She reached out and grabbed his free hand, pulling him back to her. “Thank you,” she told him. “For coming and for convincing my father to come too.”
“You’re welcome.” The way he smiled at her made her wish she could sit beside him too.
A cup balanced on his knee, Nate gladly put thoughts of Otto Schneider aside for the night and focused on Meg instead.
“It means a lot to Meg that you’re here for this,” he told Stephen. “It’s good of you to come. I know it isn’t easy for you, which makes it all the more meaningful.”
Making no comment beyond a nod, Stephen sat ramrod straight on the bench, staring at Meg’s paintings while he chewed the last of his strudel.
The Garibaldi brothers walked in, and Meg clasped their hands in warm welcome.
“That boy in the painting,” Stephen said, squinting. “Who is that?”
A placard mounted beneath the frame gave general information, but Nate supposed Stephen wanted specifics. “That’s Louis Garibaldi. He and his brother Lorenzo sold fire relics in the neighborhood until the weather turned too cold.”
Stephen pulled at his collar, then stood. Taking two steps closer to the wall, he pointed at the canvas. “I’ve seen him before. Just didn’t notice it until now.”
Nate joined him. “Well, he’s right over there, talking to Meg and Mrs. Palmer.”
His brow folding, Stephen swiveled. “I know that boy. He took my gun. A man ought to have his gun, especially at a time like this.” The cup of cider shook in his right hand, spilling a few drops over the side.
“Steady, Mr. Townsend.” Nate took the cup from him and deposited it on a passing tray. “Tell me more,” he prompted. “What happened?”
“The morning after the fire, that kid offered to sell me my Colt Army revolver that I lost the night of the fire. But I couldn’t pay for it, and why should I have? It was mine. My initials were etched into the side.”
“So he sold it to someone else?”
“He must have. The next time I saw it, the police officers said it was evidence in Hiram’s murder. I want to know what Louis did with my gun after I saw it last.”
Nate was intrigued as well. “Listen. There’s a cloakroom just off the hallway where we can speak with a little more privacy. I’ll bring him over, and you can talk to him there, but only if you promise to keep your voice down. Don’t yell. Don’t touch him. Can you do that, Mr. Townsend?”
Stephen’s nostrils flared. “I’ll try.”
“Excellent. Go to the cloakroom. I’ll be right there.” Straightening his cravat, Nate ambled over to the Garibaldi brothers and inserted himself into their conversation with Meg, Edith, and Mrs. Palmer. After congratulating the boys on their new baby sister, Nate turned to Meg. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to borrow Louis for a few minutes. We have a few questions about the relic business.”
“That so? Then I ought to come too.” Lorenzo squared his shoulders. “Louis is the loudmouth of the operation. I’m the brains.”
“By all means.” Nate smiled. “Right this way.”
A forest of furs and frock coats lined the small space, dimming the sounds of conversation and music just outside it. Gaslight spilled from a single sconce, casting shadows beneath Stephen’s eyes and cheekbones.
Lorenzo tipped his hat back on his head. “Interested in purchasing a relic, mister? We closed up shop for the season, but if you have a specific item in mind, I may be able to meet your need.”
Stephen frowned at Louis. “You tried to sell me my old gun. The one with my initials on it. SJT.”
Louis’s eyes widened. “Surly Jaw T-bone?”
“Stephen James Townsend, you—” Stephen stopped himself and inhaled deeply. “You remember who I am.”
“Gentlemen,” Nate said. “This is Stephen Townsend. His daughters are Miss Meg and Miss Sylvie.”
Eyebrows spiking, Lorenzo looked between his brother and Stephen. “Stephen Townsend is their pop?”
Louis kicked one shoe against the other. The top was peeling away from the sole. “I didn’t know that. I didn’t even know Miss Meg yet.” His bravado began to falter.
“That’s all right, Louis,” Nate said. “We’d just like to know what you did with Mr. Townsend’s gun after he told you he couldn’t buy it back.”
“That gun was important to me,” Stephen added. “What happened to it is important.”
Louis scratched the back of his head and straightened his cap. “Is it important to Miss Meg and Miss Sylvie?” Gaslight flickered in his large black eyes.
“It could be, yes,” Nate told him.
Lorenzo pulled off his hat and wrung it.
“I sold it to someone else.” Louis shrugged. “I made a pretty penny off it too. As soon as this other fellow showed an interest in it, I knew he could be had. So I set the price high. He set it even higher, so long as I did him one extra favor.”
“What was that?” Nate asked.
“Didn’t make much sense, but he told me to bury the gun somewhere, real shallow, and then tell the police I saw Townsend do it. I also had to show them where to find it.”
“So you’re false witness number one.” Stephen stepped backward, his face darkening. But the slant of his shoulders made it seem like it was almost a relief to know. “You have no idea what you did.”
“How was I supposed to know? I thought, how much trouble could a guy get in for burying his own ruined gun? The man offered me cash for it, and I took it. I got a family to look out for, after all.”
Interesting. Otto Schneider said he hadn’t paid the witnesses right away.
Nate bent on one knee to the boy’s level. “Louis, do you have any idea who the other witness was? The one who said they actually saw Mr. Townsend shoot Hiram Sloane?”
Lorenzo clenched his jaw, then cleared his throat. “It doesn’t matter anymore, does it? The charges were dropped. You’re not going to put the witnesses in jail, are you?”
Straightening, Nate looked the young man in the eye. He knew something. Nate had one guess as to what it was. “Tell me, Lorenzo.”
“I’m not talking on the record,” he said. “If I sing, you have to promise not to put it in your paper. Leastwise, not the specifics. Not the names of the false witnesses. Bad for business, you know.”
Nate did. “The only reason I want to find the witnesses is so they can identify the man who put you—that is, the witnesses—up to this. He’s the real criminal. Witness names can remain confidential.”
A frown rippled across Lorenzo’s brow. Wearing fingerless gloves, he pushed his hair off his forehead. “Fine, I’ll say it. That man who paid my brother off—I followed him and asked if he had any other work he needed done. All I had to do was say one little line, and I had enough money for—well, it was a lot more than he paid Louis. My brother didn’t know I made that deal.” He turned to Stephen. “But yeah, I told the police I saw you shoot Mr. Sloane.”
Nate exhaled a long breath as he stole a glance at Stephen. It was the first confession he’d heard in a while that made any sense. “You all right, Mr. Townsend?”
Stephen rubbed his chin. “I will be once I know who was behind this scheme. If you don’t know his name, do you recall what he looked like?”
Louis bit his lip and stuffed his hands in his pockets. “Not really. I see a lot of people every day.”
“Did he know the gun belonged to Mr. Townsend before you found it?” Nate asked.
The boy looked up through the thick fringe of his lashes. “That’s how I got such a high price for it. I told him it belonged to Stephen James Townsend. Now, if we’re through, I think I’ll have another slice of pie.” He scuttled away.
“If you think of anything else, contact me.” Nate handed Lorenzo his card as the young man followed his brother.
After a few minutes to allow Stephen to compose himself, they headed back into the gallery in time to see Daniel Brandon skip the cloakroom and reception area and bluster right into the main room.
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“That’s the Camp Douglas photographer,” Nate told Stephen and hailed Mr. Brandon over. “This is Mr. Stephen Townsend. His photograph was one of the two we brought you. What brings you here tonight?”
After greeting Stephen, Mr. Brandon reached into his jacket and withdrew a file folder. “I found something after you and Miss Townsend left my studio, Mr. Pierce. You’ll both want to see this, I’m sure. If I hadn’t seen the notice about this show, I wouldn’t have known where to find you. Now that I’m here, I’m eager to see what she thinks of this.”
Nate’s curiosity was piqued. “She’s occupied at the moment. You could wait, but she’s bound to be talking most of the night with whoever walks through that door.”
“Then I’ll show you.” Brandon pulled a photograph from the folder. It was eight by ten inches, showing a group of about a dozen men with their right hands held aloft. “This is the last group of prisoners to take the oath of allegiance to the North. The last of the Galvanized Yankees to come out of Camp Douglas. See any familiar faces?”
Nate scanned the gaunt and haggard men. “That’s Jasper, all right. Look, Mr. Townsend.”
“So it is,” Stephen said.
It wasn’t exactly new information, but it did prove their theory that Jasper had been a Galvanized Yankee.
“No, it isn’t,” Mr. Brandon said in a low tone. “You keep calling this fellow Jasper. I couldn’t place the name when you said it, but didn’t think much of it since I photographed thousands of soldiers. But I can tell you now that this man’s name isn’t Jasper.”
He flipped the photograph over. Affixed to the back was a typewritten caption with the date and names of the prisoners taking the oath.
Jasper’s name wasn’t among them.
Nate turned the photograph again, studying the faces. “But that’s him. I’m sure of it.”
“I agree it’s the same man from the photo you brought in. But I’m telling you, Jasper is not his name.” Mr. Brandon pointed to the back. “He’s second from the left, front row. That man’s name is George Skinner.”
The air changed in the room. Stephen’s countenance was thunderous, the atmosphere around him crackling.
“You’re sure?” Nate whispered to the photographer. “Absolutely sure of this?”
“Absolutely sure.”
“He’s no relation.” Stephen blinked over and over, slapping his thigh. “No relation to Hiram at all. He’s a Rebel devil, plain and true. No relation.”
“Wait.” Nate squeezed Stephen’s shoulder. “Slow down, Mr. Townsend. Steady. Remember the back of Jasper’s carte de visite? Hiram wrote Jasper’s name. He called it—” He frowned, recalling to mind the exact phrase. “The likeness of Jasper.”
“So he did.” Mr. Brandon’s head bobbed. “I’m confident that what he meant was that George Skinner was the very likeness of his nephew. They looked alike. But they were two different people.”
Stephen dropped onto a nearby bench. “All this time,” he muttered, rocking back and forth, head in his hands. “All this time, all this time. The enemy in the camp. I need my gun.”
“Easy, there. We’ll sort it out.” But dread filled Nate’s belly with stones.
Looking up, he noticed several guests watching them. One of them was Louis. Nate crooked a finger at him, and the boy shuffled back over.
Nate showed him the photograph. “What do you see, Louis?”
The boy pulled up his trousers by the waist and leaned forward. “Why, that’s him! The man who bought the gun! How’d you know?”
He was pointing to George Skinner.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Something was dreadfully wrong.
Nerves as tight as violin strings, Meg met Nate in the center of the gallery. Her father, Mr. Brandon, and Louis Garibaldi clustered around her.
“Tell me what’s going on,” Meg said.
Nate signaled to Sylvie to join them, then held Meg’s hand. “We’ve learned some information that we need to take to the police.”
Meg’s mouth went dry. “Now?” What could be so urgent that it couldn’t wait until tomorrow morning?
“I’m afraid so. Mr. Brandon and the Garibaldi brothers need to come with me to help explain it.”
Patrons peppered the gallery, dividing Meg’s attention between the show and what Nate was saying. “Care to explain it to me too?”
“We found the false—” Stephen began, but Nate put a hand on his arm.
Witnesses. They had found the false witnesses at last. Louis and Lorenzo wouldn’t look at her. She didn’t have to wonder why. A great sigh lifted and released her shoulders as she digested this. As disappointed as she was that her young friends had done such a thing, she was sure it had been for money, not out of malice.
“I promise to tell you everything after the show tonight,” Nate said. “Your father will stay here with you while we run our errand.” He turned to Stephen. “Let me handle this, Mr. Townsend. It’s better this way.”
Meg pulled Nate into the hallway that led to the cloakroom. Sylvie followed, her cheeks flushed with more than heat. “Should we be alarmed?” Meg kept her voice low.
“It’s Jasper, isn’t it?” Sylvie asked breathlessly.
Nate took off his spectacles and dropped them into his jacket pocket. “I suppose I can’t tell you to keep an eye on your father without telling you why. So yes, it’s Jasper. He’s not who he says he is, and now we have proof.”
Meg’s stays dug into her ribs as she inhaled. “But he admitted he was a Confederate soldier and then a Galvanized Yankee. He told Sylvie everything.” She glanced at her sister.
“Not everything,” Nate said. “Which is why we need to go to the police. You must keep your father in sight. Sylvie, can you do that? While Meg talks to potential buyers?”
“I can try, but—”
“It’s imperative. If Frank and Edith are still here, you can ask them to help. Tell them why. Don’t let him leave alone.” His words were razors, whittling Meg’s composure and scraping the charm from the evening. “Tell Brandon and the Garibaldis I’ll be right with them. I saw Helene and Kirstin here—tell them not to go back to Jasper’s tonight. They’ll need to trust us on this. I don’t have time to explain.”
Sylvie paled. Swallowing, she swept away toward the sound of the string quartet and voices as light and tinkling as wind chimes.
Questions and conclusions exploded in Meg’s mind, but she knew she only had time for one. “Do I need to tell you to be careful?” She still hadn’t let go of his ink-stained hand.
Stepping deeper into a shadow, he pulled her closer. “As long as no one goes to see Jasper—or the man who claims to be Jasper—no. It’s your father I’m most concerned about.” His gaze left hers to scan the hallway before returning to her face. “I wish it wasn’t tonight. I wish I hadn’t just ruined your show for you.”
Meg wished a great many things. She shook her head. “It’s not your fault. Just be safe and come back.”
He cupped her face in his hands and smiled. “Haven’t you noticed? When it comes to you, I can’t stay away.”
Sylvie had never aspired to be an actress. She had no fondness for feeling one thing and expressing another.
But tonight, as she smiled at Chicago’s elite and agreed with them about her sister’s talent, her heart wrung itself out over the two men she cared about most in the world. Thank goodness Frank, Edith, and Anna had all agreed to help make sure Stephen didn’t leave. It would take all four of them, she supposed, to keep her father from doing something he’d regret. Did he even realize how much people cared about him? Here were three friends he hadn’t had before the fire, and that wasn’t even counting Nate and Karl. All of them were Sylvie’s friends now too.
And who did Jasper have?
No one.
He could have had Sylvie, though. She would have joined her life with his willingly if he hadn’t shut her out. What could Nate have possibly discovered about his past that they needed to go
to the police about? Every minute of not knowing seemed like an hour.
“Excuse me, Miss Sylvia Townsend?”
She turned to find a red-haired woman of middling years wearing a beaded and bustled silk gown. “Yes?”
“Mrs. Palmer told me to speak with you about scheduling an appointment with your sister. I’d like to commission a painting.”
Sylvie smiled and opened the appointment book she carried. “Certainly.”
This was the fourth patron Meg had gained tonight. Between that and the silent bids collecting in a box for the paintings on display, the ledger book was sure to prove the evening a success.
The ledger book didn’t account for Sylvie’s breaking heart.
Her gaze filtered over the room again as soon as she finished making the appointment. Meg was deep in conversation with Bertha Palmer and another patron about the painting techniques emerging in France. Not seeing the Novaks or her father, Sylvie wandered toward Anna Hoffman in the reception area instead.
This late in the evening, the baker looked weary but happy. Sylvie suspected that with her early mornings, she wasn’t used to staying out this late. Karl was most likely in bed by now, and Anna really ought to be as well.
“Thank you for all you’ve done for this event, Anna.” Sylvie wrapped her arm around Anna’s soft shoulders and squeezed. “Why don’t you head home?”
Anna’s smile pushed seams into her cheeks. But, looking beyond Sylvie, her smile slipped. “My dear, isn’t your vater with you?”
“I thought he was with Frank and Edith.” Sylvie looked behind her.
“Oh no.” Anna cringed. “I forgot to tell you. They asked me to let you know that they had to go home to their babies. You were busy with a gentleman, writing in that book of yours, and they didn’t want to interrupt.” Her face twisted with worry. “I kept Stephen with me after that until I needed to use the toilet. I sent him over to you and watched him cross the room in your direction before I went. . . .”
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