Whispers Beyond the Veil

by Jessica Estevao

  “Considering your connections, Albert, you might have gotten away with it if you had coshed some poor mill girl over the head or, better yet, one of the Indians. But you made the mistake of killing a wealthy guest from one of the fancy hotels. You know as well as I this town is built on tourist money. No one is going to let you go around murdering the moneyed visitors.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Albert Fitch shifted in his seat. A little bead of sweat ran down the side of his face and got lost in the dark stubble on his cheek. Yancey had waited for months to see Fitch squirm. It did the heart good.

  “Maybe this will clear things up for you.” Yancey opened the bag and began to spread the contents on the table. “You don’t seem like the cameo-wearing type to me.”

  “You can’t tie any of these things to me. And you can’t pin a murder on me, neither.”

  “But I can. We have a couple of people who are more afraid of the noose than they are of you. It is astonishing how quickly some people will cooperate once they hear the word murder.” Yancey lined up the six pocket watches in a neat row. “Your mistake was being greedy and cocky. If only you had left just one thing alone you could have probably continued operating as you have for the foreseeable future.” Yancey pulled silver cigarette cases out of the bag one at a time. He opened them each and laid them in front of Albert.

  “I didn’t kill anyone.”

  “See this case here?” Yancey tapped on the final one he pulled from the bag. “See the engraving? Very distinctive, wouldn’t you say?”

  “I wouldn’t know.” Albert’s eyes shifted to the floor. “I can’t read.”

  “Well, that’s a shame. I’ll read it for you then, shall I?” Yancey cleared his throat. “‘To Stickler from Battler.’”

  “So?”

  “So, the man found dead under the pier with a big old dent in the back of his head just happened to have owned a cigarette case with exactly that inscription. And the funny thing was, it wasn’t in his possession when we found his body.”

  “I didn’t kill nobody.”

  “So you keep saying. But I’m a practical man and I just don’t think any other explanation makes sense.” Yancey leaned forward. “I know you gave this bag containing a dead man’s case to Tippy Goodwin to drop off at the bathhouse. I know it was secure in the locker at the bathhouse until someone working for me removed it. I know the dead man didn’t have his case or his watch fob when his body was found. Which makes me pretty sure you did it.”

  “Maybe I did take it but I didn’t kill him.” Albert chewed on his lip like it was a cheap steak. “I’m not a violent man.”

  “How did the young lady at the train station get a lump the size of a clamshell on her head if you are not a violent man?”

  “She gave as good as she got.” Albert’s cheeks reddened a bit. “I should have been the one pressing an assault charge.”

  “I think that situation serves as an example of the lengths you’re willing to go to, to get what you want. Unless you have more luck with a judge than you do with young ladies, you’re going to swing.”

  “I took it off of him. I did. But I did it at the Sea Spray. Mr. Jellison and I have an arrangement.”

  “I’m not surprised.”

  “I make the rounds in his ballroom, cloakroom, and especially in the back room where the hooch is flowing.” Albert leaned forward. “He gives me free rein to take whatever I can from anyone I please. He lets me use the lockers to make deliveries to my fence, and I give him a cut of the profits.”

  “What does that have to do with murder?”

  “I took the cigarette case off the guy at the Sea Spray. He was in the hallway heading out and I lifted it from him. I didn’t look it over at all and even if I had, so many of those things are engraved, and like I said, all the words look the same to me. I tossed it in with the stash of others I had once I got home and didn’t give it another thought.”

  “So you want me to believe you took it off him before the murder and you didn’t even know you had it?”

  “That’s the God’s honest truth.”

  “Unfortunately for you, I’m not much of a one for God.” Yancey scraped back his chair and stood. “Frank, I’m heading over to Lydale’s studio for some more evidence so we can finish off this investigation, and then, since it looks like this case is well in hand, I’m going home for some dinner and a couple hours’ sleep. You’d be happy to keep him company, wouldn’t you?”

  “I can’t think of anything I’d like more.” Frank pulled open his desk drawer and brought out a truncheon and a pair of brass knuckles. “Don’t hurry back.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  Yancey hummed to himself as he crossed the width of Old Orchard Street to the photographer’s studio tucked in next to the livery. Not a bad day’s work. One murder solved, a pickpocketing ring broken, and Jelly Roll exposed as the criminal Yancey had always suspected him to be. He couldn’t wait to see the look on the chief’s face when he told him it wasn’t the Indians, but instead his brother-in-law who was behind all the pickpocketing. Unless he already knew.

  The bell jangled as Yancey pushed open the door, and Thomas Lydale emerged from the back room.

  “I’ll be right back with the photographs.” He held up a finger and stepped back through the door. Yancey doffed his hat and occupied himself by looking at the souvenir picture cards pinned up along the shop. There were dozens of them tacked to the walls, none of which looked posed. Women in summer gowns strolling the beach with men in straw boaters, workmen setting the pilings for the pier, even one of Henry Goodwin sitting high on his Peanutine cart.

  Most interesting, at least in Yancey’s eyes, were the photos taken at the Indian camp. He had captured people moving along the paths between tents, people carrying wares to sell on the beach, mothers lifting children. Nell appeared in more than one of the pictures, often bent over a palm, giving a reading.

  In one photo, a small girl smiled at the camera, and Yancey’s heart turned over. If Jellison and the chief had their way, the Indians wouldn’t be in Old Orchard next year to be photographed. But with Jellison finally shown for what he was, maybe there was some hope his expansion plans would be quashed.

  “Here they are,” Thomas announced, returning to the shop. He set a cardboard carton on the counter positioned at the far end of the room. Yancey joined him and watched as Thomas pulled out a meticulous record of the crime scene. Judging by the number of photos he had taken, the photographer had patience and an eye for detail.

  “How did you manage with the fog so thick?”

  “Luck and lanterns.” Thomas tapped a photograph with a long finger. “The wind shifted almost as soon as I arrived. I lit a pair of lanterns to help with shots of the victim.”

  “It must have worked. The images of the victim are very clear,” Yancey said.

  “Photographs of the dead always are,” Thomas said.

  “They must make some of the most satisfactory subjects. Perhaps we could call on you in future if we are faced with the unfortunate need of your services.”

  “I don’t think some of the other policemen would be happy for me to be a regular part of investigations.”

  “It isn’t personal. Frank just hasn’t gotten over the photo his mother had you take of his family.”

  “I thought his father looked very lifelike in that portrait,” Thomas said. “The widow was very pleased with the way I posed him sitting in his favorite chair.”

  “That was part of the problem. Frank’s mother gave him the chair after the photo was taken and every time he walks through his own living room he remembers how alive his father looked and it gives him the willies.”

  Thomas shook his head. “People can be so hard to please.”

  “Is that why you started taking those sorts of shots?” Yancey gestured to the wall of candid photograp
hs.

  “I take those photos because they show subjects I find interesting.” Thomas strode across the room and pulled several of the images from the wall. “Do you know how many rich, sour-faced women and their spoilt daughters I photograph on any given day?”

  “I’m guessing too many.”

  “Any is too many. But their fees allow for me to take photographs of ordinary people doing ordinary things.” Thomas spread an array in front of Yancey. “Like these folks right here.”

  “Like the ones you took at the Indian camp?”

  “I believe in documenting life as it occurs, because it’s always changing. In the same way you wanted a record of the crime scene, someday someone will want to know exactly what life was like as we lived it, and that includes boot boys and mill girls and secret meetings and arguments. Not just posed pictures of pampered socialites.” Thomas’s face lit up as he spoke and he waved his hands over the images. “Do you only investigate murders of the wealthy?”

  “Of course not. All lives have value.”

  “I couldn’t agree more. And those lives are all made up of moments like the ones I capture. Look at this one of the train station I took this very afternoon,” Thomas said. “There’s so much bustling, so much energy and excitement there. It’s a wonderful place to head with my detective camera,” Thomas said.

  “A detective camera?” Yancey’s attention snapped away from the photos and focused on Thomas.

  “That’s what they’re called but they aren’t only for those in your profession.” Thomas pushed another photo toward Yancey. “People tend to behave differently when they know they are being observed. I use a variety of hidden cameras to capture truly candid images. For example, I took this one with a camera disguised as a parcel.”

  “A parcel?”

  “Yes. It’s a camera wrapped with brown paper and tied with string. I hold it under my arm and no one is ever the wiser.”

  Yancey bent over the photo, incredulous that something snapped from inside a paper wrapper could be worth viewing. But, he had to admit, it had worked. The photo was remarkably clear and filled with detail. In fact, in the foreground he recognized Mr. Ayers from the Belden. He was wearing the same sort of smile Yancey had wanted to wipe off his face when he swooped in and danced off with Miss Proulx at the Sea Spray. One of his hands was gripping the arm of a young woman and the other seemed to be resting on the bodice of her dress.

  “Do you have a lens?” Yancey asked, the blood beginning to pound in his ears.

  “Of course.” Thomas removed a small one from his vest pocket and handed it to him. “Does that clear things up?”

  Yancey bent over the image and held his breath. Ayers’s hand was wrapped around a pendant dangling from the woman’s neck. Thomas had perfectly captured the terror on Miss Proulx’s face.

  “No, Thomas, it just makes me ask more questions.” Yancey felt worry bear down upon him. “Do you mind if I borrow this one?”

  • • •

  Yancey’s good mood had fogged over as he walked home. He was still pleased with the conclusion of the investigation but he couldn’t get the photograph of Miss Proulx out of his thoughts. Hoping Lucy could set his mind at ease, Yancey went looking for his sister as soon as he opened the door.

  Lucy stood at the kitchen sideboard shelling a batch of early peas into a tin bowl. Each pea hit the metal dish like hail on a barn roof. Poor Blossom sat at her mistress’s feet, ears flattened against her head to block the sound. Yancey wished he could do the same.

  “Are those for supper?” he asked. Lucy turned at the sound of his voice and nodded.

  “Mother and I have been so busy all day we just got around to starting supper. Why are you so late?”

  “I’ve solved the Stickney murder and got to the bottom of the pickpocketing ring all in one fell swoop.”

  “So why don’t you look more triumphant? Are you sure you’ve blamed the right person?”

  “It’s going to be a rip-snorting shocker if the murderer it isn’t the man I arrested.”

  “Who was it?”

  “Albert Fitch.”

  “That’s convenient.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You’ve had your eye on Albert Fitch ever since you joined the force. And now you’ve got him for the two worst crimes to hit town in twenty years.” The oblique reference to Gladys Willards’s murder hung for a moment in the air between them. “So why aren’t you capering around like a spring lamb?”

  “I’m concerned about some information that has come my way about Miss Proulx.”

  “As a policeman or as a gentleman?”

  “I’d like to think a policeman can be a gentleman.” Yancey felt unreasonably cross even as the words slipped past his lips.

  “I mean, are you worried about her as a man interested in an eligible young lady? Or are you still convinced she’s committed a crime?” Lucy rolled her eyes at him. “Ruby is very dear to me and I won’t help you to pester her with your ridiculous accusations.”

  “The police do not pester. We investigate, we interrogate.”

  “Call it whatever you like.” She winked at him. “But if you’re interested in Ruby, you ought not let it wait. She has at least two admirers already.”

  “What a popular girl.” Yancey felt a tickle of annoyance. “Mr. Ayers isn’t one of them though, is he?”

  “In fact he is. But I don’t think you have to worry about the competition from that quarter. When he accompanied us to the Sea Spray, Ruby asked me to distract him.”

  “She did, did she?”

  “She was quite desperate about it. He was determined in his attentions and she didn’t want to seem to encourage him. As the hotel owner’s niece, she was in a difficult position. Of course she didn’t want to offend him. That wouldn’t be good business.”

  “Did she seem frightened of him at all?”

  “Ruby, frightened?” Lucy laughed. “You’re teasing me. Ruby wouldn’t be frightened of a lion in her linen cupboard. I’ve never met a more spirited girl.”

  But Yancey did remember Miss Proulx appearing frightened for just a moment when Mr. Ayers cut in on their dance at the Sea Spray. She had hidden her feelings quickly but he had definitely seen the look on her face, felt the tightening of her small hand in his own, like she just needed a safe place to cling to when Ayers had appeared.

  “Has she confided any concerns to you about him? Have his advances become aggressive?”

  “Not that I know of. Besides, I’m sure Ruby can take care of herself. As a matter of fact I understand she’s been helping take care of your problems as well as her own.”

  “Did Miss Proulx come round crowing about that?” He thought he had made it clear she was to be discreet about her role in the bathhouse break-in. What’s more, he thought she had actually agreed.

  “Certainly not. Honoria told Mother, who, of course, told me.”

  “Miss Proulx’s help today with the pickpocketing problem was invaluable but I can’t see working with her again,” Yancey said. “Fitch’s arrest is the first real break I’ve had in linking the chief to corruption and the first step in clearing Father’s name. I won’t risk being laughed out of court because I involved a phony soothsayer.”

  “Never say never, Yancey.” Lucy turned back to her peas. “Dinner will be ready in an hour. Go sit in the parlor and I’ll bring you a tray when it is ready. You look done in.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  As much as I generally envied men the ability to wear trousers I was grateful for the way my long gown hid my trembling legs. I found an unoccupied bench beside the boardwalk and gratefully sank down onto it. As I watched the gulls circle overhead and the waves inch farther and farther out to sea I felt my pulse slow. Fatigue overwhelmed my body and my spirit as the tension from my encounter with Mr. Ayers faded away.
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  It was clear I had to convince the Velmonts sooner, rather than later, to invest in Mr. Ayers’s scheme. The necklace was the only valuable thing in my possession. The look in his eyes had convinced me he would be all too pleased to take payment out of my hide while he waited for cold, hard currency.

  As much as I wanted to put off seeing Mr. Ayers ever again I was going to have to chance meeting him at the Belden. After all, I could hardly hope to convince the Velmonts their father preferred to converse with them about financial investments on a boardwalk bench. I gathered my wits and what was left of my courage and slowly made my way home.

  Mrs. Doyle spotted me as I made my way to the back stairs.

  “You’ve taken your sweet time getting back. Honoria’s been looking everywhere for you and so have I. Have you got that nutmeg I sent you after?” In all the upset I had completely forgotten she had sent me on the errand that put me in Mr. Ayers’s path.

  “Yes. It’s in my bag.” My wrenched finger throbbed as I reached into the folds of my skirt for my drawstring purse. I couldn’t disguise a sharp intake of breath as I tried to loosen the strings.

  “What’s the matter with you, girl?” Mrs. Doyle stepped forward and seized my wrists. I flinched and she gave me one of her familiar scowls.

  “I’m fine. You just startled me, is all.”

  “I hardly think so. Your hands are shaking.” She pointed at my purse, whose jouncing and swaying mirrored the movement of my trembling hands. She plucked the bag from my fingers and without hesitation but with more gentleness than I would have expected, tugged off my gloves, one at a time. “What’s this then?” She pointed to my ring finger, now swollen and flushed almost purple.

  “I caught it in the door of the store on my way out.”

  “You expect me to believe you caught just the ring finger in the door? No other fingers were injured?”