An Orphan of Hell's Kitchen

by Liz Freeland

  “The reason I was sent here is to find buyers for our cloth. The government, of course, wants to buy up wool fabric for uniforms, but our best quality products could suffer as a result, and that worries investors. So here I am, trying to secure buyers for the luxury-grade wools, but the war has businessmen on this side of the Atlantic afraid that there will be disruptions in production because of the war. And if the war drags on, as I fear it will, they’ll be right.”

  We were taking a walk, and I was nodding off on my feet—it wasn’t the first time I’d heard about this textile conundrum.

  No matter how closely I watched Gerald for clues to a mercurial temper—for some possibility that he might have killed Ruthie after discovering she’d stolen from him, for example—he remained doggedly phlegmatic and basically decent. I still couldn’t understand how he’d ever met Ruthie. Perhaps even the most straitlaced of men sought out ladies of the evening, but I could hardly insert the subject into casual conversation. “By the bye, have you ever visited a prostitute?” Coming from me, demure Louise Frobisher, that probably would have shocked him back across the Atlantic, and I wasn’t about to let him go just yet. He was still my only connection to any of the men whose passports Ruthie had stolen.

  Instead, during our walk, I tried to bring the conversation around to passports. “I’ve thought about seeing London and Paris and all those places. I don’t even have a passport, though. Is it a lengthy process?”

  He frowned. “Is what?”

  “Getting a passport.”

  “Certainly not. At least, not for an Englishman. I don’t know about Americans. As a matter of fact, I lost mine not long ago and had it replaced as fast as you please.”

  There it was at last. A nibble. “Lost it? How?”

  His blank expression gave nothing away. “I don’t remember, honestly. I just reached for it one morning and it wasn’t there.”

  “Was it stolen?”

  His eyes narrowed. He looked wary. “Why would anyone do such a thing?”

  “Pickpockets aren’t always accurate in what they steal, you know. You’d be surprised.”

  He laughed. “I’m surprised you would know anything about it.” He leaned closer and asked confidentially, “Have you been considering a second profession?”

  I blushed, more in anger at drawing him away from the circumstances surrounding his stolen passport than from my own near-blunder. “They report things in the newspapers.”

  “Girls shouldn’t read newspapers so much,” he said. “Too much ugliness in them.”

  “I don’t think women should be sheltered from the world.”

  “Not sheltered, exactly. But so many of life’s burdens fall on the fairer sex, it seems to me. Why go out of your way to read about troubles?”

  I revised my opinion of him from old-worldly to antediluvian. “To be informed.”

  He smiled. “You must think me very old and stuffy.”

  “You talk as if you could be my grandfather. There’s barely ten years difference between us.”

  “Sixteen,” he said. “And I feel every one of them.”

  “I don’t.”

  Occasionally that was even true. The man, who had one leg fewer than I did, could walk from one end of Manhattan to the other on a chilly day, at a pace that sometimes had me trotting to keep up. He had an indefatigable curiosity to see things. We spent an entire afternoon in the Metropolitan Museum of Art looking at paintings, Greek statuary, and ancient pottery. He also loved New York itself, and was fascinated by the vertical direction it seemed to be taking. That’s why we’d made a special trip downtown to look at the half-constructed Equitable Building on lower Broadway, which was already casting a considerable shadow over the Singer Building and everything else within a seven-acre path. It was planned to be forty stories high, with the largest area for office space in the world.

  “Aren’t there skyscrapers in England?” I asked as we stared up at what was, to my mind, just another behemoth being added to Manhattan’s skyline.

  “About twenty years ago someone constructed a fourteen-story building of luxury flats that blocked Queen Victoria’s view of the parliament buildings. After that, a law was passed restricting building heights to eighty feet.”

  I’d almost forgotten what it was like to live in a world that wasn’t slowly laddering its way up to the heavens in brick, steel, and stone. “I’m sure it’s beautiful, though. I’d love to see it.”

  He looked down at me. “Do you mean that?”

  I rubbed my hands together, too distracted by the cold to realize his expression had changed. “Of course. There’s so much history there, and”—my teeth were chattering—“and literary landmarks, and so on . . .”

  “It’s not the first time you’ve brought up the subject of England, and your interest in it.”

  “Well, you’re English.”

  “You also ask me a lot of questions about myself. Are you this inquisitive with everyone, Louise?”

  Did he suspect what I was up to? I faltered a bit before coming up with an answer. “I suppose I am curious, but you’ve been so kind, and so generous with your time.”

  “And you have no idea why?”

  Boredom, I’d assumed. He was a salesman in a foreign city, with holidays approaching. Companionship in those circumstances was probably hard to come by. Which might explain why he’d found Ruthie.

  “Louise?” he prompted.

  “Well, you’re far from home, and I came along. Someone to spend a little time and share a few laughs with until you leave on your next trip.”

  “Share a few laughs,” he repeated.

  “Any port in a storm, and all that.”

  He buried his gloved hands in the pockets of his coat. “I see.”

  “Did I say something wrong?”

  “Just a bit of a blow to my pride, that’s all.”

  I saw at once what he meant. He had thought that he and I were building up to something.

  I looked down at the sidewalk, my deceit filling me with shame. That was the problem with living a double life—the duplicity of it. I hadn’t thought Gerald would become attached to me. Or, rather, I figured I would simply see him a few times, and get an idea whether he had anything to do with Ruthie’s death. I had failed to do that, but succeeded in leading him down a garden path.

  “I’m sorry,” I said.

  His struggle with wounded pride showed in his expression. How much more wounded would he feel to know that I suspected he’d killed someone? “Don’t be sorry. I’ve enjoyed our time together.”

  “I’ve only known you a short time, Gerald.”

  “Of course! And you’ve made it clear how you feel.” His voice strained to remain calm, but the resentment in it burned through the chilly air. “Museums, shows, walks . . . a few laughs. Nothing more.”

  This was the flash of temper I’d been waiting for.

  “You’ve kept me at a distance from the beginning,” he continued testily. “I suppose I should have taken my cue from that. I’ve never seen your flat, or your office. You’ve spoken often of your aunt, but you’ve never suggested taking me to meet her. It’s very awkward telephoning her house for you, and yet not being able to present myself at her door.”

  This revelation of his feelings panicked me, especially if he were about to cut me out of his life for fear of breaking his heart. If he pushed me away now, how would I ever find out what I needed to know?

  I grabbed hold of the first lifeline that came to me. “I never thought you would want to bother with my family.”

  A sad smile turned up his lips. “Haven’t you noticed, Louise? I’m rather old-fashioned.”

  “A last-century man.” I smiled back, a rash plan taking shape in my mind. Doing what I was thinking would be a mad roll of the dice—reckless, and possibly even dangerous. I would be involving others in my subterfuge, which was always a risk. And there was Eddie to consider.

  But wasn’t it for Eddie that I was doing all of this?
>
  “It just so happens that my aunt usually has a get-together at her house most Thursday nights,” I said. “I was going to ask you if you’d like to go with me tomorrow night.”

  Heaven help me, the question immediately lifted the man’s spirits. You’d think I’d just agreed to marry him and sail back to England.

  “Are you sure, Louise?”

  I put my arm through his, feeling grubby yet strangely excited. This had to be what the women I saw in the cells at the jail felt like as they led their marks into dingy hotel rooms for their badger schemes. Poor Gerald thought he was going to be a gentleman caller meeting my family. Instead, he’d be stepping right into a trap.

  CHAPTER 14

  In the week since I’d last dropped by Aunt Irene’s house, the halls had been thoroughly decked for Christmas. A fat wreath hung on the front door and the foyer’s chandelier was festooned with mistletoe and ribbons. Tinsel and more ribbon wound around the banister, and greenery brightened every surface, from arrangements on tabletops to the Christmas tree next to the sofa in the corner of the salon. Half the electric lights were left off, replaced by candelabras and hurricane lamps surrounded by fragrant pine. Everywhere flickering candlelight made the familiar rooms glow. My aunt and Walter had done a beautiful job, and from the aromas of cinnamon, nutmeg, and ginger coming from the kitchen, Bernice had been spinning some culinary holiday magic as well.

  It wouldn’t have surprised me a bit if Aunt Irene had put her foot down and refused to let me bring Gerald Hughes to her Thursday night. As much as I liked to assure everyone that he probably wasn’t a murderer, there was no escaping the slight chance that he actually was. Aunt Irene had not only her guests to consider, but the people who worked for her, and now Eddie. Flu or no flu, the foundling hospital didn’t hand over babies to people who played hostess to criminals.

  But when I telephoned my aunt to discuss the matter, she greeted the idea with as much enthusiasm as if I’d suggested bringing royalty. “Your slightly dangerous English gentleman sounds fascinating.”

  “He’s only possibly dangerous. The most certain danger is that he’ll talk your ear off about looms.”

  “It’s all research to me, sugar plum.”

  My aunt was never one to let experiences go to waste when she could find a way to shoehorn them into her latest book. No doubt there would be a mystery about a textile salesman in her future. Woven in Death, or something similar.

  “You realize I’ll have to pose as Louise Frobisher.”

  “That’s no problem. Everyone just calls you Louise here.”

  “And you don’t mind my using Eddie?”

  Tinny silence stretched on the line before she answered. “It’s our duty, isn’t it, to find out what happened to poor Ruthie Jones and her baby? This is all for Eddie, and for the sake of his mother and the twin brother he’ll never know.”

  When Gerald and I arrived, the parlor was already full of revelers, most of whom seemed already full of spirits both of the emotional and liquid variety. I took Gerald’s hand and threaded my way across the room to my aunt, who couldn’t have been more enthusiastic in her greeting. “Mr. Hughes, my niece has told me so much about you.” The dogs, both with plaid bows around their necks, panted up at the stranger. One let out a yip. My aunt’s voice rose on a peel of laughter. “Dickens is glad to meet you, too.”

  Gerald would have been more gratified by the welcome if he, like most of the other guests who hadn’t been warned, wasn’t already tugging at his collar against the heat.

  “It’s for the little one,” my aunt said in a confidential voice, watching him mop his forehead with a handkerchief. “A little mite visiting for Christmas.”

  “Not your child?” he asked, confused.

  “For now I’m calling him my ward. That’s more accurate. Have you met him?”

  “Not yet,” Gerald said.

  “Louise needs to take you upstairs to the nursery, then. I’ve just done it up. Eddie just adores it!”

  “We just arrived,” I told her.

  “Of course—show your beau off to some of the other guests first,” Aunt Irene said. “But don’t wait too long. I don’t want Eddie to be pestered too far past his bedtime.”

  “Eddie is the child I told you about,” I said as we moved along. “An orphan.”

  “How sad,” he said. “Yet how lucky that he’s fallen into your aunt’s orbit. She’s a charming woman.”

  I snagged a glass of champagne off Walter’s tray. Gaping too intently at Gerald, he asked, “Would you rather have a hot drink, Louise?”

  Was he crazy?

  “I’ve made it special this week,” he continued in a meaningful tone. “I call it the Hell’s Kitchen Hot Chocolate.”

  Very subtle. “What’s in it?”

  “Hot chocolate with a deadly kick of brandy. Perhaps your friend would be interested.”

  We both glanced at Gerald to gauge his reaction, but his gaze was entirely focused on someone on the other side of the room. And that someone was staring very intently back at him. Muldoon. I barely suppressed a groan. What was he doing here?

  Gerald leaned closer to me. “That man keeps looking this way. Do you know him?”

  I gulped down half a glass of champagne. The last thing I needed right now was for Muldoon to muddle up my plan. Before the detective could take a step toward us, I held fast to Gerald’s arm and steered him in the other direction. Unfortunately, that’s when I noticed Otto sitting down at the piano.

  I’d been so concerned with Walter and the other regulars that I’d forgotten that Otto—not an unfamiliar face at Aunt Irene’s Thursday Nights—might be here.

  In a nod to the season, Otto launched into a peppy rendition of “The Boar’s Head Carol.” Gerald might have been charmed under other circumstances—Otto played very well, and a small coterie around him were singing along—but the reappearance of Miss Frobisher’s former fiancé had thrown him off balance. For a moment he looked almost apoplectic.

  “What is he doing here?” Gerald asked.

  “I suppose my aunt forgot to disinvite him. We were engaged three years, you know.”

  “So? He has a nerve to show his face after how he treated you.”

  “I didn’t expect him to.” I drained the rest of my glass.

  “Of course you didn’t. I’m surprised by your aunt, though. Surely she knows he’s a blackguard?”

  I nearly coughed up my champagne. I would have to remember to tell Otto that he’d been called a blackguard—when I next spoke to him, which I hoped would not be at this party. I scanned the room for some way to escape. It was becoming more and more difficult to avoid bumping into someone I didn’t want to speak to. I felt like a rabbit in a forest full of snares.

  “Why don’t I take you up to Eddie?” I suggested. “It’s quiet up there. This crowd—”

  “And this heat,” Gerald agreed. “And to think that butler chap wanted to give us a hot drink.”

  “Walter’s always dreaming up new things,” I said as I led us through the dining room. From there we got back out to the hall and doubled back to the stairs. In that way I was able to avoid Muldoon. “He wandered through Hell’s Kitchen a few weeks ago. It gave him ideas.”

  Gerald grunted as we mounted the narrow staircase. I forgot about his leg for a moment and ended up three steps ahead of him before slowing down. The champagne had made me feel odd, light-headed. For some reason, I was aware of the rustling of my rough silk dress, and of Gerald behind me.

  “You did say you liked children, didn’t you?” I asked as I reached the landing ahead of him.

  “Louise, wait.”

  I stopped. At first I didn’t know what was wrong and backtracked to the stairs. “Is something wrong?”

  He climbed the last stair and walked a few steps beyond, stopping where someone had dangled a sprig of mistletoe from the light fixture finial on the landing. “As you said, Louise, I’m just happy to have a moment of privacy with you, away from that cr
owd.”

  He took hold of me then, clamping a hand around the upper sleeve of my dress and drawing me to him. “You look so lovely tonight,” he whispered.

  “I—”

  His lips pressed against mine before I could even think to duck away. Having acted like a perfect gentleman all during our rambles across the city, he caught me off guard now, and I put a hand against his waistcoat. It was just for balance as I leaned away from him, but he interpreted the touch as encouragement, and suddenly his arms were around me, squeezing me. Memories of another man catching me off guard welled up and I pushed him away with a surprised protest.

  “Stop.”

  My shove knocked him back a step on his bad leg, and he grabbed the banister for balance. He looked stricken. “I’m sorry. I thought—”

  “This is my aunt’s house.” Part of me wanted to flee back down the stairs, yet another wanted to laugh at the prudish outrage in my voice. “I hope you didn’t think I suggested coming up here for that.”

  “No, of course . . .” I’d never seen him so flustered. “Excuse me, Louise, I—” At that moment, he glanced down to the bottom of the staircase. And there stood Muldoon. Looking more thunderous than ever. Thunderous and astonished.

  My heart dropped to my heels. Was he spying on me now?

  “Come on.” I tugged Gerald toward Eddie’s room, hoping he wouldn’t interpret this as further encouragement—and that Muldoon wouldn’t follow.

  “Does that man have some claim on you?” Gerald asked in a low voice.

  Oh, for heaven’s sake. “No man has a claim on me. Detective Muldoon always looks like that.”

  “Detective?”

  Did I hear a note of fear in his tone? Good.

  I hadn’t seen the guest room since its transformation into a nursery. The room still smelled of fresh paste from the paper, which was decorated with little animal drawings in blue and yellow and red. Eddie’s crib was in the center of the room. I’d seen it before, of course, but a yellow painted dresser was new. His rocking horse was opposite the crib, and a mountain of toys was piled on a chair that had been reupholstered in a fabric embroidered with fairy-tale scenes.