Veritas

by Quinn Coleridge

  “Aside from the traces of mud, the remains are quite clean,” the doctor says. “Partly, I assume, because they’ve been exposed to the elements for a while. Well over a year, I’d say.”

  Now Kelly moves my fingers to another piece of evidence. “The tibia is a part of the leg. Feel that indentation?” I wince and pull my hand out of his grasp. “Too squeamish? Never mind, then. This tibia’s covered with notches. Animal bite marks, would be my guess. One set of teeth is bigger, but the others are little. Maybe a family of mountain lions? A mother and her cubs? Lady X is probably scattered all across this range.”

  Bile rises in my throat. Stop him, Tom! I don’t need to know more!

  Tom covers his laugh with a cough. As they say, be careful what you ask for.

  The doctor is on a deductive roll. “I doubt she was alive at the time the animals fed. No bites on the phalanges to indicate she fought against them. The creatures most likely found her later and then nibbled away.” I hear Kelly scoot back on his heels, a man in thought. “Wish I had the skull. Death by falling? Is this what you overheard the killer say, Hester? That he’d pushed her?”

  Another nudge from Tom. Stick to the story we told him, love.

  Correct, I sign to Kelly. She fell.

  The men discuss the shredded square of gingham next, saying it’s spotted with tiny flecks of blood. “Where did you find it, Craddock?”

  “By a cave. Some rocks blocked the opening, like there was a landslide recently, and made the hole too small for me to go inside. But the gingham was fluttering in the wind, caught in the branches of a dead sagebrush. I couldn’t see it until I bent over to drive a stake into the ground. I suspect we’ll find more gingham in the cave. Might have been where your cougars lived, Kelly. ”

  “I’ll put the cloth in an envelope and store it in my bag.”

  Tom reaches for something else in his pocket. “What about this ring? Saw the gold shining under a thistle. Ever seen the like, Doc?”

  “Not an expert on jewelry, I’m afraid, but it’s definitely a man’s ring. Looks like good-quality gold, too. It might have slipped off the killer’s finger.”

  Kelly drops the thing in my lap. “Have you an opinion, Hester?”

  I feel the band. Raised rectangle on top, etched with a symbol. I’ve come across one of these before. Look at the etching, Tom. Does it have an eagle’s head and a lion’s body?

  Yes, it does.

  That’s the symbol of Griffin House, my father’s club. Members wear those rings.

  Tom is not even remotely involved in fashionable society. The concept of people wasting money and time on a stuffy, elitist establishment must be foreign to him. However, for the doctor’s sake, he feigns a sudden burst of inspiration.

  “I’d check at Griffin House. I recall hearing the members are given similar rings after joining the club.”

  “Good memory, Craddock,” Kelly says, moving the bones back into Tom’s pack. “Now we know where to begin the search.”

  “The search?” Tom helps me to my feet. “Shouldn’t we give this information to Inspector Jones? He’ll listen now that we have some evidence.”

  “Certainly, but I’ll look into it as well.”

  “What are you talking about, Kelly?”

  “You and Hester haven’t heard the news yet?” He gives my right hand a quick shake. “Newly appointed coroner of Stonehenge. How do you do?”

  14

  Nec mora nec requies.

  Neither delay nor rest.—Virgil

  We emerge from the trees, cold and wet, and return to the horses. Holding onto Jupiter’s lead line, Tom rides a little ahead of the doctor and me.

  I turn to Kelly and sign. New job. When?

  “Official as of this morning,” he says. “If I were the medical examiner in Boston or New York, more would be required of me. But I can wear an additional hat here and maintain my daily practice. That’s the idea anyway.”

  We ride on for a moment and then Kelly exhales. “I have to ask you some questions, Hester—about Lady X’s death. When did you encounter the man who killed her?”

  I scrunch up my nose, thinking of how to answer. Three weeks, I sign.

  “About twenty-one days ago?”

  Correct.

  Kelly guides his horse around something in the road. “On Halloween?”

  Correct.

  Tom shifts in his saddle. You okay, Hettie? Is he bothering you?

  No. I can handle him. Just slow down and give us a little more time.

  As you like.

  “Where were you when you overheard the alleged killer?” Kelly asks.

  I try to set the scene, hoping he gets the gist. Town party. Alone. Park.

  “You went to the town party and ended up alone in the park,” Kelly says, voice harsh. “Must you always do the dangerous thing, Hester? Wherever was Miss Collins?”

  Dancing.

  He makes a disparaging noise. “Companions aren’t paid to dance.”

  My idea.

  “On top of my future heart attack, you’ll give me wrinkles and gray hair,” Kelly mutters. “Did he sound familiar?”

  No.

  “Describe what you remember about him, Hester.”

  Drinks liquor. I point to my hip, like a flask rests there. Sad man.

  “He had a hip flask and was drinking? Sounded unhappy?”

  I make an effort to share the content of what I know, without revealing how I came by the information. Helping the new coroner isn’t as bad as I feared. He wants the truth, and I wish I could tell him everything. As open-minded as this man is, I doubt he would believe I am a Visionary.

  “What did he say?” Kelly asks.

  Threat. Must kill.

  “Afraid of a little redhead, eh? Why?”

  Blackmail.

  We arrive at the crossroads between Stonehenge proper and its outlying homesteads. “Thank you, Hester,” Kelly says. “The police will want a statement., of course. You and Tom can go down to the Metropolitan Office together. Have him repeat what you’ve told me. Tomorrow, though. You’ve had enough excitement for one afternoon.”

  Tom and I are not strangers to the Met. We’ve been there a number of times over the years with other investigations. At first, the officers considered us a nuisance. Now we’re crime hobbyists—civilians who sleuth for the fun of it.

  “She’ll need protection,” Tom says. “The killer wants her gone.”

  They talk across me, discussing my fate. “Hester will have it. The Inspector should have a constable patrol the area around The Revels. Have him pass by every so often to ensure that she’s safe.”

  Completely unnecessary.

  Tom makes a rude choking sound. Of course it’s necessary, love. You are the moth and danger is the flame.

  The harness on Kelley’s horse jangles, a cheerful noise amid such dark conversation. “You did well today, Craddock. I’ll send some detectives out to scour the ravine and see if there’s anything else to find.”

  The air feels frigid—like the sun is setting. I pull up my cloak hood and Tom leans in his saddle, touches my face gently. Kelly groans, turns his horse, and trots away.

  I’ll visit a few of the big houses in the area, describe Lady X to the servants, and see what they know. Shall we meet tomorrow evening?

  Agreed.

  His mouth brushes mine. Cordie’s your shadow, love, and keep those knives sharp and handy.

  Tom leaves for his family farm. He has neglected his usual work there and must catch up tonight. Kelly whistles as we ride in the opposite direction, and I feel at ease in his company.

  “Want me to put in a word with the inspector and have Tom deputized?” he asks.

  Won’t change jobs, I sign. Loves ranch.

  “Well, he’s a fine fellow. There’s just one thing I don’t like about him.” Kelly’s voice doesn’t sound happy. “She comes yea high to my shoulder. If not for her, Tom and I could be friends.”

  My blithe attitude is temporarily
diminished as blood rushes to my cheeks. Nevertheless, I am cheered by a fleeting thought. While Tom and Kelly were off searching for my attacker, I nicked a piece of the Lady X mystery for myself, tucking it away in the pocket of my cloak, next to my lucky stones. I smile and rub my finger against the narrow strip of gingham, torn from the piece of evidence now hidden in Kelly’s bag.

  Cordelia is not feeling cooperative this morning. Nothing new, of course, as she’s rather outspoken for a paid companion. To her mind, the gingham material is hideous, and I must be insane for wanting more of it.

  “Red and white checks?” Cordie asks again, as though the very existence of the pattern offends her. “You do get funny notions, miss.”

  New dress, I sign.

  “You’ll look like a walking picnic table.”

  Picnic tables and gingham do go together. I thought the same thing about poor Freckles.

  My companion accepts the inevitable with a modicum of grace. “Oh, all right. We’ll go into town and look for the gingham. We have to collect your new spectacles, anyway. I’ll go tell Willard.”

  An hour later, the three of us are parked in the center of Stonehenge. The streets sound busy, and I inhale the brisk air like a woman on a mission.

  I didn’t sleep much last night due to awful nightmares involving Lady X, or rather, Freckles. I stood in a room of mirrors, and the ghost appeared in every reflection, shrieking like a Fury, clawing at the glass. When I awoke, there was an angry scratch mark on my neck. I touch the scratch and shiver—ghosts aren’t supposed to cause physical harm. Drive someone mad, yes, but not hurt their bodies. What will she do to me in a month’s time if I haven’t found her killer?

  Or maybe it’s nothing at all. I might even have scratched myself while sleeping.

  Shivering even more, I am determined to meet with success today. Our expedition begins at the Emporium—my old stomping grounds from childhood. I can’t help feeling somewhat optimistic. The store smells of freshly ground coffee, walnuts, and new leather. Using my cane, I walk to the counter and take out the scrap of gingham. Cordelia stands at my elbow, ready to act as the middleman—middlewoman—in our exchange.

  “We’re interested in some material,” she says to the clerk. “Do you have any of this on hand?”

  “No. Just in summer,” he replies. “For tablecloths.”

  I feel Cordie turn my way, certain that she has a smirk on her face. The know-it-all.

  We move onward to the Ladies’ Dress Shop. In fact, we tromp all over creation, but there’s no gingham to be had. Obviously, Stonehenge has passed a seasonal moratorium against it.

  Close to giving up, Cordie and I visit my eye doctor and get the spectacles.

  He tells me that the glass in the replacement pair is black instead of the usual brown. “You’re fortunate, Miss Grayson. That’s a finer set than most people can afford.”

  This comment bounces around inside my brain, and it finally occurs to me that I have been approaching my task in entirely the wrong way. Lady X, a-k-a Freckles, was ‘most people.’ Her clothing budget was limited.

  I turn to Cordelia and smile. You buy clothes? I sign, filled with excitement. Where? Where?

  “At a secondhand place,” she replies. “If you spruce up the old gowns, nobody can tell the difference. Unless they owned the dress before you, that is.”

  Show-me-store! I ask. Show-me-store!

  “What? Slow down, miss. I can’t understand.”

  I try to calm myself. Show me, I sign slowly. Favorite store.

  The owner of Willoughby’s is kind enough to spare us a moment. Cordelia gives him the fabric, and I tell her what to say.

  Woman. Red hair. Buy shirt?

  Cordie sounds puzzled as she relays my message. “Have you sold a gingham blouse or shirtwaist to a woman with red hair?”

  “Not in winter,” he says.

  Last year?

  Mr. Willoughby thinks long and hard. “No, wait. I did, now that you mention it. The garment was poorly made, quite tacky, in fact. I gave it to her for next to nothing. I remember the lady because she had airs, and I found that inappropriate in one lacking style and good taste.”

  Name! I sign. Name! Name! Name!

  Cordelia releases an embarrassed cough. “You wouldn’t know her identity, by chance? Apparently, it’s important.”

  He goes into the back room, mumbling phrases like, “highly unusual” and “better buy something.”

  Fortunately for us, Willoughby values order above all else. He proudly reads the date on the merchandise receipt, the 21st of April, 1890. His customer is identified as one Maude Lambson.

  Her work? I ask. Where?

  But Cordie has reached the limit. “Jumping Jehoshaphat, what does it matter?” she inquires, turning to me.

  This comment is rhetorical so I don’t waste time on it. Instead, I point toward Willoughby. Ask! Her work where?

  My companion sighs gustily. “Miss Hester wonders if you know where the lady worked.”

  The storeowner has no idea, but I feel indebted to him anyway. I gesture to Cordelia. Clothes, I sign. You buy. My treat.

  She clears out most of the high-end items, and Mr. Willoughby writes a rather extensive receipt. An embroidered shawl, silk gloves, ankle boots, muslin nightgown, feathered hat, and a day dress.

  Reminder to self—Cordie cannot be trusted with carte blanche.

  I hand over every dollar on my person to the shopkeeper. He promises to box up the goods and hold them until Willard arrives. Cordie and I exit the store, walking half a block before Mr. Willoughby hurries outside, his memory enhanced by hard cash.

  “There was something odd about Miss Lambson!” he exclaims. “She had very dirty hair. Lots of coal soot near the roots.”

  Smiling, I elbow my companion, encouraging her to express my appreciation.

  “Thank you, sir,” she replies woodenly.

  “Not at all, not at all. Come again. Should you need another receipt, my collection goes back five years.”

  Willard Little Hawk told us he would be at the saloon, so I give a lad my last coin to go inside and fetch him. Cordelia tells the handyman about the shop and asks him to pick up her parcels in an hour or so. She orders two baked potatoes from a street vendor and then loans me sufficient change to pay for our meal. With sign lessons beginning soon, Cordie and I hurry to Black Swan Lane, eating the taters on the fly.

  Five blocks later and Stonehenge begins to change from humble to posh. The smells alone prove that we’re moving uptown. Midden piles and rotgut saloons give way to restaurants, teahouses and bakeries. I know we’re close to Black Swan because of the chocolatier with it’s rich, box-of-candy scent and the perfumery which evokes a summer garden of lilies even in winter. I savor the aromas of the rich as we stroll along.

  Two Cockney women pass Cordelia and me, chattering like magpies. “There’s no satisfyin’ Ol’ Archie,” one of them says.

  “Garn,” the other agrees. “’E’s bad to work fer.”

  I listen as the girls walk through the side entrance of the Windsor Hotel, complaining about their boss the entire time. The grande dame of Stonehenge accommodations, the Windsor sits two doors away from Kelly’s digs, frequented by those willing to pay a fortune for discreet luxury. In short, this is my father’s sort of place. Enjoyed by the rich and made ridiculous by the poor.

  A thought strikes me, and I stop in the middle of the sidewalk, upsetting Cordelia and a few other pedestrians. Lady X/Freckles/Maude Lambson must have lived nearby, certainly within walking distance of Willoughby’s store. She couldn’t afford to hire transportation and wasn’t the type to go too far afield for shopping—Maude liked things to come easy, after all. Assuming that she worked as a maid, a fancy place like the Windsor would have brought her into contact with the rich on a daily basis, and there’s a Cornish community not three minutes away on Falmouth Road.

  The scratch at my neck suddenly stings, and I pull my scarf even higher. Miss Lambson worked at thi
s very hotel and met her killer here.

  She begins to weep inside my head, confirming my latest clue.

  Kelly sighs and shuts the door to his office. “All right, Hester. We’re alone now. Tell me why I had to send Miss Collins on an unnecessary errand.”

  For pipe tobacco? I sign.

  “I don’t smoke, you ninny.” He sits down in the chair opposite me, and leans forward. “We haven’t long until your companion returns. You asked for privacy?”

  I take the ill-gotten piece of gingham out of my reticule, and hold it out to the doctor.

  “Did you remove this from the evidence we collected yesterday?” he asks.

  Maybe, I reply.

  “Which means yes. Are you aware that tampering with evidence is a criminal offense?”

  Know name. Lady X.

  The side of Kelly’s jacket swings open and hits my arm. I hear a light ticking. He must have taken out his pocket watch.

  “And you deduced this in … nineteen hours? Fairly quick for a novice crime-fighter.”

  I reach inside my bag again and bring out the chalk and slate. I write the letters slowly—according to Cordelia, my chalkmanship leaves much to be desired. Not enough flounces and swirls for a female.

  MAUDE LAMBSON

  Kelly takes the slate, reads the name aloud. “This is Lady X?”

  I gesture for the tablet, and he returns it.

  CORNISH/MAID AT HOTEL

  “Which hotel?” Kelly asks.

  I return the writing tools to my reticule and stand. Show you, I sign quickly.

  We are out of the office in seconds, and Kelly doesn’t think to question how a blind girl can show him anything. He merely informs his secretary to give Cordelia a cup of tea should she return before us. After stepping out of the medical building, I turn my body to the right and point with my cane toward the Windsor.

  The doctor links his arm with mine and leads me forward. “Stonehengians aren’t known for cooperating with the police, Hester. I may stretch the truth a bit as I question people. Don’t let it alarm you.”