Deception by Gaslight

by Kate Belli

  “But … I never heard of any affiliation between Reginald and Mr. McCaffrey,” she began.

  “Oh no, you wouldn’t have. Mr. Cotswold did like to keep things private, and he wanted Daniel to be able to make his own name. Which he has, hasn’t he? Done quite well, I’d say.” Mrs. Dolan sighed, looking around the room in a distracted manner.

  Genevieve filed the information away in her brain to pick apart later. It was astonishing news, but she also wanted to know why officers had been at the home. “I saw some police officers leaving the house just now—” she began, but the housekeeper interrupted her.

  “Those pups.” Genevieve’s surprise at Mrs. Dolan’s uncharacteristic impertinence must have shown on her face, as the older woman drew herself taller in her armchair. “Yes, I said it. They are determined not to hear me. With your being out in the working world, my dear, I can tell you what I might not say to another young lady: I firmly believe Mr. Cotswold’s life was taken from him.” And with that, the housekeeper buried her face behind the pink handkerchief for some minutes.

  Genevieve was patting Mrs. Dolan’s back soothingly when Letty arrived with the tea. The young maid looked with alarm at her employer before setting the service down gingerly. Mrs. Dolan recovered herself enough to shoo the maid away and pour as Genevieve resumed her seat.

  “Mrs. Dolan, why would you make such a claim? Mr. Cotswold was ninety-one,” she said, parroting her editor. She knew what the ill-mannered officer had claimed but wanted to hear the tale from the housekeeper herself.

  “A most valuable Russian jeweled box is missing,” Mrs. Dolan confided with a sniff. “It was a gift from Emperor Alexander the Second himself, decorated with rubies, prized as much for its sentiment as for price. It went missing the very night Reginald passed.” The pink swath of fabric came to her eyes again, but briefly this time.

  “And why do you think the potential theft of the box has any relationship with Mr. Cotswold’s passing?” Genevieve asked gently. “Could it not have been coincidence? Or perhaps it was simply misplaced? It’s only been two days.” The Cotswolds had been profligate art collectors, amassing objects from their frequent and extensive travels all over the world. One thing the officer had said on the steps was true: the vast house was crammed with an enormous number of paintings, sculptures, and all manner of bric-a-brac, ranging from the shockingly expensive to trinkets purchased from street vendors. It was altogether imaginable that one jeweled box had become lost in the mix.

  Mrs. Dolan pursed her lips and shot Genevieve a scolding look. “You know me better than that, dear. I know where every object in this house belongs and make sure the staff does as well.”

  Genevieve ducked her head in acknowledgment and some shame, as she did in fact know this. She, Gavin, and Charles used to delight in the multitude of treasures to be found in the house, carefully palming and exclaiming over those they were allowed to handle, and no matter where they had found each object, Mrs. Dolan knew exactly what it was and exactly where it belonged.

  “But I still don’t understand why you assume the missing box is connected to Mr. Cotswold’s death,” she pressed, stirring a touch more sugar into her tea.

  “Well, it has to be that Robin Hood character,” Mrs. Dolan said definitively. She took a quavering breath but managed to keep her eyes dry. “Who else has been stealing valuables from houses such as these?”

  “But Robin Hood has not committed murder,” Genevieve replied with care. Yet, an inner voice instantly replied, causing a shiver to run down her spine.

  “It is my belief that Reginald caught the ruffian in the act of pilfering the box and instantly expired from the shock of it.” Again the handkerchief was applied, though only momentarily. At Genevieve’s furrowed brow, the housekeeper sighed. “My guess is you assume your father’s dear friend passed while asleep in his bed, yes?”

  “I had assumed that, yes,” Genevieve confirmed slowly. She searched her memory for the exact wording of her conversation with Arthur, and the shorter one she’d had with her father earlier that afternoon when she’d gone home to change clothes. “No, not assumed,” she remembered. “It is what my editor told me.”

  Mrs. Dolan shook her head, taking another deep breath. “That is what is being said publicly. In truth, I found him … expired, in his bedclothes, on the floor of the upstairs study yesterday morning. The very room where the box was kept.”

  The icy shiver danced on Genevieve’s spine again. “Was there any evidence of a break-in?”

  “No, the house was locked tight as a drum, as always. But don’t you see? Reginald was a very light sleeper, particularly since Sally passed. He must have heard a noise coming from the study and walked in to investigate …” The housekeeper was overcome again for a moment.

  Genevieve put down her teacup and waited for Mrs. Dolan to compose herself, her mind swirling. The housekeeper removed the pink handkerchief from her face and continued. “The police say he was probably awake to get a drink of water or the like.” She colored a little and Genevieve nodded, indicating that she understood. “But there was no reason for Reginald to be in the study if such were the case. The water closet is at the other end of the hall,” she concluded with dignity.

  Mrs. Dolan started fussing about with a lovely-looking lemon cake, noting that she had barely been able to eat since Mr. Cotswold’s passing but pressing a slice upon Genevieve, who accepted it mutely. She barely knew what to make of this new information, but it did suggest that some kind of foul play had been involved in Reginald’s death.

  “I know your time is short, Genevieve,” Mrs. Dolan said, “and you’re here to gather information for the remembrance in the paper. I am so very glad it is you who is writing it, by the way. Reginald would be so pleased. But … I scarcely know how to ask this …”

  “You want me to keep an ear out for anything that may have to do with the missing jeweled box, or any other news regarding Mr. Cotswold?” Genevieve guessed, keeping her voice soft.

  Mrs. Dolan breathed a sigh of relief. “Yes. Yes, that would be welcome. I know you are not a police officer, but they do not seem inclined to help at present anyway. You are in a position to possibly hear of something, as the Globe receives the letters from Robin Hood.” The housekeeper peered at Genevieve hopefully.

  “I will do my best. And if something comes to my attention that might corroborate your theory, I shall let both you and the authorities know at once,” she promised.

  Seeming satisfied, Mrs. Dolan composed herself, and they proceeded to have a long, lovely chat around their shared memories of the Cotswolds, with Genevieve taking occasional notes and both of them shedding an occasional tear, until Mrs. Dolan noticed with surprise that dusk was falling.

  “I’ve taken far too much of your time,” said the older woman, bustling Genevieve to the door.

  “No, it’s I who have taken yours. Our discussion will be so helpful as I write my newspaper piece; I can’t thank you enough.”

  “Of course, dear. And you’re right to focus on his charitable and committee work. That man gave so much to this city.” Mrs. Dolan sighed unhappily.

  “Mrs. Dolan, we didn’t speak of the most recent committee Mr. Cotswold was appointed to—I understand he was meant to serve on a mayoral task force on housing reform?”

  The housekeeper pursed her lips again, then narrowed her eyes in a way that suggested she was rolling them without actually doing so. “Yes, and it pains me that his last act of kindness towards this town caused him such headaches.”

  Genevieve’s heart skipped a beat. “Headaches?”

  Before Mrs. Dolan could answer, a distant telephone rang, and the older woman excused herself to answer it after a hurried, distracted embrace, leaving Genevieve with the maid Letty, who had retrieved Genevieve’s things.

  “Miss,” whispered Letty as she helped Genevieve into her jacket. “It was me.”

  Genevieve twisted around and regarded the young woman with an alarmed curiosity. Letty was wrin
ging her hands in front of her waist, wearing an expression of acute misery.

  “What was you?”

  “It was my fault. Mr. Cotswold’s death. I left the kitchen door unlocked that night on accident. I’d snuck out, you see. My young man, he wanted to take me to the theater, and Mrs. Dolan would have said no, but I went anyways, and in the morning discovered I’d plumb forgot to lock the back door. So if someone broke in to steal the box and …” Letty’s eyes welled with tears. “They got in because of me.”

  The icy tendrils returned, now creeping their way up the back of Genevieve’s neck. It was seeming more and more probable that Reginald Cotswold had suffered an unnatural death. “Didn’t you tell Mrs. Dolan? Or the police?”

  If anything, the poor girl looked even more miserable. “No, miss. I didn’t want to get in trouble and lose my place, or worse. But I heard you and Mrs. Dolan talking, and maybe it’s useful for you to know. Maybe it can help you catch whoever took the box.” The tears spilled over and down Letty’s face, and she wiped at her eyes with her sleeve. “But please don’t tell, unless you must.”

  Letty would most certainly be sacked if Genevieve relayed the information to her employer, and it would only upset Mrs. Dolan more. She sighed. “Let me see what I can find out,” she said.

  “Thank you, miss.” Letty bobbed her knees gratefully and opened the door, her relief palpable.

  A great breath escaped Genevieve the moment the door closed behind her. Daniel not only knew Mr. Cotswold well, he had been a frequent visitor to the house. But what use would a millionaire have with one jeweled box? And according to Mrs. Dolan, Daniel’s relationship with Mr. Cotswold had been friendly, perhaps even filial. Were Reginald’s “headaches” with the mayoral committee why Daniel had directed her focus in that direction?

  Mulling over these revelations as she made her way down the front steps with care, Genevieve clasped her hat, which was nearly yanked off by a sudden gust. The wind had increased in speed and the temperature had dropped during the hours she had spent at the Cotswold house, and the walk south down Fifth Avenue toward her home in Washington Square was decidedly less comfortable than her reverse journey had been earlier that afternoon. The few pedestrians she passed in this largely residential area were bundled to their eyebrows, walking with their heads bent against the wind, hurrying home in the deepening shadows.

  Genevieve ducked her own head and picked up her pace. The Square was only a few blocks away, and it seemed silly to hail a hansom cab for such a short distance.

  Silly, that is, until an uncomfortable chafing across the back of her left heel caused her to stop. Clicking her tongue in frustration, Genevieve ducked alongside the steps of another grand townhome, hoping their bulk would provide a modicum of shelter from the biting wind as she adjusted her boot. The laces had loosened, causing the leather to rub uncomfortably.

  As she straightened back up, boot now tightly laced, she caught sight of a man about half a block behind her. He was too far away and it was too dark for her to make out any identifying details—he was just an outline of a figure in a hat, coat, and scarf, like every other man she’d seen on the street today—but what caught her attention was his movement.

  Or lack thereof.

  He was standing stock-still in the middle of the sidewalk, facing south, toward her.

  Not ducking his head against the wind, not readjusting his scarf or clamping down his hat, not hastening home toward a warm fire. Just standing—and looking.

  Uneasy dread began to prickle at her belly, then spread toward her limbs.

  It’s nothing, the rational part of her mind whispered.

  Move. Now, another, more primal part of her whispered back.

  The dreadful feeling circled and ticked her spine as she turned her back on the figure, walking south again. She forced herself to maintain an even pace, heart pounding, the rational and emotional sides of herself still warring with each other.

  Crossing the busyness of Broadway provided some relief, as there were a few more pedestrians rushing down the thoroughfare, and Genevieve breathed a trifle easier. Only six blocks until home. Was he still behind her?

  She paused at the corner of East Tenth Street and peered west, as if trying to decide whether or not she should turn right. Risking a peek over her shoulder, the dread blossomed into full panic. The figure was still there. And he had also stopped.

  He was matching her movements.

  Both sides of her brain were in agreement now: Run.

  Heedless of whether she was making a fool of herself by running from a perfectly normal businessman on his way home or whether she was truly in danger, Genevieve hitched up her skirts and began sprinting toward the intersection where Fifth Avenue transformed into the park. Her family’s house was just around the corner on the northeastern edge. If she could make it to that corner, surely she’d be safe.

  Was it her imagination, or did she hear footsteps behind her quickening as well?

  The discomfort in her left heel came roaring back as the dratted laces on her boot reloosened, but she dared not stop to fix them. She was almost there.

  Why were the streets suddenly so empty? Where was a leering police officer when a girl needed one? The wind continued to pick up, the dry tree branches clicking together eerily as she raced beneath them toward home.

  Almost there, almost there.

  Boots thudding, heel chafing, she ran, then abruptly halted when she reached the corner of Fifth and Washington Square North. Her next-door neighbors, the Wellingtons, were alighting from their carriage in front of their townhouse. Emboldened by their presence, as well as by that of their sturdy groom, she whirled around, ready to face her pursuer.

  Fifth Avenue was empty. It yawned northward in a seemingly endless trajectory, mansions and shop facades shuttered and still in the cold February night. A lone carriage crossed the Avenue about ten blocks up, but otherwise the street was almost preternaturally devoid of life.

  If someone had been following her, he was gone.

  “Miss Stewart? Genevieve?” Henry and Clara Wellington gathered around her, glancing from her face toward the Avenue. Heart pounding, she kept her eyes facing north, until a few shadowy figures of pedestrians emerged from side streets and houses, populating the Avenue once more. “Are you quite all right?” Mrs. Wellington pressed.

  Her body was cooling from its exertions, and Genevieve shivered in the chilly air. Her jacket clung to her damply. Offering a distracted nod to her bewildered neighbors, Genevieve passed them without a word and climbed the front steps of her house, refusing to look back.

  CHAPTER 8

  “Oh, so he’s not from India, then?” Callie appeared crestfallen at the news that Daniel did not hail from an exotic locale. She brightened as a new thought occurred to her. “That doesn’t necessarily mean the part about his parents dying of snakebite isn’t true!” she suggested, giving her shiny black curls a satisfied shake.

  “Yes, because there are so many poisonous snakes creeping around the Lower East Side,” remarked Eliza wryly. “Really, being hopeful that another person’s parents might have died of snakebite is rather gruesome.”

  For weeks, Genevieve had resisted telling her friends about her unauthorized investigation into Robin Hood, but Callie, ever insistent, had pried out a portion of the story. There were many elements she still held back: the dead man in the alley with the misshapen head, Luther’s promise to look into it, and her growing fears around the circumstances of Reginald Cotswold’s death. Her friends could not be dissuaded from hearing a full accounting of her dance with Daniel McCaffrey, however, and she found herself revealing select details from their impromptu dinner as well, to the delight of Callie and the wary astonishment of Eliza.

  In truth, it was a relief to unburden herself, even partially. The weight of the information she had recently uncovered had been gnawing at her, causing sleepless nights as her brain puzzled over each new revelation.

  The trio had been walking throu
gh Washington Square Park, around which they all lived. The recent bitter winds had relented somewhat, and while the day was not quite warm, at least it was sunny. There was the barest hint of January’s snow still covering the shrubbery, and patches of brown grass were being uncovered bit by bit as the crusty sheet of white that had blanketed the ground slowly melted. Despite the thin sunshine, Genevieve folded her arms around her chest, shuddering a bit as a brisk breeze stirred the still-bare branches of the park’s trees, the clacking sound returning her instantly to the recent night she had been pursued—maybe—down Fifth Avenue.

  Another detail she deliberately withheld from her friends.

  “Are you too cold, Genevieve?” Eliza asked with concern. “Shall we go to my house? There’s cake, I’m sure.”

  Callie perked up at the mention of cake. “Yes, let’s!”

  Genevieve shook her head. “I ought to be getting home.”

  “Perhaps you should rest,” Eliza said, placing a hand on Genevieve’s shoulder.

  “You’ve got circles under your eyes,” Callie added.

  “Callie!” Eliza scolded. “That is not kind.”

  “I’m sure it’s nothing she doesn’t know.”

  “There is no need to be impolite.”

  The girls’ familiar, friendly banter was giving Genevieve a headache. “Stop it, both of you. Can we please sit?” She sat hard on the nearest bench and rubbed at her temples.

  “Genevieve,” ventured Eliza, after both she and Callie had settled themselves, “may I ask something? Do you fear Daniel McCaffrey is Robin Hood?”

  Genevieve sighed. She ought to have known her friends were clever enough to divine her thinking.

  Callie was nodding in agreement. “It partially adds up. But it partially doesn’t.”

  Genevieve sat on the open end of the bench and gazed contemplatively at the grand, crumbling gothic towers of the old university building that dominated the Square’s east side. “Exactly.” She smoothed the skirt of her pink wool dress. “It feels tied somehow to his being made the Van Joost heir. It’s not as if the Van Joosts were known for their charity work, nor were they terribly kind to, um, outsiders,” she finished lamely, looking apologetically at Eliza. While her family and Callie’s could trace their origins to the early Dutch settlers of New York, Eliza’s merchant father hailed from Massachusetts and had made his fortune in the war manufacturing Union uniforms, afterward turning to ladies’ corsets. The Van Joosts, a terribly snobby clan, had refused to associate with that kind of “new money.”