A Golden Cage

by Shelley Freydont

  Laurette blushed.

  “I’m proud of you. I think we should report this to the police.”

  “I doubt if they can do anything.”

  “Probably not. But if she did take them and tries to sell them in Newport, she’ll be caught. Everyone knows those earrings.”

  “How could I ever face poor Rosalie again if the police arrest her daughter for stealing my earrings?”

  Gran Gwen smiled sympathetically. “I dare say, it will pale if they arrest her for murdering poor Charlie.”

  Laurette stood and wrung her hands. It seemed to Deanna they were all coming under the spell of the thespian troupe.

  “No, first let me apprise her mother of what is happening. Surely she’ll want to return with me. I’ll tell Carlisle to have a room prepared for her.” She’d begun to pace, oblivious of their presence. “Surely she will come.”

  She walked to the fireplace and back again. “Mama, I’ll take this evening’s ferry. Please don’t inform the police yet. What if it were Joe instead of Amabelle? Would I want the police called in?” She sat down again. “But what will Lionel think if I don’t?”

  “Well, my dear, go have your maid be ready to leave for the ferry. This matter can wait until you’ve talked with Lionel and Rosalie; then send us a telegram with instructions.”

  “Thank you, Mama. I will do just that. Excuse me.” She hurried from the room.

  “I suppose you’re shocked that we decided not to call in the police,” Gran Gwen said to Deanna. “It makes us look just as hypocritical as our fellow cottagers and their insistence on privacy.”

  “A bit,” Deanna agreed. “Laurette knows Will is always discreet.”

  “It isn’t our reputation she’s worried about. Rosalie is the one who introduced Laurette to the women’s emancipation movement, back in their school days. Her parents were great reformers—and abolitionists. Unfortunately they were killed during the draft riots, trying to save children when the rioters torched the orphan asylum.”

  “That’s terrible.”

  “Yes. That was only one horrible incident among many in that horrendous war. And it wasn’t even on the battlefield.” Gran Gwen’s expression took on a faraway look, sorrow in her eyes.

  Deanna had heard the horrible stories of the war that turned family against family, son against father, brother against brother, but it didn’t seem real to her; she couldn’t begin to imagine the loss.

  “I’d sent Laurette to school in Switzerland several years before.” Gwen laughed softly and perhaps a little ruefully. “I hoped to keep her from the fray. Clara and Tom Deeks had done the same with Rosalie. She and Laurette became fast friends. They had much in common.”

  “She doesn’t sound like someone who would cut off her daughter for becoming an actress,” Deanna said.

  “Things change, people change,” Gran Gwen said cryptically. “You never know what people will come to believe in or care for. Now, let’s have lunch and go about trying to locate the Mrs. Deeks Elspeth told you about.”

  Chapter

  11

  “Dammit,” Joe exclaimed, shaking his hand where the wrench had hit his knuckles before falling to the floor. “Why isn’t this working?”

  Orrin flipped the lever, and the machine whirred to a stop, then he came over to look at the folding mechanism. “Why don’t you just have a man stand here and fold the bags as they come down the assembly line?”

  Joe scowled at him. “Because, what if he gets behind? What if he knocks the bag over? The bags will keep piling up until they create a backlog, and the whole batch will be unusable. With the folding device, any slowdown or stoppage will be immediately translated to the production line, which will cease moving the filled bags until the problem is rectified.” Joe picked the wrench off the floor, noticed the blood oozing from his knuckles.

  He needed to clean it up; it wouldn’t help for him to get an infection from the dirt or for the oil to be contaminated with blood.

  “Damn and damn and damn,” he said. “I’ll be back.”

  “Yes, sir,” Orrin said, and bent his head to peer into the machine.

  “And watch your head while I’m gone.”

  Orrin nodded. His red hair was parted and combed neatly to each side, his work clothes clean and pressed, which was more than Joe could say for his own. “Uh, Mr. Joe?”

  “Yes, Orrin?”

  “There’s a lady standing in the doorway.”

  “What?” Joe turned, already feeling exasperation well up inside him. But it wasn’t Dee. It was the actress he’d walked home from the pub, Noreen. He pulled a dirty handkerchief from his pocket, wrapped it around his bleeding fingers, and went to meet her.

  “I hope you don’t mind me bothering you this way.”

  “Not at all,” Joe said. “Though you’ll have to forgive me for one moment. A slight accident.” He held up his hand, realized the handkerchief was spotted with blood, and dropped it again.

  “If you’ll have a seat . . .” He pulled out the one straight chair with his good hand. “I won’t be but a moment.” He crossed quickly to the sink, scrubbed both hands, ignoring the burning and pain. He would like to have washed his face, but it seemed a bit late to pretend that he was anything but a working man in the middle of a workday.

  He reached for the peroxide bottle and poured it over the scrapes, gritting his teeth against the sting. Then, one-handed, he rummaged in the miscellany crate until he found a box of gauze and a pair of scissors.

  “Bring it over here,” Noreen said. “I think that will be easier with an extra pair of hands.”

  Joe hesitated. He did need another set of hands, and ordinarily he would have enlisted Orrin to tie the bandage. He crossed to the table, pulled out a stool, and sat down.

  Noreen cut a piece of gauze and took his hand in hers. Her hand was smooth, warm, and competent. She dabbed at the scrapes, then rolled the remaining gauze around his hand with a light, gentle touch, and Joe found his mind wandering from her nursing skills to her face, the intense eyes, the broad mouth, the full lips.

  His breath caught.

  “Sorry, did I hurt you?”

  “No, not at all.”

  She smiled. Split the gauze into two ends and tied them together. “There, almost as good as new.”

  “Thank you. But I don’t think you came here to play Florence Nightingale. How may I help you?”

  Her mouth tightened. “I’m not sure how to put this. I suppose I will have to trust in your discretion and . . . your rational mind.”

  Joe blinked. “I always try to be rational.”

  She smiled slightly. “Can I trust you, Joe?”

  “Yes.” He said it without thinking, wrapped in the power of her personality. Even as he answered her, a quiet voice reminded him of her warning from only two nights before. Never trust an actor. You never know when they’re telling the truth.

  She folded her hands, took a slow breath, and focused her eyes on the table before her. Joe wondered if this was an exercise she went through every night before going onstage.

  “The others don’t know I’ve come.”

  Joe nodded. She wanted his discretion, but he couldn’t promise until he heard what she had to say.

  “We met yesterday to discuss what to do. Most of us live from week to week. We can’t afford to not work. Some suggested we offer a few performances rather than sitting and doing nothing to help ourselves.”

  “And you want my help?”

  “I want you to listen.”

  Joe nodded.

  “But others, the majority perhaps, are for packing up and leaving for the city.”

  “They’ve been requested to stay put.”

  “They’re frightened, Joe. They—we all—have obligations. If we’re not back by tomorrow, the theater will have to return tickets that were bough
t in advance. Not only will the actors be out of work, but so will all the people that the theater employs. No one is left unscathed.

  “Is your police friend Sergeant Hennessey any closer to finding the killer?”

  “I’m not privy to that information.”

  “Aren’t you? Or is that your way of saying, ‘No, he isn’t,’ or ‘No, I won’t tell you.’”

  “It’s my way of telling you I don’t know.”

  She stood up, walked a little ways from him, then turned back, her hands clasped, beseeching. “We can’t go on like this much longer before someone does something stupid. Or takes matters into his own hands.”

  “What do you mean? Do you know something that will help Will with his investigation?”

  “No, no, I don’t, but I do know that Edwin is under tremendous pressure. If this isn’t solved soon, if they don’t release us, he’ll lose everything.”

  “What do you mean? He was paid to bring the company here.”

  “Yes, but he has contracts with the theater in New York and for a tour after that. We can’t be stuck here many more days without the company folding. I’m afraid if his back is against the wall, he will choose one of us to take the fall in order to save the others.”

  “That’s rather coldhearted. The sacrifice of the individual for the common good?”

  “If you will.”

  “And would you all allow that?”

  She swallowed convulsively. “Yes.”

  “A scapegoat.”

  “Yes, and then pray that there isn’t enough evidence, real or—”

  “Trumped up?”

  “Yes, but not necessarily by Edwin. My guess is the Newport police will welcome a . . . scapegoat . . . and will do what they need to do to convict him.”

  “Or her?”

  Noreen shrugged, smiled slightly. “Perhaps.”

  “Well, you’re mistaken there. Will Hennessey and I go back a long way. He’s the most honest man I know.”

  “And does he control the police department here? A sergeant?”

  “No. But he’ll fight for the truth, even if the truth is unpopular.”

  She laughed. “Sorry. I’m not laughing at your friend, it’s just for a second you sounded like someone from a melodrama.” She sighed. “If it were only so.”

  “The Judge loves the theater; it was his party that brought you here in the first place. Perhaps he could speak to Will, guarantee your cooperation if you’re allowed to return to the city.” Even as he said it, Joe knew that it was unlikely. The Judge had a reputation to protect, and even though he might enjoy a play, Joe doubted if he’d be willing to go out on a limb for a troupe of players his daughter hired for his entertainment.

  She came back to the table, sat, and leaned toward him. “Why here? If it was one of us, why kill him while we’re in Newport? It would be so much easier in the city. People are killed there all the time; many of the murders are never solved. There are so many places to hide a body: an alley, the river. Why here, Joe?”

  “And why in our conservatory?” Joe asked.

  “Can I assume it has nothing to do with your family?”

  “Most definitely.”

  “Good.”

  “Could it be because of something that happened after you arrived? Or that had been building and finally pushed the killer over the edge once you all were here?”

  “A crime of passion?”

  “Or of sheer aggravation.”

  “What?”

  “Nothing, just thinking out loud. Amabelle came to Bonheur, that’s my family’s home, in the middle of the night. She was seen talking to Charlie on the pier where the yacht party was being held. It’s possible that he followed her. I probably shouldn’t tell you this, but at this point, nothing can be fully understood until Amabelle is found. Do you know where she is, Noreen?”

  Noreen shook her head. “No one does. I was hoping that you might.”

  “Me? Not likely. And I’d like to keep my family as removed from this as possible.”

  “One of the actresses and I went to church yesterday. We are religious people, some of us.”

  Joe nodded. He could see her vacillating about telling her story, and he didn’t want to say anything that would make her change her mind.

  “We happened to go to Trinity Church—so lovely. We saw your friend there.”

  Joe looked a question at her.

  “The girl who I locked in the closet.”

  “Ah, Deanna.”

  She smiled slightly. “Deanna. She was with an older woman.”

  “My grandmother. Dee is spending the summer with her.”

  “They were speaking with Judge Grantham.”

  “They are acquaintances, and we all were guests at his birthday fete, where we attended your performance.”

  “Yes, that does make sense. You grandmother doesn’t like the Judge very much.”

  “How do you know that?”

  Noreen gave a throaty laugh. “Oh, she smiled and did everything that was proper, but little things gave her away. The way she moved, her gestures. Nothing that the ordinary person would notice, but an actor . . . an actor studies human behavior in order to make their parts more realistic.”

  “I’ll be sure to tell her to be more subtle in the future.”

  Noreen leaned forward and gripped the scissors. “If you care for either of them, tell them to stay away and stop looking for Belle.” She seemed to realize she was holding the scissors and dropped them onto the table.

  “Why? What does the Judge have to do with all this?”

  “Perhaps nothing, but he sits in the pocket of the Society for the Suppression of Vice. And vice is anything that Anthony Comstock says it is. He is the perversity and yet he holds the law. He attacks wherever he can, not just for mailing what he calls ‘obscenities’ and others call ‘information.’ But for the way people live, the way they work, the way they love.

  “The Judge may love theater, but if Belle has run afoul of the law, he won’t think twice about sending her to prison.”

  “Are you hiding her?” Joe asked. “Because that is illegal. You need to think of your family, too.”

  “I am. I have two families, my child and mother and the troupe. And I’d turn Belle over to the authorities in order to save both of them.”

  Noreen stood, and Joe automatically stood with her, but he wasn’t ready to let her go. Yet when he started to follow her to the door, she stopped him with a gesture. “You’re a good man. I can tell that. Someday, perhaps, in better times, you will show me the inventions that are your passion.”

  And she was gone. An exit that was over before he realized it had begun. He didn’t try to go after her. Why spoil the effect.

  * * *

  Learning the address of Mrs. Brunoria Deeks was the easiest part of the excursion. Elspeth merely went to the Fifth Ward and asked where Midgie’s sister worked.

  “Jones Street off Bellevue, indeed,” Gran Gwen said as the carriage turned off the avenue, and mansions gave way to older, smaller houses. “We’re practically back at the docks.”

  The carriage slowed, then came to a stop. The coachman jumped down, but he didn’t open the carriage door. “Are you sure you want to go in there, Madame?”

  Deanna was sure she didn’t want to. The entrance to the property was so overgrown with evergreen bushes and tangling vines that she could see only dark patches of house through the leafy tree branches.

  “Not entirely. Please wait for us. Walk the horses if necessary, but try not to roam too far.”

  “No, ma’am. The horses will be fine. I’ll wait here.” He held out a hand to help Gran Gwen down, then Deanna.

  Gran Gwen pursed her lips. “Hopefully, this is merely an extravagant attempt at privacy.”

  Deanna swallowed and accompanie
d her into a dark tunnel and up the walk. Once inside the evergreen battlements, the sun returned, revealing the house and a lawn choked with weeds and browning grass.

  The house was a dark, three-storied box except for an octagonal turret at one corner and a wraparound porch filled with dirty, weathered wicker furniture. Tall windows that might have let in sunlight were shuttered over. Two chimneys rose past the steep pitched roof of the attic. Gran Gwen led the way, took a tenuous step on the first tread, tested it, then climbed the steps to the front door.

  “Do you think someone actually lives here?” Deanna asked quietly as she followed close behind her.

  “If Elspeth’s sources are to be believed.” Gwen looked for a bell and rang it. Deanna heard it echo down what must have been a long hallway, but no one came to let them in. Gwen rang again. Again the echo sounded hollowly down the hall.

  Just as they had decided to give up and were turning to leave, the door opened a few inches.

  A young maid in a mobcap stared out at them.

  “Good afternoon,” Gwen said. “I’m Gwendolyn Manon and this is Miss Randolph. We’ve come to call on Mrs. Deeks.”

  The maid was younger than most of the maids Deanna was familiar with. Of course, she knew sculleries started much younger in service than lady’s maids. And of course a maid of all work required very little finesse. Just the ability to endure drudgery. Deanna felt a pang of pity for the poor girl.

  The maid chewed on her lip. Glanced quickly over her shoulder, then back to Gwen. “I don’t know. She don’t have visitors, regular like.”

  “And we’re going to remedy that today,” Gwen said with uncharacteristic joviality.

  “Well, I guess it’s okay.” The maid bobbed an awkward curtsey.

  Gwen scurried Deanna and herself inside before the girl could change her mind.

  “Who’s there, girl?” a voice screeched from the dark interior of the house.

  The maid cast a frightened look at Gwen and Deanna.

  “We’ll see ourselves in,” Gwen said. “Nothing to worry about. You may go about your duties. In there?” Gwen pointed to an archway that led to a dim, shadowy room.

  The maid nodded, bobbed another of her awkward curtsies, and Gwen led the way inside.