by Holly Bush
Elspeth burst through the front door, slammed it shut, and locked it. She dropped her arm holding the basket to her side and closed her eyes. What was going on? Who were they? She slowed her breathing, willing her heart to stop pounding in her ears.
Chapter 11
Alexander sat at his desk, thumbing through paperwork he could not concentrate on, thinking about what he would say to Elspeth and her family when he went to her home that evening, unable to think of anything to say other than the absolute truth. Which may forever ruin any slim chance he had with her. A deception would not do, though, just as his father had told him the day before, not with a woman he cared about, and he thought it might be possible that his father was correct, that he was more than just partial to Elspeth Thompson. She was tied somehow to all of his thoughts, and it was difficult to imagine a life lived that she was not part of, even though she was no clear part of it now.
He looked up when he heard the front office door bang open. Kleinfeld was speaking loudly and telling whoever was entering to stop immediately. He wondered if the men who’d threatened Schmitt were back. He hurried to the hallway to help Kleinfeld but stepped back into his office as three policemen, the brass buttons on their double-breasted coats glittering in the hallway light, went past him, straight into Schmitt’s office.
“Hey,” Kleinfeld yelled. “You can’t just go barging in there!”
“Stop us, boyo,” one of them said quietly.
The officers went into Schmitt’s office with Alexander and Kleinfeld close behind. Schmitt stood up, glaring at the men and pointing his beefy finger at Kleinfeld. “Why did you let these coppers in the door? What is going on?”
“When did you last see Lily Barnsworth?” one officer asked as the other took out a scrap of paper and a pencil stub from his pocket.
“Lily Barnsworth? Who is she? Did my wife send you?” Schmitt asked with a laugh and a broad smile.
“Lily Barnsworth was found dead in her bed this morning by her maid. She’d been strangled and cut with a knife,” the officer said.
Schmitt dropped into his chair. Alexander pushed past the officers to stand beside him. “Kleinfeld, close the front door and make sure no one comes in the offices.” Alexander turned to the officer. “Who are you, and why are you asking Councilman Schmitt about this woman, whoever she was?”
“I’m Sergeant O’Sullivan. Lily Barnsworth, also known as Lily Darling, was a prostitute. We’re investigating her murder. Who are you?”
“Alexander Pendergast. Assistant to Mr. Schmitt. Clearly, you’ve got the wrong office, Sergeant. Perhaps someone is playing a cruel joke on you, sending you to speak to the councilman and eventually embarrassing yourself and your superiors.” Alexander looked down when he felt Schmitt tugging at his coat sleeve. “What is it, Mr. Schmitt?”
Schmitt’s face was white, a sickly, chalky color—even his lips were pale. “Lily Darling, you say?” he whispered between heavy breaths.
“When did you see Miss Darling last, Mr. Schmitt?”
Alexander looked down at Schmitt and back at the officer. “I’m concerned about Mr. Schmitt’s health. Can you please give us a moment for him to collect himself? No one likes to hear about a woman who’s been murdered.”
O’Sullivan looked from Schmitt to Alexander. “Five minutes. No more. We’ll be right outside the door.”
Alexander went to the hutch at the side of the room, poured an inch of whiskey into a cut glass-tumbler, and handed it to Schmitt. He drank it down in one swallow, his hand quivering where it held the empty glass, and slowly sat it on his desk.
“Do you know this woman?”
Schmitt nodded.
“How well? Did you see her recently?”
He nodded again and leaned back in his chair, still pale.
“How well did you know her, Schmitt? They’re going to be walking back in here any minute. You’ve got to tell me what’s going on.”
“I fucked her last night.”
Alexander felt the blood drain from his head, reeling on his feet, a number of thoughts running through his head at once, none of them good. “Jesus.”
“I didn’t kill her.”
“Well, I guess that’s some comfort.”
Schmitt looked up sharply. “I’ve got a couple of titties on the side. I’ve got to fuck somebody. Why would I kill them?”
The door opened, and Sergeant O’Sullivan and the other two officers entered. “Where were you last night around midnight, Mr. Schmitt?”
“I was home and in bed.”
“Miss Darling’s maid and her manservant said you visited her regularly. That she ‘entertained’ you a few times a week and that you were there last night.”
“Not at midnight,” Schmitt said quickly, regaining some color in his face and finding his typical bluster. “I was home by ten of the clock.”
“But you were there? At Miss Darling’s home?”
Schmitt nodded. “I was there. When I left, Lily was fine. Brushing her hair, I think, when I left her bedroom.”
“What was the nature of your relationship with Miss Darling?”
He shrugged. “I fucked her a couple of times a week.”
Alexander took a slow breath. Schmitt was always crude and unfeeling, but this tested all limits. The policemen were staring at him with disgust.
“She was a person, you know,” the young red-headed officer said. “And she’s dead now. Strangled so tight her head’s nearly off and cuts all over her breasts, poor woman. She was raped too, with a brass-headed walking stick. Maybe show some respect.”
“Did you owe Miss Darling any money?” the older officer asked.
Alexander looked down at Schmitt, hoping he at least looked shamed after his crude comment and the officer’s horrific description of the woman. But he was not embarrassed or contrite. He was white as a ghost again and trembling.
“Owe her money?” he whispered.
“Yes, Councilman. Was she demanding more money, or maybe you were unable to pay her what you already owed her?”
Schmitt shook his head, speaking in a monotone. “I pay her before I leave. I always do. With all of them.”
“All of them?” the young officer asked. “How many are there?”
“How many what?” Schmitt asked.
“Prostitutes, Councilman. How many prostitutes or ladies of the evening do you regularly see?”
“What?” Schmitt asked as if he was just coming out of a trance.
“Women you pay for sexual favors. How many? Answer here or at the station.”
“What do they have to do with anything?” he asked.
O’Sullivan leaned over the desk. “I’m losing patience, Councilman. How many prostitutes, and what are their names and places of business?”
“Three, counting Lily.”
“Names?”
“Thelma. Lives on Market at one hundred and ninth. Perty shares a house on Richmond Street and Third.”
“Last names?”
Schmitt shrugged. “I don’t know. Never asked.”
Alexander caught himself shaking his head as he listened to Schmitt. What a fool! It would be a miracle if the man was not syphilitic by the time he was fifty.
“We’re going to be talking to these women and to your wife, Councilman. So you may as well tell us now. Have you ever hit or threatened violence on these women?”
“No more than a playful smack,” he said and looked away. “I’d like to get home and warn my wife before you boys tell her about my side pieces. She’s a delicate woman.”
“Don’t leave town, Councilman,” O’Sullivan said.
The three officers left the office quickly, and Alexander closed Schmitt’s office door. Schmitt was pouring himself a large whiskey when Alexander turned around.
Alexander had met Schmitt’s wife. He would have never described her as delicate, nor did he think she would be overly distraught about her husband’s bed partners. “Are you concerned Mrs. Schmitt will be . . . upset whe
n she’s questioned and hears about these women?”
“Berta? Berta knows about the women. She’s glad of it.” He shrugged. “I don’t visit her bed very often. Hardly at all anymore.”
“What is it, then? You went white as a ghost.”
Schmitt poured another drink and turned from the hutch to look at Alexander. “When I got home last night, I thought I might have left my walking stick in my carriage, but it was not there this morning when John brought me to the office. I must have left it at Lily’s.”
Alexander stared at him. “You think your walking stick was what was used on that woman?”
He nodded and sat down slowly.
“That will bring the police back here quickly once her servants tell them that walking stick is yours.” Alexander looked at him squarely. “It’s a message, I’m guessing. It’s a message from the people wanting to know about Elspeth Thompson’s family. This murder was personal, not random, wasn’t it?”
“Yes,” he said. “It was a message.”
“You selfish horse’s ass,” Alexander said in a low, tense rumble. “You will get someone killed—no, wait, you have gotten someone killed because you’re a greedy bastard.”
“Just a whore,” Schmitt said.
Alexander slammed his hand down on the desk. “Just a whore? Do you think this will stop here? Do you think they won’t come after you or your wife or Samuel?”
Schmitt looked up sharply. “Samuel?” he whispered.
“The next sign will be more personal yet, Schmitt. I think you should tell the police and the council president about these threats. You’re going to have to come clean.”
“I can’t do that! I’ll never be trusted again!”
“You’re concerned about the trust of criminals, murderers willing to strangle an innocent woman?”
“You don’t know what the politics are like at the top, Pendergast. You and your silver spoon don’t know about climbing out of the wharf, not knowing where your next meal was coming from, not knowing if your mother was going to be alive when you came back from scavenging.” Schmitt rose, his face mottled a brilliant red. “I taught myself to read and how to use my fives and whose palm I needed to lay some coin in. You don’t know anything!”
Alexander turned the knob on the office door. He did not think he could look at Schmitt one more moment. “If one hair on Elspeth Thompson’s head is harmed, I’ll make you pay, Schmitt. I will make you pay.”
“What is wrong, Elspeth? You look as though you’ve seen a ghost,” Kirsty said, smiling and attempting to take the basket from her hand. She looked up sharply. “Elspeth. What is wrong? Let go of the basket.”
“Look out the window, Kirsty. But be sly about it. Don’t let anyone see that you’re looking out.”
“Who would care that I’m—”
“Just do it!”
Kirsty stared at her for a long moment and then inched slowly over to the window nearest the door. She crouched down and glanced outside from the lowest part of the glass. She turned quickly and flattened herself against the door near Elspeth’s feet.
“There’s a man lounging against the tree in front of Mr. Ervin’s house. He’s staring at our house. I think it is one of the men who followed us after James’s match.”
“He followed me at the market. I went into the bookstore when a trolley came by and went out through the bakery. I didn’t think they saw me.”
“They know where we live, Elspeth. They want us to know that they know, I think.” She crawled back under the window to look out. “He’s walking away now.”
“He’s gone?”
Kirsty nodded as she peeked out the window again.
Elspeth concentrated on slowing her breathing and letting her heart cease its pounding. She closed her eyes, letting her mind drift away from fear into the quiet place that she’d depended on from the day her parents were buried at sea. But rather than a blank slate or a rambling wall or a field of daffodils that she often saw in her mind’s eye when she sought peace, she saw a face. A man’s face. Alexander. She saw Alexander looking into her eyes as he had that night in the alley, holding her face in his hands, his lip cut and his eye going black but sincere and worried and so handsome, if she was truthful with herself.
“We’ve got to talk to Muireall,” she said.
Kirsty shook her head. “She’s gone to the Sister’s Orphanage. She’ll be gone all day.”
“James?”
“Out with MacAvoy, watching a bout.”
“Where is Aunt?”
“At the Mingos’. She’s visiting with Mr. Mingo’s mother.”
“Is Mrs. McClintok here? Payden? Robert?”
Kirsty nodded. “All in the kitchen, I think. Mrs. McClintok had the boys peeling potatoes.”
Elspeth pushed herself away from the wall and handed Kirsty her basket. “Here. Take this with you to the kitchen and lock the kitchen door. I’ll be there in a moment, but I am going to check window locks first.”
Elspeth pulled her bonnet from her head and went through the house methodically, looking at every window and entrance, closing and locking it all up tight. Then she made her way to the downstairs kitchens.
“What is going on?” Mrs. McClintok asked. “Kirsty said a man followed you home.”
“He did. Two men followed me from the market. I slipped into the bookstore and out the bakery door, but he must have already known where we live because he was leaning against the tree in front of Mr. Ervin’s, looking at our house.”
“Come on, Robert! Let’s go get him!” Payden jumped from his place at the table, throwing down his paring knife and wiping his hands on his pants.
“Sit down, Payden,” Elspeth said sharply. “Sit down right now. You too, Robert. These men are dangerous. We are going to keep to the house until we can talk to Muireall and James as a family. No one go outside, and keep the doors locked.”
“Yes, miss,” Mrs. McClintok said. “That is exactly what we are going to do, Robert? Payden?”
“Yes, Mum,” Robert said.
Payden looked at Elspeth and dropped to his seat. “We’ll see what James says, Lizzie.”
Elspeth was helping Mrs. McClintok with the produce a few minutes later when she heard the front door slam. She and Kirsty ran up the steps and down the hallway, where Robert stood looking out the window by the door. He looked at them ruefully.
“I couldn’t stop him,” he said.
That’s when she heard Payden shouting.
“Come out now! Come out and fight like a man! I’m warning you to stay away from my sisters!”
Muireall’s face went completely white when Elspeth told her that two men had followed her home. She was seated beside Aunt Murdoch, who was listening attentively, her rheumy eyes darting from Muireall to James, who stood leaning against the fireplace mantel. Kirsty sat in a chair with Payden on the floor at her feet. Elspeth stood as she told everyone what had happened, unable to settle herself into a chair, her back to the parlor door, where Mrs. McClintok stood just outside the room in the hallway. Robert sat on the floor in the hall, holding his knees in front of him and scrambling to his feet as his mother answered a knock at the front door.
Elspeth was trying desperately to hold on to her emotions. She was afraid. She’d admitted it to herself, but she did not want to scare Kirsty and Payden unduly. If they weren’t cautious, though, Payden especially would be bold and perhaps put himself in danger more than just shouting into the wind from the street in front of their home. And it would be her fault.
“Details, Elspeth,” James said. “I want to hear everything that happened. Everything you noticed.”
Elspeth recounted the young boy who’d bumped into her and prompted her to notice the two men. “They were looking straight at me from across the street. One of them was the one that hit Mr. Pendergast the night of the fight. I recognized him right away.
“I slipped into the bookstore, Plymouth’s—you know the one, Muireall. They keep their back door open t
o the alley. I went through Lattanzio’s Bakery’s kitchen and out their front door. I was running by that point,” Elspeth said and realized her voice had gone high-pitched and breathy. “I was running, bumping into people, and looking over my shoulder, worried I’d see them at the corner of Seventh.”
“Elspeth,” she heard from behind her and turned to see Alexander Pendergast in the doorway to the parlor. “Elspeth. Are you all right?”
James pushed away from the mantel, and Muireall jumped up from her chair, shouting and demanding that he tell them what his business was and why he would barge into their parlor when they were having a family meeting.
“Alexander,” she whispered and felt tears fill her eyes.
Three long strides and he was there, holding her arms gently, gazing into her eyes, and reaching into his coat for a handkerchief. Her brothers and sisters were shouting, but she did not hear them.
“I was so afraid,” she said. He put his arms around her, and it was the first time she’d felt safe that entire day, sobbing into his coat. “I ran. I ran as fast as I could,” she whispered.
He kissed her hair. “Of course you did.”
She leaned back to look at his face. “Then he was across the street, leaning against the tree in front of Mr. Ervin’s house. He knows where we live.”
“Unhand her!” James shouted. “This very minute, if you know what’s good for you Pendergast!”
“Oh, stuff it, James,” Kirsty said with a shrug. “She had a terrible fright, and I don’t see any of you offering her comfort.”
