Deception by Gaslight

by Kate Belli

  “Oh yeah.” He did lower his voice to a whisper. “Her throat was slit. It’s not public yet, so keep it quiet.”

  Genevieve stifled a second gasp. Unbelievable. Mrs. Bradley dead. She hadn’t liked the woman, but she hadn’t wished murder—a cut throat—upon her.

  “When?”

  “They found her early this morning and called the police.”

  A shudder passed through her. It was hard to shake the image of Elmira lying dead, her neck a gaping wound. “The ball was Saturday. The police think she was killed sometime Sunday night?”

  “Or early this morning. The coroner will try to determine a more precise time of death.”

  The language of murder—time of death, coroner, throat slit—was making Genevieve’s head spin. She knew that for Luther these terms were bread and butter, but they were a far cry from the hats and parasols in which she normally traded.

  Genevieve straightened in her chair and removed her hand from her mouth, where it had flown of its own accord. If this was what she wanted to do, she had better get used to such language.

  “But was Robin Hood involved? What does the letter say?”

  Luther shrugged a bit. “The same. That’s the weird thing. The sins of greed, ostentatiousness, you know. What the Hood always says. Doesn’t say anything about killing anyone.” He peered at Genevieve gravely.

  Her mind instantly jumped to Reginald Cotswold. She thought of what her colleagues at the paper didn’t know, and what the police had chosen to ignore as the rantings of a grief-stricken elderly lady. That something had been taken from his house. That Reginald had not died in bed but was found in the room where that something had been kept.

  “What was stolen?”

  He shook his head. “We don’t know yet. The family reported the death, and I guess they’re being questioned by the police at home right now. They didn’t mention anything having been stolen, so far as we know. But we have the letter; the Hood says he was there.”

  “Do the police know yet?”

  “They must by now. Arthur telegraphed as soon as the letter arrived.”

  As if on cue, the elevator doors opened noisily and silence hushed the office, the newspaper employees watching in unison as Commissioner Simons strode through the doors and marched between the desks toward Arthur’s office, his face clenched in apparent rage. He slammed the door behind him so hard the glass panes seemed to tremble, and the wooden blinds within shut with a furious snap, blocking the workers’ curious eyes. The muffled sounds of raised voices soon permeated the walls, and the noise in the office began to creep back toward its regular level.

  “Blimey,” Luther said, gazing at the closed door in awe. “He looked about to pop, he was so mad.”

  Genevieve exhaled, still trying to reconcile herself to this new reality. The one in which whoever was Robin Hood might be capable of murder.

  And not just of Elmira Bradley, but perhaps of Reginald Cotswold also.

  Perhaps, even, of an unfortunate man whose head had been smashed in an alley. She leaned forward and tugged her friend’s sleeve.

  “Luther, were you able to find out anything about that dead man? The one in Bottle Alley?”

  He tore his attention from the arguing voices, which even through closed doors had noticeably risen in volume. “Yeah. His name was Gerald Knox, went by Gerry. He was pretty well known to the police, had a history of public drunkenness and petty theft. They’re not changing their tune, mind,” he warned, in response to her raised brows. “Cause of death is still the bottle.”

  Huh. Genevieve began to tap her pencil again, considering. Luther leaned forward, lowering his voice again.

  “I did hear he somehow found out about that group the mayor put together. The one about housing conditions.”

  “The one that was never made public? How do you know about that?”

  Luther rolled his eyes at her teasing. “Worst-kept secret in town. Anyway, on the day he died, your man Gerry showed up at City Hall, drunk as a lord, banging his fist on the reception desk and demanding to speak to the mayor about how cold his building was.”

  “What?”

  “Yeah. The police had to physically eject him from the premises.” Luther shrugged again. “Like I said, he had a history.” He drew back his head and eyed her in a considering way. “What’s all this about, Genevieve?”

  Follow the money. The words echoed in her head, but outwardly she shook it.

  “I don’t know. Probably nothing. If it adds up to anything, you’ll be the first to hear.”

  “Just be careful, toots.” Luther hopped off her desk and fixed her with a concerned look. “Let me know if you need help with this nothing.”

  She smiled at him in return, a smile that sputtered out and faltered as he wove his way toward his own desk, no doubt to retrieve the things he needed before heading back to the police station in hopes of gleaning more information about Mrs. Bradley’s death.

  Genevieve heaved a worried sigh, then set her mouth with determination. As galling as the thought was, it was time to heed Daniel’s advice.

  * * *

  Hours later, Genevieve looked up from her work at the small desk she had tucked herself into in a back corner of the records room that held files relating to New York’s most prominent members. She was dusty, tired, and disheartened.

  Spread before her were files on several members of the elusive committee. As most of the men were old Knickerbockers, the paper had articles and journalists’ notes on their respective subjects dating back decades. She frowned at the files, trying to puzzle out how Daniel’s directive connected to the information contained in these dusty brown folders. Of course there were connections among the men, intricate spider webs of business and social ties that also stretched back decades; upper-class New York society was self-contained, the same families interacting and intermarrying for generations, hers included.

  The only outlier in the group was Ernest Clark, the purported paramour of Sarah Huffington. Genevieve discontentedly flipped open his file, which was on top of the stack, and nudged the scant notes in there around again. A Wall Street wunderkind, Clark had become a begrudged favorite among many society hostesses: he was new money, to be sure, but he had plenty of it. He was also lively and charming, and possessed a slick sort of handsomeness that many of the season’s new “buds,” or debutantes, seemed to find attractive.

  Flicking the folder shut, Genevieve leaned back in her chair and stretched. She idly wondered if Ernest would continue to be welcome at events, now that rumors of his affair with Sarah Huffington were public. And how those rumors would affect his dealings with Sarah’s husband, Andrew. She sighed and plopped her chin in her hand. The machinations of society held as little interest for her now as they always had.

  Ted Beekman. The file’s label, written in an unknown secretary’s neat, tidy script, slyly peeked out from underneath that of Ernest Clark. The handwritten name indicated it had been created some years ago, before the now-ubiquitous typewriters had begun occupying desktops with their collective squat presence.

  She’d already looked within the file’s dreary covers, had examined its contents, and had attempted to remain businesslike and dispassionate. But seeing the copious notes of Jackson Waglie, the late society reporter whose vicious, razor-sharp comments had made even the venerable Mrs. Astor quake in her slippers, on the details of her own defunct wedding had shaken her resolve. Waglie had been a stickler for decorum and tradition, and needless to say, the eccentricities of the Stewart clan had horrified him not a little. It was commonplace for society columns to build anticipation around an upcoming prominent wedding with articles detailing the plans and gifts. Upon Genevieve’s insistence, her mother had dutifully supplied the particulars to Waglie and the Globe, though she’d claimed to have no idea why anyone would want to read about what the Winstons had gifted them.

  Genevieve opened the folder and flipped backward in time to reread a few of the notes. The details she had frette
d over, things that had seemed so important, such as the flowers, the color of the bridesmaids’ gowns, the careful cataloging of presents, were all recorded in Ted’s file. There was a copy of a telegraph from her mother—she presumed the original was in her own file, buried in its appropriate drawer—informing Waglie that the bride and her attendants would be carrying daisies. Memories arose of her feeling very strongly about these details, but they were distant, shrouded in haze. It seemed ridiculous to her now that she’d agonized, literally lost sleep, over the question of daisies (her choice; their sunny presence had always gladdened her) versus roses (the conventional choice, far more elegant, and what her almost-mother-in-law clearly expected—“But why not roses, dear? And daisies? They’re little more than weeds”). She had stuck to her guns on the question of flowers and won the battle, but Jackson Waglie’s preemptory notes on her then-impending nuptials made it clear she most certainly would have lost the war:

  While perhaps the bride thought daisies would be a charming choice, reminiscent of carefree summer days, in practice their wilted, pedestrian numbers only served to reinforce our opinion that good taste can be neither bought nor inherited, but is always and only innate.

  Genevieve pushed her chair back, the scraping noise of the legs matching her harsh mood, and angrily stuffed Ted’s file back into the drawer labeled “Be-Bo.” The other files met similar fates. This was useless, and she directed her anger at Ted, his mother, and the now-deceased Waglie to Daniel, with his ridiculous directives. The money was so entangled it was impossible to follow. Reginald Cotswold and Peter Stuyvesant Senior had established not one but two charitable foundations together. Andrew Huffington’s son from his first marriage was employed by Stuyvesant and was married to the deputy mayor’s niece. Commissioner Simons had a side business venture with Huffington, Ted was a partner, and Stuyvesant Junior was on the advisory board. Indeed, the only name not entangled endlessly with all the other men’s was Clark’s, who seemed to be in league only with Huffington.

  Genevieve paused, staring at the financier’s name on the tab of his file before slipping it back into place with a thoughtful expression. She made a mental note to dig a little deeper into Ernest Clark’s background, then turned her attention to the last file left on her table.

  Daniel McCaffrey, the script read, in the same tidy hand as the others.

  She’d combed through this file already in recent weeks but hoped to stumble across some tidbit that would make sense, particularly given what she now knew regarding his relationship with Reginald Cotswold. So far, Daniel was still her closest lead to Robin Hood. And now, with one confirmed murder and potentially another, the stakes of catching the thief were higher than ever.

  Genevieve sighed, wiped her dirty hands on her skirt, and began to gather her things. She needed a break, and something to eat. Later that afternoon or tomorrow, she decided, she would peruse the contents of Daniel’s file with more care.

  The creak of the records room door stopped her in her tracks. Unable to see who might have entered due to the height of the file cabinets in front of her, Genevieve called out, “Hello? Who is there?”

  No one replied, but the sound of footsteps grew closer.

  “Alice? Verna? Is that you?” she asked. Images of the shadowy figures behind her on Fifth Avenue and Washington Square crowded her brain.

  Stop it, she scolded herself, as she had every time the creepy mirages had arisen in the past few days. Her skin began to crawl at the memories. You don’t know that anyone was following you. Men walk on avenues all the time. And in parks.

  But while her head knew this logically, her gut told her something different.

  And now someone was in here, with her, and not answering her calls.

  Heart pounding, Genevieve looked frantically around her tiny corner of the records room. There were tall file cabinets on three sides of her, with only one narrow passage between them toward the door. The few windows in the room were partially blocked by the cabinets as well, not that they would have done her any good, since she was on the tenth floor.

  Pulling herself up to her full height, Genevieve grabbed her notebooks and Daniel’s file and held them in front of her protectively as a dark shape rounded the last file cabinet into her corner.

  Clive.

  Sagging a bit from relief, Genevieve felt her panic quickly turn to annoyance. It was just like Clive to follow her about to make sure she hadn’t been given a better story than him—as if that ever happened.

  “Why are you sneaking about, Clive?” she asked. “Why didn’t you answer me?”

  Ignoring her query, Clive glanced around the small space. “What are you researching?” he intoned nasally.

  “None of your business,” she said, exasperated, as she tried to walk around him.

  He moved to block her path.

  “Let me by. It’s well past lunchtime, and I’m simply starved.”

  Clive didn’t budge but continued to peer around the room. “You didn’t answer my question.”

  Furrowing her brow in irritation, Genevieve thought quickly, then let out a fake sigh. “Arthur wants me to write a twenty-year history on the progression of ladies’ footwear in Manhattan. How high did heels rise and fall? When did bows fall out of fashion? Buckles or no buckles? Must the slipper and dress color match? What about boots?”

  “Okay, okay,” interrupted Clive, his gaze finally settling on Genevieve. “Fine. Ladies’ footwear, if you say so.” He paused, idly swirling his diamond stickpin around in his lapel. Genevieve let out a small sneeze, overwhelmed by the scent of his cologne, and hoped he had bought her story. She really was hungry, and very much wanted to clear her head from the tangled accounts she’d been attempting to trace all morning. She moved to walk around him again, but Clive surprised her by asking, “Are you sure you aren’t looking into the background of Daniel McCaffrey?”

  Genevieve snapped her gaze toward Clive. “Mr. McCaffrey?” she repeated slowly. “Why on earth would I be researching him?”

  Clive turned his attention to his stickpin, continuing to turn it again and again, and took another step toward her, making the small space seem much smaller. “Well, rumor has it you two have gotten quite close lately. You’ve been seen out with him quite a bit, you danced with him at the Huffingtons’ ball—and it’s well known Mr. McCaffrey never dances—and you had dinner together at Delmonico’s.”

  Genevieve stared in amazement. How did Clive, who was not part of society, know all of these things?

  He caught her stare and gave a short, bitter laugh. “Oh, just because I’m not invited to New York’s exclusive drawing rooms doesn’t mean I don’t know what goes on in them, Miss Stewart.” He fixed her with an oily gaze. “I make it my business to keep track of such things.”

  Clive took another step closer, making Genevieve wish she had space to back away farther, but the backs of her thighs were already pressing against the edge of the small desk she’d been using. Just thinking that Clive somehow knew of her whereabouts and movements made her feel slightly nauseous. He leaned in closer, causing her to shrink back, the smell of his cologne sickening.

  “I know you, Miss Stewart.” Clive narrowed his eyes at her, and Genevieve was startled by the utter hatred she saw glittering within them. “You may not think it, but I do. I know you’re ambitious, and I also know, despite your being female, that you’re actually a very, very good journalist. I know you’re desperate to prove to Horace that you’ve got the chops to work on more serious stories. I also know how this town works. I know that because you’re from old New York money”—he practically spit the words out—“old Horay would actually give you those serious stories you so long for, if he thought you could do it.”

  Clive abruptly straightened up again, and Genevieve exhaled in relief. “And I know you’ve been somehow nuzzling up to Daniel McCaffrey,” Clive continued. “Who, it turns out, is from Five Points. Which tells me that either, one”—and here Clive held up a finger as if he were
a teacher lecturing his class—“the two of you are actually romantically involved …” He snorted, letting his gaze audaciously roam up and down Genevieve’s long, lean frame. “Which I highly doubt, you being an old-maid bluestocking, after all.” Genevieve let out a shocked little gasp, wanting to remind Clive that quite recently he’d been desperate to have dinner with her old-maid, bluestocking self, but Clive went on before she could interrupt. “Or two”—here he held up a second finger—“that you’re pursuing a story of some kind.”

  Clive pointed at Genevieve. “You think Mr. McCaffrey is Robin Hood, don’t you?” Genevieve involuntarily gasped again. She should have known she wouldn’t be the only person to make the connection between the mysterious Mr. McCaffrey and the mysterious Robin Hood. “And the bugger of it is, you’re probably right. It makes perfect sense.”

  Genevieve’s heart pounded. She still wasn’t sure if Daniel was the thief or not, but she’d be damned if Clive was going to figure it out before her.

  And on the slight chance that Daniel was Robin Hood … Clive could be dangerous to him. She wasn’t sure why that thought was so unsettling.

  The odious man hissed, “This is the biggest story of the decade, and I am not about to let a stuck-up, rich little girl who thinks she’s too good for anyone else snatch it out from under my nose. Leave off whatever you’re investigating, Genevieve. This story is mine.”

  Enough was enough. Genevieve pushed against Clive’s chest with all her strength, surprising him into toppling backward against a file cabinet. She was shaking with anger.

  “No, you leave off, Clive. For your information, I am not investigating Mr. McCaffrey, but I can and will research whatever and whomever I damn well please.” Unable to stomach one more second in the cramped space with him, Genevieve marched past Clive and out of the records room.