The Marriage Masquerade

by Cheryl Anne Porter

  Mr. Pinkerton rubbed thoughtfully at his chin. “Good points, those. Now, how did this Sarah die?”

  “Badly, I’m afraid. Mrs. Palmer—the lady who owns the boardinghouse where this other Sarah worked—said an Englishman came around one day asking for Miss Calhoun, saying he knew her.”

  “An Englishman? Now we’re getting somewhere.”

  “Yes, sir. And Mrs. Palmer, a very friendly lady who pitied her maid as a woman alone in the world, was delighted to meet someone with a connection to her. So she told him Miss Calhoun was working on the third floor. The man thanked her, tipped his hat, went upstairs”—Yancey drew in a deep breath—“and quietly murdered Sarah Calhoun.”

  Mr. Pinkerton sat back heavily in his chair. “Murdered? Dear God.”

  Yancey nodded. “It’s very shocking. No one, not Mrs. Palmer or even the other maids, heard a thing. Nor did they see the man leave. He just disappeared. One of the other maids discovered her body later.”

  “This is most distressing. But how did he do his dirty work so quietly?”

  Yancey felt a bit ill just thinking about it. “He … slit her throat. He must have come up behind her and surprised her.”

  Mr. Pinkerton, looking slightly ill himself, ran a hand over his mouth and stared at Yancey.

  She knew she had to tell him the rest, but her heart ached with the knowledge she was about to impart. “It’s worse than you know, Mr. Pinkerton. The woman was with child. Not greatly so but noticeably.”

  Mr. Pinkerton’s expression fell. He closed his eyes and rubbed at his forehead. “What kind of monster would kill an expectant mother?” he asked, sounding world-weary.

  “By all accounts, the same one who attacked me in Clara’s room. The description I got of Sarah’s murderer matches him … as did the accent.”

  Mr. Pinkerton’s expression hardened. “Then I’m glad you killed him. And I don’t say that lightly. But tell me, what did Mrs. Palmer know about her maid? What did she tell you? I’m wondering if this man could have been Miss Calhoun’s baby’s father.”

  “A good point, sir. But I don’t believe so.”

  “Why not? It makes perfect sense. An unwanted child, an inconvenient mother. Perhaps she was blackmailing him for money.”

  Yancey nodded. “I would have come to the same conclusions except for the way things ended, sir.”

  Mr. Pinkerton considered her and then waved a hand at her. “I see you have a theory. Proceed.”

  “Yes, sir. Mrs. Palmer said Sarah Calhoun just showed up one day at the boardinghouse where she sought employment. She had no belongings and was very quiet. She kept to herself and, when questioned, seemed either confused about her past or secretive. She never spoke of her baby’s father and actually seemed unaware at times that she was going to be a mother.”

  Mr. Pinkerton shook his head. “Very odd.”

  “Yes. Mrs. Palmer pitied her and gave her work and a room of her own. But despite Mrs. Palmer’s friendly overtures, the woman never warmed up. Then, following Miss Calhoun’s murder”—Yancey experienced the oddest feeling coupling her own name with death—“the police couldn’t find any family to claim the body. So she received a pauper’s burial and remains a mystery.”

  Mr. Pinkerton drummed his fingers on his desktop. “A mystery, indeed. A sad, sad case. And this Englishman who killed her. The man you shot, by all accounts. Hmmm.” Without warning, he hit his fist on his desktop, causing Yancey to jump. “You could have been killed.”

  He was angry because he cared about her. Yancey knew that, but she immediately came to her own defense. “But I wasn’t, sir, and when I did put it all together—only yesterday—I came directly to you, Mr. Pinkerton.”

  He exhaled gustily, appeared a bit mollified, though not happy, and eased his frown somewhat. “Yes, you did. And not a minute too soon, I’ll warrant. Give me the rest of it. You don’t believe this Englishman was the baby’s father?”

  “No: Because right before he died, sir, the man I shot said there’d be others who’d come after me. He said this wasn’t over, and it wouldn’t be until I was dead.”

  Mr. Pinkerton snapped to. Yancey believed her employer’s expression would have been the same had he been slapped with a glove and personally insulted. “Then you are a target and this other poor woman was killed by mistake?”

  “Either that, or the man I killed meant to kill every Sarah Calhoun he could find in an effort to eliminate the one he’d perhaps been paid to kill.”

  Fierce of expression, Mr. Pinkerton narrowed his eyes in thought. “Yes, very possible. Obviously he’d been following you. Add to that the fact that this dowager in England has your address. And the man you shot—mortally wounded and with no reason to lie at that point—tells you there will be others after him. This smacks of a mastermind behind these events, Yancey.”

  It was Yancey’s turn to nod. “I agree. But I don’t think it’s the dowager duchess, sir. Because if she’d hired the killer, she’d have been informed of his success as long ago as last autumn when this other Sarah Calhoun was murdered. She, therefore, would have had no reason to write her letters.”

  “True. Still, it’s important to your well-being that we come up with as many questions and probabilities as we can between us. Only then will we have a direction in which to proceed from here for the answers. We must act before we can again be acted upon.”

  “Yes, sir.” Gripped with the excitement that always seized her when she took on a new case, Yancey sat forward as alertly as her sore muscles would allow.

  “Let’s start here,” Mr. Pinkerton began. “Suppose the murdered Sarah was in truth the runaway duchess this dowager in England is pleading with. Why did she run away? And from what or whom was she hiding—not very well but with good reason as it turns out? We can’t simply assume it was the duke or his mother who sought to have her killed. After all, this distraught dowager appears to have been trying to get her to come to England, an act that very well might have saved the woman’s life and that of her baby.”

  “I thought the same thing, sir.”

  He nodded. “Yes. Would have been most convenient, though, if this dowager had stated what specifically the trouble was. Save us all a lot of bother and worry.”

  “I can only assume the other Sarah, if she was the runaway duchess, knew what the trouble was, so there was no need to state it in a letter.”

  “Good point.” Mr. Pinkerton was then quiet as he eyed Yancey in a way that warned her she was not going to like one little bit what he had to say next. “I have decided to take you out of the field, Yancey. It’s too dangerous for you here right now.”

  Disbelief shot through her. “But Mr. Pinkerton, you can’t do that. My life is always in danger when I work undercover. This is nothing new—”

  “But it is. Before now, you’ve had your disguises to afford you a modicum of anonymity and safety. Recent events have proven that is no longer true. So what I say stands. You will be taken out of the field here. To do otherwise would be irresponsible on my part.”

  Yancey’s eyes widened. He was going to do it. He was going to take away her true identity. The Fox. Top Pinkerton female operative. It was all she had. The agency was her life. It was who she was. She had no one or anything else she cared about. Just her job. And now … it too might be snatched away, just as her mother had been. Yancey sat forward, clutching at the edge of his desk. “Please, Mr. Pinkerton, I beg you to reconsider.”

  He shook his head no. “I won’t be talked out of this, Yancey.”

  Her thumping heart and leaden stomach seemed to switch places as Mr. Pinkerton picked up one of the letters on his desk, opened it, and read it to himself. Then he directed his gaze her way. “Here’s the way I see things, Yancey. Right now, you’re no good to me here.”

  His words sent a jolt straight to Yancey’s heart. “Please, Mr. Pinkerton, you can’t—”

  He’d raised a hand, palm toward her, to further forestall her speaking. “You were almost killed, Y
ancey. And the man you shot warned you that other attempts would follow. That puts not only your life but also our clients’ concerns in jeopardy.” He paused as if allowing time for his words to sink in. “That being so, I’ve assigned other operatives to the Almont case, which means you don’t have any ongoing investigations. Correct?”

  Yancey knew that he knew she didn’t. What he wanted was for her to acknowledge his point. What else, then, could she do but agree? “Yes, sir.”

  “Good. Now, we have a dead and departed Sarah Margaret Calhoun. Killed last November. Maybe the actual American duchess. Maybe not. But in December, you started getting these letters saying there’s trouble in England and this duke needs you. Then, over the course of the next months, more letters, more appeals arrive, and your identity and disguises are repeatedly revealed, this last time nearly costing you your life.”

  Realization dawned on Yancey that perhaps Mr. Pinkerton was pointing her somewhere. She listened now with more curiosity than trepidation. “That’s right, yes, sir.”

  “Exactly. Now, it’s not so far-fetched to believe that this dowager Duchess of Somerset, with her money and influence and desperation, could have someone working for her in America. Someone doing her bidding, and I mean shutting off all avenues for you to operate undercover or even to live your private life in order to force you to go to England. Someone like that Englishman you shot.”

  “I suppose.” Just talking about the man had Yancey seeing again, in her mind, the shocked, then horrified, look on the big man’s face that said he couldn’t believe she’d inflicted on him a mortal wound. She’d seen that same look once before … on another man’s face. Her father’s. She quickly blinked that memory away. “But he murdered the other Sarah. And then tried to kill me. Why would he do that if the dowager wants this Sarah to help her?”

  Mr. Pinkerton mulled that one over. “Maybe a double-cross? Maybe the man was playing both ends against the middle for his own gain.” He sat up straighter with this new line of reasoning. “Maybe an unknown someone paid him more to kill his quarry than what the duchess would have paid him to get you—or the real duchess—back to England, Yancey.”

  “It makes sense. It’s about the only explanation that does.”

  “Then it must be true.” Still, he made a sound of frustration. “We just don’t have all the pieces. That’s the only thing I’m certain of right now. And I’m afraid that puts you in even worse danger.”

  She was used to her life being in danger, but still a hard knot of healthy fear pressed against Yancey’s breastbone. “If only I hadn’t been forced to kill him. We could have questioned him.”

  Mr. Pinkerton nodded. “True. But don’t blame yourself. The man caused his own death by bursting in like that and charging you. Remember, he knew who you were, so he had to know you’d be armed. I believe he meant to kill you just as he did that other poor woman. After all, if his intention had been merely to kidnap you, he could have waited until you walked out of Clara’s room and grabbed you from behind. Or simply have shown up on your doorstep. But he did neither of those things. So he got what he deserved.”

  “Maybe. But I’ve never had to do that before. Kill someone, I mean.” But she knew she was lying. She had killed someone before. For a split second, she saw his hateful face before her eyes. His remembered scowl alone threatened to drag Yancey back to that day so long ago—

  “You did the only thing you could, Yancey.” Mr. Pinkerton’s understanding words brought Yancey gratefully forward in time. “Something else that’s curious here, though, is this same Englishman knew Thomas Almont was your target. And you said that Clara was obviously waiting for someone to rush in. So this man could very well have been a confederate of Almont’s and meant to kill you for that reason. We’ll question Clara about that. But no matter what, you did what you had to do. It was either him or you.” Mr. Pinkerton smiled fondly at her. “And I’ll take you every time.”

  “Thank you, sir.” High praise, indeed, from Mr. Pinkerton, the founder and owner of the foremost detective agency in America. And she was one of his agents. The best of the best. The Fox. She got the job done. She was experienced and smart and tough and … right now, none of those things. Instead, she was beat all to hell, shooting at everything that moved, and not so cocksure about anything anymore. Yancey stared unhappily at her boss. “What’s going to happen to me now, sir?”

  “Happen? Why, you’re going right back to work, of course.”

  Surprise had Yancey dropping her hand to her lap. “But you just said you were pulling me from the field.”

  “From the field here. While I don’t want you to work, not while you’re so sore and stiff, I think I have a plan—if you’re up to it.”

  Instant excitement seized Yancey. “I’ll do whatever you say.”

  “That’s the spirit. Here’s how I see it. With the other Sarah Calhoun lost to us, as well as the dead Englishman, we’re left with our duchess in England as the only thread we can unravel.”

  Suddenly, Yancey knew where this—and quite possibly she—was headed. “Oh, Mr. Pinkerton … England?”

  “Yes. A lovely country.” He folded his hands together atop his desk. “As it turns out, I’ve been contacted by Scotland Yard regarding some new information on an old case we were working on with them a while back. It’s unrelated to this, but it needs our attention. Now, as luck would have it, I don’t have an agent in England at the moment.”

  There it was. That word again. England. Yancey’s jaw suddenly throbbed, and her head ached. “How … unfortunate, Mr. Pinkerton.”

  He smiled, clearly pleased with himself. “Yes, isn’t it? However, I think you could do with some rest while you mend. Rest combined with work, that is. Time spent on trains and ships ought to do the trick, don’t you think?”

  Yancey could only stare miserably at her employer. “I wish I’d never brought those letters to your attention.”

  “It’s a good thing you did because they’re your next case. Now, with you safely away, I’ll proceed with the investigation here into events surrounding your recent calamities. And you’ll be in merry old England answering this dowager’s cry for help. Between the two of us, I believe we can find the connection, if there is one, and solve this mystery.”

  He’d obviously latched onto this intrigue like a child to its mother. Yancey knew when she was defeated. “Yes, sir.”

  “Don’t look so glum, Yancey. You’re not being punished. The simple truth is, you’re not safe here, not with the criminal element knowing your identity. Why, I’d have to keep you under armed guard around the clock, and I don’t think you’d like that. But quite frankly, I can’t spare the operatives to watch over you. So it’s possible, left unguarded, that you could be killed in your sleep.”

  Yancey’s eyes widened. “Thank you for adding that to my nightmares, sir.”

  Mr. Pinkerton chuckled. “It’s my job to think of every angle. And right now, the angle we need to pursue is our worried duchess in England. On the whole, she doesn’t sound the least bit violent, and she clearly needs help. Now, I have every bit of confidence in your ability to protect yourself when you’re across the Atlantic, Yancey. But if you like, I can assign another agent to accompany you.”

  Yancey’s spine stiffened with pride. “I work alone, Mr. Pinkerton.”

  “Knew you’d say that. Very well, then, we’ll discuss more of the possibilities so you’re totally prepared. And then, it’s off to England with you. You’ll travel in a new disguise, of course, and under another name. Don’t want anyone following you.”

  Well, she’d walked right into that. There remained only one question. “In what capacity will I be going, sir?”

  Mr. Pinkerton folded his hands atop his desk. “How would you like to be the long-lost and now newly found American Duchess of Somerset?”

  “The what?” Dumbfounded, Yancey put a hand to her chest. “May I point out to you, sir, that this duke just might notice that I’m not the woman he ma
rried?”

  “I’m certain he will. But you have the same name and it will at least open the doors to get you inside. And after that? Well, knowing you, my dear, this duke will probably wish you were the woman he’d married.”

  Chapter Two

  MAY 1876; COUNTY CUMBERLAND, FAR NORTHWEST ENGLAND

  Only wind and rain welcomed Yancey to the imposing and palatial manor house that the coachman assured her was Stonebridge, the ancestral seat of the Duke of Somerset. Yancey sat in the meager but dry comfort of the hired coach and watched the driver pound on the impossibly huge double front doors of the manor. Awaiting an answer, he hurried back to the coach and proceeded to unload her trunks from the boot. Looking around, Yancey exhaled.

  “So this is Stonebridge.” She was glad to be at the end of her odyssey, and her body assured her that it still felt every jounce and jolt of what had seemed endless weeks of travel in crowded railroad cars to New York City and then the steamship crossing of the North Atlantic. That had culminated in a brief stay in London on Pinkerton business. Following that, she’d then been obliged to endure another round of overland travel by train and finally this hired coach.

  “But I made it,” she murmured while raking her gaze over the impressive estate situated on the edge of nowhere.

  A wry grin quirked her lips. It was certainly that … the edge of nowhere. The surprising thing to her was how similar northwest England was to the western states of America. Certainly the vast stretches of green hilly openness now surrounding her reminded her of the leading edges of the prairie states. And the high, forbidding mountains, so close behind the manor house of Stonebridge, brought to mind the great Rocky Mountains. She imagined that winters here were bone-numbingly cold and bleak. Just the thought of them sent an involuntary shiver over her skin, much as if she’d experienced a chill forerunner of a winter’s wind. Thank heavens she would be long gone before the snows arrived.