by Kate Belli
“Just a bump on the head, I believe. Shouldn’t cause any lasting damage. But I’d like you to rest, young lady.”
Callie nodded, looking small and vulnerable under the blanket. Genevieve wrapped her arms around her friend and squeezed her tight as her mother showed Dr. Needler to the door.
“What happened?” she asked, smoothing back Callie’s hair.
“Robin Hood is what happened, miss,” said a different officer, who was standing in the corner of the room with her father. Wilbur nodded gravely at her. Genevieve hugged Callie tighter.
“I came home from the ball around two thirty and went to bed,” Callie explained, pulling back a bit to take a sip of coffee. “About an hour later I heard something fall downstairs. I went to check, as we’ve had, um, some problems with mice lately,” she admitted, small patches of color flaring in her otherwise wan face. “The house was dark, but I saw the shadow of a figure in the front parlor.” Genevieve could feel her friend begin to tremble. “When I turned to run away, I tripped over a piece of loose rug and struck my head on a table. I heard them run out the kitchen.”
Genevieve’s hand floated to her mouth, horrified. Then a new, more horrifying thought occurred. “Where is your grandmother?” she cried.
“Still asleep, hopefully.” Callie took a deep breath and ventured another drink from her china cup. “She was when I left. I didn’t have the heart to wake her. Once I saw she was fine, I ran over here as fast as I could. Woke up the whole house, I’m afraid.” She gave Wilbur a watery smile, who moved closer to pat her shoulder.
“Think nothing of it, my dear,” he murmured.
“An officer is guarding the front of the Maple house now, ma’am,” the second officer noted.
“We’ve been waiting for you, Miss Stewart,” Officer Jackson said, the gleam in his eye letting her know he hadn’t missed her bedraggled appearance. “Miss Maple was quite surprised you weren’t at home. She swore you left the ball hours ago.”
Callie shot her a miserable look.
“I’m sure Miss Maple simply didn’t see my daughter before she left,” Anna said in a steely voice, daring the officer to voice his implication.
“Yes.” Genevieve picked up the cue. “I was stuck in the ladies’ retiring room for some time, helping Mrs. Stansfield with her costume.” She turned to Callie. “You saw it, remember? She was outfitted as a skyscraper, complete with electric lights woven throughout. Quite cunning. But the lights began blinking erratically, and several of us spent at least forty-five minutes in there with her, trying to work out the wiring under her skirts—”
“That’s fine, Miss Stewart,” the other officer interrupted, looking pained.
“Are we sure it was Robin Hood?” Genevieve asked, wanting to move the subject away from her whereabouts for the past few hours. Officer Jackson said nothing but eyed her speculatively.
“It must be.” Callie’s eyes filled with tears. “The diamonds, Genevieve. They’re gone.”
* * *
“Once more unto the breach, indeed,” Genevieve muttered to herself, wiping her filthy hands on her skirt. She frowned at the brown marks now marring the yellow wool, then at the indifferent facade of the last file cabinet she had to tackle.
A ball of pain was gathering at the base of her skull. It had been a long and tiring two days. The police had accompanied Callie, in a dress borrowed from Genevieve with its hem dragging in the mud, back to her own house, where they told her grandmother the distressing news about the theft. The older woman was so overcome that she collapsed on the spot and was taken to the hospital, where arrangements were made for the family to stay with Eliza and her father until the Maple women felt strong enough to return to their own home. Genevieve assisted in all of this, and once she ascertained that Callie was safely ensconced with Eliza (when she was not with her grandmother at the hospital), she managed to meet up with her brother Charles for their appointment. Despite having had no sleep Saturday night and enduring an emotional and taxing Sunday, Genevieve found it almost impossible to fall asleep Sunday night, her anxious mind swirling with myriad theories about Robin Hood, Lexington Industries, and Daniel. She supposed she finally drifted off to sleep sometime in the wee hours of the morning, for she woke at ten o’clock to a gray, wintry light suffusing her bedroom, the damp and foggy morning matching her mood.
She’d spent hours painstakingly combing the files at the municipal archives, which felt like digging for the proverbial needle in a haystack. The clerk at the archives had handled her multiple requests professionally enough to begin with, but by her twelfth call slip she’d noticed a distinct tightening of the clerk’s lips as the other woman tried and failed to hold in an aggrieved sigh. But Genevieve was glad she’d persevered, for it was in the final file that she had struck gold.
She knew who was funding Lexington Industries. She knew what they really did.
In the interest of thoroughness, she’d come to the newspaper’s records room to double-check her information against the paper’s files and see if she could ferret out anything new.
It was unnerving, to say the least, to be down the hall from where she had almost lost her life. And none of the secretaries had been able to accompany her, though Verna, who had been there the night she was attacked, had flashed her an understanding look and said she’d come up in an hour to check on her. To her relief, the tenth floor wasn’t deserted today; one of the foreign correspondents was in his office, and the sound of his typewriter clacking away provided a reassuring, constant backdrop to her own tedious work. Despite this, a cold sweat continually beaded between her shoulder blades, and several times she had to pause in her work for a deep, calming breath.
“Broad daylight,” she muttered to herself, yanking open the last drawer she meant to check. “Broad daylight, broad daylight.”
“Miss?”
A small shriek escaped before she could help it. It was Verna, standing in the doorway with a newspaper under her arm. A brief look of sympathy crossed the secretary’s face, but it was quickly replaced by a different expression Genevieve couldn’t quite interpret. It looked almost like … wariness.
“I’m sorry, Verna, I’m a bit jumpy today.” She pressed a hand to her heart, hoping to calm its racing staccato.
“That’s fine, Miss Stewart. I just wanted to check if you needed anything. I did say I would.” The words were right enough, but the tone wasn’t. Verna was normally the epitome of friendliness, a bubbly, fun young woman, the oldest of a pack of siblings, who often regaled Genevieve with stories of the younger children’s antics, as well as her own with a seemingly never-ending list of potential suitors. Today, though, she seemed reserved, and was eyeing Genevieve with a look that bordered on distrust.
Genevieve’s fear turned to bewilderment. When she’d seen Verna earlier, the other woman had been her usual warm self. What had transpired in the past hour?
“I don’t need anything, and thank you for checking,” she replied. Verna nodded once and turned to go. “Wait,” Genevieve called, stopping the other woman. “Is everything all right? You seem …” She suddenly felt silly. Surely Verna’s odd mood had nothing to do with her. Perhaps she had had a fight with her latest boyfriend, or maybe one of the other reporters, edgy about a deadline, had snapped at her.
Verna bit her lip, flushing, then thrust the paper under her arm toward Genevieve. “I’m glad you got a front-page story, Miss Stewart, I truly am. But, if you don’t mind my saying, it does seem that you used Mr. McCaffrey rather hard, pretending to let him court you and all. The man’s had a rough time.” Genevieve took the paper, puzzled.
“My family’s Irish too, you know,” Verna concluded, then ducked her head and hurried down the hallway.
Genevieve barely noticed the other woman’s departure. “No,” she whispered, horror-struck, gazing at the blaring headline of the Globe. “No, no, no, no, no.”
ROBIN HOOD UNMASKED! The paper trumpeted. And below, in smaller type, though no less compelling,
DANIEL MCCAFFREY SOUGHT BY AUTHORITIES FOR QUESTIONING, and below that, most distressing of all, was her own byline, paired with Clive’s.
The story below detailed, with sickening accuracy, much of what Daniel had revealed to her in that gorgeous hotel suite. The information he had trusted her with. Where he had lived as a boy, how his parents had died, how his younger siblings were taken by the Children’s Aid Society, and how he and his older sister had come to be in Jacob Van Joost’s employ. How Maggie had been the old man’s mistress—of course, the word was never said outright, but it was implied in such a way that would leave readers with little doubt. How Maggie had taken her own life, and how a guilty Jacob had changed his will.
It was all there, in black and white. But how? Frantic, she rushed toward the stairs, not trusting the elevator would be fast enough, and dashed down five flights. Bursting into the newsroom, she ran toward Arthur’s office, nearly pushing aside one of the secretaries, who yelled “Hey!” in her wake. She could just see the portly editor bustling toward his door. She glanced at the hands of the large, wrought-iron clock that hung on an upper wall of the offices: half past two. Arthur would be leaving to check on the final layout for the evening edition.
“Mr. Horace!” She breathlessly burst into the door of his glass-walled area, thrusting the paper in his face. “I must speak with you about this story on Robin Hood. There’s been a terrible—”
“Not now, Genevieve, not now. I’ve got to see to the six o’clock.” He absent-mindedly glanced at the paper Genevieve was holding and smiled. “Good work, that story; solid reporting. I wouldn’t have given you the byline, but Clive insisted you’d done it together. Nice to see the two of you getting on. You make a good team.”
Genevieve followed Arthur through the crowded office, her panic mounting.
“But I had nothing to do with this! Mr. Horace, please!” Genevieve grabbed her editor’s arm. He stared at her hand on his sleeve in astonishment.
“Unhand me, Miss Stewart,” he said sternly, shaking his arm a bit in an effort to dislodge her. She tightened her grip. “I haven’t time for this foolishness.”
“But Mr. Horace, please, listen,” Genevieve shook the paper in his face again, causing the older man to blink and draw his head back like a turtle. “This is all lies. A fabrication. Do you hear me? Clive made this up, and I had nothing to do with it. You have to print a retraction.”
Arthur stopped trying to swat the paper away from his face, regarding her owlishly from behind his glasses. “A fabrication? Lies? You’re saying you did not collaborate with Mr. Huxton?”
“Yes,” Genevieve gasped in relief, loosening her hold on his arm. “Yes, that is correct. Clive—Mr. Huxton—made this up. And I had nothing to do with it. Please, you must add a retraction to the evening paper.”
“A retraction? To the evening edition?” Arthur’s furry eyebrows climbed to his forehead and hung there like distressed caterpillars. “Miss Stewart, we can do no such thing. Mr. Huxton was quite clear. Even if there was a misunderstanding—”
Genevieve’s heart fluttered wildly at the thought of Daniel reading the story. Of seeing his personal life and his sister’s memory spread out in black and white for the whole world to read. Of thinking she had betrayed his trust.
“There was no misunderstanding!” she insisted. “This whole story is false! I don’t know why he added my name, but I would never write such drivel!” With that, she flung the offending paper across the room.
By now, the entire office had fallen silent and still, watching their exchange. At the paper’s flight across the crowded newsroom, a collective gasp arose. The pages sailed through the air, lazily drifting throughout the office.
Arthur watched its progress with mild bewilderment, as if he couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing. Not a sound could be heard save the settling of falling pages, coming to rest on the surfaces of desks, files cabinets, the floor.
“These are grave accusations indeed, Miss Stewart. Most unprecedented. Yes, most unprecedented.” The caterpillars on his forehead danced for a moment, then settled as he came to a decision. “But I can’t print a retraction until I hear Mr. Huxton’s side of the story. No,” he said, holding up his hand and cutting her off as she began to protest. “Clive deserves his say in this matter.”
He looked around the office again, taking in his staff, most standing with their mouths agape, and the strewn pages of newspaper. “Most unprecedented,” he muttered again.
Genevieve knew this was as good as it was going to get. She would simply have to find Daniel and explain somehow. Explain that although she hadn’t shared his confidences, somehow they had been printed in the paper for which she wrote.
“Though the authorities may find Mr. McCaffrey sooner rather than later,” Arthur said regretfully, starting for the door. “They are most anxious to find out what has become of the Maple diamonds.”
Genevieve was sure she hadn’t heard correctly. “The Maple diamonds?” she repeated, starting after her employer again. She hadn’t thought the theft was public knowledge yet. “What do you mean?”
“The Maple diamonds were stolen after the Porters’ costume ball. Look, it’s printed here.” Luther was suddenly there, his face concerned. He turned a copy of the front page over, and under the fold was a continuation of the story she hadn’t seen in her initial upset over the headline.
FAMED MAPLE DIAMONDS TAKEN! THE GLOBE AWAITS LETTER FROM ROBIN HOOD.
Quickly skimming the rest, Genevieve learned there had been no letter yet to the newspaper from Robin Hood, claiming responsibility for the theft, but the clear implication was that this was just another in the thief’s long string of attacks on the city’s wealthy.
Genevieve’s mouth dried in renewed horror, even as tears pricked her eyes. She could not possibly imagine a worse scenario. Then it occurred to her, a thought so liberating she nearly laughed aloud for the joy of it.
Of course. Daniel was not the thief, and she could prove it.
Her editor was waiting at the creaky elevator doors, impatiently checking his pocket watch. Luther put a gentle hand on her arm, but she shook him off with impatience.
“Mr. Horace!” she cried. For the second time in ten minutes, Genevieve sped across the newsroom floor, dashing for her employer before he was swept away in the elevator.
Arthur looked distinctly alarmed at her rapid progress. The rest of the staff, who had resumed their usual bustle in the wake of her previous outburst, once again paused to watch whatever new spectacle was about to unfold.
“Wait, Mr. Horace! Mr. McCaffrey is not Robin Hood! He did not steal the Maple diamonds, please!” she protested, this time grabbing the older man’s hand as he tried to quickly wedge himself into the opening elevator doors.
“Miss Stewart, this is unprecedented!” sputtered Arthur again, wildly looking around for help. Not a soul moved.
“But it’s not true! He couldn’t have stolen the diamonds, don’t you see? They were taken at, what time?” Now it was Genevieve’s turn to look around wildly, hoping someone nearby knew the answer.
“They were reported missing at four in the morning.” It was Luther, who had rushed after her and was hovering anxiously.
“Four AM!” Genevieve cried triumphantly, turning back to Arthur and renewing her grip on his hand, which had begun to slacken. Arthur looked woeful as the elevator doors wheezed shut again, leaving him stranded.
“Nobody saw Mr. McCaffrey after about two in the morning, according to Mr. Huxton’s report,” Luther cautiously noted. He looked as though he knew how this would end and didn’t like it. “Genevieve, let’s go talk privately—”
“Yes,” Arthur interrupted. “The theory is he was stealing the jewels from the Maple townhouse between three and four AM. It’s all in Clive’s article, and we’ll discuss it tomorrow. Really, Genevieve, I must go see to the evening edition …” Arthur strained for the elevator, pushing the down button with his free hand.
“No, no, Mr.
Horace, he wasn’t anywhere near the Maple townhouse at that time. And I have proof.” She gripped Arthur’s hand fervently, willing him to believe her.
This stopped Arthur’s straining. “Proof?” he asked cautiously. The color drained from Luther’s face, and he shook his head at Genevieve sadly. A sudden look of realization hit Arthur’s visage.
The caterpillars snapped together. “Come to my office, Miss Stewart.”
Arthur barked orders about the evening edition at his two assistant editors as he led Genevieve toward his office. Otherwise the room was so quiet one could hear pigeons cooing on the windowsills outside. Once behind the glass door, Arthur snapped the blinds shut and wearily slumped into his chair.
“Out with it, Miss Stewart.”
She steeled her courage, hoping what she was about to say wouldn’t cost her her job. “Between two and five thirty AM on Sunday morning, Mr. McCaffrey was with me. In hotel room three sixteen.” The caterpillars gave one brief, resigned wiggle, then settled again. “I’m sure the hotel staff can confirm the hiring of the room.”
Butterflies coursed through her stomach, and she felt her face burn bright red. She swallowed, awaiting her fate. There was no use explaining that all they had done was talk. She, an unmarried young woman, had just admitted to her employer that she had spent the small hours of the morning in a hotel room with a man. Regardless of what had actually transpired in the hotel room, that fact alone was damning enough.
“Sit down, Genevieve,” Arthur said, not unkindly.
Genevieve complied, suddenly feeling a bit faint.
“I will check with the hotel staff, and if they can confirm Mr. McCaffrey’s rental of the room, I will print a retraction.” He sighed, peering at her from under his bushy brows. “But I’m not sure I can keep you on staff. You all but admitted to this behavior in public.”
Unbidden, tears pooled in her eyes. “I’m so sorry to have disappointed you,” Genevieve said miserably, frantically blinking to keep the tears from spilling. Arthur was almost like a second father to her.