Passing Fancies (A Julia Kydd Novel)

by Marlowe Benn

  Fee’s hands worked rhythmically, the rolling pin creaking from the force of her strokes. The dough spread quickly into a smooth circle. “Who be telling they no, huh?”

  She wiped her hands on her apron before spooning chopped rhubarb into the piedish and deftly unfolding the top crust over it.

  What Julia had witnessed that afternoon had to be illegal. It was certainly a travesty. But Fee was right: Who be telling they no? The police? Hardly. Kessler’s anger at her objections still rang in Julia’s ears. A politician? Ensconced in their own bureaucratic fortresses, they were even less concerned than the police. A judge or lawyer? For a significant fee, perhaps.

  It was a brutal question, both in the abstract and in practice. If she protested, who would listen? Like Kessler, most authorities would dismiss her as yet another dewy-eyed female sheltered from the ways of the world. Christophine’s words, and what Julia had now seen for herself, shook her blithe confidence that the law in action much resembled the law in principle.

  Christophine pinched together the two crusts rimming the pie and forked a pinwheel pattern across the top. She moved it to the counter, wiped the table with a folded rag, and began to scrub potatoes.

  Abruptly, her hands stopped moving, and her chin came up.

  Julia let go of the spoon. “What?”

  Fee gave her head a small shake but didn’t answer.

  Julia moved closer and brushed her forearm. “Tell me.”

  “Bernice.” Fee’s voice had gone small.

  Bernice. The name dislodged something inside Julia. It rose like a fist to her sternum. It was the same tight pain that had swelled in her chest yesterday, as if hatched under Philip’s gaze, when he’d asked why she felt so compelled to help Eva. Bernice. The day she’d first felt that stiff, suffocating fear.

  It had been some twenty years ago. She’d been very young, no more than five or six. She’d been in the park. Christophine had sat on a bench with her friend Bernice, the only other colored nanny. Julia had been peevish that day, sulky at being forced to put on her ugly boots and go outside. She’d been standing near a knot of rowdy children she didn’t know, watching them tussle. A fight broke out, and one of the boys pushed the littlest girl, grabbing her hat. Its chin strap caught on her coat button, briefly choking her, and the girl shrieked. When her nanny—Bernice—ran to her and retrieved the hat from the boy’s fists, he too started to scream. Another nanny, tall and fierce, swept in to comfort him. With a piercing Irish brogue she berated Bernice and slapped her hard across the face. Before the startled woman could react, the angry nanny grabbed her arm and pulled her toward the benches, shouting for the police.

  Julia watched stupidly as the boy wailed ever louder, insisting Bernice had attacked him. A policeman came running, and soon he dragged her away, despite her frantic protests. Everyone had seen what happened, but no one said a single word in the innocent woman’s defense. Julia had felt Christophine gripping her from behind, forbidding her to make a sound. “Nothing we can do,” Christophine had hissed into her ear, voice prickly with fear. She was only nineteen or twenty herself.

  When the others had all whisked away their charges, Christophine corralled the hatless little girl, rigid and dry eyed with alarm, and the three of them hurried out of the park in a tight, stumbling huddle. Julia didn’t remember where they’d taken the little girl, whom she’d never seen again, and they had never spoken of it again. Until now.

  “Bernice be from Jamaica,” Fee said. “Them white gals be vex with we, think we take they jobs. I never see she again after that.”

  The recollection flooded Julia. She remembered the children’s cries and that tall nanny’s powerful slap. In breathless silence she remembered the strange brew of confusion, fear, and shame that had filled her throat. It wasn’t the child’s accusation but the onlookers’ silence that had betrayed poor innocent Bernice.

  Fresh fear squeezed Julia’s chest as she thought of Eva. Fear that Eva’s innocence wouldn’t matter. That even if she swore she hadn’t killed Timson, the police wouldn’t listen. Speaking was one thing; being heard was another. Fear that unless others spoke up too, insisting on better answers, Eva’s fate was already sealed.

  “Yesterday,” Julia said, nearly into Christophine’s ear. They were leaning into each other, almost as they had been on that terrible day. “When I heard about Eva, something started to hurt. It was the same pain I felt when we watched Bernice being taken away. I couldn’t remember where the feeling came from, but it was that fear of watching her go. How not one person told the policeman what really happened. I knew, but they wouldn’t have listened to me. I was just a child—” Julia stopped. The accusing boy had not been much older than she had been. If his word had carried weight, hers might have counted for something too. She felt sick to think maybe her silence had not been as powerless as she had thought. She’d been one of those silent onlookers, standing by and doing nothing, as if she’d had no choice. But there had been a choice then, and there was a choice now, with Eva. There was always a choice.

  “You were terrified too, Fee,” she said. “Why? You know my mother would never let them cause you any trouble.”

  Fee swallowed and gave Julia’s hand an excruciating squeeze. For a small woman she was ferociously strong. She began to peel the potatoes, long brown strips curling into the sink. “Maybe yes, maybe no. That day I pray so hard no one rough me too, say I hurt you like they say Bernice hurt that white child. Even your good mam not be standing up to that.”

  Julia balked in disbelief. “But they couldn’t completely make something up, say whatever mean and untrue thing they wanted, could they? Not without some kind of proof. I know things are terribly unjust for Negroes in the South, but this is New York.” She looked around the spacious kitchen with its sparkling Frigidaire and its gleaming white cooker, as if only reason and justice could prevail in such an orderly and modern place. “I’m sure they couldn’t just outright lie. It doesn’t seem possible. Not here?”

  The certainty faded as soon as it left her lips. She felt a second flush of shame at her own reluctance to believe something so loathsome. Hadn’t she just witnessed Eva’s violent mistreatment? Didn’t everything she’d seen and heard confirm what Fee had told her, that Julia’s New York was not Eva’s New York? She couldn’t keep peppering Fee with questions. She ought to start facing those questions herself, learning her own answers.

  Fee swallowed again. “Here, miss.” She began slicing a waterfall of potato disks into a pan of water. The pieces fell in a calming, steady stream.

  Julia stepped back. She understood. Fee tried to take things in stride. She was a “just is” pragmatist, accustomed to disappointments and obstacles Julia would protest if she knew about them. Yet indignation was itself a kind of luxury, an indulgence of time and effort that only those with plenty of both could afford. To Fee, negotiating a path through the troubles was achievement enough. It was a good day’s work not to be nearby when a scuffle broke out, or not to be accosted in that moment between bagging the vegetables and paying for them.

  Fee lit the gas ring under the potatoes and adjusted the flame. As she turned to Julia, she untied her apron strings. “Oh yes, miss. Very right here.”

  CHAPTER 15

  The sentence passed beneath Julia’s eyes for the third time, and still she did not follow it. Something about Countess de Kerninon, likely to be convicted for shooting the count. Yes, yes, of course she was. Julia dropped the newspaper into her lap with an exasperated rustle.

  Philip’s voice sounded in the hall. He’d been out since well before noon, leaving no hint of when he might return. After yesterday’s debacle in Kessler’s office, she was strictly in for the day, still feeling unsettled. She had time only to throw off her lap shawl before he pushed open the library doors and joined her.

  “I’m beastly company,” she warned.

  “Thought you might be.”

  She grimaced. “I have every right to feel aggrieved. I was whisked i
nto a closet like a bad puppy and then made to witness my friend being harassed and attacked by men claiming to ‘interview’ her. I’ve never seen such flagrant abuse of power.”

  “I did warn you the law’s gloves come off when there’s a dead body to account for. Fighting crime is not always pretty.”

  It was true he had said something about bracing herself for strong language and the reek of cigars, but she’d never expected outright violence. She scoffed at the word pretty. “Don’t patronize me. Eva was treated like a convicted criminal, as if she had no rights at all. You tried to confuse her with your mumbo jumbo. That’s only marginally better than Sergeant Hannity’s outright thuggery. You both wanted to make her say what Kessler wants to hear. How is that possibly right, or even legal?”

  Philip dropped into a facing chair. “I’ll concede it was a bad show. Hannity had some bee in his bonnet; I don’t know why. I suspect he was irked she didn’t look like a Negro. He felt tricked, and no one likes to be made a fool of.”

  “She never denied she was colored. She tricked no one. Only the police did that.”

  Philip lifted his hands in surrender. “I suppose I’m jaded, having seen how this works too many times. There’s a certain latitude, shall we say, when investigating major crimes. Timson was dispatched violently, so surely his killer can’t whimper about a bit of rough treatment in return. That’s the thinking, anyway,” he added, seeing Julia’s brewing retort.

  “Hannity was beyond the pale, but you, Philip? I expected better of you.”

  He sighed and lit a cigarette. “Then you’ll be pleased to know I’ve spent the morning making a great nuisance of myself on behalf of your unforthcoming friend. Kessler’s seen the wisdom of releasing her.”

  “She’s not arrested?” Julia sat upright. “No longer a suspect?”

  “No longer one in custody.”

  “You persuaded him? How?” Given Kessler’s certainty that Eva was only a confession away from a murder conviction, this seemed miraculous.

  “I pointed out the flimsiness of his case. A premature arrest would only make it weaker. I think he relented in order to entice me to help.”

  “He wants you to help with his investigation?” It was the most cheering news she’d had in two days. With Julia to hound him, Philip could make sure they kept searching for other suspects. “That’s marvelous.”

  “I told him no.”

  “Philip! You have to help. You know otherwise she won’t get a fair shake.”

  He lifted a hand. “Not my patch, either the Harlem set or your literary crowd. Kessler needs fresh eyes and ears for this, but mine won’t do.”

  Julia’s brief pleasure sank. “Let me do it, then.”

  His eyebrows rose. “You? You hardly endeared yourself to the man yesterday. He’d never agree.”

  Julia was astonished at the notion too. But once it sprang out, she warmed to it. There were ways around Kessler’s rigid fussiness. “Don’t tell him. Deputize me, Philip. Tell him you’ll talk with Eva again, but let me do it instead. She’ll speak with me, I’m sure of it.”

  “No doubt—because you’d help her run the other way. The point is to gain her cooperation, not fuel her resistance.”

  Julia cooled her gaze. “I thought the point was to find Timson’s killer.”

  He exhaled. “You know what I mean. Murder is serious business. Your friend is thick in the middle of a very explosive situation. She’s as answerable to the law as any of us.”

  “But you saw how she was treated. The law doesn’t seem much interested in protecting her rights. How lawful were those punches? The police assume she’s guilty. All they want is proof or a confession—even if they have to beat it out of her.”

  “What they want is the truth. All Kessler has is a dead man, a missing manuscript and jewelry case, and their silent owner, who disappeared for twenty-four hours after he was shot. Given her refusal to speak, Kessler would be a fool not to suspect she’s involved.”

  “Which is why he needs me to talk with her.”

  Philip drew a knuckle across his brow as he thought. For a full minute neither spoke. He crushed out his cigarette. “If I agreed—and I’m not yet convinced I should—you’d have to promise to tell me everything you learn, with the understanding that I’ll pass it along to Kessler. Perhaps with a little discretionary editing, but only a little. A solemn promise, Julia.”

  She was torn too. Only the chance to hear Eva’s account of events was worth joining forces with the likes of quick-fisted Hannity. She answered slowly. “I won’t trick or betray her. I must have your assurance that no matter what we learn, she’ll be treated with respect. If she played any role in that man’s death—if, Philip—she’d have had powerful justification. You must promise to remember that.”

  Philip considered this, head down. He looked up. “All right. You have my word.” Beneath his bland expression his eyes spoke a steady, even adamant assurance. For all his trying qualities, Philip’s honor seemed sound.

  “Then I promise too. I’ll be exactly as candid and forthcoming as you are.” She extended her hand, and he shook it. “So how can I reach her?”

  “Don’t you want to know more about the investigation first?”

  “I want to hear what she has to say first. Where can I reach her?”

  Philip took a small card from his breast pocket and handed it to her. “I was told someone at this number would know.”

  Julia hesitated. Her role suddenly felt underhanded, deceptive. “Is this what they mean by being a snitch?”

  Philip smiled. “Merely a sleuth.”

  Julia went to the hall alcove and dialed the number on the card. It rang fourteen times before she disengaged the line. She tried the call again, with the same results. Wherever it was ringing, no one there seemed available or inclined to answer it. Julia slowly put down the receiver.

  “Setback?” Philip said when she returned. He lit a fresh Régie.

  “Temporary.” She looked at his cigarette case. “Are you sharing?”

  He obliged, and she savored the first vapors. “So what do the police know so far?”

  Philip settled into his chair and gestured her back to the sofa. “Timson was shot once at close range. Killed instantly with a bullet through the forehead—”

  “All of his men carried guns. There are your obvious suspects.”

  “—and his empty shoulder holster was found hanging over the arm of a chair.”

  “He was killed with his own gun?”

  “Hard to say—because it’s missing. Fortunately it’s a distinctive thing, with a turquoise-and-silver inlay on the underside of the handgrip.”

  Odd. Julia wondered if he wore matching spurs. “Do they know when he was shot?”

  “Between four and six at best estimate.”

  “What do the guards say? We saw at least three of them on those stairs.”

  “They swear no one came or went that way after your party came down.”

  “Did anyone hear the shot?”

  “Unfortunately, no. The man at the landing claimed he never left his post, but he reported several disturbances that could have distracted him from noise upstairs. The others were farther away and say they heard nothing.”

  “They could be lying.”

  “Which is why Kessler’s had a squad of men there since Sunday, going over everyone’s story backward and forward. So far it all squares. Seems no one trusts anyone else, which means they keep a close eye on each other.”

  “So what are the cops doing now?”

  “They’re thrashing about in the usual thickets, poking around for that sparkly gun and the other stolen goods. I also suggested they look for—unless they think the killer could fly—the swinging bookcase or secret stair that got her in and out.” He lifted a hand to stay Julia’s protest. “Or him. Tap the walls, twist the finials, that sort of thing.”

  “So apart from the obvious horde of gunmen about, who does Kessler suspect?”

  “He re
asons—rightly, I think—that the missing manuscript is key to this business, so he’s focusing on those who learned its whereabouts that night. Including you.”

  Julia did a quick calculation. “There were ten of us in the room. Timson and Eva, Goldsmith and Duveen and the two tourists, plus Austen and me. Martin Wallace and Jerome Crockett were there too. So nine, subtracting Timson. Seven, eliminating Austen and me.”

  Philip smiled. “Keep going. You’ll have this wrapped up in no time.”

  “Surely Kessler has no reason to suspect Austen or me.”

  “Little to none, as it turns out. Someone confirmed you were seen at a midtown speakeasy until after four, and good Mrs. Lewiston downstairs reported your less-than-stealthy return at a quarter to five. Really, Julia, think of my good name.”

  She demurred with a look of injured reproach. So much for disappearing into the city’s bosom of anonymity. Was it Benny who’d ratted on them? And she’d thought their return exceptionally stealthy.

  “Make that six,” she said. “Kessler said yesterday that he grilled Mr. Wallace and decided his alibi was strong too.”

  Philip nodded absently.

  “Assuming Kessler’s right about the manuscript,” Julia went on, “who might have wanted it badly enough to kill for it?”

  Before Philip could repeat the obvious answer, she provided two alternatives. “Goldsmith and Duveen stood to lose money and face.”

  Philip nodded. “Goldsmith will lose a packet if the manuscript isn’t found and published—which gives him ample motive. But Kessler says his wife swore he returned home that night about two thirty and never left again. Paul Duveen and the Clark couple returned to Duveen’s building after seven Sunday morning, which the doorman recalls all too vividly. Duveen claims they were in Harlem all night, though he can’t reconstruct an itinerary from two thirty to seven. Kessler hasn’t ruled them out, but they’re hardly obvious suspects.”