Benjy answered her words with a small grunt.
“Visit Marianne first. I’ll be going around town spreading the news about Charlie. It wouldn’t be good if she heard the news through gossip first. Unless you want me to tell her?”
“I will visit her,” Hetty said quickly. “But afterward. She’ll be busy with her children. I don’t want to tell her the news while they’re around. It won’t be a waste of time.” At his raised eyebrows, Hetty added, “Geraldine lives near the alley where we found Charlie. I can check if there are any clues sunlight will show.”
“You could find something if you looked again,” he admitted, “and it might be a good idea to talk to Geraldine anyway. She’s married to Alain.”
He let this revelation drop like the winning card in a game of noughts.
As Hetty gaped at him, he only smiled.
“Did he tell you this?” she demanded, already knowing the answer.
“I remembered his face from the last time we were at the building. He remembered us enough to come here for help.” Benjy reached for his bag. “If you have time, could you see if the water pump is truly broken?”
“You don’t trust Alain’s story?”
“It’s a key detail. If the pump was fine, I can only wonder who would have discovered the body instead.”
* * *
Charlie owned three buildings he rented out in the Seventh Ward. A fact he mentioned proudly at various gatherings. Ownership of a home—let alone several—was rare in their community. Those that did either were wealthy or had taken on many debts to make the purchase. This success was just another mark of pride for Charlie, to show how far he came in so little time.
Hetty suspected no one who cheered him on had ever seen the properties themselves.
Water was streaming from the main entrance of the recently renovated building—a muddy river that flowed with a current strong enough to send bits of brick and toys bobbing into the streets.
With reluctance, Hetty entered, stepping around the rushing indoor river. She climbed the stairs, her shoes slipping and sliding on the sludge until she passed the third landing.
This level was the source of the flood. A young woman was frantically creating star sigils over a cauldron, trying to slow the rush of water spilling out of it. Her defunct enchantment only seemed to encourage the contents to spew out faster.
As Hetty turned to continue up the stairs, she waggled her fingers to shape Capricorn. There was a splash, and the flow of water stopped.
The woman looked down at the cauldron and fell backwards on her heels with the relief of one who had just won a hard battle.
Although the river was gone, the building’s appearance did not improve. In fact, it grew worse. For without the distraction she could see all the scuff marks, mouse droppings, and chipped paint.
Reaching the top of the stairs, Hetty rapped on Geraldine’s door just once before it swung open.
A child stared balefully up at her.
“I’m supposed to say no one’s home,” the girl declared. “Even though it’s a lie and a sin.”
The girl was yanked out of sight.
“If you can’t do it right— Oh, Henrietta!”
Geraldine let go of her daughter’s arm and shooed her away.
With a slight gap between her teeth and a button nose, Geraldine still held the vestiges of youthful innocence. If she had ever been innocent, Hetty didn’t know. Geraldine had been charming people away from their money ever since she arrived in Philadelphia three years ago looking for a life that had nothing to do with sharecropping. Brewing and selling magic with the promise of bottled miracles. Hetty had turned a blind eye to such operations. Geraldine had a daughter to support, and she couldn’t help fools who willingly parted with their money. Hetty’s willingness to leave things be ended when the death of Emily Wells came to her attention.
Geraldine’s part was an accident, but she showed no remorse for what had occurred. She continued to sell her little potions, and one of them had ended up in Darlene’s hand. The one thing Hetty could never forgive.
“I hope you aren’t here about my little brews,” Geraldine simpered, “because you threw out my last batch, my equipment, and nearly all my supplies.”
Hetty eyed the room behind the alchemist. “Don’t act as if you didn’t hide some away.”
“I have nothing,” Geraldine insisted. “Whatever you found, it’s not mine.”
Hetty plucked out the vial, waving it in front of the younger woman. “Don’t lie to me. This is your handwriting. I warned you about what would happen if I saw this again.”
“Go on, I got nothing for you to ruin.”
“I’m sure I can find a few things.” Hetty’s hand was primed to start drawing spells, but footsteps in the room drew her attention.
“Geraldine, who is at the door? What, you,” Alain stammered, “what are you doing here?”
“Bothering me is what she’s doing.” Geraldine turned to him. “Be a good husband and get rid of her.”
“I don’t think I should.” He gulped.
“What do you mean, ‘should’? You put our high-and-mighty landlord in his place yesterday! If you can do that, you can get rid of her!”
Alain shushed his wife, who only ignored him as she detailed the promise Alain had extracted from Charlie regarding the water pump.
Alain had lied to someone.
If to his wife, it meant he claimed victory over a dead man. If to Hetty, it changed the sequence of events from the previous night.
Alain had motive and opportunity. Which was, as Benjy always said, key in finding a murderer.
The only thing that gave Hetty pause was the fear that had gripped Alain like a beam of sunlight on a cloudless day. His horrified reaction at the cursed sigil was too genuine to be faked. He hadn’t seen it before Hetty pointed it out, which meant he couldn’t have carved it. However, his wife gleefully lied to people’s faces; maybe Alain learned a few tricks from the woman. They might have even worked together.
She considered the pairing for a moment and then disregarded it. If someone died by Geraldine’s hands it would have been through one of her dodgy potions first.
“I wondered if there was a problem,” Hetty said, her voice raised over their chatter. “I saw a river flowing out of the building as I came up.”
“It wasn’t me,” Geraldine said quickly. “Though it would be nice to be able to wave our fingers and make water appear.”
“Don’t say such things, Mommy. It’s a sin,” the little girl called from the other room. The clink of glass drew Hetty’s ear and she peered over just enough to see the girl grinding something with a mortar and pestle at the table.
“Seems you are in business,” Hetty said.
“The potion you have there. I didn’t sell that.” Geraldine shifted to block Hetty’s view. “All I made lately is gifts for some friends. I’m not sure how it ended up in your hands.”
“What does this ‘gift’ do?”
“It’s just a bit of tea to help stop common complaints. Bad dreams, bad tempers, and ugly moods. You can have some. It’ll be my gift to you, as a reminder of all our little chats.”
“Don’t need any,” Hetty replied. “I’ll be keeping an eye on you. If someone gets the slightest cough from a strange potion, you’ll be hearing from me again.”
Geraldine snarled. “Why can’t you just leave things be?”
“Not in my nature,” Hetty said, and turned her back on Geraldine and her apartment filled with lies. “Good day to you.”
Hetty had made it back down to the street when she heard her name.
When she turned around, she was only a bit surprised to see Alain scurrying after her, lunch pail in hand.
“You won’t tell her the truth?” he gasped.
“She’s going to find out,” Hetty replied, hardly sympathetic at his plight. There were better lies he could have told that weren’t so easily undone.
“I had to. That pum
p’s been a beaten-down mule for two weeks now! Nothing’s been done. Everyone complains and that’s all we talk about. Gerry’s been on me to do something. When I got home last night, I told her I confronted him about it. I figure with him dead and all, he can’t call me a liar!”
Hetty resisted the urge to roll her eyes.
Why were other people’s husbands like this? Benjy didn’t act like this at all. Shuffling about to hide things that weren’t a problem to begin with. It was needlessly tedious, and showed just how little they cared for each other.
“Don’t you think she’ll find out, since it’s not going to be fixed?”
“Could you do something about it?”
Hetty thought of the children living in the building. Thought of the sick. Thought of the elderly. “Is it a mechanical or a magical problem?”
“You’re going to have your husband fix it? Bless you! I’d ask him myself, but I don’t think he likes me very much. But if you convince him, he’ll do it.”
“I’ll tell him,” Hetty said, and held up a hand before Alain could start. “As long as you keep quiet about Charlie.”
“I’m not a gossip,” he said, rubbing his nose. “But aren’t people going to notice when no one sees him around town?”
“I mean stay quiet about the unusual things you might have noticed last night.”
“Ah.” His eyes widened. “You don’t have to tell me twice! It’s a curse, that was, and—”
“It’s not something that should be spread around. We can’t find out who did it if there’s excitement all over town about it.”
“I can manage that.” Alain grinned at her and left, whistling a merry tune, as if this would be the last he expected to see of her.
Which would be true, until she had other questions for him.
Now for the pump.
A closer glance told her everything she needed to know. The broken handle drooped like a despondent dog. With her fingers, she traced Aquarius on the metal handle. Blue light intensified at the vertices, and the magic spread from the sigil to wrap around the pump all the way to the ground.
The handle jerked and clicked into place. She pressed down on it, pumping it until a gush of brown water sputtered out. Hetty jiggled the handle a few times more until it ran clear.
The water spilled past her boots, and she found herself wishing the task took a bit longer. Not too long, but just enough to delay her next errand.
The Richardson home was not far away. Hetty had only to walk a few blocks before the streets widened and the houses had more space to breathe.
That wasn’t the only change.
Her dress, which had been too neat and clean for the neighborhood she’d just left, was now too shabby and faded. Hetty tugged at the band around her neck, if only to assure herself it hadn’t moved and exposed her scars.
Most of the people who lived in these rowhouses were born free. A few had families that lived in Philadelphia for generations. They owned barbershops, restaurants, and grocery stores. They were caterers, clerks, and teachers. They printed weekly papers and preached virtues to those not as fortunate. And they all belonged to the same beneficial societies and clubs, creating an insular circle of support that seldom benefited anyone outside of it.
These people usually had nothing to do with Hetty and Benjy until a child went missing, strange magic crept into drawing rooms, or someone found a finger in a cigar box and did not know where it came from. Then suddenly, these people considered Hetty and Benjy their dearest friends.
Hetty arrived at the Richardson house just as Marianne was sending her children off to school. The older girls clutched their books while Marianne straightened her youngest’s collar.
“Remember to mind your teacher, and I’ll—” Marianne’s words slowed as she caught sight of Hetty on the sidewalk. Marianne patted her son’s head. “I will pick you up after school.”
Rising to her full height, Marianne’s gentle maternal smile took on hard edges. So that answered one lingering question. Marianne still remembered Hetty dumping a cup of tea onto an expensive rug.
Ten different excuses for her presence here this morning fluttered in Hetty’s mind. Some of them were even believable, and only one was a completely outlandish story. There was even one that had her walking away without a word.
Instead, Hetty stayed the course. This was a case like any other, she reminded herself. She just happened to know the people involved quite well.
“There is something I need to tell you,” Hetty said. “And it cannot wait.”
Marianne went completely still, and her hands clenched together.
Her children, still lurking nearby, locked their gazes on Hetty. They must have recognized her. She had little to do with them lately, but she had been there to mark their births and subsequent birthdays.
“Come inside,” Marianne said. “Children, you need to leave or you’ll be late.”
The eldest of the girls tugged her siblings forward. While Hetty didn’t look back to check, she could feel their gazes only added to the burden that clung to her back.
Little had changed in the Richardson home since Hetty was there last December. The rooms were still tastefully decorated with rich and warm hues, and the faint scent of flowers filled the air like a half-remembered dream. On the mantel, a small portrait of the family peered down from above, showing the youngest child still a babe in swaddling clothes. Yet what stood out to Hetty, more than the ornate rugs or the crisp wallpaper, were Charlie’s slippers neatly placed near the door.
Marianne clutched the back of her husband’s chair, her eyes fixed on Hetty. “What happened to my husband? I know something did. Charlie did not come home last night. I expected he would stumble in this morning, but you are here instead.”
“We found him,” Hetty began, and at the sight of hope flaring for a moment in Marianne’s eyes, she forced out the rest. “It was too late for anything to be done. He’s gone. I’m sorry.” Hetty tacked on those last words like embellishments vainly placed on a dress too ugly to be improved.
If Marianne heard that bit, Hetty couldn’t tell. Her friend swayed on her feet. She didn’t faint, but Hetty rushed to her side and led her to the couch. As Marianne collapsed onto it, Hetty found her handkerchief.
Marianne’s face disappeared behind the cloth. The sobs started slowly but grew louder and louder as the woman’s shoulders rose and fell. Hetty reached out to touch her shoulder but stopped short. Instead, she waited until the tears slowed.
“Is there anything I can do for you?” Hetty said.
Marianne’s head jerked up. Tears dripped along her face, but a familiar sharpness had returned to her eyes.
“We brought Charlie to Oliver’s,” Hetty confided. “He offered to prepare the homegoing services, if you don’t mind. I’ll go around to the church, make sure there’s a collection set up for you. I’m sure Mrs. Evans would be more than happy to assist. I expect she’ll insist on it.”
“Don’t you worry about me. I’ll manage well enough. Charlie’s mother—” Marianne paused, shutting her eyes briefly before she continued. “Charlie’s mother will be arriving this week! We got the telegram the other day. It would have been the first time they would have seen each other since she was sold back when he was a boy. After all these years apart, and he misses her by just a few days. Imagine that! What shall I say to her? What can I possibly have to say?”
Marianne turned to Hetty for an answer, but Hetty had none to give.
Of course Charlie had found his mother. Hetty had spent years looking for Esther and was no closer than when she’d first set out with a cobbled-together plan and a stolen collar. Meanwhile, Charlie Richardson sends off one telegram and everything falls into place.
She shouldn’t be jealous. She shouldn’t be mad. Charlie was dead. His reunion with his loved one would not take place in this world, whereas Hetty still had a chance. Still, at least he died knowing what had happened to his mother.
“Just tell her stori
es about her son,” Hetty said finally. “Tell her of the good times, the bad times. Tell her things to make her laugh, to make her cry, or to shake her head at his foolishness. She’ll want to hear such tales. It’s probably the only thing you could do for her.”
Just as there was little that Hetty—or anyone—could do for Marianne and the grief that swallowed up her heart.
“Who could have done this?” Marianne handed Hetty the sodden handkerchief, only to pull out a lacy bit of fabric that passed itself as a handkerchief and dab her eyes. “He was always so careful. Always tipped his hat, kept his voice down, and minded his words. Not like Benjamin.” Marianne blew her nose. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”
“Don’t you worry. It’s not news to me that my husband has the least amount of sense in the world.”
Marianne dabbed her face once more and she seemed herself again. Cool and opaque, like a frosted mirror. “How did you come to find him?”
“The usual way. Someone knocked on our door in the middle of the the night saying they found a dead man. I promise you, Benjy and I will do our best to find out who did the deed and why.”
“Why would you need to do that? I know why Charlie was killed.”
“You do?”
Hetty leaned forward, hoping her eagerness would be mistaken for mere curiosity.
There was a reason Hetty was the one that always told newly minted widows about the demise of their husband. Not only was Hetty better with words, but she was a better judge of character. Cora Evans had given her lessons on how to be a lady. The lessons didn’t take, but Hetty remembered all the silly rules and social cues. Using them, she sifted through words, gestures, and inflections of tone to peel away lies, find truths, and see the core of a person’s character. When that didn’t work, she relied on her gut. Trusting that strong surge of feeling never steered her wrong.
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