A New York Christmas (Christmas Novellas 12)

by Anne Perry

  The cobbler also ate his with relish.

  ‘Sara,’ he said with a smile of memory. ‘Good feet, she had. Terrible cough, though, even then.’

  ‘Even then?’ Patrick said quickly. ‘How long ago was that?’

  ‘Oh, ten years, maybe more. Had a hard time, Sara did. Wonder she lived so long.’ He blinked several times, as if to hide tears. ‘Wouldn’t have made it without Maria.’

  Jemima leaned forward quickly. ‘I thought Maria was busy helping people fight against injustice? Is that not true?’ She felt a curious kind of grief, as if she personally had lost a dream. Too much was falling away.

  The cobbler stared at her, a touch of anger in his eyes. ‘’Course she did! Both of them. That’s when it all happened. In the seventies, before they came to this part of the city.’

  Patrick started to speak, then stopped. He nodded to Jemima.

  ‘If you knew them, then I’d really like to hear the truth,’ Jemima asked. ‘Her daughter is my friend and I think she deserves to hear something more than gossip, a lot of which is unkind.’

  ‘Unkind!’ the cobbler snorted. It was dim inside the small room. He burned a stove to keep the air from freezing but he clearly could not afford to burn a light as well, and the window was blurring over with snow. ‘That what you call it? Bastards deserve to be hanged themselves.’

  Jemima waited. She did not even dare glance at Patrick, but she was acutely aware of his presence in the room, sitting opposite her, their knees almost touching.

  ‘Them as used to be slaves got into a bit of trouble back then,’ the cobbler began. ‘Blacks, you know? Some folks were fine, but we aren’t so very far from the south here, and ones who’d run away were here and there. Some folk didn’t think they should own things, like horses and land and such. You know?’ He looked at Patrick, his eyebrows raised questionably. He had caught Jemima’s English accent and did not expect her to understand.

  ‘I’ve heard,’ Patrick nodded. He was Irish; he knew immigrant discrimination.

  ‘Sara used to help people,’ the cobbler went on. ‘Got into it with Maria. There was one real bad time. Black man been a slave, owned a real nice place. Some folks got very upset about it. Spread around stories that he’d stole it. There was a big fight. Women and children in it too. One of them was Sara Godwin. Feller who used to be a slave fought to get the women out. Maria fought alongside and they got out, but one man was killed. Son of a bitch had it coming, but he was white. Maria fell in love with the man what did it, to save the children. Married him, she did. Some folks never forgave her for that.’

  ‘That was the scandal?’ Jemima asked, hardly daring to believe it.

  ‘It’s enough,’ the cobbler replied, pursing his lips. ‘Black don’t marry white. Some folks consider it unnatural, a sin against God, like.’

  ‘Where is her husband now?’ Jemima forced herself to ask, and yet she dreaded the answer. Maria had lived alone in the apartment where they found her, except for Sara Godwin. Could Sara possibly have thought it was a sin? In spite of all Maria had done for her?

  ‘Don’t know,’ the cobbler replied with a sniff. ‘He was taken down here in New York, to be tried for killing that son of a bitch who tried to murder the women and children.’

  Jemima shivered at the word ‘trial’. She felt Patrick’s knees touch hers, just for a moment. Had he meant to, or was he just moving because he was stiff?

  ‘What happened?’ she whispered.

  ‘They told her he was dead,’ the cobbler replied, his voice hoarse. ‘But I heard after that he wasn’t. Don’t know what was true.’

  ‘What happened to Maria?’ Patrick asked.

  ‘Some rich white feller kind of looked after her. She were a real handsome woman. His name was All-something . . .’

  ‘Albright?’ Jemima filled in.

  ‘Yes, something like that. He was married, of course. Men like that always are. Got to keep the family going. Anyway, she married his business partner, or something. English . . . like you,’ he said to Jemima. ‘Is that why you’re asking all this?’

  ‘Yes. Maria’s daughter is my friend.’

  ‘Well, ain’t it a small world. And this daughter come here just as poor Maria’s killed. That’s a terrible shame. You tell her that her mother was one of the best ladies that ever drew breath, you hear me?’

  ‘Yes,’ Jemima answered. ‘Yes, I will. I promise.’

  Outside again in the more heavily falling snow, Jemima turned to Patrick. He was standing to the windward of her, sheltering her from the worst of it. It blew against him and piled on his shoulders.

  ‘Do you think someone killed her because years ago she married a black man who used to be a slave?’ she asked.

  ‘I think that’s pretty likely,’ he replied. ‘Are you prepared for Delphinia to hear that?’

  ‘No!’ She looked away from him, down at the snow around her boots. ‘No. She might not mind, but imagine what the Albrights would make of it!’

  ‘Delphinia’s a Cardew,’ he pointed out. ‘Come out of the snow. We can find somewhere better than this.’ He took her arm as he said it, gently but too firmly for her to resist.

  Jemima said nothing. It was difficult to talk out here in the street because the wind snatched her words and the freezing air almost choked her.

  They walked side by side along the street until they came to a corner where they could turn into an alley and find room to stand in a doorway sheltered from the worst of the weather.

  She remembered Harley Albright’s words to her, before they even found Maria’s body, when it was still a matter of stopping her from creating a scene at the wedding.

  ‘Marguerite Albright, Harley’s mother,’ she began. ‘He said to me that she had told him about Maria and what a terrible woman she was.’

  ‘Well, if the cobbler is right, then Mr Albright was very fond of Maria, so she was probably jealous,’ he pointed out.

  ‘Do you suppose she knew about Maria’s first husband?’

  ‘Possibly, in fact probably, if Maria was still looking for him in New York. What are you thinking, Jemima? That it was one of the Albrights after all?’

  He was worried, she could see. It would be difficult to prove; might his superiors try to prevent him from even suggesting it? Jemima would be a much easier target, much more comfortable. Nobody in New York would care if she were convicted. Would it matter to them that her father was important in England? The fear came back over her like an icy wave.

  Patrick saw it in her eyes. ‘Jemima, don’t! I won’t let that happen,’ he promised.

  ‘You might not be able to stop it,’ she replied. ‘If Harley’s mother told him the truth about Maria then he would care very much indeed that Phinnie didn’t marry into the Albright family.’

  ‘Then why didn’t he just tell Brent the truth?’ he asked. ‘It would answer all the things that don’t make sense now.’

  ‘What else?’ she asked, but she knew the answer. ‘If Marguerite Albright had written to Maria in England and told her that her first husband was alive after all, then she was not a widow! She was a bigamist! Her marriage to Cardew was not legal.’

  He was watching her closely, trying to read what she was thinking now.

  ‘Then Phinnie would be illegitimate,’ she told him. ‘Brent Albright would never marry her then. And another thing, would she still be Cardew’s heir?’

  ‘She’s still his daughter!’ He was angry at the injustice and it was naked in his face. ‘Maria thought she was a widow. In fact we don’t know for certain that she wasn’t. Mrs Albright could have said her husband was alive simply out of . . .’ He stopped.

  ‘Out of spite?’ Jemima finished. ‘Revenge, for Mr Albright having liked Maria so much?’

  He shook his head, his eyes very grave. ‘Not just that. More importantly, so the company power and money will stay with the Albright family.’

  ‘But she died long before Brent Albright proposed marriage to Phinnie Cardew . . . oh
.’ Now it was there, real and cold as ice. ‘She told Harley. Of course. And if Brent married Phinnie, then between the two of them they would own three-quarters of the company: Phinnie’s entire Cardew share from her father, and Brent’s half of the Albright share. So effectively Brent would own three-quarters.’ She leaned forward and put her hands over her face, pushing her fingers through her hair, heedless of the mess she made of it. ‘Poor Phinnie.’

  Patrick said nothing. He understood too well to say something meaningless.

  ‘She’s so much in love with him,’ Jemima went on. ‘Do you think he is even half as much in love with her?’ She did not look up at him. She was afraid he was going to struggle to find some comfortable half-truth.

  ‘No,’ he said softly. ‘If you really love someone you stick by them, no matter what. You don’t doubt them, or make a way to get out of it.’

  Now she did look up. ‘Did he make a way to get out of it?’

  ‘Yes. When I questioned him he didn’t defend her, not completely. If anyone said that about you, I would have defended you, whether I had the right to or not.’

  She tried to smile though the emotion that was beating so hard inside her it almost robbed her of breath.

  ‘They are saying it about me,’ she pointed out.

  ‘I know.’ Now his eyes hid nothing. ‘And I am defending you. I’ll prove you didn’t do it. We’re nearly there now. But you can’t help Delphinia, except maybe to make her see the truth about the Albrights, and to give her the knowledge that her mother was a good woman who got caught up in a tragedy that wasn’t of her making.’

  ‘Why did she leave Phinnie? She was only two years old!’ Jemima protested.

  ‘If Mrs Albright wrote to Cardew and told him all about Maria’s first marriage, to a black man who was still alive, Cardew may have given Maria no choice. And she certainly wouldn’t be allowed to take Phinnie with her, even if she had the means to look after her.’

  ‘I suppose I should have known that,’ she apologised. ‘It explains everything, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Except what happened to Sara Godwin,’ Patrick agreed. ‘Why did she run off, and where is she now? Hadn’t she enough loyalty to see that Maria at least had a decent burial?’

  ‘Perhaps she is afraid they’ll come after her too?’ Jemima tried to imagine the conflict in Sara Godwin. She owed Maria her life, but she was ill, alone now, and knew that Maria had been murdered. Perhaps she even knew who had done it. The woman in the same building had said Sara had been followed, mistaken for Maria.

  Patrick must have been thinking the same thing.

  ‘We must find her,’ he said with sudden urgency. ‘If she saw the man following her, she might know who it was, or at least be able to describe him. I think we have the answer. It was Harley. He killed Maria and then very neatly organised it so you would be the one to find her. But we need to prove that.’

  Jemima nodded. ‘Yes.’

  ‘What is it?’ he asked. ‘Why don’t you want to? Are you afraid we’re wrong?’ He put his hand over hers. ‘Jemima, we aren’t wrong. It all fits together and makes sense of all the bits we couldn’t understand before.’

  She met his eyes. ‘I know. I just hate the thought of finding Sara Godwin, who owed so much to Maria, and then ran away when Maria was dead. I understand! Maybe I wouldn’t have done better. But I still hate it.’

  ‘I’ll do it,’ he answered.

  She glared at him. ‘No, you won’t! I’m coming with you.’

  This time he laughed, his face eased in relief. She realised it mattered to him, and the feeling was wonderful, as if the cold outside barely existed. She withdrew her hand from his. ‘Let’s begin.’

  It took them all that day, and the next. It was almost Christmas when, after much questioning, pleading and even promises, they finally climbed up the rickety stairs in the tenement building where Sara Godwin had taken refuge. They had followed her largely through trailing her attempts to raise money by taking small jobs, never staying more than two days at most, as if she knew someone was pursuing her.

  The snow had eased and the east wind dropped when finally, feet aching and bones cold, they knocked on the door of the smallest apartment on the top floor.

  The door opened tentatively and a woman looked out, keeping her weight behind the door so she could close it. Her face was filled with alarm.

  Jemima recognised her immediately. It was the same woman who had walked in Central Park and turned back to gaze up at the snow-laden branches with such joy. Suddenly she understood. It was only Harley who had said the dead woman was Maria Cardew.

  ‘Maria?’ Jemima said gently.

  The woman’s face filled with terror and she tried to push the door closed.

  Patrick leaned his weight against it, forcing it to stay open.

  ‘I’m Jemima Pitt,’ Jemima said gently. ‘I’m Phinnie’s friend. I’ve come over from England to be with her for her wedding. I understand that you can’t be . . . and why.’

  Tenderness and grief filled the woman’s eyes. She must have been over fifty, and had certainly not had an easy life, but she was still beautiful.

  ‘You don’t know why,’ she said quietly. ‘I . . . wish I could . . .’

  ‘I do know,’ Jemima contradicted her. ‘Mrs Albright wrote to Mr Cardew and told him about your first husband. You had no choice.’

  Maria’s grief was impossible to hide. She pulled the door open and Jemima and Patrick went inside. The room was tiny and the air was chill, but it was clean and there was a feeling of home in it because of the few belongings that were intensely personal. There were embroidered pillow covers on the narrow bed, half a dozen books on a shelf, and a photograph of a handsome black man, smiling, on the bedside table.

  ‘I never stopped thinking about her,’ Maria said as Patrick closed the door. ‘But I couldn’t even see her. Then she’d have known, and it would spoil things for her. Why have you come here?’

  Jemima hesitated and it was Patrick who answered.

  ‘Because they are blaming Jemima for killing Sara Godwin, either with Phinnie’s help, or at the least, for her sake.’

  Maria paled. ‘Why? That’s . . .’ Then she understood. ‘It was Harley, wasn’t it? I knew he was following Sara, and she knew it too.’ She closed her eyes and for a moment she swayed a little as if she might fall.

  Patrick took hold of her, supporting part of her weight, and eased her to the one moderately comfortable chair.

  She waited a moment, then opened her eyes. ‘Sara was dying,’ she said with difficulty, her voice thick with tears. ‘She tricked me, sent me on an errand to help someone, and she took my place. She wore my clothes – we were always the same size – and I suppose we look a bit alike. Harley hadn’t seen me for years.’

  ‘It wouldn’t matter if he had, and knew he was wrong,’ Patrick pointed out. ‘He identified the body as you, so it served his purpose well enough. You weren’t going to come forward and say he was wrong.’

  ‘I couldn’t! Not without Phinnie learning all about me, and that she was illegitimate,’ she said the word as if it hurt her. ‘Even though I thought Joe was dead at the time. I would never have left America if I’d known he was still alive.’

  ‘And Phinnie’s wedding?’ Jemima asked.

  ‘I just wanted to see her. I wouldn’t have spoken to her, just watched. There’ll be a crowd. No one would have seen me.’

  ‘And Sara Godwin?’ This time it was Patrick who asked the question.

  ‘There’s no one else to look after her properly. No matter what, I wouldn’t leave her to die alone – and yet that’s just what I did!’

  ‘She chose to,’ Jemima shook her head. ‘She did that for you, perhaps to thank you for all you’d done for her.’

  ‘I’ve got to bury her properly. They’re not putting her in a pauper’s grave. I’ve got nearly enough money.’ She looked from Jemima to Patrick. ‘Whatever you think of me, please see that that happens?’

  �
��We will,’ Patrick promised instantly. ‘But before that, we have to make sure we have all the evidence to prove it was Harley Albright who killed Sara, whether he thought she was you, or not.’

  ‘How are you going to do that?’ Maria asked doubtfully.

  Patrick smiled at her. ‘You’re coming to the police station and you’ll tell my bosses the whole story, including that Harley was following you a day or so before Sara was killed. We all know he identified her as you. We know that Phinnie is Mr Cardew’s heir, and that when she marries Brent he will become heir to three-quarters of the Albright and Cardew business. The only way for Harley to keep his power and fortune is to discredit Phinnie, either so Brent doesn’t marry her and the shares stay equal among the three of them. Or better still, she is totally discredited as illegitimate, Mr Cardew has no heirs and the power all reverts to the Albrights.’

  ‘Poor Harley,’ Maria said with regret. ‘He was a nice child. So handsome, with all that fair hair. Marguerite adored him. One loves one’s children . . . so much.’

  ‘When this is settled, will you meet Phinnie?’ Jemima asked urgently.

  ‘Oh, no. I won’t spoil her happiness. It will be terribly hard for Brent to come to terms with his brother’s crime. He will need her support. And Celia will help. She was always strong . . . and loyal, as much as they would allow.’

  Jemima glanced at Patrick and saw him nod very slightly. Did he really know her so well he understood what she was asking? She realised that the joy that Maria was alive, and the relief that she herself would be cleared of any suspicion, was suddenly horribly overshadowed by the thought of leaving New York after the wedding . . . if it happened! She might never see Patrick again, and that hurt more than she had thought possible.

  Her own mother had come from a very good family, and scandalised them all by marrying a policeman, when they were socially regarded as little better than bailiffs or dustmen. Times had been hard and money scarce, but she had been and still was extraordinarily happy. And unlike so many women, she had never, ever been bored . . . or lonely.

  This was ridiculous! Yes, she admitted to herself, she was in love with Patrick Flannery, very much in love. But he had not mentioned marriage, and probably not given it a thought! She was misinterpreting what he had said because she wanted to.