The Shadow Palace

by Jane Steen

  “I think you should buy a straw hat with pink flowers,” said Sarah. “The kind that looks like a plate and you pin it to your front hair.”

  “I don’t have much front hair,” Tess replied. “I want a bonnet I can pin to my topknot. But I’d like pink flowers and a big pink satin ribbon hanging down the back.”

  I listened to her with half an ear, distracted by the behavior of the shopgirls and clerks. They barely seemed to be paying any attention to their customers. I watched a clerk, better dressed than most, shoot through the crowd of shoppers like an arrow loosed from the bow. He landed in the middle of a knot of shopgirls, scattering them with a few terse phrases. I could have sworn one of the girls was in tears.

  “Elizabeth, look at that.” I turned back to the others only to find that they had gotten ahead of me. I found them by looking for Elizabeth’s hat, which was now close to the entrance door.

  Struggling through the throng in an attempt to catch up with them, I passed another group of clerks. They separated politely to allow me to pass, but not before I’d heard one of them say something about closing the store.

  “Why would you close the store?” I addressed the question to the whole group, not knowing which one of them had spoken. “Is something wrong?”

  For a moment, the men stared at me in blank astonishment, as if I’d suddenly appeared from nowhere. Then one of them, recalling that I was a customer, stretched an ingratiating smile across his face.

  “We were referring to the weather, Madam. That we would instruct the doormen to keep the doors closed when the storm arrives. There is nothing wrong at all.”

  This was so patently untrue that the eyebrows of one or two of the men rose—but after all, wasn’t I being rather nosy? I decided to accept the explanation at face value. What had Gambarelli’s to do with me? With a small shrug, I plunged back into the mass of women in an attempt to catch up with the others.

  9

  Murder

  I stepped out onto the street, shielding my eyes against the damp, chilly wind that had begun to swirl the dust and tug at the ruffles on my dress. The scents of horse manure and people greeted me as I hastened to rejoin my friends, although there was definitely less human and horse-drawn traffic than before. Near to us, a blue-coated policeman moved on an itinerant peddler from whose cart rose an appetizing smell of roast meat.

  “I think we’ll leave the Fair for another day.” Elizabeth held up her hand to shield her face from the grit stirred up by a passing horse car. “Let’s go to Field’s and then to Rutherford’s. The Fair’s a lot like Gambarelli’s anyway.”

  We began walking, occasionally glancing up at the sky. Scores of soberly suited clerks and shopgirls passed us, moving rapidly with their heads bent against the wind. Most of the women were in groups of twos or threes, but some were on their own, a sight that cheered me. Despite Mrs. Parnell’s warnings, it looked as if an unchaperoned woman would be safe enough on State Street in daylight.

  “We won’t spend too long in Field’s,” Elizabeth said with a glance at Tess, who had looped her arm through mine. Elizabeth, who seemed to have a way with children, was holding Sarah’s hand. “Tess, you’ll find the best hats at Rutherford’s. Are you happy just to have a quick look at Field’s?”

  “Oh yes.” Tess had cheered up since Elizabeth had insisted they be on first-name terms too. “I’m sure Martin’s store is the best one.”

  “It’s my favorite, mostly because it doesn’t try to sell you absolutely everything.” Elizabeth removed a piece of grit from the corner of her lips. “Rutherford’s is just modes—everything a woman needs. And it’s elegant, like a grand magasin in Paris.”

  “A what?” Sarah nearly had to shout to make herself heard.

  Elizabeth gave Sarah’s hand a little shake. “A big shop, nosy-posy. Little girls aren’t supposed to interrupt all the time, you know. Or issue decided edicts about what their elders and betters should be wearing.”

  Sarah grinned.

  “She’s too much with adults.” I sighed. “I’m going to have to find a little school of some kind for her so she can make friends of her own age.” And then, returning to my own preoccupations, “Do you mean that Rutherford’s looks French?”

  “Not French, exactly.” Elizabeth wrinkled her nose. “But not exactly American either. A perfect paradise for women. You can wander around all day unchaperoned, and nobody bothers you unless you actually need their advice. If you do, the modistes know an awful lot. They have absolutely every single journal of women’s fashion available to peruse in a little reading room, even the French and English ones.”

  I smiled to myself, remembering Martin’s house in Victory, which had been full of delights—clippings of newspaper advertisements, folded quarters of fabric, samples of lace and ribbon, and jars of different buttons. And, naturally, journals. Many men would doubtless find it odd that Martin could be so fascinated with women’s furbelows, not seeing that this was his way of worshipping the female sex—by truly noticing what they wore and what they cared about.

  I swallowed, trying to rid myself of the warm feeling such thoughts gave me. I could see his store from across the busy street, dominating its corner, which stuck out a little into the intersection as if the streets were somehow uneven. The building was faced with pale stone banded with white marble. Its corner entrance was surmounted by a sort of canopy, but I couldn’t see any details. Lights gleamed in the windows, the awnings raised because of the darkness of the day and the gusting wind.

  “Just half a block to Field and Leiter’s.” Elizabeth’s voice fought against the rumble of yet another horse car. “Then we’ll turn back to Rutherford’s and have a nice rest. We should get there before it starts raining.”

  “That was quite the largest and grandest store I’ve ever seen,” I remarked to Elizabeth as we stepped out of Field and Leiter’s doors onto a sidewalk spotted with rain. Above us, the clouds hung dark and heavy, and there were fewer people than before.

  “My boots are pinching my toes,” remarked Sarah. “Are we going to eat something now?”

  “As soon as we get to Rutherford’s.” I wasn’t surprised that she was tired—I was too. It was odd that I could walk miles across the prairie and still feel fresh at the end of the ramble, but just a few blocks in Chicago had left me feeling quite worn out.

  “I suppose we’ll have to find a good boot-maker for Sarah too.” And the dress that I’d made for her just six weeks ago, a pretty sky blue with a matching hat trimmed in white fur, looked a little short—clearly she’d grown again. Still, I had put growth pleats into the length and the arms, so it would be easy to let out. “We should be able to find blue boots to match that dress instead of those gray ones. Does Rutherford’s have dresses for little girls?” I asked Elizabeth.

  “My dear, they’ll make you anything you wish. Rutherford’s has ready-made underthings, petticoats, hats, and so on, but the dresses are almost always bespoke. Mr. Rutherford has been known to say that a woman is most becoming in clothing that fits her form exactly. But do you know, his people will fit a servant for a new dress just as readily as they do a wealthy woman. Or a—well, a woman of ill repute. There’s one who—Nell, dear, you’re not listening.”

  “I’m sorry.” My heart had begun to skip against my ribs. “I guess I’m just excited to see Mr. Rutherford’s store at long last. I’ve heard so much about it.” I had indeed been the recipient of many of Martin’s worries and triumphs as the store he had held in his heart for so many years at last became reality. I’d been his confidante until Lucetta Gambarelli entered his life and his letters became more impersonal. I realized now that Martin could not square his conscience with the presence of two women in his heart and mind. He would either choose me or Lucetta. Or perhaps he would be forced to cleave to Lucetta, who was, after all, his lawfully wedded wife.

  I could see Martin’s store clearly now, dominating the noisy intersection of State and Madison, where two horse car lines crossed. Th
e traffic, both horse-drawn and pedestrian, was so dense at this spot that it required the efforts of four blue-coated policemen, all shouting and waving energetically, to bring it into some kind of order. The pale stone of Rutherford’s, culminating in its prominent awning on the corner, looked like the prow of a ship at sea from this distance.

  “Look at all the people outside Martin’s store.” Tess was panting from trying to keep up with me. “Are they all waiting to get in? Something exciting must be happening.”

  I glanced back at Elizabeth, who shrugged. “New merchandise? Something new from Paris, perhaps. They’re certainly attracting a crowd. I do hope the tea room won’t be full.”

  I stared hard at the distant scene, trying to make sense of it. Behind me, I could hear Elizabeth telling Sarah about a trip to Paris she’d made when she was much younger, but her words no longer made sense to me.

  “There’s something wrong.” I put out a hand to stem the flow of talk behind me. There was something about the way the people in the crowd were moving that alerted me. At this distance, their faces were mere pale ovals, the odd light cast by the approaching storm making hollows and shadows. I couldn’t read their expressions—so why did I feel such a sense of dread?

  As we approached the street corner, I suddenly realized what had been bothering me.

  “The doors are shut.” I swung round to face Elizabeth. “And the lights are out. I’ll run ahead and see what’s happening. Tess, please take Elizabeth’s arm.”

  I abandoned Tess and plunged toward the edge of the sidewalk, dodging fast through the foot traffic and collecting a few epithets from people I jostled in my headlong flight. I could see the heavy wooden doors clearly now, inset with large panels of glass engraved with the peacock feather that had become familiar to me, incorporated as it was into the letterhead that graced most of Martin’s letters. They were closed tight. Behind the panes of frosted glass loomed waiting shadows, as if there were people guarding the entrance.

  What were all the people saying? I crossed State Street as fast as I could, dodging horse droppings and moving carefully over the horse car rails. The stones that paved the street were covered with a layer of grit, churned up by the traffic of wheels and feet into fine ridges, dampened by the large raindrops that occasionally hit me in the face.

  I was now on the northwest corner of State and Madison, with only Madison Street to cross. A knot of pedestrians, too tightly packed to push through, was in front of me. People spilled off the sidewalk on either side of a waiting landau, whose driver glared and twitched his whip as his horses fidgeted nervously.

  The people in front of me moved forward, and I pushed as far as I could into the crowd, enveloped by the scents of sweat and damp clothing. I gained the edge of the sidewalk only to find that a horse car had halted to let off passengers, and all hope of crossing the street was gone. I could hear the crowd outside Rutherford’s now, a subdued roar of angry voices.

  “Look at that.” The tall, fat gentleman next to me, made even taller by his silk hat, pulled at his companion’s arm and pointed west along Madison Street. Where Martin’s store ended and the next building began, the two separated by a narrow alley, a heavy black vehicle, windowless, had arrived from the west. It steered in close to the alleyway, and one of the uniformed men on the driver’s bench jumped down. The other waved his arms vigorously, apparently in an attempt to clear the area of onlookers. His efforts had the opposite effect. The crowd surged toward the vehicle, the women’s voices rising above the general hubbub in a single, repeated note that I could not understand, so great was the noise of the street.

  Another horse car, this time heading west on Madison Street, blocked my view as it rumbled past, the tired horses straining at their task. Now, surely, I could cross.

  I put a foot into the road—both feet—and then jumped back. I had not realized that the black vehicle had made an about-turn. It was heading straight at me, clearly attempting to pass the horse car before the latter reached a line of stationary drays. Its glossy, painted side rocked perilously close to me as it completed its turn and then it righted itself to proceed on its journey at speed. Only one of the uniformed men remained on the bench.

  Seizing my chance, I plunged into the road, ignoring the shout of anger from the policeman directing the traffic. I reached the crowd outside Rutherford’s, which had turned back on itself and seemed to have lost its sense of purpose.

  I scanned the women’s faces. Who would be the best person to ask for information? I grasped the sleeve of a plump, middle-aged woman with a sensible, intelligent face.

  “I’m sorry to bother you.” I let go of her sleeve and stepped back a pace. “I just need to know why the doors are closed. Please.”

  The woman looked at me and pursed her lips, visibly hesitant to satisfy what must have looked like mere vulgar curiosity. A gust of wind eddied up the street from the south, and we both clutched at our hats and squinted against the dust blown up from the road.

  “I’m new to Chicago,” I said. “I was supposed to meet a friend at Rutherford’s, and now I can’t get in.” I could see Elizabeth, Tess, and Sarah waiting to cross Madison Street and gestured toward them. “What am I supposed to tell my family?”

  “I shouldn’t think they’ll open those doors again today.” Her voice had a faint Southern drawl, the syllables longer and more languorous than the brash Chicago speech. “They pushed us all out here and locked up. My parcels are still inside. I’ll have to send the girl round tomorrow, although I declare I’m in half a mind never to come back again after what’s happened.”

  “What has happened?” I heard the edge of frustration and impatience in my voice. I could see my companions picking their way across the street amid a crowd of gawping pedestrians. “Tell me quick, please. My little girl will be here any second, and I need to know whether I must take her away.”

  She followed the direction of my gaze and nodded. “You’ll not want to keep her hanging around here to hear things she shouldn’t. Murder’s been done, and there’s always a few men want to get up a lynching.”

  The word “murder” sent my heart plummeting into my boots. Not here, in Chicago, in Martin’s store. I could picture Martin sitting across the table from me on our last day together in Kansas, hear our laughter as he told me he’d disown me if I mixed myself up with yet another murderer.

  “Murder’s been done? Who’s been murdered?” Stay calm, I ordered myself. Why should this have anything to do with me? But the woman’s next words robbed me of that hope.

  “Mrs. Rutherford’s had her throat slit. By her own husband.” The word “husband” lingered on her lips, the last syllable pulled out into two musical notes. “She lies there still, inside the store. They’ve taken Mr. Rutherford away.”

  10

  Excursion

  I realized I couldn’t feel my hands or feet. I wondered for a fleeting moment whether I would faint, but I fought back the darkness that threatened to cover my eyes. I wasn’t the fainting kind of woman, I told myself sternly.

  The phrase “Mrs. Rutherford’s had her throat slit by her husband” arranged itself with perfect clarity in my mind, along with an oddly vivid image of the windowless black carriage that had nearly run me down. In my mind’s eye, I could see the shine of its black paint, the long vertical scratch on that paint near the rear, the louvered slits under its roof. That must be for ventilation, the detached part of my brain helpfully supplied. I could see again the stout bolts on the double door at the back of the carriage and the large padlock that had banged heavily against the door as the vehicle bounced on its springs.

  How could it have been Martin inside that carriage? That was what the woman’s words seemed to suggest. But Martin wasn’t in Chicago—I had been certain of that fact up till that moment. Why else had I not heard from him? He would surely have replied to the notes I sent him. At least, the Martin who had kissed me that last day together in Kansas would have.

  “I hope you find you
r friend.” The woman’s lips twitched upward into a brief smile, and she moved away south along State Street, her ample hips rolling, one hand raised to protect her face from the wind-blown dust.

  “Nell, what’s happening? Why have they shut the doors?”

  I turned to find Elizabeth behind me, still holding Sarah’s hand. Tess trailed behind her, looking as if she’d had quite enough of the day.

  “Momma, I’m so hungry. Can’t we eat now?”

  I grabbed Elizabeth’s hand and squeezed it hard, leaning in to hiss into her ear: “Don’t ask again.” She looked puzzled but made the tiniest of nods to indicate she’d understood.

  “I think we should visit Rutherford’s later.” I fixed a smile on my face. “I think something went wrong with their lights, and they had to ask the customers to step outside.” I was surprised how calm and normal my voice sounded. “Let’s all go back to the Palmer House—we know we can get an excellent luncheon there. We can always go to Rutherford’s another day, and it’s going to rain.”

  I turned my back on Martin’s store, proceeding south, knowing the others would follow. I walked with as firm a step as possible, praying that my legs would stop trembling. The news would be everywhere soon. Lucetta—dead—her throat slit. Martin taken—but taken where? How could he be implicated in his wife’s murder? He surely wouldn’t—couldn’t—

  But Martin was given to moments of violent rage, I knew that well enough. If Lucetta had goaded him, if she had somehow broken through to that dark core of himself that he was not always able to hide . . . “She lies there still, inside the store.” No, I told myself, he couldn’t kill a woman. But Lucetta was dead, her throat slit . . . I clenched my fists and swallowed hard. I was categorically not going to be sick.