Or, at this time of the morning, she would really rather have his arm over her shoulders and feel as if she was under his protection.
Because he seemed so uncomfortable, she dropped her hand. “What I am trying to tell you, Mr. Marks, is that I know Jason’s death is difficult, but I also know you did not have anything to do with it.”
“You don’t suspect me?”
In his face, she saw both hope and disbelief. “Of course not.”
“The police do.”
“The police don’t know you like I do.”
“It’s not like we know each other all that well.”
“It’s not like we don’t.”
He smiled. “When can you leave?”
“Now. Lieutenant Howard offered to have one of his officers take me home.”
“That is a good idea. As much as I would like to escort you myself, it might raise some eyebrows. Plus, I dare not leave until Bridget and Vincent have been allowed to leave.”
“You care for them, don’t you?”
“They’re under my employ.”
“No, I think it’s more than that. You care about them.”
He nodded, barely a flinch of his chin. “I don’t want either of them to feel that they have been left out to dry.”
For a moment, Lydia considered offering to stay, too, but then she realized she would only be in the way. Instead of giving him support, she would be yet another responsibility.
She stepped away. “I should go.”
“Are you worried about leaving with a police officer? If so, I could leave word—”
“I’ll be fine, Mr. Marks. Don’t worry about me.” She took a deep breath, then gave him her best smile. “I will be just fine.”
“I’m sure you will. I’ll make sure Bridget gets to your townhouse as soon as possible.”
“She will need her sleep. That is all I will be doing. Tell her I will see her tomorrow evening, after we have both had some sleep.”
Before he could argue, she walked to Lieutenant Howard’s side. He had been unabashedly watching and listening to their exchange. “I am ready to leave whenever one of your officers has time to take me, sir.”
“He is ready now.” Looking over at two uniformed men who were standing together talking, he barked, “Barnaby.”
Immediately the taller of the two rushed over. “Sir?”
“Please escort Miss Bancroft back to her townhouse.”
“Then return here?”
“No, meet us at the precinct. I don’t believe we’ll be here much longer.”
“Yes, sir.” Barnaby turned to her, his expression perfectly blank. “After you, miss.”
Lydia started forward, feeling her cheeks heat and burn. The policeman knew she’d been up in Sebastian’s office with him. Alone. It was obvious that he thought she was Mr. Marks’ paramour. Just as it was obvious that he knew she was no lady.
She walked through the doors of the Silver Grotto, enjoying the rays of the morning sun hitting the pavement in front of them. The effect was bright. Illuminating.
Almost as if God himself were lighting her way home. It seemed fitting, of course. She was leaving the darkness and heading toward the light.
It was really too bad her heart didn’t feel the same way.
CHAPTER 22
Bridget hadn’t expected Mr. Marks to be waiting for her when she finished her interview with Captain Ryan.
When she walked out of their impromptu interrogation room, feeling more unkempt and exhausted than she could recall being in quite some time, all she’d been hoping for was a quiet place to lie down.
Instead she composed herself and walked to where he was standing. “Sir, I hope you haven’t been waiting for me all this time?”
“Of course I have.”
“I’m sorry. Has Mr. Hunt finished his interview as well?”
“He has. I just sent him home. He was eager to see Mary.”
“I imagine so. How may I help you, sir? Do you need me to escort Miss Bancroft home?”
“She just went home with the escort of one of the policemen.”
She was confused. “Then why are you still here, sir?”
Humor lit his eyes. “I stayed here to make sure you suffered no ill effects from your interrogation. I also want to escort you back to the Hartman.”
“But what about Miss Bancroft?” Maybe her head was filled with mud, but Bridget was having quite the time keeping up with why her employer was looking out for her.
“She asked that you see her tomorrow. She’ll be sleeping, and she wants you to rest too. After you get some sleep at the Hartman today and tonight, go back to the townhouse by tomorrow evening. Meanwhile, I have arranged for someone to watch Miss Bancroft’s home to ensure her safety.”
“Yes, sir.”
Peering at her closely, he said, “Would you like to freshen up before we head to the hotel?”
“Freshen up?”
“Yes.” He looked away. “Use the washroom.”
“Oh, yes, please.”
“While you are, um, occupied, I’ll see if I can shoo the rest of these individuals from the premises.”
“Yes, sir,” she said yet again, then walked upstairs to do as he had suggested. Only when she was out of his line of vision and she was sure there was no one else around did she dare smile. She would never admit such a thing to Mr. Marks, but she actually did so enjoy it when he was flustered.
When she returned to the bar area ten minutes later, the club was completely quiet. Well, except for the faint tapping of the toe of Mr. Marks’ well-polished shoe. It was drumming a staccato beat in time with his impatience.
He wasn’t looking for her though. Instead, he was staring out the window on the right-hand side of the door. She could only view his expression in profile, but to her way of thinking, he looked rather glum.
“I’m ready now, sir,” she said with more false brightness than she had ever imagined she could summon.
“Ah. Very good.” He opened the front door and waved her out. In his other hand he awkwardly held a rather large silver ring of keys.
After she passed through the famous silver doors, he pulled them closed and locked them, explaining he’d told Vincent they would be closed for a while.
“It’s been quite some time since I’ve locked this place up myself. Years ago, when I bought the building, I slept here.” He looked mildly embarrassed. “I had no employees then, of course. Only a dream.”
“You achieved that dream, sir.”
“I thought I did. But this evening’s events have made me wonder.” Staring at the key ring, his voice drifted off.
“Would you like for me to hold the key ring, sir?” She held up her reticule. “I could probably fit it in my bag.”
“Of course not, Bridget. I’m not that helpless. At least, not yet.” After forcing the key ring into one of his coat’s pockets, they shared another small smile as they started walking. Of course, just like always, once the gilded façade of the Silver Grotto faded into the distance, the squalid surroundings of Camp Creek Alley became their only reality.
The alley was as quiet and still as Bridget had ever seen it. Amazingly, she didn’t feel any safer. No, the lack of activity so early in the morning only served to remind her that a woman could be attacked without a single witness at a time like this.
“Did the officers treat you all right, Bridget?”
“Yes.” She thought about it. “Better than I imagined they would, if you want to know the truth. First an Officer Barnaby asked me questions. Later Lieutenant Howard came in.” She smiled at her first impression of the man. “I had heard about the city’s gentleman detective, but of course, I had never met him. He certainly takes one by surprise.”
“He interviewed Lydia too. I, um, had never thought much of his goals to become a working stiff. I figure that a man who is born to a position of power ought to do everything he can to keep it . . . not going about turning himself into a policeman, of all thi
ngs.” He chuckled. “But he seems to have been gentle enough with Lydia, so I suppose I am grateful for his lowly dreams after all.”
Bridget knew Lieutenant Howard had been born and bred to be a gentleman from the papers, where he was often referred to as the Gentleman Detective. His determination to become a member of the police force had taken many by surprise. “He was fair to me. He, um, asked what I knew about Mr. Avondale.”
“Did you know him?”
She nodded. “He was the reason I got fired from my previous job.”
“I knew a man had been too forward with you, but I didn’t know it had been him.”
“I never told a soul. I didn’t care for him, Mr. Marks. I found him to be everything I hate about the wealthy and privileged.”
“I felt the same way.” He grimaced. “When he grabbed Lydia at the Hartman, I yearned to kill him.” As his words drifted in the air between them, he looked appalled. “I didn’t though.”
“No, sir. I didn’t think you had.” It wasn’t because she didn’t think he was capable of ending another person’s life. She had no doubt that he could commit murder, and would, if he felt he had no choice.
But that was the crux of it. In the grand scheme of things, Jason Avondale meant nothing to him. Yes, she’d heard rumors that he owed the club money, but Mr. Marks had more money than he knew what to do with. Everyone knew that.
And he was far more likely to systematically hurt Jason Avondale in all manner of ways in order to get that money back. Killing the man ensured that Mr. Marks would never be repaid.
The only other reason she could think that he would want Jason gone was to protect Miss Bancroft. But he had already done that. Mr. Marks had also moved her into Lydia’s life to make sure she was safe—and to let him know if Avondale came around.
As they continued to walk, Mr. Marks took her elbow to make sure she avoided a puddle in the street.
She smiled to herself. It really was endearing how he sometimes forgot that she was used to avoiding puddles and riffraff and didn’t need his watchful eyes or courteous arm to do so.
He sighed. “For the record, I don’t think you killed him either.”
“Thank you, sir.”
He didn’t catch her sarcasm. Merely continued, deep in thought. “I also have a hard time seeing Vincent as a suspect. He’s strong enough, to be sure. I’d even suggest he was brave enough to do something of the sort. But I can’t imagine his motive.” He paused, then stopped abruptly.
She stopped, too, right in front of a flower peddler. The young girl looked at Bridget hopefully, but Bridget shook her head. “Sir?”
“Did Hunt have a reason to dislike Avondale that I don’t know about?”
“I have no idea.”
“Sure about that?”
“Well, I heard him once say that he knew a little bit about Mr. Avondale’s proclivities from when the lawyers he clerked for had Mr. Avondale as a client. But that was long ago.”
“I didn’t know about this.” He blinked. “How come I didn’t know about this?”
“I couldn’t begin to guess.”
He seemed about to reply but suddenly took notice of the flower girl. Reaching into his vest pocket, he brought out a shiny half-dollar. “Here, child.”
She took it eagerly, then proceeded to gather up most of her flowers. “Here, sir.”
“I don’t need any flowers.”
She bit her lip. “But sir, if you don’t take them, I’ll have to stay out until they’re gone. And you’ve paid for them.”
“What would I do . . . Oh, very well. Take them, Bridget.”
She hid a smile. “Yes, sir.” She waited while the girl wrapped the bouquet in a snug amount of newspaper, then proceeded to carry the large bouquet in her arms. “Shall I give them to Miss Bancroft when I see her tomorrow evening?”
“Of course not. You keep them.”
“Thank you, sir.”
But of course, his mind had already drifted away from daisies and carnations and back to the topic at hand. “I don’t know how the police are going to solve this.”
Bridget worried that they’d take a person like her, of no money, no background, no real family, and pin it on her—simply because Avondale had caused her to be dismissed from her job. She would be helpless to defend herself.
“I hope they look for the person who really did it and not simply someone to pin it on.”
“I do too.”
They continued their stroll down the narrow street. When the next hawker came out, Mr. Marks bought them both a cup of hot coffee. She’d just taken her first sip when a shadow fell over them.
Then it was all she could do to keep her eyes averted. It was Sergio Vlas. The Russian. Though he’d never bothered her before, there was still something about him that she didn’t completely trust.
Luckily, he didn’t seem of the mind to pay her the slightest bit of attention, not even with the massive bouquet of flowers she was holding.
Instead, his lips were curved into a parody of a happy smile as he eyed her boss, his crooked teeth out on display like a jack-o’-lantern. “Marks. Heard you had some excitement last night.”
“I did at that.”
“I hope everything is all right?”
“Of course it is. I’m standing here, aren’t I?” Mr. Marks snapped.
“What on earth happened?” Sergio’s voice was bordering on compassionate.
Mr. Marks heard it too. “Stop the foolishness,” he barked. “We both know you’ve probably got a better idea of everything that happened outside the Grotto than I do.”
Sergio shrugged. After letting his gaze drift on Bridget for a moment, he said, “I do understand that the Alley now has one less gentleman caller.”
“That would be true.”
His lips curved upward again, but this time not in a full smile. This time he looked far more amused. Or, more exactly, bemused. “I also heard word that you were nowhere to be found.” He placed a palm on his chest. “Oh, forgive me. You were locked up in your office with a certain woman with auburn hair.”
“Where did you hear that?”
“I have my sources.”
“Obviously they’re on the force?”
“Not everyone wearing a blue uniform is working completely for the public’s best interest. Some are happy to keep my interests at heart as well.”
“I would deem it to be a personal favor if you kept that tidbit to yourself. The last thing I or Miss Bancroft needs is for our names to bandied about in tomorrow’s rags.”
“Why is that? Does she mean something to you?”
Mr. Marks flinched. “You know she couldn’t. Can’t.”
“Why not? She’s almost a lady. You are almost a gentleman.”
Bridget stuck her nose in the bouquet. Anything to look as if she wasn’t inadvertently eavesdropping. Anything to prevent either man from seeing just how struck she was by both Sergio’s allegations and Mr. Marks’ reaction.
After gathering himself, Mr. Marks spoke. “Almost is the key word, there, friend,” he said with obvious sarcasm. “But it is not appropriate in either case. Miss Bancroft is a lady, not almost. And I never will be a gentleman.”
“If I can be of assistance in any way at all, don’t hesitate to ask.”
“Thank you, but I doubt that will be necessary.”
“One never knows.”
“We must be going,” Mr. Marks said impatiently, just as he pulled out a coin to give to one of the newsboys selling papers.
Sergio grinned. Then, after a brief, sardonic nod Bridget’s way, he pulled a gold timepiece out of his pocket, tapped a blue button, and looked at the watch’s face.
Bridget gasped. It was the same watch she’d seen on Avondale’s person years ago, when he’d accosted her at the house party, and then again the other night when Vincent was walking her to the Grotto and she’d seen him with Galvin. It was so distinct, she doubted another man in the city had one like it.
Quickly, Se
rgio glanced her way. When he saw what she was staring at, his expression turned cold, then he slid through the narrow crevice between two brick buildings on the brink of collapse.
It was obvious, to her at least, that Sergio thought he was invincible. Fear curved up Bridget’s spine as she realized he was probably right too. No one would willingly do anything to create trouble for the notorious club owner.
“Bridget?” Marks barked.
“Yes, sir?”
“What’s wrong? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
She shivered. For a moment she considered telling Mr. Marks what she saw, but she elected to keep it to herself. The last thing she wanted to do was make things more of a muddle for Mr. Marks or place him on Sergio’s bad side.
Besides, she had never seen Jason Avondale’s pocket watch up close enough to be sure Sergio’s was just like it. No doubt, her mind was playing tricks on her eyes. There was no reason for Sergio Vlas to be holding Avondale’s timepiece. Well, no reason except for one.
“Let’s go, Bridget,” he ordered, as if they’d been stopped because of her wishes.
“Yes, sir,” she murmured.
Less than ten minutes later, he was leaving her at the back door of the Hartman Hotel.
“Now, I want you to sleep and order anything you desire from the kitchens.”
“I will.”
“I’ll be checking. If I discover you only have a meager bowl of soup or some awful leftover concoction, I’ll hear about it. And then you will.”
“I will do my best to eat as much as possible.”
He didn’t laugh at her joke though. He was already walking away.
Leaving her to wonder where he was going. Was he going to check on Miss Bancroft?
Go back to the club?
Visit with the police?
Or, by chance, had he, too, seen what Sergio had pulled out before he slipped into the alley—and known what it could mean?
CHAPTER 23
CHICAGO TIMES-COURIER
January 25, 1894—Special Mid-Morning Edition
Reported by Benson Gage
Even this intrepid reporter is shocked by this morning’s news. Jason Avondale was found murdered outside the premises of the Silver Grotto late last night, the victim of a stabbing. Currently, our city’s finest are combing the dark alleys of Camp Creek Alley looking for the usual suspects . . . as well as some not-so-usual ones.
Whispers in the Reading Room Page 19
