
“Is Constable Cobban here?” I asked.
He frowned, not knowing if a good sentry would answer the question. Politeness won out. He was, the man admitted.
“Then tell him Miss Alcott asks a word, if you please.”
“But I can’t leave the doorway!” The man groaned, now in an agony of indecision.
“Then I will just step inside and tell him myself,” I said.
“Very good, miss. He’s in the downstairs hall, with the other lady.”
Other lady? To my surprise, when I reached the end of the hall, Sylvia was there with Cobban, kneeling on the floor in the dim light and twisting this way and that the knob of the door to Mrs. Percy’s sitting room, where she had died.
“Louy!” Sylvia exclaimed with surprise, jumping to her feet. Cobban looked up. Both blushed.
“Good morning, Constable Cobban, Sylvia,” I said. “You are up bright and early.”
“I could not sleep,” Sylvia said, turning even pinker. “I heard Father’s voice last night.”
“You dreamed it,” I suggested.
“No. I did hear his voice, and I was awake,” Sylvia insisted. “Even if Mrs. Percy used tricks of some sort I still believe a doorway has been opened. He wanted to tell me about Mrs. Percy. Oh, Louy, she was murdered! Father is quite upset about it. This morning I woke up and a book had fallen open on my night table, and the first words on the page were, ‘Believe in this!’”
Sylvia had a habit of reading romances in bed; a familiarity with her favorite authors and titles would easily convince me that any number of books could have fallen to a page with that kind of message, and made an even stronger believer of her.
“And does your father have any idea how this crime was achieved?” I sighed, now in my turn kneeling beside Cobban and trying the door handle. Sometimes, in very old houses, the bolt and lock are so used as to have grown thin and sleek and will unlock themselves if the handle is jiggled enough. But Mrs. Percy had renovated her home; the locks were new.
“Doesn’t do it,” said Cobban, reading my thoughts. “I’ve jiggled it till my hand’s gone numb, trying to get it open. It holds.”
“You see, Louy,” persisted Sylvia, “this is what most distresses Father. He thinks another spirit did it, someone still angry with Mrs. Percy but living in the otherworld. How else could she have been killed behind locked doors and windows?” My friend was breathless with excitement.
“Calm yourself,” said Constable Cobban, putting a hand on her shoulder.
“I know how it could be done,” said another voice from behind us. Mr. Phineas Barnum appeared from the dark at the other end of the hall and came toward us. For a crystal gazer no longer in business, Mrs. Percy seemed to have an inordinate amount of activity in her hall.
“Good morning,” said the showman, tipping his hat and leaning his walking cane against the brown flocked wallpaper of the hall.
“And to you, sir,” said Cobban coldly.
I offered my hand and we shook, and all the while I studied Mr. Barnum more carefully. But this is a truth of finance: To be bankrupt when you are close to poverty is quite different from becoming bankrupt when you already own a fine home or two, a wardrobe of suits, and several carriages, horse teams, and business ventures. If Mr. Barnum was in financial straits, it did not show in his clothing or in his expression. The old gentleman’s eyes were clear and sparkling. In fact, he seemed in extraordinarily fine spirits. Even, I might have said, relieved of some burden.
“You know how this might be done?” Cobban asked, looking up from the handle.
Mr. Barnum clasped his hands over his chest and rocked back and forth on his heels, just as small boys do when accepting a challenge to turn a cartwheel or steal an apple. “I do,” he said. “Magicians have shown me time a
nd again. I need a piece of wire. Now, put the key in the lock on the other side. Of course, you must go on the other side, and bolt yourself in.”
“I will assist,” offered Sylvia, seeing that Cobban wished to stay on the hall side of the door and watch the experiment.
With a backward glance and a smile that was as much directed to Cobban as to me, Sylvia went through the door and closed it. We heard the key turn in the lock, and the bolt shoot home.
“Ready,” she called, her voice muffled by the thickness of the door. “What am I to do now?”
“Leave the key in the lock,” Mr. Barnum shouted back. “Now,” he said gleefully. From his coat pocket he took an envelope he had ready for posting. It was of good-quality writing paper and quite thick. This he placed on the floor, directly under the lock, so that half the envelope was in the hall and the other half on the other side of the door.
“Now, I need a strong piece of wire,” he said. “Ah. Just happen to have this…” From his watch pocket he withdrew a coil of gleaming wire. He unwound it, bent it twice to thicken it, and put it into the lock, bouncing it up and down and sideways for several minutes. We heard a little thud from the other side of the door; Mr. Barnum carefully slid out the envelope from under the door.
“Just so,” he said, holding up the key.
“Any schoolboy knows how to do that,” said Cobban. “What about the bolt?”
“Part two,” said Mr. Barnum, frowning over Cobban’s comment about schoolboys. “We must assume that the killer performed part of this trick in advance, and for that purpose I will ask your friend’s assistance.” He twisted the wire again so that there was a loop at one end of it. “Miss Sylvia, put the loop over the head of the bolt,” he called, pushing the wire under the door to her side.
“Done,” came Sylvia’s voice a moment later. She sounded very far away.
