by Alan Finn
“I must admit, Edward,” Thornton Willoughby said, “that I’m concerned about this whole mess you’ve gotten yourself mixed up in.”
In addition to causing me immediate indigestion, the subject of Mrs. Pastor allowed me to witness the Willoughby family’s round-robin way of communicating. For as soon as Mr. Willoughby was finished, Violet piped up with, “Father, I begged you not to mention that.”
“I believe your father is right to broach the subject,” Mrs. Willoughby said. “After all, it’s been in all the newspapers.”
Jasper Willoughby, looking as wan as ever, skipped his turn, electing to take a few extra sips of wine instead. He gave me an odd look over the rim of his glass, one that was both accusatory and conspiratorial. I was reminded once more that we shared a secret, a situation that didn’t exactly put me at ease.
“As a gentleman of the press, I can tell you it’s not wise to believe everything you read in the newspapers,” I replied.
“Certainly not an account written by you.” Mr. Willoughby pointed his fork at me. A chunk of beef was impaled on its tines, dripping blood. “Your article about Mrs. Pastor’s death failed to mention murder. That looks mighty suspicious to my eyes.”
Frustrated, Violet stomped the floor so hard the entire table shimmied. “Father, really! At the time, he didn’t know it was murder. A subject, by the way, that isn’t proper dinner table discussion.”
“We’re not talking about the murder, my dear,” Mrs. Willoughby said. “We’re merely discussing Mr. Clark’s role in it.”
Jasper at last weighed in, still giving me that strange look as he said, “Perhaps Edward has no role in it whatsoever. Maybe he was in the wrong place at the wrong time. He was just doing his job. Weren’t you, Edward?”
Under the table, I clenched my fists, waiting for him to mention Lucy Collins. In my head, I was already devising an excuse to tell Violet and her family. Something that would easily explain my arrangement with Mrs. Collins without giving away the fact that I was really the son of a notorious killer. Yet, to my surprise, Jasper said no more. And while his words could have been an innocent statement, I took them to be a reminder that he knew more than he had let on to the others.
“But you are a suspect, are you not?” Mr. Willoughby asked me. “Surely the newspapers can’t be lying about that.”
“No, but they can exaggerate the truth,” I said. “I am as much a suspect as everyone else who attended that séance.”
“But it doesn’t mean the police really think he killed someone,” Violet added in my defense. “Why, Edward’s very dear friend Inspector Barclay is the man investigating the crime. I’m certain he doesn’t think Edward is guilty.”
“No, he doesn’t, as a matter of fact,” I said.
“Is Mr. Barnum a suspect?” Mrs. Willoughby inquired. “After all, he was also there.”
Her husband, completely bypassing Jasper’s turn to speak, stabbed another chunk of beef while muttering, “If you ask me, he’s the one who did it. Any man who seeks public attention as much as he does is capable of anything, including murder.”
“Well,” Violet said, “Mr. Barnum is of no concern to us. But Edward is. To me, at least. And if the rest of you care a whit about me, then you must care about Edward, too. That means believing deep in your heart that he is completely innocent.”
“We do, my dear,” Mrs. Willoughby replied. “It’s just, well, we’re concerned about—”
Her husband sputtered in exasperation. “Just come out with it, Marjorie. It’s Edward’s reputation that concerns us. And how his being embroiled in all of this will reflect not only on you, but on the entire family. Think of how it will look to others.”
“Of course nothing can bring shame to the Willoughby name. We certainly can’t have that!” Violet leapt to her feet and tossed her fork onto her plate, where it clinked and clattered before falling to the floor in a spray of carrots and potatoes. “God forbid your daughter’s happiness be more important than selling a few more stupid hats!”
With that, she removed her own Willoughby hat and whipped it across the dining room. Then she stormed away from the table, leaving me alone with her two stunned parents and one very amused younger brother.
“I’ll try to calm her,” I said, rising. “It’s the least I can do, seeing that this is all my fault.”
Thornton Willoughby stabbed at his steak as if it were my heart. “While you’re at it,” he said, “try to talk some sense into her.”
I found Violet on the front porch, taking out her frustrations on a poor rocking chair. She swayed back and forth furiously, the chair groaning from the strain.
“My dear Violet,” I said. “I’m so sorry I’ve put you and your family in this awful position.”
“You’re sorry?” she replied, the rocking chair creaking more as she increased her speed. “Edward, you have nothing to apologize for. I’m the one who’s sorry. Sorry that I have such horrid, narrow-minded parents.”
“They’re only concerned about you.”
“Don’t you understand, Edward? They want me to break off our engagement.”
“Did they tell you that explicitly?”
“Yes. Just this afternoon.” Violet valiantly tried to hold back the tears pooling at the corners of her eyes. One slipped out anyway and rode the delicate curve of her cheek. “They say that if I marry you, it will be a black mark on the family name.”
“They truly doubt my innocence, don’t they?”
“Quite honestly, Edward, I don’t think they care if you’re innocent or not. Father only cares about what others will think. Mother only cares about what Father thinks. And it makes me sick. Utterly sick.”
I rushed to her side and took her hands in mine. It was, I realized, a position similar to how I had proposed five months earlier. Only now the circumstances were far different.
“But what do you think?” I asked. “Do you believe I’m innocent?”
“Completely.”
“And do you want to call off our engagement?”
“Of course not!” Violet cried out, the tears flowing freely now. “Nothing will keep me from marrying you. I just wish that my family would approve of you the way I do.”
I was, for the moment, relieved. It’s amazing how words of devotion from the woman you love can strengthen the heart. I stood, determined more than ever to clear my name. Certainly Violet deserved nothing less.
“They will,” I promised. “Very soon.”
This did little to ease Violet’s tears. They kept up a steady stream as she said, “I’m so frightened, Edward.”
“Don’t fear, my darling. This will all end and, before you know it, we’ll be married.”
“Not about that,” Violet said as she wiped her cheek.
“Then what are you afraid of ?”
“I don’t know how to explain it. It’s silly, really. But I can’t stop thinking about what happened the other night at Bertie’s party. With the table.”
“But I told you already. That was just a mean trick.”
Violet gripped my hands, as fiercely as she had ever done. Her own hands, I noticed, were cold and trembling.
“It wasn’t,” she said. “It was Mrs. Pastor’s spirit making that table move. She was trying to tell you that she was murdered.”
“But everyone knows she was murdered.”
“Not then, they didn’t,” Violet said. “That news didn’t come until later.”
She was right, of course. I didn’t learn about Mrs. Pastor’s murder until after I got home that night. Once Barclay had shared the bad news with me, the table-tipping incident fled from my thoughts. But now everything that happened that night came roaring back, crashing like a cold wave onto the shores of my brain. And the more I thought about it, the more it seemed possible that, other than Bertie Johnson playing the most elaborate prank ever devised, the only explanation for the table-tipping incident was that a spirit really had been in that room with us.
Yet I c
ouldn’t tell that to Violet. It would only have made her more fearful, and I wanted my beloved’s mind to be free of such worries.
“You must be reading too many ghost stories,” I said. “Because your imagination seems to be running wild.”
“Edward, you know I’m right.”
“You’re scared,” I replied. “Which is understandable. But it’s also making you believe in things that didn’t really happen. Why, for instance, would Mrs. Pastor want to communicate with us?”
“I don’t know,” Violet said. “Maybe she was trying to warn you somehow.”
I didn’t want to discuss the matter any further. For one, it pained me to contradict Violet when the possibility existed that she was correct. But more than anything, I didn’t want her to sense my own fear, which had started to rise in me like the morning mist on an open field. None of what I had experienced in the previous days—speaking to my dead mother, the table tipping, Mrs. Pastor’s death—made sense to me. The result of that utter incomprehension was a fear that more strange occurrences would come my way.
“It was all Bertie’s doing,” I told Violet. “You know that. Now, you should rejoin your parents inside. I think it’s best if I take my leave. For now, I’m certain I’ve worn out my welcome here.”
Before she protested, I hurried down the front walk, taking a moment to look backward and wave good-bye. Violet, a slender arm wrapped around one of the columns supporting the porch roof, could only sadly wave back.
X
The trolley ride back to my house took twice as long as usual, thanks to a pebble on the tracks and an overeager Clydesdale whose combined forces ultimately derailed us. Stuck motionless in the middle of Spring Garden Street, we men on board were forced to clamber out and help push the trolley back onto the tracks. We were a motley lot, consisting mostly of servants on their way home, factory workers heading to the night shift, and boisterous young men in search of drink. Yet there was enough muscle among us to eventually right the situation and continue our journey.
When we came to my stop, no one else disembarked, leaving me alone on the dark street. Several blocks lay between the trolley stop and my house, and as I began the lengthy trudge from one to the other, I cursed myself for not hiring a hack. Pushing the trolley had left me tired and, as a result, my progress was slow.
While I walked, I once again felt like I was being watched. There was no one around me—I constantly looked over my shoulder to make certain of that—yet the sensation persisted.
I chalked it up to still being slightly spooked about Violet’s theory regarding Mrs. Pastor’s spirit. If she really had tried to notify me of her murder once, then it was possible she could try a second time. An unnerving prospect.
Then there was the strange man with no nose I had seen on Sunday morning. I was certain he had been following me, although for the life of me I couldn’t say why. And while I knew without a doubt that he hadn’t trailed me home, his dark-eyed gaze continued to stay with me. That night, the feeling was particularly strong. So strong that I wouldn’t have been surprised to see the noseless man lurch at me from out of the darkness.
Therefore, I tried to put all worrisome thoughts out of my mind. Instead, I thought of Violet and how soft her trembling hands felt in mine. When that didn’t work, I thought of Barclay and his silly corncob pipe. Yet that also didn’t shoo away the sensation that I was being watched.
What did work, much to my astonishment, were thoughts of Lucy Collins. I pictured her walking with me on that darkened street, chin thrust forward, emerald eyes challenging whatever lay before us. I knew that she, of all people, would show no fear. So I didn’t, either. And by the time I reached my house, my mood had improved greatly and I no longer felt the presence of someone watching me.
That feeling, however, was short-lived. For even as I climbed the steps to my front door, a man emerged from the shadows along the side of the house. He lunged toward me, leaving me no choice but to yelp in panic.
It’s the noseless man, after all! I thought. He’s been lying in wait!
But when the figure stepped into the diffuse glow of the streetlamp on the corner, I saw that it was Stokely, the Pastors’ butler.
“Didn’t mean to startle you, Mister Clark,” he said, although I could tell by his grin that he had found my yelp amusing.
“Stokely,” I said, “what brings you around this evening?”
“I was thinkin’ about what you said this afternoon. About helpin’ Missus Pastor.”
I had no idea how long he had been waiting for me. Probably a long time, for he looked cold and more than a little tired. I felt the same way.
“Come inside,” I told him. “You need to get warmed up.”
“I don’t want to be no bother.”
“This,” I said, “is not a bother. Come in and stay as long as you need.”
Inside the house, we found Lionel at the bottom of the main staircase, preparing to head upstairs for the night. Seeing Stokely at my side caused my butler to pause in midstep, one well-polished shoe hovering inches above the green carpet of the stairs.
“Good evening, sir,” he said, clearly surprised. “Is everything . . . all right?”
“Everything is fine. Why wouldn’t it be?”
Lionel’s gaze flicked to Stokely’s intimidating form. Suspicion darkened his eyes, and for a moment it looked as if he intended to either flee upstairs or attempt to run outside and call the police. Nervousness radiated from his entire body.
“This is Mr. Stokely,” I said in an attempt to put him at ease.
Stokely tipped his hat. “Evenin’.”
Lionel ignored the gesture, turning to me and asking, “Is there anything you need before I retire for the night, sir?”
“I certainly could use a brandy. I’m sure Stokely is in need of one, too. Isn’t that right, Stokely?”
“I’d be much obliged,” he said. “If it ain’t no bother.”
Lionel certainly acted like it was. Moving away from the staircase, he let out a sigh before disappearing into the dining room. A second later, he was back in the foyer, bearing not our brandy but a curled finger beckoning me to join him.
“May I have a word with you, sir?” he asked. “In private.”
“Excuse me, Stokely,” I said, pointing out the parlor door. “Go make yourself at home. I won’t be but a minute.”
Stokely retired to the parlor while I headed to the dining room. Lionel was just inside the door, hands clasped behind his back and that dark look still in his eyes.
“Sir, if it’s not a problem, I request to be excused from this task.”
“Excused?” I replied incredulously. “All I want are two brandies.”
“Which is one too many, if you ask me.”
My chin dropped in shock. The nerve! While I had to tolerate the judgmental tone of Mr. Thornton Willoughby for Violet’s sake, there was no way I was going to accept a similar tone from my butler.
“Well, I didn’t ask,” I snapped. “Do you have a problem with Stokely being here?”
Lionel straightened his back and lifted his chin. “I’ll admit that I do.”
“You shouldn’t,” I said. “He’s a butler, just like you. You two are equals in my eyes.”
“Equals, you say? I beg to differ. In fact, I find it beneath me to serve—”
“One of my guests?”
“A darkie,” Lionel replied, spitting out the word. “Being served by them is one thing. Serving them is quite another. As for drinking with one, well, that’s just the lowest form of behavior.”
In the past few days, I had certainly come to see my butler’s true colors. Not only did he presume me to be a murderer—the poisoner of Locust Street, is how he had put it—but he was also prejudiced.
“The company I keep should be no concern of yours,” I said.
“It wouldn’t be,” he replied, “if I didn’t find your current and recent guests so objectionable.”
“Objectionable, you say?
”
“Yes,” Lionel said. “This Stokely fellow, for one. That Collins woman is another.”
“As far as I know, you are not a volunteer in this house,” I told him. “I pay you for your services, do I not?”
Lionel lowered his head. “You do, sir.”
“What I don’t pay you for are your opinions. If you still want to work here, then you must keep those to yourself and treat every guest in this house with the respect they deserve. Do you understand?”
“I do, sir.”
“Good,” I said. “Now, I’m going to rejoin Stokely. If you bring us our brandy, I’ll try my best to ignore the fact that this conversation ever took place. If you don’t, then consider yourself no longer in my employ.”
Irritated beyond belief, I left Lionel and headed to the parlor. Stokely, who had taken a seat during my absence, tried to stand when I entered. I waved him back down.
“Please,” I said. “There’s no need for that.”
“I didn’t mean to cause a ruckus,” Stokely said. “I got the feelin’ your butler don’t like me.”
“That’s his fault, not yours.”
Before I could say anything more, Lionel stepped into the room with two snifters of brandy. Without a word, he placed one snifter in my hand. For Stokely, however, he slammed it down on the side table beside his chair.
“Thank you kindly,” Stokely said.
Again, Lionel ignored him. Turning to me, he said, “I hope you don’t require anything else, sir.”
“No,” I replied through gritted teeth. “That’ll be all.”
Unable to spend another second in Stokely’s presence, Lionel practically stomped out of the room. Stokely, though, was too well mannered to comment on my butler’s behavior. Instead, he swirled the copper-colored liquor in his snifter and inhaled its scent.
