Where the Light Enters

by Sara Donati

  Your Sophie

  Jack said, “This sounds like good news, Anna, but you’re making a face.”

  “He was rude. Even after you got him out of the Tombs and away from Comstock, he was rude.”

  “Not to you or me, and Sophie has clearly forgiven him.”

  “It makes me uneasy.”

  “That much is obvious.”

  Anna set aside her journal and got up to pace the room. It took three full revolutions before she could put what she wanted into words.

  “Jack.”

  “Anna.”

  “I want you to look into Reason, can you do that? See if all is in order? If there’s a problem she should know now, before she makes a mistake.”

  Sam Reason was someone Anna hadn’t liked very much, but the work he did for Sophie had put him in Anthony Comstock’s sights. He might well have ended up in prison with a conviction for printing illegal materials, had Sophie not sounded the alarm. In those chaotic days between her marriage and the departure for Europe she had brought all of her resources, including Jack, Oscar, and Conrad Belmont, to bear, and Sam Reason had been released without being charged. She had also made provisions for while she was away in Europe, in case Comstock tried again to vent his rage on the Reason family.

  And now she was hiring Sam Reason as a secretary, which must mean he had lost the family printing shop in Brooklyn. Comstock could be behind that, and if that was the case, Jack wanted to know about it.

  “Well?” She was almost jumping with impatience. “Can you do that for me? Check into Sam Reason?”

  “Without asking Sophie first?”

  She rolled her eyes at him. “Yes. Without asking Sophie. If all is well she need never know.”

  “And if your instincts are right, and he has had some kind of trouble? Don’t bite your lip, it makes you look like a schoolgirl.”

  She wrinkled her nose at him, which made her look younger still. “If there is trouble, it would be best if it comes from you. Or Conrad.”

  “Fine,” Jack told his wife. “Because you are acting out of concern. But I want you to know that I don’t think it’s either necessary or a good idea.”

  Now both dimples made their appearance, giving away her relief. “Thank you.”

  “I haven’t done anything yet. I may not be able to do as you ask.”

  “I’m not asking for promises,” she told him. “You know I don’t believe in them.”

  “Anna,” Jack said. “I promise you only to try my best. Can you take that at face value?”

  Her expression said that she would try. It had to be enough.

  * * *

  • • •

  THE NEW YORK EVENING SUN

  CRIMES AGAINST NATURE

  MRS. CHRISTINA ECKHARDT

  Yesterday in General Sessions, Christina Eckhardt, alias Nannette Bolencoirs, who advertises as a “fortune-teller and doctress,” in her place of business at No. 34 Stanton-str., was charged with malpractice on a girl. Mrs. Eckhardt, arguing in her own defense, denied that she had been guilty of malpractice, stating that she had only treated Miss Pape for skin eruptions. She was an astrologer, and understood her business thoroughly. She cured consumption and other diseases. With an air of injured innocence, she protested that she never performed illegal operations and only did good to those who sought her advice. She admitted to sending Miss Pape’s father a bill for $75, but continued to claim that she had not operated on the girl. Of the dead infant she knew nothing.

  The jury required no more than a half hour to return a verdict of guilty. Judge Konig sentenced Mrs. Eckhardt to 12 years in the penitentiary.

  20

  SITTING SIDE BY side in the diGiglios’ barber chairs, Jack and Oscar debated their next step in the Louden disappearance. Mrs. Reed had not yet returned to the Louden household on Gramercy Park, and they had no leads on her whereabouts, though they had sent junior detectives off in every direction with inquiries. Oscar took this as an indication that Leontine Reed had, indeed, gone off with her mistress. He thought they should try Arnold Constable to try to pick up the trail.

  “She was there twice in the week she disappeared, according to her calendar. She’s known there. Maybe she has a favorite dressmaker she speaks to about personal matters.”

  “That would make sense,” Jack said. “If we weren’t talking about one of the richest women in the city. Charlotte Louden ordering her gowns from a department store? She’ll have what she wants sent to her from Paris, and a dressmaker on Fifth Avenue to make adjustments.”

  “They sell more than clothes at Constable’s,” Oscar said, a little peevish now. “Maybe she was looking at wallpaper or candlesticks or crystal vases.”

  “And maybe she wasn’t there at all.” Jack pushed out a sigh. “But you’re right. We have to go take a look.”

  * * *

  • • •

  “MRS. LOUDEN,” SAID Jonathan Higgins, pronouncing the name with something close to reverence. “Mrs. Louden is one of our most valued patrons. It would be a violation of the trust she has in us if I were to talk to you about her purchases.”

  Arnold Constable’s general manager was a middle-aged man dressed to the height of fashion, scented and polished, but wearing an old-fashioned, carefully shaped vandyke beard. Someone in his position needed to radiate calm and dignity, fashion sense, and at the same time a respect for the established and classic. No doubt Astors and Van Horns and De Peysters had come to talk to him in this office and gone away satisfied that Jonathan Higgins knew both his job and his rightful place in the universe.

  But just now there was a tic at the corner of his mouth inside the curve of the beard. Higgins smelled a scandal, and it was making him salivate. He’d yank out his own tongue before admitting it, but even the vaguest hint that Charlotte Louden was in some kind of trouble was intoxicating to him.

  Oscar said, “We can drag Mr. Louden in here to give you permission, but he wouldn’t be happy.”

  “This is very irregular.” Higgins’s voice wavered a bit. “May I ask—”

  “No,” Jack said. “You may not.”

  Higgins gave them an affronted look, but he gathered his dignity around himself and went off to get them what they needed.

  * * *

  • • •

  “WHAT THE HELL is a layette?” Oscar jabbed at the entry in the account book.

  According to a clerk’s careful notes, Charlotte Louden had arranged to have an entire layette sent to a Mrs. Charles Louden, at a total cost of four hundred fifty dollars.

  “Charles Louden is her eldest son,” Jack said.

  “Yeah? Well, what would he want with a layette?”

  They both turned to look at Higgins, who sat off to the side scowling into his lap, but still listening, oh yes. Very closely.

  “What’s a layette?” Jack asked him.

  “Everything needed to properly outfit an infant, assembled into a pleasing ensemble.” He brushed at invisible dust on his shoulder.

  “Four hundred fifty dollars for diapers and blankets?” Oscar was dumbfounded by this idea. “I don’t believe it. Not even at Arnold Constable.”

  Higgins got up and walked to the desk to run his eyes over the page in the account book. “Generally a layette will include between four and six dozen diapers. She ordered seven dozen of the kind made of Turkish toweling lined with muslin, five receiving blankets, two of those of cashmere—” He paused to run a manicured nail down the neatly itemized list.

  “The christening gown alone came to ninety-five dollars, primarily because of the lace, handmade. Brussels. Mrs. Louden also ordered dozens of infant shirts of linen cambric sewn and embroidered in France at one dollar and fifty cents each and a dozen caps of French nainsook. These are the finest items we sell in this category. They have tiny hand-sewn tucks with fine silk embroidery. The linin
g is quilted silk and princess lace. Two dollars each. It all adds up.” He punctuated this with the satisfied smile of a cat with a bowl full of cream.

  “We need to speak to the clerk who helped Mrs. Louden with this order,” Jack said.

  Higgins raised a brow in one direction, and his lip curled in another. A perfect display of distaste.

  Oscar scowled right back at him. “We could just go do that without your permission. Your customers won’t mind us hanging around asking questions, will they?”

  Higgins went off, mumbling to himself, and returned in a quarter hour to direct them to another office.

  “The clerk you want to talk to is waiting. How long do you think you’ll need?”

  “That depends,” Jack said. “But one thing I can say for sure. You won’t dock her pay for cooperating with the authorities.”

  Higgins muttered something under his breath and Jack made a note to himself to check back in a few days to see that all was well.

  The woman was studying a painting on the wall but turned as they came in. Her smile was warm and friendly and familiar.

  Oscar pulled up in surprise. “Miss Imhoff. This is a surprise. Jack, you remember—”

  “Of course I do.”

  Elizabeth Imhoff had been lady’s maid to the last of the multipara victims. They met the morning Mamie Winthrop died, hours after she had undergone an operation to end her pregnancy. In response to his wife’s death Alfred Winthrop had fired Miss Imhoff on the spot, putting her out without notice or reference. Jack and Oscar had interviewed her that same day and had learned a great deal about the Winthrops’ marriage and Mamie Winthrop’s habits. Unfortunately as a lady’s maid she had not been privy to the details of the operation arranged by Mamie Winthrop herself.

  It was an untenable situation: a young woman without references or sponsors had few choices in this city, and most of them were bad. Now here she was in a pristine white shirtwaist with a pretty brooch at the throat and a dark skirt with a modest bustle. Her color was high, her skin clear, and her hair, a heavy mass of glossy deep brown, was neatly rolled and pinned at the crown of her head. She looked content, healthy, and at ease.

  She was saying, “You introduced me to Mrs. Makepeace, Detective Sergeant Maroney. I have you to thank for my position here.”

  Jack should have known. Lizzy Imhoff was the kind of young woman to gain Oscar’s sympathy: honest to a fault, composed, not given to self-pity, pretty when she smiled, well spoken, and in a desperate situation not of her own making. Jack liked her too, for her common sense and competence, for her unwillingness to give in to panic when she found herself without employment or a place to stay. Oscar had not mentioned it, but Jack knew that she stood here now because he had pulled strings on her behalf. Found her a reputable boarding house and introduced her to people who could help her get suitable work.

  Oscar said, “But infant wear? I thought they’d have you in the dressmaker’s shop.”

  “I much prefer infants to the fashionable set,” she said. “New mothers can be anxious but they are easy enough to deal with.” She looked from Oscar to Jack and back again. “It’s very nice to see you both, but I have to say, I’m a little concerned. Is there some new information about Mrs. Winthrop’s death?”

  Jack said, “No, not yet. This is something else entirely. We need you to tell us about a transaction.”

  Oscar still had the account book with his finger marking the relevant page and he opened it to show her the entry. For a few seconds she studied it and then looked up, surprised. “Is Mrs. Louden in some trouble?”

  “No,” Oscar said. “Not at all. Tell me, do you remember her coming in and making this purchase?”

  “Certainly. She was buying a layette, as it says here. She came in on a Tuesday to discuss it, and then she came back on a Friday to look at the fabrics I assembled for her to consider. That’s when she placed the order, everything you see listed here.”

  Oscar said, “Was her lady’s maid with her? Mrs. Reed, is her name.”

  “No,” Lizzy Imhoff said. “She always came alone.”

  “Did she say who this layette was for?”

  “I believe it was for her son. His wife was expecting another child.”

  Stepping carefully, Jack widened the net. “Did you discuss anything else? Of a more personal nature?”

  Color rose in her cheeks. “We aren’t supposed to talk to our customers about anything but the merchandise—” Her voice trailed off.

  “We aren’t going to report you to Higgins, if that’s what you’re worried about,” Oscar said. “If we can avoid him we won’t ever talk to him again. The man douses himself in scent. Makes my nose itch.”

  She bit into her lower lip, still managing a half grin. “You aren’t the first to mention that.”

  “Let’s sit,” Jack said. “Please take your time, but we’d like to hear as much as you remember about your conversations with Mrs. Louden.”

  * * *

  • • •

  “I KNEW HER in my former life,” Lizzy Imhoff told them when she had had a moment to gather her thoughts.

  “You knew Charlotte Louden when you were working for the Winthrops?” Oscar prompted.

  “Yes, but also earlier. At home, in Newport. Mrs. Louden is Mr. Winthrop’s cousin. She visited Newport every year.”

  “Wait,” Jack said. “If I remember correctly—”

  “Yes, Detective Sergeant, you do remember correctly. Albert Winthrop and I have the same father. He’s my half brother, which makes Mrs. Louden my half cousin. Most of the family ignored me, as usual. Just another one of old Mr. Winthrop’s by-blows. But I lived in the house and I was brought up to be a lady’s maid. I was told by Cook that the elder Mr. Winthrop had been very fond of my mother, and promised her he would see to it that I fared well.

  “When he died things changed, as you can imagine. Charlotte was the only one who treated me kindly. Her daughter and I are the same age and we were allowed to play together. Minnie is married now, with children. Mrs. Louden purchased a layette for Minnie, as well. Two of them.”

  Jack thought of the twins, fussed over and wrapped in silk and cashmere. No doubt their mother would give it all up to have her own mother back again.

  Oscar said, “Did you see Mrs. Louden a lot as a child?”

  “Not a lot, no. Not until they sent me to the city to be Mamie Winthrop’s lady’s maid. Then I saw her more often because she took an interest in her cousin’s wife, but—” She hesitated. “Mrs. Winthrop was set in her ways and saw no reason to change.”

  From what Jack remembered, Mamie Winthrop had been Charlotte Louden’s opposite in temperament and habits both.

  “You didn’t go to Mrs. Louden when Albert Winthrop fired you?” Oscar asked.

  “I would have, if not for your help, Detective Sergeant Maroney.” She gave him a small smile.

  “But at some point you got back into contact with Mrs. Louden.”

  A gentle push for more information was all that was needed. Miss Imhoff was not reluctant to help.

  “She came into my department just a few weeks after I started here. She was very surprised to see me but she seemed pleased, too. She came in to buy something for one of her grandchildren, and I was working. I got the impression that she was very put out with Mr. Winthrop.”

  “Because he fired you,” Oscar suggested.

  “Yes. And because he couldn’t tell her what became of me. It was just good luck that she came in while I was on the floor.”

  She said this calmly, but there was a note in her voice that spoke of old wounds. “It was a great relief that she held no grudge about Mrs. Winthrop.”

  “You were surprised by that?”

  After a moment Lizzy Imhoff nodded. “There were rumors that I was responsible for what happened. Some people believed the rumors, but Mrs. Loud
en knew Mrs. Winthrop well and never doubted me. She said so, when we were talking privately.”

  Jack said, “Did she ask you for details?”

  “You mean, about how Mrs. Winthrop died? Yes, she was curious. Or that’s not exactly the right word. Concerned. She was concerned.”

  Jack held his silence and so did Oscar, waiting to see if she’d answer the next, most logical question without hearing it put into words.

  “No,” she said. “I did not tell her what happened.”

  Jack said, “But she did want to know.”

  “She had a lot of questions. She wanted to know why Mr. Winthrop had fired me instead of sending me back to Newport. She offered to get me another position as a lady’s maid, but—” She shook her head.

  “Understandable,” Oscar said.

  “You spoke privately at some point,” Jack prompted.

  “Once. It was snowing and she was here just before we closed. She offered me a ride back to my boarding house, and I accepted.”

  Jack said, “You look uncomfortable.”

  She was staring at her folded hands. “I am uncomfortable. It was very awkward, that drive. She wanted to know if Mrs. Winthrop had gone to someone to have herself put right. She asked me straight out, and wanted to know who the doctor was. I told her I didn’t know any names, and that even if I did, she would be better off with somebody else.”

  Oscar’s whole body jolted. She saw this and tensed, drawing up and back. Jack held up both hands, palms out, but Oscar had already seen her reaction and understood. He made a visible effort to relax, his expression one of sincere regret.

  “No,” he said. “Miss Imhoff. Don’t be alarmed.”

  But she was a sensible young woman, and had already seen her mistake. Her smile was apologetic. “I startle very easily,” she said. “It’s an old habit I’m trying to break.”