Let the Dead Keep Their Secrets

by Rosemary Simpson

  “It would be a shame not to use the opportunity when it’s dropped in our lap.”

  If Danny Dennis had sent word up five minutes earlier that he and Mr. Washington were waiting down at the curb, Josiah would have been safely away, following Mr. Hunter’s instructions to return the stolen letters. He groaned.

  “I’ll explain everything to him when he gets back,” Prudence soothed. “He knows that once I make up my mind, there’s no changing it.” Geoffrey also knew that Josiah was no match for Prudence on a mission. Perhaps no one was. And that’s why he worried. Interesting thought. Prudence put it aside to examine later.

  “Josiah will be back soon,” she said, watching from the window as the secretary climbed into Danny Dennis’s hansom cab. She led Lydia toward the private office, which gave her confidence every time she entered it. “There’s no need for him to know all the details. He’ll fuss and try to meddle.”

  “What is this germ of an idea you told him you had?”

  “In addition to Damaris ending whatever was between them, suppose she tells Sorensen that she’s agreed to marry the young man who is her guardian’s choice for her?”

  “Make it even stronger. She was already engaged when she met Sorensen and now regrets the infatuation. That way he has no hope at all of changing her mind. He has to let her go.”

  “But she recommends him most heartily to her good friend or distant cousin, whatever we decide I am, who is visiting New York City and is every bit as rich as she and even lonelier. It’s obvious from what she writes that he had asked for some type of financial help or proof of her commitment, but since that has obviously gone sour, we have her throw him another victim to take her place. As desperate as he is, he’ll swallow the bait.”

  “We can’t risk his not picking up the mail that’s waiting in his box,” Lydia reasoned. “Didn’t you say Ned thought he was preparing to leave New York City for good?”

  “That was his impression. Most of the gambling debts have been paid and the house is for sale. Ned believes Aaron is playing it safe.”

  “Then time is definitely running out. We have to lure him to the Fifth Avenue Hotel with the promise of a wealthy, vulnerable heiress from another city as soon as we can. And if she’s already predisposed in his favor because a friend or cousin has spoken highly of him, I don’t see how he can resist.”

  “Our fake letter has to go to his home, but he’s apparently given Damaris a post office box number as her only means of contacting him.” Prudence tapped impatiently on her desk. “Think logically, Lydia. How would she get his address?”

  “Look at the letter from the law firm,” Lydia advised.

  “‘Dear Sir.’ No name, just the post office box number.” Prudence sighed. “From which we have to infer that even though Damaris’s guardian found out about Sorensen, she’s kept her promise and not revealed his name. Or what he told her his name was.”

  “Making things all the more difficult for us.”

  “How logical is it that Sorensen would have used a false surname?” Prudence asked.

  “There are arguments for and against,” Lydia began.

  “If Damaris has access to the New York City newspapers, he wouldn’t want her recognizing his name in the gossip columns.”

  “Or the obituary notices,” Lydia added. “Beloved husband of . . .”

  “But there would be problems when it came time to apply for a marriage license or transfer property from his wife’s name to his.”

  “The best scam is the simplest one. The more lies, the harder it is to remember them and the easier it is to make a mistake.”

  “So we’ll take a chance that he didn’t use a false name?” Prudence asked.

  “Agreed,” Lydia said. “I think Sorensen’s greatest weakness is his belief that he’s untouchable, that he’s created the perfect fiddle.”

  “We send the letter to his home.”

  “He’ll wonder how Damaris got his address, but when she makes it plain that he’s not to contact her, he’ll have to let it go. He won’t risk endangering the new con.”

  “The letter should be on the table with his breakfast coffee.”

  * * *

  She would move into the Fifth Avenue Hotel in the morning, but tonight Prudence had chosen to remain in the house on Fifth Avenue.

  She hadn’t thought she would sleep, and she didn’t. Not for many hours.

  Exactly one year ago she had stood at her bedroom window and watched the beginning of what came to be known as the Great Blizzard, a devastating snowstorm that had obliterated New York City and killed two hundred of its residents. Charles had died in the Great Blizzard; Prudence’s life changed forever.

  Orphaned the previous Christmas, addicted to laudanum, bereft of the childhood friend who was also her fiancé, and controlled by a murderous stepmother, Prudence MacKenzie’s future had been bleak . . . if she had anything to look forward to at all. Then she met Geoffrey Hunter.

  She had learned to fight her own battles and escape the traps set for her, but always with the assurance that should she need him, Geoffrey would be there. Renewed trust in herself had been hard-won; even now there were moments when she doubted. But they were short-lived and growing weaker as she strengthened.

  It was time to let go of Charles Linwood forever. Relinquish wondering what might have grown between them, had they married. She had used her fiancé’s death as a protective wall behind which she could hide when she felt Geoffrey drawing too close. If there hadn’t been the photograph of Charles that still stood on her dressing table, she would have forgotten what he looked like. He had become a handsome, fair-haired stranger.

  Very gently Prudence turned the silver-framed likeness facedown. And felt tension she hadn’t known was there flow from her shoulders.

  She opened the window, as she had on that freezing night a year ago, and breathed deeply. New York City had its own distinctive smells. She wondered what scents Geoffrey was inhaling in Saratoga Springs tonight. She knew he was awake and picturing her looking out over Fifth Avenue. He would understand why she could not sleep, and he would not push her. He would wait until she was ready.

  Prudence smiled out at him across the two hundred miles that separated them and felt a kiss of warm air brush her cheek.

  She took one last look at the dark stillness of the city, then closed her window and climbed into her four-poster bed.

  And fell asleep almost as soon as her head touched the pillow.

  * * *

  The suite Prudence engaged at the Fifth Avenue Hotel was a floor below Geoffrey’s luxurious apartment. Tall windows in the parlor looked out over bustling Fifth Avenue; each of the two bedrooms contained a carved four-poster bed draped in silk hangings and a French armoire inlaid with rosewood and ivory.

  “Sorensen is coming for tea at four o’clock,” Prudence said, holding out his acceptance of her invitation.

  “Will I do?” Lydia asked. Her tall, willowy figure was wrapped in layers of dusty black wool over a rigidly corseted bodice. Cheap lace framed her neck, there were visible darns on the cuffs of her sleeves, and her skirts rose over a bustle too large for the current Parisian styles. The boots peeking out from beneath her skirts were scuffed and sturdy.

  “You look like everyone’s idea of the poor relation who can’t be hidden in a back room and won’t go away,” Prudence said. “Perfect.”

  They had decided that Prudence’s name would be Miranda Prosper; it had the awkward ring of old family and safe money. If Aaron Sorensen attempted to research Damaris Tavistock’s friend in Syracuse, he would find a graveyard full of Prospers and precious little else to reveal Prudence as the fraud she was.

  Lydia had chosen a pale gray dress for her friend. “It matches your eyes,” she explained, “but it makes your skin look like a day-old corpse. Which is what you want.”

  “Definitely not a beauty, but very wealthy.” Prudence’s looped skirt had been sewn from yards of expensive watered silk, the buttons on her
bodice were star moonstone, and around her throat hung an exquisite ivory cameo. Everything she wore screamed money, yet the overall effect was of unrelieved dowdiness. The gown had hung in a dressmaker’s workroom for months, one of her few failures; when Lydia declared it exactly what they needed, the woman had been only too glad to be rid of it for the cost of materials and labor.

  “Slump your shoulders,” instructed Lydia, “as though you’re used to taking and obeying orders.”

  “A lady doesn’t slouch,” Prudence objected.

  “Just a hint of subservience. Not too much.”

  Prudence burst out laughing as she struggled to overcome years of training in proper deportment.

  “Giggling and babbling are what we want,” Lydia declared. “You have to appear silly. Not quite stupid, but definitely vapid. I suspect from what you’ve told me that Catherine was more than a match for Sorensen, especially if she was secretly preparing to leave him. He chose Ethel for her passivity. He won’t make the Catherine mistake again.”

  A rap on the door announced a waiter with the tea cart.

  Prudence settled herself in a too-large armchair to add to the impression of awkwardness, folded her hands meekly in her lap, and waited for her prey to appear.

  * * *

  Lydia opened the door to Sorensen, stepping back immediately so he had an unobstructed view of the pale, self-conscious, and socially inept young woman he had come to meet. He’d expected a lady’s maid or companion; after one quick glance at Lydia’s glaringly impecunious state, he ignored her.

  “Miss Prosper.” He bowed, not quite clicking his heels, crossed the room and bowed again. “How good of you to invite me.” Like most European men, he was a master of the elegant art of hand kissing, a skill American gentlemen never seemed able to learn.

  Prudence managed an appropriate nervous simper. “Do please be seated,” she said. “I’ve ordered tea.” She poured, managing to spill a few drops into the saucer she handed her guest. “This is my first visit to New York City,” she explained. “Dear Damaris insisted there was no one better able to advise me on what I absolutely must see while I’m here. I hope I’m not being forward, but she spoke very highly of you.”

  “I understand she’s engaged to be married,” Sorensen said.

  “The wedding was put off once,” Prudence contributed vaguely. “I’m not sure what the problem was, but it seems to have been resolved and the banns have been announced. They’re leaving for a long honeymoon in Europe in two weeks. Isn’t that delightful?”

  “Wonderful.”

  “It’s to be a private ceremony. Both her parents have passed on, you know. There’s only her guardian, and he’s not someone who puts up with what he calls ostentatious show.” Prudence sipped her tea and glanced at Lydia, bent over some unidentifiable piece of knitting. “She’s my dearest friend and the closest I’ll come to having a sister. We write nearly every week.” She paused, then added, “When was the last time you were in Saratoga, Mr. Sorensen?”

  It was the question whose answer they hoped would provide a clue to at least one of the mysteries about Aaron Sorensen. Had he found and wooed Ethel’s replacement months before she died? There was no record of his initial trip to Philadelphia, and thus no way to know whether Catherine had still been alive when he smooth-talked his way into the Caswell household. Proof of premeditation could be evidence against deaths attributed to childbirth. If he believed Miranda Prosper and Damaris were frequent correspondents, he’d have to assume Damaris might have written about their first meeting.

  “Several months ago,” he said.

  “Though, of course, you had already met,” Prudence said. She felt Lydia stiffen and knew she had taken a chance they hadn’t discussed. But it felt right, and sometimes acting on intuition got results.

  “I was there for the races last summer.”

  More likely trolling for your next victim, Prudence thought. She doubted she’d get any more information out of him. “There’s no need to say any more, Mr. Sorensen. I’m sure the memories are painful.”

  “I wish her only the best.”

  “Of course you do. Dear Damaris is not always as forthright as she should be. She reads novels. I blame that on her not having a mother to guide her in her formative years. No matter how strict one’s governess, it’s not the same, as I very well know. And her father was hopeless. We won’t talk about her.”

  “That’s very kind of you, Miss Prosper.”

  “Now you must help me decide how best to spend the next week and a half. That’s all the time I have. I promised Papa I’d be back at his bedside before he could begin to miss me.”

  “Your father is unwell?”

  “For almost two and a half months now.”

  “Might I inquire what type of illness?”

  “The horse he was riding lost its footing on an icy road. A few days before Christmas. Papa was thrown and badly injured. The horse had to be put down.”

  “How worrisome that must be for you.”

  “He’ll make a full recovery, but it will take time.”

  For the next fifteen minutes Prudence skittered from one frivolous topic to another. She asked his advice about visits to museums, shopping expeditions, evenings at the opera or the theater, carriage rides in Central Park. She rambled on, pausing only to ask if he would care for more tea, another crustless cucumber sandwich. Finally, just before the rules of etiquette dictated that Sorensen take his leave, she inquired if he might know of a suitable dealer in antiquities from whom she could purchase a small, portable writing desk. “Preferably French,” she said. “Papa is confined to his bed, which he finds most annoying. I thought the gift of a writing desk he could balance on a pillow would revive his spirits.”

  The gleam in Sorensen’s eye came and went quickly, but Prudence caught it. So did Lydia.

  “As it happens, I have contacts in Europe from whom I’m often able to import exactly what might suit your needs.”

  They would talk more about it tomorrow, when Aaron came to escort her to the Metropolitan Museum of Art on Fifth Avenue.

  “Miss Durant will accompany us,” Prudence said as Sorensen bent over her hand to take his leave.

  “She’ll be most welcome.” But the look he shot in Lydia’s direction was anything but congenial.

  CHAPTER 25

  Saratoga Springs in mid-March was bleak, chilly, and empty. Most of the hotels and boardinghouses that catered to the race crowds and health seekers were shuttered and silent. Inside the Grand Union, the United States, and the Adelphi hotels scurried armies of carpet and upholstery cleaners, window washers, laundresses and seamstresses, painters and plasterers. Hordes of spring and summer visitors had wrought havoc on the inlaid parquet floors and furnishings. They’d be back again this season, expecting everything to be perfect.

  The last time Geoffrey had been to Saratoga Springs, he had been working for the Pinkerton National Detective Agency, tracking a pair of light-fingered con artists who traveled the resort circuit from the West Virginia mountains to Niagara Falls. Their favorite victims were honeymooners too engrossed in one another to pay much attention to what was going on around them.

  Crossing Broadway, he paused to look up and down the wide avenue that during the season was crowded with every imaginable type of horse-drawn carriage. Only a few vehicles braved the damp cold today. The tree branches stood out bare and black against a gray sky and the flags atop the Grand Union Hotel whipped in the gusty March wind. Geoffrey turned up the high collar of his overcoat as he walked the final few blocks to his destination.

  It had been nearly dawn before he’d managed to catch a few hours’ sleep; he hadn’t been able to get Prudence and today’s anniversary out of his mind. He wondered whether she was still determined to set herself up as Sorensen’s next victim. Whatever happened here in Saratoga, he intended to be back in New York City before she could get herself into trouble.

  He had no appointment, but the Hunter and MacKenzie, Investig
ative Law business card got him into the office of one of the small law firm’s two partners.

  A broad, heavyset man, with old-fashioned muttonchops and a thick mustache curling down over his upper lip, Mortimer Tavistock had been expecting someone to answer the letter he’d sent to the post office box number in New York City. It was the only address he’d been able to cajole and then threaten out of his stubborn niece. From what he’d learned during his nearly thirty-year practice of the law, men who preyed on women were usually cowards when called on the carpet to answer for their actions. He didn’t for one moment think Geoffrey Hunter belonged to that particular breed of rogue, but he considered it likely they were both chasing the same scoundrel.

  “I can’t divulge anything about my client,” Geoffrey began, “but I can tell you that we believe the individual I’m tracking has a long history of defrauding the women he courts. We suspect him of the worst kind of violence.”

  “Suspicion isn’t proof,” Tavistock said.

  “Your letter is clear. You warn the person to whom it is written that he is to stay away from an unnamed young lady or risk incurring consequences he will regret. You used the word rue.”

  “By your presence here I surmise the missive reached its destination.”

  “It did,” Geoffrey said. He laid a sheet of paper on the lawyer’s desk.

  “This is a copy.” Tavistock touched the facsimile lightly with one knobby forefinger.

  “It is,” Geoffrey agreed.

  Both men understood that he would say no more about the original, how it had come into his possession, and where it was now.

  “He covers his tracks very well,” Geoffrey began. He had decided not to mention the letter by which he had learned Damaris’s first name and her probable relationship to the man sitting across the desk from him. “Our investigation has found nothing that will stand against him in court. Actions on his part could be construed as circumstantial and ethically problematic, but no more than that.”

  “The bank alerted us,” Tavistock volunteered. He offered a silver box of fine hand-rolled cigars and, when Geoffrey declined, prepared one for himself with an initialed double-guillotine silver cutter. There was no mistaking who was on his mind as the razor-sharp blade clipped and trimmed. “The estate of the young lady in question is overseen by our family bank. She made a mistake, which we were able to correct before any real damage was done.”