by Anna Maclean
Tomorrow, I decided, I would pay a visit to Miss Amelia Snodgrass, and then to Mr. Barnum. I looked at the pile of unstitched linen shirts next to my chair and sighed. I was making such little progress! Nine more to go before the full order could be delivered to the reverend and payment made. Nine more shirts before I could purchase Lizzie’s sheet music and lessons with Signor Massimo; how long would Mr. Crowell be willing to hold them for me? Mrs. Percy, I complained to her in my thoughts, why couldn’t you have waited till after Christmas?
She answered immediately. At least, the voice that was revealing the story of “Agatha’s Confession” answered:
At last, feeling that concealment was ungenerous and unwise, I went to Philip, saying calmly, though my heart was nearly broken by the sacrifice I tried to make: “Philip, if I have lost your affection, give me at least your confidence. If you love Clara, do not hide it from me, and I will break the tie that has become an irksome fetter, and henceforth try to find my happiness in making yours.”
This touched him deeply, as I knew it would. He drew me fondly to him, saying half gaily and half sorrowfully while his frank eyes looked down into mine:
“I am but fascinated by her beauty, little friend. But tell her to be less lovely and less kind; it will be better for us both. Indeed, I do not love her; so forget your fears.”
For this is the truth of human nature, kind but imperfect reader. We speak in half-truths and know not even our own selves; we mistake fear for virtue and are foolishly surprised when passion turns to violence.
Another hour later, exhausted by the long day but with four more pages added to my story, finally I joined Lizzie in our shared bedroom and slept deeply, dreamlessly.
THE NEXT AFTERNOON Sylvia joined me for the visit to Miss Snodgrass. During the walk there we did not speak of Constable Cobban, but she did speak of her father, whom she insisted again was visiting her in dreams and speaking to her.
“Father sees my loneliness,” Sylvia said quietly, putting her arm through mine.
“Are you so lonely?” I asked.
“I have not mentioned this before,” said my friend, “but when I see the joy on your face as you think of the Christmas gifts you wish to purchase for your family, then I think, ‘And what gifts will I present, and to whom?’ Mother has everything. Who has need of a gift from me? Other than you, of course. Poor Louy, your hands are blue from the cold. You should not have given away your gloves.”
“Gloves are easier to replace than a heart that has been given,” I said gently.
“He is a good man. Kind and honest,” Sylvia said. “As for those plaid suits, I will see to it that they are replaced. Ah. This is the house, isn’t it?” We climbed the steps of the porch and knocked.
Miss Snodgrass’s maid, an ancient, hobbling creature who muttered constantly, opened the door of the old Beacon Hill home and took our coats. She admitted us to a back parlor, where Miss Snodgrass sat before her tapestry frame, working a pretty scene of woodlands and pheasants. Miss Snodgrass wore bright green and purple; in her own home, it would seem, she abandoned that strange taste for nondescript brown garments. In fact, she looked quite festive compared to her parlor furnishings, which were ancient and mismatched, of excellent quality but in need of new upholstery. The stenciled walls were faded, the leaded windows dull and distorted with great age.
“How kind of you to visit,” said Amelia Snodgrass with evident lack of sincerity. She paused in her stitching, her right hand holding needle and crimson thread poised over the frame. The rules of calling would be rigorously followed, I assumed. For ten minutes we would have to make small talk and drink tea before I could announce the purpose of the visit.
The tea tray was brought in. Miss Amelia Snodgrass poured tea in a way I could only dream about. Not a drop missed its mark. When she passed me the cup and saucer, there was no rattle of china on china. Her aim was sharp, her hand absolutely steady. For the required ten minutes we spoke of the weather, which was nasty, and the Christmas decorations in the store windows, which were lovely.
Of course, the tea was appallingly weak, more dirty water than orange pekoe, but I had come to expect that in houses where the family tree had more items in it than the family bank account.
“You have heard of the circumstances of Mrs. Percy’s death?” I asked finally, sipping the weak tea.
“The death notice indicated some questions of cause,” she said. “Some seed cake, Miss Alcott?”
“Murder, probably,” said Sylvia.
“Oh, dear.” Miss Snodgrass put her cup and saucer on the table and folded her hands in her lap. “How dreadful.”
“Forgive me, Miss Snodgrass, but I would not have thought you the type to frequent séance parlors,” I said. “How did you choose Mrs. Percy?”
“Now you will learn of my indiscretion,” said Miss Snodgrass, sighing. “I have a curiosity about such things and heard from a friend that Mrs. Percy could provide an amusing afternoon.”
“No more than curiosity drew you there? Yes, I will have a piece of seed cake, thank you.”
“Well, perhaps a little more. Will this piece do? I had lost a necklace and thought she might be able to tell me its whereabouts. Silly, I know, but I’ve heard such things happen.”
“A valuable necklace?” I asked.
“Oh, it’s quite hideous, really. But a family piece. I was at a house party, and it disappeared. Isn’t it a classic! Mother warned, ‘Dear, don’t take the real thing with you to a country house full of strangers; take the glass pearls.’ But one is young and, yes, vain, and one takes the real thing. And it disappears. Mother was right. As usual.”
“I know exactly what you mean,” Sylvia exclaimed. “I lost a garnet bracelet at an ice-skating party last winter, and thought I would never hear the end of it from Mother. I think I do know who took it, though. Warren offered to clean it for me after I fell into a drift and then I became all distracted because Annabelle would attempt a spin and fall and injure her ankle, and by then I had forgotten the bracelet. Two months later I saw it on a housemaid at Warren’s birthday party. She was very pretty, that maid.” Sylvia’s voice trailed off. I had kicked her, very gently of course, under the table.
Miss Snodgrass sipped her tea.
“How terrible for you!” I exclaimed to Miss Snodgrass, when Sylvia had lapsed into silence. “And was the thief caught?”
“I did not say it was stolen,” said Miss Snodgrass. “I am quite certain it fell into the well when I leaned over it. Mother never forgave me.” Miss Snodgrass smiled, as if we discussed a lost pin, not a family heirloom. She was determined to make light of it, which suggested to me the loss was very serious.
“And was that the meaning of Mrs. Percy’s message, do you think, when she yelled, ‘The necklace!’?”
“My dear Miss Alcott,” she said. “That was a message for Mrs. Deeds, was it not? It had nothing to do with me.”
“How shockingly bad my memory is,” I agreed. “Is that a portrait of your mother?” I looked at the wall behind the settee, where a group of disagreeable-looking paintings had been circled around a wreath of silk flowers. There were four men with beards of varying length to distinguish them, and one woman who looked, I imagined, as Amelia herself would look in another twenty-five years, and I understood why so many women feel the need to marry sooner rather than later.
“That is Mama,” she said coldly. “She died six months ago. I must wait the full year of mourning before I can marry, of course.”
“And is that the necklace that fell into the well?” I asked, for the woman in the portrait wore a collar of pearls and diamond drops.
“Yes. I was to have been married in it. Family tradition, you know,” she answered coldly. Her little finger crooked over the teapot. “More tea? I don’t know what I’ll say to Wilmot; he is so looking forward to seeing the necklace. He had a bracelet specially made to match, and earrings as well. They are to be my Christmas present.” Her lack of enthusiasm for the gift was
apparent.
“The necklace looks strangely like the one Mrs. Deeds wore to the séance,” I said.
“What a coincidence,” agreed Amelia Snodgrass.
“I understand Mrs. Deeds returned her necklace to Mrs. Percy. It was only on loan.”
“Really? It was returned?” Miss Snodgrass lifted an eyebrow, which was, for her, a gesture of great passion.
“Does your fiancé not know of the theft of the necklace? I mean the loss, of course. Down the well. It wasn’t in the papers?” I asked.
“Of course it wasn’t in the papers, Miss Alcott. Whatever are you thinking, a name like Snodgrass bandied about on the same page as items of horse theft and pickpocketing. And I have not yet found the appropriate time to inform Wilmot….”
I was beginning to suspect there might be a considerable list of missing items about which the fiancé did not know—the better pieces of silver now represented by empty spaces on the sideboard, the bright patches of unfaded wallpaper where oil paintings had once hung, the paste necklace at Miss Amelia’s throat, cheap jewelry worn now not to protect the “real stuff” but to replace it entirely.
“Who was at the country house, Miss Snodgrass?” I asked, leaning forward.
“You are full of questions,” she said, and her tone let me know that my curiosity was now bordering on a lapse of manners. “You are friends with that awful Constable Cobban, are you not?”
Sylvia, sitting next to me on the settee, stiffened.
“Such a strange acquaintance for a young woman of a good family,” Miss Snodgrass sniffed. “Mrs. Percy was there, among others. It was how we first met.”
I rose from my chair and moved closer to the portrait of her mother for a better examination. How the woman frowned! If I were to pay an artist and sit before him for many hours, I would at least smile a bit.
“Very lovely,” I said, touching a chipped porcelain rosebud that rested on a crowded shelf beneath the portrait.
“Limoges,” said Amelia Snodgrass. “A wedding present from my grandfather to my grandmother.”
“I’m sure she was pleased with the gift,” I said. “Was Mrs. Percy’s brother there, as well? Mr. Edward Nichols? At this house party?”
Amelia poured us more tea. “Let me think.” She sighed. “Yes, I believe so. Was that his name? I forget. Nichols, you say?” As she put down the teapot she splashed tea over an album of photos that sat squarely on the table. I am sure, domestic reader, you know the type of album I indicate: It is invariably trimmed with lace and hand-marbled paper and is exceedingly heavy and so cannot be moved quickly out of the way of unexpected tides of tea or lemonade or hot chocolate. The liquid always lands on such albums, always leaves a large stain, and many a family has suffered days, weeks of tantrums over such events.
“Oh, dear,” said Amelia Snodgrass calmly. “I do hope Papa’s portrait hasn’t been wetted.” But she made no move to clean the spill or examine the damage. Instead, she rose with a graceful smoothing of her skirt, indicating that the visit was now over. She had said very little, and revealed much.
“That wedding will be an awful affair,” Sylvia said when we were outside again in the chill winter air. “I know the kind. I think I will elope. Won’t that be exciting, Louy, an elopement? No one will approve, of course, at least not for a while.”
“I think Amelia might have preferred an elopement herself.” I took Sylvia’s arm, for the sidewalk was icy and my boots very thin from wear.
“Elope with Wilmot Green? He is very wealthy, but I don’t think he’s quite bright enough to know how to lean a ladder against a wall,” Sylvia said, pulling her fur muffler tighter about her neck. My friend was acquainted with most of Boston society, thanks to her persistent mother’s attempts to marry her off.
“I wasn’t referring to Mr. Green, but to Miss Snodgrass. I think she is very eager for this wedding to occur before…”
“Before what, Louy?”
“Before Mr. Green discovers the loss of the necklace and the extent of Miss Snodgrass’s impoverishment, and before he discovers…Oh, I really shouldn’t say. It is cruel to gossip in this way, when a woman’s reputation is at stake.”
“Now, Louy, I insist you tell all! I will not repeat a word of it, and how can I assist you if you withhold information?” She stamped her foot.
“You sound like Constable Cobban,” I said. “But let that pass for now. The gossip is this, and you are never to repeat it. I suspect Miss Snodgrass was involved with Eddie Nichols.”
“Suzie Dear and Miss Snodgrass? Oh! The cad!”
“He is a man of some charm, when not in jail, and she is a complex woman. They were at a house party together. Her necklace might have been taken in a moment of intimacy. That’s why she never reported the theft. That’s why she never tried to have Eddie Nichols arrested for it. He would be able to give information of a very secretive nature and claim she had given the piece to him. And I think that’s why she was at the séance: to beg for her necklace back from his associate, Mrs. Percy. Perhaps to try to buy it back at a fraction of its real cost, so that she might wear it at her wedding.”
“Oh, Louy, I would be furious!” Sylvia said.
“As was Miss Snodgrass, I’m certain. Furious. ‘Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.’ Bad poem but often a correct sentiment. I wonder exactly how furious Miss Snodgrass can become? Because of course Mrs. Percy, being a woman of business and not a woman of conscience, would not have returned the necklace or sold it back for less than full value, since she knew full well that Miss Snodgrass could do nothing about the theft without ruining her own reputation.”
By habit we turned in the direction of Boston Common for our walk in the bracing air. There was just enough snow on the ground to roll a good snowman, should a child be so inclined. I picked up a handful, made a ball, and threw it at a tree.
“Good aim,” said Sylvia. She tried the same experiment, but her snowball went amiss from the tree and instead knocked the top hat off a gentleman who was also out strolling a few yards ahead of us.
A group of young boys went scurrying and laughing in the other direction, certain they were to be blamed rather than the ladies. “Here now, stop that!” the gentleman shouted angrily, turning around.
It was Mr. Phips! I hastened to fetch his hat and brush it off, while Sylvia apologized profusely.
“No harm, no harm,” he insisted in a kinder tone after our apologies. “Young girls are frightful throwers.” He chuckled and packed a handful of snow. His ball hit mine, square in the center of the tree trunk.
“Well-done!” I said. “You throw like a champion!”
“I played at sports as a student,” he said, stroking the lapels of his greatcoat and rocking back and forth on his heels. “Are you young ladies headed anywhere in particular? May I escort you?” He made a gallant little bow.
“I am buying Uncle Benjamin a new pipe for Christmas. Will you come with me to the tobacconist and help me select one?” I asked. Understanding reader, as concerned as I was with the purchase of Lizzie’s present, Marmee and I had agreed that Uncle’s present must be purchased first, and packed off through the post in plenty of time for Christmas, to thank him properly for all the hospitality he had shown the Alcott family during a difficult time. Marmee and Father and Abby were still residing rent-free in his Walpole house, and sincere gratitude was in order. I did worry, though, that every quarter spent elsewhere pushed me further from the purchase of Lizzie’s music portfolio.
“My dear, it shall delight me,” said Mr. Phips. “Take my word, nothing pleases an old man like a new pipe, and I hear there are some excellent meerschaums just in for the holiday season.”
“Tell me, Mr. Phips, what do you think of this business with Mrs. Percy?” I asked as we three fell into step together, our feet leaving prints in the freshly fallen snow as we headed in the same direction, toward the little row of shops on the other side of the park.
“That the death was unnatural? Hogwash. She died
of a bad heart. The new Boston police are just trying to prove they earn their keep by inventing crimes. I don’t trust that Cobban fellow.”
Next to me, I felt Sylvia stiffen again.
“Dr. Roder said she did not die of a diseased heart,” I answered.
“Well, if it was a murder, I can’t say that I am all that surprised or shocked. Mrs. Percy was a woman of questionable morality. Who else would go into such a business as hers? I would say her past caught up to her.”
“You believe no longer in spiritualists and mediums?” asked Sylvia.
“I do not, young lady. Let the dead rest in peace. Poor Emily would have been shocked by such doings. She would have said, ‘William, dearest, you should know better!’ And I think women should stay at home, where they belong, and certainly not receive strangers in their parlors. I would never have permitted my wife such questionable associations.”
“Did you know of Mrs. Percy’s association with Eddie Nichols?” I asked, ignoring his last two comments. Men rarely admit how much work can take place at home, in the very parlor they uphold as a bastion of indolence. I thought of the pile of sewing awaiting me in Auntie Bond’s parlor.
“Nichols? The fellow who’s making so much trouble for poor Barnum? There was talk at the club. It was all hearsay, of course. You know, I think I was pickpocketed during that séance! When I returned to my rooms, my pocket watch was missing, and I would have sworn that when we were sitting in the dark, holding hands, I felt someone standing quite close behind me.”
That would have been Suzie Dear, I thought. Richer by another watch.
“How did you meet your wife?” Sylvia asked, being in a romantic frame of mind. I was wondering again about the composition of the circle that Mrs. Percy had formed, with Mr. Phips, the Deedses, Amelia Snodgrass, Mr. Barnum, myself, and Sylvia.
“That is a story both romantic and sad,” said Mr. Phips. “I was friends with her fiancé, August Pincher. Yes, she was engaged to him before we had met. August and I served together in China, where he spoke often about Emily Grayling and showed me her portrait. He carried it in his pocket. You wouldn’t know it to look at me now, hobbling along with bad knees and gout in the toe, but I was man of action in younger days. I lived boldly.”
