His shoulders relaxed. “It’s all right, Bel.”
“I’m sorry, Riot.”
“Don’t be. It was years ago. There’s no harm in mentioning his murder.”
“I’m not apologizing for my words. Not that I wouldn’t, but—I’m sorry you lost a friend,” she finally settled, and wondered why she was tripping over words like a fool. “For people like you and me, friends are few and far between.”
“Yes,” he whispered. His hand still gripped the other. Isobel did not know what to make of it, and sincere words never came easy for her. She slipped an arm through his, and placed a hand on his forearm. “For reinforcement,” she whispered.
Riot relaxed. Warmth radiated from the man, and she was cold, so she leaned in close.
“And warmth?” he murmured. The fingers of his left hand uncurled, and he transferred the hand from his own to hers.
“Precisely.”
Riot took a deep breath. “You know I still see Ravenwood. I still hear his voice.” There was pain in his own.
“What is he saying now?”
“He’s saying I’m a crazed fool for confiding in you.”
Isobel sat up straight, narrowing her eyes. “That’s not very fair, now is it? I can hardly argue back.” She thought a moment, keeping a solid hold on his arm. “Do you think he’s haunting you?”
Riot closed his eyes. “I don’t believe in ghosts,” he said with a shaky breath. “And if I’m right,” he looked into her eyes, “then I’m not far from Virgil.”
“Perfectly sane people make me uneasy,” she said. He must have known it for the truth, because some of the worry left his eyes. As if words alone could send her running. “If the voice is a ghost, at least yours is dead. Every time I light a cigarette, I hear my mother saying, ‘Isobel Saavedra Amsel, put that down at once!” Isobel did a fair enough imitation that he chuckled. “Really, Riot, it’s not so strange. I can’t stand crowds. It makes my head want to burst. There’s so much going on inside my skull that I can’t hear myself think. I’m not sure that’s much different.”
“Maybe not,” he conceded.
“The mind is a big place,” she said softly. “Maybe you’re trying to tell yourself something.”
31
An Unexpected Turn
Wednesday, February 21st, 1900
IN THE MORNING, RIOT and Isobel slung the dead man over a horse. Riot mounted the second and Isobel climbed behind him in the saddle. She wrapped her arms around his torso, feeling the strength in his spine.
Soon after, a dust cloud rose through the trees, and the local posse caught up with them around ten. Isobel exchanged her cap for the floppy straw hat she had stuffed in the bags. It leant her a more feminine air.
“You look a mess,” Riot said, clearly amused.
“Well good. The police won’t look twice at me.”
Riot met the armed group with a firm greeting, an authoritative explanation, a flash of his card, and thanks to the competent lawman, the party turned around without fuss. They reached Bright Water before noon, freshened up, packed their bags, and traveled by train to the Napa Insane Asylum.
Isobel found herself standing next to a corpse in the asylum morgue with Riot, a no nonsense officer by the name of Williams, and the asylum director.
“We have reason to believe that this man was Virgil Cunningham. He was a patient of yours.” Riot looked across the battered lump of flesh to the director.
Dr. Morris shook his head. “Couldn’t be.” The man’s keen eyes stared down at the corpse.
“Couldn’t be a patient, or couldn’t be Virgil?” Riot pressed.
Morris wiped his forehead. He was pale and blond and possessed a stoic bearing that was currently at odds with his nerves.
“Virgil Cunningham is dead. Heart failure, if I recall correctly. We have his death certificate.”
“He’s certainly good and dead now,” Isobel stated. The officer looked at her sharply, and she politely folded her hands behind her back, affecting remorse.
“May we see his records?” asked Riot.
“Records cannot be released without a warrant issued by the court.”
“You have my order,” the officer said. “This isn’t about a patient. This is an investigation regarding a possible escapee and murder. That overrides confidentiality.”
“This cannot be the man in question—he’s buried in our graveyard.”
“What a fuss,” Isobel mused. “Whether it’s him or not, the reporters will have a feeding frenzy.”
With that threatening suggestion, Morris scurried away, and Officer Williams gave her an approving nod.
In short order, the record was produced, and Isobel waited her turn as the officer and Riot bent their heads together.
Williams held the photograph close to the body. Isobel compared the two. “I’d say that’s a match,” the officer said. And she agreed. The photograph they had discovered in Henry’s room was dated, a younger version of the man, but even this, his admitting photograph, was a far cry from the man who had tried to strangle her. In two years, Virgil had aged ten. She studied the asylum photograph in which Virgil was dressed in the dull, oversized, blue uniform. He looked terrified.
What sane man wouldn’t rather face a noose than the prospect of an asylum? Virgil’s only crime was loving and trusting in friends. It was hard not to compare this man to her own twin. Of the twins, her brother had always been the more delicate, and she, the protector. Lotario wouldn’t last ten days in an asylum or labor camp.
“Hydrotherapy, electrotherapy, physical restraints—and the list goes on. It seems he had it all,” Riot noted with disapproval.
“All the treatments were aimed at controlling his unnatural desires,” Morris said.
Isobel thought of Henry, and the burns in his ears, along with Virgil’s words, ‘right into the ears’. “Electrodes were stuck inside his ears,” she said. “Is that a common treatment?”
“No,” the doctor shook his head. “All of our treatments are humane. The days of Bedlam are behind.”
“That’s what the directors kept insisting to Nellie Bly on Blackwell’s Island.”
The doctor winced at the name. “Not this hospital, Miss Bonnie.”
“It’s a large hospital,” Isobel stated. “There’s a number of staff and wards.”
“How long have you held the position of director at this asylum, Dr. Morris?” Riot asked.
“A year,” he conceded.
“And what happened to the previous director?”
“He retired.”
Williams frowned. “Not precisely,” the officer contradicted. “He was forced to resign early.”
“Maybe so,” Morris smiled quickly. “Before my time. I have made numerous changes, I can assure you.”
“Is the doctor who treated Virgil still present?”
“He was killed during a robbery. A horrible tragedy.”
The officer asked after his name, took notes, and seemed to recall the case, confirming the robbery gone wrong. As the men talked, Isobel took over the record, shuffling through papers, and becoming increasingly sick over what she read. She stopped at the final page—the death certificate. Isobel noted the date of death, the cause of death (heart failure), and finally glanced at the coroner’s signature.
The breath left her lungs and she stepped back as if she had been burned. Riot looked at her with concern. She slapped the record in front of him and jabbed her finger at the signature of Duncan August.
“We need to go. Now.”
✥
The Lady bumped against the wharf after sunset. Isobel tugged on lines in the near dark. The sail crumpled, and she gathered it up as Riot secured the warps. She started to climb onto the wharf, but was stopped with a word.
“Bel, at least wear your split skirt. If we catch him, and we will, he’ll talk.”
With a growl, she disappeared below deck, and exchanged trousers for riding skirt. Still, she could be arrested for indecency.
A woman was only allowed to wear a riding skirt if she was accompanied by a bicycle or a horse. The latter being frowned on in favor of a side saddle.
As soon as she emerged, they climbed onto the wharf. Tim was waiting with the hack. Grimm sat stoically in the seat, and Tobias waved from the back. Riot wasted no time. “Do you have an address?”
“I do,” Tim said. “I’ve had Smith at the morgue and Johnson at his house. No sign of the fellow last I checked. And Miss er—Bonnie. There’s been a very firm woman trying to get a hold of you at the agency. A Mrs. Wright says she has some important information for you.”
“What did she say?”
“That’s it,” Tim ducked his head. “She said she wasn’t about to trust me.”
Isobel frowned, and consulted her watch. Riot stood, waiting. It could be nothing—nothing at all, but her last orders to her pawn played in her ears. She looked at Riot. “Sapphire House isn’t far. I’ll meet up with you.”
“The house and morgue are being watched. If you think it important, then you’ll need a hack.” Riot opened the door. Isobel could not argue with that reasoning. She climbed in and Riot followed. Her thoughts spun with the wheels. How could she have been so blind?
Virgil had attacked her for a reason; to stop Riot and her from reaching the Napa Asylum and finding that signature.
Before the hack had rolled to a stop, Isobel flung open the door, and hopped down. “I’ll only be a minute.” Having little patience for Mrs. Beeton and a curfew, she circled around the back.
Moving through the dark, she ignored the fire escape and went straight for a drain pipe. Her hands were sure, and her rubber desk shoes caught on the iron as she scurried up the pipe like a mast. She edged out onto a third-story ledge. There was a light in the window. Isobel rapped on the pane. A startled screech answered. The curtain jerked open, and a wide-eyed woman in sleeping cap looked out. Miss Taylor held a stout fire poker, ready to bash the intruder. It took a moment for recognition to enter her frightened eyes.
The woman threw the latch and opened the window. Isobel planted her backside on the sill. She wasted no time with pleasantries. “I hear Mrs. Wright has been trying to reach me.”
“Yes, er, won’t you come in?” Miss Taylor asked, eyeing her precarious perch with dread. The woman was in her dressing gown. Two cats lounged on the armchair and a book lay on the seat: The Count of Monte Cristo.
“No time. Did Mrs. Wright tell you what she overheard?”
“Yes,” Merrily nodded. “A conversation regarding the opera singer that you wanted us to listen for. In fact, a number of conversations.”
“What about?” she demanded.
“It seems Madame de Winter missed a Monday evening performance and a rehearsal on Tuesday. No one can locate her.”
One after another, the words hit Isobel in the gut. She felt herself falling, but her knuckles were white upon the sill.
“Are you well, Miss Bonnie? I have brandy.”
“Who was speaking about Madame de Winter?”
“The Tivoli of course, the concierge at the Palace, and the oddest of all—a tailor.”
Lotario had an elaborate living arrangement. He entered the palace as Madame de Winter, kept her rooms there, but always exited incognito, out the back, dressed as a gentleman. The concierge, at such a place, was valued for his discreet ways and unflappable tongue. The tailor was tied to the Narcissus.
“There was one more thing,” Miss Taylor ventured, looking nervous.
“Yes?”
The woman cleared her throat daintily. “Alice—Mrs. Wright, is quite vexed with you. It’s impossible to contact you. She is displeased with your lack of planning. And I agree. Really, some sort of arrangements must be put into play if we are to be useful. And that man—Mr. Tim is quite the smooth talker. I would not trust him.”
“I’ll think on it.” Isobel stood, balancing on the ledge. “In the mean time, thank you. You may have saved a woman’s life.” She started edging back to the drain pipe. “And I may call on you to identify Mr. Leeland. I believe he was using the room to spy on Violet.”
“Oh, dear. Of course. Do be careful.”
The window closed, and Isobel scurried down the pipe and trotted towards the waiting hack. Riot was standing at the door.
“Lotario’s been missing since Monday evening, maybe sooner.” Her voice shook, and in the face of Riot’s reassuring calm, she realized that she was trembling. She was still falling. Her own words tugged her into the dark like an anchor around her neck.
Steady hands gripped her shoulders, and he caught her eye. “Are you sure he’s not just distracted?”
“Lotario would never miss a performance,” she whispered.
“Where do you think he’s being held?”
Her mind spun. Isobel was not alone. She was no longer a lone Queen defending the board. She had pieces in play. “I’ll check the Narcissus to be sure. See if he’s not at the other places.” She made to go, but Riot’s hands held her fast.
“Not alone,” he said. “Tim, take the hack and raid the house with Johnson. See if you can find anything of note. Lotario’s missing.”
“I’ll find another hack,” the old man said.
“No. I won’t take these boys into the Barbary Coast at night. Drop us at Market.”
✥
The alleyway was inhabited by dime prostitutes and their drunk johns. Isobel kept walking. She hurried around the corner with Riot in her wake. A whole other world inhabited the south side of the block. Golden letters, Steed and Peel curved across an elegant window. Standing beneath the single electric bulb, Isobel pressed the bell.
The wait was excruciating. She felt sick and cold all at once, and wanted to scream for her brother. She pressed the bell again.
A dapper man in dressing gown and silk scarf looked out. She signaled him, using the sign that Lotario had taught her, and he opened.
“We have urgent need of a tailor.”
The man’s eyes widened a fraction in recognition and relief, but upon closer scrutiny, the relief vanished. An obvious sign that he knew her twin. The man inclined his head, and they walked in. He shut the door and locked up. Isobel passed rows of hats, silk, and wool, heading straight to the back. When they were hidden from the street, she turned on the owner. “You can’t find Paris?”
“We cannot,” the Englishman confirmed.
“When was he last seen?”
“Sunday afternoon,” the tailor replied. “We can hardly ring the police.” The tailor looked at Riot, and betrayed his surprise with a twitch of a brow.
“Mr. Steed,” Riot tipped his hat.
“Mr. Riot,” he returned, “I hope your suits are in order?”
“By no fault of your own, I’ll be requiring your services shortly.”
Steed frowned at the detective, barely containing a look of sufferance. “Hera intended to contact your agency in the morning.”
“She should not have waited three days,” Isobel hissed. She marched through a storage room, passing bolts of wool and boxes, on her way to the wardrobe. The solid oak piece swung easily outward. Riot slipped in behind her. Darkness greeted them, and she took his hand and walked on.
“Steed is your tailor?”
“I had no idea he was connected to the Narcissus.”
“Well, good,” she said. “It means he’s discreet.”
The passage was short, bridging the lane that bordered the back of both buildings. Isobel opened the hatch, and they emerged into a festive hallway from behind a robust statue.
Riot looked at the lever. “No policeman would ever touch that appendage.”
Isobel smirked, and offered Riot a mask from a nearby table. He waved the garish feathers away, and pulled the brim of his hat low. She led the way to Lotario’s rooms.
She did not knock. But used the key which he had left in the carpet bag. The room was empty. Riot and her fanned out; she to the wardrobe and he to the desk.
“His wig is gone—the
one he uses for Madame de Winter when she isn’t performing.”
Riot held out a card. She looked at it and felt queasy. It bore the very same name that she had brandished proudly during her investigation. Only this was Duncan August’s personal calling card. On the back, written in a crisp hand, were the words: Sunday seven o’clock.
“August never mentioned knowing Virgil Cunningham, but he did say he attended Cooper when I asked. If he had been a senior student, or even a doctor there—he could very well have been Virgil’s lover and arranged to work at the asylum, planning to secret him away. August is in a perfect position to alter postmortem findings, to steer things precisely where he wished. And I’ve been reporting to him this whole time—he knows Lucie is my supposed cousin. I introduced the two.” She was babbling, trying to clear her head. Firm hands gripped her arms, stopping her stream of thought. Isobel looked up, focusing on Riot’s steady gaze.
If Riot told her that everything would be all right, she would hit him, and never look back.
“Up until now, everything has been meticulously planned. Revenge at its finest,” Riot said. “But this—this is not. We interfered; we were unplanned. Virgil was trying to protect August. And now, Virgil has not come back. August is likely panicking.”
“Or extremely angry.”
“There is that,” he acknowledged with a grim nod. “But either way, he’ll make mistakes. The morgue and his own home are too obvious.”
Isobel closed her eyes, shuffling pieces on the board, searching for a hidden strategy, sifting through clues. She opened her eyes to Riot, knowing the answer. “Nigel Harrison, or Virgil, said that he walked his dog every day. The surfman seemed to know him, that’s why I didn’t think anything of it.”
“And the hackman took a fare from the House to Ocean Beach. We’ll start there.”
32
With Pleasure
A Bitter Draught Page 26
