by Kat Ross
“Of course, Mother.” He rose and gave her his arm.
The two of them disappeared up the stairs and I turned back to find Emma Bayard watching me with a thoughtful expression.
“Why are you so interested in Klara Schmidt?” she asked.
I shrugged apologetically. “I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to discuss it. You ought to ask your nephew.”
She made a noise of irritation. “I have, Miss Pell. Several times. Not just about Klara, but about what the devil is happening! James tells us nothing. He pretends everything is normal. I doubt Tamsin is capable of noticing, you’ve seen her condition, but anyone who knows him can see he’s deeply troubled.” Her hands twisted in her lap. “He hardly eats or sleeps. He jumps at the smallest sound. I won’t ask you to betray a confidence, Miss Pell, but if there is anything I can do to help, you have only to ask. He’s more like a brother to me than a nephew. I care for him deeply.”
“I can see that,” I replied, keeping my tone neutral.
“You think we’re a sorry bunch, don’t you?” Emma said defensively. “And perhaps we are. But at least we have each other!” She passed a shaking hand across her eyes. “I’m sorry. That was uncalled for.” A bitter laugh escaped her. “I think we’ve been shut up in this house for too long. I have forgotten my manners, please forgive me.”
“There’s nothing to forgive. I wish I could tell you more, but if you wish to be of use, you could tell me what you remember of Klara.”
A shadow crossed Emma’s face. “To be perfectly honest, I was glad to see her leave. She was not a warm woman. I don’t think she liked children very much.”
“She cared for you?”
“Yes, until I was sixteen or so. She had been Declan’s nurse, too, you know. Doted on him.”
“How did she react when . . . ?” I diplomatically cleared my throat.
Emma gave me a sharp look. “I don’t know. It wasn’t discussed. We were all in a state of shock. She left for Germany not long after the trial ended.”
“Do you have the address of her relatives?”
“I might.” Emma frowned in thought. “I believe she did send us a single letter that first Christmas, assuring us she had arrived safely and settled in. I can look for it.”
“Would you have saved the envelope?”
“Yes, I always do. Do you want the return address?”
I nodded.
“Of course.” Emma gave me a rueful smile. “Allow me some time, Miss Pell, I’m not a paragon of organization like James. My writing desk is a frightful mess. But I’ll give it to James if it turns up.”
“Give me what?”
Moran leaned against the doorframe. His posture was relaxed, but something inside seemed wound to within an inch of breaking. I could see it in the watchful stillness of his features.
“The letter from Klara,” Emma said, rising to her feet and walking to him. She smoothed the hair at the nape of his neck. “Don’t be angry with me, but I confessed to Miss Pell that I’m worried about you.”
Moran sighed. “I’m fine, Emma. Tamsin wants you to read to her. She says you’re on Chapter Sixteen of Bleak House.”
Emma gave him a last cow-eyed look and departed. Moran walked to the mantle, staring off into space.
“Do you think Klara is still alive?” I asked.
“That old vulture’s too mean to die,” he muttered. “But if she is in Germany, we’ll never get to her. Not in time.”
“I can make enquiries with the London office—”
He rounded on me with sudden savagery. “Don’t you see, Pell? It’s over. Klara Schmidt is another dead end. If she is the one who cursed me, she’s already won. I’m on the verge of dying in some bizarre manner and there’s not a thing either of us can do about it.”
“If you just hold on a little longer—”
He gave a despairing chuckle that chilled me. “Have you ever heard of Paris Green?”
I shook my head.
“It’s a particularly vivid dye that used to be all the rage. The Empress Eugenie wore a gown to the opera in ’63 that was the talk of the French papers the next day. A green so deep and vivid it was unchanged even by gaslight. Turns out it was loaded with arsenic.”
Moran sat down across from me. He flicked an invisible piece of lint from his trouser leg. His fingers moved restlessly, as if itching for a pencil or the keys of a piano. “They used it for wallpaper, clothing, artificial flowers. The little girls who made those flowers started dying, the whites of their eyes turned green, but no one gave a damn. Not until Queen Victoria finally got wind of the rumors and ordered the wallpaper removed from Buckingham Palace.” He chuckled again. “Paris Green fell out of fashion after that.”
I poured myself a cup of lukewarm coffee. “Your point?”
He leaned forward, his gaze intent. “Ask most men what they fear and they’ll say it’s getting snuffed in a dark alley. But there are worse ways to go and I know them all.” He sprang to his feet and stalked to the window. “What would you say the number one accidental death is? Take a guess, Pell.”
“I don’t know.” I thought of poor Daniel Cherney. “Run over by a cart?”
“Fire,” Moran said softly, his back to me. “Burns account for well over half. Mostly women, since they spend more time at home.”
I glanced at the cold hearth. “At least it’s still September.”
“Falls from a height are number two. About 13,000 per year.”
“Stay away from windows.”
He laid his palm against the glass, fingers spread wide. “Your first guess is number three. The ever popular road accident. Includes collisions of all sorts involving carriages, railways and horses.” Moran turned and smiled horribly. “Oh yes, I’ve already encountered that one, haven’t I?”
I set my cup back in the saucer. “Then you can cross it off the list.”
“Ah, but we don’t know that for a fact. In fact, we know nothing.” He rubbed his hands together in manic glee. “Let’s move on to accidental poisoning, a perennial favorite. There are two subcategories: lethal intoxication by gases and vapors – a fair degree of overlap with fire deaths there –and poisoning by solids and liquids, for example, the splendid Paris Green!”
“Pull yourself together, Moran,” I advised sternly.
He didn’t seem to hear me. “One mustn’t forget drowning. Fairly straightforward, though it can occur in the bath if you’re drunk enough.” He frowned. “I suppose one could also trip and fall headfirst into a well. The odds would be long, but in my case that’s not a factor.”
“Choking,” I said, thinking of the book by Song Ci. “That ought to be its own category.”
Moran beamed at me. “Now you’re getting into the spirit, Pell. Choking is, in fact, a distinct cause of death, defined as ingesting any object that blocks the airways.”
“Speaking of which, do you think the maid could bring some of those iced cakes?” I ventured. “You don’t have to eat any.”
His lip curled. “Very amusing.”
“I wasn’t joking. I missed breakfast this morning—”
“Industrial accidents.”
“Pardon?”
He ticked the list off on one hand. “Explosions, equipment malfunctions, mining disasters, falling objects, et cetera.”
“I don’t think you’re in much danger there unless you plan to get an actual job.”
“No?” He collapsed into an armchair. “What about Francis? Suffocating slowly in that webbing of ropes, feet kicking in the air thirty feet up while everyone watched. I’d rather have my throat slit and be done with it!”
“Are you finished?” I asked with a sigh.
“Almost.”
I thought for a moment. “What’s left?”
Moran smiled. “Firearms. Not as popular as fire, but a thriving little niche nonetheless.” He reached into his coat and took out a pistol, examining it with detachment. “Accidental discharge while cleaning one’s weapon. A few hundred
deaths a year, I’d reckon.”
“Don’t be an ass,” I snapped, eyeing the gun uneasily. A chill swept through me. “Put it away.”
“It isn’t loaded—”
The gun went off at that precise instant, blasting a hole through his grandfather’s portrait. I shrieked and covered my head. Moments later, I heard running footsteps in the hall and the anxious voice of a footman through the door.
“Are you all right, sir?” he called.
Moran stared at the gun for a long moment, shock on his face. Cordite hung in the air. Then he blinked and seemed to come back to himself. “Fine, Carmichael. Everyone’s fine. Please inform the ladies it was an accident.”
We looked at each other and suddenly we were both laughing like ghouls. I could hear the footman hesitating in the hall, then walking away. He must have thought we were mad.
“Stop playing the fool,” I said once I’d managed to sober up. “Put that gun away. We need to talk.”
Moran’s face darkened. “I’ll have my boys pick up Quincy, Thaddeus and Joseph. One of them will start talking once they’re tied to chairs down at the Avalon. I’ll question them one at a time, make the others watch through the one-way glass—”
“You’re not torturing anyone,” I said firmly.
“Why not? I should have done it days ago!”
“Because it’s not any of them.”
His eyes narrowed dangerously. “How do you know?”
“I could be wrong, but I don’t think I am. Listen, Moran.” I leaned forward and lowered my voice. “What if Klara Schmidt didn’t go back to Germany after all?”
“You still believe it’s her?”
“I think it’s someone close to you. Do you ever. . . . ” I hesitated, all too aware of the treacherous currents swirling around me.
“Ever what?” His face was tense. “Say it!”
“All right.” I met his angry gaze. “Have you noticed how Emma looks at you?”
“What exactly are you implying?” he snapped.
There was a long, terrible silence. The blood drained from his face, save for two spots of color high on his cheeks. “Get out,” he said finally.
“Moran—”
“Get out!” He rose to his feet and stabbed a finger at the door. “Our contract is hereby terminated, Pell.”
I shook my head. “You can’t see it, can you? Because you don’t want to—”
“Get out.” His voice had sunk to the almost inaudible level that meant Moran was on the verge of losing control.
I stood and stalked to the door. A few choice words sprang to mind, but I didn’t utter them.
He still had the gun, after all.
The house was silent as I made my way to the front door and out into the sunny afternoon.
I met John at seven o’clock at Seighortner’s restaurant on Lafayette Place, a favorite haunt of New York’s bon vivants. It occupied the old Astor mansion and was one of the best meals to be had in the city outside of Delmonico’s. The Swiss restauranteur everyone called “Papa” escorted us to our table himself and reeled off the day’s specials with his famous bland smile.
We ordered terrapin soup and Dover sole with a bottle of Räuschling. Papa kissed his fingertips and promptly conveyed the selection through the speaking tube connecting the dining room with the kitchen. A pleasant buzz of conversation drifted through the restaurant, which retained the atmosphere of a luxurious private home. John had requested a corner table so we could converse in privacy, but I still made sure to keep my voice pitched low.
“It’s one of those women,” I said to John once the wine was poured. “The family is riddled with secrets like a wormy apple. I took a close look at the door to Moran’s music room. The marks weren’t made by dogs. I can’t say with total certainty, but if I had to guess, I’d say they were from a woman’s hairpin. Someone broke into that room not long ago and I very much doubt the burglary was unrelated.”
John tapped the cork against the snowy white tablecloth. “So they were after the charter?”
“I can’t think of another reason, though I’m not yet sure why.”
I had decided it would be unwise to tell him our client had climbed into my bedroom the night before. I had a strong feeling John wouldn’t take the news well, even though nothing improper had occurred. In all fairness, if the tables were turned, I probably wouldn’t, either.
“So you think Emma . . . or his mother . . . .” John took a sip of wine. “What exactly do you think, Harry?”
“If Moran is the product of an affair between Emma and Declan, then it’s possible Tamsin despises him for it. Emma was thirteen when he was born. It’s young to give birth but not unheard of. The man sounds like a beast. I wouldn’t put rape past him.” I bit my lip. “Or Emma harbors some kind of unrequited passion for Moran that’s turned to spite. Or the nurse hates him because she was loyal to the father.”
“The Three Furies,” John mused. “Could be all of them scheming together.”
I met his gaze. “There’s only one way to find out.”
“The nurse?”
I nodded.
“Didn’t Moran fire you?”
“Yes, but when has that ever stopped us?”
We stopped talking as the waiter brought out two bowls of steaming soup and a basket of fresh brown bread with butter. I dug in with gusto and for a time we focused entirely on the splendid meal before us.
“Listen, we only have Emma’s word that Klara Schmidt went back to Germany,” I said, when our spoons had scraped up the last of the savory broth. “Honestly, they both seemed more than a little afraid of her. Have a look.” I fished in my pocket and took out the photograph. “Moran was so mad he forgot to ask for it back.”
John studied it. “Good God, she looks like a fairytale witch. The sort that bakes children into pastries.”
“Klara Schmidt was totally dependent on the Morans. She wouldn’t have had much money of her own. I got the feeling that neither Emma nor Tamsin wanted her around, but Declan wouldn’t hear of her leaving. Once he died. . . .”
“They saw the chance to be rid of her.” He took a last glance at the picture. “Can’t say I blame them, Harry.”
“So where would you put someone you wanted out of sight but you’re too scared of to boot onto the street?”
We looked at each other.
“A home for the aged and infirm,” John said.
“My thought exactly. Can you start making a list? Stick to Manhattan for now.”
“And what will you be doing?”
I smiled. “Paying a visit to the morgue.”
It was after nine o’clock by the time I reached the offices of The New York World on Park Row and hunted down my friend Nellie Bly. She was one of the paper’s top investigative reporters and I had turned to her for help before. Nellie was in the midst of planning a race around the globe, aiming to beat the fictional Phileas Fogg’s record of eighty days. She had a rival from The Cosmopolitan magazine named Elizabeth Bisland, a refined southern beauty, while Nellie was a brash muckraker from Pennsylvania coal country. Bisland intended to set out toward the west, Nellie to the east. Whoever won, their contest promised to rivet readers of both publications.
Clouds of steam drifted through the sidewalk gratings from the underground printing presses as I passed the muddy hole in the ground at the corner of Frankfort Street where Joseph Pulitzer planned to build the paper’s new headquarters. Construction wasn’t due to begin until October, but The World’s flamboyant owner had already vowed it would be the tallest skyscraper in the world.
Nellie’s desk in a far corner of the newsroom was a jumble of lists and manifests and timetables. She gave me a smile and beckoned me over for a warm embrace.
“When do you leave?” I asked, clearing off a chair and sitting down.
“November 14. I’ll catch a steamer from Hoboken bound for Southampton,” she replied with a low chuckle. “Joe wanted me to go earlier, he’s obsessed with the number
ten.” She glanced at the train, bus and ferry schedules. “I told him the math didn’t add up. We’ll be tight enough as it is. The slightest delay could derail the whole thing.”
“It sounds exciting,” I said with a touch of envy.
“I’ve been waiting a year for this,” she said, pushing the short bangs from her eyes. “I plan to do it with a single dress and one small bag, though at least they’re sending me first class.”
I smiled. “No collection of gigantic steamer trunks?”
“If one is traveling simply for the sake of traveling and not for the purpose of impressing fellow travelers, the problem of baggage becomes a very simple one,” she replied. “Now what brings you to our humble offices so late on a Friday night? Something tells me this isn’t a social visit, Harry.”
“I was hoping to have a look in the archives,” I admitted. “In particular, the coverage of James Moran’s murder trial. Everything you’ve got.”
Nellie gave me a curious look. “Research for Myrtle?”
“No, and I’d appreciate it if you didn’t mention it to her.”
She stared at me for a long moment. “The back issues are in the basement. Come on, I’ll walk you down.”
After the frantic bustle of the newsroom, the hushed, yellowing archives did have the feel of a morgue. Reporters cheekily called it that because they delved into the material when they needed to write obituaries of famous people, but it was a trove that I hoped would shed some light on the crime at the heart of the matter. My instincts told me Declan Moran was the key, yet he remained a question mark.
Nellie quickly located the editions starting in the summer of 1887 and piled them on an empty desk. I was already familiar with most of the coverage, but a few salient facts jumped out. Moran was convicted of manslaughter because no one actually witnessed the shooting. He confessed to the crime, but said his father had come at him in a drunken rage and the gun went off during a struggle.
Both Emma and Tamsin were home at the time but said they saw and heard nothing. Ditto the servants.
“There’s something the editors wouldn’t print,” Nellie said in a low voice. “I didn’t cover the trial, but I know the reporter who did. He told me over drinks one night that there was a private meeting in the judge’s chambers toward the end of the trial. Moran’s lawyers could see the jury was leaning towards a first degree murder conviction. Their client hadn’t come off well on the witness stand.”