by Alan Finn
“She’s still a murderess,” Barclay said. “And she will be punished as such.”
Bettina Dutton entered my thoughts just then. The poor girl, still coping with the loss of her mother, now had to deal with the fact that it had actually been murder. It would be hard for her. I knew that from experience. But I hoped, unlike my situation, it would bring her and her father closer. Judging from the way they had been embracing at Lucy’s house, I suspect it already had.
“That must have been quite a performance you put on during that fake séance of yours,” Barclay said. “You had everyone in the room convinced it was real.”
Again, that was another thing he was better off knowing little about. Not that I could explain it with any coherence. Besides, I was all too happy to pretend it was a grand ruse, expertly performed.
“Perhaps there’s a bit of showman in me,” I said. “But it wasn’t just all my doing. I had a good deal of help from Mrs. Collins.”
“Now that this is all over, do you still plan on associating with her?” Barclay asked.
Alas, that was a question for which I had no answer. Lucy saving my life and my subsequent reaction to it certainly complicated matters. Complication—that seemed to be her specialty. I thought about how uncomplicated my life had been before we met. Less than a week later, everything about my world was now askew. And while some of it was undeniably enjoyable, I was also eager to settle back into my old, run-of-the-mill existence.
“I suppose I must,” I said, choosing my words carefully. “She did save my life, after all. I owe her some form of thanks. I think I’ll start by trying to convince you that she didn’t kill Declan O’Malley.”
Barclay gave me a quizzical look. “How much do you really know about all that?”
“Nothing,” I lied.
My old friend didn’t believe me, as evidenced by the irritated sigh that followed my response. Still, he said, “I suppose it’s no concern of mine. The police in Richmond can do what they want. As for me, I consider that particular case to be closed.”
“I think,” I said, “that’s the best course of action.”
It was past midnight by the time we reached Locust Street. Despite the late hour, I invited Barclay inside for a drink. I wanted to raise a toast to celebrate the solving of Mrs. Pastor’s murder. But when the coach stopped in front of my house, I saw another one waiting there.
Inside was Mr. Hamilton Gray, who yelled at me from the coach window, “Well done, Clark! Very well done!”
Seeing my former editor, Barclay said, “It seems you have company.”
“Yes,” I replied. “Unwanted company.”
I left Barclay’s coach and stood beside Mr. Gray’s. He leaned out the coach window, so excited that I detected traces of pink in his usually colorless cheeks.
“You’ve made our newspaper proud, Mr. Clark,” he said.
“I thought I was no longer a respected employee of the Evening Bulletin.”
“After what happened tonight,” Mr. Gray said, “consider yourself our most respected employee.”
“How do you already know about tonight’s events?”
“I have my ways,” Mr. Gray replied. “One of which is paying a policeman a small sum to inform me if something exciting happens. He told me all about your adventure this evening. Now you must write the whole thing down. Get in and I’ll discuss it with you.”
Reluctantly I climbed into the coach, Mr. Gray not caring that I was dirt covered and damp. He was too busy presenting his grand plan to notice how mussed and weary I truly was.
“Much like the article you wrote after Mrs. Pastor’s death, we would like you to write a first-hand account about how you solved her murder,” he said. “It’s quite a story, I’m sure. Our rivals will be positively sick with jealousy.”
So, after practically firing me, the Bulletin now wanted me back, all because I had solved a few murders. It made me so angry I had half a mind to tell Mr. Gray to take his carriage and drive it straight into the Delaware. Yet one of the things I had missed terribly during my time under suspicion was being a reporter. I knew I could have gone to the Public Ledger or the Times, but that wouldn’t have been nearly as much fun. At the Bulletin, I now had leverage.
“I’ll do it,” I said, “on one condition.”
“Anything,” Mr. Gray replied.
“When this is finished, I want to go back to my old job, writing about crimes in the city.”
Mr. Gray heartily agreed and instructed me to report to the Bulletin office bright and early the next morning.
I did as I was told, returning to that dim tomb on Chestnut Street for what felt like the first time in ages. I took great pleasure in sitting down at my desk and writing how, after witnessing it, I had come to solve the death of Lenora Grimes Pastor.
It wasn’t the truth, of course. Few things you read in a newspaper ever are. Unlike this tome, it was mostly fiction, with a few bits of truth scattered about to make it seem legitimate.
Still, it was enough to satisfy Mr. Gray and the bloodthirsty readers of Philadelphia. And when it was printed the next evening, I found myself in fashion once again. In the days that followed, my home was inundated with well-wishers.
The most impressive of the lot was P. T. Barnum, who came around before departing the city. Sitting in my parlor, sipping tea presented to him by an awestruck Mrs. Patterson, he addressed an issue that had been bothering me since the séance at Lucy’s house.
“You’ve probably been curious, good man, about what myself and the others told the police,” he said in typically grand fashion.
“I have,” I admitted.
“And I suppose you were nervous about what we revealed regarding your . . . gifts.”
“Quite nervous.”
“There’s no need to be,” Mr. Barnum replied. “We lied. Every single one of us. It was all Mrs. Collins’s idea, of course, but the rest of us agreed. While you appeared to be as fine a medium as Mrs. Pastor herself, it was clear to all of us that you had no control over what was taking place.”
“I didn’t,” I said. “I’m still not sure how it happened.”
“Which is why, dear boy, we told the policeman questioning us that it was all an elaborate trick. If we had told the truth—if the public knew you truly could contact the dead—you’d be overrun with people begging for your services. It was obvious that’s the last thing you desire.”
“It is,” I said. “The absolute last thing.”
At this, Mr. Barnum shook his head. “I must admit, I find that an utter shame.”
“A shame, sir?”
“Why, if I had the faintest inkling that you were interested, I’d draw up a contract and take you on tour. Imagine the crowds you’d draw. Even better, Mr. Clark, imagine all the money we’d make.”
While Mr. Barnum’s eyes were aglow as he spoke, the very thought of being a touring medium repulsed me. I had already spent enough time living out of a suitcase and following my parents from city to city. It had ended badly for all of us, and no amount of money or persuasion on P. T. Barnum’s part could make me return to that life.
“Your suggestion, while flattering, isn’t something I’m interested in.”
“But if you change your mind—”
“I won’t,” I assured him. “I’m quite happy where I am.”
Mr. Barnum stood and shook my hand. “Then I wish you the best, Mr. Clark. As for me, I must keep on looking for that new venture Mrs. Pastor hinted at. I hope I find it soon, and when I do, I hope it’s something grand and spectacular. This world needs a bit more spectacle. Don’t you agree?”
“I do,” I replied. “Very much.”
Strangely, P. T. Barnum wasn’t the most important visitor to my house that day. Two more came by later that evening, arriving separately but remaining inextricably entwined in my thoughts.
The first was Violet Willoughby, who rang the bell shortly after dinner. Still without a butler, I answered the door myself. Seeing Violet, lo
oking as pretty as ever, made my heart skip with happiness.
“I won’t blame you,” she said, “if you slam that door right in my face.”
“I could never do that,” I replied. “Not in a million years.”
Violet then rushed to embrace me, enveloping me in a flurry of kisses and an equal number of apologies. “I was such a fool, Edward. An utter, dithering fool. Jasper told me everything.”
I pushed her away for a moment, holding her at arm’s length. “Everything?”
“About the fake séance,” Violet said. “He told me that you and Mrs. Collins had planned it so thoroughly. No wonder the two of you had been spending so much time together.”
I blinked in grateful disbelief. “That’s what he told you?”
“Of course. When I asked him why you had requested his presence, he told me it was because you wanted him to witness it and report back to me about how hard you had been working. Now I understand why you couldn’t tell me everything about your investigation. In order for the séance to be a success, you needed to keep the entire thing secret.”
I let her envelop me again, well aware that I owed all those embraces and kisses to Jasper Willoughby. I felt bad about doubting his innocence, especially based on something as tangential as a hive of bees. But I also got the sense Jasper had lied to his sister for reasons that had nothing to do with our happiness. He wanted me to remain silent, just as he had done.
“Will you accept my apology?” Violet asked. “Will you forgive my foolishness?”
There was no question about that. I had forgiven Violet the moment I saw her at the door. Yet my thoughts turned to Lucy. Honestly, how could they not? I had held her in my arms and pressed my lips upon hers. A part of me longed to do both again. Yet I also hated myself for thinking that way, causing guilt to settle over me like a woolen blanket—heavy and suffocating.
“Will you, Edward?” Violet asked again. “Can we be engaged once more?”
My emotions consisted of two equal parts—assent and hesitation. I desperately wanted to spend the rest of my life with Violet. And yet . . . I didn’t. Those opposing feelings made it almost impossible to give her a definitive answer.
“Well, I—”
Because she excelled at creating complications, Lucy Collins chose that precise moment to also come to my house. Unlike Violet, she ignored the doorbell and burst right in, a flush on her cheeks and fire in her eyes.
“Edward, we must talk about—”
Lucy halted when she saw us. Her demeanor immediately changed, just as it had done on the riverbank days earlier. Fast and startling, it brought to mind a storm cloud darkening a bright summer day. Her green eyes dimmed, her spine straightened, and the rosy hue in her cheeks faded.
“I’m sorry,” she quickly said. “I didn’t know you had a guest.”
Violet released me and spent a moment sizing up Lucy.
“Are you Mrs. Collins?” she asked.
Lucy nodded. “Miss Willoughby, I presume?”
Violet, to my great consternation, rushed to Lucy and enfolded her in an embrace almost as tight as the one she had given me.
“By all means, call me Violet,” she said brightly. “It’s a joy to meet you at last!”
“It’s lovely to meet you, too,” Lucy replied, with far less enthusiasm.
She looked at me over Violet’s shoulder, her expression unreadable. Like a character from myth gazing directly at Medusa, Lucy’s face had turned to stone.
Violet noticed none of this, not even when she broke the embrace to say, “I think what you and Edward did was wonderful. So inventive of you both. And then to save his life after that! Why, Lucy— May I call you that? Lucy?”
“Of course.”
“Why, Lucy, I owe you all the thanks in the world!”
“It was nothing,” Lucy said, her voice still a dull murmur. “Mr. Clark would have done the same for me. In fact . . . he already has.”
“Still, thanks is due,” I said. I, too, tried to keep emotion out of my voice, lest either one of them catch on to my true, conflicted feelings. “And it’s nice to see you again, Mrs. Collins. Have you been well since we last saw each other?”
“Quite well,” Lucy answered, shooting a sidelong glance at Violet. “I see you’re also doing fine.”
“You said you came by to discuss something with Edward?” Violet said. “Don’t let my presence bother you.”
Lucy opened her mouth, then closed it again without making a sound. It was one of the very few times I had seen her at a loss for words. When she did find her voice, it was to say, “I stopped by to thank you, Mr. Clark. For writing such a fine article in the Bulletin.”
“That’s all?” I asked.
“Of course,” Lucy said. “Unless you have something you wish to discuss.”
“I don’t.”
“Then I wish you both a good night.”
Lucy accepted another of Violet’s enthusiastic embraces, gave me a cold nod, then left just as quickly as she had arrived. I should have let her depart without another word. It certainly would have been the easy thing to do. Yet there was something about her stony demeanor that demanded I go after her.
“I’ll be right back,” I told Violet before rushing outside.
Lucy must have been walking as fast as her feet could carry her, for when I reached her, she was already at her coach, preparing to open the mismatched door.
“Lucy, wait!”
“I’m a very busy woman, Mr. Clark,” she said as she gathered her skirts to climb inside the coach. “And I’m certain Miss Willoughby doesn’t want to be kept waiting.”
I grabbed her elbow, pulling her away from the door. Thomas, sitting at the reins, yelled a few obscenities my way, but Lucy silenced him with a raised hand.
“What do you want, Edward?” she said with a sigh.
“Are you certain there’s nothing else you want to talk about?”
“Yes,” Lucy answered. “Quite certain.”
“It’s just that . . . after what happened between us—”
“Nothing happened,” Lucy said in a clipped voice. “At least, nothing of consequence.”
“Nothing of consequence,” I repeated. “That’s right. I just wanted to be clear about that.”
“Of course it’s clear,” Lucy said. “We simply let our emotions get the better of us. I’m sure it will never happen again.”
“It won’t. There’s Violet, for one thing. We were apart for a time, yes, but now it seems like we’ll—”
“Be reuniting?”
“Exactly,” I said. “I have my job back. And my good name.”
“I’m happy for you,” Lucy replied with nary a trace of happiness in her voice. “Are you happy?”
“Yes. I suppose I’m back to being the man I was before we met.”
Lucy placed a hand against my cheek. The silk of her glove was cool and smooth against my skin, like a balm. I closed my eyes, just for a moment, to bask in the sensation. When I opened them, I saw Lucy staring at me, disappointment in her green eyes.
“Oh, Edward,” she said, removing her hand. “I’m afraid I misunderstood you. Remember how I once told you we were very much alike?”
“Of course,” I replied.
“I was wrong. We’re not alike at all.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because,” Lucy said, “I at least know what I want out of life.”
She turned and, without a single glance backward, climbed into her coach. Thomas then set the horses in motion and they rumbled out of sight.
With Lucy gone, a sense of finality pierced my heart. It was a strange sensation—part loss, part regret—that made me want to run after the coach and stop its retreat. It was possible, I knew. I still heard the faint churn of the coach’s wheels and the dull clop of the Cleveland Bays’ hooves. Catching up to it would be easy. And when I did, I could take back all the things I had said and tell Lucy what I really thought and how I truly felt.
&
nbsp; Yet I stayed where I was, wondering when—or if—I would ever see her again. And if I never did lay eyes on her in the future, I wondered how much I would ultimately come to regret it.
Lucy, you see, was right about me. No, I didn’t know what I wanted out of life. But I knew what I needed—an existence far different from the way in which I was brought up. One free of endless travel and illusions and shame. One exactly like what I had created for myself before I ever met Mrs. Lucy Collins.
A life such as that required a wife who was calm and trusting and kind. Someone from a proper family who behaved in a proper manner. Someone who worried about nothing more than pretty frocks and hats and the importance of having a bite of cake.
Violet Willoughby was the kind of woman I needed to spend the rest of my life with. And if my heart also possibly desired someone else, it would be my duty to deny it. Violet, after all, deserved my full affection, and I was prepared to give it to her.
Without wasting another moment, I marched back into the house. Violet remained in the foyer, hands folded demurely in front of her.
“I wasn’t expecting you to be gone so long,” she said. “Is something wrong?”
I kissed her on the cheek and pulled her into the tightest embrace I’d ever given her. “Nothing’s wrong at all.”
“So you forgive me?”
“Of course,” I said. “Now, would you do me the honor of once again agreeing to be my wife?”
Violet rested her head on my shoulder. “Of course, silly. All I ask is that, no matter what trouble might occur in the future, you tell me about it. No more secrets.”
“I promise,” I said. “No more secrets.”
VII
But of course there were secrets. With me, there always would be. Because no matter how much Violet loved and trusted me, there was one thing I couldn’t share with her. Not then. Not ever.
