McLaughlin left and was met instantly in the outer office by Liam, who was eager to know what had transpired. McLaughlin leaned toward him and whispered, “The cobra’s snappin’, hissin’, and makin’ a fuss, but our mongoose has its teeth in deep and won’t let go.”
They both smiled and left.
NORMALLY, TUESDAY NIGHT would have no significance for the artistic director of the Thalia Theatre, but this one was different. It was opening night for A Doll’s House and he was beyond thrilled. He had called in every family chip he had and found a second cousin who indeed knew Louise Carnegie and was willing to approach her about the play. All he needed were bodies to fill the seats, the “right” bodies that could spread the word to the “right” people about his brilliant production. And there was no doubt in his mind that the production was brilliant. His instinct about the unknown actress he had cast as Nora was 100 percent correct. Her performance was transformative. Soon the whole world would know about Abigail Corday, and more importantly, his production of A Doll’s House.
He had found out Abigail’s name purely by accident. A week before opening he had asked her for a name to put in the program. She kept on insisting that she was Nora Helmer, so, not wanting to upset his lead actress, he had dropped the subject. A short time later, an actor he had cast in the bit part of the porter, Robert Davies, who had overheard their discussion, was forthright in giving him Abigail’s name. Of course, he had also taken that opportunity to inform the artistic director that he was aware they had no money for understudies but that he was current on the part of Torvald and was ready to go on if sickness or anything else befell the actor playing the role. Actors, the artistic director thought, everything they do is about their careers.
A few days later, when the programs came out, the lead actress was furious to see her name in them. She went to the artistic director insisting that she was Nora Helmer and that he correct the mistake. He apologized to her and explained that they didn’t have the budget to make the change, then blamed it all on Robert Davies.
A short while later, he overheard a quarrel between his lead actress and the bit player.
“There’s life beyond this play, Abby,” Robert Davies argued.
“What play? Stop talking rubbish. I am Nora, you are just a porter, and a porter doesn’t give me advice or tell me what to do.”
“Abby, I know you’re inside there. I’m trying to get through to you, Abby, you!”
“You’re obviously unbalanced. Carry my Christmas tree like you’re supposed to or I’ll have to get another porter.” Carrying Nora’s Christmas tree was the porter’s one short appearance in the play.
And Abigail Corday walked off, sweeping away in grand-dame-of-the-stage fashion.
“You’ve gone too far with this, Abby. Please! Come to your senses!”
But she did not return. The artistic director shook his head and shrugged. Actors, he thought. You’d think there was enough drama for them onstage, but they always create more in their lives. Still, he had to admit that Abigail Corday was, to be kind, a bit unbalanced. I just need her to give me a month. After that, she can go foaming-at-the-mouth, straitjacket crazy for all I care.
—
BESIDES REVIEWERS FROM the top newspapers in New York, sitting in the audience were Andrew and Louise Carnegie; Cornelius Vanderbilt II and his wife, Alice; and much of New York’s elite. Collis Huntington was also there with Arabella and Archer. It was three and a half weeks after the coffin incident and just a couple of days since Huntington had his confrontation with McLaughlin and Chapin. The Huntingtons were determined to show everyone that they had absolutely nothing to hide. Of course, their plans for acceptance had suffered a serious setback earlier that day when Andrew Green had asked to meet with Huntington.
“I’m sorry, Collis,” Green had said. “But I have to ask you to step back from our consolidation project.”
“What’s going on, Andrew?”
“Frankly, the rumors surrounding Arabella’s first husband—”
“Somebody stole the man’s body. That’s all there is to it.”
“I know that, and you know that, but…” He stopped and took a breath. “This consolidation is a delicate matter. A tinge of scandal, even if it eventually is proven untrue, could set us back just enough to lose.”
Huntington was no dummy. He knew Green’s mind was made up long before they had met, and changing it was not an option. So, for the sake of Arabella, he did something he wasn’t used to doing. He bowed out gracefully. He saw no need to apprise Green that he was plotting revenge on those who had launched an attack on his family. However, little did he know that in that theater at that time—and just across the aisle—was one of his greatest adversaries: Mary Handley.
—
MARY AND GEORGE Vanderbilt were sitting next to George’s brother Cornelius and his wife, Alice. She and George had been seeing a lot of each other over the past few weeks, as Mary had taken George up on his offer of being her uncompensated assistant. She knew the appeal for him was due partly to a dilettante interest in detective work but mostly to a desire to spend more time with her. She was more than happy with that, and their relationship had been blossoming. This was the first time she had met any of George’s family, and the meeting was incidental; they had simply decided to attend the same play. Mary felt it was too early for anything more formal. The upper-crust gossip mill also knew of their relationship, but it hadn’t reached the newspapers yet.
George had been a gentleman in every sense of the word. He was courteous and considerate, and had even brought her flowers on several occasions. They had started kissing, usually in his carriage and frequently for a prolonged period of time, but he had never once tried to carry it further. It made that part of their relationship easier because it spared her the responsibility of telling him that it was still too early. Yet, she did wonder why he didn’t at least try. It could just have been the fact that he was a complete gentleman, or it could have been something more troubling: that he wasn’t attracted to her.
As far as the case was concerned, she had reached an impasse. There were just so many places one could look for a body without starting to spin one’s wheels. She had interviewed almost everybody who had worked at the cemetery in the last twenty years—those who were still alive, that is—and had received no important information from anyone. Mary had even gone to medical schools and hospitals, both of which had the occasional habit of buying corpses for teaching purposes, turning a blind eye to the fact they were usually purchasing them from body snatchers. Nevertheless, John Worsham’s body was nowhere to be found.
Though it pained her to do so, she had written to Emily Worsham, who had returned to Richmond shortly after their meeting. Mary hated admitting defeat, so she didn’t. She vaguely informed her of the success of unburying her uncle’s coffin and the temporary setback of not being able to find the body inside it. It was four weeks since Emily Worsham had given Mary a two-week advance salary, but she didn’t mention it in the letter. Mary had already decided she was going to continue no matter what. She prided herself in solving puzzles, and this one was gnawing at her. She had to find out what had happened to the missing body of John Worsham whether she was paid to or not.
But it was time to put aside all thoughts of work. She was at the theater and the play was about to begin. Rumor had it that this was supposed to be the “definitive” production of A Doll’s House and that the actress playing Nora, a newcomer named Abigail Corday, was magnificent. Mary enjoyed Ibsen’s plays, and the lights on the stage were going up.
Nora entered and stumbled, emitting a grunt that garnered some uncomfortable laughter. She recovered and straightened, but as she began to speak her first line, blood gushed from her mouth and Nora collapsed to the stage floor. Everyone was shocked, especially Mary, who had recognized the actress the moment she’d entered.
It was her client, Emily Worsham.
11
EMILY WORSHAM WAS dead. Whether that
was indeed her name, or whether it was Abigail Corday, or something else, that fact was undeniable. Examining the body, Mary was fairly certain about the cause of death: two stab wounds, probably to the right lung and stomach. After Emily’s fall, Mary had made her way quickly to the stage. Actors were surrounding her body, and she had to push her way through. One man, whom she later found out was an actor named Robert Davies, was kneeling over the body weeping. Mary gently moved him aside in order to examine her.
Just seconds after she made her determination, someone cried out, “Fire!” And indeed, smoke was seeping into the theater from backstage. In a complete panic, everyone in the crowd—audience members, actors, stagehands, and theater staff—charged for the exits. There was pushing and screaming and people being thrown to the ground. Before she knew it, Mary was alone onstage with the body and the wailing Robert Davies. Mary turned to Robert.
“Help me carry her out of here.”
He nodded and bent down to help her but drew back after touching his friend’s corpse. Mary could see that he was not going to be of much help and was trying to figure out how she could drag Emily out by herself when she heard, “Let me help you with that.”
It was George. The consummate gentleman, he had ignored his brother’s pleas to leave and had stayed, first helping some people to their feet who had been knocked down in the scramble and then braving death by fire in order to help his lady. Mary smiled, chiding herself for any doubts she may have had about him. She informed George that the unfortunate actress was the woman who had hired her, and the two of them, with a minor assist from the bawling actor, carried the body of Emily Worsham/Abigail Corday outside to safety, albeit an odd way to note the state of a deceased person.
Out on the streets they found pandemonium. A few people who had been trampled in the panicked exit were being cared for by doctors who happened to be in the audience and were waiting to be transported to the hospital. Others had been jostled, some slammed against walls, nursing their bruises but not seriously hurt. The vast majority of the rest were at a total loss as to what to do next. Some were genuinely upset over the death of the lead actress. A few actors were bemoaning that the loss of the theater probably meant the loss of their jobs, and some of the affluent audience members were more put out by the fact they had no transportation planned for the early exit. They had told their drivers to pick them up after the play, which was supposed to be two hours from then, and were forced to search for hansom cabs.
Cornelius Vanderbilt approached Mary and George. As the fire started to engulf the theater and people were either fleeing or standing around, oddly mesmerized by the disaster, Cornelius was more concerned with the proper thing to do.
“As luck would have it, my driver decided to stay here and eat his dinner in the carriage, so he didn’t have a chance to wander off,” Cornelius informed them. “Why don’t you two come with us? Alice and I would be happy to drop you off wherever you like.”
Mary looked at George. “Go with them, George. I need to stay here.”
“Are you joking?” he replied. “I can’t desert my employer.”
Mary smiled and George turned to his brother. “Go ahead, Cornelius. I’m going to stay with Mary.” He gestured toward the deceased actress. “This poor lady was her client.”
A voice came from behind them. “So that was your client.” Mary turned and saw an older, bald man with a white beard step forward.
“Hello, Collis,” George said. “This is an unusual moment for an introduction, but Collis Huntington, may I present to you Mary Handley.”
“Ah, the infamous Miss Handley,” Huntington responded. “It’s a pity about your client. They’re so hard to come by nowadays.”
“Yes, almost as difficult as first husbands,” Mary said, looking him directly in the eye, never one to back down from what she perceived as a challenge.
“And speaking of the deceased, as tragic as this poor woman’s fate may be, it serves as a cautionary tale to those who mingle unwanted in others’ affairs. We all hold our families dear. Don’t we, Miss Handley?” Huntington paused and stared at Mary with an adversarial look that leaned heavily toward threatening. “Well, I wish you luck in your endeavors.” He started to leave, but there was little chance he was going to get the last word with Mary.
“Thank you, but I find that luck is rarely part of the equation. It’s the facts that count,” she said, then pointedly added, “and I assure you I will get them all.”
If Huntington had played any part in this murder, his behavior didn’t show it, but then Mary hadn’t expected a man like him would ever be easily rattled.
George leaned over to his brother and whispered, “See? I told you she was magnificent.” Cornelius nodded and also left.
At that point, the firemen finally arrived with their steam pumps and began fighting the fire. The flames were shooting out of the rooftop and smoke smothered the night sky. To the layman, it looked like the theater would be totally lost, but the general consensus of the firemen was that they had gotten there early enough to at least save part of it.
By the time the police showed up to relieve Mary of the body, she had already questioned the entire cast, the stagehands, and the artistic director. None of them had seen their lead actress attacked or had been able to shed much light on the events of the evening. They were too caught up in the excitement of opening night. The one who provided the most information was Robert Davies. He managed to keep his tears under control long enough to verify that he had known the deceased for years, and that her name was indeed Abigail Corday, not Emily Worsham. He was stunned and seemed very much confused, repeating over and over that there was a thin line between insanity and genius. He was of little use to Mary, and when she left, he burst into tears again.
They had another hour until the play was scheduled to be over, but George knew how to locate his driver. He asked one of the policemen the whereabouts of the closest saloon, and that’s where they found him. As they were riding off in the carriage, Mary couldn’t help commenting.
“I see my detective tutelage is rubbing off on you.”
“It is, indeed, but I doubt whether I could ever match your cool thinking and brave actions in such a stressful situation. I’m more than impressed. I’m in awe.”
“Don’t tell me you actually believe a woman can do a man’s job?”
“No, of course not. Whatever gave you that insane idea?” George quipped, and it allowed them something they both needed: a good laugh. Then George got serious again. “I’ve always thought women were more than equal, superior really. My mother faces adversity every day with more grace and fortitude than any man I know.”
“Is that your attraction for me, George?” Mary joked. “Am I your mother figure?”
He leaned in and kissed her more ardently than ever. “Does that answer your question?”
“Quite sufficiently, thank you.”
She wrapped her arms around him, and he more than welcomed her. They became so consumed with one another that they almost forgot they were in his carriage. Almost. It dawned on both of them that besides it being too soon, they didn’t want the memory of their first time making love to be awkward groping inside George’s carriage.
George dropped her off at her tenement apartment on Elizabeth Street. After walking her to the door, he kissed her good night and left. Elated, Mary entered her apartment and suddenly felt something she had never felt before: an overwhelming disgust of her surroundings.
Mary wasn’t delusional. She had never been the least bit enamored with her living conditions. She had always viewed residing in her tiny, one-room apartment with shoddy secondhand furniture as a means to an end and nothing more. It was merely a place to live until her detective career took her to something better. That made it possible for her to look past what others might have seen as the depressing drabness and near squalor that was her apartment. Yet, all of a sudden, even she was beginning to also view it in that light.
She wondere
d about the cause of this. Could it be that weeks with George, regularly experiencing the life of the privileged, had somehow seeped into her bones and made her dissatisfied with her situation? She had never consciously sought wealth, and she wasn’t seeing George because of his largesse, but she still felt guilty that she enjoyed it. Mary had always prided herself in being more concerned with the inner person and had thought she was immune to that type of allure. But maybe the comforts of riches really were addictive, and she was getting hooked.
More importantly, considering the circumstances, she thought, Is that such a bad thing?
12
MARY HAD SPENT the past few weeks unsuccessfully trying to answer one question: where was John Worsham’s body? Then, in one night, her list of the unanswered had grown exponentially. She had now added: who killed Abigail Corday, why did she impersonate Emily Worsham, and why had she wanted John Worsham’s death investigated? No matter what name she used, were Abigail and John even related? Had someone hired her to act a part, and if so, who? With the current unexpected turn of events, she was confident more dilemmas would arise before she found solutions to any of these.
Mary needed information. With that pursuit in mind and in spite of Huntington’s threat the night before, she wrote a letter to Leland Stanford. It was public knowledge that there was no love lost between Huntington and Stanford even though they had been business partners for decades. Huntington had recently forced him out of the presidency of their railroad, and conversely, Stanford had double-crossed Huntington in 1885 when he had promised to support Aaron Sargent, Huntington’s candidate for the US Senate. Instead, Stanford had decided to throw his hat into the ring and had won. Considering his vast knowledge of Huntington and also their animosity toward each other, Mary thought that if Stanford had some information about the Huntingtons and Worsham, he might be willing to disclose it. But presently it was a moot point, because Stanford had yet to write her back.
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