by Alan Finn
“You are penniless, though, aren’t you?”
It was clear to me that she was. All signs—from the closed-up house to the single servant to the tea weakened to the point of nothingness—pointed to the fact that Mrs. Mueller was in dire financial straits.
“Yes,” Mrs. Mueller answered after a moment’s hesitation. “Unfortunately, I am.”
“But you told us your husband had amassed a fortune,” Lucy said.
“He did. Only now it’s nowhere to be found.”
The truth, as is often the case, seemed to set Elizabeth Mueller free. Standing, she suddenly threw the shawl from her shoulders and approached her husband’s portrait.
“Gerald was a horrible man, to be quite honest,” she said. “As cold and cruel as the longest winters. Suspicious, too. He thought everyone was only after his wealth, including his own wife. Me, of all people! He kept shifting it from bank to bank, hiding it in places only he knew. When he died, there was no last will and testament drawn up. No indication, even, of where he had placed all of his money. It’s out there somewhere. I just need to find it.”
“Have you looked for it?” I asked.
“Of course,” Mrs. Mueller spat out. “First, I inquired at every bank in the city. When that turned up nothing, I widened my search to other cities—New York, Boston, Baltimore. I hired attorneys and private investigators, at great cost, to assist in the search. When that yielded nothing, I—”
“Turned to mediums,” I said.
Mrs. Mueller offered me a firm nod. “It’s silly, I know. But I thought that if I could contact Gerald from beyond the grave, he would tell me where the money was. I even went so far as to spend my life in mourning, just in case he . . . he could see me somehow and know I was sincere.”
“The money might still turn up one day,” Lucy said.
“Perhaps,” Mrs. Mueller replied. “But I fear it’s too late for that. My suspicion is that it’s already gone.”
“Gone?” I said. “That’s not possible if no one knows where it is.”
“I suspect that someone does know. Two people, actually. I also suspect they heard the location from Gerald himself.”
“And who might that be?” I asked.
“Come now, Mr. Clark,” Mrs. Mueller said with a wry smile. “Who do we all know that had access to the dead?”
The realization struck me harder than one of Thomas Collins’s kicks to the shins.
“Lenora Grimes Pastor.”
“And don’t forget,” Mrs. Mueller said, “about Eldridge Dutton. Several months ago, I confided in him about my true reason for attending the séances. He was sympathetic to my situation and offered a confidence of his own.”
“That he had started to visit Mrs. Pastor in private on Saturday mornings,” I said.
Mrs. Mueller nodded eagerly. “Those sessions, he claimed, dealt with matters in his own life. Matters that he said his wife would find distressing.”
“Did he say what they were?” Lucy asked.
“No, but he offered to spend some of that time contacting Gerald on my behalf. At first, it seemed like a generous offer. But then several weeks passed without him addressing the matter. Finally, I approached him after a séance and inquired as to whether he had heard from Gerald. He told me he hadn’t.
“But,” she continued, “I noticed something out of the ordinary. He was carrying a new gold watch. Quite expensive from the looks of it. And as he talked, he seemed to be caressing it.”
That’s exactly what Mr. Dutton had been doing the afternoon Lucy and I were in his home. I, too, had assumed the watch to be expensive. Even Bettina, his daughter, had thought to mention it.
“And how do you think Mr. Dutton came to own this watch?” I asked.
“I assume he bought it,” Mrs. Mueller said. “Using money he located with the help of my late husband.”
I had to sit down after hearing that one. It’s not easy to remain standing when faced with the prospect of a dead man helping a living one to steal from him. What Mrs. Mueller implied was strange, to be sure, but the more I thought about it, the more it seemed possible. While Mrs. Pastor hadn’t been able to contact the spirit of Gerald Mueller during her nightly séances, that didn’t mean she couldn’t reach him at other times. Once you got past the improbable notion of speaking to the dead in the first place, it was easy to imagine that ability being used for bad as well as good.
“Did you confront anyone about your suspicions?” I asked Mrs. Mueller. “Mr. Dutton himself ? Or perhaps Mrs. Pastor?”
“I intended to tell Lenora,” she said. “I went to her house last week.”
That was the visit Stokely and Claudia had mentioned, the one in which Elizabeth Mueller accused Mrs. Pastor of stealing.
“I was terribly angry,” Mrs. Mueller said. “Crazed, actually. And the more I spoke, the more ridiculous I sounded. Other than seeing Mr. Dutton’s watch, I had no proof. And even while I was hinting that Lenora was stealing from me, I realized it was quite possible she had no idea it was taking place.”
I hadn’t considered that possibility. With Mrs. Pastor in a trance, it was unlikely she could have known what was happening. I pictured Eldridge Dutton and Lenora Grimes Pastor seated alone in her séance room. While Mrs. Pastor was in her trance, the voice of Gerald Mueller emanating from her lips, Mr. Dutton scribbled down everything he was told. It could all have been his doing, which went a long way in explaining why not even his wife knew of his Saturday morning visits to the Pastor residence.
I stood again, grabbing Lucy’s arm until she was on her feet.
“Thank you for your honesty,” I told Mrs. Mueller. “We both sincerely appreciate it.”
“You’re welcome,” she said. “Although I doubt it will help anything.”
Ah, but the opposite was true. Thanks to her, Mr. Dutton was, in my mind, now our prime suspect.
V
Back in Lucy’s coach, I instructed Thomas to drive as fast as he could to the Dutton residence. He obeyed me without argument, whipping the Cleveland Bays to a speed reminiscent of our harrowing chase the night before.
“Would you mind telling me why you now think Mr. Dutton murdered Lenora Grimes Pastor?” Lucy said as the coach rattled through the streets. “It doesn’t make sense.”
“But it does,” I replied. “Perhaps Mrs. Pastor had somehow come to suspect what Mr. Dutton was doing. Maybe she confronted him about it and he killed her in order to keep his secret. The same scenario is also a possibility with Sophie Kruger, who, too, might have unwittingly helped Mr. Dutton contact Gerald Mueller.”
“That’s all well and good,” Lucy said, “but what do you intend to do when we get to his house? Barge in and accuse him of killing two mediums?”
“Something like that, yes.”
“Then what will stop him from killing the both of us?”
I straightened my spine, trying to make myself look more imposing. “I’m an able-bodied man and a war veteran. I can defend myself.”
“Men,” Lucy said, rolling her eyes. “You all forget that when times are desperate, it’s the women who make the best fighters.”
“Of course,” I replied. “You have your gun. If the need arises, I suppose you can just shoot Mr. Dutton.”
“I’ll shoot you if you don’t stop hounding me about it.”
As it turned out, everything said in the coach turned out to be a moot point. For when we arrived at the Dutton residence, we were informed that the master of the house wasn’t home. The person who disclosed this was none other than Bettina Dutton, she of the lip paint and brazen manner. Both were on display as she leaned against the door frame to say, “Father’s at the office.”
“Where is that?”
“Walnut Street.”
“What about your stepmother? Is she home?”
“She’s resting,” Bettina said. “Not to be disturbed. Is there something I can help you with, Mr. Clark?”
“I’m sure you’d like to help Mr. Clark wi
th a great many things,” Lucy remarked. “But we were hoping to speak to one of your parents.”
“Or both of them together,” I added.
“They’re rarely together,” Bettina said. “At least, not recently.”
The last time we spoke, Miss Dutton mentioned hearing her parents arguing over the pocket watch. I wasn’t above accepting secondhand information, even if it forced me to do one of the things I loathed the most—gossip.
“Still fighting about that watch, are they?”
“I can’t reveal family secrets,” Bettina replied as she put a hand to her hair and twirled a lock around her index finger. “At least not without something in return.”
By that point, my patience with her was worn so thin it barely existed. Still, we needed information, and it was apparent that playing parlor games with a schoolgirl was the only way we were going to get it.
“Violet Willoughby,” I said.
Bettina’s brow crinkled. “Pardon?”
“That’s the real name of my fiancée. Violet Willoughby. Not Jenny Boyd.”
“Violet?” Bettina said. “I know of her. She’s a charming girl. You’re very lucky, Mr. Clark.”
She smiled again—a ruby-lipped grin of deviousness that made me regret what I had just told her. It was hard to gauge if Bettina really did know Violet or if she was merely bluffing to agitate me. Either way, I hoped my revelation wouldn’t cause trouble in the future.
“I offered you a secret,” I said. “Now it’s time you do the same. Why were your parents arguing over your father’s watch?”
“I don’t know for certain. I didn’t hear everything that was said. I was next door in my sitting room, you see, writing a letter to one of my many suitors.” Bettina paused, hoping for a reaction from me. I didn’t give one. “I heard them arguing. Quite loudly, which was odd. This house is usually so quiet you can hear a mouse drop a pin.”
“And you heard Mrs. Dutton mention the watch?”
“I did,” Bettina said. “She repeatedly asked my father who it was from. Then there was too much door slamming and stomping around for me to hear much else. But I did catch one word Mother said.”
“Which was?”
My heart sank a bit when Bettina smiled yet again. It was time for another round of games.
“Oh, I could tell you,” she said, “but there’s no fun in that, is there?”
Having neither the time nor the inclination to participate in whatever she was planning, I asked, “What do you want this time?”
“A kiss,” Bettina replied. “I’m sure your dear Violet won’t mind.”
Suddenly, I felt myself being shoved aside by Lucy. Stumbling across the porch, I watched her push Bettina Dutton against the door frame. The girl tried to squirm out of Lucy’s grip, to no avail. She was pinned there just like one of Professor Abernathy’s glass-encased bugs.
“Listen to me and listen well,” Lucy said, her voice a growl of exasperation. “This performance might work when punishing your stepmother or getting your father’s attention, but it doesn’t work on me. I’ve seen girls like you. I know what will happen. You’ll fall out of favor with your family. You’ll have no friends to help you in times of need. You’ll take up with a man who neither deserves you nor treats you well. When he leaves, you’ll be forced to find another. You’ll be penniless, desperate, alone. I know your future because it was my past. And the only way you can change it is to wipe that whore’s paint off your face, respect your elders, and show some common courtesy.”
She released her grip and walked away. Not just from the door, mind you, but off the porch entirely and into her coach. Bettina remained against the door frame, as if Lucy still had hold of her. There were tears in her eyes and, for the first time since meeting her, I felt a pang of sympathy for the girl.
“I’m very sorry,” I said. “That was unnecessarily harsh.”
“But not unwarranted,” Bettina replied with a shake of her head.
“Why do you despise your stepmother so much? She seems like a perfectly kind woman.”
“That’s what she wants you to think,” Bettina said. “But she can scheme with the best of them. I’m certain she tricked Father into marrying her.”
“Which is why you’re angry with both of them.”
Bettina let out a laugh startling in its bitterness. “Of course I’m angry. Mother was barely dead before they started carrying on. It’s as if she never existed.”
“I imagine losing your mother was very hard on you.”
“I miss her,” Bettina said. “Sometimes so much that I can scarcely breathe. I suppose that sounds odd.”
But it didn’t at all. In the years after my mother’s death, I was surprised by all the unexpected things that reminded me of her. The scent of lilacs, for example, or the soft coo of mourning doves. The memories would overwhelm me, making me feel cold and empty.
“I can’t promise you it will go away,” I said. “But, in time, you’ll learn how to live with it. At least that was my experience when my own mother died.”
If Bettina was surprised by my admission, she didn’t show it. She simply offered a nod of understanding while drying her eyes with the sleeve of her dress. To make the task a little easier, I offered my handkerchief.
“ ‘Engraved,’ ” she said while dabbing her eyes. “That’s the word my stepmother said during their fight.”
“Engraved? That’s unexpected.”
“It surprised me, as well. I can only think she was still referring to Father’s watch.”
That was all the information I required. No matter what Eldridge Dutton had been up to—or was guilty of—I suspected the key to it all was that gold watch he cherished so much. It was necessary to see it for myself.
I thanked Bettina before rushing from the porch to Lucy’s coach. Before climbing inside, I glanced back at the Dutton residence. Bettina was still in the doorway, using my handkerchief to wipe the paint from her lips.
VI
It was late afternoon by the time we reached Mr. Dutton’s office, and Walnut Street was teeming with gentlemen leaving their vocations for the day. They crowded the sidewalk in a well-mannered pack—a surging tide of top hats, morning coats, and walking canes. Tucked among them were a few well-dressed women, no doubt late with their shopping, along with the usual assortment of vendors, beggars, and street urchins.
Standing on the corner, Lucy and I watched one particular delinquent as he elbowed through the crowd. While outfitted in attire that was cleaner than an average miscreant’s clothes, Thomas Collins had the attitude down pat. He strutted against the tide of businessmen, chin thrust forward, occasionally tipping his cap. Once he reached the door to Mr. Dutton’s office, he stopped and waited.
“Are you sure he’s capable of doing this?” I asked Lucy.
“Of course,” she said. “He’s quite gifted, actually.”
“I just don’t want anything to go wrong.”
“It won’t, Edward. Calm yourself.”
That wasn’t possible. I was about to witness my first pickpocketing. While I mostly frowned upon such a crime, in this instance I knew it was the only way to get our hands on Eldridge Dutton’s watch. Our entire investigation depended on Thomas’s skills.
“I don’t mean practicing in your parlor,” I said. “Has he done it for real?”
Lucy sighed. It sounded so similar to Barclay’s that, for a moment, I thought he had somehow sneaked up behind us.
“You’ll see soon enough.”
Indeed I did, for that was the moment Eldridge Dutton left his office. Because of his size and facial hair, he was hard to miss, resembling a well-tailored grizzly bear as he stepped into the street. Thomas swooped in immediately, heading straight toward Mr. Dutton, his cap pulled low. He didn’t stop walking until he smacked into our target’s considerable midsection.
“Pardon me, mister,” Thomas muttered. “Should watch where I’m going.”
“You certainly should,” Mr. Du
tton sniffed before continuing down the street.
Thomas began to run in the opposite direction, directly toward Lucy and me. As he moved, I caught a glimpse of gold clutched in his hand. He had managed to snag the watch, proving Lucy right. He truly was gifted.
Unfortunately, he wasn’t so good that Mr. Dutton didn’t catch on to the theft. Stopping in the middle of the sidewalk, he felt around in his pockets, finding them empty of his precious timepiece. When he turned around and saw Thomas’s retreat, he knew what had happened.
“You! Stop right there, boy!” he yelled. “Give me back my watch!”
Thomas continued running, stopping only until he reached the corner where Lucy and I waited. Rounding the edge of the building, he held up the watch so that we both could see.
“Here you go,” he said, handing it to me. “One gold watch, as requested.”
Knowing Eldridge Dutton was on the way, I gave the watch a quick examination. It was heavier than my own, and far more elaborate. Like mine, it had a hunter case, with a hinged lid that protected the watch face inside. An ornate pattern had been engraved on the lid—a circle of swoops and curlicues accented with small rubies. Opening it, I saw more rubies on the watch face itself, one marking each hour. What interested me more than that impressive display, however, were the words engraved on the inside of the lid.
To E, All my love—L
Clearly, the watch had been a gift from someone whose name began with an L, and it wasn’t his wife, Leslie. That left only one other possibility, which leapt into my head the same moment Mr. Dutton rounded the corner. He stopped when he saw us and took an unsteady step backward, as if buffeted by a strong wind.
“We borrowed this,” I said, offering him the watch. “It’s so magnificent, I had to get a better look at it.”
Dutton clutched the timepiece against his chest. “By stealing it? How dare you!”
“Borrowing,” I reminded him. “Someone has given you a very thoughtful gift. L, whoever she is, must think very highly of you.”
“That would be my wife,” Mr. Dutton said. “Leslie.”
“Come now, sir,” I replied. “We both know that’s not the truth. Your daughter told us as much.”
