These Shallow Graves

by Jennifer Donnelly

  “Please,” the man echoed mockingly. “Is that what you say to your paperboy?”

  He kissed her neck and trailed the tip of his knife over her cheek to her nose. Jo whimpered again; she couldn’t help it.

  “So very pretty,” the man said. “But you won’t be, without a nose. Keep poking it into other people’s business, and I’ll come into your house one night, into your bedroom, and slice that pretty nose off. I’ll be gone before you’ve even stopped screaming. You think your paperboy will like you then? No one will.”

  The man lowered his knife. He kissed her again. His breath was rancid.

  “I’m going to go now, Miss Montfort,” he said. “But you’re going to stay here. Right against this wall. You’re going to count to ten, very slowly, and then you’re going to go home and do as you’re told. Like a good girl. If you do, we need never see each other again. Start counting. Nice and slow …”

  Jo did, her eyes still closed, her voice hitching.

  When she got to ten, she opened her eyes. The man was gone. She was alone.

  She took a shaky, faltering step. And then another. And then she fell to her knees in the dirty alley and vomited.

  “White can be so stark,” Anna Montfort said. “Ivory might be a better choice with your complexion. For your dress and your flowers. Oh, this would all be so much easier if Grandmama weren’t insisting that the ceremony be held at Herondale!”

  “It’s for Mr. Aldrich’s sake, Mama,” Jo said blandly. “He cannot attend otherwise.”

  They were in the dining room, eating breakfast. It had been decided just yesterday that Jo would wear white at her wedding. Somber colors were usually required for one only recently out of full mourning—as Jo would be in June—but Grandmama had declared that Jo was making a trip to the altar, not a mausoleum, and refused to even hear of mauve for her wedding gown.

  “You’re right, of course, Josephine,” Anna said. “Peter must be a part of his son’s wedding. And there’s also the fact that Herondale is private. It has a nice tall gate to keep out all the dreadful reporters determined to tell the world what sorts of canapes were served.”

  “No,” Jo murmured. “We can’t have any dreadful reporters.”

  “But the problem remains: how do we get dozens of hothouse roses from the city to the country?” her mother continued.

  Jo was barely listening. Her hand absently went to her right cheek and the cuts there, made by the brick wall when her attacker pushed her head into it.

  I stumbled, Mama. In my bathroom. Just this morning. I was thinking about the wedding, not paying any attention, and I fell and hit my head against the edge of the bathtub.

  That was how she’d explained the cuts. Two days after the attack, they were starting to heal. The rest of her wasn’t.

  She’d staggered home that night, holding back her sobs until she got to her bathroom. Then she’d pulled her clothing off, run a scalding hot bath, and sat in it, feeling as if she’d never get clean.

  She’d barely slept since the attack. She had no appetite. Her assailant had terrorized her. Hurt her. Made her feel dirty. And there was nothing she could do about it. He seemed to know that. He seemed to know that she wouldn’t tell anyone, not her mother, or uncle, or the police. That she couldn’t tell anyone. It was as if he knew her.

  And she hadn’t so much as glimpsed him. He’d made sure of that. She’d heard his voice, and she didn’t think it was Kinch’s, but couldn’t be sure. She’d been too frightened to focus on it. Was he Kinch? Or was he the man with the scarred face, the one who had attacked Eddie?

  His voice wouldn’t go away. She kept hearing it in her ear, over and over. … You’re going to go home and do as you’re told. Like a good girl. …

  Yes, I am, she thought. I have no choice. I’m going to give up pursuing my father’s killer. Give up my dream of becoming a reporter. And give up the man I love. I’m going to be a good girl and do what everyone else wants. Because if I don’t, I’ll find a man with a knife in my bedroom one night.

  Jo’s bright eyes were dull now, her lively face a mask. Fear had dampened the fire that burned inside her to an ember. Soon it would die altogether. Maybe not today, or even in a year or two. But bit by bit, it would fade. Until the things she’d hoped for from life, and the person she’d longed to become, were only dim memories.

  The world outside Gramercy Square, she’d learned, could be dark and dangerous, and one had to be strong to move about in it. Nellie Bly was strong. Fay was strong. Eleanor Owens had been, too. But Jo Montfort? She felt so weak now that lifting her teacup seemed like an ordeal.

  “Whatever color we decide, the roses must come from Meeker’s florists. They’re the only ones I trust. …”

  Her mother was still talking about flowers. Jo nodded listlessly, not caring about flowers or anything else. And then the door to the dining room opened abruptly and a pale and flustered Theakston hurried into the room.

  “Madam, I beg your pardon, but Mrs. Phillip Montfort’s maid is here,” he said, obviously upset.

  Anna looked at him coldly. “Why are you telling me this, Theakston?” she asked. “I’m not in the habit of receiving other people’s servants.”

  “I’m quite aware of that, madam. But this is a most unusual circumstance. She’s come to fetch and you and Miss Jo to Mrs. Phillip Montfort’s side. It appears—”

  Theakston stopped talking. He struggled for words.

  “What is it, Theakston? For goodness’ sake, get a hold of yourself!” Anna chided.

  Theakston nodded. He squared his shoulders. “Mr. Alvah Beekman has been murdered, madam. By a lunatic wielding a knife. It happened late last night, and it appears that the same lunatic attempted to take another life as well … Mr. Phillip Montfort’s.”

  “I’m all right,” Phillip Montfort insisted. “It’s only a cut. It will heal. It’s Alvah’s family we should be thinking of, not me.”

  Jo, in tears, was sitting at her uncle’s side. Her mother was on his other side. Her aunt Madeleine, trembling and red-eyed, was pouring tea. Jo and her mother had arrived only moments ago. They’d been met by a somber-looking Harney, who led them directly to Phillip’s study. Caroline was there, too, ordering the maid to build up the fire. Robert had been called home from school and was expected later in the day.

  Phillip was seated by the fire, wearing trousers, a shirt, and a dressing gown. He was ashen-faced, and there was a livid bruise on his cheek. His shirt collar was open, a bandage visible under it. A decanter of brandy and an empty glass rested on a table next to him.

  Jo was extremely upset to see her uncle looking so shaken and diminished. She wanted to know what had occurred but knew better than to ask questions while a servant was in the room.

  “Phillip, what in God’s name happened?” Anna asked as soon as the maid left.

  “Alvah and I were walking home,” Phillip said. “We worked until ten last night and decided not to trouble our respective cooks with a late supper, so we dined at the Washington.”

  Jo knew the place. It was a hotel a few streets west of Gramercy Square. Her uncle often dined there.

  “We were strolling along afterward when a man suddenly came at us. He punched me in the face. I fell backward. I tried to get up, but I was too dazed, and while I was down he went for Alvah. He … he had a knife,” Phillip said, his voice breaking.

  Anna gasped and covered her mouth with her hands. Jo knew she ought to have been shocked, but she wasn’t. She’d feared this very thing.

  Phillip paused to collect himself. He refilled his brandy glass. Jo had rarely seen her uncle drink, and never before evening.

  “After he killed Alvah, he came for me. I managed to get to my feet. He slashed at me, I ducked, and the knife only grazed my chest. I was able to grab his knife hand, to keep him from slashing at me again. The rest is hazy, but I must’ve shouted for
help, because suddenly the police were there and they managed to subdue the man.”

  “Thank goodness those officers were nearby and able to stop him before he … he … Oh, Phillip!” Madeleine said, bursting into tears.

  “Now, now, my dear,” Phillip said.

  Caroline took her mother’s hand.

  “What will happen to the man?” asked Jo. She had more questions for her uncle. She wanted to know what his attacker looked like, if he’d said anything, and if the police had identified him But she couldn’t ask them. Not in front of her mother, aunt, and cousin. Her uncle knew that she had worried about his being attacked—and why—but they didn’t.

  “He’ll be charged, I imagine,” Phillip replied. “The police were going to take him to the Tombs, but he was so violently out of control, they took him to Darkbriar instead.”

  Jo knew about the Tombs. It was the city jail on Centre Street. It had been nicknamed the Tombs because it resembled a mausoleum.

  “Darkbriar was close by, much closer than the Tombs,” Phillip continued, “and it has special cells to prevent inmates from harming themselves. I don’t know if the police will keep him there. Perhaps they’ll take him downtown if they manage to calm him.”

  “The police brought Phillip here just after two a.m.,” Madeleine said. “I sent for the doctor right away.”

  “You should have sent for us, too, Maddie,” Anna said reproachfully.

  “Nonsense,” said Phillip. “There was no need. I’m fine.” But his hand shook so badly as he was speaking, he had to put his glass down.

  “Papa, you’re exhausted,” Caroline said anxiously. “Dr. Redmond said you weren’t to tire yourself. He said you needed to rest today.”

  “I will, Caro, but I’m not finished yet. I’m afraid I haven’t told you everything. Not even you, Maddie. I wanted to wait until we were all assembled.” He took a deep breath, as if marshalling his strength. “The man who attacked me—Kinch, he calls himself—claims he was an employee of Van Houten’s.”

  The hair on the back of Jo’s neck stood up.

  “Was he?” Madeleine asked, aghast.

  “I’m not sure. He claims Van Houten took something from him. Even as the police were putting handcuffs on him, he was shouting that he’d have his revenge. And he … he mentioned Richard and Charles. He said they’d already gotten what they deserved, and so would the rest of us.”

  Jo hadn’t noticed until that moment how hard she was gripping the arms of her chair. It was almost a confession. Almost, but not quite. Kinch had killed Beekman; her uncle had seen him do it. Had he also killed her father and Richard Scully?

  “Phillip, what are you saying? You can’t mean that this man … that he killed Charles?” Jo’s mother said. Her voice was barely a whisper.

  “I don’t know, Anna. Frankly, I don’t see how he could have. How would he have gotten inside the house? The doors were all locked. Theakston said so. And Charles never would have let such a wild-looking man in,” Phillip reasoned.

  “I don’t believe it. I can’t,” Madeleine said, shaking her head. “This man’s a lunatic. Why should we believe anything he says?”

  “Kinch is certainly not in possession of his faculties,” Phillip said.

  “Then why are you telling us this, if it’s not true?” Madeleine asked unhappily. “Haven’t we had enough upset?”

  “Because the truth doesn’t matter to the press,” Phillip replied. “Reporters arrived on the scene last night before poor Alvah’s body was even cold. When they hear of Kinch’s ravings—and they will—they’ll have a field day. Three Van Houten deaths, a madman—it’s catnip to an editor. Every paper in the city will be splashing rumors about as if they were gospel, and every shoeshine boy and scullery maid will be gossiping about the Montforts. I want you all to be prepared for it. Reporters may accost us in our carriages. They may knock on our doors and camp out on our stoops. You are, of course, to say nothing to them.”

  As he finished speaking, a bout of coughing overtook him. He leaned back in his chair when it was over, flushed and spent.

  “Papa, you’re overtaxing yourself. You must rest,” Caroline urged. “Shall I call Harney to help you upstairs?”

  “Certainly not. I’m fully capable of walking up my own staircase,” Phillip said, getting to his feet. “If this harassment by the papers becomes as bad as I fear, I shall look into renting a house in the country for all of us. I’m sure the Aldriches would know of something suitable.”

  “Papa … ,” Caroline pressed.

  “Yes, Caro, I know,” Phillip said wearily. “I’m going.” He bade everyone goodbye, then slowly walked out of the room.

  “We are so lucky, Maddie,” Anna said, when he was gone. “If he’d hit his head harder, if that horrible man had been quicker … I can’t even bear to think about it.”

  “We are, yes,” Madeleine agreed. “But the poor Beekmans are less fortunate, and now we’re all facing another funeral. It’s too much too fathom.”

  “You don’t think there’s any truth to what Phillip said, do you? About this evil man having something to do with Charles’s death?” Jo’s mother asked, her eyes clouded with worry. “I don’t think I could bear it if … if …”

  Jo’s heart ached for her mother. Jo had had time to get used to the fact that her father had been murdered; her mother hadn’t.

  “We’ll have to wait and see, Anna,” Madeleine said. “Hopefully the doctors at Darkbriar can figure out whether this horrible man Kinch is telling the truth.”

  “Perhaps once Phillip regains his strength, he could speak with Mr. Stoatman and see what his reporters have heard, if anything,” Anna suggested. “To have Charles’s name on the lips of every filthy newsboy, on top of everything else we’ve been through, is adding insult to a great deal of injury.”

  Jo wanted to know what Stoatman’s reporters had heard, too. She didn’t care about preparing for the tidal wave of gossip that her uncle feared, though. She only cared, about finding out whether Kinch had murdered her father. If the doctors at Darkbriar were to get a confession out of him, the police would be the first to know, and the press a close second.

  “I wish we didn’t have to wait. If only we knew some reporters we could ask right now,” Maddie said, sighing.

  “Thank goodness we don’t,” Anna retorted.

  Jo picked up her teacup and studied its contents.

  But I do, she thought.

  Eddie was angry with her, and he had every right to be, but hopefully he would help her. Hopefully he would see her.

  Just this one last time.

  “Would you like a seat, miss?” the brisk young woman at the cash register asked as she totaled a patron’s bill.

  “Actually, I’m looking for a friend. I’ll sit with him, if I may,” Jo replied.

  The woman nodded. She glanced at Jo, then looked her up and down as Jo made her way through the dense lunchtime crowd at Child’s Restaurant on Park Row. Jo looked very different, in her expensive suit, from the other women there in their white cotton blouses and serviceable serge skirts.

  Child’s was a new sort of restaurant for people who worked. Jo had heard about it but had never been inside. She marveled at the immaculate white tiles on the wall, the sparkling counters with shiny metal stools under them, and the long, marble-topped tables where perfect strangers sat down next to one another and ate bowls of soup or thick sandwiches brought to them by waitresses in starched aprons.

  “Eddie Gallagher? He’s probably at Child’s,” the young woman at the front desk in the Standard’s receiving area had told her. “He usually eats lunch there. It’s just across the street.”

  Jo had used the Astor Library and her history of Van Houten as an excuse to leave the house. She said the news of Mr. Beekman’s death was upsetting to her and she needed to take her mind off it.

  �
�How is that history coming?” her mother had asked. “I should like to read it.”

  “Mama, I never show my first drafts,” Jo had said. “Let me polish it, and then you can read it.”

  Anna had agreed, but she’d cautioned Jo to finish it quickly, for she now had other, more important things to think about than her scribbling.

  Finish it? Jo had thought guiltily. That’s going to be difficult, considering I haven’t even started it .

  As she moved toward the far end of the restaurant now, past reporters and their editors, clerks and accountants, typists, secretaries, and shopgirls, she finally spotted Eddie. He was seated at a table by a window with Oscar Rubin. All the chairs at their table were taken, except for the one next to Oscar.

  “Mr. Gallagher, Mr. Rubin, how delightful to see you both,” she said as she approached them. Eddie, his hands wrapped around a mug of black coffee, looked up and groaned, but he got to his feet as a gentleman should. Oscar did, too.

  “Sorry. We were just—”

  Leaving, he was about to say. Jo was sure of it. But Oscar cut him off.

  “About to order! Nice to see you again, Jo. Care to join us?”

  Eddie looked daggers at him.

  “I’d love to,” Jo said. “Thank you.” She sat. Eddie and Oscar did, too.

  “What brings you to this fine establishment?” Oscar asked. “The corned beef? The meat loaf?”

  “May I take your order?” a waitress asked before Jo could answer him.

  Eddie ordered franks and beans, biscuits, and a root beer float.

  “Jeez! Glad I’m not sleeping with you tonight,” Oscar said. “Did you know the average human passes over a quart of gas a day? And that’s without any beans in the mix.”

  “Oscar,” Eddie said, nodding at Jo.

  Jo bit back a smile. Had any other man said such a thing in front of her, she would have been mortified. With Oscar, however, bodily functions were simply part of the conversation.