Words Spoken True: A Novel

by Ann H. Gabhart

  “Just bring me my meal, Kathleen. Just the food,” he told her with a laugh. “You know a newspaperman doesn’t have any money left for fun after he has to pay for leads to his stories.”

  Little did he think that two days later he would be paying for news of her death. The ragged Irish boy had come banging on the door to his offices after midnight the night before. They’d already run the first issues, but when Blake heard what the boy had to say, he’d shouted to Joe to stop the press. They’d pulled half the front page out of the galley, and Joe had waited while Blake set the new type, composing the story on the spot.

  Then, to be sure the story was genuine, Blake had gone down to the riverfront where he’d made himself look at what was left of Kathleen O’Dell. As he’d stared at her mutilated face, a cold resolve hardened inside him to do everything in his power to bring the woman’s murderer to justice.

  Kathleen and the other two murdered girls might not have been ladies, but they didn’t deserve to die like this. He’d use the Herald to push that at the mayor and the chief of police in every way possible until there were some results. And in the meantime, he’d search for his own clues. People sometimes told a newspaperman things they’d never tell anyone else if that man asked the right questions.

  That morning, he’d hunted up all his regular contacts to get some leads on what those right questions might be, but even the people who usually made up some kind of tale rather than have nothing to say seemed to be at a loss when it came to the murders. It was becoming too apparent that no one had the first idea as to who the murderer was except the poor girls who could not tell and the murderer himself, who wasn’t likely to admit to the heinous crimes.

  So there was no one to accuse or even suspect. Worst of all, the killings seemed to be on some sort of schedule, about a month apart. Blake was determined to at least bring enough attention to the murders to make the monster, whoever he was, hesitate to strike again. Blake already had the death of one young woman on his conscience. He didn’t relish having another.

  Blake frowned as the noise of the street faded away. He didn’t like to think about Eloise Vandemere. Pretty, silly Eloise. Blake might even have been foolish enough to marry her if her father hadn’t deemed him such an unsuitable suitor.

  Her death shared no similarities to the deaths of these poor Irish girls. Eloise had been a lady. That fact more than any other had been the reason Blake had no way to see that those who caused her death were brought to justice. He couldn’t even be sure he shouldn’t share in the blame.

  Blake pushed thoughts of Eloise away. He could do nothing for her now. He’d had his chance before her death and failed her. He had to live with that and someday meet his Maker with that dark spot on his soul, but dwelling on it wouldn’t bring Eloise back to life. He had moved on. Left New York behind and begun over.

  Louisville was a new town, with new people and new problems. And he was a new person, nothing like the young pup who had imagined himself in love with Eloise. He’d landed on his feet with John Chesnut and his Herald. Some might call it luck. Pure, blind luck that had Blake knocking on Chesnut’s door the very day the doctor had warned the old man to quit chasing the headlines if he wanted to keep breathing.

  That was all right with Blake. If he could draw only one card as a newspaperman, then luck might be the best card to draw. It had served him well that day. Made Chesnut give him a second look. Ended up with him being an editor, the one who could decide what would be printed and what would not. A level of newspapering it might have taken him years to rise to in New York.

  At last he saw Mrs. Wigginham’s stately brick house down the street. Carriages surrounded it, but a quick check of his watch told him he wasn’t overly late. He shoved the watch back in his pocket and straightened his lapels before he ran his fingers through his dark hair again. His last-second grooming did little good as his hair fell back into the same lines with a few curls lapping down on his forehead. He brushed at a bit of dirt on his trousers, checked his shoes for mud or worse, and bounded up the steps where a black servant opened the heavy wooden door before he had a chance to lift the brass knocker.

  Mrs. Wigginham’s large double parlor was full of ladies in frothy yellow, pink, and blue dresses with here and there the dark suit of a gentleman among them.

  Mrs. Wigginham advanced on him the moment he stepped through the door. “Ah, Mr. Garrett, I’m so pleased you managed to work my little benefit into your busy schedule.”

  “Never too busy for you, madam,” he said as took the old lady’s hands. When she held up her cheek for Blake’s kiss, he caught a whiff of perfume that reminded him of roses beginning to wilt.

  With the obligatory kiss out of the way, she stood back and looked at him knowingly. “But you bring the odor of the riverfront with you.”

  Blake looked down at his clothes in embarrassment. “I do apologize if I’m offensive.”

  “No, my dear boy. You could never be that. I rather like the breath of fresh air you bring into my parlor, and I must confess that I guessed about the riverfront. I read of the latest tragedy in your newspaper this morning.” She took his arm and led him across the long parlor. “Come, sit with me and tell me all about it.”

  He followed her meekly enough, glancing around a bit warily to see which young lady was bearing down on them.

  Mrs. Wigginham noticed him surveying the room and laughed softly as she perched on one of the settees and patted the spot beside her. “Do sit with me a moment.” Once he was seated, she went on, an amused smile lingering in her eyes. “I regret you’ll have to pick your own young lady today. I did plan for sweet Mary Sutcliffe to entertain you with her charms, but alas, her mother sent word Mary was not quite herself this afternoon.”

  “That is regretful.” Blake remembered sweet Mary Sutcliffe from other occasions and felt no regret at all. She was a vapid little girl of a woman with a nervous giggle and a clinging hand he was never able to escape once she’d placed it on his arm.

  “Perhaps you could call and leave your card so she will know you missed her.”

  “Perhaps,” Blake said with a noncommittal smile. “But now you have my undivided attention, so please tell me about this latest cause of yours.”

  “Oh my dear boy, please. You make me sound like one of those Northern reformers who take up their causes.” She held up her hands as though to ward off his words before picking up her folded fan to tap a slim volume of poetry on the table beside them. “I’m only attempting to interest the local citizenry in expanding the library’s book collection.”

  “Of course. A very worthy endeavor and one that seems to have considerable support, especially among the ladies.” Blake glanced out at the people around them and then back at the woman beside him.

  “I’ve found our local ladies sincerely eager to help broaden the interests of the community in proper ways. I do hope your newspaper will see fit to join in support.”

  “You need not worry on that account, Mrs. Wigginham. The Herald stands ready to support any worthwhile community activity.”

  “I never doubted that.” Mrs. Wigginham smiled and laid her hand on his arm. “Now don’t think you have to dance attendance on me. You can go capture one of the young beauties.”

  “I fear none of them are as entertaining as you, dear lady.”

  “You have a silver tongue, Mr. Garrett, and you should be ashamed, using it on an old lady like me.” She laughed with pleasure. “But please don’t stop.”

  Blake managed to hold his smile in place. Underneath all those layers of social fluff was a shrewd old lady who knew more about the people of Louisville than anyone else was ever likely to know, and most of the time he enjoyed talking to her. But there were times when he wearied of the social games.

  A stir at the door caught his attention. An odd hush fell over the double parlors for just a second as a new couple entered before a buzz of whispers circled the room.

  “Our couple of note today,” Mrs. Wigginham sa
id. “It’s supposed to be a secret, but everyone here has already heard they plan to announce their engagement this evening. They do make a lovely pair, don’t you think?”

  Blake didn’t answer. His eyes were still on the girl in her rather plain reddish dress. There was something different about her as she surveyed the room quickly, her eyes resting for a moment on Mrs. Wigginham but passing almost without notice across him. When she turned to allow her escort to help her off with her cloak, her dark hair spilled carelessly down her back as if she hadn’t had time to properly arrange it. The man spoke into her ear, and the girl pulled up a smile that looked somewhat forced as they turned to face the people.

  “She’s beautiful,” Blake said.

  He didn’t realize he’d spoken aloud until Mrs. Wigginham looked at him with raised eyebrows. “So she is. But I fear young Stanley Jimson has gotten rather more than he bargained for when he bargained for our dear Adriane’s hand in marriage. And his mother has quite taken to her bed.” Mrs. Wigginham’s smile became a chuckle. “The whole situation is just too delightful.”

  “Stanley Jimson?” Blake watched the man tucking the girl’s hand under his arm. He’d met Stanley, a pale shadow of his father, Coleman Jimson, who was being advanced as the Know Nothing candidate for state senate. Coleman Jimson had come to the Herald early on courting Blake’s support. Blake hadn’t trusted the man then and nothing he’d seen or heard since had caused him to change his mind. But he was treading softly. Coleman Jimson was a powerful man with an army of friends, and Blake wanted to have his facts rock solid before he took him on in the paper. He had time. The election for state senator was not until August.

  “You surely know Stanley.” Mrs. Wigginham was taking obvious delight in sharing every detail with Blake. “He’s at all the socials, quite the life of the party if the ladies can talk him into playing the piano for them.”

  “I’ve met him, but not the young lady with him.”

  “You’re impressed.” Mrs. Wigginham’s smile lit up her eyes as she touched her lips with her handkerchief. “The first woman in Louisville to impress you turns out to be none other than Adriane Darcy. This is getting more delightful by the moment.”

  “Darcy?”

  “Oh yes, my dear boy. Wade Darcy’s beautiful, opinionated daughter. The volumes I could tell you about that girl and the unorthodox way Wade has raised her. They say she’s been setting type since she was ten, and was never properly educated. I doubt she even knows how to do needlework or play the piano.”

  “I suppose young Stanley can do that. Play the piano, I mean.”

  “Now, Mr. Garrett, don’t be naughty.” Mrs. Wigginham reached over to give his arm a little shake as though to upbraid him before she went on, her eyes dancing with amusement. “Stanley is a very sweet young man. Always gallant, especially to his mother.”

  “Who is not so happy over the upcoming union, you say.”

  “I surely didn’t say that. You must have misunderstood, my dear boy,” Mrs. Wigginham said with another pleased laugh. Her hand tightened on his arm. “Oh look, they’re coming over to speak to me. I’ll be able to introduce you properly.”

  The little woman’s eyes were sparkling and color bloomed in her cheeks. Blake thought she looked ten years younger than she had when he came in. “You planned this whole thing, didn’t you?”

  “Why, I’m sure I don’t know what you could mean, Mr. Garrett, but of course I wanted Adriane to come. She writes such wonderful notices of my little benefits. You should really read them to get some pointers.”

  “That sounds like excellent advice,” Blake said as he started to stand up. “And now if you’ll excuse me, I’ll get us something to drink.”

  “I’m not the least bit thirsty, Mr. Garrett, and I would think you’d enjoy meeting the competition.” Mrs. Wigginham kept a firm hand on his arm to keep him from making his escape. “It is whispered that our sweet Adriane writes half of what appears in the Tribune. While that is shocking to be sure, it also makes her rather interesting, don’t you think?” Mrs. Wigginham leveled her eyes on him as she went on without waiting for an answer. “Now do be a good boy and allow an old lady her fun.”

  5

  Adriane could hardly believe her eyes when she looked across Mrs. Wigginham’s parlor and saw the man who had grabbed her down at the riverfront that morning. It couldn’t be, but there he was. Staring directly at her. Her heart began pounding madly as she fought the urge to flee back out the front door before the man could recognize her.

  She might have lost the battle and run like Cinderella at the stroke of midnight if she hadn’t caught a glimpse of herself in one of Mrs. Wigginham’s many mirrors. Her breathing slowed as her panic receded. In spite of his sharp eyes, the man would hardly make the connection between the ragged Irish boy he’d grabbed in the dim light of the streetlamps and the picture of a lady she presented now. And what did it matter if he did? No one would believe him even if he were ungentlemanly enough to speak of it.

  She lifted her head a bit defiantly, but did not look in the man’s direction in spite of the way she could practically feel his eyes burning into her. Perhaps it had nothing to do with her early morning visit to the murder scene but was simply because she looked so out of place in her dark cranberry dress among all the pastel skirts of the other young ladies. He looked as out of place himself in the same rumpled suit he’d had on that morning, but it wasn’t just his unpressed coat. It was more that he seemed too large for the room, as though he’d had to corral his energy in order to play attendance on Mrs. Wigginham.

  Adriane had the crazy desire to raise her eyes and meet the man’s brazen stare directly to challenge his memory. Saner thoughts ruled. She kept a polite smile firmly on her lips and pretended not to notice him at all while Stan helped her off with her cloak.

  Yesterday she might have whispered to Stan to ask who the man might be, but today everything was changed. Stan was no longer simply a convenient escort but the man she was to marry. As Stan handed Adriane’s cloak to the servant, whispers frantically circled the room. Adriane kept her smile firmly fixed on her face even as her heart sank. It was more than obvious that their pending engagement was far from a secret.

  Her head high, Adriane pretended not to notice the curious stares as she crossed the long parlor to greet Mrs. Wigginham. Stan kept Adriane’s hand tucked tightly under his arm as though he feared she might try to escape him.

  Oddly enough, Mrs. Wigginham seemed to be holding on to the man by her side as if fearing the same thing about him. In fact, the man did appear anxious to escape as he began to rise from his seat beside the old lady. All around the room, Adriane noticed young ladies poised, ready to rush the man whenever Mrs. Wigginham removed her hand from his arm.

  If she did. Adriane looked directly at Mrs. Wigginham. A happy flush of red spread across her cheekbones and her eyes sparkled as though she’d just discovered a potion to recapture her youth.

  There was no denying the man was handsome, Adriane thought, as she slid her eyes quickly past him again. Black hair curling across his forehead. Eyes almost as dark. Skin that showed he was outside in the weather a lot. A dark moustache that surprisingly sprouted a few red hairs. A mouth that seemed to want to curl into a smile but did not. Broad shoulders stretching the material of that wrinkled coat. He was not the typical guest at one of Mrs. Wigginham’s afternoon functions.

  Yet everyone else in the room, including Stan, seemed to know him. In fact, Stan muttered under his breath as they crossed the room, “What is he doing here?”

  She might have asked Stan for information then, but she felt the eyes of the assemblage too strongly on her. An odd feeling of charged expectation seemed to be radiating in the air. At first Adriane had thought it was the knowledge that her engagement was supposed to be a secret until the announcement that night, but the closer they got to the man and Mrs. Wigginham, the surer she became that the tension had something to do with him. It was almost as if everyone in the
room knew of their moonlight encounter and was practically holding their breath, waiting to see what might happen next.

  Adriane decided she would not give them the pleasure of seeing her show any kind of shock or surprise, no matter what this man said or did. Already his manner was quite brazen as his eyes continued to bore into her. For the briefest second she allowed herself to look directly at him. A spark seemed to sear the air between them, almost as if they shared some kind of familiar bond. But that was foolish. Adriane quickly averted her eyes. She had no idea who he was, and their encounter that morning hardly made any sort of bond between them. Even if he did recognize her.

  “Mrs. Wigginham.” Adriane ignored the man who had risen to his feet as she leaned down to speak to the old lady. “It is so good of you to open your house for such a worthy cause. I’m sure all the patrons of the library will greatly benefit from the added volumes that will be donated as a result of your efforts.”

  “How kind of you to say so, Adriane. And so good of both you and Stanley to come to my little gathering when I know you must have many plans to make.” Mrs. Wigginham smiled over at Stan before returning her eyes to Adriane.

  Adriane kept her smile firmly in place even though her heart sank a bit at the woman’s words. “Plans? I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, Mrs. Wigginham.”

  “Now, Adriane, you needn’t pretend with me. We all know your delightful little ‘secret.’” Mrs. Wigginham looked at Stan again. “I have to admit I was beginning to wonder if you were going to be able to capture her, Stanley.”

  “I never had any doubts.” Stan sounded smug as he glanced at Adriane before looking back to Mrs. Wigginham to trot out his best manners. “And it’s always a supreme delight to come to one of your events, my dear lady. My mother asked me to extend her regrets on not being able to attend today. As you say, there is much to plan.”