Deception by Gaslight

by Kate Belli

  “What about Bottle Alley?” she pressed, tapping the pencil faster.

  Looking thoughtful, Luther nodded. “Yeah, I did see something about an old lush who froze to death down there. Or his liver finally went kaput. But no murders.”

  “What if it was murder?” Genevieve asked, keeping her voice casual. “I heard that maybe his head was struck.”

  Luther raised his brows in surprise. “Where’d you hear that?”

  Genevieve waved her pencil in a lazy circle. “Around.”

  “Around, huh? Well, I dunno. Maybe he fell and hit his head.”

  “Or maybe he was hit.”

  Luther nodded again, concern creeping into his features. “Maybe.”

  “Can you keep your ear to the ground for me? Maybe get your hands on the police report, see what it says?”

  Now her friend looked alarmed. “Genevieve, what are you involved in?”

  She managed a smile. “Probably nothing. But would you do it?” She cringed a bit internally, knowing full well she was exploiting his feelings for her.

  “Okay, toots,” he replied, still looking concerned.

  Genevieve’s smile turned more genuine; Luther was the only person in the newsroom she would allow to call her such a nickname, as she knew it stemmed from genuine affection.

  “But be careful, all right?”

  Glancing at the gilt clock mounted to the office wall as Luther made his way to his desk, Genevieve was startled by the time: ten forty-five already. She reluctantly reopened her notes on the flower show she’d unenthusiastically attended the previous Friday. Resplendent gladioli reigned supreme at the 24th annual Flower Extravaganza sponsored by the Ladies’ Auxiliary Horticulture Society …

  Five hundred words on flowers. That was it. Five hundred words before noon, and then she could tackle the real business of the day: uncovering whatever secrets Daniel McCaffrey thought fit to hide.

  * * *

  Daniel strolled down Irving Place toward Fourteenth Street, hat pulled low and hands in his pockets, enjoying the uncommonly warm February afternoon. He figured he’d walk over to First Avenue and catch the elevated train—or “el,” as it was known—downtown rather than take his carriage. Being on foot was better for this errand anyway. The wind picked up slightly, and he turned his head to better coil the silk scarf at his neck. That’s when he spotted her out of the corner of his eye: Miss Polly Palmer, hot on his heels. Or Miss Stewart, he supposed.

  Genevieve, a low voice in the back of his mind whispered.

  Amusement battled with annoyance at her presence. He had to give her credit. As he’d suspected, she was persistent. She was dressed suitably for skulking in a dull-gray woolen coat, and she’d hidden her bright hair under a black scarf, wrapping it in imitation of the recent immigrants. But her full mouth was unmistakable.

  Daniel hopped across the busy intersection of Fourteenth and First, making his way toward the train’s entrance. Somehow being followed by Genevieve Stewart wasn’t as vexing as when it was the ratty fellows on his tail. Though he didn’t want her knowing where he was headed—she was a reporter, after all, and obviously a very ambitious one—he was mildly curious to see how long she could keep up.

  He noted with some satisfaction that she’d anticipated his move across Fourteenth and had managed not to get caught behind the hurtling traffic. Attagirl.

  Bounding up the stairs two at a time, Daniel wondered why he was mentally cheering on a journalist bent on finding out … what? Why he had been in Five Points? How he knew Paddy and Billy? What had become of the dead man in Bottle Alley? How he’d inherited Jacob’s money? He didn’t know what she wanted but was surprised by how much he was enjoying the chase.

  After flinging himself through the train’s doors just before they closed, he settled on one of the long wooden benches lining the car and pulled a folded newspaper out of his pocket, pretending to read. Through the windowed door that led to the next car, he could see her black-scarfed head swaying in time with the motion of the rattling train as it noisily made its way downtown. She was studiously pretending to be engrossed in the rapidly passing scenery: shop windows, apartments, billboards. Every once in a while, though, she would casually glance at the window between their two cars.

  Daniel wondered again why he was putting up with a shadow, even one as pretty as her. He’d bet his boots she was trying to break the Robin Hood story on her own, hoping to prove herself and move ahead. It was a gutsy and unusual move, he thought approvingly. If he understood anything, it was the ambition to succeed. He’d just rarely encountered it in the upper class, most of whom were content with their inherited piles of money.

  Daniel deliberately folded his paper and put it away, silently signaling that he would detrain at the next stop. In response, he saw Genevieve stand near the doors, head bent to hide her face, ready to step off if he did. The clamorous rattling of the train slowed, brakes screeching in protest. Once the doors whooshed open, Daniel moved quickly again, out in a flash and down the stairs two at a time, joining the mass of moving humanity on Rivington Street.

  A torrent of voices, many speaking German, washed over him from all sides. This was the heart of Kleindeutschland, or Little Germany: a vibrant, bustling neighborhood, full of restaurants, oyster houses, photographer’s studios, and delicatessens, with brightly painted signs in English, Hebrew, and German. Daniel ducked down a side street and crossed toward the Bowery, leaving Little Germany and making his way uptown toward Houston Street, casually following the stream of pedestrian traffic.

  It was midday, and the streets were terribly crowded, everyone eager to take advantage of the sparse winter sunshine. He wasn’t certain Genevieve was keeping pace, but he had a feeling she was still back there. Sure enough, as he paused before the well-kept brick townhouse at Twenty-Five East Houston, he could see her several feet away, putting a coin into the can of an organ-grinder. He grinned, wondering idly if she’d try to follow him inside. After ringing the bell, a very large red-haired man pulled the door open a crack and peered at him, then opened it wider with a smile.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. McCaffrey. I’ll let Miss Dugan know you’re here.” Augustus closed the door behind them, and Daniel handed over his coat and hat to a nearby maid.

  “Thanks, Augustus.” He allowed the bouncer to Lead him to his cousin, who as usual had outdone herself in the meal she had waiting.

  He peered out one of the front windows from behind a curtain, looking for his shadow.

  She was standing on the sidewalk in front of the townhouse, openmouthed, staring at the facade. She’d undoubtedly seen the red light shining next to the modest black door; less bright in daytime but still visible, it was an instant and obvious visual shorthand to passersby. Twenty-Five East Houston was an establishment where certain services could be purchased. Female services.

  In short, it was a brothel. As he watched, she looked around confusedly for a moment, then dodged an oncoming fire engine to cross the street, eventually settling in a café across the way, her gaze fixed on the front of the house.

  Daniel dropped the curtain back into place, feeling a curious mix of frustration, amusement, and intrigue surrounding the fact that Genevieve had not only managed to follow him but was now keeping vigil across Houston Street, presumably waiting for him to leave and ready to pick up his trail the moment he did.

  Behind him, Kathleen shook her head. “You’re losing your touch, Danny, if one of them was able to follow you here. Gone soft overseas?”

  Daniel snorted. “I let her follow, Kathy.”

  His cousin’s eyebrows rose high. “Her?” she exclaimed, her Irish brogue still distinct despite her years in New York. “What, you let a girlfriend follow you here? That’s not very kind of you, Danny, if you don’t mind me saying so. It’s unlike you.”

  “She’s a reporter, not a girlfriend,” he replied, making his way back to the table.

  Somehow Kathleen managed to look even more surprised. “What are you playin
g at, Danny? Why would you let a reporter follow you to my house? It’ll be all over the papers.”

  “It hasn’t yet.”

  “She’s likely just biding her time,” Kathleen pointed out. “And even though you won’t take more than tea and toast from me, she’ll be writing that you’ve got one of my girls hanging from the ceiling so you can have your way with her.”

  Daniel rolled his eyes at her. “First, this is hardly tea and toast,” he began, gesturing toward the ornate table laid with roast pig, three kinds of vegetables, and a delectable French vintage.

  Kathleen waved this off. “It’s a figure of speech, and you know it.”

  “Second,” Daniel continued, “the paper couldn’t print that even if she wrote it.”

  Now it was Kathleen’s turn to roll her eyes. “They could make it sound like such, and you know that too.”

  He did. The papers had intimated all kinds of things about him when he’d inherited Jacob Van Joost’s fortune. Some had even come close to the truth.

  “I can’t put my finger on it, Kathy, but I trust her,” he admitted softly, moving to look out the window again. He had a clear view of Genevieve across the street. She had removed her head scarf, and gaslight from the just-lit streetlamps reflected on her bright hair. A waiter set down a cup of tea in front of her, and she glanced at it in distaste.

  Kathleen interrupted his train of thought. “More fool you, mark my words,” she warned.

  “I think she’s sincere in what she’s attempting. Misguided, perhaps, but sincere.”

  Kathleen snorted. “The same could be said of those religious types who give my girls hassle on the street for the way they earn their living.”

  He shook his head, still watching the café. “It’s not the same.”

  Her small huff of breath made her opinion obvious, but she held her tongue on the matter. “She’s still there?”

  Daniel nodded mutely. He heard his cousin laugh behind him. “Well then, Danny, it looks like you’ll finally be spending the night with us. She’s got you trapped. Now, I’ll ring Augustus to have a maid make up a room. Are you sure you don’t want some company? You know my girls are the best in town. And sit, eat something.”

  “As always, I appreciate the offer, but no. You know I wish you’d get into a different line of work.”

  “I know it, Danny,” Kathleen replied, “and I appreciate the financial help. It’s because of your loan I can be discriminating about our clientele. My girls get to choose, not the other way around.”

  He shook his head. It was true: Kathleen’s brothel, or Miss Dugan’s as it was known, was one of the most high-end, discreet establishments in town. If a working girl didn’t like the look of her client, or heaven forbid if he behaved badly, that man was unceremoniously ushered out by Augustus’s large and capable hands.

  “Girls want to work here,” Kathleen continued proudly. “They know they’ll be well fed, well paid, and not forced to do anything they don’t like. I’ve built something good here, Danny. And the men are clamoring for more—we have to turn them away.”

  Daniel sighed. He’d studied different theories of economics at Harvard and didn’t want to argue with his cousin that the young women in her employ typically came from such impoverished circumstances that of course Miss Dugan’s seemed a luxurious option, but what would truly be luxurious would be other options: higher education and a job that didn’t involve selling their bodies.

  He rubbed his jaw. She wouldn’t understand. Kathleen simply saw the larger social system in place, not how it needed to change. He was partially to blame, having loaned her the money to start the business in the first place. Daniel had been away at school when she arrived from Ireland, and when she showed up on his doorstep nearly three years later, destitute but asking for a loan instead of charity, he’d been so thrilled to find a relation that he’d have signed over his entire fortune if she’d asked.

  As far as he knew, she was the only family he had left.

  Daniel irritably stared out the window again. He knew he could probably disguise himself, as Genevieve had, and with the cover of night, give her the slip again. But she’d proved damn tenacious, and even if he eluded her now, she’d just pop up again like a jack-in-the-box sometime in the coming days.

  No, best to get this over with, he told himself. If she wanted to talk, then fine, they could talk. It was probably the only way to get her out of his hair.

  He settled into the magnificent meal Kathleen had presented. If she was still there by the time he finished, Genevieve Stewart was going to get an earful.

  * * *

  Genevieve shifted again in the seat of the wooden chair she’d been occupying for hours, trying to alleviate the ache that had developed in her tailbone. It was a perfectly ordinary café chair, but she’d never noticed before how devilishly hard they were. Probably because she’d never sat in one for so long.

  She stared moodily at the lukewarm cup of tea in front of her. She’d drunk countless cups during this vigil and wasn’t sure she could stomach another sip. Over the course of several hours she’d also consumed a bowl of oyster chowder and a satisfying plate of hot gingerbread, but now her stomach was starting to rumble restlessly from hunger again, adding to her discomfort.

  Genevieve sighed and checked her timepiece. Should she order another meal? Or admit that her attempt to learn something useful about Daniel McCaffrey had been a failure and leave?

  She glanced out the window at the establishment across the street, undecided. The discreet red light by the door had informed her instantly of the unassuming townhouse’s function. Seeing Daniel walk into such a place had caused swift and unexpected disappointment, but she had found this café and settled in to await his departure, ready to resume the chase whenever he left. It was her first attempt to follow him, an effort she planned to continue until she learned something of note. Something about Robin Hood, or the dead man in the alley.

  Something that settled the nagging, persistent suspicion that Daniel McCaffrey knew more than he was saying.

  Something of greater interest than the fact that he apparently spent hours in a brothel upon occasion.

  Genevieve tapped her pencil against the table, pondering, and consulted her notebook for what felt like the thousandth time, weighing the known facts against what was unknown.

  On one side of an open page, she had listed what she knew: Robin Hood had begun his rash of thefts six weeks prior. Or at least his known thefts, the ones for which he had claimed responsibility in his letters to the Globe. Three families had been struck thus far: Winston and Bitsy Collins, Mrs. Pauline Jones, and now Andrew and Sarah Huffington. In all three cases, jewelry had been taken.

  According to ship passenger manifests in the newspaper’s archives, Daniel had arrived in New York on Friday, November eighteenth.

  The thefts had begun in early January.

  Winston and Bitsy Collins had given a dinner party the first week of 1888 to celebrate the New Year, and the exclusive guest list, Genevieve had learned, included Caroline Schermerhorn Astor, Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton Fish, Mrs. Pauline Jones, and Daniel McCaffrey, among others. As far as she had been able to glean, both Bitsy Collins and Pauline Jones were wearing the jewels that night that would later be stolen: Bitsy a three-strand pearl choker necklace with a vast diamond at its center, surrounded by small emeralds, and the widowed Mrs. Jones a diamond bracelet containing a sapphire nearly the size of a robin’s egg.

  The necklace had gone missing the night following the dinner party, the bracelet almost three weeks later. Mrs. Jones had not worn the bracelet since the Collinses’ dinner party, nor had she entertained at her own home in the duration.

  Sarah and Andrew Huffington had not been invited to the dinner party.

  Indeed, Genevieve was a little puzzled as to why Daniel had been included, as the guest list otherwise had been made up of a very particular elite crowd. Perhaps because Winston Collins and Jacob Van Joost had been friends?

&nbs
p; Genevieve gazed meditatively at a passerby on the street, bundled against the dropping temperatures. The café was busier now, and she decided to wait a few more minutes before placing another order.

  Sarah Huffington’s ring had been stolen the very night of her own ball. It was her engagement ring, a diamond so large it made even the wealthiest of socialites blink. Indeed, Genevieve had never seen its like, though the one Mrs. Bradley sported came close. She wondered how either woman held her hand up, as the stones appeared awfully heavy.

  None of the jewels had been recovered.

  These were the facts. Then there were the letters.

  Arthur’s decision to publish Robin Hood’s letters was wildly controversial. Each letter outlined the supposed sins of the victims as justification for the thefts, and the public outcry upon reading these sins was swift and at times substantial. The paper received letters and telegrams from readers daily, in ever-increasing numbers, some begging Arthur to cease giving Robin Hood a platform and an equal amount imploring him to continue.

  Newspaper sales had increased by almost twenty percent.

  The various misdeeds of the thief’s victims ranged in severity. By far the most shocking were those of Winston Collins, a powerful railroad magnate, whom the thief accused of also running a lucrative prostitution ring. While some members of New York’s elite had been aware of the family’s side business (indeed, many gentlemen had been enthusiastic patrons), once the lurid truth was exposed so publicly, the rest of society and the general public turned on the family. There had been calls for their arrest in some of New York’s other papers. Mud was thrown at the Collinses’ frightened teenage daughters as they attempted to shop on Broadway, and rumors circulated that the Collins household might be set afire. The family had become so terrified that they’d packed their belongings and left town in the dead of night, presumably to Europe.

  The letter regarding Mrs. Jones, on the other hand, elicited a modicum of sympathy from some. The thief detailed how Mrs. Jones’s late husband, Matthew Jones, had made his fortune in textiles by aligning with Southern plantation owners both before and after the war. The letter accused the late Mr. Jones, and by extension Mrs. Jones, of having personally profited from the slave trade, despite the pro-Union stance they had maintained during the conflict a quarter of a century prior. At this, most of the Astor 400 rallied to Mrs. Jones’s defense, likely knowing the majority of their fortunes couldn’t withstand similar scrutiny. But while much of the general public disliked seeing an elderly widow the target of a thief, many others, particularly those who remembered relatives lost in the war, sided with Robin Hood.