“Since Miss Adler isn’t available, I’d like to ask you a couple of questions, in that case,” said Nick.
She shrank back. “Actually, I don’t think the master would want me speaking to a detective.”
“Since he’s not at home, I don’t see why he’d be bothered. Do you?”
Her blinking increased its speed as she tried to come up with an answer. “I’m not supposed to be away from my chores for long.”
“It’s Sunday,” he pointed out. Didn’t servants get the day off?
“There are dirty dishes left over from lunch.”
“I’ll only need a couple of minutes,” he said. “Please. It’s important or else I wouldn’t be keeping you from your work.”
The maid glanced back into the shadowed hallway then came out onto the stoop. “Really, I don’t have long to talk, Detective.”
“Can you tell me where Miss Adler was last evening?” he asked.
“She attended a supper at one of her friends’ houses, sir.”
“With who? Do you know?” Not Brown; if he’d gone out with Miss Adler last evening, he should have said so.
“She left on her own, so far as I’m aware,” she said. “She didn’t go out with her fiancé, because the Browns didn’t send their carriage like they usually do.”
Confirming Brown’s story. “When did Miss Adler get home from that supper?”
“Late,” she said. “Our upstairs maid complained over breakfast because she had to wait up for Miss Adler in order to help her out of her dress, and then had to be downstairs at five sharp this morning to get the stove ready for morning coffee. Mr. Adler rises early, even on a Sunday, and wants his coffee before he goes to church.”
“Do you find the Adlers difficult to work for?” he asked, having developed an opinion of them that wasn’t flattering. Open mind, Nick. Always keep an open mind. Uncle Asa’s words when Nick was quick to judge. One day maybe he’d learn how.
She rolled her lips between her teeth; she must have realized she’d been too frank. “They’re fair enough to those of us in the house, Detective Greaves. As long as we do our work, we’re treated okay. I can’t expect more.”
“Ah. That’s good to hear,” he said. “How long have you worked for them?”
“Since they hired this house and they took us all on,” she replied. “One year this past April.”
“I only have a couple more questions, and then you can get back to those dishes,” he said. “I wonder if you can tell me what Miss Adler was doing the morning of the Fourth?”
The maid scrunched up her face as she thought. “The Adlers were going to watch the parade from the rooms of an acquaintance who lives along the parade route, but the master was feeling a tad poorly from the hot spell we had, so he decided not to go,” she said. “Miss Adler went out anyway. She loves parades and things like that.”
“Alone?” Like last evening. “A little dangerous, for a young lady like Miss Adler.”
“She’s fearless, our Miss Adler. That she is,” said the girl, her voice swelling with pride.
Fearlessness was fine, so long as it didn’t get you in trouble.
“Did the Adlers later attend a luncheon at the Browns’ that day?” he asked.
The girl nodded. “They were tardy for it, though. Mr. Adler was furious that Miss Adler had kept him waiting. Shouted . . . oh, my heavens, how he shouted. He said they couldn’t afford to upset the doctor or his sister.”
“Being late for a luncheon doesn’t seem like a terrible offense to me,” said Nick.
She leaned nearer to him, her voice lowering to a whisper. “Mr. Adler hates to be late to events hosted by folks he’s trying to please, Detective Greaves.”
“He must be pretty happy about his daughter’s engagement to such a well-known physician as Arthur Brown.”
Her eyes widened. “Oh, he is. Mr. Adler says it’ll be the making of them. The absolute making of them.”
• • •
“Do you know if Mrs. Loveland is at home?” Celia asked the woman who’d exited the door across from the spiritualist’s set of rooms when she’d heard Celia outside on the landing. “There has been no response to my knocking.”
The woman, whose hair was a red that could not possibly be natural, eyed her. Celia had pinned an expensive jet brooch, confiscated from a trunk that held items that once belonged to Barbara’s mother, to the bodice of her black gown and chosen matching earrings. Their weight dragged uncomfortably on her earlobes, but she’d deemed the overall impression she wished to convey important. Celia had reasoned that a request on short notice to attend a séance would not be refused if the person asking was a wealthy widow. She’d even uncovered a black lace parasol to complete her outfit.
“If she hasn’t answered, then she’s not at home,” the woman said.
“Oh. I suppose that must be so.”
Her gaze swept over Celia, lingering on the brooch and the earrings. She would have added a good bracelet to her outfit, but she hadn’t wanted to also borrow the black-enameled gold bangle wrapped in demy tissue paper tucked deep within the trunk. Barbara was extremely fond of that piece of jewelry, and she would be furious with Celia were anything to happen to it.
“I never understand why ladies like you want to come here and meet with that woman.”
“You have never made use of Mrs. Loveland’s services?” asked Celia.
“Me?” The other woman scoffed. “I don’t believe in that bunkum, but plenty of folks like you do. Some of them even return a second or third time, so they must be happy with what happens at those séances of hers.”
“In these difficult times, people are seeking comfort, I suppose,” said Celia, hoping her voice conveyed a personal need for comfort. In truth, it was not difficult.
The woman’s face softened. “Sorry if I’ve insulted you, ma’am. Guess we’ve all got burdens to bear.”
Even rich people like you, Celia imagined her wanting to add.
“Frankly,” she continued, her features returning to what appeared to be their typical hardness, “I don’t cotton with Mrs. Loveland’s universal suffrage ideas, either. And I certainly don’t approve of her clothing. It isn’t proper for a woman to go about in pants like a man.”
Mrs. Loveland sounded positively intriguing, thought Celia.
“Your comments have caused me to question my desire to attend a séance here,” she said. “Perhaps it is unwise. Perhaps Mrs. Loveland is a fraud, and I will be merely throwing away my money on a foolish endeavor that will fail to console me.”
The woman shrugged. “Mrs. Loveland hasn’t been arrested for any crimes. She might be honest. She might even think she can reach those who’ve gone ahead of us,” replied the woman. “But that man that hangs around . . . He’s in for the take, all right. Though I haven’t seen him the past couple of days.”
“The fellow who wears a red waistcoat? I have heard about him.”
“That’s the fellow.”
On the way to Mrs. Loveland’s, Celia had debated whether it was wise for her to attend a séance if Mr. Griffin might also be there. Would he be so rash? Should she be so rash? However, it was crucial to learn Miss Adler’s real reason to want to return. Furthermore, Mr. Griffin had to be found, and Celia’s presence at Mrs. Loveland’s just might attract him. He wanted something from her, or else Angelo would not have seen him lurking behind her house. And if he’d been the fellow trailing after Miss Kimball and also asking about her at the station that morning . . . he simply had to be arrested. He was a threat.
So Celia would act as bait, a nibble of food to a mouse.
Or a rat.
“You all right?” asked the neighbor.
“Oh. Forgive me. Lost in thought wondering if I should attempt to contact Mrs. Loveland later today, perhaps,” said Celia. “Is she usually at home in the evenings? I mean, aside from when she is hosting a séance.”
“Usually she is, although lately she’s been scarce,” said the woman. �
�Coming and going at strange hours. Sets that bird of hers to squawking, which is how I can tell when she’s come home. Out last night until awfully late, which isn’t proper for any respectable woman.”
It was the response to a question Celia had not directly asked, but had wanted answered.
“Out late on a Saturday evening . . .” The same evening a man inside Mr. Smith’s office was assaulted.
“Not that I keep track of what my neighbors are up to,” added her neighbor.
“Of course not,” replied Celia. “Unfortunately, it is not convenient for me to wait to contact Mrs. Loveland. Do you think I could slip a note beneath her door?”
“I don’t see why not.” The woman lost interest in Celia and retreated to her rooms. She was likely wondering at Celia’s intelligence if she remained willing to pursue a visit to Mrs. Loveland after all she’d said.
“Thank you again,” said Celia, just as the woman slammed shut the door.
Well, then.
Celia hunted about in her reticule for a pencil and one of her cards. As often as she was having to leave notes these days, she should invest in some stationery for the purpose. She scribbled a request to attend tomorrow’s séance, signed her first and last name—just for you, Mr. Griffin—and sank down to her knees in order to slide the card beneath the door. The gap was large enough for her to see a few feet inside. With a flick of her finger, Celia sent the card flying across the floor, where it landed against the edge of a thick carpet. The shadows reflected upon the wood shifted, as if something—or someone—was moving inside the room and had momentarily blocked the daylight coming through the window. A bird trilled an anxious series of rambling notes. The tang of incense drifted beneath the crack, stinging Celia’s nose.
“Hello?” called Celia. “Is that you, Mrs. Loveland? Are you in there?” She scrambled to her feet and knocked again. “Mrs. Loveland?”
She leaned an ear against the door. The lodging house stairs creaked, and the owner of the feet creating the sound gave Celia a curious glance as she rounded the banister. Celia smiled at the elderly woman, who shook her head and continued up to the top floor.
Mrs. Loveland’s bird had quieted, and Celia could hear no further sounds from the other side of the wood.
Blast.
Her mind had not invented seeing a shadow moving. There was someone in Mrs. Loveland’s flat. She presumed it was Mrs. Loveland, hiding out and refusing to come to the door.
But what if it was not?
• • •
“Detective?” When A. J. Emery spotted Nick waiting for him in his lodging’s parlor, he didn’t exactly go as pale as a ghost—whatever shade that would be—but he went white enough.
“Heading out, Mr. Emery?” Nick asked, nodding at the clean shirt beneath his coat, a crisply ironed necktie done up around his collar.
He glanced around, but the parlor was empty except for a tabby cat lounging on a windowsill, swishing its tail. “I thought I already answered all the questions you had.”
“I’ve thought of a few more I’d like to ask, and I figured you wouldn’t mind.”
A fellow lodger lumbered down the steps, which creaked and groaned under his weight, and cast them a glance.
“Come in here, would you?” Emery asked Nick, moving farther into the parlor. “What questions?”
“First of all, can you tell me where you were last night?”
“Went to Maguire’s to see their entertainment. Some company was putting on a drama called Dead Heart. Stopped in a saloon afterward.”
“You went to Maguire’s alone?”
“Do you have a lady friend to spend Saturday evenings with, Detective Greaves?” asked Emery.
Until a few days ago, he’d imagined he might. But being around Celia Davies had become suddenly uncomfortable, and he wasn’t sure why. It was probably best for him to keep his distance.
“Sounds like an interesting evening,” said Nick. “I’ve heard that you and Miss Kimball had, as it was described to me, an ‘animated conversation’ at the séance. You forgot to mention that conversation to me. I’d like to know what it was about.”
“Didn’t I tell you? Don’t know that I’d call it animated,” he said. “The evening had upset Miss Kimball. Not sure why, and I didn’t try to get her to explain. But she looked like she could use some comforting, and I was on hand to lend an ear to a pretty lady.”
“Hoping to find somebody to accompany you to Maguire’s.”
Emery flashed a smile. “We talked, but that was all.”
“She hadn’t mentioned to you that she was thinking of looking for a new room to rent, did she?” He’d gone to the station before heading to Emery’s lodging house and had seen Celia Davies’s lengthy note about Miss Kimball.
“No, but I don’t expect she’d share something so personal with a fellow she’d only just met.”
“I expect you’re right,” said Nick. “You weren’t asking about her at the police station this morning, were you?”
“Me? Why would I be doing that?” asked Emery.
Some fellow had been, according to the officer who’d given Nick Mrs. Davies’s message.
“Oh, by the way, we’ve found that photograph I mentioned to you,” he said. “But since you hadn’t met Dr. Brown before the séance, you probably can’t help us identify the woman in it.”
“I wouldn’t mind a look.”
Nick dug the carte de visite out of his coat pocket and showed it to Emery. He leaned in, studied the image a long time.
“You’re right. I can’t identify her. Young lady looks like she doesn’t want to be sitting anywhere near him, though,” he said, handing back the photograph. “Downright uncomfortable, if you ask me.”
Not the reaction to a possible beau that Arvilla Stevenson should have had.
• • •
“A solemn con . . . consider . . . consideration, when I enter a great city by night, that every one of those darkly clustered houses encloses its own secret . . . Um, ma’am?” Owen looked up from Celia’s copy of A Tale of Two Cities. “Do I gotta keep reading Mr. Dickens? I don’t understand none . . . any of it. It makes my head hurt, trying to work out the words.”
“‘Have to,’ not ‘gotta,’ Owen,” she said, setting down the list of medical supplies she’d been reviewing but not seeing. Her thoughts had repeatedly drifted to why she’d not heard from Mr. Greaves. The detective had to have received her message about Miss Kimball by now, but there had been no note, no visit. And why had he not yet informed her who the man was who’d been found beaten this morning?
Owen frowned over the book.
“If you want to stop, Owen, you may,” she said. “However, your reading has greatly improved. I hope you do not find it a terrible chore.”
“I don’t. I guess I’m just itching for something else to do.” His green eyes went wide. “Not that I mind living here! In fact, I think my head’s throbbing. I’m sure I gotta . . . I have to stay longer.”
“You cannot delay returning to your lodgings forever, Owen.” You cannot stay here forever, no matter how forlornly you look at me.
“That woman I live with doesn’t miss me, ma’am. Don’t worry.”
“She does miss you, Owen. She sent a message only yesterday.” Mostly to request his rent payment, but Owen needn’t hear that.
“But if I move back there, how am I going to help you find Mr. Smith’s killer?”
“How are the police going to find the killer, you mean.”
“But you’re better than them, Mrs. Davies,” he declared. “Well, all except Mr. Greaves, of course.”
She smiled. “Perhaps we should lay out the facts as we know them to this point, Owen.” He might be able to help her sort through her thoughts, which tangled like vines grappling for a hold.
He dropped his book onto the cushion next to him and sat up straight. “We start with the fellow I saw arguing with Mr. Smith. The doctor fellow.”
“Dr. Brown.” Celia set do
wn her list and folded her hands on her lap. “The greatest question we have concerning him is the identity of a person who’d been sending him threatening letters in the days after the séance. I would presume that if Dr. Brown wished to harm anyone, it would be the author of those missives. His sister had hired Mr. Smith to locate that very person.”
“So, his sister wouldn’t have wanted to kill Mr. Smith, either. What about the con man fellow?” he asked. “Addie told me some about him.”
Hopefully, not too much. She did not want Owen feeling a need to act as their protector, which might only lead him into danger.
“I would mark him as our most likely suspect.” Celia rearranged the cushion behind her and leaned back again. “Mr. Griffin is an established criminal.”
“But maybe not a murderer, ma’am. I’ve known fellows like him. They like to steal and cheat, but ain’t got . . . don’t have any interest in hurting anybody,” he pointed out. “Who else was at the séance that’s a suspicious-type person?”
“A Mr. Emery, although I do not know if he is a suspicious type,” she replied. “I’ve not heard from Mr. Greaves what he has learned from the man.”
If only he would stop by the house and apprise her.
“Of course, there is Miss Kimball to consider,” she said. “Her decision to leave her lodgings without informing anyone of her plans is concerning.”
“Does she have a motive to kill Mr. Smith?” asked Owen. “I mean, runnin’ off makes her sound like she’s guilty of something.”
“I wish I’d had more time with her when she visited me. Miss Adler claims Miss Kimball acted oddly the night of the séance, and she did attempt to speak with Miss Adler and the Browns that evening, as well. But beyond that . . .” Running off did make her seem guilty. “Someone wishes to find Miss Kimball, however. A fellow who called himself Smith very audaciously inquired about her this morning at the police station.”
No Quiet among the Shadows Page 18
