A Fatal First Night

by Kathleen Marple Kalb

  “A penny for a poor widow?” asked a raspy voice as I reached in my pocket for the coins I’d picked up earlier.

  The plea came from a bundle of rusty black clothes, ragged layers piled one on top of the other, all unrelieved deep mourning. Mrs. Early was indeed a poor widow, one who spent most of the time she was not begging for her keep praying for her lost babies and husband at Holy Innocents. Father Michael did what he could to help her, as well, but it’s not a kind world for people who’ve suffered so much that they can’t do any sort of gainful work and don’t have family to care for them.

  Whenever I go to the park, I make sure to take some money for her, enough that it will buy her a few good meals or whatever she might need. I am all too aware that any one of us could be in her position if life were cruel.

  “Here, Mrs. Early.” I put the coins into her gnarled hand.

  “God bless you.” Her light green eyes, once beautiful, now full of untold sorrow, held mine for a moment.

  She doesn’t know my name or anything about me, other than that I give often and generously. I know her name and that she prays for her family at Holy Innocents only because Father Michael told me once when we both stopped to give to her.

  “God bless you,” I said and meant it. I patted her hand and moved on, thinking as I always did how lucky some of us are and how unlucky others.

  Hetty was waiting at the entrance to the park, and she smiled when she saw me. “Doing what you can.”

  “Don’t look at me like that. I know you do the same for a beggar outside the Beacon.”

  “Well, of course I do.”

  “I won’t tell anyone you have a heart if you don’t tattle on me.”

  “Fair enough.”

  We shared a smile as we started down a path. Even though Washington Square Park was quite busy with walkers of all sorts taking their constitutionals or enjoying a more social promenade, there was still plenty of space and time, so we could prowl as we wished.

  Late autumn in New York goes one of two ways, either unseasonably warm or bone-chillingly cold. We’d been cursed with the cold this year, so Hetty and I had skipped the sports costumes and bundled up in wool dresses and long coats, mine midnight blue, hers a sensible gray that set off her red hair and milky skin. I had left my furs, best coat, and fancy millinery at home—no need for diva airs here—and wore my simple dark blue velvet hat with a big satin rose, instead of any plumes. It was clearly better made and more fashionable than Hetty’s simpler bow-topped green one, but not dramatically so.

  “So, are you ready for the start of the trial tomorrow?” I asked as we circled the fountain.

  “I can’t wait. Morrison’s finally given me my chance, and I don’t plan to miss it.”

  “Well, your investigative piece on patent medicines last spring didn’t hurt.”

  “Our investigative piece.”

  “Anyway, if your article is any indication, the trial’s going to be quite the sensation.”

  “So will the conviction.” She gave a grim nod. “She’s putting on a good defense, so there’ll be days and days above the fold, but I don’t have much doubt how this is going to end.”

  “Poor lady.”

  “Poor lady, indeed.” Hetty sniffed. “She married Hosmer Van Vleet for his money, broke her vows, and then killed him.”

  “That’s quite an indictment.” I chuckled a little at her disapproving scowl. “Are you sure she was unfaithful?”

  “Well, she certainly seemed to have much too close a connection with Anatole Lescaut.”

  “That Frenchman who was doing business with Van Vleet?”

  “Yes. I suppose some people would find him appealing, but I think he’s too smooth by half.”

  “I haven’t seen him. Tell.” I was not, generally, a fancier of les hommes français, but one never knew.

  “It’s all the hand-kissing and, oh, ‘Vous êtes très belle, Mademoiselle.’ ” She wrinkled her nose. “Ugh.”

  “You met him.” I swallowed a smile. “Perhaps he’s one of those men who fancies les rousses.”

  “Right, he is. He fancies good headlines, Ells.”

  “I wouldn’t doubt it. The Frenchmen I’ve known do tend to underestimate one’s intelligence.”

  “Exactly.” She shook her head. “And you know how well I react to that.”

  We grinned at each other. “Yes, but that wouldn’t stop you from seizing an exclusive.”

  “It didn’t. It’ll run tomorrow morning, as the trial begins.”

  “Very good.”

  “Just barely worth sitting in his nasty little office, listening to him jaw about himself.” Her face crinkled at the memory.

  “What does he do?”

  “His office is near the exchange. I believe an investor of some sort, who’d done some work with Hosmer.”

  “No chance that he had something to do with this?”

  “It’s a locked room mystery, remember? No one else was in the house at the time.”

  “That we know of.”

  “What are you thinking, Ells?”

  “I don’t know what I’m thinking. I know only that you have a very bad feeling about this man, and he’s very close to a nasty killing.”

  Hetty scowled. “Close to the woman in the nasty killing, anyhow.”

  “Obviously, you find him vile. But what about her? Does he seem like the sort of man who could convince a woman to give up her principles?”

  At that, she gave a bitter laugh. “I don’t think Amelie Van Vleet has much in the way of principles. You assume everyone’s like us.”

  “I don’t. But flirting with a man and actually breaking your marriage vows are two very different things. Even if she didn’t have our elevated principles, surely she wouldn’t want to risk that.”

  “Maybe she figured she’d get away with it. People do.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You know, you are such a romantic.”

  “Romantic? Take that back!” I snapped, only half joking.

  “Oh, you are, at least a little. After all you’ve seen—all we’ve seen—you still think that a woman can’t take adultery lightly.”

  “How could she? It’s a terrible risk—and a rotten thing to do besides.”

  “Absolutely,” she agreed. “And nothing either of us would ever do, assuming we manage to find a man we can stand.”

  “There are men we can stand. They can’t necessarily stand our work.”

  “Much too true.” Hetty shook her head, and I suspected she was thinking about sports writer Yardley Stern, her colleague and frequent sparring and sometime reporting partner, not to mention a friend to Tommy, Preston and me. “Anyhow, Mrs. Van Vleet is absolutely not the kind of woman you are or I am, if only because neither of us would marry for money.”

  “Are you sure—”

  Hetty reached up and knocked on the top of my head. “Anyone home there? Ella, most women wouldn’t turn down a man who wasn’t quite right if he came with plenty of scratch.”

  “I suppose.” I shrugged. “And we don’t get to judge, after all. Who knows what her life was before.”

  “Not bad enough to justify murder.”

  “Good point.”

  “Speaking of murder, will your first Richard get the chair?”

  “It surely doesn’t look good, standing there, holding the murder weapon and covered in blood,” I said bluntly. If Cousin Andrew could not voice whatever his concerns were, I certainly could not bring up any doubts with Hetty. At least not now.

  “Sad.”

  “Sadder still. The victim was a baseball player, apparently traded away from New York to Cleveland.”

  “Not . . .” Hetty knew her sports as well as I did.

  “Yes, the Spiders . . . And then his wife was murdered there.”

  “Terribly sad, indeed . . . and a great story. Much better than some deadly little dispute in a dressing room.” Her eyes lit up. “You’ll keep me informed?”

  “Of co
urse.”

  She smiled as we turned down a path close to the sidewalk. “How are you and Marie doing?”

  “We’re mostly wonderful.” I shrugged. “The new Richard is excellent, as well.”

  “Any word from London?” she asked. “Speaking of men we can stand.”

  She had interviewed Gilbert Saint Aubyn during our collective investigation of his cousin’s demise, and he’d passed muster, no easy task for a British toff, as she had dryly put it.

  “Letters, as always. Some lilacs on opening night.” I couldn’t say it without a grin.

  “Poor Cabot Bridgewater.”

  I laughed. “He’s a friend. So, for that matter, is the duke.”

  “Right. Tell me you don’t believe that, all right?”

  “I don’t know what I believe, except that I can’t imagine any man being willing to share me with the music, no matter who he is or how much he loves me.”

  “And isn’t that the problem.” She nodded sadly. “Yardley walks me back to my house some nights, and once he even took my hand . . . but he also talks about wanting to come home to a wife.”

  “You’d probably like to come home to one, too,” I teased. “Someone to cook your dinner and bring your slippers.”

  We laughed.

  “Well, nobody’s bringing me my slippers,” I admitted, “but Mrs. G does make a magnificent tea. And I, for one, am getting chilled.”

  “Let’s go.”

  Hetty and I were soon ensconced in the parlor with our jasmine tea and plates of little sandwiches, tarts, and cookies. Mrs. G had laid on her usual admirable company tea, but I suspected an ulterior motive. The tarts were lemon curd, which are nice enough but not a favorite of Tommy and me . . . and Preston’s absolute downfall. I hoped Mrs. G had social plans of her own.

  While the lemon tarts made me smile, I did not, of course, mention them to Hetty. News offices are utterly merciless, and even my dear sweet friend would not be able to resist some teasing, never mind what her colleagues would do if they knew. Eventually, our world would know about Preston and Mrs. G—I hoped when they announced their engagement—but in the meantime, I wasn’t going to spread the word.

  Hetty and I had just returned to our discussion of the Van Vleet trial when we heard the door slam.

  “Do I see a dainty wrap in the foyer?” a familiar voice called.

  “Too dainty for Heller.”

  “Oh, just come in here, boys!” I responded needlessly as Yardley bounded in, followed by Tommy.

  “Well, two lovely ladies,” Yardley said, bowing to us with exaggerated formality, which looked even more comical on his skinny frame. Once upon a time he’d nursed a mild crush on me, but in recent months, he’d clearly been growing very fond of Hetty. She’d always been a little sweet on him, carefully hiding it with sparky comments, so they might one day become more than colleagues. Well, if they could stop sparring, and if Yards would back off that “Angel in the House” nonsense. Perhaps not.

  “And two big boys,” Hetty shot back with a smile. “How was the boxing gym?”

  “The usual,” Tommy said, with something that was absolutely not the usual in his face. “Always good to see old friends. Even if it’s a reminder that I’m well out of the life.”

  I poured a cup of tea for Yardley, and Hetty handed it to him as he perused the treats with a glow in his brown eyes that would not have been out of place on a tenement child. “Mmm. Cookies.”

  “Have some snickerdoodles, Yards,” I said, passing the plate.

  He took two and turned to Tommy. “You really are lucky to be out of the life. Do they know what happened to Jamie Eagger?”

  Tommy narrowed his eyes. “We haven’t—”

  “Sorry,” Yardley said quickly, guiltily.

  “Who is Jamie Eagger?” Hetty asked. I didn’t need to.

  “Sorry, Heller,” Tommy said, sitting down on the arm of the settee and patting my shoulder. Jamie Eagger had been his close friend in the old neighborhood. About my age, Jamie had taken up boxing roughly the same time as Tommy. Not nearly as good, but good enough to make more money for his widowed mother and sisters than he would have any other way.

  They’d been friends and comrades during the hard early years of their careers, which had created a special bond at the time, but over the years they’d lost touch, as people will when their lives go in different directions. Though there was no estrangement, I could not remember the last time Jamie had joined a boys’ evening or come to dinner.

  “Hurt?” I asked, hoping that was all.

  Tommy shook his head. “He was training some new prospect, and the fool wasn’t watching what he was doing. Hit him hard, and he fell backward into a stool. No saving him.”

  Tommy and I looked at each other for a long moment. It could have been him.

  I took his hand and squeezed it. “How are his mother and sisters?”

  “Terrible, as you’d think.”

  “We’ll do a benefit.”

  Tommy nodded. “That’ll help.”

  “Best we can do.” I hoped it would give him some solace, too.

  Hetty and Yardley shook their heads in unison.

  “You two, always taking care of someone,” Hetty said.

  “What’s wrong with that?” Tommy asked with a tiny edge in his voice.

  They smiled.

  “Nothing at all,” Yardley said, grabbing a couple of tarts. “Not one thing.”

  Chapter 6

  Messages from Far and Near

  The next morning found me resting at home and Tommy heading out to the Eaggers. While the Irish don’t follow the Jewish custom of sitting shiva, staying home for a week and receiving visitors while mourning a death, relatives and friends do gather around to support the grieving in their time of need. Toms was far closer to the Eaggers than I was, and the women Jamie had left behind might find my presence more intimidating than soothing, so I sent a small bouquet and my sympathies instead of paying a call.

  Most of the girls I grew up with are in an entirely different stage of life than I am at this point; almost all who have survived are wives and mothers, often ground down from years of struggling to make ends meet or, even if they’ve been fortunate, just the daily toil of raising a family. Very few of them want to see me, well past thirty and still rather fresh looking, trim, and elegantly dressed, with the smooth hands of a woman who doesn’t sew or wash for her living. No matter how humble my demeanor, and I hope, dear reader, that you know by now I am a diva who is not a diva, the simple sight of me would be a reminder of how much better life could be outside the neighborhood.

  Tommy’s kind and respectful presence, even though he, too, is far better off than anyone in the Eaggers’ circle, would be a comfort. Mine might well be an insult. I didn’t think it fair to a family in grief to find out.

  Despite all of that, I would, of course, attend the funeral with Toms. He would want me at his side, and that outweighed all other considerations.

  That day, Tommy told me he might be late, and I knew exactly what that meant. He and the boxers would likely be going out to mourn in their own way, with a bit of “the creature,” as we Irish like to say. Whisky, beyond a small medicinal drop, is not something he would indulge in on a performance night, so this was really his only chance to pay tribute with his fellows.

  I understood completely. Men have their rituals. A smart woman, whether Irish or any other persuasion, leaves them to it when she can.

  Once Toms was off, I took a short walk up to the apothecary to order a new supply of cold cream and rose-petal lip salve. When I got back, a pleasant surprise awaited me: a letter from overseas.

  Rosa’s eyes twinkled, and she watched my face as she handed it to me. Of course she’d seen the return address, Leith House, and the bold hand in midnight-blue ink.

  “Ah, how nice,” I said coolly. “I will enjoy this after luncheon.”

  She swallowed a giggle as I carefully placed the letter in my book on the chaise. I am not a s
illy schoolgirl. I do not swoon over missives from my swain.

  If I happened to glance down at my silver charm bracelet and notice a recent addition with crossed swords and the legend Until We Duel Again, that was entirely my own business. Likewise if I wished I were planning to take my next fencing practice with His Grace. While not nearly as skilled as I am, and certainly not in the league of my fencing master, he brings other compensations to a match.

  The charm, presented explicitly as a memento of friendship and not as jewelry, which would, of course, be presumptuous and insulting, had accompanied our agreement to exchange correspondence. Far more significantly, it was also followed by the formal request to call on Tommy and me when we came to London. That request, gladly granted, could be understood as only one thing: the official beginning of a courtship with honorable intent.

  Not to mention a conundrum with no good answer for me, unwilling to give up my happy and interesting life for a man who offered things I didn’t know I wanted or needed until he appeared. I would never admit it to Marie, but I was indeed afraid of what all of this might mean.

  Thanks to my career, and my lifelong habit of educating myself about all things, I naturally understood that in our modern day, a progressive-minded British aristocrat who had already taken care of his dynastic responsibilities (see the two adult sons listed below him in Debrett’s) might well be free to marry the woman of his choice. Perhaps even if that woman practiced an unconventional profession and occupied an unusual place between faiths. And yet, if the simplest clerk expects his bride to give up her work to tend his home, what more would a duke expect? No matter how modern of mind, a man is still a man.

  So I had perfectly concrete reasons for my fears.

  Admittedly, though, I was also quite curious about what might happen should the duke and I somehow find a resolution. What if I did need Marie’s talk over whisky, and what might I do with that knowledge? As for every good Irish girl, my education in this one area of life consisted of a single sentence: your man will tell you what you need to know on your wedding night.