The Shadow Palace

by Jane Steen

  “What?”

  Martin let the word drop into the waiting silence. He had leaned forward, no longer looking at his feet, his forearms and clasped hands resting on the desk, his head hanging. He looked like a man waiting for a blow.

  I had to work to get enough saliva into my mouth to speak. When I managed it, my voice didn’t sound like mine.

  “I think Lucetta was with child.”

  I didn’t know how much time passed—seconds, minutes?—as I watched all color drain from Martin’s face until he was white to the lips. I could hear the sounds of the store, the bustle of clerks in Martin’s outer office, next to Joe’s, laughter from the cash room and accounting offices that lined the corridor as arriving employees greeted those who were already there. I knew that my appointed time for appearing in the workshop was probably past. But I couldn’t, for all the world, perform such a mundane act as looking at the watch on my bodice or twisting round to view the clock on the wall behind me.

  The tick of that clock was, perhaps, the only thing that kept me grounded in reality. I felt as if the floor had disappeared and I was floating in the air, hovering around Martin as if I could catch him when he fell.

  It was Joe who brought some sense of the real back. “What makes you think that?” he asked, his voice neutral.

  I explained, in detail, the suspicion that had first entered my mind when I talked with Mrs. Fairgrieve. I went through every moment of my examination of the gold dress. At least I was in the presence of gentlemen who understood the construction of a dress and would not scoff at the experience I brought to bear.

  “I stopped searching at that point, or just after.” I felt myself redden, conscious that I had not, after all, done the thorough job that Martin wanted. “I found the piece of paper, and—well, I behaved childishly. I let it all—the house, the room—upset me. I’d be happy to go back there and look through the rest of the dresses to see if they’ve been altered, if you wish.”

  Martin blinked, the movement oddly slow, and moved his lips as if trying to speak. He finally succeeded.

  “It’s not possible.”

  “I do understand that,” I said. “And that was what Mrs. Fairgrieve thought too. But—Martin, I remember Joe telling me he was surprised that the Gambarellis buried Lucetta so quickly. Before her brother Sam was able to travel to Chicago, for one thing. What if they knew? Do you think it’s possible that the employees at the Cook County morgue were bribed to falsify their report? It might also explain why the Gambarelli family was so determined to keep you in jail. I can think of reasons why that might be, none of them pleasant.”

  “Such as?” Martin looked directly at me, and I quailed at the look in his eyes, although a little color had returned to his face.

  “They might have thought it was yours—”

  “It wasn’t.” Martin broke into my words, his voice a howl of anguish. “It couldn’t have been—I didn’t—”

  “I know,” I said gently. “But the Gambarellis undoubtedly didn’t know. If they thought it was your baby, they could be furious at you for living apart from her when she was with child—for failing to protect her. If they suspected it wasn’t yours, they might easily think you killed her—or had her killed—to satisfy your honor. They might even have understood that—didn’t one of you tell me that the family honor means a great deal to them? But they would want to make you suffer all the same.” I paused, but I knew I had to continue. “It would also explain why Lucetta was willing to wait for you for so long that day, and in such an isolated location. She was going to tell you, wasn’t she? She was going to throw herself on your mercy and ask you to take her back.”

  My voice broke on those last words. Martin, who had visibly flinched at the word “baby,” let his head drop onto the heels of his palms. He drove his long fingers into his hair as if he was ready to tear it out. I knew he was thinking the same thing as I was. If he had returned to the store only an hour earlier—if Lucetta had spoken with him—he would have taken her back and reared the child as his own. He would have turned his back on me and cleaved to his faithless wife for the sake of the child—perhaps the son—he so desperately wanted. And I knew I would have accepted his decision and moved away, for what else could I do? Lucetta’s killer, whoever he was, had spared us that. But it was a bitter, horribly bitter, reprieve.

  “And she—Lucetta—tried to seduce you, didn’t she?” I could barely stand to look at Martin. Beside him, Joe sat listening with a drawn face, the lines bracketing his mouth deep furrows. “You told me so. Soon after you returned from Kansas in December. I’ve thought such a lot about that dress, Martin—and about what I know from bearing a child of my own, and from making dresses for women who are with child or who have borne children before. I think Lucetta conceived the child in November, after you returned from Kansas. Time enough for her to have become aware of the fact, and in good time to convince you that the child was yours had she succeeded in seducing you.”

  I knew I had to finish, to lay everything that was in my mind before Martin, but it was so hard. I felt as if, with every word, I were driving a knife deeper into his heart. But I had made my resolution and plowed on. “In good time, also, to convince another man—perhaps not the father of the child—that he was the father. That man could be John Powell.”

  Joe moved in his seat. “He was always in love with her, I think,” he said softly. “And a fool. I remember from my days at the Gambarelli store how he would trail around after them all, and how they’d laugh at him behind his back. I remember thinking, when Lucetta convinced you to give him a job, that she did so purely to get rid of him.” He looked at me. “It’s a neat theory, Nell. You could be entirely wide of the mark, but . . .”

  “But your instincts are telling you I’m right, aren’t they?” I could see it on both men’s faces. “We can confirm it in more than one way. We can talk with Frank Gorton because he seems—to me, at least—the most likely candidate for fathering the child. We can find the morgue assistants who dealt with Lucetta’s body and find a way to make them talk, although I’ll admit that might be tricky. Or—”

  But Martin had risen from his seat behind Joe’s desk, moving around the chair that held Joe and heading for the coat stand to grab his hat and frock coat. The look on his face was one of pure fury.

  “—or go to Gambarelli’s and ask Lucetta’s brothers,” I finished lamely. “Martin, you won’t hit anyone. Please. Don’t give them reasons—”

  “I strongly advise against this.” Joe’s face was almost as white as Martin’s had been a few minutes before. “Or at least let me go with you.”

  Martin turned in the doorway and shook his head.

  “This is between me and the family, I think. I’m sorry, Joe.” I was relieved to see that as he spoke his expression became more normal, even if “family” was another arrow through my heart. “I’ve been avoiding going to see them—I knew I would have to do so eventually, but I’ve been a coward about it.” He looked at me. “I won’t hit anyone, I promise. But I need to know—now—what they know. And I need to tell them it wasn’t my child if they confirm what you suspect. I can’t let them think that, don’t you see? I can’t let them imagine that I would have done anything other than—cherish a child of Lucetta’s.” His expression altered. “I know those words must hurt you, Nellie. But I owe you the truth—and I’ll make it up to you somehow.”

  I nodded. “I know you will.”

  “Can you at least take one piece of advice from me?” Joe sounded exasperated. “Don’t run down State Street. The press is going to have a field day with your visit to Gambarelli’s as it is. Don’t turn it into a headline. Take a carriage or get your horse—don’t make it easy for them.”

  The ghost of a smile stretched Martin’s lips. “That advice I can take,” he said, and then he was gone, leaving Joe and me staring at each other.

  “In case you’re about to ask me,” I said eventually, “I am aware of the implications of the fact that Mart
in and Lucetta lived as man and wife for—what? two years or so?—and that she didn’t conceive a child with him. I do realize it was a true marriage at first. I’ve had a lot of time to think about this, Joe.”

  Joe came to me and put a hand on my arm. “The more time I spend with you, the more I can understand what Martin sees in you.” He frowned. “That wasn’t a very well-shaped compliment, was it? But it was meant to be. If anyone can pick up the pieces of Martin’s life once this is all over, you can.”

  I smiled, but another thought had begun to take up space in my mind. I turned to look at the clock, which showed a quarter past nine. “I’m dreadfully late for work.”

  “I’ll walk you up to the fifth floor and tell Madame Belvoix I detained you.”

  “No—make my excuses to her. Tell her it was unavoidable.”

  “What was?”

  “That I left the store. I’m walking down to Gambarelli’s too. To see Frank Gorton.”

  34

  Gorton

  Thirty minutes later, I was sitting on a particularly hard chair outside Frank Gorton’s office, listening to the muffled voices of men within. They were jovial, which meant that Martin hadn’t come to Gorton’s office—yet. A part of my mind wondered where Martin was. I longed to know if he had found any Gambarellis to speak to, and I ached to go stand beside him and protect him, if necessary. But he was right—this particular matter was between him and the Gambarelli family. To attempt to protect him would imply that I thought he needed protecting, and he didn’t.

  I also wondered whether there were Pinkerton men on Martin’s tail—or mine. If either of us were attacked, would they suddenly appear to save us, like the rescuers in a sensational novel? Twice in my life, I’d been in mortal peril. I’d been rescued on the first occasion by what could only be an act of sheer Providence, the second time by Martin. As the minutes ticked by and the chair’s seat dug into my posterior, I amused myself by imagining how both episodes could be worked up into an exciting chapter or two. Yet the actual experiences hadn’t been in any way exciting. Besides, I had no talent for writing.

  Eventually, a number of men emerged in a cloud of cigar smoke. The clerk in the adjoining office—he who had told me to wait—stuck his head out and gave me permission to importune Mr. Gorton.

  I entered that gentleman’s office to find him fastidiously opening windows, cleaning up cigar bands, and generally ridding himself of any sign of his erstwhile visitors. He greeted me briefly without any sign of recognition.

  “Don’t you remember me?” I asked. “I worked for Gambarelli’s for a while. In the hat department.”

  He frowned, and then his face cleared. “That hair, of course. Quite the wrong color for millinery. Your name again, Mademoiselle?”

  “You knew me as Miss Harvey. But that’s not my name.”

  He paused in the act of whisking a little cigar ash from his desk into his cupped hand and looked more closely at me. “Ah. You are one of Crabb’s, are you not? So you are a professional spy? I thought you were merely some ingénue he had recruited. There are so many who cannot live within their income and are grateful for the extra money.” He jerked his chin, his mouth turning down in derision. “I remember now. You didn’t like his implication that you must make your way in the world by finding yourself a lover. How impractical you Americans are.”

  He emptied the ash into a papier maché receptacle, brushed all traces of it from his palms, and sat back in his chair. “If you are looking for work from me, quite impossible.”

  “I’m not looking for work. And I’m not a spy. I’m here for our mutual benefit.”

  His expression changed. “My dear young woman, I am quite lacking in susceptibility in that respect also. At least, I prefer to do my own choosing.”

  “And I’m not here to offer you—myself.” I was getting annoyed at him, especially at the grin that was spreading over his handsome face. “I want information from you, and in return I’ll give you something valuable. Believe me, I’m in earnest.”

  The grin widened, and he spread his hands in a gesture of invitation. “Very well. Impress me.”

  “Lucetta Rutherford was with child, and I believe you may be the father. Was that true?”

  I was gratified to see the color withdraw from his face, leaving it pale underneath faintly tanned cheeks. “A journalist, sacré nom de Dieu,” he muttered. “Mademoiselle, I have nothing to say to you.”

  “I’m not a journalist either. Will you listen to me? I’m a close friend of Martin Rutherford’s—”

  He sat up straight. “Kansas. You are the little redhead from Kansas.” He looked me up and down in a rather insolent fashion. “You are hardly little. But I suppose she meant young.”

  “Being rude to me might just cause me to walk out of the door,” I said. “And trust me, you want to know what I’m going to tell you. But first you’re going to tell me if Lucetta was going to have a baby. You’re well versed in the information game, Mr. Gorton. You should know by now when someone’s got something truly valuable to tell you.”

  We sat like statues for thirty or forty seconds, staring at each other across the desk while I watched a range of emotions playing over Gorton’s face. Finally, he spoke.

  “You give me your word you will not use anything I tell you against me?”

  “I have no reason to—unless it was you who killed Lucetta.”

  He shuddered. “I would never have done such a thing. And besides—”

  “You were here, in this store. I know that. But you could have had her killed.”

  “Never.” This time it was a whisper.

  “Good. But did you know she was going to have a baby?”

  He nodded, just once.

  “And was it yours?”

  His expression changed again to something almost like relief, and I felt some cynical satisfaction in knowing just how short-lived that relief would be.

  “It was my child.” He looked down at his neatly manicured fingernails. “Quite some surprise.”

  I could feel a hard lump of anger growing inside me. “You knew it was yours, but you weren’t going to acknowledge it, were you?”

  His thick black eyebrows almost met his abundant hair. “Of course not. That would be, as you say, the death of me. Lucetta understood that.”

  “You were ready to allow your child to be raised by another man?”

  He shrugged. “That would have been an elegant solution.”

  I could feel the anger rising like heat in my belly. “Did you particularly care which man would stand as father to your offspring?”

  He tilted his head to one side, regarding me cautiously. “I am wondering if you know what you think I know. And if you know that I know it.” He said “know” each time with a sort of mocking emphasis. Did he despise me in particular or women in general?

  “Speak plainly. Remember, I have something valuable for you. Name the name.”

  After a few moments’ silence, he did.

  “John Powell.” The last name came out as “Pow-ell.”

  “Do you think he killed Lucetta?”

  An expressive shrug was the only answer I got. Gorton, I realized, neither knew nor cared.

  “How can you even remain in Chicago?” I asked. “Aren’t you afraid?”

  He shrugged again. “Of Alex and Jacky—and Domenico—bien sûr. They are dangerous men. But if Frank Gorton disappears all of a sudden, he becomes an object of suspicion. Alex begins to ask himself questions—and his reach is long.” He folded his arms. “I stay here, there are no questions, and why should there be? I am always so very discreet. Thanks to Alex, the police do not know about the child. Alex thinks it was Rutherford’s. So I bide my time.” He smiled and patted his breast pocket. “But not for so much longer. My notice is given, and I go to join my brother in Bordeaux in a few weeks. And, as Lucetta, la pauvre, once told me, one day I marry an obedient little French girl.”

  “You are the most despicable man I’ve ever met,” I
said. “And believe me, I’ve met some despicable men.”

  He grinned at that. “You mistake me,” he said. “I offered to have the child brought up by a cousin in Paris. I thought, in fact, that Lucetta had decided to follow my advice—that she would sail for Paris straight from New York. I was as surprised as anyone else to hear she’d returned. But, well, she did not get in touch with me, and I assumed, correctly, I think, that she had come to tell Rutherford about the child and throw herself on his mercy.” His grin turned malicious. “She would not have lost him to you.”

  I grinned back, refusing to be upset. I’d thought that possibility over enough times by now that I was quite inured to it. “Thank you for the information I wanted. Now would you like to hear mine? I’m surprised you haven’t worked it out for yourself. Remember, I told you I’m a friend of Martin Rutherford’s. And that I know Lucetta was enceinte.” I raised my eyebrows at him. “You don’t understand yet? I’ll make it plain. Mr. Rutherford is, even now, telling Alex Gambarelli that the child was not his. He may even be mentioning your name.”

  He wouldn’t be, but I was angry enough at Gorton to enjoy the lie. I watched him as the news sank in.

  “I didn’t think people really went green with fear,” I said pleasantly. “Now I know it’s true.”

  And when his office door opened suddenly, I thought he was going to faint.

  Christopher Columbus Crabb slid into Gorton’s office with the speed of a coyote returning to its den. He shut the door smartly and then appeared to see me for the first time.

  “Oh, it’s you.” At first, he seemed ready to dismiss me from his thoughts, but then his gaze sharpened. He took a second look at Gorton, sitting somewhat stiffly across the desk from me.

  “What’s she doing here?” he asked. “Martin Rutherford’s—”

  “He already knows that Mr. Rutherford is with the Gambarellis, if that’s what you came to tell him.” In other circumstances, I might have enjoyed myself. “Mr. Rutherford is making it clear that he was not the father of the child his wife was carrying when she was murdered.”