by R. J. Koreto
A flood of tears came out, but she nodded. “I never met them, but of course, one can’t help but know … the talk … actresses, singers, artists’ models.”
There were women whom men married and women they didn’t. It was the way of the world that sometimes a bad marriage was better than no marriage at all. Mariah would disagree and had walked away from her husband years ago. But my sister and I had learned to make our own way in the world, and that was something Victoria Brackton was not capable of doing. Sometimes it’s harder to be rich than to be poor. “But that was the extent? He wasn’t … he didn’t lay his hands on you?” asked Alice.
“No. I gave him what he wanted, didn’t make a fuss about what he did, and I don’t think he cared enough about me to strike me.”
I don’t know why, but that sounded even sadder than if he had hit her. I thought it was odd that Mrs. Brackton didn’t question the reason behind all of Alice’s questions. She probably had no one to talk with and no one who knew the whole story. Just an endless stream of pity behind her back. I glanced at Alice and saw a little gleam in her eye.
“But your marriage, your life … it was a steady life? I mean, regardless of the other problems … Lynley was reliable?” Alice came down heavily on that last word. That’s what they were saying about Lynley, that he was unreliable.
“What a funny question,” Mrs. Brackton said, drying her eyes with a delicate handkerchief. “Reliable? I never really thought about that. I mean, one doesn’t, do they? I got my allowance, he told me if he wasn’t going to be home for dinner, but for the past few months … I didn’t think of it that way. Yes, he was unreliable. Missing dinners without telling me or our butler. I handled our social calendar, of course, but messengers came, and they only spoke with Lynley. He wouldn’t even tell me who sent them, and I thought it was something to do with business. I didn’t put it all together. But I suppose that’s one way to put it … he was becoming, in some respects, unreliable.”
Alice nodded at that, and I think she was out of questions. But Mrs. Brackton had one. Again, I realized she was a little shrewder than I had thought. “You were asking about Delilah Linde. You don’t think that she…” She couldn’t bring herself to complete the accusation, but her eyes were wide.
“There’s no reason to think that,” said Alice, reassuring her, whatever she privately thought, and Mrs. Brackton seemed to accept that.
“So what happens now?” asked Mrs. Brackton, returning to her current problems. “Are there people you can trust? I’m terrified of leaving the house.”
“You won’t be leaving the house, anyway. You’re in mourning. Have your servants been with you long?” asked Alice. Mrs. Brackton nodded. “Then I imagine you’ll be safe for now while Mr. St. Clair and I look into this with people we know.”
Oh Christ, I thought. What are you planning now?
“I guess people will be coming to call,” I added. “Don’t accept gifts of food from anyone. Only from your servants.”
“I’ll only be admitting people I know,” said Mrs. Brackton.
I watched Alice closely to see how she’d react to that. She was often difficult, but when it was important, she knew what needed to be done. She leaned over to Mrs. Brackton and put a hand on her arm. “Victoria,” she said softly but firmly. “There were no strangers at the party who could’ve put something in your drink. You need to understand that whoever is trying to kill you is someone you know. Accept nothing. Trust only me, Mr. St. Clair, and Captain O’Hara, our friend in the police. Anyone else is a suspect.”
Mrs. Brackton hadn’t thought that far, and I watched the look of horror come back to her face.
“But don’t worry,” said Alice, still firmly, and I heard her father’s voice in her tone. “A few sensible precautions, and you’ll be safe. Now, I still have one more question, more out of curiosity than anything. I saw your husband wore a ring, a signet ring, with XVII stamped on it. Mr. Rutledge also had one. Was that a club of some kind?”
Mrs. Brackton blinked, still thinking about how someone she may have known for years, someone she had sat down to dinner with, had tried to poison her.
“What? I’m sorry. The XVII? Lynley mentioned it once or twice. Some sort of club, as you said. Men from the best families. I don’t really know the details.” Now that wasn’t fear; it was nervousness. She was lying—she knew more.
“When did he get that ring? Do you remember? It’s very unusual.”
“Yes, I do. He said a special delivery would be coming from a jeweler, and no one—not a servant, not I—was supposed to open it. He never did that. It was, oh, about three months ago.”
I met Alice’s eye and saw she knew we weren’t getting the full story. Nor did Mrs. Brackton seem to connect the arrival of the ring with Lynley becoming unreliable. I wondered if Alice would press it, but she decided to let it go. She stood, and I did, too.
“We’ll leave you now,” said Alice. “I’m sure others will be calling. Take our advice, and you can always leave a message for me at the Caledonia.”
“Thank you so much for coming—I think your visit has stopped me from falling apart completely.” There was a pause, and then I saw for a moment that she wasn’t just frightened. She was sad. “Every time I think about this, it comes to me, that it will be all right, Lynley will take care of it, and it starts all over again because that’s the point, isn’t it.…? He always took care of everything, until recently…” She started to cry. Alice was surprisingly adept at handling this, however, putting her arms around Mrs. Brackton and soothing her with soft words until she calmed down.
After a minute or two, Mrs. Brackton gave Alice a kiss on her cheek, and then, not quite sure of my position, gave me a quick look. “And thank you, too, Mr. St. Clair,” she said. She rang for a servant, who showed us out, even as other callers were beginning to arrive: the cream of New York Society. They nodded briefly at Alice, but she didn’t stop to talk with them. We just headed out the door and walked to the motorcar in silence. Alice made sure we were alone before speaking.
“That was something,” said Alice. “Here we were thinking that with someone as disliked as Lynley Brackton, we’d have a host of suspects, but with Victoria, we have to start from the beginning—assuming she was correct, of course. It’s so hard to keep track of glasses.” She seemed rather disappointed for a moment but then brightened. “Although we found something else out—his wife confirmed he was unreliable. At least as far as the last three months, when the XVII got started. But I wonder if, at some level, he was always unreliable—and that the XVII simply brought out the worst in him.”
“And speaking of the XVII, I have one question,” I said. “Why did she lie about them? I’m sure she knew more than she was saying.”
“Yes. I also felt she was hiding something. It seems to be rather a secret. I don’t know why because there are all kinds of groups one knows about. Father is a Freemason.”
“I’d heard that,” I said. “Do the Freemasons have something to do with the XVII?”
“I can’t imagine what,” said Alice. “But the men who attacked us on Houston—they were working for Brackton, who was one of the XVII, and so we must assume that it’s the XVII who are against us and Roth. I’m still working on what this may have to do with Victoria and why anyone would want to kill her. I told her that it may have to do with her husband, but I said that just to talk. I can’t imagine why someone who hated Lynley would kill his quiet and inoffensive wife—if that’s indeed what was planned. Surely the XVII is not after one of its own.”
I grinned at her. “You don’t know much about husbands and wives, do you?”
She folded her arms. “That’s the second time you’ve said that to me. Very well, what deep insight does Special Agent St. Clair—who has never been married, by the way—have?”
“It means maybe she was targeted for reasons having nothing to do with her and everything to do with her husband. Maybe no one had anything against her, but some woman wan
ted Lynley Brackton for herself.” Alice frowned, and I could see she was deep in thought.
“Miss Alice, let’s think about that word—‘unreliable.’ We keep hearing it about Lynley Brackton. Your aunt seemed to think being unreliable was about the worst thing you could be, and as different as she and I are, I agree with her.”
“What do you think it means—to be unreliable?” asked Alice.
“Lots of things. When I was growing up, unreliable meant you weren’t doing your part on the ranch. Cattle wandered off and died. In war, unreliable meant men were killed. But I’m thinking about other things.” I wondered if I should be starting this conversation with Alice. Even I forgot how young she was sometimes. “With men and women, reliability is what you want in a marriage. You can talk about love and romance, but what holds two people together at the end of the day is reliability. I haven’t been married, but for what it’s worth, I’ve seen some things.” I’d rarely seen Alice looking so astonished, and I wondered if I had said too much.
“Mr. St. Clair, are you giving me lessons in marriage?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. You’re just a little girl—no, don’t interrupt me. I’m not giving you marriage advice. I’m giving you detective advice. If you want to understand this, you’re going to have to think about what the word ‘unreliable’ means in all situations. Especially to be an unreliable husband or wife.”
She didn’t come back with one of her usual smart remarks, and I thought I had really reached her.
“That’s surprisingly insightful, Mr. St. Clair. I didn’t think you had it in you. I wouldn’t have thought that Mr. Brackton was desirable as a husband. He was a deeply unpleasant man—and unreliable, as you point out. I’m sure when she recovers from shock, she’ll realize she’s well rid of him. Perhaps he was more unreliable than we had thought, got another woman with child, and her only path to security and respectability was to marry him, so she tried to get rid of his current wife. Of course, it would have to be a woman currently single.”
“Dear Lord, Miss Alice, what an appalling thought.”
She laughed at what she decided was a compliment. “Surely even in Wyoming women have babies seven months after getting married, and everyone just shrugs and says that Junior arrived early. It happens in New York and even among the better families.”
“But they don’t kill over that. And even if this woman we’re imagining really wanted to go to any length to ensure Brackton would marry her, he couldn’t properly get married until a year after his wife died. I know that much.”
“Perhaps,” said Alice. “Of course, a woman in that position would not be thinking clearly. But this has given us something to work with. Might there be a woman in the picture who somehow deluded herself that if Lynley was available, he’d marry her? If she was one of his mistresses, he’d just throw some money at her and send her away.”
“You’re now an expert on mistresses?” I asked.
“I just keep my ears open. There are so many mistresses among the great families, I wouldn’t be surprised if they started their own labor union. Anyway, she’d have to be optimistic to the point of stupidity to think that Lynley would marry her, even if he was available. For now, we have two people we need to talk with. One is that maid you spoke with—did you get her name?”
“Cathleen O’Neill. And I found out that she’s off this afternoon, in case I thought of more to ask her. But I don’t know what, and it doesn’t seem like she wants to talk more.”
“I want to find out why she was nervous enough to question you about it. She may have known something or seen something and doesn’t want to make any trouble. Maids are terrified of getting into trouble. The second person I want to speak with is Delilah Linde.”
“Why her?”
“She was there. And she’s beautiful, and beautiful women attract attention. Also, there’s that marriage of hers with that much older man, who nevertheless doesn’t want to show off his attractive young wife in public. I wonder what she saw or heard that evening. I think we can rule her out as a suspect—she had no apparent reason to kill Victoria. We just don’t know enough yet to draw conclusions. Anyway, let’s start with Cathleen O’Neill. Delilah Linde isn’t going anywhere, but I want to reach that maid because she’s off this afternoon, so you can get her out of the house. Also, we need to speak with her before she confides in a butler or someone who tells her to forget she saw anything.”
“We can’t just show up at the Rutledges’ and remove a maid to question her, Miss Alice.”
“But she already knows and likes you.”
“Maybe. But what kind of excuse do I give for wanting to see her? Whoever answers the back door is going to ask.”
Alice grinned. “Mr. St. Clair, you look just like the kind of man who might be calling on a lovely young maid to take her out on her afternoon off. Surely you can convince the butler that you’re madly in love with a comely Irish lass. Now let’s get ourselves some lunch downtown. I think you know where I want to go.”
CHAPTER 14
There really wasn’t much to say about Alice’s plan, so I just cranked up the motorcar, and we drove to a funny little place downtown Alice had become fond of. The restaurant was owned by Jews who came from a country in Eastern Europe called Romania, and they had this clever way of curing beef, smoking and seasoning it. They called it pastrami and served it on rye bread with sharp mustard and a little pot of pickled cucumbers so sour that your lips puckered. With glasses of beer, it made a great lunch.
I wondered if the Roths ate like this in their home. Dulcie was a good cook, but for the most part, the English and Dutch families who ran the town had nothing to brag about when it came to cooking. With Mariah’s Southern cooking, Chinatown, and this food from Romania, I didn’t feel any need take up residence in one of the great mansions.
Alice delighted in our lunch and in looking around the restaurant at the other diners, who were mostly working folk. We stood out there, the cowboy and the Society girl, and Alice and I could tell when someone recognized her, which thrilled her. Her photograph appeared regularly in all the illustrated press, so when we were out walking, you could count on at least one person recognizing her.
As we were feeling good after the sandwiches and beer, I thought I’d bring up the plan to speak with the maid, Cathleen.
“So to get her out of there, I’m supposed to pretend I’m courting her, and then when she comes to the back door, I try to see if she can talk to me, as it’s her afternoon off. Or if she can find another time. Is that it?”
“That’s right. Reassure her we will be discreet.”
I decided to tweak her, so I smirked and said, “A pleasant enough assignment.”
Alice wiped away the last of the beer foam from her lip. “Why is the assignment pleasant?” she asked, suspecting I was having a joke at her expense.
“She’s a lovely little thing. You know how adorable those Irish girls are. When I pick her up for our meeting on her next afternoon off, it’ll be fun pretending to be her suitor.”
“Are you trying to be funny, Mr. St. Clair? Because you aren’t succeeding. This is work. Not a chance for you to enliven your workday by seducing an innocent girl who has to make her way in the world. Whatever amusement you gather during your workday should come from our partnership. You can meet maids for your entertainment on your own time.”
“Don’t fret, Miss Alice. I’m sure Stephen Lesseps will be having you over for dinner to meet his folks very soon, even if you did more or less abandon him at the party. It doesn’t matter—a man likes a woman all the more if she’s a little cool to him. Unless…” I took some beer and fixed her a look. “Unless you’ve got your eye on Mr. Roth. Not that I’d blame you. He’s good-looking and seems pleasant enough, and your father may be broadminded enough to accept a Jewish son-in-law.”
She looked as if she was about to get angry, then mastered herself and gave a toss of her head. “You’re just trying to get a rise out of me, but I won’t
give you the satisfaction. You pretend to flirt with maids because you just can’t admit how much you missed me when you were stuck in St. Louis. Don’t deny it. And don’t pretend there is anything more entertaining in your life than being with me. Now come—we want to get there before Cathleen leaves.”
“How do you know she’s going to leave?”
“Servants always leave. They’re stuck inside all day. They never miss a chance to get outside.”
We got back into the motorcar, and as I drove to the Rutledge mansion, I rehearsed what I was going to say to the butler and to Cathleen when she was summoned. Alice was reading my mind because as we parked, she said, “Keep it simple, Cowboy.”
“I think I know how to romance a maid,” I said. Alice just gave a cluck of annoyance.
“We may not even have to rely on your acting skills,” she said. “Let’s just wait for her to leave. She’ll probably want to change into her street clothes, and we can catch her around the corner. I don’t see any friends waiting for her—that is, a maid or two from another house—which might’ve been a problem, and it’s not so crowded that we’ll miss her.”
We didn’t have to wait long. A few minutes later, a maid walked up the stairs that led from the servants’ hall downstairs to the street. Only a servant leaves from the basement entrance.
“That’s Cathleen,” I said. I started to get out of the motorcar, but Alice grabbed my arm.
“No. Something’s wrong. Look at her dress. That’s not a normal street dress. She’s wearing her Sunday best. And it’s not Sunday. Look how purposefully she’s walking. She’s determined to go somewhere.”
I agreed. I don’t know much about women’s dress, but I could tell Cathleen was deeply committed to her path, and she might’ve seen us but was looking straight ahead as she turned and headed west.
“Can you follow her in the motorcar without losing her?” asked Alice. “She might see us if we walked behind her, but I don’t think she’ll noticed anyone in a motorcar. It won’t occur to her.”
