by Alan Finn
“Violet showed me where the key was hidden. Besides, the house will one day be mine.”
Jasper let out a bitter laugh. “Not if my father has any say in the matter.”
I tried my best to ignore the jab, but it stung nonetheless.
“I had good reason for being there. What was yours?”
“I go there when I need to think,” Jasper said. “Not that I need a reason to enter my own family’s property.”
“Did you say think or drink?” I asked. “Because I suspect it’s the latter.”
I had been tipped off by the sound of clanking glass when Jasper fled the bedroom. I had a feeling that, had I gone in there, I would have discovered several half-empty bottles. Yet the telltale indicator was Jasper’s breath, for every word he spoke produced a puff of whiskey-scented air.
“That’s no concern of yours,” he said.
“No, but it is your parents’ concern.”
“I suppose you plan on telling them now. Maybe in an attempt to get into my father’s good graces. Do so, if that’s what you’d like. I don’t care. I truly don’t.”
“I’m worried about you,” I said. “So is Violet.”
“Worried? About me? Pray tell, why?”
“For one thing”—I paused to check my pocket watch—“eleven o’clock in the morning is a little early to be hitting the rotgut, don’t you think? But most of all, you’re now as much of a suspect in the death of Lenora Grimes Pastor as I am. Probably even more so.”
I spent the next five minutes laying out all the reasons. The first, of course, was the massive colony of bees located in the nursery, which was able to produce more than enough venom needed to kill someone.
The second reason was the footprints I had noticed in Jasper’s childhood bedroom a few days earlier. It was clear they had been made by Jasper himself. They looked fresh, which meant he had been in that house, with those bees, in the days before Mrs. Pastor’s death.
Then there was the fact that Lucy and I had encountered Jasper outside the Pastor residence just before the séance in which she had died. At the time, I didn’t think it was anything more than coincidence, but now I wasn’t so certain. While Jasper hadn’t been in the locked room with us when Mrs. Pastor died, he certainly could have provided the venom that killed her. Perhaps he had met one of the attendees before the séance began, giving the murderer the fatal dose.
Finally, there was the matter of Sophie Kruger. When I lunched with the entire Willoughby family on Friday afternoon, Violet had mentioned Jasper’s late return home the night before. The very same night the Kruger girl was killed.
Jasper, of course, greeted my theory with nothing but disbelief.
“You should quit being a reporter and take up novel writing,” he said. “For that is the grandest piece of fiction I think I’ve ever heard.”
“I’m not saying that’s what actually happened,” I said. “It’s not even what I think happened.”
Truth be told, I had no idea if Jasper had something to do with the murders. But if I could come up with such a scenario, then so could Barclay and his fellow policemen.
“You must admit,” I added, “it’s plausible. Every bit of it.”
“But it isn’t,” Jasper replied. “Other than you and Mrs. Collins, I’ve never met any of the people who were at that séance. So it would have been impossible for me to provide them with the bee venom. Also, I know nothing about bees or how to extract their venom. And what reason would I have to kill a medium?”
“I don’t know, Jasper. What reason did you have for being outside Mrs. Pastor’s door last Saturday night?”
If I were a betting man, I’d wager Jasper, at that moment, wished he had possessed facial hair as robust as his father’s. A grand beard or an elaborate mustache would have better masked his emotions. Without them, his pale face gave away everything he was thinking and feeling—a palpable combination of sadness and fear.
“Fine, Edward. Since you want the truth, I’ll give it to you,” he said. “I was going to attend the séance that night. I won’t lie to you about that. I went to that house with every intention of sitting with Mrs. Pastor. But when I saw you and Mrs. Collins about to do the very same thing, I realized I couldn’t. Not with you present.”
Jasper’s revelation wasn’t as shocking as he made it out to be. We had, after all, discussed the city’s mediums at length during lunch the day before. But I also recalled Jasper agreeing with his father that they were all crooks, making it odd that he later intended to visit one.
“Was that your first visit to Mrs. Pastor?”
Jasper merely shook his head.
“So you had sat with her before?”
This time, he nodded.
“How many times before?”
“Once.”
“And when was this?”
“A week or so ago,” Jasper said.
“What reason did you have for seeing Mrs. Pastor?”
“Does one need a reason to visit a medium?”
“Most times they do,” I said. “They want to contact a lost loved one. Is that why you went? To contact someone who died?”
Jasper uncrossed his slender arms and crossed them again the other way. “I . . . can’t tell you.”
“Can’t?” I said. “Or won’t?”
“Let’s just please change the subject.”
I had no intention of doing that. Not if there was still information to pry out of the reluctant Jasper Willoughby. I continued to press him, saying, “I don’t understand why you can’t just provide a simple reason for why you intended to go to the séance.”
“Because no good will come of it,” Jasper said. “None at all.”
“But you can trust me.”
“Oh, can I?” Jasper asked. “Can I really trust you, Edward? Even more, can Violet? Every night, I’m forced to witness the same dinnertime arguments. My parents tell Violet that, while they don’t think you murdered Mrs. Pastor, the fact that you’re one of those suspected of it doesn’t bode well for your character. They don’t like how you run around to murder scenes and write up the grisly details for all to read. They distrust you, unlike Violet. She spends all her time trying to convince them you’re a kind and honorable man. I say nothing, but my heart breaks for her, knowing you’ve been roaming the city with Mrs. Collins. Who knows what else the two of you have been up to. So tell me, Edward—what reason do I have to trust you?”
His words were so pointed and cruel that each one felt like a physical blow. By the time he was through, my entire body ached. This was what my future brother-in-law truly thought of me, and it felt horrible to hear. Even worse was the ring of truth contained in what he said. My actions between Friday night and that moment did look incredibly suspicious. It was easy to understand how an outsider might misinterpret everything I had been doing.
“Mrs. Collins and I are simply trying to clear our names by discovering who really killed Mrs. Pastor,” I said, my voice shaky.
“That’s very odd,” Jasper replied. “Because I saw the two of you together before Mrs. Pastor was killed.”
We had reached the wire bridge on Spring Garden Street, rolling over it at a leisurely pace. Still, my heartbeat quickened as I recalled the pure fear I had felt there the night before. When we came to the location where Lucy had fallen, I couldn’t help but look down at the Schuylkill below. In the late-morning sunlight, the river’s surface seemed far away—alarmingly so. It was shocking to me that Lucy and I had both survived our drops into the water.
“I understand how it appears,” I said. “But we are simply allies joined in a common goal. You must believe me.”
The words sounded false even to my ears. That was because I could clearly see the spot on the riverbank where I had pulled Lucy ashore. The very same spot where both of us had almost let our emotions get the better of us. With that on my mind, it’s no surprise I didn’t sound convincing.
Jasper shifted in the seat, the movement causing his hair t
o fall over his eyes. Peering at me from between the golden strands, he said, “I honestly don’t know what to believe. Are you truly in love with Violet?”
“Of course!”
This time, the conviction in my voice was unmistakable. For I did love Violet with all my heart. The fact that I had come close to kissing Lucy Collins didn’t change that. The only difference now was the guilt I felt because of it.
“I adore your sister,” I told him, “despite what your parents say and what you assume. And I still intend to marry her.”
“That will make us brothers-in-law,” Jasper said. “If that means anything to you, then I beg of you, please give me the benefit of the doubt. I understand that I appear suspicious. But, in my case, the facts are different from appearances.”
“As it is with me.”
“Then let’s make a promise, as future brothers, not to tell anyone—not my sister, or my parents, or the police—what we know about each other. If not for our sakes, then for Violet’s sake.”
I reluctantly agreed to this truce. The two of us then shook hands, bound by mutual distrust. While I didn’t necessarily think Jasper had a role in Mrs. Pastor’s death, I also didn’t want to remain silent about the possibility. Yet I felt as if I had no choice in the matter. Not if I wished to stay in Violet’s good graces. This entire attempt to clear my name, after all, was more for her benefit than mine. I couldn’t risk letting her drunken brother ruin it all. Nor could I risk bringing further shame upon the Willoughby name, which would certainly happen if outside suspicion fell on Jasper. So I decided to not tell a soul about his potential link to Mrs. Pastor’s death. At least not until I had further proof that he was somehow involved. For better or worse, I needed to give him the benefit of the doubt.
When we reached the Willoughby residence, Jasper climbed out of the carriage without saying another word. I was preparing to give the driver directions to my own home when Violet stepped outside. Seeing me, she ran to the open carriage.
“Edward!” she said, reaching inside to clasp my hands. “What a pleasant surprise!”
I made myself appear glad to see her, when in truth it was the opposite. After what had almost happened the night before, I felt unworthy to be in her presence. Adding to my shame was her obvious joy upon seeing me.
“Hello, Violet.” I kissed her on the cheek, hoping she wouldn’t notice how dry and tentative it was. “I was running some errands in the city when I saw Jasper here taking a stroll. I thought I’d take him home and save him a walk.”
“How very nice of you,” Violet said. “Were the two of you able to get better acquainted?”
“Yes,” Jasper replied as he made his way to the porch. “Very.”
The direction in which he moved allowed Violet to see the bruise on his face, prompting her to gasp, “Gracious! Jasper, what happened to you?”
Jasper’s hand flew to his cheek. The bruise hadn’t faded much at all, remaining a pink blotch on his otherwise pale face.
“I fell,” he said. “Tripped over my own two feet right in the middle of the sidewalk.”
“You need to be more careful,” Violet replied before turning to me. “And you, Edward, must join us for lunch.”
I looked to the cab’s driver, who was doing a bad job of pretending not to hear our conversation. It made me wonder what else he had heard on the journey there. Probably every word. He gave me an impatient stare, waiting to know if he needed to find another fare.
“I’m afraid I can’t,” I told Violet. “I have a very busy afternoon ahead.”
“Oh, I wish you’d stay,” she said. “It would be so much fun. Like an impromptu party, what with Bertie here and all.”
“Bertie? He’s here?”
“Yes. He stopped by for lunch, too.”
Looking toward the house, my heart dropped into my stomach as Bertie Johnson stepped onto the porch. Now instead of just guilt, I also felt panic, which manifested itself in a series of heart palpitations.
“Bertram,” I said, my tongue sticking to the roof of my suddenly dry mouth. “How have you been?”
“Fine, fine,” Bertie replied. “And what have you been up to lately?”
“Just trying to keep busy.”
Violet tugged on my arm. “You two can catch up inside. Please, let’s all go in and eat.”
“I really can’t.” I took Violet’s hand one last time, hoping she couldn’t notice how much my hands were trembling. “I’m sorry, my darling. I must be off.”
Before she could argue, I tapped the driver’s shoulder and the carriage jerked to a start. I turned around and waved good-bye, watching the figures of Jasper, Violet, and Bertie Johnson recede in the distance.
Leaving them did nothing to quell my panicked thoughts. I didn’t know for certain why Bertie had called on Violet. I didn’t even know if he had clearly seen me the night before, outside Mr. Barnum’s party. But just like my run-in with Jasper, Bertie’s presence at the Willoughby home was an ominous turn of events. No matter how much I tried to remain discreet, my secret activities were catching up with me.
Yet when the cab reached Locust Street, all thoughts of Bertie Johnson and Jasper Willoughby vanished. That’s because Barclay’s police coach was parked in front of my house. My nervousness was immediately replaced by hopeful anticipation that he had come upon some useful information. My hopes got even higher when I saw Barclay leave my house and head down the front steps. I paid the driver and jumped out of the cab, intercepting Barclay before he got into his coach.
“You’re here with good news, I hope.”
“News, yes,” Barclay said. “But I can’t say it’s good, Edward.”
“What have you learned?”
Barclay opened the door to his coach and gestured for me to climb inside.
“The toxicologist finished his tests on the Kruger girl’s corpse. You were right, Edward. She was indeed poisoned. With bee venom.”
II
The Fishtown section of Philadelphia was as gritty and hardscrabble as its name implied. Stone buildings and wooden shacks lined its narrow streets, pressed as tightly together as sardines in a tin. Wash lines, stretching from window to window, crisscrossed overhead, each one drooping with shirts, frayed trousers, and plain dresses. Stoop-shouldered residents lumbered to and from the docks, the women wearing kerchiefs, the men in fishermen’s caps. And rising from everywhere—the river, the streets, the houses themselves—was the pungent smell of fish. The air was thick with it, an all-encompassing stench that filled my nostrils and coated the back of my throat.
The odor was especially strong outside the Kruger residence, thanks in no small part to the hovel next door that sold fried shad. Inside the home was no different, although the smell there was tempered by the scents of other foods—boiling cabbage, frying potatoes, Wienerschnitzel.
Margarethe Kruger stood at the stove, dealing with the intrusion of Barclay and me by not dealing with us at all. Her remaining daughter, Louisa, sat with us at a small wooden table, trying her best to get her mother to talk. Following a brief and tense exchange in German, Louisa turned to us and said, “My mother doesn’t want to discuss Sophie with you. She’s dead. That’s all that matters to her.”
“But your sister was very likely murdered,” Barclay said. “Doesn’t she want justice?”
Louisa and her mother exchanged more tense words in German. When they were finished, Louisa told us, “She only wants peace.”
I looked to the stove, where Mrs. Kruger, stone-faced, tended to her cooking. Our presence made her uncomfortable, that much was clear, and I longed to retreat with Louisa to another room where we wouldn’t be a bother. Only there was no other place to retreat to. Upstairs was their sleeping quarters, off-limits to two grown men who weren’t members of the family. The ground level was just a single, cramped space—part kitchen, part keeping room. Other than the table and stove, the furniture was sparse. I spotted a few more wooden chairs in the corner, a side table with uneven legs, and a t
all cabinet. With such a lack of storage, much of the family’s belongings dangled from the rafters. Shoes and satchels hung next to clusters of herbs, frying pans beside cured meats. Above the door was a rusted horseshoe, which had done little to bring this family luck.
“What about you?” I asked Louisa. “Don’t you want to see your sister’s killer brought to justice?”
“I do,” the girl said. “But not at the risk of displeasing my mother. I must respect her wishes.”
From the stove, Margarethe Kruger said something to her daughter.
“What did she say?” Barclay asked.
“She asked me when the two policemen planned to leave,” Louisa said.
“I’m not a policeman,” I replied. “And we’re not leaving until one of you answers our questions.”
“I have a question of my own.” Louisa stared at us from across the table, her face calm but her eyes fiery and inquisitive. “Why do you say Sophie was murdered? It was our understanding that she drowned.”
Barclay fielded that question, explaining how we had found the needle mark on Sophie’s arm. Mention of a needle prompted Louisa to push up the sleeve of her dress until it was bunched past her elbow. In the crook of her arm was a mark similar to the one found on her sister.
“See? I have one as well. Last week, both of us were—” She struggled to find the right word in English, using her thumb and two fingers to mime receiving an injection in her arm.
“Inoculated?” I offered.
Louisa nodded. “Yes. That. Against smallpox.”
Her mother, hearing an English word she recognized, waved a spoon at us and said, “Smallpox. Es wurde viel krankheit hier.”
“She said that there has been a lot of illness in the neighborhood,” Louisa told us. “She didn’t want either of us to get sick as well.”
“That might account for the injection mark on your sister’s arm,” Barclay said. “But it doesn’t explain the poison found in her system.”
Louisa looked more confused than ever. “What poison?”
“Someone had dosed her with bee venom,” Barclay said. “Much more than what could be achieved by a single sting.”
