If her uncle accepted some sort of plea agreement, there would be no trial, and this might be the last time she would be with the detective, Beret thought, as Mick took her hand and bowed a little over it. “You have my gratitude. My sister’s murder would not have been solved without your fine work,” she said.
“And yours,” he replied.
“I am staying on for a time to help my aunt. I hope I shall see you again.”
“It would be my pleasure,” he said, although he did not suggest a meeting. The aborted concert date seemed to have been forgotten.
Beret took her leave, pausing in the doorway and glancing back at Mick, but he was already in conversation with one of the officers. There would be other cases for him to solve, and he would remember Lillie Osmundsen mainly because her killer had been an oddity—not a pimp or a vagrant but a man of high social standing. He certainly would not remember the case because of the dead woman’s sister. Mick McCauley had meant more to Beret than she wanted to admit, but it was foolish to think there was anything between them besides their mutual wish to bring a murderer to justice.
Outside, Beret tried to hail a hack, but seeing none, she walked up Larimer Street to the trolley stop. She felt sticky in the dampness and hoped it would not rain again, for she had not thought to bring an umbrella. The wind blew trash into her path, dirt and cigar butts and orange peels, and Beret dodged a sheet of newspaper that flew past her and wrapped itself around a streetlight. She pulled the veil of her hat over her eyes, but that did little to keep out the dirt that swirled around the sidewalk. There was the smell of spices from a tamale cart mixed with the stench of offal in the streets. People hurried past her to get out of the wind. A man’s hat blew off, and street urchins raced to catch it, demanding a penny for its return. A young dandy cursed a wagon that turned in front of him, splashing dirty water from the rain the day before. A bootblack knocked his box against her and failed to beg pardon. Beret paid them all little attention and hurried on, thinking this was an odd city, with snow one day, followed by flowers and blue skies the next, then rain and chill weather on the third.
She reached the streetcar stop just as a trolley started up, which meant that she had to wait for the next one. Drops of water were falling now. She turned up the collar of her jacket, but the dampness of it lay against her neck like some dead thing, and she backed up under the awning of a store whose window displayed men’s collars and shirts. A newsboy held up a paper and shouted out headlines, and Beret realized they were about her uncle: “Extry, extry. Denver judge murders own niece,” the boy yelled.
Would she never get away from the scandal? The story would be picked up as far away as New York now, and some enterprising reporter would undoubtedly discover that Lillie was an Osmundsen. Beret remembered Teddy’s demand that she pay him not to tell the papers in the city. Poor Teddy, she thought with satisfaction. The newspapers already had the story. He could no longer threaten her with selling it. Another of his schemes had come to naught.
The streetcar came at last, but it was crowded, and no man was gentleman enough to offer Beret a seat. She was crushed by shoppers carrying parcels tied with string, by workmen in dirty clothes clutching lunches that smelled of sour pickles and brined meat. A man next to her spat tobacco onto Beret’s skirt. She gasped, but the man only glanced at the fouled garment and aimed in another direction.
The rain had begun in earnest by the time Beret reached her stop, and she hurried along the street, wishing she had bought one of the newspapers with its garish headlines, not to read but to protect herself from the weather, but she had not had that foresight. By the time Beret reached the Stanton house, her hat was drenched, in danger of losing its shape, and she herself was wet throughout, her skirt soiled with dirt and tobacco juice.
The foyer was deserted, and Beret wondered if the sound of rain had kept William from hearing her enter. She found a bell and rang it, then examined her hat, thinking Nellie might be able to steam it back into shape. Her skirt would have to be brushed before it dried. Nellie could take care of that, too. But before anything, Beret wanted the maid to draw her a hot bath. She rang again, and in a moment, William emerged from the butler’s pantry, taking his time, Beret thought, annoyed. Then she reminded herself that he was her aunt’s employee, not hers.
He stood before her and said, “Yes, madam?”
“Would you ask Nellie to come to my room, please. I should like a bath, and my clothes need attention. You can see for yourself that they are drenched from the rain. I could not find a hack and had to take the streetcar home.” He seemed unsympathetic, and Beret understood. Servants could not afford hacks. Nor could they arrive home and demand hot baths. She should have been more discreet. “I shall live, but I smell like a cook’s bad day, and I believe you, too, would appreciate my being more presentable,” she said in a lame attempt at levity.
William stared at her and did not reply, and Beret wondered if he ever found anything amusing. She had never seen him smile.
“So would you please send Nellie to my room,” Beret continued, starting for the stairs.
“That is not possible, madam.”
Beret frowned. “And why is that?”
“Nellie is not here.”
“Surely she was not sent on an errand on such a foul day.”
“No, madam.”
William’s lack of forthrightness was annoying, and Beret demanded, “When will she return?”
“She won’t.”
“What do you mean, she won’t?”
“Nellie is no longer with us, madam.”
Beret stared at the butler, not understanding at first. “You mean she quit?”
“You could say so.”
“Quit or was let go?”
William shrugged.
Beret was angry now and demanded, “I asked you did Nellie quit, or was she relieved of her position?”
“I couldn’t say.”
“Was it your idea or Mrs. Stanton’s?”
“You will have to ask her, madam. Is there anything else?”
“Yes, there is. I assume my aunt is not here. When will she return?”
“She went with the stable boy for a drive. You yourself left with them. Perhaps she told you when she would return.”
Beret stared at the butler for a long time, thinking he was impertinent and she didn’t like him. She wondered if he would be more forthcoming later but suspected he would not, so she decided to get the confrontation over drugs behind her. “Do you supply my aunt with opium?” she asked.
William’s eyes went wide with surprise, and Beret congratulated herself at getting at least that small reaction from him. “No.”
“Morphine, cocaine?”
“Certainly not.”
“Then you yourself must use it.”
“You are wrong to accuse me. I have never used opium.” There was a look of defiance—and perhaps hurt—on William’s face.
“But you have been seen in Hop Alley. The police have observed you there. You cannot deny it.”
William did not reply at first, thinking. Then he said, “And so have you?”
Beret bristled to realize that he was aware of her confrontation with Chinaman Fong. “We are not discussing me. Have you been buying drugs for my aunt?”
“No, madam.” He stared hard at Beret before muttering, “I obtained opium for Miss Lillie. Your sister.”
“You what?” Beret was incensed and paused to calm herself. She said, “You gave my sister opiates? How could you? I am disgusted with you, William. That is an offense for which you could be discharged.”
“Begging your pardon, madam, but I don’t work for you.”
Beret ignored the impertinence. “Did my sister take the drugs with her?”
“No, miss. I believe Mrs. Stanton confiscated them.”
“And threw them out?”
“Of course.” He paused. “Did you want to acquire something? Perhaps that was why you were in Hop Alley.”
> Beret glared at the butler. Then fearing she would say something she would regret and perhaps cause further anguish for her aunt, she turned and rushed up the stairs to her room, and once inside, she locked the door.
She removed her clothing and brushed the skirt as best she could, but the tobacco stains were still there. She threw the garment on the bed and went into her bathroom and turned on the taps. When the tub was full, Beret climbed into it and sat in the steamy water, wondering whether, as her aunt had claimed, the judge had admitted to Lillie’s murder to protect Jonas. But there was no reason for that. The events of the past weeks had only affected Varina’s mind. She had escaped them by denying reality.
Perhaps after the whole sordid business was resolved, Beret would take her aunt on a tour of Europe. She could live with Beret in the house in New York. She could even help at the mission. There were just the two of them, and they must care for each other.
The bathwater had grown cold, and Beret stood and dried herself, then went into her bedroom and donned a day dress. She did not know what to do with herself. Her aunt had asked her to find the real killer, but Judge Stanton was the real killer. There was nothing further for Beret to investigate. Her refusal to continue looking into the murder would anger Varina, who might ask Beret to leave. But that would be all right. Beret had no reason to stay on, and she was anxious to return to New York now. Varina would come to her senses later, and the two would eliminate any disharmony between them.
Beret went to the window and saw William striding down the street, an umbrella protecting him from the rain. She had been unfair to him, rude even. The disruptions in the Stanton house had interfered with his routine, and she had made things worse with her meddling. She didn’t want to, but she would have to make amends with the butler if the household were to run smoothly.
She brushed the skirt again and laid it on the bed, and as she did so, she thought about Nellie, sure that the girl had not quit.
She was curious. Perhaps Nellie had left something behind that would explain her disappearance. Beret glanced out of the window, but William was nowhere to be seen. And she would have heard the carriage if her aunt had returned. Cook was in the kitchen, and there was no sign of the second maid.
The servants’ quarters were upstairs. Beret had never been there, but she knew well enough where the help slept. She unlocked her bedroom door and opened it noiselessly, peering down the hall, which was dark. Only one light had been turned on, and it was near her aunt and uncle’s bedroom. Beret listened but heard nothing, so she eased the door shut and walked quickly to the stairway leading to the servants’ quarters.
The stairs were not carpeted, of course, and try as she might to be quiet, she could hear her shoes on the steps. Well, what of it? Beret thought. She was not only her aunt’s guest but her heiress. She had every right to go into a maid’s room. She reached the third floor and looked around, not sure which room was Nellie’s. It would be a small one, of course. William would have the best room, and Cook the next best. She wondered if Nellie slept with the other maid but remembered the girl saying once that working in the Stanton house was the first time she had ever had a bed to herself.
Beret thought about the outside of the house and decided William would have the room with two windows looking out over the stables, the one above Beret’s own room. But just to be sure, she opened the door to that bedroom and looked in. A man’s coat hung over the back of a chair. Beret closed the door and went to the next room, where she found a uniform on a hook. Cook’s room. The third room was empty. It might have been Nellie’s, but there was dust on the floor, and judging from the musty smell, Beret thought no one had been in that room for a long time.
The room next to it was small with a white enamel bed covered by a spread that must have seen its first use in one of the rooms downstairs, then been consigned to the servants’ quarters when it began to show wear or was discarded in a redecorating. The room was clean but bare of any personal items. No clothes hung on the hooks. Nor were there books or letters or the kind of knickknacks that servant girls collected. Nothing was in the wastebasket. The room had been emptied out, and not long before, because it was clean and did not smell shut up.
Beret went inside, closing the door behind her, and much as she had examined the prostitute Sadie’s quarters, she then examined this room, for surely this had been where Nellie slept. She pulled back the spread and saw that the sheets and pillowcase had been removed. She checked under the mattress and in the drawers, the underside of the bureau, but there was nothing. Well, what had she expected? Did she really think Nellie would have left some clue for her? And a clue to what? The murders had been solved. The girl had been dismissed. She had simply packed her things and cleared out. There was nothing in the room that suggested anything else.
As she turned to leave, Beret heard footsteps in the hallway, and she froze. Then a door was unlatched. Beret tiptoed to the door of Nellie’s room and stooped down so that she could peer through the keyhole. A door at the far end of the hallway was open. The room was one that was deep under the eaves and must belong to the second maid. Beret opened Nellie’s door just enough so that she could see into the room and part of a figure dressed in a maid’s uniform. The girl’s back was turned, so Beret slipped into the hall toward the stairs, but at the last moment, she turned, and pretending she had just come to the third floor, she walked to the hired girl’s room, making enough noise so as not to startle the maid.
The girl heard her and turned, surprise on her face when she recognized Beret, for she must have thought the footsteps belonged to William or to the cook. “Oh,” she breathed. “Miss. What are you doing up here? Is something wrong?”
“I heard you on the back stairs and thought I would ask you if you could clean my skirt for me. It was spoiled on the streetcar.”
“I…” She looked around, flustered. “If it’s all right with Mr. William, I could try.”
“Thank you. I was going to ask Nellie to do it, but I was disappointed to learn she is no longer here.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I liked her. I did not know she was thinking of leaving.”
The maid nodded.
“You are surprised, too?”
“I didn’t say nothing, but yeah, I guess so.”
“Did she find a better position?”
The maid shrugged, uncomfortable.
“Then she was let go?” Beret asked. When the girl didn’t reply, Beret continued, “She must have done something terribly wrong to be dismissed without notice.”
“I dunno, miss. She was a worker.” She leaned close to Beret and whispered, “I think she got the sack.”
“I can’t imagine why. I hope I didn’t cause it.”
“Oh no, ma’am. She liked you. She told me. She says you was different from your sister—begging pardon, ma’am.”
“That’s all right—Louise, is it?”
The girl nodded.
“I should like to help her, Louise. Can you tell me where she is?”
“Over on the west side someplace. I don’t know the address. You could ask Mr. William. He’d know.”
“Yes, of course.” The girl couldn’t—or wouldn’t—reveal anything, and it was clear she was nervous, afraid perhaps that in talking to Beret, she, too, could get fired.
“If that’s all, ma’am, I got to get back to the kitchen. I only come up to change my shoes. They’re new, and they pinch my feet.” Beret dismissed her, and Louise hurried down the stairs.
Disappointed that she had learned nothing, Beret started to follow her, and then she glanced at William’s door and wondered what might be in his room. There was nothing left in Nellie’s quarters. Perhaps the girl had left something behind, and William had taken it. Beret tiptoed to the stairs to make sure Louise was gone, then walked quickly to the butler’s room and opened the door. She went first to the window and drew aside the curtain a little to make sure William was not coming back, but the street and yard we
re empty. The window, she noticed, looked directly into Jonas’s room in the carriage house. It struck her that William could have seen anything Jonas did there.
She looked around, not certain what she was doing in the room. She almost laughed, because she had no idea what she was after. The top of the bureau was bare, and she went through the drawers quickly, thinking she might find something of Nellie’s, or even opium, but there was nothing but clothing, neatly arranged. She put her hand under the mattress and pulled out a magazine, a girlie magazine. Well, the butler had that in common with Jonas, Beret thought, and suddenly she was ashamed of herself for prying. She had no right to be there. William had done nothing to merit her suspicion. Beret returned the magazine to its hiding place and backed out of the room. Before she could close the door, however, she heard footsteps, and when Beret turned, William was standing in the hallway.
“Madam,” he said. His voice was as flat and unemotional as always, although he had every right to be angry with her.
“Hello, William,” she said, her voice as calm as she could make it. After all, she had confronted bullies, drunks, men with knives, although it had not been because she had sneaked into their quarters.
“May I help you with something?”
“Yes, I am looking for Nellie’s room,” she said. “Clearly this is not it. I felt a draft and was checking to make sure a window was not left open.”
“I always close the window.”
“I can see that.”
“That is Nellie’s room.” He pointed to a door. “Is there something you need there?”
“I was hoping to find her address. She was very good to me, and I wanted to send her a gift as a way of thanking her.”
Fallen Women Page 29
