by Alan Finn
He seemed neither surprised by nor concerned about our presence. In fact, he barely showed any acknowledgment that we were there, even when addressing us. For instance, instead of waiting for our reply, he pulled a gold watch from his vest pocket and checked the time. It was up to his wife to officially notify him of our presence.
“Eldridge, you remember Mr. Clark and Mrs. Collins. They were at Mrs. Pastor’s final séance.”
It was all too clear from his expression that Eldridge Dutton had no recollection of us. Still, he shook our hands while repeating, “Of course, of course.”
“They, too, have been implicated by the police in her death,” Mrs. Dutton said.
“Of course. Nasty bit of business.”
Mr. Dutton returned his attention to his watch, first winding it and then buffing it against the wide lapel of his jacket. The watch was conspicuously new, bearing no noticeable nicks or scratches. It had the warm glow that only the best gold possessed and practically gleamed in Eldridge Dutton’s hands. No wonder he was so smitten by it. I found it nearly impossible to take my eyes off it myself, especially when Mr. Dutton opened the hunter case to check the hour a second time.
“They wanted to know the last time you visited the Pastor residence,” Mrs. Dutton said.
For the first time since his arrival, Eldridge Dutton took a long, hard look at us. I felt the heat of his appraising stare as he sized us up. He was wondering what our intentions were, probably. Wondering if we were trustworthy. I’m also certain he wondered if either Lucy or I had been the person responsible for killing Mrs. Pastor.
“Now why would you want to know that?” he asked.
“Mere curiosity,” I said. “After the séance, we saw how bereaved Mrs. Pastor’s death left you and wondered about your friendship with her.”
“I wouldn’t necessarily call it a friendship,” Mrs. Dutton replied. “We were loyal customers.”
“And you, Mr. Dutton? Is that how you would describe it?”
Eldridge Dutton snapped his watch shut, the sharp click startling those of us not in possession of it. “It’s getting close to supper time.”
“I suppose it is,” his wife said.
“Did you invite”—Mr. Dutton tilted his head in our direction—“our guests to dine with us?”
“I hadn’t thought of that.”
“Then perhaps it’s best they take their leave.”
The parlor doors opened, admitting not only the terriers again but also the sulking form of Bettina Dutton, who no doubt had been outside eavesdropping. The finches greeted all of them with their usual series of cheeps and chirps.
“I’ll show them out, Father,” Bettina said.
I stood. “No need. We can see ourselves out.”
“I insist,” she said, hooking her arm through mine. “This house is so big, one can easily get lost.”
Lucy and I barely had a chance to bid Mr. and Mrs. Dutton good-bye before their daughter whisked us away. Once we were out of the parlor, Bettina slowed considerably.
“How was your visit? Did the four of you have a pleasant chat?”
“I suppose we did,” I said, although I would have used a different word than “pleasant.” “Curious,” maybe. Or “perplexing.” Similar to our conversation with Mrs. Mueller, it definitely wasn’t as enlightening as I had hoped.
“And what did all of you discuss?”
“Lenora Grimes Pastor,” Lucy answered. “Did you ever meet her?”
“Once,” Bettina said. “She and her husband came for dinner. I found it duller than reading Shakespeare.”
We were strolling through the foyer by that point, Bettina so close I could smell the perfume water she had splashed on herself. Up close, she looked younger than I had first thought. Perhaps fifteen at the most. All the tricks she used to make herself appear older seemed desperate when seen in close proximity. The lip paint had been sloppily smeared on, and loose strands of hair stood out from her head. She resembled a girl playing dress up, which, in a way, was exactly the case.
“Are you married, Mr. Clark?” she asked, pulling herself closer to my side.
“I’m engaged.”
“Pity,” Bettina said while giving a backward glance to Lucy. “Are you the lucky one who snagged him?”
Lucy rolled her eyes at such a thought. “Thankfully not.”
“That surprises me,” Bettina said. “You two make a fine-looking pair.”
“Mrs. Collins and I are merely friends,” I replied.
Behind me, Lucy said, “That’s putting a gloss on things.”
“I’m engaged to someone else,” I continued, doing my best to ignore her.
“Does your fiancée have a name?” Bettina inquired.
By that point, I was beyond tired of the girl and her devilish games. Why she was playing them, I had no idea. But every word I said only seemed to encourage her, which is why I extracted my arm from hers and replied, “I highly doubt the two of you are acquainted.”
Bettina’s reddened lips formed a wicked grin as she once again turned to Lucy. “He doesn’t talk much, does he?”
“He talks plenty when he feels like it,” Lucy said.
“But he does like his secrets, though.”
Lucy rolled her eyes a second time. “You have no idea.”
“Tell me one of your secrets, Mr. Clark.”
Bettina grasped my arm again and wouldn’t let go, no matter how much I tried to shake her off. Her grip was so tight that it felt like my arm had been caught in the teeth of a ravenous badger.
“I’ll tell you one of mine. Actually, it’s my parents’ secret. They tell people that going to see Mrs. Pastor was dear Leslie’s suggestion. But it wasn’t. Daddy is the one who wanted to go.”
“Why?” I asked, suddenly very interested in what Bettina Dutton had to say.
“I haven’t the faintest idea.”
“Can you tell us anything else about your parents’ relations with Mrs. Pastor?”
Bettina shook her head. “Not until you reveal the name of your fiancée.”
I was torn. I had no desire to utter Violet’s name in that house. Contrary to what I had said earlier, I had an inkling the Willoughbys and the Duttons did move in the same social circles, and I wanted to spare my dear Violet from whatever mischief Bettina had planned. Yet I was also desperate to know if her parents were hiding anything else. And at that moment, getting more information about the Duttons was of the utmost importance.
“It’s—”
Lucy interrupted me. “Jenny. Her name is Jenny Boyd. She’s my cousin, and they’re quite happy together. Now, what else can you tell us about your parents?”
“Not very much,” Bettina replied. “Only about Daddy’s new watch. I’m certain he made sure you noticed it.”
“We did,” I said. “It’s very impressive.”
“Looks expensive, doesn’t it?” Bettina said, slyness creeping into her voice.
Indeed it did. While I didn’t get the chance to view it up close, it had the kind of quality one could see from a distance. A watch like that must have cost a great deal of money.
“Daddy got it a few weeks ago,” Bettina continued. “He won’t tell me how, though. He merely said it was a gift. When I asked my new mother if she had been the one to give it to him, she pretended no such watch existed, the poor thing. Later that night, I overheard her and Daddy fighting about it. She demanded to know who it came from. He said it was none of her business.”
“I think it’s none of our business,” I said, although it was exactly the sort of information we had been hoping to discover. Either Eldridge Dutton was lying and had purchased that watch himself or someone else had given it to him. In either case, Lenora Grimes Pastor was involved somehow. Otherwise, Bettina would never have mentioned it.
Still, it didn’t make me like her any more, especially with her clinging flirtatiously to my arm like that. I sighed in relief when we finally reached the front door, forcing her to let go at last.
“It was a pleasure meeting you, Mr. Clark,” she said, giving me a brazen wink. “Come around anytime you wish.”
And with that, Lucy and I were out the door.
“Thank you,” I said to Lucy once Bettina closed it behind us.
“For what?”
“For not telling that awful girl Violet’s name. I really do appreciate it.”
“You’re quite welcome,” Lucy said. “But Bettina is harmless. She’s just a sad and lonely girl trying to get attention any way she can.”
“I suppose you knew girls like that growing up.”
“Knew them?” Lucy replied. “I was one of them.”
“Did you start that early?”
“Oh, much earlier, Edward. And I was far better than Bettina. Her attempts to get you to notice her were downright embarrassing to watch.”
“Is that jealousy I detect in your voice?” I asked, only half joking. Her voice did contain a strange tone, as if she was trying too hard to sound nonchalant. “Because it certainly sounds like it.”
“Jealous?” Lucy replied, her eyes widening. “Of a mere girl? Don’t be silly. If anything, she was jealous of me.”
“I didn’t get that sense at all. She knew that you aren’t my fiancée. In fact, you made it abundantly clear that you can’t stand me. What could she possibly be jealous about?”
Lucy stopped and looked at me, head cocked. “Simple. She knew, unlike you, that I could have you wrapped around my little finger if I really wanted to.”
And with that, she stepped off the front porch. I followed, blinking against the setting sun. The entire street basked in the sun’s warm glow, with the trees, the neighboring homes, even the air itself tinted gold.
Using my hand to shield my eyes, I saw a familiar coach parked directly in front of the Dutton residence. Standing outside it, the sun casting a halo of light around the top of his hat, was none other than William Barclay.
Damn it all. He had found us at last.
VIII
Barclay wasn’t happy, that much was certain. All his usual tics and habits were in full force as his coach rumbled toward the center of the city. He tilted his head to gaze at me in exasperation. He sighed like an idled steam engine. He tugged his mustache so frequently that I feared he was going to pull it clean off his upper lip.
“I’m disappointed in you, Edward,” he said. “Incredibly disappointed.”
“I’ve done nothing wrong,” I replied.
We were alone in the carriage, having parted ways with Lucy Collins and her brother outside the Dutton residence. As roughly and recklessly as Thomas drove, I have to admit I would have preferred to be with them and not in that slow police coach, caught in Barclay’s red-faced glare.
“Oh, but you have,” he said as he rooted through his pockets, looking for his pipe. “You’ve only cast more suspicion on yourself, while I’ve been doing nothing but trying to clear your name.”
“You had the opportunity to clear my name last night,” I retorted. “You could have told those reporters that you were certain I had nothing to do with Mrs. Pastor’s murder—”
“Edward, you know yourself it doesn’t work that—”
I raised a hand to silence him. “Since you declined to do that, I have taken it upon myself to clear my own good name.”
Barclay, still fumbling for his pipe, said, “But don’t you see that questioning the other suspects just makes you look guilty?”
“I suppose Mrs. Mueller told you about our visit, then.”
“She didn’t need to. There were three teacups in her parlor yet she claimed to have been alone. It took just a small amount of cajoling to get her to admit the truth.”
Barclay at last located his pipe. While stuffing that rotten cob with tobacco, he said, “It didn’t take long to deduce that you and Mrs. Collins intended to visit the other members of Mrs. Pastor’s final séance. Since the Duttons lived the closest, I tried there first. And there you were. Caught red-handed.”
He lit the pipe, filling the coach with tobacco smoke. Despite having no interest in smoking myself, I enjoyed the scent. There was a sweetness to it that I found pleasing, especially when compared with my friend’s sour mood.
“From the way you talk, Barclay, I think you’re starting to have doubts about my innocence.”
Barclay exhaled. “You know me better than that, Edward. I don’t doubt you for a moment. I never could. But your new friend, Mrs. Collins? Well, that’s another story. She’s not exactly a paragon of virtue. Which is why I hate seeing you getting mixed up with her.”
“She’s not nearly as bad as you think.”
If my words surprised Barclay, I can assure you that they surprised me even more. Had our conversation taken place immediately after Mrs. Pastor’s death, I would have agreed with him completely about Lucy’s personality.
Yet I had spent so much time with her since then that my opinion had somewhat softened. Clearly, I was aware of Lucy’s many faults—chief among them being greed, selfishness, and general untrustworthiness. But she also possessed a keen mind and a sense of humor, both of which were admirable qualities. And as I thought about our afternoon of investigation, I realized that I had enjoyed myself far more than I expected.
Barclay’s view of her, however, was more limited.
“I disagree,” he said. “Honestly, Edward, what possessed you to align yourself with someone like her?”
Since I couldn’t tell Barclay that simple blackmail was the prime reason, I had to come up with another excuse. “Because I know she didn’t kill Mrs. Pastor.”
Barclay lifted an eyebrow, which was barely visible through the undulating cloud of smoke coming from his pipe. “Are you certain of that?”
“Yes,” I said. “Mrs. Collins may be many things, but she is not a murderer.”
“How would you know? From what I’ve uncovered, Mrs. Lucy Collins didn’t exist until a few years ago.”
Barclay sounded scandalized that someone would purposefully try to escape their old life by forging a new identity. Little did he know that Edward Clark, his dear friend and former brother in arms, had done the very same thing. That irony wasn’t lost on me as I replied, “I don’t find that very unusual.”
“I certainly do,” Barclay said. “She doesn’t seem to have had any life at all before she arrived in Philadelphia, wed to one Mr. Samuel Collins. No old friends of the man seem to know anything about her.”
“Perhaps she lived a sheltered life before marrying him.”
“Or,” Barclay said, “she’s hiding something.”
The names Declan O’Malley and Jenny Boyd leapt into my thoughts. I knew little about Lucy’s life under her birth name, and even less about this mysterious Mr. O’Malley. But I assumed that Lucy, like yours truly, had a very good reason to change her identity.
“It sounds like you think Lucy Collins is the killer.”
“No,” Barclay said. “To be quite honest, I have no idea who could have done it.”
“That’s disheartening.”
“I’m sorry, Edward. But please understand that I am trying.”
Barclay’s apology didn’t make an iota of difference to my situation. One more day of his not finding Mrs. Pastor’s murderer meant another day spent under a cloud of suspicion.
“Do you know anything at all?” I said with a sigh that rivaled his greatest efforts.
Now it was Barclay’s turn to avoid a question. He stuck his overturned pipe out the open window. With a few sharp taps, the still-smoldering tobacco left the cob and fluttered into the muddy street. Then, pipe cleaned, he shoved it back into his pocket. The whole display left me bristling with annoyance.
“I deserve to be told something,” I snapped. “Especially if I might have to spend the rest of my life as a murder suspect.”
“There’s been a slight snag in our investigation.”
“What sort of snag?”
“Remember me telling you about that poison expert from New Y
ork? Toxicologist—that’s his official title. He arrived this morning and immediately went to work.”
“That should be a good thing.”
“It would be, if he could deduce what kind of poison killed Mrs. Pastor. He spent all day considering the most common ones. Arsenic. Thallium. Cyanide salts. Brucine. Even morphine. He’s convinced none of them killed Mrs. Pastor. So now he’s looking into poisonous plants. Thus far, all he knows is that it wasn’t deadly nightshade or hemlock.”
“Maybe she died of natural causes after all,” I said.
“But she didn’t.” Barclay gave a sad shake of his head, immediately obliterating my naive hopefulness. “This toxicologist is certain she was poisoned. He’s just not sure how. And until he learns that, well, it hinders the investigation.”
Had I suspected that Barclay knew anything else, I would have pressed him. But the pale blankness of his face told me he did not.
“Thank you for being forthright with me,” I told him.
“This will all pass quickly,” my old friend replied. “I promise you it will.”
“I hope you’re right. My future depends on it.”
We had, at that point, reached Locust Street, and it was time to take my leave. With a tip of my hat, I exited the coach. The sun had fully set by then, turning the sky a light purple that made the surrounding houses soft and hazy. The streetlamps were already lit, their glow casting long shadows across the sidewalk and into the street. One such shadow fell across the coach, darkening its interior so that Barclay was all but invisible. Even though I could no longer see him, I heard his voice as the coach began to pull away.
“This time, please heed my advice,” he called to me. “Just lay low for a few days. And for the love of God, steer clear of Mrs. Collins.”
IX
An hour later, I took the trolley west to dine at the Willoughby residence. The evening started off pleasantly, with a glass of spirits sipped on the front porch. We talked about the beautiful weather, the prognosis for this year’s crops, and, of course, Violet and Mrs. Willoughby’s new hats. Once we were at the dinner table, however, the conversation turned more serious. The first topic, discussed over cream of mushroom soup, was a recent bridge collapse in Ohio that killed scores of people. The next topic, served with a fish course of salted shad, was a series of grave robberies that had taken place across the river in Camden. When the entrée arrived—rare roast beef, maple-sugared carrots, and mashed potatoes—the conversation turned, unfortunately and inevitably, to the death of Lenora Grimes Pastor.
